#not that i parrot on the train. i just mouth words to myself. but i wear a mask so no one can see and no one knows lmao

[corvid-language-library]

And now I'm spending my day making a bunch more shadowing audio files which is boring af but it seems to be the most effective learning strategy for me I've come across so far.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

When British writers come up with an American character’s dialogue and give them the most painfully British things to say with their American accent and inflection and it makes the actor come off as stiff. :P

[girldragongizzard]

Chapter 5: Cop Out

Did you know that humans have instincts?

When I was growing up, and everyone thought I was a human boy, everything I read about instincts claimed that humans simply don’t have them. But as I got older and started thinking about things like gender, sexuality, and eating preferences, I started to see that this was wrong. And now, I’m pretty sure there are scientists that fully recognize that humans have instincts. It’s just that human instincts are buried and hidden under a gorgeous complexity of social interactions and conscious executive functions, and the ability humans have to just learn so much, and keep learning. But they’re still there.

Let’s take a look at a simple one.

Most human infants have an instinct to grip anything that’s placed in their palm. Previously, scientists would call that a reflex in humans, and a survival instinct in monkeys and other apes. Any other baby primate has got to hold onto their mother. But a human infant? Not so much. And it is a reflex. A simple reaction to stimulus. But it’s also an instinct. A bit of evolved behavior that didn’t hurt to have and at one time increased the chances of survival and continued reproduction.

And human adults still have that instinct. They use it in things like the design of bicycle brakes. By using a lever on the grip of the handlebars, humans have taken advantage of that gripping instinct to do the right thing in a moment of crisis without thinking about it much. If you get startled or see danger, you clench your fist, and clenching your fist is how you pull on the brake and stop the bike.

Now, I’m noticing that since my transformation, I’ve unlocked a whole bunch of draconic instincts. And the more complex ones, too. The ones that are a series of reflexes. A chain of if-then statements in my nervous system. I’m pretty sure it’s how I got through the day, how I made the correct assumption that Whitman was just challenging me for dominance (and probably why Whitman challenged me in the first place), and how I’ve so easily and even accidentally imitated basic sounds I’ve heard. I think it’s also why I can drink anything without drowning myself with this new anatomy. I just know how to use it. It’s certainly how I was able to breathe fire.

Humans have instincts that are that complex too, and I obviously had some of them when I was younger. Such as the instinct to learn language and figure out how to use a larynx and mouth to talk.

I’m pretty sure, at some point, I can eventually learn to talk again. I have all this language in my head. But I don’t seem to have the instincts to naturally apply all this linguistic knowledge I have to my new vocal apparatus.

And this is going to be a problem when talking to the police.

But I’ve got an even bigger problem right now.

Because, when Rhoda opens that door after speaking to the officer through it for as long as she felt she could, what I see there is not just a couple of police officers. I see a couple of competing predators that are not my own species.

And before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve already reared up and flapped my wings completely careless of Rhoda’s belongings. And I’ve made my favorite noise again. To human ears, I imagine it might sound like a muscle car trying to imitate an enraged parrot. If I took a deep breath and really pushed it, I think I could work an elephant into it as well. I might practice that.

And just like that, there are guns pointed at me.

“I thought you just wanted to talk,” Rhoda manages to say.

“Ma’am,” one of the cops utters, putting all of his intention into that word, nodding toward me.

His partner is grimacing and obviously trying to decide what to do.

These two people have been trained to fire at anything that is a clear and present danger to themselves. Which is currently me. And that training has got them to at least draw their weapons.

But – and I recognize this because a combination of my reading and my emotional instinct are kicking in – they’re being hit by a human reflex that’s been largely hidden for as long as anyone can remember. Though it’s made it into almost all the myths.

Well. Humans do have this reflex. As someone who had C-PTSD, I know it all too well. Sometimes humans freeze in the face of danger. Sometimes they fight. Sometimes they run. Sometimes they try to make nice, they fawn. And I think there are a couple of other reactions there, too.

But, when it comes to dragons, there is something deeper and more ancient and stronger that always results in freeze, apparently.

Because now that I’ve locked eyes with them, they can’t seem to budge or pull their trigger fingers.

The thing that sinks my heart is that when Rhoda turns to look, she gets caught up in the transfixation, too.

I can think about this, and I can make decisions still, but I’m learning something important and unfortunate at the same time. Because I’m on the other side of this, and I’m finding that it’s something of a two way street.

It’s as if I’m transfixed by them as well.

My body is swaying of its own accord from side to side, which causes my neck to snake a bit, and that pushes my head side to side ever so slightly. My head is swiveling to keep my gaze locked on the enemy’s eyes.

I’ve already noticed how much my attention is drawn to movement. Anything that moves within my vision vies for my center of focus. I don’t have to snap attention to it, but I want to. And if I look at something that’s moving, I see it more sharply and clearly. It’s easier to focus on it and see the details. And by my body doing this little dance, which I’m sure is part of what triggers the transfixion instinct in humans, I’m also having my movement tracking triggered as my targets parallax against the background despite otherwise being frozen.

And I’ve got two very strong urges, and it’s just like having my C-PTSD triggered. It’s all I can do not to follow one of the two of them. My whole body is tensing and coiling in anticipation of action on my part. And the longer that this lasts, the more intense the urgency is. It feels like a mix of fear and hunger.

If I were encountering these police in the wild and had recognized them as a threat there and gotten us into this same situation, I might have more options. I’d likely be able to take one of the two choices being presented to me by my instincts, and choose to retreat and take to the sky.

And I think the reason humans are frozen by a dragon’s stare is that half the time a dragon would just use that opportunity to leave. Maybe even more than half the time. Humans are pretty scary, actually. Especially when they have pointy things.

I’m terrified of those guns. I don’t think I’m impervious to projectiles like dragons in movies and stories, and a bullet is going to do some pretty shitty things to me, especially if it punctures one of my fire sacks, or whatever I should call them.

Flying would be risky, as once I get away from them the transfixion might be broken, and bullets can go pretty far. But it would be the more socially acceptable of the two options, and I can’t do it because I’m surrounded by walls and a ceiling. And I can’t turn to crawl out a window or I’ll break the transfixion.

Which leaves the other urge.

Pounce and eat.

I don’t want to be a people eater, but right now I want to.

And it doesn’t help that I’ve exerted myself a lot today, because that’s making me even hungrier.

But I’m a civilized dragon.

I’m not going to do it.

I’m not.

I’m not.

By the logic of this instinct and the urges it’s making me feel, Rhoda is now one of my targets, and I’m not going to do it.

I’m using my C-PTSD therapy to manage this. But it’s a tense situation that gets more tense with every second and every movement. Because I don’t know how long these people will remain frozen.

Remember that squeezing instinct humans have? That’s how you fire a gun.

Something about the transfixion prevented them from doing that, so far. And like so much of all of this, I don’t know how that works.

I slowly uncoil myself and move forward, snaking side to side even more as I go. And I watch as the guns track my chest.

Yeah.

They can move a little bit.

And they look so soft and vulnerable.

I lower myself as I get closer to them, which is dangerous because it’s another pouncing position, and I feel my butt wiggle back and forth like a cat calibrating a leap. And I visualize how that leap is going to go down.

But I keep moving slowly, armored head momentarily between those guns and my more vulnerable chest cavity, keeping my eyes on theirs the whole time. Which they can clearly see, because my head twitches with every movement to keep it that way.

And then I rise up right before them, almost between the guns, towering up until my horns brush the ceiling.

Oh, wow, I smell urine.

I’d take a deep breath to calm myself, but that smell is triggering my hunting reflexes something fierce and if I fill my nostrils with it I might lose control. So I hold my breath.

And I slowly, carefully place the palms of my foreclaws on the tops of the guns and push down steadily and glacierly with my whole weight.

I do what I can to grip the guns themselves with my claws, without nicking their hands. But without actually looking at them, because I don’t want to break eye contact, it’s hard. I think I do draw blood.

But I don’t hook their hands, just the guns, and that’s nice.

Neither of the officers have the strength to hold those guns up, and eventually my weight forces them to let go and stumble back a couple wobbly paces.

And now I’m standing on the guns.

And I’m close enough that I can only keep my eyes on the two police officers, and Rhoda is broken from the spell.

“Gentlemen, I think it would be a good idea for you to leave,” she says cautiously but firmly.

Now that I’ve secured their guns, I know I’m in less danger, so I force myself to tilt my head quizzically and then glance at Rhoda. But not at her eyes.

Then I look at the policemen in the chest.

That snaps them both out of it and they stumble further back into the hallway. But one of them looks longingly at his gun, while the other stammers and fixates on Rhoda.

“We’re going to have to call this in,” he says. “This is aggravated assault of a - “ And his eyes flick back to mine and his words trail off.

“You don’t have ordinances for dragons, do you?” Rhoda asks. “How does a dragon fit into your laws, anyway? Are they an animal or a person? I assure you, this one has a name and can talk if you let her use a tablet or my phone. You recognize that, don’t you?”

Both the officers look at her in confusion.

“We all see it,” she says. “Before you drew your guns on her, you were going to ask to see her ID, weren’t you? But this is all so new, there aren’t any laws about it. And maybe until there are, you should leave her alone.”

“We really did just want to ask some questions,” the one who was staring at his gun says.

“Dear?” Rhoda says to me. “Do you want to answer the questions that these fine gentlemen have for you?”

I kind of do. I want to make it clear to everyone that I was attacked in my own apartment by Whitman. And going on record as saying that seems like not a bad idea. But, on the other hand, it occurs to me that maybe I don’t want my former identity attached to my current state of being. Just in case certain laws do get crafted and passed. I don’t know what could happen, and I don’t want my own case to be used against me to take away my… human… rights.

Hm.

I’ve been close enough to activist circles, and I’ve been on social media for longer than a lot of kids have been alive. I know the wisdom. Don’t talk to cops.

It’s pretty easy for me to not talk to anybody, actually.

I shuffle back and kick their guns out to them. I don’t want to be responsible for those machines of death, and I’m sure neither does Rhoda. It’s also a gesture of trust, if somewhat foolish. I’m willing them to take it to mean that they should pick up their things and go, unharmed. And if they point them at me again, I might not be able to hold back this time. And I’m wagering that they think the same thing.

I watch them very, very intently as they hesitantly pick their weapons up again.

When they return the guns to their holsters, I turn and walk back into the apartment and start taking note of what I’ve knocked over.

“I think that means, ‘no’,” I hear Rhoda say, before closing the door. “Maybe come back with a warrant if you want to talk to me, and maybe the dragon won’t be here then. Thank you. I hope you have a very good day.”

I hear Rhoda’s cane thump on the floor as she moves up to my side, but I keep looking at the broken vase and upturned ficus.

“We can’t do that again,” she says, grimly. She sounds like she might be shaking. “I definitely can’t be doing that again. I hope they won’t be coming back, but you’ve got to find yourself a place to stay.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and adds, “I want to remain your friend and keep helping you. I’m not so worried about my things, but between dragon attacks and police visits, I just don’t know. I hope it’s rare. But, I don’t think this is a good place for you to live.”

I bow my head in solemn acknowledgement. I agree with her.

“Anyway, you can sleep here tonight,” she says. “We both need a good sleep, and while I don’t know if I feel safer with you here or gone, I can’t take that away from you. Your place ain’t fit for it, though. So you can stay.”

I look at her.

“Just, right in front of the front door, please. I have fewer breakable things there and if the police come back they’ll have to go through you.”

I give her a nice cat smile.

I really don’t know what I’m going to do, but a nice long nap is absolutely in order.

—

The next morning, I really have to use the bathroom first thing.

I’ve already figured out how to use the toilet with a cloaca and a tail and everything, but I really don’t want to do that to Rhoda’s bathroom, so that means wandering over to my apartment and using my own facilities. These apartments have pretty small bathrooms, which means I need every surface available in there to maneuver. And I’ve just basically emptied my bathroom of everything that’s moveable.

I could probably just go shit anywhere, and no one would know what to do about it. I can probably even do it on the fly, like a bird. But I don’t want to do that to people, or other animals. If I can use a toilet, I’m going to.

I’m a clever girl, I’ve got this.

Rhoda’s still asleep, so I let myself out. The doorknobs of this place are actual knobs, but they’re antique and textured, pretty easy to grip, even for me. I’d still prefer levers, but I’m practiced with these.

Except my door won’t open.

It’s locked.

There’s police tape across it.

I know that landlords, and the police, and the system are all ultimately to blame for my door being locked when I really need to use my own bathroom. But one thought enters my mind with a fiery fury, because there’s a reason it happened now.

I’m going to eat Whitman.

[twisted-wonderland-but-gayer]

[Defense] Lawyer Yuu because I actually just started watching people play Ace Attorney myself and I am recently refreshed! Yuu is ambiguous on age but is hinted to be about Phoenix's starting age (20/21), because a lawyer would be an adult out of school... and that's Ace Attorney logic, a young lawyer...

Swapping between third and second person because I'm speed typing, but Yuu is still Yuu.

Yuu can not believe he was getting shaken around by a bunch of children! Not only had he been dragged into an alternate reality full of magic and fire breathing cats, but he was brought back to school! Night Raven College... when he heard the word college, he almost froze from shock and bewilderment.

How unlucky, especially with his student debts still going in his past world. He was determined to leave in the beginning, and Crowley was all too quick to agree, because of his general age difference with all the student body. Because of reasons unknown, and all identification except his Attorneys Badge taken from him, Yuu was forced to settle... for going back to college...

Thankfully, seeing Leona in the last situation with your gaggle of fellow students put you in a better mood. At least someone else was also your age, making this less awkward.

But you were unthankful for a specific gaggle of students that had attached themselves to you on the first day, breaking a chandelier. You could have flashed your badge, but you knew Crowley had all the power over your no ID person. Riddle had been much easier to deal with as the student held respect for you getting into Law School, and was conflicted when you basically called out his abuse of power and how these students could probably file harassment charges.

Well, that was until you realized you still had no proper ID, so all trials would be trials with Crowley as a judge... no thank you...

Oh, Chapter 3 is going to be hell, especially as this is what you trained for! If you had your ID and anyway to call the police, you could have a trial to put Azul at least in juvenile detention. But you don't. You have to constantly remind yourself that your barely able to do much at all, barely able to go to gym class because it's just you running laps while everyone flies. And so, watching a slimy 16 year old hold over 250 students hostage as you start to sign over your temporary living arrangements...

You pause before you actually sign. "Wait. May I have a magnifying glass? Before you get offended: I'm just making sure that there's no fine print. Also, I'll be drawing a line at the bottom so you can't update the contract. I've had that happen three times on autopsy's in the span of months."

Azul and Jade, curious as they are about laws unironically, hand you a sea glass magnifying lens shaped like a shell. For now, it's all you can do.

... Gosh, do you miss the Prosection... at least with him, your not wondering if the next student will stab you. Or anger Grim. Or vandalize your items. Or Overblot...

IM FOAMING ATBTHE MOUTH WITH THIS. TY SO MUCH.

ALSO imagine how Riddle is since he wants you be a lawyer. He's just so excited to ask questions and Yuus like "I had to interview a fucking parrot."

[milo-is-rambling]

I see my fathers corpse when I close my eyes. Words I never thought would leave my mouth are now exiting. I am begging to some higher power I do not believe in to make this all stop. I am holding the knife to my chest to my hips to my throat. I do not split the skin. I stare at old scars, I tug at my scalp. I pick my cuticles until I cannot move without breaking fresh skin. Days pass faster and slower than ever before. My mother is doing better with her husbands death than I am doing with my fathers. I didn’t even like him when he was alive. He is burning a hole into my chest. This large ache I cannot fill. I need to find another angry horrible man to fit into this space. I fear I am taking the role myself. I am bitter I am lost I am cursing the gods I am driving myself off the bridge I am screaming until my throat is raw I am smiling telling my mother what to wear on her date and when she leaves I collapse in on myself like a dying star. I am sucking everything into my darkness and calling it love, calling it rebirth, calling it redemption. I am struggling and wearing it as a badge of honor. After you have survived a suicide attempt you can see yourself as a god among men. I cannot hold a job or someone’s hand. But I am alive. I am still breathing and that in itself is my religion. I cannot get myself to cry even if I wanted to but the second I open my mouth and speak of him i feel an itch at the back of my throat my chin is wiggling I am holding back the tears as they threaten to pour over. I am all anger and sadness. We used to say my father only had one emotion and it was anger I am his little girl I am his disappointment I was nothing and he loved me despite despite despite. He never liked my brother after he went to college I feared that if I ever went away and came back he would hate me too. I never left. Dropped out of high school and spent most days talking to him. I saw through this emotional mask. I sat in the back of the car last January while my parents smoked and talked. My father talked about his father. My mother reminded him that we are no longer children. I sat in silence. I felt I could’ve been strapped into a car seat, pitifully small. My mother passed me the joint as my father tears up. She didn’t notice. He put all this effort into being likeable when we were young and once we formed our own personalities and weren’t parroting him he decided he didn’t care anymore.

Am I the same way? Am I growing away from my friends or are they no longer playing into my ego and I’m just as miserable as my father. I need to catch my breath. I need to remind myself what is real. I need to forget where we keep the knives. I need to forget where he kept the knives. I need to forget that he held the knife out to me and was proud when I took it in my hand. He wanted me to be angry. He trained me like a fucking dog. Every peer a competition every teacher a source of praise every stranger a friend every family member an enemy. His go to advice was “beat them up” I carried it with me through high school. I carried this violence in my chest that my parents did not know what to do with. My brother and I threatened each other like it was a sport. I always got the last word. Shocked silence at the dinner table. Storming away. Slamming doors. I was the violent presence in my house it was never my father he passed the torch when I was so young that I forgot if it even burned me. I still have the scars to prove that it did. All this violence. Getting scolded when I projected and so I put it all inside. I hacked away at my skin in the dark. Those were the quiet years. Family dinners. Long silences. Friends lost touch. Strangers calling me wonderful things. Strangers years older than me. Men with the same anger in their hearts as me. As my father. Men who talked about fights they got into and how sexy my voice was. I was twelve. I felt wanted for the first time in my whole life. My parents found the messages. Didn’t look me in the eye for two years. I knew what they thought of me. Dirty foul slut who was asking for it. And I was in a way. Asking for power asking for praise asking for anyone to be more broken than me. Is this the price of girlhood? Am I meant to be full of rage? I am still that child watching my mother read through my phone in horror. Listening to her cry through the walls. She asks what she did wrong she asks what she ever did to make me do something like this. The anger in me was something that spread like a disease. My first real girlfriend once got so mad that she smashed her phone with a brick. I had this sick joy in my chest knowing there was someone like me. Is it really sickness when there’s two of us? Partners in crime is still just two criminals. We tore each other apart and left no identifiable evidence. My mother tells me years later that my first girlfriend was crazy. I tell her about the way I treated her. The way I drove her to behave that way. The way I didn’t know what I was doing and so I tore her apart with my teeth. I still have scars on me from the guilt. I use it as an excuse to ignore the way I treated her. I hurt myself because she hurt me. Well who threatened who? Who said they were going to kill themselves because of the way you treated them? Because you were leaving them? I remember my shaky hands calling her mother and telling her to call out of work that night because I was afraid she would do something horrible. That guilt follows me everywhere. Being angry feels like getting in touch with who I was then. Who I hurt and how I hurt myself.

I grew up and lost more friends. Grew more and thought I finally had it figured out. Lost friends again. Each loss felt like a blow to the chest. I wanted so badly to be mad at them. Be mad at anyone but myself. I know I am to blame for the way others react to me. I do not hurt myself but I am constantly thinking about it. Some days I shower just a bit too hot and think about your touch. Some days it’s enough just to think of him. Some days I have to hold the knife in my hands and put it back down again to truly hurt myself. It hurts more to deny myself the blood than it ever did to create these scars. When I hold the knife I am brought back to when it all started. Scale in the bathroom with a notebook beneath it. Weight listings. Up then down then up and up and up again. Couldn’t get it to go back down. The word fat carved into my thigh. It’s mostly faded now but when I hear your knock on the door it all comes rushing back to me. Don’t notice don’t notice don’t notice. Ignore the blood. Ignore the tears. Ignore the way I am shivering under your touch. I deserve this. My mother sits me down at the dining room table. She washes my sliced up arm with alcohol and apologizes for the sting. She wraps me with a long bandage and tells me that just because I cut myself doesn’t mean that I don’t have to do my math homework. I had never wanted to die as badly as I did then. Thirteen and sobbing onto a placemat from dollar tree, better than my tears staining the wood table. My father never got mad at me for being depressed like my mother did. I know somewhere in him the same sadness resided. He may not have cut himself but he found other ways to hurt. He has tried every drug he could get his hands on. He’d pick every fight that wasn’t his to win and haggle until everyone in his life was miserable. It’s a wonder my mom never left him. It’s a wonder she hasn’t left me. When i close my eyes I see my fathers corpse. My greatest loss. My greatest disappointment. Forever wondering what could have been. I wonder if when my mother closes her eyes she sees me instead. Sees me as a young kid with bleeding wrists or as a disgusting slut calling men twenty years older than me Daddy online just for a chance at affection. I wonder what about me disappoints her the most. I still imagine myself dying before her. I do not know what I would do with myself if I had no parents left to disappoint. The knife so close at all times just begging to see the blood. The car full of gas and waiting to be at the bottom of the lake. Maybe I have a problem. Maybe I always have. Maybe it’s hereditary. Maybe it’s all me. Maybe it’s always been me. Maybe the knife is the only family heirloom I have left.

[oomisluvr]

domestic sakusa (are we suprised) 

“WILL you check the oven for me?” you call over your shoulder, your hands occupied with washing dishes from your lunchtime snack, “I think I left something in there.”

Panic flashes behind Kiyoomi’s eyes, brows raised in alarm, “It’s not on is it? You need to be more careful when dealing with heat–”

You bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile, watching him stare into the oven with confusion. 

“There’s bread in here?” He asks, reaching inside to hold the small roll in his palm, “The oven wasn’t on either.” He trails off, trekking across the kitchen to stand at your side.

Plates now washed, you dry your hands with a dishtowel, leaning against the sink with an excited smile. 

Kiyoomi studies your expression, breaking off a puffy chunk of bread and stuffing it into his mouth before munching thoughtfully, “This is really good.”

“Kiyoomi–”

“Here,” He pushes a piece of bread to your lips, looking at you expectantly, “Try.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh, losing your cool, “You aren’t a little curious as to how that got there? The one, singular roll?”

“You put it there.” He confirms while still chewing, the small roll half-way devoured.

“But why would I put it there?”

He eyes you like you're crazy, “Because you wanted to keep it warm? I don’t know.”

“Okay, let’s start again–” he offers you the last piece of the dinner roll and you take it, chewing before continuing, “What’s in the oven?”

“Nothing, now.” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “We just ate it all.”

You sigh. How could he be so dense? “Alright, what was in the oven?”

“Some bread.” he supplies confidently. 

“No!” you laugh, “What’s another word for bread?”

“Starch?”

“No, give me another one.” 

“Carbs? Rolls? Buns?”

“Buns!” You emphasize, “And where was the bun?”

“In the oven.” 

You thrust your hands up to solidify your point. The air goes still, and you can practically see the gears turning in that empty, athletic head of his. Realization hits him like a bullet train, knocking the breath from his lungs. His heart starts then stops then starts again, beating faster than it ever has. His face contorts in a series of expressions, first shock, then disbelief, then his lips pull up into a wobbly grin. He shakes his head rapidly, blinking equally as fast. 

“Stop.” he says, voice cracking, “Don’t mess with me like this. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not joking, Ki.” you whisper, finding his hands and placing them against your stomach, “We’re going to be parents.” 

“How far along are you?” He immediately fires off, sounding pained, “Have you been feeling well? How many appointments have you gone to already? We need to start planning immediately–”

“Easy, Ki, I’ve been feeling just fine.” you laugh, reaching a comforting hand to his jaw and stroking lightly, “I’m just 12 weeks, so she’s the size of a lime right about now.”

“She?” Something like a choked sob escapes Kiyoomi as he falls to his knees, speaking to your stomach with tears in his eyes, “Hi, princess! Hi, pumpkin! You’re getting so big! I’m your dad! I’m sorry I didn't introduce myself sooner, I didn’t know you were in there!” 

“She’s been doing really well.” You say, “No complications so far. She’s been going strong.”

“That’s amazing!” He babbles to your navel, “You’re so strong, just like your mother. You’re going to grow up and be whoever you want to be and you’re going to be the best at it!” He wipes a stray tear with the back of his hand, “I promise I’ll be the best dad to you. We’re going to be best friends!” 

You laugh at that, and Kiyoomi looks up at you with wide eyes, as if suddenly realizing you were there. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, “For giving me a chance.”

BONUS:

"You totally ate our baby, by the way." You laugh against Kiyoomi's side, leaning your head on the arm stretched behind you, "Just devoured the bun in three bites."

"You couldn't tell me like a normal person?" He jokes, "With an actual pregnancy test?"

"This way was cuter!" You whine, "I can't wait to post it."

"Post it?" He parrots, "You were recording me?"

"Just the first bit," you smile, "When you couldn't put the pieces together. Hilarious."

"You're evil," he jests, "Our baby better not absorb any of your evilness."

"Absorb my evilness! Really?"

"Yes," he confirms, "Through the placenta cord or whatever it's called."

You shake your head with a smile, sitting up to turn off the lamp on the nightstand, "Goodnight, I'm not doing this with you." You shuffle under the covers.

"Goodnight, I love you." He presses a kiss against your temple, reaching a hand around your torso to palm your stomach. In a smaller voice, he whispers. "I love you, too."

[jokertrap-ran]

(未定事件簿) EVENT!「异乡行歌·上篇」 [Tears of Themis] EVENT: Romantic Rail Getaway- First Half Translations (Lu Jinghe’s Route)

Day 1: Xiangya City― Rainforest Invitation (象雅城: 雨林的邀约)

*Tears of Themis Masterlist / Mobile Masterlist *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *The tracking tag for ALL Event Stories will go under: #Tears of an Event

Location: Railway Tour's Starting Station

I'd once heard of the saying, that Tanbuyani's Railway Tour was equivalent to a silken string of pearls.

Guided by this silken thread, one will be able to experience and relish in the charm of the very country itself.

Lu Jinghe: I've looked at the train route, and it looks like the first stop's at Xiangya City.

Lu Jinghe: How about we head on down to their resort and have a look around later? Let's not wear ourselves out too much on our first day here, save some energy, and take our time to slowly enjoy everything after!

MC: Okay! I saw on the guide that there was a very big folk custom workshop down at the resort; do you want to try your hand at wood carving?

Lu Jinghe: I'll accompany you if you want to.

We happily carried on, discussing our trip arrangements.

The rest of the guests, in front of the train platform, were also anticipating what was to come in the wonderful journey up ahead, just like us.

Speaking of this trip, Lu Jinghe was actually the one who brought it up first.

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Location: Home

Lu Jinghe: Heya, sis. You're on a long vacation as of late, yes? Have you got any travel plans?

MC: Hm… I haven't really thought of it. Come hit me up again after I get a couple of snoozes!

Lu Jinghe: How about considering going on Tanbuyani's Railway Tour with me after you've caught enough z's?

Lu Jinghe: It's a boutique, luxurious, high-end, independent tour; with a travel itinerary planned and presented to you by PAX's Chairman himself!

MC: Tanbuyani? Why do you suddenly want to go there out of the blue?

This name, one that I'd only seen in geography books, filled me with utter confusion.

Tanbuyani was a small country located near the equator, but although it boasted stunningly breath-taking sceneries, it's economy was well underdeveloped.

No matter how I thought about it, going to this sort of remote location wouldn't be his first choice at all.

Lu Jinghe: For work, of course. PAX has invested in a rainforest development project over there, so I'm preparing to head down and have a look at it for myself.

Lu Jinghe: And while I'm at it… I can bring you along for you to have fun, kick back and relax for a few days.

MC: I see. Maybe I'll think about it...

Lu Jinghe: Nope, stop thinking about it and just go pack your luggage. I'll come pick you up to the airport tomorrow, bye!

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Lu Jinghe's actions were swift, and we were already aboard a private plane bound for Tanbuyani on the second day.

Upon landing, we were immediately transferred to the starting station of the Railway Tour; he'd arranged everything to perfection.

It was just as he said. This was a relaxing, yet intriguing trip, where anticipation ran high.

MC: Right, didn't you say back in the phone call we had before that you're here because of a… Rainforest project?

Lu Jinghe: Yup. PAX plans on establishing a nature reserve in the Imana Rainforest and study the "Parrot Tail Flower”.

MC: Parrot Tail Flower?

Lu Jinghe: A rare flower of medicinal value that one of our people coincidentally discovered back when they came down here to talk about the conservation project.

MC: ...That sounds like the sort of miraculous life-saving celestial grass you hear about in myths and legends.

Lu Jinghe: Perhaps; but I'm not too sure about the specifics either.

Lu Jinghe: The person in charge of the project will be picking us up when we reach Xiangya City, so you can ask him more about it then.

MC: ...There's PAX personnel in Xiangya City?

Lu Jinghe: He's there on business today, so I called him up for a chat, and so that I can have a grasp on how the project's progressing while I'm at it. It's called being prepared for anything and everything.

The sides of his lips curled upwards, a clear smile flashing across his eyes.

Lu Jinghe: Okay, enough about this. Let's think about how we're going to have a happy and delightful lunch aboard the train first.

Lu Jinghe: The train's restaurant serves Tanbuyani's local delicacies, as well as  a delicious, mouth-watering buffet of western food; what do you want to eat?

MC: Mm…

Since I'm already here and all, it's only logical to try out their local delicacies…

But then, I remembered just what those "local delicacies" are, from back when I was checking out the guide.

Things like grilled rainforest ants, stuffed cicada pupae, roasted scorpions… If it just so happens that those atop the plate that the waiter brings up later were...

Do I really want to challenge myself with them?

▷Choice: Western food buffet

MC: I’m getting the western food buffet.

Lu Jinghe: Sure thing. I'll go book us a luxurious buffet then; we'll be able to partake in it once we board the train later.

Lu Jinghe: But… Are you sure you don’t want to try Tanbuyani’s local delicacies?

Lu Jinghe: I heard that there's a type of Black bean-orange Fried Rice that's really delicious; one of the 10 special delicacies that's an absolute must have for tourists!

MC: I do want to, actually… But it'd be a tragedy if something… weird's in the food...

Lu Jinghe: You do have a point. We're not in a hurry, so we can take it slow and observe the tables of the other guests who've ordered it.

Lu Jinghe: And then, we can still make it in time for the order if you want to eat them afterwards.

MC: Okay, let's just happily leave it as that for now!

▷Choice: Local delicacies

MC: Oh, I've decided! I want to try Tanbuyani's local delicacies!

MC: The guide on the internet said that the Black bean-orange Fried Rice available on the train's menu is an absolute must have! And everyone who ate it all said that it's good!

MC: Want to order one together with me?

Lu Jinghe: Let me tell you a secret. Actually… I was about to recommend you the same, but I never thought you'd be the one to take the words out of my mouth.

Lu Jinghe: I guess our hearts really are connected!

His brows were quirked in a smile, and he appeared "quite proud" of himself.

I couldn't resist teasing him a little.

MC: Are you absolutely sure about your decision? There'll be no going back if it doesn't taste all that nice.

Lu Jinghe: Come on, have more confidence in yourself! We have to believe that our choice is the right one!

His eyebrows crooked along with a smile, and I could almost smell the fragrance of the sweet and aromatic orange rice just by looking into his eyes.

MC: I can't wait to try it out for myself already!

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

"Chooo…", went the long whistle of the train's horn as it slowly drew up to the platform.

Lu Jinghe stood up, dragging both of our big luggage in tow with a wink.

Lu Jinghe: Come on then. Our rainforest adventure is going to begin!

MC: Yeah! Here we go!!

☆⋅⋆…⋅───── ⋆⋅ Romantic Rail Getaway⋅⋆ ────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Next Part: (Day 1: Xiangya City― Resort Entertainment Area)

[firstfrostfall]

A Cold Lament - Chapter One

a tommy shelby fanfiction

In the winter of 1918, the Shelby brothers returned home from a war-torn France. In the winter of the following year, the middle brother, Tommy, recognizes an opportunity for his family to move up in the world, and it came in the shape of a misplaced crate of weapons.

In the meantime, per the request of his aunt, he gives a struggling young woman a job.

Little did he know, that like the smell of snow on the wind in late autumn, everything was going to change, and it wasn’t just because of some stolen guns.

Takes place during Season One.

“This is a story, told the way you say stories should be told: Somebody grew up, fell in love, and spent a winter with her lover in the country. This, of course, is the barest outline, and futile to discuss. It's as pointless as throwing birdseed on the ground while snow still falls fast. Who expects small things to survive when even the largest get lost? People forget years and remember moments. Seconds and symbols are left to sum things up: the black shroud over the pool. Love, in its shortest form, becomes a word. What I remember about all that time is one winter. The snow. Even now, saying ‘snow,’ my lips move so that they kiss the air.” - Ann Beattie, Snow

WINTER, 1918

Tommy returned from France in the afternoon, after days of riding in a cramped train. Before that, he was crammed in the back of a cattle truck, and before that, well, he was deep underground, caked in mud and blood, digging away in a French tunnel.

It was cold when he stepped off of the cart, shoulder-to-shoulder with his brothers and the hundreds of other men who piled onto the platform. Former soldiers, all of them. Former. What did that make them now?

The sky was a broad, gray hand, and the wind smelled like snow. It was that certain smell that came around when the trees were bare and noses were red. Clean and winter, wide open. Like the whole world was about to change.

For two weeks after returning home, Tommy filled his days with other people, so as to avoid the quiet. Work with Polly in the shop, cards with Arthur at the Garrison, guns, and horses with John, nights with the same pool of working girls over and over again. Without people, the emptiness that came along with the quiet consumed him. He tried to remember what he was like, before the war, but he soon learned that it was impossible to recall, because he was in the after now.

At night, he would lie awake in bed, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes to avoid sleep. Not that it came easy to him, anyway. But there were times, albeit few and far between, where he would fall asleep, and he would find the quiet. Or, rather, the quiet would find him.

The quiet parts were all nightmares, dark rivers of mud and lost souls. He could never tell whether they were souls he knew now, or if they were people from the past, soldiers, screaming in voices made of wire. He would wake with a start, panting and covered in sweat, followed by a sense of relief that it was over. It wasn’t real. Sometimes the dreams would follow him during the day, usually in the sounds of shovels scraping against his wall when it was just him, alone in his bedroom, and the only other noise was the heavy thumping of his heart.

When the dreams that chased him into the day became more frequent, the cigarettes in bed turned into a pipe of opium. It kept the quiet out.

There were few opportunities after the war. Most jobs were an exercise in shared misery, toiling away in a factory for 15 hours a day- at least. So, he took matters into his own hands. It started as glancing encounters with petty crimes. Little shipments of illegal goods, a fixed race or two, then a little more, and a little more… Instead of people, Tommy found a new way to keep the quiet at bay.

Organized crime was a lucrative business, after all. Under the umbrella of the Peaky Blinders, it gave his family name a new sense of meaning, a sense of power.

And then, as if by divine intervention, a crate of guns were dropped at his doorstep. From that moment on, just like the smell of snow, the whole world changed. His whole world changed.

THE BRINK OF WINTER, 1919

He was at The Garrison with his brothers, sipping whiskey and listening to the two of them argue. Cards were scattered across the table, each play held in place by half-empty pints of beer and overflowing ashtrays. Their shared cigarette smoke made the air in the tiny room hazy and thick, so much so that Tommy could feel his eyes stinging each time he blinked.

They were in the middle of a card game until Arthur was losing and subsequently blamed it on John for cheating. Arthur had put a heavy wager on himself winning, which was a poor move on his part- John always cheated at cards. Tommy shook his head, their bickering nothing but static in the back of his mind. Another way to keep out the quiet.

Their argument was interrupted by a knock on the window that separated their private room from the bar. Arthur’s words slurred together and bellowed something along the lines of “open up,” at whoever was knocking. The barkeep, Harry, poked his head through.

“Good, uh, morning,” He nodded to the three of them. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but, there’s a boy here asking for Mr. Shelby.”

“Which one?” John laughed, sipping his pint as he elbowed Arthur in the side.

Harry leaned away to shout a question at someone from across the bar, before turning back to them. “Thomas, he says.”

“The one who matters the most,” Tommy deadpanned, a slight smirk on his lips. He waved a hand at the barkeep. “Send him in.”

Harry muttered a quick “yes, sir” and promptly closed the window.

Arthur, who sat closest to the door, kicked it open. A young man, who really was more of a boy, after all, stood before them. Removing his cap and gripping it tightly in between his fingers, he took a few hesitant steps into the snug.

“Mrs. Gray says she needs you at the shop, Mr. Shelby,” He shifted from foot to foot. “At once, she said.”

“At once,” Arthur repeated with a grin, clapping Tommy on the shoulder.  “What did you do now, eh?”

“Looks like I’m on my way to find out,” Tommy pushed himself up from the booth and finished the rest of his whiskey in one swig. “Tell Mrs. Gray I’ll be right there,” He nodded to the boy and flicked a spare coin from his waistcoat at him. “Go on now.”

Tommy shrugged on his cap and jacket and followed the boy out of the pub, a fresh cigarette perched between his lips. He walked through the streets of Small Heath with his hands shoved in his pockets, watching the boy’s pace hasten in front of him from under his cap. The sky was dark, a thick curtain of gray, save for the tiny bulb of sun that just barely broke through the clouds. It was ominous, no doubt threatening a chilling rainstorm later, or perhaps, snow.

It was almost winter again.

He tipped the brim of his cap to the nameless working men who flitted in and out of the betting shop, a cloud of breath escaping their lips with each hurried “G’day, Mr. Shelby” that they gave him in passing.

The shop was busy, filled with the chattering of hopefuls who placed bets, the sound of a man shouting names and scratching too little chalk across the green board. He noticed his aunt, Polly Gray, hunched over a desk, eyebrows knitted together in concentration. She fidgeted with a cigarette in between two fingers while she read over what he could only assume was a packet of ledgers.

He stopped short in front of her. “You needed me?”

“Oh, Thomas,” She flicked the ash from her cigarette and sat up, the legs of the chair scraping against the uneven floorboards. “What’s your schedule for tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” He replied, “Depends on who’s asking.”

Polly scoffed, beckoning him to follow with a flick of her wrist. “Your aunt’s asking, come with me.” She led him to their family’s parlor, allowing him to step ahead of her while she drew the curtains that separated them from the rest of the shop.

“I have a favor to ask,” She glanced at him from over her shoulder, balancing the cigarette between her lips while she tied the curtains together tightly. She let out an audible sigh and finally turned around to face him.

Tommy leaned against the wall, still tending to his own dwindling cigarette. “What’s the favor?”

“I need to hire someone.”

“Who?”

“A friend,” She replied. “Well, the niece of a friend.”

“Niece?”

“Are you a fucking parrot?” Polly snapped at him. Shaking her head, she leaned over the table to twist out the remaining stub of her cigarette into an ashtray. “I’d have already hired her myself, but since you’ve been back, I need to jump through a few more hoops before making any executive decisions.” She sighed, clearly bitter. “Nothing gets done without your knowledge.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Who is she?”

“I know her aunt from church, she asked me if I could get her a job.”

“You’re asking me for a favor? For another favor?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Seems like a bad deal to me.”

“I didn’t ask if it was a bad deal or not, I asked if I could hire someone.”

He exhaled, bringing the cigarette to his lips and looking away from her. A headache started building up in the back of his skull. “Why here?”

“She trusts that I’ll look out for her niece,” Polly answered quickly, “She has many children of her own, she can’t afford another mouth to feed anymore. Her husband died in France,” Polly paused, taking a seat at the table. “The bottom line is, she thought to ask me for help, and that means something.”

“What’s the name?”

“Caldwell.”

Tommy remained silent for a long while.

“She’s having hard times, and doesn’t want to kick her own flesh and blood out onto the curb.”

“Aren’t we all having hard times?” He raised an eyebrow.

“She’s desperate. Will you help me, or not?”

“This isn't women’s business.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “Her aunt was good to me, while you boys were away at war, back when it was women’s business,” Polly rolled her eyes. “I’m just trying to pay that good nature forward.”

“Since when did you start paying things forward?”

“Since today,” She huffed, “I’ll ask again. Will you help me or not?”

“Why should I waste company resources on a girl we don’t know, for a job we don’t have. Have you met her before?”

Polly glanced away from him, purposefully silent while tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Her aunt says she’s a good girl.”

“A good girl,” Tommy scoffed, dropping the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray at the center of the table. “Exactly what we need, a good girl . So you don’t know her?”

“Says she’s a hard worker too.”

“Do you even know her name?” He narrowed his eyes at her and then added. “Besides the surname.”

Polly avoided his gaze, instead fidgeting with the golden rings on her fingers.

“Would you just give this a chance?” She cleared her throat. “You don’t even have to hire her. But would you at least see her? Interview her?”

“What job am I supposed to interview her for?” He blankly stared at her. “What have you promised?”

“I haven’t promised anything.” Polly continued, “But I know she’s good with numbers. She’s got certifications.”

“Ah, certifications,” He rolled his eyes, sarcasm lacing his voice. “I’d reckon then that she could find a job, literally, anywhere else.”

“It’s not that easy, Thomas,” Polly shook her head, “If you don’t want her working in the shop, we can find something else for her to do. It’ll be my responsibility.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Her aunt trusts me, she knows I’ll look after her. This is important to me.”

He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes for a moment. The headache that started in the back of his skull had traveled all of the way to his forehead now. When he opened his eyes, he saw a worry wracking his aunt’s face. He began walking toward the curtains but stopped short.

“I’ll see her tomorrow,” Tommy turned on his heel to face her, emphasizing each word with a jab of his finger. “Three o’clock at The Garrison. But if she’s even a second late, it’s over.”

Polly smiled, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Tommy tossed a cigarette stub onto the sidewalk and twisted it into the cement with the heel of his shoe. He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and peered at it, then glanced up at the gilded sign of The Garrison. It was almost three o’clock.

I’m asking as a favor, Thomas. Ridiculous. He was quickly learning that most favors were an additional headache for him.

The pub was empty, save for Harry who was wiping down the bar top. The barkeep caught his eye and tilted his head in the direction of a booth, where his aunt and another person sat. From where he stood, the other person was the back of a neat head of red hair. Polly didn’t notice him initially, seemingly engrossed in conversation, so he tipped his cap to Harry and made his way into the private room.

The window to the bar popped open, and the barkeep, ever-dutiful, appeared.

“Whiskey,” Tommy said, never looking directly at him. He took a seat at the booth and dropped his cap onto the empty space next to him. “And tell my aunt that I’ll be waiting in here, I’d like to speak with her first.”

Harry muttered a quick affirmation in response and disappeared from sight. By the time he returned with his drink in hand, there was a brisk knock at the main door to the room. Before Tommy could say anything, the door swung open, and it was Polly who stood there.

“You didn’t even say hello.”

“This is your favor,” He gave her a pointed nod. “Not mine.”

She rolled her eyes.

Tommy jerked his chin toward the pub. “You walked her here?”

“Keep your voice down, she’ll hear you,” Polly glanced behind her quickly and waved a hand at him. “Yes, I walked her here. I wanted to make a good impression.”

“A good impression, eh?” He motioned to her with the drink in his hand. “You’ve got an hour of my time. Bring her in.”

He didn’t have the slightest clue as to what job he was interviewing her for.

Polly couldn’t have left him anymore unprepared. He didn’t know anything about this girl, besides her surname, and perhaps that she could add a few numbers together, and her aunt was poor as the poorest. He vowed, at that very moment, that this would be the last time he would do a favor for anyone ever again.

He had better things to do. Better things that specifically involved a misplaced crate of guns that had fallen right into his lap a few days prior, and were currently gathering dust in Charlie Strong’s yard.

Polly left the door ajar. He turned to the frosted window that gave a blurry view of the streets beyond the pub. The sky was still overcast, just as it was the day before. The clouds were significantly darker, it looked like snow was more likely than rain. Then, an unfamiliar voice tore him from his musings. It was crisp and clear, with an accent that hinted at expensive schooling.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shelby.”

When Tommy turned to look at her, he wondered if he’d managed at all to mask his surprise. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t… this. By the sound of her accent and smooth skin of her face, this girl, or woman, rather, in front of him couldn’t have been any older than twenty. Young, with fair skin, dressed sharply in a cream blouse and green skirt, not a wrinkle or crease in sight. In one hand, she held a folder, and with the other, she brushed a few auburn curls behind her ear. She looked at him expectantly, giving a flash of a smile framed in bright red lips.

Polly painted him a completely different picture. He assumed this girl would be showing up in moth-eaten clothes, raspy voice from working in a factory of some sort, gangly and thin. She was thin, yes, but didn’t look impoverished. She looked like a high society bitch, dropped in the middle of a dreary factory town. It was humorous, in a way.

He took a measured sip of his drink and motioned for her to take a seat.

“Miss Caldwell, was it?” His voice trailed off as he studied her, waiting for her to fill in the blanks.

“Anna,” She answered, smoothing out her skirt on her lap. “Anna Caldwell. Thank you for seeing me today, especially on such short notice.”

He could see why Polly walked her here, and it became quite clear to him that it wasn’t just to make a good impression. She, Anna , that was her name, didn’t fit in around Small Heath one bit. It was evident in the way she was dressed, and the way she spoke.

She looked greener than the fucking grass at Easter. Certainly didn’t fit in around Small Heath. Certainly not fit for waltzing around Small Heath.

“Yes, well,” He cleared his throat, “Polly spoke very highly of your aunt.”

“My aunt speaks highly of her,” She replied. “They got to know each other during the war, as I suppose many women did.”

Tommy nodded, reaching for his drink. For a while, he attempted to make small talk. It was like pulling fucking teeth. Eventually, he reached his breaking point and decided to cut to the chase. One could only talk about the weather for so long. An attractive woman, he supposed, made it easier, but he wasn’t here to make nice with her, he was fulfilling a favor for his aunt. It was a business transaction, as simple as that.

“Why do you need this job?”

“Well,” She opened her mouth slightly, and then closed it, clearly taken aback by the bluntness of the question. “My aunt is a busy woman. I’ve been staying with her for a while now, and I think it’s time that I start finding my own work, to support myself. To ease the burden on her.”

A politer explanation of the situation in comparison to what Polly told him. He suspected it was a half-truth, on Anna’s part.

“I see,” He extended an open hand to her. “You brought a resume?”

Anna nodded fiercely, carefully opening the folder and handing him a thick piece of paper. He took it from her and slowly began scanning each line. She didn’t have much experience, in, well, anything. There were a few CPA courses dated from a couple of years back, a reference or two. No example of any steady job. In fact, she had never worked at all.

“There’s been few opportunities after the war, finding work has been difficult.”

Few opportunities after the war, he hummed at that.

“Where are you from?”

“A little village far from here,” She answered, shaking her head ever so slightly, causing a few strands of hair to fall in her face. “I doubt you’ve heard of it.”

“Humor me.”

“Eastcliff, it’s far south of here.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” He turned the page over. “And you’re living in Birmingham now?”

“Yes,” Anna folded her hands on the table. “A few streets away from this place, actually.” She glanced around the room. “Although I haven’t come around here often.”

He fought a smirk from appearing on his lips. Of course, she’d never come around these parts.

“You took some CPA courses?” He raised an eyebrow, peering at her from over the paper.

She nodded, leaning close to him to point at something on the paper. As he laid her resume on the table, her fingertips brushed across his knuckles. His eyes flicked toward hers and held her gaze. He noticed her cheeks flush, if only slightly when he pulled his hand away. She cleared her throat and tapped a finger on a certain line.

He looked at her hands while she spoke, her words melding together and becoming a lull in the back of his mind. Her hands were smooth, not a callus, or scar for that matter. Not the hands of a factory girl. He glanced up to her face next. Murky blue eyes, fair with a dusting of freckles across her nose, red curls framing her face. No work experience, few references, allegedly from a small village in fuck knows where. It was almost like she appeared out of thin air.

“Well, Miss Caldwell,” He finished the rest of his drink in a single swig. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Gray, and see what we can do.” He reached for her resume, “May I?”

He really had no intention of hiring her. There was no job available, especially since she barely had any experience in, well, anything. It would take a little more than a pretty face to change that. She would turn out to be a bad investment.

“Of course, please keep it.”

Tommy folded it into a small square and tucked it away in his jacket. Standing from the booth, he gestured to the door. “After you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby,” Anna turned to him, smoothing all of her hair over one shoulder. It was long, he noticed, stopping just below her collarbone. “I appreciate the time you took to speak with me today.”

He shook his head. “It was no trouble.”

Polly approached them from the booth she was sitting at, placing an empty glass on the bartop in the process. “Anna, would you give me a moment with my nephew?”

“Of course,” She nodded, her heels clicking against the floor as she went to retrieve her coat from the booth she was sitting at earlier.

“So?” Polly asked him under her breath, eyes darting between him and Anna. “What did you think?”

Tommy leaned against the bar, watching as the girl bundled herself up in a wool coat and matching hat. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“I expect you to do the right thing, and help someone out.”

He rolled his eyes, the right thing. “She doesn’t seem to be struggling,” Tommy jerked his chin to Anna. “Look, she has a nice coat.”

“Oh, please,” Polly hushed, nudging him in the side as she walked by.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Shelby.” Anna waved before stepping out of the pub. “Thank you again.”

“I’ll be right out,” Polly shouted to her when the front door closed with a jingle.

“I don’t know what to say, Pol,” He pulled his cigarette case from his waistcoat and placed it on the bar. “There aren’t any open positions at the shop,” He nodded to the door, “Especially not for a girl like her.”

“What do you mean? I’m sure she’d be a fine secretary.”

Tommy scoffed, perching a cigarette in between his lips. “What do we need a secretary for?”

“Having one would keep the shop running smoothly, we could always use the extra hands there. Doing the boring work you boys don’t like. There’s more to this business than just blood, you know.”

“I told you I’d interview her, and I did.” He cupped his hands around the lighter, waiting for it to catch. “She has barely any working experience on her resume besides a few courses. Hiring her would be a waste of time and resources. How old is she?”

“Twenty-three.”

“In that case, she could make some good money on her back,” He dragged the cigarette from his lips and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“You’re despicable.”

“It’s an option.” He shrugged, glancing at his aunt from the corner of his eye. “I interviewed her. Favor fulfilled.”

“What am I supposed to do? Go out there and tell her there’s no job here for her?”

“This was your idea” Tommy deadpanned. “I already told you what she could do. Plenty of men around here would be willing to pay a pretty penny for a night with her.” He pointed to the door with his cigarette. “I’d bet, barely broken in.”

“Is this fun for you?” Polly snapped, jerking her head toward him.

He chose not to answer.

They stood in bitter silence, save for the sound of Polly incessantly tapping her foot on the ground. He glanced around the empty pub, dim light filtering in from the windows. In a few hours, the place would be booming with people, with just Harry managing the bar by himself. It was fine enough for him to do that during the war, there were barely any men around then, anyway. Nowadays? With the men back and in desperate need to drink away their sorrows, he was in over his head, each and every night.

Tommy grimaced. An idea trickled into his head. He peered at his aunt from the corner of his eye and cleared his throat.

“You’d be doing the girl and her aunt a favor if you just told them to pack off,” He reached for his cigarette case and shoved it haphazardly into his coat. “You had to walk her here, you say she’s good. Why would you even want her working with us in the first place?”

“Her aunt trusts me,” Polly sighed. “She knows I’ll keep an eye on her. Can’t say many other places offer that- peace of mind.”

Tommy hummed in response. He turned on his heel to face the bar and started banging his open palm against the bar top.

Polly raised an eyebrow at him.

Red-faced at the sudden noise, Harry came running from the back room.

“Another drink, Mr. Shelby?” He nodded his head toward Polly, tossing a stained cloth over his shoulder. “Mrs. Gray.”

“No, no drink,” Tommy spoke with a cigarette between his lips. “Are you still hiring?”

“Hiring? For the extra help around here?”

“Exactly that.”

Harry paused, glancing from Tommy to Polly then back again.

“Well, uh, yes. Yes, I am.”

Tommy tilted his head to Polly. “Would you look at that?”

Harry knelt behind the bar and began rifling through the shelves for something. Bottles and other miscellaneous items clattered together while he searched. “I put an advertisement in the paper,” He called from below. Eventually, he stood up and placed a crumpled newspaper in front of them. “Not many applicants, though.”

“You’re kidding, Thomas.” Polly took a step closer to the bar.

Tommy thumbed through the newspaper to the advertisement section. He scanned through each job posting line by line, until one, in particular, caught his eye.

“Here we are,” He folded the paper and handed it to Polly, tapping a specific headline with his finger. She snatched it from him and brought it close to her face, eyes narrowing at the fine print.

“She’s never done this kind of work before,” She muttered, never looking directly at him.

That was evidently clear to him. Her hands were a dead giveaway. He still wasn’t even sure if she had done any kind of work before. “You said she’s a hard worker, eh? There’s always time to learn.”

Polly didn’t reply, still clutching the newspaper tightly. She shook her head.

“You can go out there and tell her that it’s either this,” Tommy motioned to the pub around them. “Or on her back. It’s your choice.”

She glared at him, her lips forming a tight-line. Lifting her chin, she tucked the newspaper under her arm. “I’ll show her the advertisement.”

“She’ll be on the company payroll.” He raised his cigarette to her. “Favor fulfilled, Pol, and then some.”

Polly wordless turned on her heel and adjusted the velvet cap on her head. The door to the pub jingled as she stepped out.

“How about that drink?”

Tommy gave him a curt nod. He rested his elbows on the bartop, staring at the glossy wood.

“Huh, would you look at that,” Harry muttered as he uncorked a bottle. “It’s snowing. Early this year, isn’t it?”

Glancing out of The Garrison’s frosted windows, he saw that it had indeed started to snow. Tommy pulled the cigarette from his lips and sighed.

He swore that he had no intention of hiring her.

[s-creations]

Now We’re Six

Donald Duck was honestly not prepared to loose so much in such a short time. He's at the end of his rope when two familiar faces show up on his front door to offer their help.

Fandom: DuckTales 2017 / The Three Caballeros     Rating: General Audience     Relationships/Pairings: José  Carioca/Donald Duck/Panchito Pistoles Additional Tags: Dalla Duck mentioned, Scrooge McDuck mentioned, Gyro Gearloose mentioned, Gladstone mentioned, Fethry mentioned, angst, hurt and comfort, happy ending, start of a new family, the triplets are eggs still

Start of a Series Called: We’re the Three- Sorry, Six Caballeros!

How was it possible that he could lose everything in only three days? Scrooge didn’t want to take responsibility, even though he was the one who started this whole train of destruction. It wasn’t just enough to stay on the ground. Oh no, space was the next adventure, they just  had to go. Gyro actually had the audacity to look apologetic when faced with the angry duck. As if he truly felt sorry. Never mind the fact that it was his own creation that cost them so much. Did neither bird think it would be pertinent to heighten security? They were both so lax about the whole thing and now Della-

 Donald let out a shaky breath, tightening the grip on his arms. Trying to keep himself grounded. 

 Della was gone. There was no getting around it. She was lost to the stars because it was killing her to remain on the ground. Even though she’s just laid eggs, even after Donald gave every argument he could to make her see sense, she still went. Nothing was going to stop Della Duck. 

 Except a cosmic storm apparently. 

 So, here sat Donald. Losing his twin sister, his great uncle, his stable life. Self-barricaded away in his boathouse he’d only recently bought after scrounging up everything from his savings to get. Scrunched up in the padded booth of the dinner table with eggs covered in every blanket he owned and resting on the flat surface. A constant reminder of what had happened. What was happening. 

 Another shaky exhale as Donald attempted to relax. His body protested for being in a clenched position for so long, bones creaking and muscles sore. The clock over the stove read midnight in a blaring red color. Numbers that were burned into his eyes and seen from behind closed eyelids. A heavy sigh sounded as he reached out to fidget with the towel-created nest.

 He honestly had no idea what he was doing. Were they cold, to warm maybe? He supposed since the color wasn’t dulling, he was doing something right. Was he supposed to take them to a doctor before they hatched? They were only a few weeks away from hatching but that doesn’t mean something wasn’t wrong. Doesn't mean he’d be able to afford an office visit, no insurance. God, he needed to find a stable job quickly. He had four mouths to feed now and no income. Not a great way to start off the rest of his life. But since when has anything been remotely easy for him?

 Donald was broken from his thoughts when his phone chimed. The beaten up piece of technology was resting on the table as well. But had been pushed as far away as possible, teetering on the edge. He’d been receiving numerous phone calls and messages since the incident. Duckworth asking for Donald and the eggs to return to the mansion to talk this out properly, please. Fethry asking what was happening, was Donald okay, where was he? Gladstone actually sounded furious that Donald would just leave with the eggs in tow and no explanation.

 Donald was just tired of it all. So he left the phone alone, turning back to the eggs. 

 Only for the front door to be knocked on.

 Now he was starting to become angry. What idiot goes to a boathouse in the middle of the night? What idiot goes to any random place in the middle of the night?  Was it really so hard to just ask for a moment's peace? Just a few minutes where the environment and his mind would just shut up. The phone started to chime again just as another knock sounded. He was going to lose it.

 “Deal with the joker at the door first, then worry about the phone.” Donald grumbled, trying to keep his anger in check. An outburst could lead to one of the eggs being damaged. Which would not help the situation. 

 He opened the door, ready to tear whoever was on the other side apart. Only to swallow the words back down when he found a familiar parrot and rooster before him.

 It had been so long, years even. Yet José and Panchito looked as they did the day Donald left them. Minus the outfits, which were wildly different. 

 No three-piece for José. Merely a clean pressed, cream colored, short sleeved button up with the familiar straw hat perched atop his head. Black umbrella resting at the crook of his arm. Even in the dark of night, his feathers were a bright green that made Donald think of the jungles the parrot loved to explore. 

 Panchito was honestly the biggest change. No more overly large sombrero or bright, red outfit. The rooster looked like he’d be more at home on a farm wearing his faded jeans and short sleeved plaid shirt. He’d seem to have gotten taller as well, his comb grown out. Hand still in mid-air as he’d no doubt planned on knocking once again. His feathers were a warm red, seeming to have dulled a little since the years had passed, but still a comforting color. 

 All seemed to be frozen as they looked the other over. José still holding his phone up to his ear, Donald seeing his name on the screen display. Absolutely shocked, the duck’s bill opened and closed, mind still trying to confirm what he was seeing. He wasn’t even sure what he should say. 

 What are you doing here?

 How did you get here? 

 I’m sorry I left so suddenly and broke my promise that I would be back then never returning or even providing an explanation.

 He wanted to say it all. But Donald’s mind settled on uttering one world. “...Hi.”

 “Hola.” Panchito easily replied while José pocketed his phone.

 Donald merely stood aside and gestured for the two to enter, too tired to really question what was happening. As soon as he saw the eggs, Panchito let out a coo of excitement and rushed over. Carefully plucking at the fabric nest to cover said eggs better while speaking softly to them. José kept his attention to Donald, who closed the door with a sharp snap before facing the parrot.

 “You look like death, meu amor.” José spoke gently. A hand reaching out to preen a few feathers back into place.  Between the pet name, the gentle tone, the soft touches, Donald couldn’t help a shiver that traveled through him.

 “Really? Thought I was looking pretty good.” The parrot laughed softly, Donald forgetting how much he missed that sound. Was he close to crying or was he just extremely tired? “What are you two doing here?”

 “We heard about Della.”

 José had said it so simply. But it felt like a punch to his stomach, Donald wrapping his arms around himself. “How...who told you.”

 “Fethry and I are friends on Beakbook.” Panchito replied.

 “We came as soon as we could,” José continued, “Had to cash in all my mileage points and vacation time to get this to work. The company was a little upset that this was so sudden, but it was worth it.”

 “Cancelled a few birthdays on my end.” The rooster laughs softly.

 “We just wanted to be here. How are you feeling?”

 Donald let out a snort, rubbing his eyes as he walked back over to the table. He more or less collapsed back into the padded seats. “I’m not feeling anything. I used up all my shock, anger, and disgust on Scrooge the day Della disappeared. Now I’m caring for three eggs when I can barely keep my life together and I’ve ostracized myself from my family. Because they either did nothing to stop Della or just couldn’t understand why in the world I would be so angry.”

 A less than sane laugh escaped from the fragile duck. “And Della just left! Can you believe it? She had eggs. She just delivered her eggs and decided the next best thing was going on the big adventure! How...How absolutely messed up is that? How am I supposed to tell these kids their mother left because motherhood was less important to her than adventuring. The thing she’s done for years but could get enough of!”

 Donald pulled at his feathers, breathing becoming shallow and harsh. This was it, he was finally breaking. Just as he’d received a break in the clouds he feels himself falling apart. He was just so tired…

 Very little resistance was put up as his hands were gently pulled away from his sore head. Instead of self-inflicted pain, he was now clutching onto a shirt. His view became obscured by green feathers that felt like silk and were cool against his heated skin. A familiar tune of a lullaby started to be hummed that calmed his nerves further. Shoulders slumped as he felt himself slip away from consciousness. After three days of unrest, Donald fell into a relatively easy sleep with José holding him close.

 _____________________

 “I would just need to change addresses. It will not be that hard for me.”

 “Won’t you have anything to move?”

 “No, at least not a lot. I can just sell what I do not need. You?”

 “I have a lot of family heirlooms that I would like to bring. If possible.”

 “We will figure something out.”

 “Do you think Donald will be okay with moving?”

 “He is charmingly stubborn. But if we sell it properly, I am sure he will understand where we are coming from.”

 Donald squirmed as he slowly started to wake. Pressed against something warm and soft as he was rocked by the hammock. Fingers gently brushed through the feathers on the back of his head. It would have lulled him back to sleep if he wasn’t determined to figure out what was happening.

 It took a few blinks to clear his blurred vision to understand where he was. Laying against José, both resting in the duck’s hammock hanging in the supposed to be storage room. The only proper bedroom being set up for being the nursery. Panchito was resting on the floor nearby. The eggs and fabric nest had been moved from the table as well, laying next to the rooster who was running a hand over the shells carefully. From the soft light drifting from the window, Donald reasoned it was the following evening. 

 ...How long had he been asleep?

 “I’m sorry meu amor, did we wake you?” José’s voice was soft.

 “No...I was kind of waking up. How are the eggs?”

 “Pequeños Ángeles. So quiet and well-behaved.” Panchito teased.

 “The eggs are fine. We are more worried about you right now,” continued José, “Donald, you have not had a breakdown like that since college.”

 “Possibly even worse than that.”

 “Have more adult problems.” Donald responded weakly. He was still so exhausted.

 “This is not a normal situation,” Panchito argued, “You look so close to death when we arrived yesterday.”

 “Haven’t been able to clear my thoughts for the past few days. It’s all just been a...mess…”

 “We understand where you are coming from Donald. But this is such a sudden change, and to do it on your own…” José was not one to be at a loss for words. But this was a situation that seemed to be weighing heavily on all their shoulders with no clear answer.

 “I’m not going back to Scrooge.” The duck responded sharply.

 “That is not what we are suggesting.”

 “Then what are you suggesting? Because I’m too exhausted to figure it out.”

 “We’re going to help.” Panchito answered easily.

 It took Donald a few seconds to properly understand what was just said. “How? I mean, wait, no, that was rude. You guys already have enough in your own lives to deal with. I couldn’t just...ask you two to help.”

 “We are offering to help.” José corrected.

 “But-”

 “We want to help.”

 Donald sucked in his breath, eyes darting between the two other birds. José calm. Panchito eager. “...I’m not in a good place. Mentally, emotionally, financially.”

 “We were roommates in college, we know what you’re like. You’re going through something...heavy, so anyone facing this wouldn’t be doing okay. We understand. José and I have jobs to help with pay. Easy.” Panchito answered.

 “You can’t just...leave your jobs, your homes.”

 “I am a flight attendant. I just need to transfer to a hub positioned here. Panchito is a freelance performer, he can easily find work. And we do not have much tied to our current apartments. Moving will not be an issue.”

 “The boathouse will be cramped. It was already an issue with me and the eggs, once they hatched.” 

 “This may not be your most favorite of suggesting,” José started cautiously, “But, we would  need to sell the boathouse and find an apartment.”

 “I- We don’t have the financial support or a reliable credit! Mine’s terrible, you two aren’t proper citizens-”

 Panchito coughed weakly at that. “We actually received our citizenship a few months ago.”

 Donald’s mouth dropped at that, looking to José for confirmation. The parrot nodded. “We were going to tell you properly when we saw you again.”

 “Right..the original plan. Only going to be gone for a year,” the duck chuckled weakly, “My luck just had to ruin everything for everyone, didn’t it?”

 “No, no mi amor, esto no es tu culpa.” Panchito inched closer to grab Donald’s hand, José taking the other one. “You should know how unpredictable life truly is. We just have to greet each day the best we can.”

 Donald let out a small sigh, knowing he was slowly losing this battle. “...You didn’t ask… You shouldn’t… This is my family, my mess to deal with. This nothing you two should worry about. I’m not bringing you into this, you shouldn’t have to worry about it.”

 “Come now, are we not the Three Caballeros? We are together, to support each other, no matter what kind of storm we face. You need us now more than ever and how terrible would we be if we just abandoned you? Patinho bobo.” José gently teased.

 Donald was unprepared, but not unhappy, when a kiss was placed on both his cheeks. All but melting into the touch. A smile forming as he leaned back into José and gently squeezing each hand he still had a hold of. 

 “Are you really prepared to raise triplets?”

 “I’m used to a big family.” Panchito replied with a smile.

 “Never raised children, but I am a fast learner. We will be fine.”

 Donald gave a small nod, letting out a slow breath as his worries faded away. He didn’t argue when Panchito collected the eggs and all piled into the hammock. It creaked, but gave no further protest as they all settled down. Perhaps it was because he was so exhausted so he couldn’t truly argue anymore. Or because José and Panchito gave good reasoning. But at this moment, sandwiched between two people he loved and the eggs resting on his lap, Donald realized he was feeling content after so many days of unrest. 

 How could he ever doubt these two?

[echo-three-one]

Whatever It Takes : RELOADED

Let's make the next chapter pink.

Table of Contents

Previous Chapter : Undying Admiration

Chapter 21 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

back at it again with the piccrew

If I Remember Correctly

Maxine Winters

Safe House 110197, Brazil

Maxine looked at Samantha and smiled. They were finally together once again, as roommates, but this time, the room was huge and they were surrounded by strong men who were willing to risk their lives to protect them.

"How are you holding up?" Maxine asked.

"Everything's a swirl of hazy incomplete memories. It feels like I'm mostly recalling them back, but the details are a bit mixed. It doesn't feel right that I recall Alex as someone from work, right?" she chuckled. She must've been going through a lot of things right now, and it looked like Alex successfully helped her recall most of her forgotten memories. Maybe all she needed was someone to influence her.

"Hey Sam, what kinds of things have I told you about my past? France already told me some of my unforgettable memories but they still seem too unclear." She asked, Samantha looked excited as she began recalling something from the unaltered part of her memory.

"Well, for starters you told me a lot about your little sister. However since your mother died, the two of you were always together solving the problems as a team until you both decided to enlist her in the army. You told it was both the happiest and saddest moment of your life." She said with a smile on her face. Maxine never felt anything but knowing that that was their situation, it made sense how France was trying hard to win her back. She was the only one she had. And it must've hurt that the only companion she ever had didn't even remember her.

"I… I didn't know that…" she faltered. Samantha quickly reached out a hand to hold hers.

"Just take your time to remember… I'm sure France understands the situation." Samantha replied, turning to the door as it slowly pushed itself open. Alex peeked from the said door and asked.

"Am I disturbing any girl talk?"

"A little. But I'll forgive you for now." Samantha grinned as Alex entered the room, dressed in comfortable sleeping wear.

"I made a deal with France to swap sleeping positions for tonight. Make sure skipping tomorrow's pancake will be worth it." he winked as he settled behind Samantha, the spooning was awkward as his metal leg was unbendable and heavy, but Maxine noticed the smile in Samantha's eyes and how it quickly forgot the uncomfort he was giving her. Maybe that's true love.

"Aw… I was about to add extra honey to your plate, Alex. What you did to Samantha was the sweetest thing ever. I guess France is up for a treat." She joked, making the girls giggle while Alex furrowed his brows.

"Well then, this night better be worth it." He proceeded to tickle Samantha and they found themselves rolling and rolling. Maxine took a minute to admire the scenery before her eyes slowly closed itself to sleep.

~

Ever since being brainwashed, Maxine wasn't able to dream of something, every morning she would be greeted by the same empty feeling, her thoughts would always consist of recent events.

This night was different. She vividly recalled a rainy afternoon. She and Francine stood by their mother's grave.

"I'm going to the army next week, Mom. It might take a while since I'll be seeing you again." Francine knelt and placed a small floral pot they arranged.

"Yeah Mom, your daughter finally used her toughness somewhere other than fighting me!" She remembered herself joking and nudging her sister. These were things that they did on a weekly basis, visit their mother’s grave and talk about their week.

“And since she’s out training for the rest of her life, I decided to move to California, maybe look for restaurants to work on maybe look for someone special.” Maxine mused. She could hear France giggle.

“I, on the other hand, won’t let myself fall for any of those tough army men.” France added.

“Are you sure about that? It’s like… turning down a million dollar offer.” Maxine teased.

“It really depends on the person. But while I’m in training, I’ll focus on improving.” She amended.

Then the memory faded, it felt like tv static started to consume her whole dream until she found herself awake, gasping for air.

“You okay?” Alex groggily asked her, cuddling Samantha who was sound asleep. She nodded and got up, she felt very thirsty.

Maxine hurriedly walked down the stairs quietly passing the empty command center. Oddly enough, the kitchen light was open and she could hear soft clanking of cutlery. She took a peek at Gary Sandersom, who’s sticking his tongue out and too busy making finishing touches on a cake of sorts. She knew they didn't have the right mould for basic pastries but seeing him actually holding a cake, surprised her.

“So this is the reason I wake up to missing ingredients.” She spoke firmly and crossed her arms, walking closely to Roach who scrambled and immediately hid the cake behind him.

“I’m just trying out new stuff. Baking looked fun.” He lied, stepping further back until his butt hit the sink.

“I already saw what you’re working on Gary. How did you form the shape? We didn’t have any mold.”

“When there’s a will, there’s a way.” He smiled proudly and showed her his cake. It was cylindrical, almost like that of a

“Mugs.” he explained as Maxine crept closer to his work, her eyes probed around it like a judge from masterchef.

“Wow. This looks nice. Is this for you?” she asked, feeling Gary’s body shake differently.

“Actually, it’s for you… France told me about your birthday and since I already missed it. I wanted to share one with you. You know… for uh… formality.” he stuttered. It was obvious that Gary was nervous. She felt this ever since they started cooking together, and she noticed that he was improving around her.

“Aww… thanks. No one’s ever baked a cake for me. Samantha just buys them.” Maxine chuckled and sat on the chair as Gary pulled out a candle and lit it.

“I’m supposed to give you one before we leave tomorrow. I guess you got too excited.” he laughed nervously and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. Maxine gently reached for the hand and grazed it softly, smiling at Gary’s excited face.

“Make a wish.” Gary whispered, his minty breath tickled her nose. Maxine closed her eyes as the warm flame heated her cheeks. She would have wished for something personal, but instead she wished for something she thought needed to happen first.

“I wish… that this war will be over.” she opened her eyes and blew her candle as Roach silently clapped and cheered.

“Belated Happy Birthday Maxine.” He greeted with a warm hug, Maxine slowly gave in to his embrace and faced him. Tension sparked in the air between them as the chemicals moving between them started to react to each other, drawing their lips closer to each other. It was almost automatic, none of them held back as their lips clashed into a soft yet intense kiss. Their tongues were too shy to act but the lips were eager to meet again, soft smooches filled the quiet kitchen as their hands started to climb up to their faces.

“I.. um..” Gary shyly held back, his hands parted from her cheeks as they both stepped back from each other.

“It’s okay…" She whispered quickly, turning back to get herself a glass of water to calm herself from her nightmare and to cool off the heat of her body.

"I take it you're going back to bed?" Gary asked, leaning his arms across the table, looking at the cake.

"I think I can't sleep after that dream." She muttered. The reply signaled Roach to grab a fork and sit beside her.

"Dream? You're having dreams now?" Roach asked curiously, taking a slice off the cake and pointing the fork to her mouth.

"Yeah." Maxine continued with a vivid description of her dream, Roach momentarily spoon feeding her with cake every after thought.

Maxine actually stayed all morning talking to Roach, they discussed mostly about her dream and Roach was there to listen. He was what Maxine needed at the moment, a great listener who happened to be someone she's starting to fall for. She could also feel him growing close to her, that wasn't just any birthday kiss… I felt something else.

Maxine was almost jealous of Roach's colorful life. He shared so much of him that she actually felt guilty that she was only able to share one. He had lots of stories involving encounters with animals and most of it was about his dog.

"If you were to choose… Which animal would you prefer as a pet?" Gary asked curiously. The question made Maxine stop and think, admiring the slowly rising sun as she goes.

"Parrots sound fun. They talk back."

"Only if you teach them to…" Gary responded. He always does that, he's adding comments to her replies until they both agreed on a thing.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Maxine finally asked.

"Do what?"

"You know, influencing me to agree on your opinion?"

"I just want you to think I actually have something to say… Plus it keeps the conversation going… because I never really wanted it to stop." He smiled.

"Oi, Roach. Why is there no hot water yet?" Price yelled.

"Hang on Captain! The kettle isn't whistling yet!" Roach replied running to the kitchen leaving an amazed Maxine behind. A few minutes later Francine approached her.

No words were spoken as Maxine immediately wrapped her sister around her arms, she was really all she had and she was guilty that she couldn't remember her when they first met.

"I'm glad you found me… even amidst this mess." Maxine whispered to France's ears. She could feel her tears falling on her as they enjoyed the tender moment of their reunion.

"I remembered only one memory. Of us before we separated and lived independently. I think it's all I needed to truly tell who I am." Maxine said as Francine sobbed.

"I love you sis." France hugged again as they both cried.

Next Chapter : Going Dark Part 1

Notification Squad my Beloved

@smokeywhalee @samatedeansbroccoli @enderio @whimsywispsblog @beemybee @ricinbach

[theramseyloft]

Cognition and Sociology Research

When I was raising doves I found some research papers about pigeons categorizing things and learning the equivalent of words the way human children do.

At the time, I just thought it was neat. 

But when we got the most pitiful pigeon I have ever seen into wildlife rehab (I'm their columbid specialist), 

I built off of that research and started talking to him, like you would a nonverbal three year old. 

 Entirely on his own, he started alerting me for anxiety attacks, and even worked out how to bring me down from bad ones if he couldn't warn me fast enough. 

He knew I was diabetic before I did, and also started alerting me for blood sugar spikes all on his own.

I'm an autistic woman with ADHD, PTSD, and pretty severe social anxiety.

My two biggest fears in public are anxiety attacks and over-stimulation.

Those of you with mental illness are aware that panic attacks and anxiety attacks are two different things.

A panic attack is a sudden reaction to a specific stimulus. 

 An anxiety attack is more of a straw that broke the camels back after a prolonged build up of stressors. 

From my perspective, they feel exactly the same.

Because I am not aware of the build up of stress until I have that last straw moment, an anxiety attack can hit me out of nowhere, for absolutely no reason I am capable of discerning in the moment.

It makes going anywhere alone absolutely terrifying because I have no way of knowing when or if or even why I may suddenly have an anxiety attack.

Under enough duress, I can’t function.  Like my brain just shorts out.

I get hit with a wave of exhaustion. All the energy drains out through the soles of my feet, and I'm just.. so deeply tired I could just crumple up where I stand. 

Blood sugar spikes feel, to me, exactly like that stressed out shut down.

Ankhou can read that build up, and differentiate between anxiety, blood sugar, and just plain physically tired.

If I am actually just tired, Ankhou will wait for me to get comfortable, snuggle in with me, and join the nap.

When he becomes aware that I'm approaching the degree of stressed that preceeds an anxiety attack, he gets on my shoulder or in my lap and leans against my cheek or preens my hand: Letting me know I need to relax and providing me a soft stim to relax come down with.

If he stands on my chest and stretches to be eye level, that't my warning that I need to immediately find a place to sit down and pet him to prevent myself from shutting down entirely.

If he has not gotten to me soon enough and I am fully shut down, he gets in my lap and gently preens the underside of my forearm until I respond to stroke him.

If I'm having a blood sugar spike, he will do absolutely anything in his power to prevent me from falling asleep! He'll start by preening and nudging my hands to pet him. If I don’t respond, he bites my fingers. 

If I don’t respond to that, he bites the back of my hand. Then the soft tender bit between my fingers, then my inner elbow, then my ear, then my cheek... 

And then if absolutely nothing else will rouse me, he will bite my eyelid.

If absolutely nothing will get me to respond, he'll find who ever else is in the house and throw himself at their office or room door until they come check on me.

And I got to thinking: If a feral literally off the street would do that on his own...

What would happen if I selectively bred the birds most comfortable around and interested in people? 

And gave them very basic training? Like responding to their name, loading eagerly into a carrier, comfortably wearing a harness, responding to a few simple commands like Step up...

At the time, I was raising show pigeons.

And one of the highest criteria for working with a breed was its tractability and docility.

So I already had this collection of the breeds that were easiest to handle, most physically fit, with the best parents instincts like tight setting of eggs and chicks and excellent feeding responses...

Letting them blend would mean I wouldn’t have to keep pairs penned anymore!

So I laid out sand on the floor to make cleaning easier, got them nest boxes and stacked them to the wall.

Got them shelves with hardware cloth supporting comfy rubber mats I could take out and hose off.

And let them pair up as they would.

I have a cap of 10 mature breeding pairs. 

 When a keeper baby hits 6 months, the adult of the same sex that is either least healthy, least friendly, or has the worst parenting record gets retired and adopted to their permanent home as a pet.

That's the only influencing I have over pairings. 

 The birds can otherwise do and bond as they please. 

 Babies who do not enjoy any aspect of the training program are not forced to continue. I just mark them as pet instead of potential therapy bird.

I record everything they do. 

 Who they pair with, how well they parented the babies, how the babies developed, who wants to sit with me, under what circumstance. 

 How treat motivated are they? 

How much and where do they like to be petted? 

How keen are they to sit with me with no treat reward vs. treat time? 

 Upon reaching maturity, does any of that change? 

 Pigeons are a very unusual sort of social among the columbidae. 

 Most other birds,  including the vast majority of dove and pigeon species, see fully self feeding fledgelings as new competition for resources and drive them out of their territory. 

 They can feed off a rich ground together, but only watch out for and cooperate with their current mate. They do not seek out other birds’ company, they just happen to be in the same place at the same time.

 Rock doves and their domesticated descendants' flocks are strikingly human like extended families.

Parents, grandkin, aunts, uncles, children, cousins, grand children: all live together year round in a nesting site that functions kinda like a human tribe or village.

Babies only ever leave the flock to start a new one when there are not enough resources to support the number of birds.

When they fledge and leave the nest, their dad takes over the bulk of their care. He feeds them, shows them where to find food, water, and nest material, and teaches them how to integrate into pigeon society.

When to be assertive so they don’t get crowded out and can get what they need, and when to defer to the status of an older, bigger bird to avoid being injured in a fight.

The rest of the flock will usually haze a peep the first day it's down: Basically each taking heir turn to assert "I'm older and bigger, and I out rank you." Knowing where they are in the chain of command makes things like coordinating flock foraging parties around avoiding predators and navigating changing weather conditions go smoothly when it's time to venture forth from the nesting grounds.

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2015/06/150609213053.htm

Pigeon society is democratic. 

 Every fully fledged bird has a say in where they go and what they do on missions. 

 The individual that knows the best places to find food, water, or nest material will lead the mission out to get that thing, and the bird who is best at navigating leads the foraging party back home afterwards.

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2010/04/100416214045.htm

Pigeon flocks are a meritocracy. 

 A mission leader earns that status by actually being the best at that specific task, and if some one else gets better at it, the flock will follow that bird instead.

https://www.audubon.org/news/in-homing-pigeon-flocks-bad-bosses-quickly-get-demoted

This one isn’t pigeon specific, but pigeons are SUPER communicative, and it would not surprise me to find that this applies to pigeon peeps as well. 

https://www.mnn.com/earth-matters/animals/stories/baby-birds-communicate-eggs-hatch?fbclid=IwAR39CYrHAfFM6nAP8Rq3TvOox1p5vcb3Z87xqjPoiYNCwMoRvuQaWCeSFjs

 Maybe less because their parents sit on them constantly, but I have seen evidence for peeps hatching with anxiety during a stressful time for the flock. 

Pigeons, like baboons, are capable of higher level cognition.

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/02/090212141143.htm

In fact, their brains are wired a lot like ours!

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/07/130717095336.htm

Facial recognition is as important to them as it is to us, and it functions the same way ours does.

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/07/130717095336.htm

Like corvids, and unlike most parrots, pigeons recognize themselves in mirrors.

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/06/080613145535.htm

I have seen evidence that they can differentiate a mirror from a photo and a video, and can recognize themselves in a video with significant delay.

This degree of self awareness is why their name is the first concrete thing my babies learn.

When a baby reaches a week of age, it gets a name and observes the older birds at treat time in my lap. 

 I greet each individual by name and give them a safflower seed held between thumb and forefinger. (Making my hand look more bird head shaped than the usual talon or snake head shape that hands present to birds on an instinctive level) 

 There are often individuals in a flock who will feed any peep that toddles up and begs. By doing treat time this way, I take on this "auntie" roll for my flock and emulate the comfort of being fed by a big, protective parent. 

 When the baby starts to peck and beg me for seeds, I greet it by name and pop a safflower seed into its mouth just like the adults. 

 That baby learns that its name specifies that I am addressing it, and no other bird, and associates being addressed by name with getting something good. 

The end result is a baby who knows and eagerly responds to their name.

The information in these three studies: 

proving that pigeons categorize like we do https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2014/04/140402095107.htm

They learn the equivalent of words the way human children do https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2015/02/150204184447.htm

And pattern map with enough nuance to differentiate a word from an acronym the same number of letters. https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2016/09/160919111535.htm

 was the basis of my linguistic training with Ankhou. 

 Language is a pattern of matching words to objects, places, individuals, actions, and concepts. 

 Pigeons are communicative, social learning pattern mappers, already wired to map the pattern of language by the same mechanic as a human toddler. 

 My job is to feed Ankhou the pattern by which humans vocally communicate and let him do with it what pigeons do best. 

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2017/12/171204144805.htm

Pigeons understand abstracts like time and space.

Ankhou understands the abstract concepts of choice and consent, and is capable of giving me a clear yes or no answer.

And the exciting thing is that he isn’t special in that regard. 

 All pigeons are wired to learn language this way, and with patience and consistence, any of them at any age can be taught. 

 It's just easiest for babies who were raised with it.

Pigeon society is close enough to a big, extended human family that an individual pigeon can integrate easily into a human flock.

The more easily they can communicate with us and we can with them, the more easily they can integrate and the closer bonds they can form with their partner.

So the bulk of our research here at The Ramsey Loft is centered around decoding pigeon communication, pushing to see how much of ours they can be taught, what environment and methods are most conducive to teaching them, how big a part genetics play, and how accurately those traits can be selected for.

[queenangst]

I can't remember if you've done something like this before, but.... Prompt: a heart to heart between Midoriya and Shinsou where they discuss their pasts. Or something along those lines. I just wanna see our purple and green boys interact.

for my 30 min fic challenge / read more: ‘30 min fics’ tag

defense [read on AO3]

If Hitoshi had to pick a word to describe Midoriya, it would probably be: weird.

He was sure Midoriya’s classmates had other answers. More normal answers, like strong or brave or some noble heroic description. Maybe friend, in some of their cases—though Hitoshi wasn’t sure they were friends yet. He didn’t think he was ready for that.

But weird covered Midoriya well enough.

Weird and unexpected. When Midoriya had kindly kicked Hitoshi’s ass at the Sports Festival, some kind of switch had flipped in his mind. Something Midoriya had said, something between heroes and villains—he was, Hitoshi had to grudgingly admit, right.

Weird was also a good word for why Midoriya was waiting for Hitoshi after class ended. While the rest of Hitoshi’s classmates filed out, laughing and talking to each other, Hitoshi lagged behind, slowly putting his things in his bag and getting ready to head home. It was no different from any other day, except when he stepped out the classroom door Midoriya was in the hallway twisting his hands nervously and watching.

“Shinsou!” he said when he spotted Hitoshi. “I was waiting for you.”

Hitoshi looked around, as if there were any other student who shared the same last name (there wasn’t) that Midoriya might have been waiting for. No one waited for Hitoshi—or at least not since middle school, when the only people waiting for him had been bullies. Even then those had been a scant few times, after Hitoshi had forced them to leave and they hadn’t dared to come back to pick on him again. Most people left him alone after that revelation.

Didn’t stop the whispers. Villain’s Quirk. Yeah. Hitoshi knew, and he heard.

“Uh,” Hitoshi said eloquently, “waiting… for me.”

Midoriya frowned, like he didn’t understand why Hitoshi didn’t understand. “Um, yeah. If that’s… okay?”

And… now it was awkward.

“Fine,” Hitoshi said gruffly. “Why- why are you waiting for me, anyway? We’re not—”

Friends, he didn’t say, but he didn’t want to hurt Midoriya’s feelings just in case. So he cut himself off.

“Well, we studied together a few times, right? And- and you came with me and the others when we went to get sodas last time didn’t you? I thought we could, um, hang out.”

“Hang out,” Hitoshi said, voice flat.

He didn’t hang out with people. Midoriya didn’t seem to get that—or maybe he did, and just ignored it. No, that sounded right.

“Actually,” Midoriya started, and smiled. That crooked smile was a little guilty, and Hitoshi felt suspicion stir in his stomach. “I wanted to ask if you would, um… well. I wanted to ask if you wanted to spar together!”

Hitoshi stopped walking. He looked down; he hadn’t even realized he’d been moving, but he’d kept up with Midoriya down the hall.

“Spar?”

As soon as he asked he regretted it. Now Hitoshi sounded like an idiot in front of one of the few people who didn’t seem to be scared of him. It was like everything Midoriya had said, Hitoshi had only parroted back. To his own credit, though, everything Midoriya had said was… weird. And confusing.

“I heard you wanted to try transferring to the hero course,” Midoriya said, “and I thought… I mean, of course, it’s up to you! I mean I’m sure there are plenty of other people you could practice with, sparring, I mean, and maybe you don’t really want to—”

Hitoshi held up a hand. His head was spinning enough without Midoriya’s mouth going off like a rocket. He needed a second to process it, and turned to face the wall so he had something to stare at that wasn’t Midoriya’s face.

“Shinsou…”

“I’m just,” Hitoshi said, “thinking. For a second.”

He hadn’t expected the offer at all. Sure, he’d joined Midoriya’s study sessions once or twice, and he had gone with Midoriya and his friends one time, just because he hadn’t had anything better to do. But sparring was a different thing.

“Who told you I was going to try to transfer in?” he asked, turning back to Midoriya.

Midoriya shrugged. “I heard it from someone.”

Great. He hadn’t exactly made that decision public , but it’d been something Hitoshi had considered after the Sports Festival. He could be a hero. He could, at the very least, try.

But he hadn’t said much about it beyond a few classmates and his teachers, because he wasn’t sure how people would react. Some kid with a villain’s Quirk transferring in the middle of the year? To Heroics? Though Midoriya had proven Hitoshi’s expectations wrong, he knew some of the types of hero kids—they’d probably laugh at him.

Hitoshi locked eyes with Midoriya. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why… spar with me?”

Midoriya shrugged. “It’s good practice,” he said, “and I don’t mean to insinuate you’re weak or anything, because you totally aren’t, but I thought that maybe you might want to fight with someone. To help prepare. My classmates—well, they all got into Class 1-A for a reason, right?”

And that was true, Hitoshi supposed. Maybe. All of Class 1-A’s Quirks… what did it matter if they could throw a punch or not, if they could blow an entire building with just their Quirks?

But Hitoshi had nothing to lose. And he was kind of looking for an excuse to procrastinate studying for maths, so he supposed it wouldn’t hurt.

“Yeah, okay,” he conceded, and Midoriya smiled so brightly Hitoshi considered turning around and leaving on the spot.

It turned out that sparring did hurt.

Because Midoriya wiped the floor with him.

It was, well, really, really embarrassing. Okay; really, really, really embarrassing. Hitoshi thought he knew how to fight—he’d gotten into his fair share of fights back in middle school, and he’d done some training before coming to U.A. And U.A. taught them defensive and offensive fighting anyway, without the use of their Quirks, but Midoriya still kicked Hitoshi’s ass.

Also, Aizawa-sensei—oh, God, Eraserhead —was watching. Well, he was squinting from his corner in the training room, curled up in his sleeping bag with a few papers he was grading. He’d look up every now and then to make sure they weren’t annihilating each other, which Midoriya arguably was.

“You need to move faster,” Midoriya said, jabbing two quick punches in the space next to Hitoshi’s head. “Think about your feet. Keep moving. Footwork’s important.”

“You say that,” Hitoshi grumbled, and ducked under another barrage of blows. He brought his hands up, but Midoriya darted impossibly fast, aiming under Hitoshi’s defense.

Hitoshi brought his arms to block, and then Midoriya went left and hit his side.

It was just impossible to keep up. Midoriya’s sharp eyes caught any weakness and then promptly exploited it.

Hitoshi tried to get a hit in, but Midoriya dodged then retaliated. It didn’t take long for Hitoshi to end up on the floor, staring dazedly at the ceiling and wondering how he’d ended up here.

“I shouldn’t have said yes,” he groaned, rolling over to look at Midoriya, who was crouching next to him. “Why’d I say yes?”

“You’re not bad, Shinsou.”

“I blinked once, and I was on the floor, Midoriya.”

Midoriya cocked his head, analyzing.

“Let’s break,” he said after a moment, “just for a minute or two. Then we can get back to it.”

Hitoshi gritted his teeth. Sparring with Midoriya under the semi-watchful eye of Aizawa-sensei… it was making him think now, too. He’d known, of course, that getting into Heroics was far from easy. But now he knew he had a lot to catch up on.

“We should do this more often,” he said, as Midoriya wandered back with a pair of water bottles. Hitoshi took one when it was offered.

“Re- really?”

Hitoshi nodded. “I—” And it was hard to admit when you were weak, but Hitoshi had to. “You’re right. I have a lot to work on.”

Midoriya looked away, out at the training room.

“You know,” he said, “we’re kind of… similar. I think.”

“Yeah?”

Midoriya’s mouth was caught in a frown. His eyes were somber as he looked back at Hitoshi.

“You remind me of myself,” he said, “you stay on the defense a lot when you’re fighting, Shinsou. You need to be less scared of… well, yourself. And your capabilities.”

“On the—” Hitoshi gaped. “You call that being on the defense?”

Midoriya’s mouth quirked upward. “That’s not— I mean, that’s what I was like, for a while. But I learned.”

“You’re… fast. And you hit really hard.”

“Yeah.” Midoriya paused. He looked over at Aizawa-sensei. “Um… listen, Shinsou. I don’t— did you know I was a late bloomer?”

“A what?”

“A late bloomer,” Midoriya admitted, “like my Quirk, I didn’t really get it until right before entering U.A. So for a long time I was Quirkless, and… and people picked on me for it.”

Hitoshi’s thoughts quieted.

“I just mean, you reminded me of that. But I’m here.” Midoriya’s eyes sharpened. “I’m here, and I made it, and I feel like I have to fight every day to prove myself and to keep my spot. I don’t want to make any assumptions about you, and your Quirk, but…”

Hitoshi worked his jaw. “You were bullied, too?”

Midoriya’s lips flattened. “You could… call it that,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I just, well, I just wanted to say that I… um, I get it. You know? You’re not alone. I’m kind of just like you, I think.”

“I’m— sorry.”

He’d made a lot of assumptions. It was easy to make assumptions about hero-types. And it was easy to make assumptions about Midoriya.

“I never thought I could be a hero,” he admitted.

Midoriya’s smile was sad. “I wanted to, so badly. And everyone told me I couldn’t.”

Villain. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Midoriya started, “I just wanted to say that I, um, recently I’ve started thinking that I deserve to be here. Because I worked for it. And when I look at you I think you deserve a chance, too. That’s why I asked.”

Hitoshi swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“No one’s— told me that,” he croaked.

Midoriya looked down.

“I wish someone had,” he said, so quiet Hitoshi almost didn’t hear. Then Midoriya got up. “Come on. You want to try again?”

Hitoshi mulled the thought over in his mind. A chance, even for him. Midoriya held out his hand.

“Yeah,” Hitoshi said, and took it.

[wonkasmissstarshine]

The Chocolatier’s Rose {Willy Wonka x OC} Ch. 10

GIFs not mine. Credit go to owners.

Summary: The remaining guests are shown the Nut Sorting Room. Veruca is revealed to be a bad nut, something that Rose has known from the start.

Tagging: @holdmeicant​ @willymywonkers​

"Without the boat, we'll have to move double time just to keep on schedule" Willy told everyone as they walked down a red and white hallway. "There's far too much to see"

"Mr Wonka?" Charlie piped up.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you decide to let people in?"

"Well, so they could see the factory of course" Willy stated. It was a simple answer, but it seemed that there was more behind it.

Charlie inquired further. "But why now? And why only five?"

Mike pushed past Charlie and asked greedily, "What's the special prize, and who gets it?"

"The best kind of prize is a sur-prize!" Willy answered Mike and then laughed.

Veruca pushed past Mike. "Will Violet always be a blueberry?" The little spoiled brat asked. She seemed all to happy about the fact that Violet became a blueberry, and now she was out of the way.

"No. Maybe. I don't know" Willy answered her. "But that's what you get from chewing gum all day. It's just disgusting"

"I agree" Rose said. She knew that Violet's gum chewing would come back to bite her in the butt.

"If you hate gum so much, why do you make it?" Mike questioned.

"Once again, you really shouldn't mumble 'cause it's really starting to bum me out" Willy retorted.

Charlie asked yet another question. "Can you remember the first candy you ever ate?"

Willy came to a stop. He mumbled out "No", before he gazed off, growing distant again. He was like that for a moment, before Rose placed a hand on his arm and snapped him out of it. "I'm sorry, I was having a flashback" He said dreamily.

"I see" Mr Salt said, eyeing Willy cautiously, pulling Veruca closer to him.

"These flashbacks happen often?" Mr Teavee asked, also eyeing Willy cautiously.

An off smile appeared on Willy's face. "Increasingly.... today" He continued walking and everyone else followed him. He brought them to a room named Nut Sorting Room.

"Ah, this is a room I know all about" Mr Salt remarked. "For you see, Mr Wonka, I myself am in the nut sorting business" Mr Salt gave Willy one of his business cards, but without sparing even a glance at it, Willy threw it over his shoulder. Rose laughed in amusement at this. "Are you using the Havermax Four Thousand to do your sorting?" Mr Salt asked, oblivious to the fact that Willy tossed away his business card.

"No" Willy said to Mr Salt. He laughed. "You're really weird" Willy opened up the room, allowing everyone inside. The room was bright white, and beyond the railing everyone was standing behind, was a white floor with blue swirls on it with a hole on the middle of it. Large glass containers containing nuts were suspended in the air. Tubes were attached to the containers which dropped the nuts into stations. But the most amusing part about the room was the fact that there were about a hundred squirrels, each sat on their own stool. It would seem that the squirrels sorted the nuts.

"Squirrels!" Veruca chirped happily and wide eyed.

"Yeah. Squirrels" Willy nodded. "These squirrels are specially trained to get the nuts out of the shells"

"What a clever idea!" Rose said, making Willy smile in her direction.

Mr Salt, however, seemed to have a different opinion on the matter. "You use squirrels? Why not use Oompa-Loompas?"

"Because, only squirrels can get the whole walnut out almost every time" Willy explained. "You see how they tap each one with their knuckles to make sure it's not bad?" One of the squirrels tapped the nut on the edge of the feeder, and held it up to its ear. "Oh, look!" Willy pointed to that squirrel. "I think that one's got a bad nut"  The squirrel threw the nut behind itself. It tumbled down the swirly floor until it disappeared into the hole.

Veruca looked up at her father. "Daddy, I want a squirrel!" She demanded. "Get me one of those squirrels. I want one"

Rose whispered in Charlie's ear. "I don't think this is going to end well" He nodded in agreement. Based on what she saw happen to Augustus and Violet, Rose just knew that Veruca's spoiled attitude was going to get her in a sticky situation today.

"Veruca, dear, you have many marvellous pets" Mr Salt definitely did not what to deal with this right now.

"All I've got at home is one pony and two dogs and four cats and six rabbits and two parakeets and three canaries and a green parrot and a turtle and a silly old hamster!" Veruca listed off. Wow, even with as many pets as she has, she's still not satisfied. Rose wondered what it took with this girl and how her parents ever put up with her. "I want a squirrel!" Veruca stomped her foot.

Rose rolled her eyes, and mocked Veruca. "I want a squirrel!" She silently mouthed with exaggerated gestures and expressions. Willy laughed at Rose's imitation, finding it rather amusing.

"All right, pet" Mr Salt gave in to his daughter's demands. "Daddy will get you a squirrel just as soon as he possibly can" Rose groaned and rolled her head back. Willy was watching the two Salts with a blank expression.

"But I don't want any old squirrel" Rose pinched the bridge of her nose. She didn't like where Veruca was going with this. "I want a trained squirrel"

Mr Salt sighed. "Very well" He looked at Willy. Willy looked back at Mr Salt, a fake smile on his face, knowing the question that was going to come out of Mr Salt's mouth. "Mr Wonka, how much do you want for one of these squirrels? Name your price" Veruca also looked up at Willy. A big smile was on her face, thinking that if she acted cute, that she'd get her way.

"Oh, they're not for sale" Willy denied them. Rose smirked, feeling slightly pleased that things weren't going the spoiled brat's way. "She can't have one"

Veruca smile dropped. She turned to her father, absolutely fuming. "Daddy!" She threatened, as if that was going to change anything.

Mr Salt just stared at his daughter, at a loss of words. "I'm sorry, darling" It wasn't Mr Salt who said it. It was Willy doing a perfect imitation of Mr Salt's voice. "Mr Wonka's being unreasonable"

Veruca glared at Willy again before she turned it to her father. "Fine. If you won't get me a squirrel, I'll get one myself!" She decided. She slipped through the gate and descended into the squirrel's work area.

"Veruca" Mr Salt warned.

"Little girl?" Willy tried to call to Veruca. She ignored both of them.

"Veruca, come back here at once!" Mr Salt called to her again, his voice a little more strict. "Veruca!"

Veruca looked around until she had her eyes set on the perfect squirrel. She started approaching it. All the squirrels stopped their work, and stared at the girl. "Little girl?" Willy tried warning her. "Don't touch that squirrel's nuts. It'll make him crazy!"

Again, Veruca ignored him. She marched up to her chosen squirrel. She and the squirrel looked each other straight in the eye. An evil grin came across Veruca's face and she reached out to the squirrel. "I'll have you!"

Before she could grab the squirrel, all the other squirrels jumped off their stools. They all ran to Veruca. Mr Salt was growing terrified. He shook the gate. "Veruca!" Willy took out his ring of many keys. "Veruca! Veruca!" Mr Salt was still calling out to her. By now, all the squirrels had jumped onto Veruca. They had knocked her down to the ground. Mr Salt desperately shaked the gate again.

Willy looked through his many keys. "Let's find the key" He tried the first one. "Not that one"

"Daddy!" Veruca called out desperately to her father.

"Veruca!" He called back.

Willy tried another key. "No!" Rose took note of the amused smile on Willy's face. It was like he was deliberately taking his time with the keys. The squirrels started pinning down Veruca. Willy tried yet another key. "There it is.... there it isn't"

"Daddy, I want them to stop!" Veruca pleaded. One of the squirrels hopped onto her stomach. Veruca raised her head to look at it. The squirrel began touching her face. It tapped on her forehead and then listened to it.

"What are they doing?" Charlie asked.

"They're testing to see if she's a bad nut" Willy answered. The squirrel squeaked. "Oh my goodness, she is a bad nut after all"

"Veruca!" Mr Salt shouted in horror when the squirrels started carrying Veruca to the hole.

"Daddy!" Veruca yelled for help.

"Where are they taking her?" Mr Salt asked, his eyes still on Veruca.

"Where all the other bad nuts go. To the garbage chute" Willy answered.

"Where does the chute go?"

"To the incinerator" Willy said it so lightly, but there was a rather dark meaning behind his words. "But don't worry, we only light it on Tuesdays!"

"Today is Tuesday" Mike pointed out.

Willy shot Mike a glance. "Well, there's always the chance they decided not to light it today!" The squirrels had accomplished their goal and threw Veruca down the chute. Rose would have felt bad for the girl, if she hadn't decided to try and commit theft when things weren't going her way. Willy turned to Mr Salt to try and explain. "Now, she may be stuck in the chute just below the top. If that's the case, all you have to do is just reach in and pull her out. Okay?"

Willy had the correct key in the lock. He turned it and then pulled the gate opened. He stepped aside so Mr Salt could get by. Mr Salt began descending the stairs, and Willy closed the gate. That's when the Oompa-Loompas came out and sang another song. Willy and Rose both nodded their heads along to the music.

Veruca Salt

The little brute

Has just gone down the garbage chute.

And she will meet as she descends

A rather different set of friends

A rather different set of friends

A rather different set of friends

A fish head for example cut

This morning from a halibut.

An oyster from an oyster stew

A steak that no one else would chew.

And lots of other things as well each

With its rather horrid smell (horrid smell)

These are Veruca's new found friends

That she will meet as she descends

These are Veruca's new found friends

Who went and spoiled her, who indeed?

Who pandered to her every need?

Who turned her into such a brat?

Who are the culprits?

Who did that?

The guilty ones

Now this is sad

Are dear old mum, and loving dad

The Oompa-Loompas had guided Mr Salt over to the chute. He peered down it, trying to see if he could find Veruca. One of the squirrels hopped off of its stool and pushed him into the chute. Willy laughed a little when Mr Salt fell in. Rose tried to hide her laughter by pressing her lips together. That didn't stop her amused grin, however.

An Oompa-Loompa tugged on Willy's coat. Willy squatted down and let the Oompa-Loompa talk in his ear. "Oh, really?" A smile appeared on Willy's face. "Oh, good!" He stood back up and informed the others. "I've just been informed that the incinerator broken. So there should be about three weeks of rotten garbage to break their fall!"

"Oh, well that's good news" Mr Teavee replied in a sarcastic tone.

"Yeah," Willy said, his eyes trailing over to Rose. "Well, let's keep on trucking" He held out his arm to her, offering her to take it. She gladly accepted his offer and held onto his arm. And, with that, everyone left the Nut Sorting Room.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

The Switching Hour

A/N: it’s been just over a week since halloween but i finally got this piece done and i’m quite happy with it! :D i hope you guys enjoy and feedback is always welcome and cherished!! ilyyyy

masterlist | ask 

word count: 8.4k 

content: dramatic perfectionist demon!h, fluff, and a lil bit of smutty sexual tension

preview:

Her voice chimes up, prickly with annoyance and just the slightest bit of awe. “Are you always this picky when it comes to your Halloween costume?” 

Harry rubs the material of a Jack Skellington pantsuit between his thumbs and forefingers, humming in absentminded disapproval at the flimsiness of the fabric. “Always.”

“Why?” 

He drops the article of clothing, watching it sway back and forth on its hanger for a second before glancing up to meet her irritated expression, answering with a prideful undertone. “Because Halloween is the best holiday of the year and I’ve built quite the reputation for myself amongst my group. I always outshine and I tend to keep it that way, darling.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Right, I forgot how competitive you are.” 

“Actually, I like the praise,” Harry gives her a slow, sultry once-over, lips buckling with a sly smirk, “but you already knew that.”  

Her arms tighten instinctively across her body. 

Harry goes back to filtering through hangers, scrunching his nose in distaste at yet another Dracula ensemble. Drac never even wore a cape, he preferred tapered vests. He was the one who taught Harry how to style flared pants centuries before they came into fashion. With the way humans stained his cherished outfit designs, he’d be rolling around in his grave right now if he had one. He wasn’t even a vampire— just a crossroads demon with a very peculiar taste in beverages.

Y/N toys with the visor of an astronaut helmet, staring at her warbled reflection in the grey plastic and sighing with defeated boredom. “Why don’t we just get the Purge masks and go?”

Harry gives her a look of incredulous disdain. “And cover up one of my most prized assets? I’d rather let a hellhound disembowel me again.”

///

Harry was aiming to be an angel. 

Well, not literally. Hell forbid it, in his opinion. Most of them are wound so tight, they wouldn’t be able to fly if they tried. 

Plus, he actually quite enjoys being a demon. Immortality, flexible work hours, free range of the human world, and not to mention a pretty sick gig with the sorcery. It’s a sweet deal, once you get past the decades of excruciating torture and training, of course.

So no, he’s not aiming to be a literal celestial being. Rather, he’s planning to be one for Halloween on behalf of Y/N’s approach to switch identities as a couple’s costume. 

The idea had stemmed from when they had been walking around Party City a few days prior, trying to gain inspiration for the annual costume party a friend of Harry’s is hosting. 

Y/N hadn’t really been keen on going, despite the invitation being extended to her through Harry. She felt like she never really fit right with her boyfriend’s inner circle and it was for an obvious factor: they were all demons. 

She’d only ever gotten along with one demon before (granted, she’d only ever put effort into befriending this single one) and she was perfectly fine with that number. It isn’t that Harry’s friends treat her coldly in any way (they were pretty welcoming, much to her surprise), but she could practically drown in the awkward tension that milled whenever they had to interact. She stuck out of place in a painfully obvious manner and she refuses to force herself into bonding with them; it would just make the situation a whole lot worse. 

The connection remained as a polite acquaintanceship, and from what Y/N could tell, both parties are more than happy for it remain as so. 

Either way, Harry had managed to sway her into accompanying him. She wanted to give out candy to the children from the complex and he wanted her to be his plus-one, so a compromise was settled. They would hand out candy from six in the evening until eight, then get ready and leave for the party at nine.   

After agreeing upon the terms, they’d spent well over forty minutes in pursuit for their costumes at the store. 

The choices they had weren’t very compelling, according to Harry.

He outright refused to be a vampire, warlock, or werewolf— the overuse of the genres made them tacky. He’d rather be caught dead (a second time) than have to wear a cowboy hat, so that was a bust on Y/N’s part. No aliens, no zombies, no Frankenstein (which he filed under zombie and it was an entire five minute bicker session between them before Y/N finally let it go with an exasperated sigh). 

No superheroes. He’d cycled through all of them already, including Black Widow. He looked great in a bodysuit, if he does say so himself.

Historic figures were a bore considering there isn’t anything truly scary about King Tut, other than his crippled foot and untimely demise. Animal costumes are for children, as well as ghosts and ghouls. Mummies were too messy. 

Due to his selectiveness, they ended up circling the store five times, coming up empty-handed. Y/N had stopped giving him suggestions after he’d used a release spell to make her drop the Elvis wig she’d been inspecting.

Her voice chimes up, prickly with annoyance and just the slightest bit of awe. “Are you always this picky when it comes to your Halloween costume?” 

Harry rubs the material of a Jack Skellington pantsuit between his thumbs and forefingers, humming in absentminded disapproval at the flimsiness of the fabric. “Always.”

“Why?” 

He drops the article of clothing, watching it sway back and forth on its hanger for a second before glancing up to meet her irritated expression, answering with a prideful undertone. “Because Halloween is the best holiday of the year and I’ve built quite the reputation for myself amongst my group. I always outshine and I tend to keep it that way, darling.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Right, I forgot how competitive you are.” 

“Actually, I like the praise,” Harry gives her a slow, sultry once-over, lips buckling with a sly smirk, “but you already knew that.”  

Her arms tighten instinctively across her body. 

Harry goes back to filtering through hangers, scrunching his nose in distaste at yet another Dracula ensemble. Drac never even wore a cape, he preferred tapered vests. He was the one who taught Harry how to style flared pants centuries before they came into fashion. With the way humans stained his cherished outfit designs, he’d be rolling around in his grave right now if he had one. He wasn’t even a vampire— just a crossroads demon with a very peculiar taste in beverages.

Y/N toys with the visor of an astronaut helmet, staring at her warbled reflection in the grey plastic and sighing with defeated boredom. “Why don’t we just get the Purge masks and go?”

Harry gives her a look of incredulous disdain. “And cover up one of my most prized assets? I’d rather let a hellhound disembowel me again.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He pulls a pirate costume out from the metal rack, eyeing it judgingly. “You don’t get crowned best costume every year without being dramatic.” 

The outfit holds a decent aesthetic with the passable material and colorful gems. The embroidery on the cosmetically tattered vest holds up and there’s no stingy parrot accessory in sight, though the cheap plastic sword is a bust. He’ll have to rummage through his storage and find a real one (probably the one he used during the American Revolution). If he’s lucky, maybe it’ll still have some dried blood on it.

With a bit of smudged black eyeliner and a pair of silver hoop earrings, he just might strike gold at the party. 

Best of all, the costume gives him an excuse to show off his broad chest (not that he needs one, but the fact that it adds to the genuinity of the look is a win). 

“Harry, look.” 

The giddy hilarity in Y/N’s voice draws his attention upwards from examining the purple buttons on the potential candidate. 

She’d clad herself in a bright red glittering cape that goes down to her knees, the button of the collar a large pentagram and perched atop her head is a pair of bedazzled devil horns about five inches in height each. In her hand she holds the rest of the costume— an attachable pointed tail and a three foot tall blood red pitchfork. 

“What do you think? Kinda reminds me of someone, but I can’t quite place my finger on it.” She looks up in faux thoughtfulness, tapping her chin for effect. 

Harry’s cheeks twitch with a grin of endeared amusement, dimples blinking. “I think you look absolutely adorable. Although...”

He trails off as he drift towards her, tugging lightly at hem of the cape, looking past his girlfriend towards the array of other devil costumes. He reaches for another, pulling it out and holding it up for consideration, shrugging his brows suggestively. “I think I’d rather see you in this skimpy little red dress and fishnet stockings.”

Y/N’s eyelids droop into a stern scowl. “And I’d rather not have my ass hanging out in front of all your friends.” 

“That’s the whole point, minx.” Harry holds the hanger up in front of her, humming admirably as an image swipes over the front of his eyes of her prancing around in a pair of glossy red-bottom heels, a pentagram choker, and some bold cherry-colored lipstick. “Just wanna show off my girl.” 

Y/N shoves the garment back towards him, tone cocky and pointed. “If you like it so much, why don’t you wear it, then?”

He lowers his arm, slinking his head slightly to the side and tugging his bottom lip between his teeth, the edges of his mouth twitching cheekily. “I don’t think all my bits and pieces would fit inside these stockings properly.” 

She unclasps the pin that holds the cape closed, pushing it off her shoulders as she sing-songs her words teasingly. “Won’t know until you try it.” 

Harry puts the articles of clothing back into their designated spot. “You’re no fun.” 

His focus dances to a few hangers down, a random twinkling nabbing his curiosity. He moves the surrounding pieces away with the back of his hands to get a better look, a smile creeping across his face at the fit. 

“Hey, babe. What d’you think of this one?” 

Y/N glimpses up from fiddling with the bendy devil tail, scoffing in entertained delight at the sight before her. 

Harry stands with his elbow propped on the top of the metal clothing rack, his legs crossed at the ankles with the tip of his worn tan boot tapping at the sleek black floor beneath it. He’s decked himself out in full angel attire, a light-up, wire-supported halo flashing brightly above his head, alternating patterns between quick bursts of yellow light and longer, drawn-out fading. The wings across his back span about four feet in total, strewn with white and gold holographic feathers, some covered in glitter. 

“I think you look dashing.” 

Harry pushes off the metal rail, the whole set-up quaking a bit under his strength. He ambles over until he’s right in front of his girlfriend, holding his arms out to his sides grandly. “I think I look dashing, too.”

He then turns his torso to the side, propping his chin on his shoulder and batting his lashes, going for a faux effect of adorable pureness. “Personally, I feel like I’d blend right in.”

His eyes suddenly ink black, dark veins protruding under his waterline and snaking their way down his cheekbones. “I’m as innocent as they come.” 

Y/N glances up at the ceiling with pretend mild annoyance, irises focusing back on Harry with the left corner of her lips curved, her sentence deadpan. “I beg to differ.” 

Harry drops the act, a look of insulted shock painting over his features as he carefully removes the halo headband from his quiffed curls. “You don’t think I’d play off being a good angel?!”

Y/N reaches over his shoulder and gives the tip of one of the fluffy wings a signifying tug. “Frankly, I don’t think you’d get past the gates. You’d get smited on sight.”

He gently grabs the hand that was playing with a gold polyester feathers, sifting his fingers between her’s and thumbing over the back of her knuckles temptingly. He cocks his head sideways a tad, stepping forward until his chest is ghosting over Y/N’s, the air of his sultry words just barely caressing her lips. “Maybe you could sneak me in, then?”

Y/N squeezes his digits playfully, snorting softly. “And why would I do that? So you can wreak havoc in the dining hall?” 

Harry releases a boyish giggle, the edges of his eyes crinkling as his nose scrunches. The childish grin slowly melts into a brazen smirk, teeth gnawing at the inside of his lower lip as some very explicit scenes bounce around the inside of his skull. He shakes his head lightly, making a low mm-mm sound to hint that he has other plans in mind. 

“Want you to sneak me in so you can take me up to your room. Show me around a bit— beginning of the universe memorabilia sounds interesting.” 

“Yet something tells me prehistoric rocks aren’t why you’d want me to sneak you up to my room.” She gives him a knowing stare, the pad of her thumb toying with the glossy black surface of his painted index nail. 

“Well aren’t you a clever little thing?” Harry leans in closer, his lip piercing grazing the skin along her jaw, settling nice and snug right against her earlobe. Her blood feels like it’s boiling. 

His whisper send tendrils of electricity revving across her temples and down her neck. 

“You’re right, though. Honestly, I just wanna fuck you on your bed instead of mine, for once. Make you whine and whimper for me to let you cum, all right under your dad’s nose. Make you stain your sheets and leave a few nail notches on your headboard.” 

“Harry, we’re in public...” Y/N’s urgent murmur is warm against his neck, causing him to whine deeply in the back of his throat as the heat washes down his jugular, leaving his ears tingling. 

His voice is thick and full of gravel as he answers. “I know, makes it so much hotter.”

He pauses his breathing for a heartbeat and Y/N gets the sensation that he’s analyzing her. She then feels him press a conceited grin across the back of her jaw, his two front teeth nipping at her earlobe tauntingly. His tone is heavy with arrogant certainty. “You’re wet.”

She digs her nails into his knuckles, looking down at her feet out of embarrassed instinct. “Shut up.” 

He ignores her request. “I’d have to muffle those pretty sounds you make— we both know how loud you are. Would cover your mouth with the palm of my hand while I spread your thighs with my hips and fill you up with my cock until you feel it at the pit of your tummy. I’d run my lips across your stinging nose and hot cheeks, hushing you and mumbling dirty things against your skin. Telling you what a good girl you are for me and how tight and warm you feel. How good you’re taking me and how cute you look all sweaty and needy, trying to keep quiet so no one finds out you snuck a demon back home, all because you wanted to get your brains fucked out with everyone right outside the door.”

A sudden prickling slithers up the back of Y/N’s neck, her muscles tightening in heightened anticipation. “Someone’s watching us.” 

Harry’s arm wraps around her waist, the hand holding the halo sliding over Y/N’s hip and maneuvering her out of sight of the prying eyes he can feel burning into his broad back, piercing right through the material of his leather jacket. He glimpses over his shoulder, catching a snapshot of the culprit peeping into their exchange: an elderly woman, partially hidden behind the black and orange tensile decorations, staring at them with disgust. 

Harry mumbles a quick basic spell under his breath. “Dis.”

Push.

The aged woman spontaneously jars forward, stumbling out of sight down the aisle she’d been loitering. 

Harry cranes his neck back towards his girlfriend, a happily satisfied smile staining his lips. “Took care of it.”

Y/N’s wide, astonished gaze leaves the empty space where the target had been, zoning in on her boyfriend with alarmed outrage. “You just shoved an old lady!”

His giddy grin immediately drops into a confused frown. “And?”

Harry didn’t think it was possible for her eyes to go wider, but she puts rest to his doubt. 

“And?! She could be hurt!” She immediately slaps his hand off her hip, releasing their conjoined fingers and smacking her palm across his chest as a repercussion for his actions (though he barely feels it). 

He rolls his eyes at her theatrics. “She’s fine! It was a light graze.”

“It was a satanic spell!” 

“She was intruding!”

“Oh, and that warrants you pushing her down the aisle?”

There’s a halt in the argument, followed by Harry’s eyes darting across different points of Y/N’s face— her tinted lips, her creased brows, her slightly flaring nose, and her faintly glowing eyes. The look in them is intense and begrudging. 

He hadn’t even realized his lips were parted in aroused surprise at her vehement outburst— she always looks so hot when she’s mad. He licks over them lightly, willing them closed and exhaling loudly through his nose. His eyebrows jolt upwards with salacious intent, the corners of his pursed mouth following suit. “Are y’gonna spank me for it, then?”  

“You’re insufferable.” 

“Don’t act like you don’t love it.” Harry pecks the tip of Y/N’s nose and steps sideways, purposefully leaving just enough space for Y/N to squeeze between his chest and the clothing rack. 

A swift peek at the designated aisle confirms that the woman is indeed fine (just a little bewildered) and Y/N is finally able to move past it, though still grumbling condemnation. 

She pulls at the thick clear straps of Harry’s fake wings thoughtfully. “We still haven’t found any costumes.” 

“Speak for yourself. I think I’m gonna go as Captain Jack Sparrow over there.” He hooks his thumb towards where he’d hung the pirate costume while he tried on the angel props. 

Y/N squeezes the cushioned bedazzled devil horns, an idea dawning. “What if we go as each other?” 

Harry raises a single brow, intrigued. “Well, that’s an idea.”

“It’d be a cute couple’s costume!” 

He removes the wings from his back. “I dunno. I quite like my pirate costume. I look great in black liner.”

Y/N pouts, though he doesn’t think she notices, which makes it all the cuter. “Pleaseee?”

He lightly tugs at the collar of Y/N’s striped t-shirt. “I could be persuaded...”  

She huffs. “Why are you such a handful?” 

He taps the pad of his index finger against the faint hollow at the center of her throat. “I’m more than a handful and you’re well aware of that.”

She forces herself to keep a tab on the electricity threatening to brim into her irises. “Please?” 

“Say it again. Love the way your voice sounds when you’re begging.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, irked (and slightly aroused, though she’d never admit it) at the way he’s being so crude. “Pretty please?”

The sensual touches at her neck halt, the atmosphere suspended for an elongated second. “Pretty please...?”

His tone suggests he’s waiting for her to utter something more, eyes waltzing with pompous appeal at the way she’s stroking his ego.  

Y/N grinds her teeth, jaw muscle visibly ticking. When she speaks, her voice is low and timid. “Pretty please, Daddy?”

The amusement swimming in the amber specks around his pupils translate across the ends of his mouth. “Sounds like a plan. Cliché, but I’ll bite.”

She clears her throat to break the puncturing sexual tension. “We just have to figure out the outfits to wear with the accessories. It can’t be that hard, right?” 

Harry smiles confidently, dozens of combinations of clothing already buzzing around his mind. “You leave that to me, sweetheart.” 

He doesn’t disappoint. He brings the rest of their costumes home the next day after three grueling hours at the shopping mall, carrying two frosted plastic covers over his shoulders (as well as an exhausted yet triumphant expression) when he saunters into the living room. 

Y/N falls in love with her fit before it’s even fully out of the bag. 

It’s a two-part velvet design and it’s absolutely dazzling. The main statement piece of the garment is the actual pantsuit: flared cuffs that cut perfectly just below her ankles, the soft fabric a pigment mix between a bright red and deep maroon. As the eyes draw upward, the suit ombrés into a murky black; by the time one’s sight gets to the bando-style top, the color is solid. The accompanying second half of the outfit is a blazer, tinted the same shade of maroon and covered with carefully embroidered crystal clear gems, resulting in material that both absorbs and reflects any light that hits the jacket, giving it bewitching juxtaposition. The cuffs and grand folded collar are lined with elegant glittered lace— a small detail that makes a world of a difference. 

The beauty of it draws attention, clutching it effortlessly and Harry knew it would match her ideally the moment he laid eyes on it at the store. 

He even managed to work an aspect of his little skimpy dress fantasy into the mix: the red-bottom heels. They compliment the look down to the detail with the chic, dark glossy surface on top and the flashy red lining along the underside. The model of the pumps is sleek and tapered, made to give an air of sensual confidence to anyone who dons them. 

He doesn’t regret a single cent of the thousands he’d spent— the way his girlfriend’s eyes are twinkling with enamored awe makes it more than worth it.

Y/N had been rendered speechless as she passes the pads of her fingers gingerly over the plush velvet, almost as if she’s scared it will disintegrate if it wrinkles. Her voice is a stunned murmur. “Jesus, Harry...”

“You like it?” He sets his own protective carrier down along the arm of the couch, the blurred plastic keeping its contents hidden. 

She holds the top portion of the pantsuit up to her chest, trying to imagine how it’ll look with her hair and makeup done. “Like’ doesn’t even come close.”

Harry smiles shyly as he takes the spot beside her, chest fluttering at the notion of making her so happy, fingers rising up to mess with the hoop piercing hooked along his eyebrow— a bashful mannerism. “Good. Always love making your eyes glow like that. Metaphorically speaking.”

Y/N laughs lightly at his joke, face shimmering with a certain loving warmth that makes his insides stir. 

Harry drops his hands into his lap, leaning a bit to bump her shoulder jestingly with his. “Where’s my thank you?”

Y/N returns his gesture, hugging his gift to her stomach gratefully. “Thank you. You spoil me rotten, honestly.” 

He ducks his head down to press a lingering kiss to her temple, inhaling her scent of lavender and cherry blossoms and baby powder and another odor he can’t quite place but it reminds him of a time in his life long ago when he was happy and fulfilled and loved. “I’d do anything for you.”

“You better stop before my eyes start glowing non-metaphorically.”  

Harry’s full-hearted chuckle chimes the air like a thousand bells. It dies down slowly, his forehead pressing against her cheekbone, the tip of his nose brushing across her skin in a caring manner. When he speaks, his voice is gentle and raw. “Can I have a kiss?” 

Y/N bobs her head, craning her face towards him, their noses bumping. She flushes her forehead to his, gazing deeply into his irises as they twinkle with delicate admiration. 

Contrary to the usual, there’s no lascivious teasing or suggestiveness in Harry’s behavior; just simple, subtle affection. And the fact that he’d asked permission makes it sweeter. It’s intimate moments like these that make her cherish giving love a chance.

She buttons her lips to Harry’s tenderly, feeling him sigh dreamily through his nose. It’s not a messy kiss, there’s no desperate sexual drive behind it. It’s homey and mellow, like a hug from someone long lost.     

It lasts a solid ten seconds before Y/N draws back, dwindling the singular kiss into a dozen tiny pecks across Harry’s cheeks, nose, and eyelids until his face is puckering up at the feathery sensation, lashes fluttering open sleepily. 

Y/N sponges her lips between her boyfriend’s brows with finality. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She attentively eases the cover back over her expensive present, zipping it closed and making sure the metal bit doesn’t catch on the cloth. She lays is out across her lap, already glancing over Harry’s shoulder investigatively, trying to make out what he had bought for himself.

“So what’s yours look like?” Her hand stretches out towards the costume with the intent of undoing the zipper. 

“Ah, ah, ah!” Harry’s fingers come town over the top of her own, smacking them away humorously. 

Y/N’s head reels back quizzically, insulted. 

He shrugs his brows ominously, one of his large, ring-clad hands streaming across the bag protectively. “It’s a surprise.” 

“That’s not fair!” She exclaims adamantly, though the giggles escaping her are doing a horrible job at backing her claim. “You got to pick mine and I can’t even take a peek at yours?”

Harry defends his secret with another playful slap at her insistent hand as it attempts to reach below his arm. “You know how much I love edging.”

Y/N slumps her shoulders dramatically, the weight of the mystery already itching the back of her brain. She doesn’t know how she’ll be able to put up with it for the next couple of days. “Can I at least see the shoes?”

Harry shakes his head, an evilly delighted simper coiling onto his face. “Nope.”

“Unbelievable.” She snips, crossing her arms over her stomach. 

“‘Good things come to those who wait’ and all that.” 

He’s having way too much fun with this.

Y/N narrows her eyes at him challengingly. “I’ll have my way when you’re asleep.”

He belts out a laugh. “Over my undead body.”

With that, Harry springs up from the couch, jetting towards the stairs that head up to the top floor of the condo, the forbidden costume in tow. 

“Hey!” Y/N vaults up to chase him, well aware of all the possible hiding places scattered upstairs. It’ll take her ages to find it; by the time she does, it would already be past the date.

Harry has a decent amount of time ahead of her, his lanky legs taking the steps two and even three at a time, easily leaving her in the dust. How he keeps from slipping on his jack o’lantern socks is beyond him.

Y/N scurries up the spiral staircase after him, both of their airy giggling bouncing off the intricate metal railings and dark hardwood panels.  

Harry stumbles into their room and slams the door shut behind him with a simple spell, the lock magically flicking shut. He’s laughing so hard his stomach aches, whipping around on his heels to keep alert as he backs into the room, picking his brain for a proper enchantment. He mumbles the invisibility incantation out of breath and half-snickering, but gets it out nonetheless. 

“Fallax flamma, ignis de potentia, et in abscondito, ego ignire te evanescit.”

Cloaking flame, fire of power and concealment, I ignite you to vanish.

A blinding red and blue flame engulfs the entirety of the plastic cover, extinguishing almost immediately, leaving behind no trace evidence of the object he had under his arm moments ago.

And without a second to spare, the door flies open, Y/N rushing in with a victory elating her features. “Gotcha—!”  

Her head swivels from side to side, confusion furrowing her brows as she takes in the image of her boyfriend’s empty arms, alongside his smug, self-satisfied expression. “Where’d it go?!”

Harry creases his brows to mimic her own baffled appearance, mocking. “Where’d what go?”

She ignores the dig. “You can’t possibly have hid it that fast! Not unless you used…”

Realization floods her face. “Cheater!”

“It’s not cheating, it’s called using my resources.”

“Cheater!” Y/N reiterates, lunging forward and koalaing her arms and legs around Harry, sending him stilting back and crashing into the mattress, the duvet rising up in a puff of fluffy black cloth.

His back bounces three times against the bed yet she manages to stay latched on, her knees digging into his hips as her hands fumble to pin down his wrists. 

He fights back, wriggling from side to side to try and shake her loose, kicking up his legs wildly in hopes of teetering her off. “This is wrongful punishment, I didn’t even get a fair trial!”

Y/N ducks down, running her soft lips over the spot where his neck meets his jaw, knowing full well it’s one of his most ticklish places. She whispers her words warningly. “Let me see it.”

Harry can’t help the high-pitched, half-suppressed laugh that escape him, jitters coursing through his bones, stemming from the area where her mouth rubs along his heated skin. He wills the bubbly shrieks to die down, teething at the ring that adorns his bottom lip, eyes alight with pure ecstatic energy. “No.”

Y/N shrugs off his refusal, her supernatural strength proving valuable as she manages to keep her boyfriend stretched to the sheets. “Fine, then. Guess I’ll just have to torture it out of you.” 

Harry sticks his tongue out at her mockingly, the ruby gem piercing glinting in the faint, grey evening light streaming in freely through the large glass wall that overlooks the city skyline. “Guess you will.” 

Her method backfires almost immediately. 

Harry’s sneaky ways and matching inhuman strength accomplish to outmaneuver her. After a fair share of complaining grunts, palms slamming against cheeks, carefully coordinated pinches to side, and a somewhat harsh tug to her hair, she ends up splayed over the mattress beneath him, heaving shallowly as he traps her forearms against his chest, nimble fingers wrapped around her wrists. 

Harry kinks his brows up boastingly. “How’s that, then? Taste of your own medicine.”

Y/N squirms excessively, but slipping free seems unlikely. “I could totally kick you in a really sensitive place right now, but I won’t.” 

He calls her bluff, words sticky and warm against her chin. “It’s in your best interest not to considering you’ve taken a liking to bouncing on it.”  

She yanks at her arms almost savagely, snapping her head sideways to avoid him taking a piss at her as her irises flare up a pale neon blue. 

Harry ends up getting his way. The costume remains unseen until the night of the Halloween party, hidden in some tear in the universe where he knows she won’t be able to find it.  

It remains in its magical alcove until Harry summons it out after his shower, hanging it on an unused towel hook on the marble wall.

He gives it a calculating once-over, chin propped on his loose fist, elbow supported by the wrist of the arm he has swung across his torso. He sways ever so slightly, the towel clinging to his hips dangling dangerously low on his structured pelvis. His wet curls caress the back of his neck, mopping over his small ears and itching his brows, resulting in Harry combing them out of his face with his fingers and sighing lightly.

He taps absentmindedly at the center of his plump lips, running the pad of his index digit along the ridges of his bottom one, feeling the smallest bit off since his piercing is lacking in its rightful spot. The things he does for the authenticity of the look. 

The hand across his stomach clenches and unclenches thoughtfully as he chalks up the details of the full costume in his head, cracking each of his knuckles one at a time with his thumb as he dwells on his ideas. He can never seem to stay still when he’s plotting. 

He glances down at his nails, smiling fondly at the white lacquer Y/N had painted on them to go with his theme. He knows the suspense has been killing her and it amuses him to no end.

Harry rummages through the bathroom cabinets, retrieving his hair drier along with his favorite mousse. Y/N’s makeup bag also makes it onto the counter, as well as his Dove Fresh Cucumber deodorant, cologne, and a pair of dangley pearl earrings he’d acquired as a gift centuries ago from a French noblewoman more than willing to give him what he wanted (in more than one sense).

He knows exactly what his costume is going to look like now and he doesn’t waste a second in beginning preparations. 

On the opposite side of the door, Y/N thinks quite the contrary— he’s taking forever to get ready, the minutes wasting away just like her patience. 

The plan had gone as intended, to an extent. They’d handed out candy to all the children that had come and she’d even weaned Harry into buying a cute jack o’ lantern bowl to set the mood. She enjoyed seeing all of the creative costumes the kids had conjured up; she thinks her favorite was probably the ten year old girl dressed like Thanos from the Avengers movies. Y/N’s favorite part had been the gauntlet, which had carried different colored Jolly Ranchers in place of the Infinity Stones. Quite clever, if you asked her. 

There was an incident with a twelve year old who gave them attitude for their choice in the candy they gave out, but Harry handled it before Y/N could even react. He’d crouched down to her level, mumbled something unintelligible, and then from what Y/N could see in the split second that it occurred, flashed her his demon face. The preteen fled without a single word. 

He had pushed himself back up with his palms to his knees, brushing past Y/N into the apartment, grumbling under his breath. “Entitled miscreants.” 

No more kids ventured towards their door after that. 

She had been the first to get ready, well aware of how long Harry tended to take when preparing himself to go out. 

He casually suggested that it would go by faster if they showered together, not to mention it’d “help the environment and what not,” though she knew his intentions would likely set them on a detour. He was playfully insistent, however, and she ended up having to shove him out of the bathroom with his underwear already half off. 

After she had cleaned up and blow dried her hair accordingly, she left the bathroom to him, deciding to finish getting ready in the bedroom to avoid being late (and also because she knew he wasn’t going to let her see him putting on the costume). 

“I know we have an eternity to live but try not to fill it all up with your showertime.” She’d quipped as she drifted past him on her way out of the foggy, humid washroom.

A sudden tug at her towel had sent her hands fumbling, just barely managing to keep her chest covered. Harry’s snickering had bounced off the shell of her ears. “I make no promises.”

Now Y/N sat on the large bed, distractedly rocking her heels back and forth against the thick-carpeted ground, running her fingers over the silky velvet fabric of her flared pantsuit as it bunches around her thighs. 

She isn’t one to brag or boast because she had been wired to be humble, but she doesn’t think she’s ever looked better. The suit fit her perfectly, all of the seams and cinches falling exactly where they should. The jacket was loose enough to be comfortable but snug enough that it hugged her shoulders properly, not to mention the inside was made of velvet, as well. The wide-legged portion of the fit stopped just below her ankles, giving away to the shiny, midnight-tinted glassy shoes. She’d practiced her walk for about ten minutes. 

Her hair is parted to the side, the front section pinned back from her face to showcase the makeup she’d applied. She’d tightlined her eyes with black kohl eyeliner and a red lip pencil she’d had to make due with (which she’d ducked into the bathroom to get, disappointed when she didn’t see the familiar plastic covering hanging anywhere along the walls) and applied the bright red lipstain Harry had gotten for her. 

Around her neck lays a delicate gold chain, Harry’s large ruby ring glittering at its center. He always loved seeing something of his on her and he always joked about how this specific act was a vintage antic that dated back to the nineteen twenties; girlfriends would wear their boyfriend’s rings around their necks as a symbol of love. The first time he’d mentioned it, she had fallen head over wings for the idea— fallen for its simple yet deep meaning. And it just confirmed to her that under the layers of the hard exterior he donned, Harry was a hopeless romantic at heart (despite the fact that his no longer beat).

Y/N thumbs over the big stone encapsulated in the aged gold band, sighing restlessly through her nose as the pattering of the water echoes through the walls of the bedroom. He’s probably taking this long on purpose and she has half a mind to stalk in there and drag him out by his wet curls, but she refrains. His surprise better be worth it.

The water spout creaks to a stop, the only sound resonating in the bathroom being Harry’s faint humming to Thriller as the door to the shower cracks open loudly. Fucking finally. 

Y/N scampers onto her feet, nearly breaking an ankle as she forgets her choice in shoes. She heads towards the washroom door with an attentive stride, rapping her knuckles on the wooden door lightly, voice tinged with irritation. “Are you done?”

Harry chimes back, tone full of airy, cocky humor. “Not quite. Still balls-naked, but I suppose I could go like that, if you want me to. Don’t mind it.” 

“Just get dressed already, would you? You’re taking forever.” 

“Haven’t you ever heard of being ‘fashionably late?’”

Y/N growls in exasperation, crossing her arms and pacing back and forth in front of their bed, trying to reign in her nerves. Going to a party where she barely knows anyone is bad enough, but Harry isn’t easing her woes any by being a little shit. 

On the other side of the wooden door, Harry is finger-combing mousse through his hair as he harmonizes to Monster Mash, twirling strands here and there around his index finger to accentuate the ringlets just the way he likes. He flips his head over, mussing up the roots to ensure the soft volume and fullness he’s so known for. He always takes his hair seriously— a residual mannerism from when he had it shoulder-length for almost a decade. 

Blow drying doesn’t take long and he’s buttoning up his top before he knows it, leaving the last three buttons undone to expose his swallow tattoos and upside down cross necklace, the antennas of his butterfly inking peeking out from the edge of the open shirt, along with the curved tips of its wings. 

He fishes out a couple of products from Y/N’s cosmetics pouch as he wiggles his toes into his new shoes, zipping them up with finality and leaning in closer to the mirror for the makeup application. 

Once he’s finished and everything has been returned to its rightful spot, he spritzes a few pumps of his Tom Ford cologne across his flexing necking and down his jaw, capping it and giving himself a thoughtful once-over in the mirror. He’s proud of what he’d achieved. 

He murmurs a spell, retrieving the halo and wings from the magical storage facility he’d placed them in, fitting them onto his costume and humming in approval. 

The door to the bathroom swings open, startling Y/N enough to trip up her angry loitering.

Harry steps through the frame of the door, completely decked out in his attire for her to witness in its fully glory. “Let the switching hour begin.”

Y/N can’t stop her jaw from dropping in astonishment. 

Harry looks incredible— breath-takingly ethereal, to say the least. She scans the look from bottom to top, taking in every detail slowly, feeling almost as if time had slowed down around her. 

It starts with the footwear. They’re a pair of glossy, bright white heeled boots, silver metal tips adorning the front of the shoes. She’s never seen anything like it and knowing how dramatic Harry can be, she wouldn’t be surprised if they’re custom. 

The boots disappear under the flared cuffs of the off-white, wide-legged pants he is sporting, the fabric ironed and crisp, complimenting his height. They’re high-waisted, ending just above Harry’s navel, the front embellished with two parallel rows of gold buttons, each engraved with a capital, Roman-font letter G that glints under the soft, buttery low light of a single lamp. 

His top is probably the statement piece of the layout. It’s a baby blue long-sleeved button-up blouse with a frilled collar and cuffs, the buttons decently-sized opal crystals that shimmer holographically with every movement. The fabric of the cloth presents a similar effect, the material frosty and see-through with reflective, multi-colored sparkling fibers sewn in. The shirt is tucked into the high waist of Harry’s pants, fitting loose and flouncy around his torso, the twinkling faintness of the thread juxtaposing the darkness of his tattoos in an unexpected yet flattering manner. It hugs his shoulders and back tightly, muscles rippling the cloth in a way similar to how a stone wrinkles the surface of a still lake. 

The layers of the collar ornament Harry’s sharp jaw and grace the intricate pearl earring dangling from his right ear. She takes notice of the inversed cross necklace resting at the center of the valley that is his chest, glinting with a type of poetic irony. His fingers are garnished with his usual plethora of rings, his two blocky initials hugging his second middle finger and pinky amidst an array of gems and carvings. 

Though the dazzling clothes and expensive jewelry are eye-catching, Y/N can confidently say Harry’s makeup is the real caviar of the entire look. 

White liner runs across his waterline and over the crevices of his top lashes, opening up his eyes and making the olive tone of his irises pop more than usual. Glitter has been strewn across the curve of his cheekbones and faded up onto his temples, the holographic flecks of pastel blue, baby pink, and snow white glued down securely and glimmering under the flickering light-up halo. The lustery specks have also been combed into his fluffy, soft curls with a dash of gel, twinkling like a billion little stars. Evenly-spaced rhinestones decorate along the curve of Harry’s thick eyebrows— a final touch of grandeur that pairs adequately with the rest of the accessories.

Harry lifts the palms of his hands upward expectantly, giving a slow twirl and showing off the glitzy wings (which mold into the look effortlessly). “So, what d’you think?”

Y/N puts all of the pieces of the costume together in her brain, attempting to process it all at once and being rendered utterly speechless. The broadness of his body— the thickness of his chest, how his biceps and back muscles strain the dainty material of the top, his towering height with the heels, his sharp, defined features— contrast the delicateness of the fit, but it somehow it works. It somehow makes heat pool at the pit of her stomach and makes her ears crackle with spurts of electricity. 

All she manages to croak out is a quiet, tender, “You look pretty.” 

This sends Harry into a round of light-hearted giggling, his smile more blinding than any of the flashy props he carries. He glances down, zoning in on the metal tips of his boots to avoid her noticing the blush invading his cheeks. He pushes it down, scolding himself for being so mushy. 

He clears his throat lightly, giving a quick glimpse over her own costume. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Y/N instinctively looks down at her outfit, grabbing the excess fabric around her thighs and curtsying jokingly. “Thanks, my boyfriend picked it out.”

Harry tilts his head to the side, his two front teeth digging into his bottom lip, eyebrows jolting knowingly. “He has great taste.” 

Y/N steps closer to her boyfriend, draping her arms over his strong shoulders, the corners of her lips twitching. “Yeah, but he takes centuries to get ready. That’s kindof a trade-off.”

Harry’s hands coast onto his girlfriend’s hips, squeezing jestingly as he draws her body flushed against his, the golden buttons of his pants cold against the ombréd cloth of her pantsuit. “He sounds like an ass.”

She wobbles her head from side to side as if mulling over his comment, eventually nodding in agreement. “He is.” 

His jaw falls open into a shocked smirk, raising his eyebrows in silent objection. “Is that so? Why do you stay with him, then?”

Y/N’s palms glide down the taut muscles of Harry’s arms, the pads of her fingers pressing into his skin suggestively. “He’s got a few redeeming qualities.” 

Harry’s heavy lashes dust over the tops of his cheeks, catching a few stray particles of glitter that shimmer alluringly in the dim lighting. His forearms suddenly tighten harder around her waist, pulling her so close she can feel his groin pressing into her thigh. His tone is slathered with arrogant self-assurance, the ghosts of the words dancing across her stinging lips and her eyes nearly roll back as whiffs of his intoxicatingly delicious scent numbs her sinuses. 

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

Y/N has a hard time swallowing, feeling her voice lodge in her throat as he begins brushing his lips up and down her jaw. “I’ll keep that to myself.” 

Harry chuckles deeply and she can feel the vibrations down to her bones. “S’okay, I’ve got an idea of what you meant.” 

“You sound awfully confident.”

“I speak from experience.” 

Y/N moves her face back a tad, noticing that her fingers had somehow ended up tangled in the chain of his necklace, tugging at it so hard it's bruising Harry’s throat. He doesn’t mind it— he liked the burn. 

He ducks down further, wisping his mouth over her’s, groaning lowly in the back of his throat when he sees her lips are stained with the tempting red color he’d picked out. “Your mouth looks so pretty like that. Bet it’d look even better skimming down my chest and over my thighs.” 

His hold has her leaning back so far she’s now balancing on the tips of her toes, her chest heaving slightly against his. “Bet it would.” 

Harry reaches one hand up, cupping her jaw with his fingers, his thumb rubbing slowly over her bottom lip, watching the color transfer faintly. “Wouldn’t mind some of the glitter on my face ending up across your inner thighs, either.”

A small whine strains the back of Y/N’s throat at the image of Harry’s head ducking between her legs over and over, the white liner smudging under his eyes due to sweat while her damp skin rubs the glitter off his cheekbones, his ringed fingers clamping over her plush thighs as the light from the moon bounces off the glossy surface of the white nail polish. 

Harry presses a warm, sloppy kiss to the center of her jugular, her knees quaking as heat surges through her veins. “Some of it on your fingers, too, from pulling at my hair.”

He slowly dips his thumb past her lips, it’s weight heavy on her tongue. She acts on impulse, closing her mouth around it and sucking drunkenly. 

Harry’s teeth skim along the side of her neck, a breathy purr of, “That’s my good girl” simmering her nerves. 

Her words are muffled and weak, but she manages to get them out into the open. “We’re gonna be late.” 

It’s not that Y/N doesn’t want to because, fuck, she wants to, but she knows that Harry would leave her a disoriented mess for the rest of the night, and it’d be pretty obvious. The last thing she wants is his friends teasing her about it— the mortification would be eternal. 

He sighs grandly against her throat— which nearly sends her crumpling to the floor—  and reluctantly pulls away. 

Harry knocks his forehead against her’s, his sparkly lashes dusting her eyelids as they barely conceal the puncturing sexual hunger glinting in the amber flecks around his pupils. “You’re lucky the pantsuit is a one-piece or I’d have you riding my face right about now.” 

With that, he refixes her crooked demon horns atop her head, retrieving the cape, clip-on tail, and pitchfork from where she’d placed them on the bed. He tangles their fingers together and yanks a very hazy, unbalanced Y/N towards the door. 

She stumbles after him in her heels, gaining enough footing to avoid rolling as they descended down the stairs, the sounds from both of their shoes pounding hard inside her temples. Harry hands her the rest of her costume, grabbing his favorite navy blue trench coat from it’s hook next to the entryway and shrugging it on, carefully working his hands through the sleeves to keep the frill detailing from bunching up. He pats down his pockets to make sure he has his keys, fishing them out with his index finger as he unlocks the front door. 

He steps off to the side for Y/N to go through first, kissing her cheek chastely as she brushes past him with a tiny, soft, “Thank you.” 

“Of course, darling.” Harry follows her lead, turning back to lock the door to their apartment, checking the knob the same way he’s done his entire life. 

Y/N loops her arm around his as they walk towards his car, the chilly air rustling her velvet jacket and drying the light sheen of sweat that had accumulated across her hairline. The moon hangs calmly amongst the stars, illuminating the high points of Harry’s face in a very fitting heavenly manner, the soft sounds of chirping insects and hooting owls setting a comfortably spooky tone for the rest of the night. A few straggling trick-or-treaters are turning in for the night, exchanging happy halloween’s and heading towards their complexes. 

The beeping of the car rings across the still air along with the quick flash of the headlights. Harry opens the door for Y/N, just as he’s always done, helping her get settled into the passenger’s seat. He then leans down a tad through the frame of the door, fingers tapping at the hood of the car, eyes half-lidded in a sly simper.

“Just thought I’d tell you in advance, you might wanna get the situation between your thighs settled before we get to the party. I’d be able to smell how wet you are from a mile away.” 

[stilesscott]

you’re too close and you know it too a sciles fic based off prompts from @risualto: #3: “Please, stop pretending to care about me when I know you don’t.” & #7: “It’s because I’m too selfish with you.”

2465 word count & summary:

“‘Please, stop pretending to care about me when I know that you don’t.’

The words out of Scott’s mouth are like a gut-punch to Stiles.

It’s not that he doesn’t deserve them; it’s not that he thinks Scott is out of line. He’s not. He absolutely has a right and reason to be feeling that, to say that. And maybe a month ago, it would’ve been true. A month ago, before Stiles really knew Scott, Scott could’ve said that and it wouldn’t have bothered Stiles.”

or: the classic teen wolf au where stiles is a hunter

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“Please, stop pretending to care about me when I know that you don’t.”

The words out of Scott’s mouth are like a gut-punch to Stiles.

It’s not that he doesn’t deserve them; it’s not that he thinks Scott is out of line. He’s not. He absolutely has a right and reason to be feeling that, to say that. And maybe a month ago, it would’ve been true. A month ago, before Stiles really knew Scott, Scott could’ve said that and it wouldn’t have bothered Stiles.

Because a month ago, Scott was just someone he knew as a kid, just another random werewolf. Randomly meeting him again, at some random community college no less, was not on purpose. But Stiles had heard through the grapevine about Scott McCall of the McCall pack. He had heard how this one werewolf made lifelong hunters reject their families. How he became an Alpha through his own sheer will. He’d heard things.

It was strange, though, when Stiles first heard the name—the little twinge of familiarity.

And it wasn’t like he had ever planned on going after him; the grapevine has also made it clear that the McCall pack is not one to mess with alone. But then the opportunity arose; who was Stiles to reject destiny?

But now. Now, looking at Scott as he hisses in pain from a wolfsbane bullet; now, watching Scott as he doesn’t allow Stiles to get close to him to help; now, it’s different. He would say he’s different, but he’s not really, is he? He still wants to kill werewolves. He still wants to extinguish their entire supernatural species, just like how they extinguished the only family he had left.

Just not this one.

Because it’s Scott. Scott McCall, who is kind and heroic and unbiased and unproblematic. He doesn’t kill people; actively tries to not kill anyone��even hunters. It’s hard for Stiles to wrap his head around. He’s never met a werewolf like him before. Could there be more? More like Scott?

Is what he’d devoted his life to doing wrong?

“Scott,” Stiles says, almost haltingly. He brings a hand up again and Scott eyes it warily, untrusting.

Stiles puts his hand back down.

Yeah. He deserves that.

Because he let himself get close to Scott; having gone so long without family, without friends, just focused on killing and killing and killing. When they ran into each other—literally ran into each other—Scott had recognized him instantly. Remembered him from their short time together at Beacon Hills elementary. And without missing a beat, Scott wanted to resume that friendship.

Stiles still doesn’t know why.

And he doesn’t know why he went with it. Maybe he was just lonely. Absolutely desperate for some human connection, and Scott was willing. They had been friends before, maybe that’s why it wasn’t hard to fall together. Stiles had tried to ignore the guilt in his chest and stomach that bubbled up every time he saw Scott, every time they played video games, every time they went to get pizza and work on homework and watch movies and talk on the phone late at night.

They got close. Too close. So close. Close in a way that Stiles began to think he might’ve been falling for him. So he tried to pull away, he really, truly did, but.

(There’s not really any excuse except Stiles didn’t want to. He couldn’t bear it. Werewolf or not, he cares about Scott too much.)

And that’s when the worst happened. Scott got cornered by a group of hunters when he and Stiles were meant to meet for pizza, and Stiles was able to track where the hunters had cornered him, and. And.

“Hey, Stilinski!”

And the hunters had recognized him.

Scott’s face had morphed from a horrifying panic when he saw Stiles to the worst kicked puppy look when the hunters called his name. Stiles hated it. Hated that it was his fault.

But he could fix it; he could.

So he played along. Buddied up to the hunters because getting their guard down would make it so much easier, and then he took them down, quick as anything. They weren’t expecting it and they weren’t as good as him; he had to be the best, growing up alone and training alone and just being alone. Being with Scott was the first time he wasn’t.

So it was over. Done with. Except Scott won’t let him help him.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles rasps. He clears his throat. He doesn’t know when the tightness started, but he doesn’t have time for it. “Scott, I’m sorry.”

Scott has a hand covering his arm, where the bullet is, but he doesn’t move. His feet are bare for some reason and there’s dirt on his face and there’s blood on his hands and his hair is wild. He doesn’t look like the super powerful Alpha werewolf all the hunters talk about; he just looks like a young college kid. Alone. Afraid. Betrayed.

“Scott, please let me help you.”

“Why, so you can put a bullet in my head when it’s more convenient for you?”

Stiles flinches. A full body flinch. Scott’s eyes hold a second of regret, but then it clears again and they’re back to the distrust and betrayal.

Stiles swallows hard and moves away to get a bullet from one of the dead hunters. He’s going to help Scott. He’s going to prove himself.

But he’ll also respect Scott’s boundaries to do it. So he uses the hunters’ tools and cracks open the bullet to get the wolfsbane inside before also grabbing a lighter, and then offers that to Scott. He keeps as much distance as he can, reaching out his full arm’s length.

Scott doesn’t move for a long while, and Stiles begins to worry. Scott no longer trusts him so much so that he’s going to die from a simple wolfsbane bullet. It’s frustrating and it’s panic-inducing because Stiles can’t do this. He can’t lose another person. Not when he can actually help them.

“Fuck, Scott, please,” Stiles begs. His hands are beginning to shake.

Scott moves slow, but he moves; he grabs the bullet and lighter from Stiles’s hands and sets about fixing himself. The relief is so strong that Stiles finds himself no longer able to keep standing, his legs faltering as he allows himself to just collapse. Scott glances at him, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. Which is good. It’s good. Because Stiles just wants Scott to be okay, and then Scott can leave him. Scott can leave him. It’s okay. Knowing he’s still alive is enough. Will be enough. It’s okay.

He doesn’t notice, not until he makes noise, but he’s crying. No, not crying. He’s sobbing; awful, horrible sobs that hurt his chest and his lungs. He pulls his legs up to his chest and lets it out, trying hard to muffle his sounds into his jean-covered knees. Scott almost died. If Stiles were any later or even just a little less trained, Scott would be dead. The relief that he’s not is exactly why Stiles is crying, the adrenaline long gone. He’s drained. He’s tired. He’s sobbing.

Eventually, he quiets down. His breathing is still hitching, but it feels like the worst has passed. He wipes at his eyes, to clear them so he can look at Scott—if Scott’s is still there.

He is. He’s looking at Stiles, his eyes—his expression—unreadable. He’s not doing anything else but also sitting on the ground. The wound on his arm is hardly there anymore. He’s alive. Definitely alive.

And now Stiles is going to lose him.

He told himself it was okay, but it’s not. He will never trust him again. Scott knows who is, can assume what he’s done, and Scott’s going to leave him.

It’s enough to make him want to cry again, but he won’t. That’s for later. When he’s alone. Again.

Scott won’t stop looking at him.

Stiles turns his face away from Scott, wiping his eyes on his hoodie sleeves again before tucking his head back onto his knees. He stares off to the side, unseeing. “What?” he whispers. It doesn’t matter. He knows Scott will hear him.

There’s a pause. “I don’t know,” Scott says. His voice is neutral. Stiles fights the urge to cry.

“You should go home, Scott,” he says. “Go home and sleep and don’t worry about this. Them. The hunters. I can take care of it. I’ll make sure the others don’t think you’re involved. And I’ll go.”

“Go?”

Stiles closes his eyes tightly. He breathes deep a couple times to keep it together. “Yeah.” His throat feels raw. “Yeah, I’ll go.”

“Go where?”

Now Stiles can hear actual genuine confusion in Scott’s voice. It makes him lift his head, focus his eyes back on Scott. His face is still unreadable but it’s cracking a little.

“I, uh, I don’t know,” Stiles says. He tries to make eye contact with Scott, but then looks away as soon as they do. “Maybe north or something. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” Scott repeats.

Stiles forces a laugh. “Did you turn into a parrot? I feel like you’re just repeating me.”

Scott doesn’t laugh. He would’ve. Before.

Stiles tries not to think about it.

“You have classes, though, don’t you?” Scott asks. “You’re a student here.” More confusion. He’s making Stiles confused.

“I mean, yeah? But that doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?”

“Jesus, Scott,” Stiles laughs softly, and this time it’s a little real. He clears his throat. “Yeah, it doesn’t matter. I’ll pull myself out, go somewhere else. Don’t worry about it.”

Scott doesn’t say anything. Stiles begins to think that he’s going to leave, which is good because he should. He should go home, go back to his dorm so he can shower and sleep and forget the last month ever happened. God knows Stiles is going to be working on that for years.

And then Scott asks, “Did you know?” and Stiles feels his stomach drop.

“Know what? About the hunters? No.”

“Did you know about me?”

Stiles licks his lips. He opens his mouth. Closes it. He sighs, and then pushes his palms into his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Scott takes that for an answer. “What were you waiting for?” he asks, and his voice is quiet and sad and borderline heartbroken, and it hurts Stiles.

“I wasn’t waiting for anything,” he says honestly. He hopes that Scott knows. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t planning anything, I wasn’t going to kill you, I-I.” He breathes out. “I don’t want to kill you, Scott.”

“Why?”

He licks his lips again. “Because you’re my friend,” he whispers. “You’re my friend and I didn’t want to kill you. Because I’m too selfish with you. I’ve been alone for a long time, Scott.” He lets out a humorless laugh. He can’t look at Scott. “I’ve been alone for so long, and then…and then I wasn’t. We were friends, and I think I might be starting to fall in love with you, but that doesn’t even matter. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Scott.”

There’s silence again. It’s longer than before, Stiles refusing to look at Scott, picking at the frayed ends of his jeans. The urge to cry is gone, though, for now. He doesn’t know what else to say, if he can say anything at all. If anything matters. He’s so sure that Scott’s going to leave. Why wouldn’t he? He probably just needs time to get his strength back and that’s why he hasn’t left yet. He probably just wants some answers from Stiles—answers Stiles is more than willing to give.

Scott sighs. “I guess there isn’t really a good time to tell someone that, right?”

Stiles jerks his head up so quick he’s almost nervous that he snapped it. “What?”

There’s a faint smile, a sad smile, dancing on Scott’s lips. “There’s not a good time to tell your werewolf friend that you’re a hunter. I mean, there wasn’t a good time for me to tell you about myself, either.” There’s humor lacing his words; Stiles tries desperately to not get his hopes up. “Stiles,” Scott starts and then stops.

Stiles naws on his lower lip, a nervous habit he hasn’t had in a long time. He just makes a, “Hmm?” sound. Because he’s scared. And he’s nervous. Desperate. Terrified.

“I don’t…I don’t forgive you, exactly,” he says carefully. Stiles keeps holding on, ignoring the pain of those words. “But I want to. I really, really want to.”

“Do you think you can? Some day?”

Scott considers it, and eventually nods. “Maybe. I think so. Because I like you, too, Stiles. Like, I was going to ask you out for real after tonight.” He laughs a little. “The timing, fuck.”

The urge to cry is back again. Stiles isn’t sure why. God, what happened to him? What happened to the hunter that killed werewolves without flinching? When did he turn into this sobbing, needy mess; sad and lonely and craving just a little bit of affection from his werewolf of a friend?

He doesn’t even care, though, and maybe that’s the worst part. He doesn’t even care about hunting, hasn’t in about a month. He should’ve listened to that grapevine rumor about Scott; about how he made hunters give it up. He should’ve known.

But he doesn’t care.

“I’ve never really had good timing in my life,” Stiles says. He lets go of his legs, lets them stretch out. His feet are maybe only half a foot away from Scott. And Scott doesn’t react; Stiles will count that as a win.

“I don’t know,” Scott says, considering. “I think you had pretty good timing tonight. I wasn’t prepared; I don’t know that I would’ve survived.”

Stiles’s throat is tight again. “Then thank God for that.”

Scott hums and stands up. He walks over to Stiles and takes a second before offering his hand out. Stiles takes it gratefully, allowing Scott to pull him up. Neither of them move away, though, and Stiles is standing so very close to Scott. They don’t let go of each other’s hands, either.

They just stand there for a moment, eyes locked on each other. Stiles isn’t sure he’s breathing; he’s too nervous.

Scott uses the hand holding Stiles’s to pull him closer for a hug, a hug Stiles sinks into. He’s trembling a little. He didn’t even notice when that happened. But Scott’s hugging him and Scott likes him and Scott at least wants to be his friend still and he wants to trust him and forgive him, and it’s more—so much more—than Stiles could’ve wished for.

Scott presses a soft, quick kiss to Stiles’s cheek before he pulls away. He keeps their hands connected, though. “Come back with me to my dorm?” he asks.

“I would’ve even if you hadn’t asked,” Stiles admits. “Just to. Just to make sure.”

Scott’s gaze softens.

Before they leave, Stiles glances at the hunters. “Shit.”

“Yeah?”

“I have to take care of this,” Stiles says, using the hand not in Scott’s to gesture.

Scott squeezes his hand. “I don’t think anyone will look for them tonight. Or find them. We can do something tomorrow.”

“You mean I’ll do something.”

“I said we, I mean we, Stiles. It can be a trust-building exercise.”

That startles a real laugh out of Stiles. “The classic, bury-the-dead-bodies-of-hunters trust exercise? Scott McCall, you Casanova.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Scott says with a laugh. He pulls him again.

It doesn’t take much effort because Stiles knows he’ll go wherever Scott is. There’s no question. He’ll get his trust back, he’ll protect him, and he’ll go where Scott is. Like he thought a month ago, who was he to reject destiny?

[jojo-daydreams]

Hello Natalie! How are you? How is your day? Have you ever seen the official art with Mista and Trish dancing, where Trish is grinding on the gunslinger? Since requests are open, may I kindly ask you for a MistaxReader where R is quite jealous because of this but Mista tells his feeling for her, with amazing NSFW? I hope I am not bothering you too much ❤️ if yes, I am so sorry! Thank you so much ps:If you don’t know the picture, I can show it to you xxx

I decided to combine these two since I think they can go well together !! hope that’s ok !! (*´꒳`*)

i’m assuming is this picture yeah ? I hadn’t seen it before and its ….. Really something ….

also … amazing nsfw ???? u did not come to the right place for that my friend !! Regardless, I hope you both like it !  ﾍ(=￣∇￣)ﾉ

10 - “I like it when you say my name like that.”

N// S// F// W// Under the cut !!!

———————————————

Finishing off another drink, you try your best not to look back over to the scene that’s suddenly got your blood boiling. Unfortunately, you are not successful.

Frowning, you watch as Trish continues to dance with Mista. ON Mista. Sure, you hadn’t told anyone about your feelings for the gunslinger, but still. You pout, turning back around to face the bar and using your finger to push the ice in your glass around. You should’ve just told Mista how you feel already. You’d had plenty of chances. Giorno sent the two of you on assignments together often enough.

You were just too nervous though, the thought of him rejecting you scared the shit out of you. Losing your friendship with him was too terrifying a prospect to risk it. Mista was one of your closest friends, he could always make you laugh, he was always a pillar of support for you when you needed it, he was always willing to listen to you complain about your problems, he was always able to bring joy to any situation you were in, his ass always looked great no matter what pants he was wearing.

You start tearing your napkin into shreds, hands feeling restless. You were friends with Trish too, so you were really mad at her per say. Sighing, you blow a strand of hair out of your face. Jealously was such an ugly thing, and it was making you feel icky but you just couldn’t help it.

As if sensing your foul mood, Mista suddenly appeared at your side.

“Hey, why the sour face?” He says, cheerful as ever, his cheeks tinted red from the dancing and drinking.

Still frowning, you glance at him before looking away.

“I just. Don’t feel well, that’s all.” Not exactly the truth, but not a lie either, per say.

Jerking back, your eyes widen as Mista’s hand suddenly comes in contact with your forehead as he tries to check your temperature.

“You don’t have a fever?” He says unhelpfully. Neither of you are drunk, but you’re both at least a little buzzed, and its hot in this place anyway, so you’re not really sure what he was trying to accomplish with that. Sweet lovable Mista.

You shake your head with a huff, pushing off the bar you’d been leaning on and tossing some change on it as you started to leave.

“Yeah it’s… something else. I think I’m gonna go home.”

Mista blinks in surprise, confused at your sudden departure, and follows after you quickly.

“Wh- wait what? Leaving already? At least let me walk you home!” He says, scrambling to leave some money on the bar and catch up with you when you don’t slow down at his request.

The two of you walk a few block in a very uncomfortable silence, which is unusual for the two of you. You’d spent hours with Mista in silence before, and it never felt this awkward. He starts speaking at the same time you decide to break the silence.

“Did I do something wrong-“

“Y’know I can walk myself home-“

He stops, furrowing his brows at your words.

“What’s wrong? Did I upset you somehow? Whatever it is that I did, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” He says, his dark eyes are shining in the low lamp lighting. His full lips are pouty as he apologizes, and you watch them in sort of a trance. They just look so damn kissable.

When you don’t respond Mista clears his throat, and your eyes snap back up to his.

“Oh, um. Sorry. It’s nothing worth mentioning. I’m not mad at you.”

“Not mad at me …. But….?” He says, trying to encourage you to continue.

Sighing, you continue.

“I’m. I guess I’m just mad about you. Dancing.”

Mista tilts his head, confusion coloring his face.

“You’re mad… that I was dancing. I didn’t know I was that bad at dancing.”

Realizing what you’d implied, you lift your hands up, shaking your head as you take a step back.

“Wait, that’s not what I meant. I just guess I wish you’d danced with me.”

Mista’s eyebrows shoot up, and his hands dart forward, grabbing yours.

“Oh.”

“Oh.” You parrot, train of thought focused entirely on how warm and strong his hands feel wrapped around yours.

“I uh. I wish you’d danced with me too.”

wait. what.

“Wait, what?”

Mista swallows, dark eyes meeting yours, his gaze felt heavy and its making you feel a bit… nervous?

“I wanted you to dance with me too, I just. I guess I’m too nervous to ask. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything. I mean I WANT you to, of course. Do things for- WITH me. But um. I’m putting my foot in my mouth so I’m gonna stop talking… now…” He says, trailing off awkwardly.

You stare at him for a moment, trying to process what’s happening. Is Mista saying he’s interested in you? Is your crush confessing to you right now?

“What do you want me to do?” You say, finally, voice intentionally even.

“Ideally you let me kiss you.” He squeezes your hands, “Please.”

You’ve barely gotten out a breathless yes before he crashes his lips against yours, pulling your hands to his chest to keep you close.

When you pull away, both of you catching your breath, you decide you’re feeling bolder now, and you glance at up at him through your eyelashes.

“Why don’t you finish walking me home huh?”

Mista watches you carefully as you talk, and at the mention of walking you home, the original purpose of the evening, he seems to snap back to into himself. He lets go of your hands, stepping back a few feet to give you both some breathing room. It wasn’t a particularly hot or cold night, but he can feel a drop of sweat rolling down his back.

“Sure, sure.” He says, reaching back out to grab one of your hands as he leads you along once again.

—

When you do finally get to your apartment, you invite him inside, relishing the blush that settles on his face as he looks down shyly, asking if you’re sure you want that. Which, of course you are. You’d only been dreaming, literally, of having Mista over like this. You’d woken up on more than one occasion hot and bothered after a dream about him that’d felt all too real.

When you make it to your room, which takes a while, or at least longer than it should, because Mista seems intent on stopping you every five steps to steal another kiss, you close the door behind the two of you. Turning around, you can see Mista taking in your room- eyeing all the decorations thoughtfully.

“Is it what you thought it would be like?” You ask, teasing him a bit to hide that you’re actually pretty nervous. Mista had been over to your apartment plenty, but never in your room, and now it has you questioning some of your more childish decorations.

“Yes and no… it’s very you. I like it.” He says, putting you at ease.

Smiling, you give your head a shy shake, stepping forward and gently placing you hands on his hips, sliding them slowly down to the waistband of his pants. Dragging them forward, you brush lightly over the obvious bulge in them, thumbing the button questioningly.

You can hear his shaky exhale as he shifts a bit, nodding minutely to give you the go ahead. The rest of his clothes and yours are shed quickly after that, and you drop backwards onto the bed, Mista sliding on top of you, seemingly unwilling to part from you for longer than necessary.

Sighing into the string of kisses you share, you slide your hands from his chest down over his abs, enjoying the way they flex in response to your touch. You can feel the way he’s grinding his cock against you, his mouth hot on your neck now, and your already wet- you’re ready to go all the way, you’ve been ready for what feels like months now.

You grind your hips back up against him, urging him to get on with it.

Lapping at the last bite on your neck, Mista pulls back for a moment.

“You sure?” He asks, giving you a final out.

Your response is just to roll your hips up again with a low moan of his name.

He smiles in response.

“I like it when you say my name like that. I could… really get used to that.”

Mista takes a breath to steady himself, and you lift your arms, winding them around his neck. You dig your nails into his back as you can feel him slide in slowly, so fucking slowly, and once he’s bottomed out he holds still, sucking in a harsh breath through his teeth.

You sigh at the feeling of fullness. It feels so very right, being here now with Mista like this. You’ve loved him so long and now, finally, you have him in your bed.

When he still doesn’t move you give him a gentle nudge in the right direction by wiggling your hips, flexing your muscles a bit.

“F-fuck, babe, give me a minute here I’m just. I need a minute, then I’ll make it good for you.” He says in a breathy voice as he lets out a small laugh, dropping his head to your shoulder to steady himself.

You grin at him. Of course he’s worried about that right now.

“You sound tense, Guido.”

You can feel him nip at your shoulder, his energy coming back.

“I’m trying not to make a total fool of myself in front of this girl I’m really into, so I guess I am.”

Tilting your head to the side, you capture his lips again, and when you bite at his lower lip you can feel him buck his hips against you, drawing a moan from both of you, and that enough to get Mista to set a steady pace as he starts fucking you in earnest.

Winding your arms around him tighter, you can already feel the coil in your stomach getting tighter and tighter, and you reach down with one hand, wedging it between your bodies so that you can rub your clit.

Mista moans as he watches you touch yourself, the feeling of you getting tighter and tighter around his cock bring him closer and closer to the edge.

The hand that had been marking up his back still slides up, your fingers trying to find purchase in the short hair at the back of his head as your vision goes white, the combination of Mista finally, finally, fucking you and your own fingers working yourself just how you know you like it finally making you cum, and you let out a loud whine of Mista’s name as you clench around him.

The feeling of you cumming on his cock is too much for Mista, and after a few more sloppy thrusts he pulls out of you as he comes, his cum painting your stomach.

The two of you stay just like that for a few minutes, catching your breath. The room had felt so hot this whole time, but it feels like its cooling rapidly. You can feel Mista’s cum and your sweat drying uncomfortably on your body, and yet you can’t bring yourself to care. You felt like you were floating right now honestly. A combination of that hazy post orgasm feeling and the still somewhat unreal feeling of being here with Mista makes you feel so light and happy. And it must be showing  on your face because Mista is looking at you with a dopey grin.

“So…” He starts, glancing away for a moment, “That was fun.”

You try your best to turn your face away from his as you snort, laughing damn near obnoxiously. Only Mista, you think, only he would say something like that after a night like this.

“Yeah, we should do it again sometime.” You reply finally, when you get your laughter under control. You mean it, but your tone is teasing. Despite that, you can see Mista’s eyes light up.

“I’d like that, I uh. Like you.”

Smiling at him softly, you place a gentle kiss on his cheek before replying.

“I like you too, Guido.”