#peach season is finally in full swing up here!!!

[voidartisan]

look idc if you're my "roommate" if you walk into the kitchen while i'm putting away my groceries and happen to catch me grinning maniacally and chanting the word peaches over and over under my breath like a goblin that's none of your business

[just---keep---simming]

Zest - Autumn 2

We're back in Del Sol Valley for the last rotation of Autumn 2, where we join Peaches and Johnny Zest, along with teenager Axel and toddler Hendrix.

Hendrix is as cute as ever in his ducky PJs, and has a sophisticated palate for a three year old, with his eggs benedict for breakfast.

Then it's off to bed with a story from Dad.

Since Dad wants to head out to blow off some steam tonight. Peaches stays home with Hendrix and Axel while Johnny and Lilith hit the city for some karaoke. The bar is quiet when Johnny first arrives, so he enjoys a quiet beer before Lilith shows up and they head over to the karaoke machines.

After Lilith heads home, Johnny is surprised to bump into his younger brother Malcolm. Johnny is estranged from his family, and that has included Malcolm - this is the first time he's seen the kid, now a teenager, since he left home. They briefly reconnect but Johnny gets the sense a close relationship with his brother is probably off the cards. He doesn't understand anything about Johnny's estrangement from the family, and has clearly swallowed their parent's version of events. Still, it was nice to briefly reacquaint himself with at least one member of his family.

Back home, poor Axel isn't having an easy time of his mid-teen years. A mood swing hits just as Angela Pleasant drops by for one of her regular visits. Mortified, he slinks off to his room to hide under the covers.

Thankfully, his horror at all things his life has passed by the morning of Harvestfest.

And he's able to join his mother and stepdad for a celebratory breakfast.

Then, with Peaches' blessing, he makes his way down to Willow Creek to meet with Adrienne Pancakes. His unrequited crush on Marion from last season has finally passed, and young Axel has come to appreciate what was right in front of him all the time - his childhood friend, now a rather lovely young lady. While her father, Bob, hovers in the background, laying ground rules and supervising awkwardly, Axel confesses his feelings to Adrienne.

After Bob reluctantly withdraws, they share a tentative first kiss. How sweet!

Axel's feeling pretty good about himself and life in general the next morning as he heads off to school!

Where, despite day-dreaming about Adrienne for most of the day, he does manage to get some work done in his social studies class.

As well as some studying for exams. The early stages of planning for futures are underway for the current teens of the save - Adrienne already knows she's going to university, and Axel is starting to wonder about heading there himself, ideally on a football scholarship.

Meanwhile, back home, Peaches finds time around toddler caregiving duties to squeeze in some yoga.

While Hendrix is adorable.

The next afternoon, Axel and Adrienne head back to Thirftea again, this time most definitely on a date.

Adrienne is flattered to receive a promposal from Axel this time around, and accepts.

He and Hendrix chat about it over dinner that night. The two half-brothers have a good relationship despite their age difference.

Then, it's time for Axel to catch up with his Dad again, as he promised when he moved in full-time with Peaches and Johnny. They meet at a sports bar in Windenburg this time around, and enjoy an evening of father-son time. John is gratified when Axel asks his advice about Adrienne, and suggests he goes all out to make sure prom is magical for them both.

Axel shows his appreciation by absolutely smashing John at Foosball.

Back home, Hendrix is living the good life of toddlerhood - playing, flashcards, parents pretending to be airplanes.

Johnny is here too, and spending a little more time jamming on the guitar these days. Rocketing to the top of your career on like day two of work really leaves you some extra time for hobbies.

And while the adults live their cosy, grown up lives, it's time for the teens to head to prom!

Axel and Adrienne have both been to prom before, but this is their first time going with a date. It's pretty nice.

Axel tries to follow John's advice and sweep Adrienne off her feet.

Then, they get together with a bunch of the others and head to the pier for their after party.

Adrienne and Axel pick the ferris wheel to ride, and while they're circling slowly over the pier, Axel asks Adrienne to be his girlfriend. She accepts!

Which leads to the perfect romantic end to their perfectly romantic evening.

And that's a pretty nice place to leave the Zest family at the end of their second autumn. Axel is going through a phase of being embarrassed by all adults, but otherwise things are idyllic in the valley for this charming family!

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

My Darling Cat Roommate

lmao this isn’t lambden, as the title may suggest. sorry folks

@stinastar hit me with some feels over and modern roommate au where Geralt just doesn’t know what to do to make Jask feel better and this happened. 

Warnings: We go into some Seasonal Affective Depression stuff here so like be careful with that if it triggers you, jask beats himself up a little, mentioning feeling numb at things that usually bring him joy, i swear in this one. I haven’t changed, dont worry lol

_______________________

Jaskier trudged home from work on Friday, exhausted but relieved he had the next week off. He wolfed down the leftovers Geralt had heated up for him and almost fell asleep on the couch before Geralt hauled him up and walked him into his room, where he promptly fell asleep on top of his duvet in jeans and his shoes. Sometime around when early morning coffee workers were getting up he undressed and snuggled under the warm blankets. 

When he woke to Geralt making a smoothie he was prepared to launch into a full ‘morning people’ rant, only to check his phone and realize it was 2pm. So, maybe he’d needed rest. 

It was still grey enough out that he shrugged and went back to sleep. 

When he woke up again it was dark and the TV was going. He wrapped up in his comforter rather than putting on sweats and shuffled out to the kitchen only because his stomach growled when he tried to roll over.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty!” Geralt called over his shoulder as he floated past with the pasta he’d left in the microwave. 

Jaskier just grunted a small “Thanks,” before he disappeared back into his room. He scrolled through various apps as he ate and rolled back into bed. 

He might have fallen asleep, he might not, but he certainly didn’t get out of bed until his bladder absolutely demanded it on Sunday morning. 

Geralt intercepted him in the hallway before he could make it back to his room, “You feeling okay?”

“Hm? Why?” Jaskier took a moment to respond, staring at Geralt like he’d grown a second head. He knew his hair was probably greasy but he couldn’t look that bad.

“You slept all day yesterday.” Geralt looked like he was diffusing a bomb rather than talk to his roommate, “Did something happen at work?” 

Jaskier just shrugged, “I’m just tired.” And a little numb.

Geralt nodded, “I’m headed to the store. You sure you don’t want me to pick anything up for you?”

“I’m okay, Geralt…” he sighed, slipping past his brick wall of a roommate to slink beneath his blankets once again and make himself as small as possible. 

It was late January and the Seasonal Affective Depression was in full swing. He should have bought that fucking happy light when it was on sale. Should have bought the Vitamin D tablets he saw last week. Should have let Geralt drag him to the gym a little more when he felt the initial dip. Should have blah blah blah. He thought over every little thing he knew would have helped that he just hadn’t done and sighed, pulling his blankets tighter around him. He knew he wasn’t going to do any of it until it got bad enough that his hair would stick to his forehead once he hit this point. Might as well hurry it along so it could be over with. 

Geralt knocked on his door, snapping him out of his mini spiral. He hummed, not even bothering to turn over until he heard the rattle of the doorknob. 

“I know you didn’t want anything, but… uh. I was in the bulk section. Got you the peach things.” Geralt’s voice was lower and softer than usual as he raised the frankly massive bag of peach rings for emphasis before he set them on Jaskier’s desk. 

“Than-” Jaskier coughed when his voice came out raspy and broken, “Thank you.”

Geralt leaned against the doorframe for a moment, a curious frown on his face, “Bake Off is on in an hour if you wanna watch it.”

Jask forced a smile and shrugged, “We’ll see.”

Geralt pursed his lips and nodded, pausing a moment before pushing off the doorframe, “Okay.” 

Jaskier stared at the peach rings for a while after Geralt closed the door. Eventually he compromised with his brain and rolled out of bed onto his knees, waddling a couple of steps until he could reach the rings then launch back to bed. 

Normally he would have almost cried with happiness that Geralt had gotten his favorite treat. He loved it when Geralt did little things for him or thought of him enough to give him something, but he felt rather indifferent as he shoved the twentieth peach ring in his mouth. 

Without warning his door opened just enough for a plate to appear and be gently set on his desk.

Geralt muttered, “For the sugar high…” before his hand disappeared and the door once again shut. 

Jaskier almost smiled when he saw the neatly arranged concentric circles of Totinos Pizza Rolls on the plate. He got to his feet to fetch them this time. 

Around ten that night there was another knock at his door that pulled him from an hour long scroll through tiktok.

“Jask?”

“Yeah?”

Geralt held a big grey bundle in his arms, “Do you- Uh. I thought- weighted blanket?” He held his arms out with a hesitant smile. 

Jaskier sat up, “But don’t you use it to sleep?”

Geralt shrugged, unfolding the bean-filled blanket and laying it over Jaskier’s legs, “I’ll be fine.”

Jaskier stared at the ceiling for a while after he left, confused by Geralt’s suddenly attentive behavior. He would have expected the grouchy man to enjoy the silence that came with his bad days. For how much Geralt complained about his loud music, he certainly wasn’t expecting gifts. 

Geralt left a note in the kitchen Monday morning saying he’d made Jaskier a breakfast sandwich with instructions on how to warm it up without it turning soggy. Jaskier stood in front of the panini press reading and rereading the note as he heated his breakfast like it was in Old English. He ate at the kitchen table this time, annoyed with the crumbs in his bed, and counted up all the little gifts he’d been brought. He could come to only one conclusion.

Geralt was part cat. 

He’d stopped functioning and Geralt kept bringing him mice. 

He smirked and sent him a quick text, “Thanks for the breakfast. 👌 V  good.”

After breakfast, he decided maybe he could change his pajamas, but he stayed tucked under Geralt’s weighted blanket for most of the day. Every now and then Geralt would text him something stupid Eskel or Lambert did, or a meme he found on his break, and every time Jaskier would grin and send back an emoji. Words were out of reach but Geralt frequently only communicated in emojis and one-word sentences. He should get the message.

Jaskier fell asleep around two, really asleep not just the fitful light sleep he’d been having the last couple of days. He was rousted from a dream about a talking panini press by Geralt tripping over a pile of laundry and softly swearing as he tried to right himself without crashing into the bed or Jaskier’s lute. 

“Geralt? Darling, what are you doing?”

Geralt finally caught himself and nearly blinded Jaskier with a smile as he straightened up, “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Jaskier sat up and scratched at his hair, “Yes, but doing what?” 

“Oh! Yeah. Uh. I-” Geralt, still grinning, pointed to a small fern in a bright orange clay pot sitting on his windowsill. 

“You got me a plant?”

Geralt was practically beaming when Jaskier glanced back at him. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a cat?” 

Geralt snorted, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “You’re feeling better?” 

Jaskier tilted his head, “I think so? What makes you say that?”

“You called me ‘Darling’.” 

A hesitant smile crept on Jaskier’s face. There was an echo of the usual all-consuming warmth spreading in his chest that he usually felt when Geralt smiled at him. He may indeed be feeling a bit better. Come to think of it he actually wanted to shower.

“I taped Bake Off. If you’re feeling up for a trek to the couch,” Geralt offered, forced nonchalance dripping from every word. 

Jask nodded, “Let me shower, then we can finish off the peach rings.” 

Geralt’s smile nearly stopped his heart, a sure sign he was nearing the land of the living again, “I got lasagna on the way home too,” he chirped as he jumped up and made his way to the door. 

“Hey, Darling?” It felt a little forced and goofy saying the pet name like that, but Jaskier just couldn’t help himself, “Thank you.”

Geralt’s smile softened, “Anytime.”

[darkherolovercroissant]

My Alpha

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Warnings: fluff, protective alpha, fighting for dominance.

(I’ve always wanted to do one of these kind of stories. Hope you like it.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The whole story of your soulmate excited you in many ways when you were a young pup. Your dad was a very possessive Alpha and your mother wasn’t much better. They always stuck up their noses as alphas claimed to be in love with their daughter. They always told them they weren’t good enough due to the fact that no young alpha in the pack could keep their dick in their pants.

They always used the whole rut thing as an excuse, but when you say that ten times a month people tend to question things. You were a young Omega and you tend to get into very bad predicaments and your father comes to the rescue. Your mom sat you down when you were eight and told you about your true mate and the signs to look out for.

The day came where you were sent out into the world (against your dad’s wishes) and you were roaming around downtown Brooklyn when you heard growling. You couldn’t of had an alpha smelling you. You weren’t close to your heat and you were on suppressants to calm you down to avoid horny alphas. You continued until you knew the growling was gone, taking a break and continuing on your trek back home.

The world could go fuck itself, no one was gonna mess with you on a beautiful fall day. And you meant NOBODY. However the eyes that followed your through the crosshairs had a different idea.

———

You were invited to a huge party in the area as a huge gathering that apparently was held once a year for omegas and alphas to meet and hopefully claim each other before mating season. You however weren’t much of a party person, but since you were in a new town why not just attend one.

The winter air hit your cheeks as your beanie and scarf hid what was left. Marching down a sidewalk towards a store you once again heard growling followed by a strong scent of pine and blueberries. Turning around you saw the sidewalk was full of people so you turned around and continued towards the stores.

Snowflakes falling down and colliding with the hard ground only to be stepped on by humans two minutes later. The way it looked beautiful outside and you watched it flutter and hit your hands. You smiled at the world’s pure offering to you and continued your trek home after purchasing a simple dress for tonight. Still feeling the tingle in the air as you approach the destination to hear the phone start ringing once you open the door.

“Hello dear!” Mom calls through the phone

“Hi mom” you chuckle as you set your bag on the coffee table.

“So I heard you’ll be attending a party tonight? Are you sure you’re gonna be ok?” Mom says

“How did you know that? I never told anyone.”

“Oh come on. Do you really think Justin was going to let his baby sister move to a new state and not check up on her when the seasons change?”

You roll your eyes as the fact that your brother who became the new alpha of your old pack would risk his life over and over just to check up on you.

“Tell Justin I’m ok mom. I know he’s worried, but I can handle myself.” You chuckle

“Just stay safe. You know we’re heading into mating season next month and I’d hate for you to end up in a predicament again. I don’t want my baby to be hurt.”

“I’m a strong Omega, mother” you sigh playfully

“Sometimes I have trouble not believing your an alpha with that power of yours.” She says before she bids you well and hangs up.

_______

Parties were wild and not the good kind of wild. The second you got there, all you could see was males and females grinding up against you. Hell you even say two girls and two men marking each other. The place was huge and all you saw was couples who gave themselves to each other and you knew any second the same would happen to you.

All of a sudden that familiar scent invaded your nose and you felt like your inner omega was purring. Blueberries and pine, all you saw were betas, alphas and other omegas dancing.

“How am I gonna track him down?” You mutter

As you walked deeper into the party the scent tended to get stronger. You had to be close after you enter the second ballroom. All you could smell was pine and blueberries and you could feel yourself getting turned on by the scent.

Unfortunately that alerted every alpha with some betas and omegas of your obvious scent. You heard growling all around you as people took you in and all of a sudden alphas started cowering as they split apart. Someone was making their way through the crowd and you could feel your omega purring and planning to jump his bones right there.

He finally made his presence known and you almost jumped him the second you saw him. How on earth was this man a human? He was sculpted by the gods and his long brown locks ended at his shoulders as he stalked forward. His left arm circled around you and he growled at the others who were still eyeing you up.

“Found you” he smirked down at you

You just let your omega take control and nuzzled your head into his chest. The smell was driving you insaine and he only chuckled.

“Let’s get out of here before everyone starts fighting me for you.” He whispered in your ear.

You just nodded and he guided you out the door back to his home. He wanted you to see his place after he prepared it the way he hoped you liked.

His scent was driving you insane and you were so close to the brink of insanity. How can one alpha have so much control over you. You used to put alphas in their place when your dad wasn’t around to save you or even your brother, but this alpha had you thinking very vulgar thoughts to the point Satan himself would be scared.

Once you arrived to his place, you walked in and started roaming around looking at his place. You honestly could see yourself nesting here and he was loving it. The fact that you were leaving rooms impressed and continued on left him purring in thought. All you had to do was except his den and you’d be off to the races. You allowed your scent to mix with his and the peach somehow blended well with his dark and sweet smell.

You felt everything still as he wrapped his arms around you and rested his chin on your left shoulder.

“You ok ‘mega?” He purrs

You tilt your neck as he began to scent you. You were in heaven and you didn’t want this to end. The fact that you managed to continue breathing as his nose brushed the area where he’d sink his teeth to Mark you later on was a complete mystery. This alpha had you wrapped around his finger since you first caught his scent.

“You want this, omega?”

Unable to speak, you just nod your head as he continued to purr into your ear.

————-

Winter came and went and spring dawned on the earth once again. Cold and miserable turned to breezy and damp, but Spring was a very beautiful season as the life came up green. Mating season was upon the population and any day now when all of a sudden people you saw regularly were missing, you clues in that their heat and rut were in full swing. However Ruts weren’t the only thing in full swing...the AUDACITY was also in the air.

Alphas would try and target other omegas and betas trying to scent them or even fight for them. You however were never really aware until Bucky made his presence known, only then would you clue in that another person tried his temper. Bucky had plans to mark you, but wanted to wait until after you knotted you for the first time. Which was gonna be the time he brought you home, but being the gentleman he was, Bucky only cuddled with you.

However the one time you weren’t around, Bucky was involved in a huge fight, Apparently three alphas decided they were going to challenge him. Bucky growled and the three younger alphas backed down for two seconds before lunging at him. The four alphas were quick to start the fighting, but in the end Bucky won. There was no way in hell he was going to loose his omega. He watched as the others took off as Steve, Sam and Nat showed up, all four looking for a fight.

Bucky growled in the dark night and let out a howl as the four headed back to where they came from. When Bucky got home he was hit with the scent he was dreaming of, her whimpers could be heard and he knew she went into heat. He walked into the room and his rut began seeing his omega so vulnerable and needy.

“Alpha?” She whimpers

“It’s ok, babygirl. I’m going to help you through this.” He says as he removes his shirt and pants then climbs into the nest she made with his blankets and pillows.Allowing his scent to overcome her surroundings, Bucky began to let both of your desires come to life.

[maturemenoftvandfilms]

Sneaky Pete

Chapter One: On Set

Featuring actor Peter Gerety

In 2018, I was an extra on the season 3 set of "Sneaky Pete." The scenes I was in had been filmed at a hotel where the cast and crew were staying at. I was excited doing it and it was a real education watching the show being shot. The principal actors on this were all seasoned pros, from the star Giovanni Ribisi on down. But the actor that caught my attention was Peter Gerety. I recognized him from "Law & Order," "The Wire" and "Homicide: Life on the Street" among other things. He’s a peach of an actor who plays a lot of cop roles in addition to judges/lawyers, that sort of thing. He’s good at it. And I thought he was cute, fitting my template for guys I like.

During the breaks between shoots, I watched with a little more than curiosity as the "old character actor" interacted with everyone around him. He seems like a nice, funny guy which only made me want him more.

Then I started noticing that Gerety would glance over at me from time to time which instantly made my cock hard. I started getting the idea that maybe he was checking me out because he'd look away quickly whenever I would glance up and catch him looking at me. Well, that only made my cock even harder.

Anyway, we'd just finished a long day on set, so I decided I better go to the bathroom and try to position it so that it didn’t show off so much. The bathroom was empty, so as I went to the wall urinal and started to stroke my ever growing erection.

Suddenly the bathroom door opened and in walked the old actor. Damn if he didn’t step right up to the urinal beside me, holding my cock in my hand, jacking off. I didn’t know what to do when I thought I saw him out of the corner of my eye looking over the divider. That's when I realized I hadn’t heard him pee, so I looked over briefly. What I saw was him stroking a thick, 7 inch uncut cock. I never would have suspected that this thickset, scruffy character actor would have such a nice rod which made me even harder.  

I guess it was because I was surprised (and aroused) that I stared too long and he noticed. When I looked up, he was looking right at me. He winked and smiled a warm friendly, knowing smile.

"Looks like I'm not the only one who's a little horny." He said as I tried to put my engorged dick back into my pants.

"I was..." I tried to say, but nothing came out.

"Don't put it away, it is okay, I won't tell anyone. I’m glad I was here to see the show.” The actor said. Then he reached over and offered me his hand. “My name is Peter. Peter Gerety.”

"I know who you are. Sam‘s my name, Sir.” I replied.

Just then, the bathroom door opened and someone else came in. Peter went back to pretending to pee and I quickly zipped up and went to wash my hands. As I was drying them, Peter flushed his urinal and also went to the sinks, but as he started to run the water, he placed his hotel room card on the edge of the sink right next to me. He quickly rinsed his hands, looked in my direction and winked, then walked out, leaving the key behind.

I was thinking what a sneaky little flirt he was. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but no one had, so I grabbed the key and headed out. By the time I got to Peter’s room, I was afraid he’d think I wasn’t interested, but when I entered the room, he was ready and waiting. The lights were dim, Peter was in a hotel bathrobe and he’d ordered porn on the television.

I quickly undressed and walked over to where Peter was sitting on the hotel bed. He took me in his hand, cupping my balls and then stroking my shaft softly. His hand was warm and gentle as his nimble fingertips sent waves of delight up and down my spine.

"Nice cock." He called out like a kid discovering a new toy as slowly began to manipulate his hand back and forth over my dick’s head.

“That feels good.” I said as I closed his eyes.

Suddenly, my eyes snapped wide opened as I felt my dick moving into his warm, moist mouth and softly and gently massaged me with his tongue.

“Damn! That feels great.” I said as I reached down and grabbed the old actor by his curly locks.

I took sudden delight in forcing my huge dick slowly down the old actor’s throat. I expect at any moment that Peter would gag, but the stout old man didn’t. He kept swallowing the big cock being fed him, inch by inch. And the deeper my dick reached down his throat the better it felt.

“Damn! That feels good.” I said in a moaning tone as Peter managed to swallow the entire length of my 8" cock.

Clearly he was a master cock sucker as he did things to my cock with his tongue that had me squirming from pure pleasure. I was finding it hard to hold back as his hand grabbed my nuts, squeezing them tight while his head bobbed up and down my prick. I began fucking his face furiously, I was going wild... I felt myself fixing to cum when Peter suddenly took his mouth away from my pecker.

"Why don't you join on the bed." He as he removed his robe.

I sucked my breath in at the sight of the old man’s dick. It was beautiful, pale, cut and thick and pinkish in color. I laid him down on the bed and began stroking his dick. I licked and sucked his nipples as I rubbed the head of his cock, spreading his pre-cum like lube. I kissed my way down his chest, leaving a trail of saliva all the way to his cock. Taking him in my mouth, I began to suck while I swirled my tongue around his boner.

“Yes! God! Yes!” The old man cried out, “Suck it. Damn, I haven’t had it sucked in months."

The taste of his dick was sweet and manly. And it stiffened more and more the longer I tongued the shaft as I sucked on it. He grabbed my head and forced his dick even deeper in my throat. I like him forcing his dick down my throat, making me his boy. I worked my tongue up and down the sides of his old dick as best I could. I wanted to give the old man all the pleasure I possibly could.

Using the universal language of "hey let's 69" which was gently pressing against his thigh, Peter began to swing himself on top of me until his cock was dangling in my face. The tip of his cock was wet with precum which I greedily accepted. He started moving up and down as his dick was sliding on my tongue.

When I felt his tongue again on my dick, I felt that his mouth was full of saliva as he now fiercely was devouring my cock like he was hungry for cum. I could feel the base of his cock harden to orgasm status which sent me over the moon. I immediately felt the unavoidable beginnings of a monstrous orgasm.

Seconds away from shooting his load, Peter began humping my mouth faster and faster. I put my hands around his body, pulling it down, I opened my mouth as wide as I could. By that time I felt his pre-cum in my mouth, he was grunting, panting, sweating and from the sounds he was making I felt that my dick has some pre-cum on it. He was still humping my mouth, driving it as deep into me as he could as he began to empty his load. He stopped his rhythmic assault on my cock and was resting with it lodged in his throat.

I grabbed his head firmly in my hands pounded my cock into his mouth. He must have realized I was getting close, cos. I felt his middle finger brush against my hole. That was it for me, I felt myself tense up and one final thrust and my crotch was pressed against his face, my cock spewing deep down his throat, and he was swallowing it! The old man didn't let a single drop of cum leave his mouth.

Minutes later we lay in a wasted heap. Drained of energy we lay there for a while before finding pillows and cuddling into each other.

[heroprose]

the regular;

a/n. well what do u know.... turns out i WILL be writing for jojo on this blog...... @jojosmilktea, that is!! hi jojo i was ur bnha spring event anon! and i’m SOOO sorry this is late RIP!!!

ship. shoto todoroki x reader

summary. bubble tea shop au. it’s true that he knows your order by heart, but he wishes he knew a little more.

//

to be quite honest, you didn’t know this bubble tea shop even existed in this part of the city. 

it certainly didn’t look the part, all pristine with white stone walls and flower boxes hooked onto the closed glass windows. no, in fact it looked a little too bougie for this gray high rise district and you suspect that if it were not for the current downpour, wherein great big rivulets of water are endlessly streaming down the streets, hipsters would populate this cafe’s space in no time.

you cannot blame them, of course. it’s certainly a nice building and totally instagram-worthy. but what attracts you to it is not the vintage stone walls nor the massive poster plastered on the inside of the glass window, with vibrant letters that spell out NEW SEASONAL FLAVORS! but instead, it’s the generous pink awning in front that’s saving you from the insidious downpour. 

you were supposed to do a little grocery shopping before heading home, damn it. technically, though, you could brave the rain for a while and shop for bread and eggs while sopping wet, but it’s a deeply unappealing idea. it doesn’t help that your go-to grocer with the terrific deals is three train stops away either and that your phone is dead, drained from too many rounds of crossy road on your commute long before the rain even began.

restless, you squint through the window of the shop inconspicuously and gape in horror as you realize it is just as cute inside as it is outside. from what you can tell, it’s set up like a little garden party, with metal outdoor chairs and circular tables and the tiles even have flower smiley face stickers on them. oh no. 

it is something of a relief you’ve only discovered this bubble tea shop now because any earlier would have you blowing your bank account on extra boba and grass jelly. and in this economy? not ideal.

still, your eyes waver to the poster again. rose milk tea? peach iced tea? the prices aren’t listed anywhere so you presume they must be absolutely monstrous. completely insane, probably, and jacked up immensely to compensate for the expenses gone in the decor alone and--

“we’re open, you know. you can come in.”

you pull away from the window hastily, letting your back bump into the metal back of chair. biting back a cry of pain, you eye the speaker head-to-toe before letting your shoulders slack. the black apron tied at his waist screams barista. actually, everything about this dude screams barista, from the rolled up sleeves to the vaguely disheveled collar. even the watch on his wrist-- woah. is that a limited edition tag heuer watch? you blanch a little.

he grips the broom with both hands and gestures with the jerk of his chin to the door. “you can come in,” he repeats. his bangs flutter about his forehead thanks to the gusts of wind and it’s a bit mesmerizing to see the red and white flutter like that. 

“oh,” you say, desperate to recompose yourself as you pretend you weren’t wringing out droplets of water from your clothing just minutes before. “it’s okay, thank you. i’m just waiting for the rain to pass.”

the barista opens his mouth but before he can speak, a loud clap of thunder zips through you and goosebumps erupt across the expanse of your skin. with ears ringing, you wince and the tag heuer-wearing fellow only watches. you purse your lips, glancing from him. to the onslaught of rain, to finally the door. 

well. so much for staying outside. wordlessly, he pulls the door open for you and you oblige quietly, mumbling a small word of thanks as you pass him.

unsurprisingly, the shop is wholly vacant, save for him, the boy who follows you in, and another barista behind the counter, who leans against the table behind him with arms crossed. the radio is on but it’s turned down so low that it might as well be off.

it would be painful to loiter in this shop for an hour or so without buying anything, so begrudgingly, you pull out your wallet and pray to whatever higher deity up there that you won’t get hooked on their drinks and subsequently, their freakish prices. you’ve got a budget, for goodness sake. 

when you step to the counter, the barista that met you outside sets his broom aside to meet you on the other side. “what would you like?” he asks automatically, with the tilt of his head. you glance over the menu above his head despite knowing your answer deep inside your heart.

“taro milk tea, please,” you say, bringing your gaze back to him. a trickle of rainwater slides down the curve of his cheek and you have to tear your gaze away. “medium, with boba. and extra sugar too.”

“will that be it?”

“yes,” you reply with your eyes downcast, carefully deciding on whether to use cash or credit. maybe you can use some of your spare coins this time.

his gold name tag says “shoto,” and it gleams even in your peripheral vision as he nods and turns to the other barista with the spiky hair who stands a few ways’ away and glowers a bit. 

“katsuki,” says shoto. “one medium taro milk tea with--”

“yeah, yeah,” says the other barista snappishly. “i heard. i’m literally right here.” he pulls away from the table and exits to the back forcefully and you two watch him in relative silence. a guitar-heavy shawn mendes song plays in the background; played too softly for you to determine which one though.

shoto’s gaze swivels back to you, undisturbed by the attitude his coworker just presented and so you do your best to remain indifferent as well. it is similarly pure irony to have such a gentle cafe hosted by such personalities. 

“name?” he simply asks and you tell him, not bothering to question why that was still necessary if you were the only customer in the entire shop. 

and it is equally strange that after katsuki returns with your drink, about to hand it to you, shoto acts to intercepts with an extended hand to take the cup away.

“what are you doing?” says katsuki incredulously, drawing back.

shoto presents the sticker with the order printed on it in the air. “i need to put this on.”

“seriously? it’s not like you could hand it to the wrong person,” he mutters, but lets shoto tease it out of his hand before promptly returning to the kitchen again, letting the doors swing behind him. you refrain from smiling too wide as shoto carefully presses the sticker onto the cup behind the counter with an unexpectedly concentrated expression on his face.

when he utters your name to catch your attention, shoto slides your drink over to you, not letting go until your fingers accidentally brush over his. “here you go.”

“thank you,” you say brightly, shaking it for good measure. the ice clinks distract you momentarily from the noise of rain hitting concrete. the cream and purple taro swirl together brilliantly.

he nods, turning away to take a cleaning rag into his hands. shoto wipes at the counter meticulously, every once in a while swiping a smudge with his fingertips to evaluate his work. the quiet is only periodically punctured by the clap of thunder and when shawn mendes starts belting out the background adlibs via the radio.

“when do you think the rain will let up?” you muse absentmindedly, fingers drumming the raised counter as you push along your bubble tea and dig around the container for a straw of your favorite color. “not for long, i hope.”

shoto blinks, glancing up. “i heard it’ll last all through the night.”

steely dread pools at the bottom of your stomach. “no!” you gasp, confronting shoto. “really? i don’t have an umbrella or anything.” you didn’t hear anything of the sort, but then again, you haven’t checked the forecast since this morning. maybe you can wave down a cab or something. you let out a brief laugh of disbelief that rapidly devolves into a groan. “man. that stinks.”

he looks at you sympathetically, watching you deftly pierce the plastic seal top of your milk tea with more force than necessary. 

you bring the straw to your mouth, sipping quietly as you think of your next line of action. the richness is disturbingly good and you’re saddened to know that you’ll be returning in the future, rain or no rain. 

taking a seat in a metal chair, you finally give the shop a thorough glance over. with all the bright lights and pale wallpaper plastered with colorful stickers. above you, the ceiling vents buzz quietly. the whole shop is just--

“dazzling,” you murmur after several minutes, submitting to its glamour. “everything’s so pretty here.” the interior designer really went ham here and it shows. you fish your phone out of your slightly damp pocket and wipe at the screen with a sigh. you’d even take a photo if you could.

unbeknownst to you, shoto had left the counter upfront and is wiping down a table nearby as you speak. “thank you,” he says and you jolt, head snapping towards his direction. “we do our best to be presentable and comfortable.”

“full marks on both then,” you say breezily and a ghost of a smile teases at his lips before he walks away to the backroom. 

he’s amused. did he think you were funny? your ears start to warm up a little and you drain your milk tea faster. in any case, it’s best that you brave the storm sooner than later. 

there’s little doubt that the rain won’t be stopping any time soon and it would really be the icing on the cake if you not only got stuck in a thunderstorm but fell ill as well. you’ve realized, from all your years of life, that people don’t appreciate their functional nostrils until they get stuffed. 

and you don’t know how much time passes in that cafe with the absence of clocks and your phone, but after catching yourself glancing over at shoto for the fifth time, wondering if you can make him smile like that again, you finally think that enough is enough. your chewing speeds up. 

then you stand up, careful to not let the metal feet scrape the tiles. should you just book it, through the rain? or should you stand under the awning a little longer, hoping the rare cab will notice your helpless self and save you? as you mull these thoughts over, you toss the cup into the bin and wipe your hands with a spare napkin, getting rid of the condensation.

“wait.” 

shoto’s calm voice makes you whirl around yet again.

as he walks closer, you notice that he’s gripping something in his hand and you can only bring yourself to stare as he presents it to you.

“take it,” he says. “this is my umbrella.”

your heart stutters for a second. “huh? no, i couldn’t,” you say hastily, dismissing him with a wave. “that’s really kind of you though, thank you.”

“but you said you didn’t have one.”

you give him a quizzical look. “but if i take yours, then you don’t have one.”

“katsuki-- um, the other person who works here-- lives near me. we commute together sometimes. so please,” he says, gesturing the closed umbrella.  you wrap your fingers around the clear plastic gingerly to his coaxing. “take it.” 

tears nearly prick your eyes as you lean over to pat him on the arm graciously. he’s more alarmed than anything else as you do, silently wide-eyed, and is it only then that you notice his eyes are different colors. “thanks, shoto. i’ll be back tomorrow to return it then. i promise!”

he gives you a quick nod. “i don’t work tomorrow. i’ll be here all weekend though.” 

“alright, shoto. i’ll see you on the weekend.”

“stay safe.”

you’re already turning away and pushing open the door before you see the flicker of a smile pass over his visage again.

/

“you gave away your umbrella?” says katsuki after the cafe closes later that evening. his eyes narrow down at his fellow coworker sharply. “to a damn customer?”

“it’ll get returned,” assures shoto. his upper arm is warm where you had touched him, and his hand hovers over it for a second before he shrugs on his jacket.

“that’s not the point,” his coworker seethes, angrily hanging up his apron. “my car is two blocks over and i was relying on you to do your part in bringing the umbrella. idiot!”

ah.

/

you come back that sunny weekend, with shoto’s trusty transparent umbrella in hand... as well as the weekend after. and the weekend after that. sans the excuse of the umbrella, of course.

when it is katsuki that greets you at the counter, he does little to hide his disapproval of your order; grunting when you greet him with a cheerful “hi katsuki!” and grimacing each time when you smile and add, “with extra sugar!” to your order.

“you’re aware of how much sugar is already in this stuff, right?” he tells you. 

“i’m here for a good time, not a long time,” you reply. “and are you really supposed to be asking me that? as someone who works here?”

katsuki scoffs and wordlessly punches your order in anyway. his brew, however, is immaculate without fail so you don’t question his tactics.

but when it is shoto... he greets you warmly, stretching the conversation by asking about how you are and about your day.

“the regular?” he eventually asks after several weeks of you making the same order as the last. 

you smile. “the regular.”

sometimes, you loiter near the counter when it’s not busy. you learn, with some semblance of glee, that shoto is a student like yourself and he only works part-time-- the rainy afternoon you met him on had been a shift he was covering for someone else. other times all you can do is take your drink and wave him goodbye.

even on the extremely busy days where you cannot even find a vacant seat, there are brief seconds where you think of leaning against the wall and enjoying the atmosphere. it is a startling realization, how desperate you want to linger in his presence. 

your affection is making you ill. ugh, and being bloated is not a good look on you either.

drinking taro milk tea at competitor bubble tea shops don’t even sate you. it’s always too watery, too thin; the flavors rounding off as bitter, over brewed tea. but you drink them to wean yourself off. you should probably stop drinking them altogether though.

some time passes before you can find it in yourself to return. the storefront is as pretty as it always is whenever you pass it by on your commute.

“hey, how are you? have you been alright?” asks shoto right off the bat, dropping his washrag haphazardly beside the sink when you find yourself at the counter again after the weeks of hearty self-restraint.

his concern is so vivid it unnerves you. it’s a funny and ill-placed nervous look on his face, eyebrows pulled tense. “i’m fine,” you say, “how have you been?”

“i’m well,” shoto says. “and... that’s good. it’s been a while. i thought you might have started getting your milk tea fix from somewhere else.” he pauses. “have you?”

his sincerity makes you throw your head back and laugh, but your stomach gurgles at the recollection of drinking so many subpar taro milk teas. “never,” you tell him finally. “i like this place too much. and the people here too.”

“i see.” shoto’s smile is bright this time, eyes so soft even as he speaks. “the regular then?”

you let out an exaggerated sigh, your own gaze crinkling up. “you know me so well, shoto.”

/

“quit freakin’ flirting at the counter,” snaps katsuki, mopping the floor vigorously. “do that shit when you’re not at work, icy-hot. it’s disgusting that i have to stand here and listen to you two.”

shoto frowns. “it’s not flirting. we have to be kind to customers.” he calls from the kitchen.

“kindness is you giving extra napkins, not asking if they’ve been going to other bubble tea shops. as if.”

“we’re... just friends then.”

“just friends, my ass. what, you think that extra sugar ass sweet tooth loser came in every week alone just to get tea? you know what...” katsuki’s peeved grumbles trail off until they’re no longer comprehensible.

shoto just ponders on this as he drains the sink.

/

“here,” says katsuki one saturday afternoon. “take it. and go.” he pushes the purple drink into your hand and wipes his own hand on his apron. “extra sugar. don’t blame me when your teeth fall out.”

“damn,” you say, although you are hardly taken aback by his crudeness anymore. “but i will. i’ve got a lot to do today, so i can’t stay and chat. bye guys!”

“take care,” says shoto just as katsuki says, “don’t care, didn’t ask.”

(when you wave goodbye, however, you are pleased to see that they both reciprocate kindly.)

by the time you eventually take a sip, you’re already on your way to the rail to get to your favorite grocery store. today, it’s buy one get one free bags of potatoes so you know you’ll be stocking up this time.

mindlessly, you pierce the top with your straw, careful to aim for the center. you give it a stir before taking a sip, the familiar creaminess filling your mouth. 

although it’s... different, somehow. 

sweeter, you think. did katsuki actually overload it with sugar this time? seemed like a weird prank to pull. perhaps he was teaching you a lesson but considering that he hasn’t been fired yet indicates that this was an infrequent occurrence. hopefully. 

chewing the boba thoughtfully, you pull the cup away in order to squint at the dark text printed on the sticker. it’s the same as you always say it: a medium, iced, taro milk tea, with boba and 25% extra--

the word “sugar” is scrawled over with black ink, although not deliberately it seems. it’s just covered up with a slew of numbers and letters written unbelievably neat in spite of being on a cylindrical cup and you nearly hack up a black clump of sugary boba onto the concrete sidewalk. 

but nevertheless, you force it down to look at the order again, more closely this time.

they’re numbers, and your heart stutters in your chest at the realization there’s just enough to be a phone number; followed by a name that you only ever saw emblazoned on a gold name tag.

you want to commit the numbers to memory, but it’s undeniably hard to concentrate. not when shoto’s gentle smile is on the forefront of your brain and  when big, fat droplets of water are hitting your forehead with incredible force. 

you glance up at the swirling, ashen clouds above you, bloated and expecting. an uncomfortable feeling crawls up your spine at the realization that you’ve forgotten your umbrella at home today too. 

oh god. not again.

/

“i can’t believe you actually wrote your number on my cup today... very smooth, shoto.”

there’s a beat before shoto replies, his voice tinny and distant over the phone. “actually, i did that the first day you came in-- when it was raining. i figured you didn’t notice or you were rejecting me.”

“oh. so, wait-- you did it twice then? that day and today?”

“no,” says shoto. “just that day.”

“then who--” you stop yourself.

outside your window, a clap of thunder shakes the sky. and the epiphany that follows renders you both silent.

[whirlybirbs]

--- tenderly feral. 

summary: you’re used to being alone. daryl, somehow, changes that. rating: t for violence, references to murder/assault/loss, s5 spoilers, if that matters. word count: 3.7k a/n: this is set mid-season 5. right before alexandria. listen, i know, i’m catching up, okay???? anyways, i wrote for daryl when i was literally in high-school and i think this is very fitting. it all comes full circle. this will, no doubt, be a series.                                             ✘      next chapter.      ✘

You’re quiet. Mean lookin’ and awfully quiet.

Daryl Dixon reasons you’re a little bit like a feral cat - used to bein’ outdoors and used to bein’ mean, mean as can be. You’re not used to havin’ others around. It shows.

You don’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither does he.

You’re with the group a little over a week when you finally speak more than a word -- it’s to Rick, saying you saw some formula and diapers and baby blankets in one of the neighborhoods South of Atlanta. It’s a metaphorical olive branch; offered in favor for the next-to-nothing meals and for the church roof over your head...

For saving your skin.

Your voice is a rasp, sounds like you haven’t used it in months. The words fall past your lips slow and sluggish.

(Daryl wonders if it’s from the bruises around your neck, from the hands that had been strangling you into the pavement with no remorse when he found you.)

You’re trying to say thank you. The words don’t want come out just yet. Daryl knows how that feels. So you offer a supply run instead. Risk your neck. Show your thanks.

You figure you won’t be around for long. Might as well make it worth it.

The archer squints into the evening sky as a sunset flare draws a halo around your head.

“Didn’t think t’ grab it, then,” you mutter, lips ghosting over the words as your worried eyes bounce to the cooing infant in the officer’s arms. You toe the dirt, “But, I could grab it now. She’s gotta eat.”

Rick doesn’t trust easy anymore -- not to say he ever really did before.

His eyes narrow, a blink of a microexpression that’s laced with skepticism and curiosity and a vague sense of doubt. Despite it, you stand unwavered as Daryl watches through the mousy strands of his hair from the front steps of the church. After a moment, Rick nods.

His eyes dart across the wooded horizon.

“Tomorrow,” Rick says finally, “Sun’s gonna set soon.”

Daryl watches as you nod, shuffle past, and retreat to the church. His stare follows the steps of your well-worn boots, blue eyes watching as you weave through the open doors to the Lord’s home silently.

You’re a feral cat tryna be an indoor cat.

But you’re tryin’.

Daryl guesses that’s all that matters.

✘ 

You prefer being alone.

It’s just... better that way.

You leave before sun-up and come back that afternoon with a carload of supplies -- Daryl isn’t sure how you managed to swing it, heading out to the ‘burbs with the van alone like that, but you do and there’s grub in everyone’s belly at the end of the night because of it.

It’s either sheer stupidity or pure survival and Daryl isn’t sure which one.

That night, he watches from a few pews back as you fork a can of brown bread into your mouth while you shake a bottle of formula.

In the lights of the candles, you seem softer -- maybe not so mean.

You present the bottle to Carl, lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile as the boy thanks you and bounces his sister on his hip.

(The boy reminds you of someone you knew once, then, and the formula hangs between your hand and his as a memory punches you in the gut -- you remember Boston, and Pennsylvania, and every loss along the way and Carl sees it before you can wipe it away. You try your best to distract from your gaping wound with a tight-lipped smile, but the burn of tears unfallen paint the boy’s face all sorts of guilty.)

“You okay?” he asks, eyeing the bottle.

“Yeah,” you whisper, ducking to the ground, “M’ fine.”

You ain’t. Daryl sees that.

The pew creaks as Rick settles beside the archer.

Silence runs like a river between the two men as you cross the church and settle back against the wall by the altar. They’re both watching, like wolves protecting their pack, and you avoid the weight of their gazes in favor of your canned bread and the small comfort of your corner.

You swipe angrily at the tears streaking your cheeks.

Daryl sees it. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he sees it.

This is why it’s better to be alone.

“If we’re gonna move soon, after we get Beth,” says Rick after a few beats of breath, “We need more supplies. Somethin’ t’ last us more than a few days.”

Daryl blinks into his can of beans, knee bouncing.

“Yeah.”

“She offered to show us the spot. Go with her tomorrow.”

Daryl nods, tipping back the can into his mouth as Rick pats his knee.

✘

“I’m comin’ with you.”

You go rigid, stiff as a board, when Daryl’s voice passes behind you. Swallowing, you bend at the knee and move to finish shoving a few balled up bags and some water into your camping pack -- when you stay silent, his boots carry him closer, and you’re left to eye the lopsided laces staring back at you.

“Y’ alright with that?”

“Don’t matter,” you say, words biting a bit more than you mean for them to; you’re quick to stand, hauling your pack onto your back, “... Does it?”

Suddenly, the world swings on a hinge and like a screen door slamming open, you’re locked in the orbit of Daryl Dixon. The shiner around his eye makes him look meaner than he is. Blue eyes are soft, betraying him even more. You stand straight, unwavering, as the archer wets his lips and breaks away. He toes the ground and swings his crossbow over his left shoulder as he squints along the tree line.

Mean, mean, mean. Ain’t you?

“No,” he breathes, “It don’t.”

✘

The ride to the South End ‘burbs is quiet.

You forfeited the keys without a fight, swinging yourself into the passagender side of the van -- your fingers had clawed at grime and scum lining the windshield only to yield nothing but smears. So, as the van rolls on, you opt to look out the window.

The view, however desolate and broken, is nice.

After a long stretch of road and a longer stretch of silence, Daryl finally speaks. Blue eyes dart to the curve of your face. They linger, following the column of your throat.

“... Those bruises are healin’ up good.”

He eyes the road with a noted sense of worry.

Again, you seem to stiffen and turn inward. Your hands fly to your neck, pushing the collar of your worn flannel up. The brush of your fingers spurs a wince that flashes into a snarl. Daryl sees it.

Mean.

You plant a boot on the dashboard and cross your arms.

And that’s that.

✘

You manage to stock up three bags of cans, water, and medical supplies.

It’s not much but it’s something, and as you drag yourself up into the van, you catch Daryl’s figure in the rearview. There’s a cigarette hanging between his lips, fingers prying at a bag in the trunk -- the smell of nicotine is better than that of the upholstery which has seemingly soaked up all the residue from it’s previous owner.

The stain in the carpet is big.

Your eyes fleet up from aforementioned stain, connecting with Daryl’s like keys fitting a lock.

He’s always watching.

You reason Daryl Dixon is a bit like a fighting dog -- nasty when he needs to be and fiercely protective. It shows.

He doesn’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither do you.

(Even when if he is the man who’d saved your fucking life. Even if Daryl Dixon is the man who’d pried another living being off you -- even if he’d tackled that fuck to the ground while you gasped for air and stars swam in your eyes. Bloodied fingers clawed at the hot pavement and the world swayed, but you could breathe and you were alive, even if the sound of a tinkering belt and violent threats still sat in your ears.)

Trustin’ ain’t easy now-a-days.

✘

The dance of candlelight carves his face into something softer -- you swear you can see the play of a smile there when Carol talks; as the grey-haired women waves her spoon and shrugs, you find yourself missing conversation for the first time in a long time.

Maybe you have been alone for too long. It shows in moments like these.

You tuck your knees closer and fork the peaches in the tin can with an edge of frustration. In your corner, you sit, far from the lull of the group’s conversation.

But, it’s Tyreese who drags you up from the bottom of that pit of loneliness -- the deep baritone of his voice rouses your attention.

“... Where are you from, newbie?” he asks, words weighted with sincerity, “Where’s home?”

(You’re not a newbie. Maybe that lanky boy Noah is, but you’re not -- this is just something temporary between the running. This group... well, nothing is ever permanent anymore. Especially with the current state of things.)

The conversation holds itself still the lungs of those around you, stuck in their throats as Tyreese drives apart the sea and welcomes you in with a kindness unfounded.

Your eyes hit the bottom of your can. The sugar sweet peaches glisten like tears.

“Boston,” you muster finally, exhaling.

“Christ.”

A sea of murmurs. You can feel the distrust of Rick and Michonne in the tempered reactions -- as Rick bounces a cooing Judith, you’re suddenly feeling like the flame the moths flock to. You feel obligated to share this part of your story, after all isn’t that what people do?

You’re not sure. When you’re alone, you avoid the living like the plague.

But, despite your hang-up’s and hesitation, you nod again, move forward and sit up. You swallow and wet your lips.

“Been on the road for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Since it started.”

Daryl’s face flinches. You see it. He knows.

“Why?” asks Michonne with a pointed edge, “Why not... settle?”

“I did,” you say, “Tried to, at least. Then people died, shit fell apart, and... I kept moving. I had to.”

“Alone?” asks Rick, eyes narrowed.

You nod. Shame weighs your shoulders.

“Seemed like I was bad luck,” you chirp, “Real bad.”

“Well, you’re here now,” says Tyreese, “And we’re glad.”

You wonder if that’s a good thing, after all.

✘

“Here.”

You narrow your eyes.

In his hands hangs a tube. The label is faded.

You squint up at Daryl Dixon from your spot on the church’s steps as a mid-day sunray curls right around his head like a halo. His face is set in something awfully serious. Fiercely protective. Like a damn fightin’ dog. 

(You wonder who holds the choke chain, who yanks the leash.

Is it Rick?)

You take it, confusion flying across your face.

“It’s some cream,” he says, “Carol found it. Said it’s good for bruises.”

You see the way his eyes fall on your throat.

“M’ fine,” you croak, “It... It don’t even hurt.”

“Bullshit.”

“How would you know, huh?” you bite, lips snarling, “I’m fine.”

“‘Cuz I been choked out before,” Daryl snaps back, looming closer, “Take th’ damn cream.”

You do, only with a lasting look of irritation. The moment the tube leaves his hands, he relaxes.

Like that, the air dissipates into stillness.

Daryl’s eyes roam the steeple. When you speak, it catches him by surprise.

“... Thanks.”

You’re still feral. But you’re tryin’.

✘

You stay back -- you don’t know much about this mission to save one of their own, but you know you want nothin’ to do with the pigs in that hospital. You’ve met them before, out on the streets of Atlanta, and you have no intention of meeting them again.

The thought leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

And when there’s trouble with the walkers that crawl to the church, following the hysterical father, you barricade them in alongside Michonne without second thought -- but this turn of fate dredges up this gut-churning feeling of bad luck.

Bad, bad luck.

And then, a fire truck full of friendly faces plow into your concept of bad luck and compounds it with a lie about a cure for all this and a busted trip to Washington.

And then, when you all drag yourselves to Grady Memorial and Daryl Dixon hauls a dead Beth Hershel out those back doors in his arms? When Maggie, the kind woman with the kind drawl crumples at the sight? When Daryl wails and Carol tries -- god she tries --  to calm them both down?

You’re left to wonder if you’re better off alone.

If you and your bad luck is better off in the streets.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

The group finds two cars.

They park in the woods and bury Beth at sun-down under a sky of red.

You pass dirt along the grave and remember a prayer from long ago. It’s a croak on your lips but it means something to Maggie, who reaches for your hand and thanks you after it’s all said and done.

Grief sits heavy in Daryl’s gut.

He’s at the edge of the makeshift camp, nothing but a shadow. But, you find him.

In your hands is a can of beans.

You settle next to him on the log. The wood groans but Daryl doesn’t flinch -- his eyes art trained on the low fire that glows before his boots. The embers crackle. He inhales, sharp and fast, and you don’t need to see his face to know he’s been crying.

So, you pull your knife from your boot and crack the top of the can open. You gesture it towards him.

“Eat.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

Your jaw tightens.

Silence draws itself up between you and Daryl and dances in the flames of the campfire. You bounce your knee and clutch the can. That suffocating silence swells there, finally bursting when you turn to eye him with a careful amount of worry.

“... Who was she?”

You see his mouth move. His brows knot, then his face falls.

“A friend,” he whispers, “Family.”

You wonder what that’s like -- to have both of those with the current state of things.

(You had it once -- before things fell apart and you started moving on your own. You had a sister and friends and people who had killed for you by your side. You’d killed for them, too. You would, again. Maybe you’d kill for Daryl, too. A part of you already feels like you owe him.)

“I know it’s not my place,” you say slowly, “But she’d want you t’ eat.”

Daryl’s eyes rocket upwards, catching your expression.

He knows your right.

He takes the can and your fingers brush.

“... Thanks.”

And that’s that.

✘

Tyreese.

You liked him.

You forgot how this felt. Loss. Grief. Death.

You stand shoulder to shoulder beside Daryl over a shallow grave.

And you cry.

✘

It’s bad.

You’re bad -- you’re nothing but bad luck and all this? This is how it’s gonna end.

A thousand miles, and for what? To starve on a Georgia highway?

Behind you, like a ball and chain, is a horde of walkers that snarl and gasp and trudge along, waiting for one of you to drop. You wonder if you’ll go first -- if your last meal will really be peaches. Canned fuckin’ peaches.

You swallow, swipe at your clammy skin, and keep moving.

For the first time in a long time, you’re tired of moving. Tired of running. Of being alone.

For the first time in a long time, you glad you’re not alone.

Daryl is lingering behind you. His steps are sluggish and his crossbow is slung across his waist, posed and ready. The vest around his shoulders is soaked, tattered shirt darkened with sweat. You’re no better. The hair along your neck clings with reckless abandon. You spare him a glance, then slow up to match his pace.

You’re quiet for a while, steps falling in with his.

And then you speak.

“I never said thanks.”

Daryl’s face gives nothing away. HIs eyes, though, dart to you for a moment. When you speak, your eyes are off on the horizon.

“That guy was gonna kill me over a can of soup,” you speak slowly, ignoring the garrish flashes of the scene that unfolds behind your eyes every-night, “And you stopped him.”

“... Had to.”

“No,” you shake your head, finally breaking to look at him, “You didn’t.”

He’s quiet for a few feet, then he sighs. “Jus’ ‘cause things have got t’ shit don’t mean people don’t matter.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I’m bad luck.”

“You’re not.”

“Ever since I joined up,” you drawl, movements sluggish as the horizon glimmers, “I... People have --”

“It ain’t your fault.”

His words are firm, backed by a rush of anger that knocks you for a loop. Daryl staggers along, face set in some unreadable way that leaves you wondering what he really thinks -- he’s like Rick and Michonne. Pointed and distrusting, but there’s something else there.

“Tell the others I’m goin’ t’ look for water.”

He dips into the woods and disappears.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

He doesn’t find water.

But when the skies split open and pour rivers of rain down on you all, you find yourself not caring. You lay in the street beside Tara and Rosita and you laugh -- peels of joyous sounds that mesh as the group scrambles to grab bags and bottles.

And when the sky roars, you and the group hole up in that barn down off the beaten path.

You curl up in a corner, far from the fire, as the come-down of the day seeps into your bones with the rain.

It’s Daryl who approaches, rousing you from a half-sleep.

He plops down against the hay bail, prompting you to stir.

You inhale and shift, rubbing your eyes. You blink at him, caught in the tired look on his face and the cut of his cheeks. He looks rough -- you haven’t known him long but you know this isn’t him. He’s a ghost of himself. Between grief and starvation, Daryl Dixon looks nothing like the man you’d watched nights ago back in the church, glowing in the light of prayer candles and good grub.

“You okay?” you ask softly, voice nothing more than a mere wisp.

“I wasn’t gonna save you at first,” he blurts, “Wasn’t gonna fight that guy, wasn’t gonna... stop him. Things have been bad and... I don’t --...”

His words die. Your chin drops.

“All this?” he gestures suddenly, “All this is just remindin’ me I’m alive, y’know?”

You turn to eye him, then nod. “Yeah.”

His fiddles with his fingers. Silence creeps between you two and your chest aches with some sort of feeling you’re not too sure of. Maybe it’s dread? Maybe it’s regret or... distrust. You don’t know. But it’s not nice.

“I’d do it again,” he leans, “If I had to.”

“Do what?”

“Kill someone,” Daryl mumbles, “If it meant savin’ you. I don’t regret that.”

You think of the sound the crossbow bolt made when it passed through that man’s skull. You think of Daryl, scrambling to help you up as a group of walkers creep in -- you think of him and Carol, prying you out of the thick of it and saving your fucking life.

“You don’t know me,” you say slowly, “What if I’m not who you think I am?”

“I’d know,” he watches you and you feel like you’re stuck in cement, “Everyone would know. But you ain’t bad. You know that.”

Maybe you do.

Again, the quiet rolls in like mist in the morning. You’ve started to realize it’s a part of Daryl -- he isn’t a talker, not like Glenn or Eugene. He’s quiet and reserved and he picks his words; there’s nothing that doesn’t matter in the way he speaks. It’s all him.

He spins a piece of grain between his fingers.

Your head rolls. You trace his profile with your eyes.

“M’ sorry about Beth.”

“Yeah,” he breathes as he drops his head back, “Me too.”

“... Think we’ll survive this?”

“We always do.”

✘

His name is Aaron.

And you don’t trust him.

You wonder if it’s because you’ve met men like him before -- promising a safe place to rest your head. Promising safety and a future. Those men have all been liars, thieves, murderers.

(You wonder if this is how Rick felt about you. If welcoming you in with Daryl’s blessing was met with the same hesitation? Were you once nothing more than another Aaron?)

But... he’s not lying.

Rick notes your discomfort. He needs that. He needs the good and the bad and the ugly, the trusting and the distrusting. He’s a good leader -- you’re seeing that now in the ex-cop. 

That’s how you get shouldered in between Aaron and Michonne in the backseat of that shit-box Lincoln. That’s how you plow through the dead at 45 MPH, heart dropping into the pit of your gut as you haul ass out of the car and plunge your hunting knife into as many heads as you can. Your survival instinct is feverish and terrified and full of desperation; as you roar, Rick watches.

In a flash, something settles between you both.

You book it through the woods and hit Route 16 with no RV in sight.

No Carl, no Judith... No Daryl.

The moon casts inky shadows in your wake.

No time to stop. You all keep moving.

✘

Rick whistles. He gives a call.

There’s a response.

You carry yourself into a collision of an embrace -- Daryl curses, quietly, as he sways on his feet and grips your shoulders tightly. In the light of the alleyway, it’s just the two of you; the moment passes like a ship in the night and peel yourself away with a broken laugh.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping back and gauging you. The touch makes his skin hot.

“Fine,” you croak, “You?”

“Never better.”

✘

Alexandria is what they call it.

In the cramped back of the RV, you spare Daryl a look as the vehicle rolls to a stop and Abrahram announces the arrival with a measured level of reservation.

You can’t remember the last time you stopped running.

No better time than the present.

After all, you’re just a feral cat, tryin’ its best to be indoors.

[popculturebuffet]

Star Vs: Monster Bash Review or “Holy Shit Concentrated Into An Episode”

Hello everybody! I’m Jacob Mattingly and welcome back to my tom lucitor retrospective, where I go through every major apperance of everyone’s faviorite demon boy boy. In case you watch my schedule or reguarlly read this blog, and if so thank you.. especially you Kevin your a peach, you’ll know this one got pushed back two weeks because the day it was scheduled.. was the day AFTER the US Capitol Insurgency. So yeah an episode HEAVILY dealing with racisim, with a downer ending and a lot to dig into on the same day a bunch of racists stormed the captail to try and illegally keep another racist in office due to his bullshit claims the electoin was fraud, when it wasn’t he just can’t admit he lost, and their own idocy, violence and hatred was not something I could handle that day and I did some mickey mouse instead.  But while the effects of said riot are still being felt, and unlike many republicans are saying we shouldn’t just “move on” or “try to heal” because the wound needs to be properly examined so the people who carved our country open with a rusty knife can be prosecuted for it, enough time has passed that I can get back on the horse and eat that horse when it comes to this episode. Also expect new tomtrospective weekly with some exceptions till it’s done. So with the real world reasons for the delay out of the way, on with the show.  Previously on Star Vs: Star had a full subplot dealing with her super powered mewberity form, which was now golden and creating bunches of portals. While she wanted to just let it go loose on Eclipsa’s suggestoin, eventually it caused too much damage and Hekapoo was livid when Marco revealed he’d been covering for her and Star, realizing her friend was running himself ragged and ruined a friendship to help her, went to the source of all magic to fix things, metting the baby unicorns and with thier help gaining control over her form. While she does not use it given she JUST got it before this episode, it’s very relevant and makes her come off very stupid but we’ll get to that

In more directly relevant stuff, and our main event, we need to talk about Ms. Henious. Ms. Henious was introduced all the way back in Season 1 as head of St. Olga’s School for Wayward princsesses. She’s voiced by Jessica Walter, aka Malory Archer, Lucille Bluth and .. Fran Sinclair from dinosaurs?

I’ll process that later. Point is she’s a talented lady and voiced Henious perfectly. Henious ran the school as a nightmarish hellhole that stripped away princsesses indviduality when they became too much for their parents. Granted some did genuinely need to be reigned in, Pony went there and so did princess squishy a princess that tried to reinact the plot of face off despite her and star not even being the same species let alone looking remotely similar.. she also liked to say camera phone a lot despite all phones being camera phones for over a decade. 

But again like most reform schools it’s a hell hole dedicated more to beating and psyihholically tourturing the rebel or asshole out of you than actually helping so Star and Marco broke in to break out. It naturally was difficult and strenious but in the process our heroes freed the other girls and Marco became feminsest icon Princess Marco. And Marco’s possible gender fluidity, or being trans,  was well loved and while he was later said to hate the princess marco idntenity later.. I still dont’ quite buy it and feel Disney just wanted to nip any implications in the bud. Because their stupid and often non-inclusive to the queer community and have to be fought to get inclusivity in there half the time. Could’ve been clumsy writing and the writers not getting people really relating to marco possibly being gender fluid or trans, which given this season’s clumsy writing with marco in general I could buy, but i’m banking more on disney, where one executive can somehow stonewall gay representation because apparnetly one guy was the one who objected to enchanting grom fright.. and he can also go fuck himself with an old rhino’s horn. Which horn is up to you. Also we got two major hints at the future iwth her: a creepy mural star found of monsters and Henious being revealed to have cheek marks she supressed with her very own brainwashing machine. 

Our heroes revolution had uintetional side-effects as St.O’s became a party school, though it’s students actually still came back better for the moast part. Henious was thrown out, reduced to sleeping in her car with her manservant gemini and sending Rasticore, a septarian mercinary afer star.. and then carrying his arm around when he got reduced to that.. not because of star but because of a rogue gift card. We don’t have time to unpack that, so she later tried attacking one more time in season 2, in one of the single worst episodes of the series, as she attacked and Marco’s Parents, instead of being concerned about the strange woman and man and lizard man arm attacking thier children, were more concerned about.. tehir cool neighbors. which could’ve been funny but just got frustrating, especially because Marco defended himself well, pointing out while he trashed her school, and gets merchandising rights from princess marco merch, she you know, brainwashed innocent to semi innocent children and was in general horrible and his parents are only humoring her because they were both out of hte loop, which due to this being shortly before star and marco leaves amounts to nothing, and because of the stupid plot. 

So after that we got one more apperance in season 3 with her trying to expose marco as a boy to turn the princsses against him and get her school back.. but it was clearly a desperate and flimsy plan and they knew that already, and don’t care because their accepting. And again have done better without her so she gets thrown out and swore revenge on Marco, and here we are.  Finally, since returning Star’s been more active in monster rights, replacing their old batshit insane and patronizingly racist expert with Buff Frog and starting a position to get royal signatures. Obviously this dosen’t sound like the most effective way to do things but it’s both teenager accurate and not the worst plan i’ve heard from a teenager this week.. granted that’s also because I covered a teenager trying to win back her good for not a lot 23 year old boyfriend by stabbing his current girlfriend he left her for a bunch, so it’s not exactly a high bar to clear. So outside of the golden form thing, which i’ll get to in the review proper why I brought that up, that’s what’s all built up to this the mid season finale. While Stump Day DID come after this, I chose to cover it before it since it both takes place before that and feels out of place in the very story heavy episodes after it. So with that out of the way we’ll be taking a look at the full episode and Star’s horrible, no good, very bad night under the cut. 

We open at the Monster Temple, that place Ludo and Toffee were headquartered at for season 2 and the battle of mewni mini, where Star is holding a PARTY!

This.. this came up when I typed party. I don’t know why and I don’t WANT to know. I mean party is in the name.. is that a party line? Is this phone sex? No.. just no.. I don’t want dirty sweaty pigs in my phone sex.. I want Rocko like a gentlemen. 

Now THAT’S hot. And honestly with what i’ve admitted about myself at this point, can you genuinely tell if i’m joking or not?  Point is Marco and Rich Pidgeon are pitching in. Oh yeah those of you who didn’t get this far in the series, again hi kevin, might wonder wait whose that... well he’s a rich pidgeon, part of the pidgeon kingdom a kingdom of pidgeons that moved into another family’s castle, presumibly killed them, the book wasn’t specific on that and is now just a large bunch of pidgeons that don’t talk human except rich and get all creepy. They also have an excutioner which is as great a visual as you imagine. 

That and Marco tried faking singing rich singing it by shving a pien in his foot and making him sign it.. he didn’t know he was fully sapient but still. But it’s also season 3 marco. The fact he didn’t accidently burn the castle down trying to impress star and being mad when she wasn’t happy he comitted arson is an achievement. Rich apparently holds a grudge but says just kiddng.. maybe.. i’d be prepared for a pidgeon with a machete if I were Marco. Thankfully i’m not.. I mean I hate myself enough. 

Anyways the party is in full swing, as both monsters and mewmans are there. On the mewman sides are the royals we met at the Silver Bell Ball and on the monster side are a bunch of monster teens who look up to star we previously met during the Ludo arc in season 2. Pony arrives bringing a photo booth. And kelly! 

And also Johnny Blowhole...

That dolphin what showed up a few times, including in the comic and the show, like most of it’s supporting cast, just sorta forgot. Also was going to be my porn name, just in case till it ended up attached to a fictonal teenager. Did.. did not think naming a character “blowhole” through did they? 

Anyways the party is at “middle school dance” levels of awkward with the monsters and humans on other sides. Rock seems to be getting ready for a racist tyrade and singles out a yak like monster.. only to instead compliment the guy’s ripped jeans and the two compliment each other on horns... turns out the ones Rock always wear aren’t decorative but part of him due to a boating accident. Shame we never got more of this kid. that’s a good kid I tell you what.  But honestly and since the moment is right given their all in this episode.. we never get a lot of the other royals outside of tom and star PERIOD. While Penelope would show up one last time and Larry would make a cameo for the most part their just.. background filler. Even this pettitoin arc was two episodes long. Rich is BRAND new and he gets way more focus.. and even he only gets to show up again for the big “Gondor calls for aid moment” in season 4 where star summoned whoever she could get on short notice. And is the ONLY royal to besides Ponyhead. Larry has an intresting enough design but the underwater kingdom only got featured in the deep trouble tie in comic that got cut short, and he wasn’t created yet so he doesen’t even show up for it. Jagg’s is such a footnote to the creators she dosen’t ever show up after this, and finally Rock, despite being star’s COUSIN and despite his kingdom being specifically mentioned as the hardest to make sympathetic to eclipsa during her own entirely ignored arc trying to win over the other kingdoms, and despite it being where River comes from and thus possibly providing some more insight into that awesome, awesome man.. we get nothing. Hell the Cloud Kingdom of the Ponyeheads ONLY gets two visits despite being home of one of the main cast.. god I just realized Ponyhead was part of the main cast. 

So while I grapple with that, Star figures the punch is too warm and while Marco goes to get ice, she tries to remind him she can do magic and accidently puts it in your standard cartoon ice block.. and being star gets her tounge stuck. Thankfully her savior comes in the form of tom who being.. you know.. tom.. can simply melt it down and reminds her he’s been there the whole time. She’s just been a bit distracted with you know, trying to ease centuries of racial tension in a well meaning but ultimately pointless at best and risky at worst, partay. And dosen’t seem to get WHY she dosen’t want to dance.. even if they do have a REALY fucking cute moment where he leans in to kiss her, she catches him on it.. then blows a raspberry into his mouth when he does and smooches him on the cheek a bunch. 

But the whole thing leaves him as a grumpus venting to marco and boiling the punch.. though at least Marco gets to use that ice now so silver linings and all that. And when marco tries to explain he tells him he dosen’t “talk politics”

My baby boy.. i’m so disapointed in you. And Marco points out as he leaves “your a prince everything you do is political. “. Which is.. HALF true. I mean tom going to the bathroom or eating a taco or taking his grandpa fo ra walk on his leash so he dosen’t gouge anyones eyes out isn’t political.. but he’s also not wrong that being the half demon half mewman son of two royals, DOES mean tom can come off political and one previous episode which he made a cameo in even had Tom being profiled, with a shopkeep who shoed out another monster kid tried that on tom.. only to realize who he was dealing with and beg for mercy he probably only got because Tom’s trying to be a better person now. And I don’t think i’ts even malcious on tom’s part, tom isn’t the most empathetic guy. He’s nice, he’s sweet, and once he knows you he can be really thoughtful.. but as we’ve seen throughout this retrospective.. empathy is something he’s struggled with. He stalked star because he didn’t see HER side of him creeply and obessively persuing her until Marco got through to him. He missed the point of his therapy assignment, seeing it as a goal to get passed instead of hwat brian intended: for him to geninely make amends with someone he hurt. He didn’t get that while star didn’t, at the time, want to date him ignoring her would hurt her... though that on’es not on him. He’s not a bad guy at all but he’s not at all great at reading people or being selfless.

 He’s getting there, stump day showed him put stars needs before Marco’s and not out of any selfish dick measuring contest but because he knew what she wanted and what made her happy, but it’s hard to have empathy for a problem you don’t get how bad it is. To tom it’s just getting stopped once in a while and then having to glower or literally roast someone. To these monsters... it’s a life of being denied a decent standard of living, housing and being treated as a crminal and a beast just for existing. Tom has a fancy castle, loyal subjects, tons of money.. his privlage has insulated him from the real dangers of being the minority he is, of getting beaten up by the cops or arrested just for being a monster. And yes i’m using real world paralells.. but so does the end of this episode so shhh. It’s also a moral that hits home since as a white person, the last year has hit me HARD with just how much I didn’t know about the racial situation in america and how complacient i’d become. I wasn’t actively racist.. but like many americans I had the bad tendency to forget the horrible things that happpend on a daily basis to people of color in this country when it got out of the news. Privlage can blind you, and I cannot speak for if it does so for any real life minorties as i’m not touching a subject i’m not qulaified to talk on due to being super white with a ten foot pole, but I can speak for me that sometimes you just.. dont’ notice a problem unless i’ts happening to you. And while it has happened to tom it’s such a minor inconvience he probably just forgets about it and moves on. And these next two episodes with him, though we have some plot stuff to get too before we get back to Tom in feburary, are him getting his bubble popped and realizing just WHAT Star has been fighting against. And Star’s own privlage will be an issue later.. but we’llg et to that in it’s own time.  So while Tom skulks off Rich startles Marco to get him to do his kung fun hand pose “the sword hand dance” and everyone uses it to dance which Marco understandably objects to until kelly asks him to dance. Cue adorable ship tease.. again this is why i’m thrownig in the kelco episode in the next batch: because the trajectory of this relationship eeerily lines up with tom episodes. No sense avoiding the ONE other episode about the ship , especially if i’m going out of my way to cover the Meteora arc on top of it and my other 80 projects. And regular coverage. And comissions. And you get the idea it’s a lot but i’m happy to do it. 

Meanwhile we meet Slime, a friendly slime monster who introduces himself to penelope and her massive spider bite... and then drips a bit giving her the wrong impression. Thankfully.. this does not turn into the PG-Rated versoin of BLue from the heathers musical. 

No he just was offering to aloe up her spiderbite, and she’s all too happy to accept since her family never thought about it.. though as we see next season their not against it suprisingly. They are still dicks though. But not racist, though that’s a very low bar to clear and only gives them credit because mewni as a whole is pretty racist when it comes to Monsters. Point is I hate their parents but love these ship as the two share some ship tease and go downstairs.. only to get attacked.  Meanwhile, Marco’s getting a goblin dog while being watched by Henious.. who despite Gemini’s objections.. no longer cares about her cheeks as she grins sinesterly and has him play her music, some heavy metal. FORESHADOWING!

Back at the party, Star adreses her public and is all proud and blushy.. till Penelope stumbles in, covered in scars, telling the crowd something took Slime.. and both sides start blaming one another, especially since it turns out a LOT of the monsters have gone missing. So with everything she worked towards and had achieved crumbling, Star calms the crowd and says she’ll investigate. Outside Marco is getting a goblin dog with roy, and wondering why he has strawberry, who orders a strawberry.. who wants that? And then decides to get one out of curiosity which I would but i’m also fat and love strawberries so i’m not a beacon of good decisionmaking. 

So Star grabs him before he can roll that metaphorical dice and passes tom who tries to downplay her concerns and get her to go make out, thinking that’s what’s going on despite that.. making no sense, as a ton of them are missing and 6 is a bit much for polyamory.. I mean it works for some people 

But not everyone can be a majestic space grandma whose also a caterpillar. And their too young to orgy so that’s out too. Point is Tom is an idiot this time and Star RIGHTFULLY calls him out for belitting her cause, not really caring about it, or the other teens who are in danger right now from god knows what and tells him to either help or get out of the way. 

So while Tom licks his well earned wounds, Star and Marco journey into the depths and find a campsite with fresh dog eared pages indicating whoevers behind the abudictions is not only sapient, but still here... oh and it somehow gets worse as they find out WHOSE behind it. 

And a second question you might be having: Who dis. Well this is Mina Loveberry, solarian warrior, whose a legend in Mewni and was one of star’s childhood heroes who she found wondering around homeless and clearly not mentally well in the park on earth.. and then tried to conquer it, but the electoral process stopped her... I don’t know why but a half crazed maniac being defeated by due electoral process makes me feel all warm and fuzzy right now, on this specific day this is coming out late on. Hmmmm.. INTERESTING aint it? 

Point is Mina is a super powerful, super not in her right mind super warrior, who is naturlaly the kidnapper, as this episode also reveals she’s violently racist and assuemed something was up and whiel Star, who despite said cou still loves and respects her and gets she’s not well, tries to talk her down it increasingly becomes clear there’s no reasoning with her. And really with most racists.. there isn’t. Racisim isn’t something that’s rational and while some people are just indocrinated at a young age and CAN be turned around on it.. some are just so deeply up their own ass with hatred you can’t reason with them or save them. You just have to stop them. Via impeaching them, making sure they get called out and taken out of office.. or in this case using rainbows on them.  But we’ll have to wait a second as a bunch of debris falls on mina taking her out!

.. Only to reveal Henious and while Marco’s willing to fight her and her posse, Raasticore grabs star and henious hooks him up to the brainwash machine, probably planning to kill him with it while playing the music

But before she can kill or do worse to one of our heroes.. the door behind them opens up.. and reveals a child’s play room. 

And Henious.. gives up on the attack and enters, disturbing Gemini as she looks around in what’s easily one of the best scene sin the entire series: her slow walk, the way the animation follows her as it sinks in just what Metora might be.. and her picking up two dolls, the ones seen above.. her dolls to Gemini’s increasing discomfort. And while the animation is stellar and utterly moving as we slowly put the pieces together... it’s Walter’s delivery that REALLY STUNS.Gone is the harsh, unforgiving nightmarish woman we’ve known.. and instead is someone whose confused.. and remembering. Remembering WHY she has those cheek marks, remembering this was her room, her home.. and those were her parents. She remembers now.. and Mina rises to say of course she did “I knew you’d be back here one day meteora!” And as Gemini tries to refute this.. Meteora agrees with MIna, no longer henious at last freed form her deep and abusive brainwashing we’ll cover soon enough. And deeply confused. And as everyone else is deeply confused... Mina, not realizing this whole thing was covered up, again we’ll get to that soon too, spells it out for them and the audience in case you missed it. When Star asks how Eclipsa plays into any of this? “Don’t you ding dongs know anything? She’s her mamma!”  (Marco and Star stare in shock as it sinks in) Marco: “Wait HENIOUS is a princess?!”  Star: “she’s a butterfly”

Yeah quite obviously this is one of the biggest wham episodes in the entire series. In one moment we not only find out Henious is indeed a butterflfy as fans thought.. but Eclipsa’s daughter, half monster, and her entire existance raises questions of how much her family hid and if not WHO DID. I mean some of you alreayd know the answer but the rest of you can wait a week.. or a few mintues it’s hinted at soon enough. Point is Star has questions.. questions the violent racist whose pretty messed up in the head for a variety of the reasons and spent decades hunting her.. is not willing to hear out and instead prepares to smite her. While Star tries DESPERATLEY to talk her friend out of this it’s very clear Mina’s not going to listen... so Star rainbow fists her.. and prepares to face her former friend and inspiration for Meteora’s saftey and the answers she BADLY needs right now. Oh and just in case you thought “oh well the magical girl who sounds like amy sedaris can’t be that big a threat”... Yeah I didn’t mention broly for nothing. 

Mina bulked up. Meet Solarian Mina. And like the Legendary Super Sayian form from Dragon Ball.. i’ts a beserker of a form that turns the already obessive and insane Mina.. into an unstoppable rage fuled killing machine with horrifying levels of power who can beat down anyone nearbye. And unlike Broly, where he was just a one in a million fluke in both versions... Mina was PLANNED to be this. The solarian program was something Eclipsa’s mom came up with, a series of spells that slowly turn the target into a rampaging super soldier. It’s like if Nuke from marvel comics, a vietnam era version of captain america who dind’t turn out so good, was INTETIONAL; 

As you can see it removes fear.. but also the targets concisce, so Mina is incapable of empathy or being cure dof her racisim. Solaria turned her from a humble volunteer just hoping ot help and improve her station into the crazed monster star now faces.  And as the Broly comparision should make clear... yeah Star dosen’t do so good and neither does Marco. She shrugs off Star’s hits and while botht he kids and meteora escape, both just piss Mina off MORE, and put star in more danger as she’s thrown around like a ragdoll.  She then runs into tom who shows off his growht: While he was a dick up there.. unlike before where he assumed he was always the wronged party.. he realized he crossed a line and while he dosen’t know WHY he did, is still willing to apologize and presumibly talk about it. A bit clueless yes but it’s effort and his tone is sincre so it’s less “I’m apologizing for whatever I guess” bullshit and more “I genuinely don’t know wha ti did wrong please tell me so I can say sorry”.. which given how awkard tom is with people and how I pointed out his trouble relating to them over htis retrospective, is the more beliviable one.  Naturally while Star does appricate it she’s kinda busy.. and when Tom see’s what’s going on he leaps in with NO hesitation. And given how close the luictors once were and are again with the butterflies it’s doubtful he hadn’t heard of mina so he likely KNOWS what he’s going up against..a nd dosen’t care. His girlfriend needs his help and this person’s trying to hurt her. That’s all he needs to kick her ass. Or try.. unlike with the z warriors.. our heroes don’t win this one. Tom tries a really cool move i’m dubbing the onyx coffin, a black coffin with runes and chains.. that does nothing to her. She breaks out and our heroes flee and Mina causes a massive ruckuss above, and the only reasons our heros don’t die.. is that the knights and Rhombulus of the high comission arrive.  And since the high comission are going to be vastly important a refresher: The high comission were created by glossaryck, the little man who lives in stars book who used to be voiced by an asshole and next season is voiced by keith motherfucking david, to police the multiverse and it’s various issues. The four we know are Lekmet: a goat man who died last season and controlled entropy and could heal at the cost of his own life hence the death, Hekapoo, a close assiocate of marcos who controls the scissors beings use to cross dimensions and can do so herslef effortlessly, Omnitraxus Prime, a powerful and giant antler skulled being who watches space time and timelines and is voiced by Karl Weathers so...

And Rhombulus, a diamond headed he-man reject with snakes for hands becaue his dad is a well documented dickhead.. no really that’s the entire explination i the book of spells: Glossaryck turned his hands to snake to teach him the lesson i’ts hard to get through life with snake hands. He’s a gung ho guy who imprisons the wrost of the worst criminals thus his presence here as Mina clearly had a falling out with the comission and thus flees.  So while Star and Tom are given blankets afterwords and some cocoa, Tom comforts her and admits if nothing else.. he gets it now, having been finally faced with the type of horrible shit monsters have had to deal with in the past and sees why his girlfriend tried hard to help it. But Star.. realizes she can’t fix this that easy. That she dosen’t know enough and clearly ther’es even more than she ever could’ve thought possible she has ot know if she’s going to fix this.. and that it’s not an EASY problem to fix. You really CAN’T fix racisim you can just make society better, but you’ll never be rid of people like Mina. Though this arc will.. yeah in one of the more baffling decisions Mina is given this huge reindrocution, with Amy Sedaris showing that while a very funny lady and a very talented actress as bojack had previously shown off for both.. she can be FUCKING TERRIFYING. But nope, she’s just..g one outside of a cameo, gets beatne off screen and dosen’t become big bad for a season. And I get it, the metora arc needed room.. but you had a WHOLE EXTRA EPISODE to have her defeat mina. Inastead you used it for Marco Jr which amounted to almost nothing and could’ve been saved for season 4 wher eit probably woudln’t of been terrible. I”ll get to that one some day. Point is it’s bad storytelling. 

So yeah Star’s feeling lost, her family history is in flux, she got beaten badly, not horribly injrued but still lost handily, her party ruined and  she was hit with the realization her plans were overly idealistic. Well meaning sure but a party was never going to cure this. Oh and Rhombluus naturally isn’t coming clean about why the temple is off limits or what’s going on here so that dosen’t help.  And somehow.. IT STILL GETS WORSE. The Wizard Cops try to take the monsters in , profling them and not having done so and star thankfully talks them out of it but the monster kids turn down any afterparty or anything. They get she means well tbut hte moment’s over. And their not even excesivley sad.. their just.. used to the police treating them like this. Like less than human, like automatic suspects when THEY were the victims. IT’s nothing new... and god does this feel relevant as hell.

And this i where I meant Star’s privlage bites her: While not as bad as tom, it took some very harsh reality for her to see that solving racisim.. is not only nigh imposisble but not that easy. To her it was easy as a party and friendship and what’s worked before in her fairly shelted world. Advetnures or not she’s still a princess whose never experinced prejudice. In both worlds she’s in the majority. It’s probably why Marco conttoned on to monster racism in seconds during “Menipendence Day’ when Star hadn’t her whole life: to Marco, whose latix and thus dealing with all kinds of racist shit his whole life, it was easier to pick it up. He’s firmly part of his culture.. and thus probably firmly aware of the racism he faces. Star is so insulated she just dosen’t get it till it nearly beat her to death. So yeah Star’s at her lowest point, having failed to make things better, the answer to her questions being lost and not sure what’s real. Metora on the other hand as they dodge the cops.. has ascended. As Gemini calls her henious once last time.. she says that’s not her name. 

“My name is meteora”

SHe’s been dreaming the wrong dream.. and it’s long past time she woke up. 

Final Thoughts;  Monster Bash.. is one of the best episodes in the series. Unlike a lot of Seasons 3 and 4 it dosen’t suffer from lack of proper payoff, as the next few episodes deal with how the fuck any of this is happening and why the fuck any of it happened. Mina’s absence nonwithstanding.. this is one of the series best and most gripping arcs. And the swerve is great: you think i’ts Henious doing the kindappings, only for her not to be the threat again just yet. And for her to be something far more. It’s just masterful, starting iwth fun hyjinks and ending in one of the best nad most nightmarish fights in the series if not the best, watching as our heroes slowly but surely LOOSE.. and THEN it gets worse. Out and out a must watch for the series and a sad sign of what it COULD’VE been had it moved past it’s worst insitncts next season and become what i should’ve been.  Next week: We take a tom break as Eclipsa nad Mon investigate all of this and we get the SECOND biggest wham episode in the series. 

Until the next rainbow, be excellent to each other.

[everwitch-magiks]

dance with somebody (ch. 10)

start from ch. 1 | back to ch. 9

It could’ve been worse, Whiskey decides, as he finds himself trudging his way across the unsurprisingly crowded campus with Ford and Tango, on a mission to get to the murder Stop-n-Shop before the disposable cups are completely sold out. Really, it could’ve been so much worse.

They’ve already passed by more than three sets of Powerpuff girls, and Whiskey is pretty sure he could look in any direction and immediately spot at least one Alexander Hamilton. At least one. Among all the outrageously flashy costumes around them, the three of them actually look a little bit low-key despite their carefully coordinated ridiculousness. Which honestly suits Whiskey just fine. And thankfully, it doesn’t seem to bother Ford and Tango at all – the two of them look kind of absurdly excited in their matching black cloaks and house scarves.

It’s actually pretty endearing.

“We’ve gotta get a group picture, later,” Whiskey says, surprising himself.

Ford turns towards him, beaming.

“I know, right? I’m so glad I finished knitting in time!”

“Totally,” Tango agrees enthusiastically. “Hey, do you really think the theatre club will really need these cloaks back? ‘Cause I could get used to this.”

“So sorry, Weasley, but Chanelle will murder me if I don’t have them back by Monday.”

“Chanelle, huh? D’you think she’s the culprit behind the ol’ Stop-n-Shop murder?”

“I mean, if someone ever spoke to her before her second cup of coffee in the morning? Probably.”

After zig-zagging between two separate teams of superheroes trying to herd one another in place for a picture, they finally get to Stop-n-Shop. At once, Ford’s expression turns serious.

“Okay. Ready?”

“When you are,” Tango says gravely. “Let’s just hope at least one of us makes it back out alive.”

They get into formation, and slowly elbow their way inside the shop.

It’s packed, literally packed. Whiskey carefully steps between Tinker Bell and Gandalf as he heads towards the back of the shop, just as planned. A look over his shoulder tells him Tango’s already made his way over to the registers and is trying to figure out where the line ends, so he can get in it and hold a spot for them. He can’t even see Ford anymore, but he’s sure she’s doing everything she can to get over to the section for kitchen essentials, where it’s most likely they’ll actually find what they’re looking for.

Whiskey turns around again, and resolutely keeps making his way towards the back. There’s a shelf around there that has office supplies, and a selection of scented candles, and sometimes seasonal wrapping paper. There’s a slight chance there’ll be some kind of cups or mugs around there, too. Obviously, they’ve got to exhaust every option.

It’s for the good of the Halloween kegster.

Unfortunately, the store is no less crowded near the back. Whiskey has just carefully avoided colliding with a pair of Power Rangers when he finds himself walking right into a guy in a unicorn onesie, instead.

“Shit – sorry, I’m so sorry.” Whiskey steps backwards, only there’s a shelf behind him, so it doesn’t really help very much. “Didn’t see you there, I was-”

The guy looks up. Whiskey falls silent.

It’s Miguel.

Intro to statistics, Wednesdays and Fridays.

“Oh,” Whiskey says awkwardly, only to immediately realize that doesn’t even make sense. “I mean, hi.”

Miguel looks at him a little unsurely.

And honestly? That’s fair.

Whiskey hasn’t talked to Miguel since their brief encounter at Founders. In fact, it might be the case that Whiskey has made it his business not to talk to Miguel, quite on purpose. Which shouldn’t be such a big deal, considering that the two of them weren’t even friends before Whiskey decided that wasn’t on the table, anymore.

The unfortunate thing is, Whiskey is pretty sure that Miguel has noticed. At any rate, there’s definitely been a couple of times when Whiskey has caught Miguel glancing his way during class.

Or maybe, Whiskey belatedly realizes, it might actually have been himself who's been caught watching Miguel.

Right now, though, Miguel is sort of looking anywhere but at Whiskey. He’s got his attention focused on the almost thinning crowd to their left, looking very much like he’s planning on making his escape as soon as an opportunity arises. Which should be a good thing. It should be one hundred percent exactly what Whiskey wants.

It’s not what Whiskey wants.

For a moment, Whiskey allows himself to look at Miguel. Just look at him. It’s difficult – Whiskey has to fight the prickling urge to glance around them, to make sure that no one is watching, that no one will look over and see what’s happening and just know. Except, Whiskey suddenly realizes, that’s actually pretty fucking unlikely. Right next to them, one Princess Peach and three ninjas are having an increasingly heated debate on who’s chosen the superior party snack, and over in the next aisle a whole gang of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are halfway through a spontaneous rendition of the show’s theme song in several different keys.

Who the fuck is gonna care about a wizard and a unicorn over in a corner, just talking?

Maybe, Whiskey could actually let himself have this. Just this. One conversation with a really cute boy, in public, on purpose. Maybe it wouldn’t actually be the end of the world.

Whiskey nervously adjusts his glassless glasses.

“How, uh. How’ve you been?”

Miguel’s eyes snap back towards him.

“Excuse me?”

“How have you been?” Whiskey repeats, enunciating carefully. “How’s statistics going?”

Miguel shrugs, his expression guarded.

“Okay, I guess.”

“It’s kind of growing on me,” Whiskey offers – he can do this, he can carry a normal fucking conversation. “Or maybe I’m just relieved that I actually passed the midterm.”

That makes Miguel frown.

“There’s no way you just passed,” he disagrees, before pausing briefly. “I mean. You don’t seem like you’ve got no clue about all those things, in class.”

“Appearances can be pretty deceiving,” Whiskey returns, and it’s honestly ridiculous, the way Miguel’s hesitant smile makes Whiskey’s heart flutter. Fucking ridiculous.

“That’s true,” Miguel replies, his eyes flickering down to Whiskey’s scarf for a moment. “Because you definitely can't be a Gryffindor.”

“No, God no – this is just a costume.” Whiskey dares a slight smile of his own. “I go to Beauxbatons, actually."

That makes Miguel laugh a little. Whiskey’s heart soars.

"You speak French, then?" Miguel throws at him, his tone a little playful – or maybe actually flirty? How is one supposed to tell the difference?

"Uh... Non?"

"If you say so," Miguel says loftily. "Estoy seguro de que hablas otros idiomas."

"... That's Spanish, right?"

Miguel grins.

"Ten points to Slytherin," he declares, his expression giddy in a way that unfortunately doesn't make him any less cute, at all. “I really like your glasses, by the way.”

“The glasses are my one contribution to this costume,” Whiskey hurriedly admits. “My friends put together literally everything else.”

“The glasses are a nice touch, though,” Miguel says kindly. “They actually suit you pretty well.”

“... Uh. Thanks.” Whiskey has no idea of what he’s supposed to say to that – something about Miguel’s costume, probably? “You, um. You make a really nice unicorn.”

Fuck. He must try to think before he speaks, from now on.

Thankfully, it seems like Whiskey’s limitless awkwardness doesn’t make Miguel think Whiskey is completely out of his mind. Instead, Whiskey watches in a state of fear infused with delight as Miguel ducks his head for a moment, smiling.

Fucking fuck.

“Hey,” Miguel says, looking up to meet Whiskey’s eyes again – compared to before, he sounds oddly determined. “We should meet up sometime. You could definitely give me some pointers for statistics, and we could also, y’know. Just hang out? Maybe?"

… Whiskey was not expecting that.

Evidently, his surprise is showing on his face, because Miguel immediately backpedals.

“I mean, only if you have time – I guess the hockey season’s in full swing, right about now? Must be tough.”

Whiskey takes a deep breath, and allows himself to glance around the two of them, just once. The crowd’s finally thinned out a little bit – for the first time since they left the Haus, there’s not a single Alexander Hamilton in sight. Still, even without the presence of shouting Princess Peaches and musically inclined Ninja Turtles, there’s actually nobody watching them. Nobody seems even a little bit curious about what’s happening over in their little corner.

No one will know. No one will even care.

Whiskey bravely turns back towards Miguel.

“Sure.”

It’s Miguel’s turn to look surprised, now.

“Really?”

“Sure,” Whiskey repeats. “D’you wanna-”

“Hey, Whiskey! Let’s get moving!”

Whiskey curses inwardly as he turns around – Tango and Ford are gesturing towards him enthusiastically from across the shop, both carrying several bags full of disposable cups.

At least the kegster is saved.

“I’ve gotta go,” Whiskey says, quickly turning back towards Miguel. “You should have my number.”

Miguel is staring at him.

“Whiskey?”

Oh. Right.

“My last name’s Whisk,” Whiskey points out, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Do you have a pen?”

“No, but here.” Miguel presses his phone into Whiskey’s hands, the screen showing a new contact with empty fields. The brief brush of their fingers is nothing short of exhilarating. “So, do you actually like to drink whiskey?”

“Not particularly.” Whiskey quickly types in his number. Obviously, he saves himself as Whiskey – nothing else for it, at this point. “There. All done.”

“Great.” Miguel smiles briefly towards his phone, before looking back at Whiskey again. “I’ll see you, then?”

“Of course,” Whiskey promises, and finds that he wants to linger. “Bye. I’ll see you, too.”

“Yo, Potter! The Hogwarts Express ain't gonna wait!"

Whiskey grimaces. Then he gives Miguel an awkward wave, and leaves.

“We got the very last of the plastic cups, but it should be enough,” Ford tells Whiskey cheerfully as she shoves two bags into his hands. “Let’s go. Who was that, anyway?”

“A guy from my statistics class. We’re gonna study together.”

Tango tsks.

“Thinking about studying on a day like this? It’s Halloween, my darlings – anything and everything can happen, so let your spirits fly!"

Whiskey allows himself a slight grin.

"Yeah. You might actually be onto something, T."

Ford gives him a somewhat curious look.

Whiskey carefully avoids meeting her eyes.

(ch. 11)

[fourdaysofrain]

Butterflies and Dahlias

Summary: Tony helps Peter with his crush on MJ. 

(Just a little fluff to help those of us going into midterm season!)

Read on AO3

Peter had been texting someone on his phone since the moment he set his bag down in the lab. Not that Tony minded, he was too busy with his current project: restoring his dad’s old radio. It normally sat on his nightstand, but recently it had taken to playing random stations from Norway a few hours before sunrise. Tony wanted to blame Thor, but it was more likely a side-effect of a past upgrade gone wrong. Whatever the issue was, Pepper was not a fan. That meant Tony had to fix it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Peter look up from his phone and glance out the window of the compound’s lab. He squinted a bit at the sun shining into his eyes.

“MJ says that commuting to your workplace is an example of economic privilege,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“Yeah?” Tony looked up from his desk to assess the teen across the room from him. “Why’s that?”

“It’s something about how it makes you need enough money to buy a car, and the ability to pay for gas, and free time, I think?” Realizing that Peter was just rambling in his excitable teenager way, Tony turned back to his desk and continued to work on fiddling with the radio. ”‘Cause you need to be able to have time to commute instead of like, take care of your kids or something. I told her that Happy drove me here.”

“She sounds like a peach. What else does she say?” Tony replied distractedly, searching for the right size screwdriver.

“She also says that me wearing Ben’s old work shoes is closer to the original spirit of Doc Martens than the people at our school who buy them new.” Peter put his phone down on the table and started moving his hands in time with his words. ”She told me the history of them, it’s really interesting!”

The damn screw was such a weird size. “Is it?”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s like, they were the working class of the 50s and 60s’ work shoes, and then the workers’ children would get them as hand me downs, and that’s the generation that started rock music and all that, so they have a rebellious history.” Peter jumped up to sit on a nearby table and continued to talk excitedly. ”She also told me about the racial history of a bunch of music genres. Did you know salsa music has a lot of African influence? I never knew that! It’s something about the syncopated beat structure, I don’t know.”

“Tell me about it,” Tony said mindlessly. He finally found the right size screwdriver and successfully started to reattach the back panel of the radio.

“Even the definition of syncopation is ‘the disturbance to the normal pulse of meter.’ Like, what’s the normal meter then? Whatever a bunch of old European white guys decided on?”

Tony noticed the lull in the conversation and gave a quick, “Mhmm.”

“There’s just so much whitewashing in our culture! Like, so much.” Peter paused for just a second to quickly check his phone. ”I really should be more aware of that stuff, especially because Queens is so diverse. And Spider-Man’s trying to be inclusive of everyone.”

“Is he now?” Tony asked, his attention still on the radio in front of him.

Peter nodded as he continued to speak. “I worry that I come off as too white savior-y when I’m saving people, but I brought up Spider-Man being white to MJ and she said she thinks he’s doing pretty good. So, it can’t be that bad, right?”

Tony finally dragged his attention away from his desk and looked over at Peter. He looked a little deranged, with his hair askew and cheeks slightly flushed.  

“This MJ gal,” Tony said, pointing at Peter with the screwdriver. ”You like her?”

“What?” Peter’s mouth stayed partly open, his train of thought evidently derailed by Tony’s question.

“You like MJ.”

Peter laughed nervously and ran a hand through his hair. “No! I mean like, yeah, I like her, she’s one of my friends. But like, like like her?”

Tony leveled him with a steady look. “Do you?”

There were a few beats of silence as Peter leaned back until he was laying down on the table and looking upwards. Tony could hear his sigh from across the room.

“I think I like MJ,” he said, staring desolately at the ceiling.

Tony took off his tinted glasses and set them carefully on his desk. “Hey, good for you.”

“No, what?” Peter pushed himself up from his position until he could make nervous eye contact with Tony. “This is bad!”

“C’mon, kid, brighten up! You’re 16, the world is your oyster, and so on and so forth.” Tony waited for a reaction from Peter, but none came. “Have I told you about when I knew I was in love with Pepper?”

Tony had always held his cards close to his chest when it came to his personal life, so Peter perked up at the prospect of learning more about him.

“When’d you know?” he asked.

“Besides seeing her after I got the new ticker,” Tony said, tapping his shirt where his scars from the arc reactor were with the screwdriver he still held. “There was a night after I got it removed, nothing special about it, where I just looked at her and knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Peter rested his head in his hands. “Why that night?”

Tony looked off into the distance and smiled, lost in thought. “I had just given her a necklace that was made with the shrapnel they yanked out of my heart. I’m not normally big on romance, so that sealed the deal for me.”

“Just like that?” Peter asked. “It just took a necklace?”

“It wasn’t just a necklace, it was a…” Tony trailed off as he searched for the right words, waving the screwdriver in lazy circles near his ear. “It was a culmination of years of tension.”

Peter scrunched his nose. “Gross.”

“It’s not gross, it’s romantic.” Tony sniffed and set the screwdriver back on his desk. “You’ll get it when you’re older.”

There was just a moment of silence before Peter started talking again.

“So,” Peter said, starting to swing his legs off the side of the table, “I need to buy her a necklace, then.”

“It’s not about the necklace, kid.” Tony waved away the remaining holograms and gave Peter his full attention. ”It’s about what it represents.”

Peter sighed and fell back onto the table. “I don’t have any shrapnel in my heart, man.”

“What’s something, anything, she’s told you about that you can make lovey-dovey?” Tony asked, barely holding back an eye-roll.

“I don’t know.” Suddenly, he lifts his head up and looks at Tony. “Wait, she mentioned the Black Dahlia murder the other day, that’s a flower, right?”

“That’s a flower,” he confirmed, pointing at Peter. “What can you do with that?”

Tony waited while Peter thought.

After a few seconds, Peter cringed and smiled awkwardly before saying, “I can get her a necklace of a black dahlia?”

Tony ran his hand through his hair. This kid. He sighed, then clapped his hands together.

“Alright, kid. If you’re going to do this, you’re doing it right.” He pulled his phone out and started tapping as he rambled. ”I know a great glassworker in Italy who can fix you up with something real quick. I’ll cover the cost and shipping, of course.” He ignored Peter’s muffled squawk of surprise. ”Unless you want to get it yourself, in which case I can loan you a private jet. Or, just make a healthy donation to fund a field trip for your AcaDec team to go to Europe--”

Peter cut him off by waving his hands. “Woah, woah, woah! Mr. Stark! Italy? We’re going to MoMA next week, I can’t go to Europe!”

“Alright, I hear you. No Europe.” Tony clicked his phone off and slid it back into his pocket. He saw the forlorn look on Peter’s face and tilted his head towards him. “Look, kid. You like her. Just be your normal dorky self. Don’t pretend to be anyone you’re not.”

Peter sighed and shoved his fingers into his hair. “Mr. Stark, I spend half my free time pretending to be someone I’m not.”

“Oh, kid.” Tony couldn’t hold back a chuckle at the sight of Peter unraveling over a girl. “You want the easy way?”

Peter jerked his head up to look at Tony. “Yes, please.”

Tony could see the desperation in his eyes. Oh, to be a teenager again.

“There is no easy way,” Tony said as he slid his tinted glasses back on. “Get used to it now.”

Peter groaned and laid back down on the table, hitting the back of his head on the surface a few times for good measure.  

Tag List: @ironfamjam @addi-is-amazing @mysterio-is-a-little-bitch @wellplacedbanana @night0seven @unfathomable-universe​ @bibbidi-bobbity-booyah @spideynamu

[thebiasrekkers]

No Words - pt 2

Pairing: Taehyung x OC

Type: Series

Genre: Idol, Poly, Interracial, Tall Female, Smut, Angst, Fluff [if you squint]

Warning: Dirty. 

Words: 2190

A/N - This is where you start praying to Namjesus. It goes downhill..or is it uphill? From here. 

---

This was the most grueling assignment she could have received. She wouldn’t regret one single moment of it. How could she? A music lover who had drowned herself in every genre she could from a young age. It had been a dream to intern with the company responsible for BTS’ current tour.

It had been an even bigger shock when she was allowed to work alongside the production team. That one tour, turning into two tours that spanned the globe. She wound up living out of a suitcase, surviving on coffee, 4 hours of sleep a day, and more recipes to spread out cup ramen than she’d ever imagined.

She was still the odd girl on staff, unfortunately. She stuck out like a sore thumb where-ever they went. For one thing, she was taller than most of the females on the team. Let’s not get started on the males.

She tried to make herself as small as possible and failed miserably. The darker skin complexion, curly hair, and blue eyes gave her away. She was dependable, prompt, and thought outside the box. She learned to communicate thanks to the patient staff, lots of apps, and tenacity.

She didn’t like being obvious - but what could be done? It was always easy to find her. When she missed home, they’d find her in a kitchen in the wee hours of the morning reliving Southern and family comfort foods. Let’s just say there was an even trade of food culture.

But, like with any dream situation - there’s always something that threatens to ruin its perfection.

Sometimes it wasn’t a situation - sometimes it was a person. That person happened to be one Kim Taehyung.

30 days post kiss.

Everything was seemingly normal! They had avoided being caught by staff that night. There was a lot of alcohol consumed that night. These things happen, right? She kept telling herself that as the month zipped by. There were still moments that she could swear, his eyes lingered too long in her direction.

There was no awkward behavior between them. Everything was fine.

45 days post kiss.

Comeback season was in full swing. The schedules were tight and to the second. The boys were exhausted, and it showed. People kept energy bars, drinks, and towelettes on them at all times. Wipe sweat, coax a bite, a sip, offer the fan, and encouragement. It was hard to see them like this, practically wilting the moment they were out of the view of fans. The weather wasn’t making anything easy, either. It was sweltering and humid, and even she found herself with spare batteries to keep that small fan going. Her hair was pushed into a messy, frizzy, puff atop her head.

“Fuck this weather.” She growled softly. Tugging at the linen shirt, threatening to cling at the collarbone. She heard a beep through her headset, denoting the count time for end shots. The countdown echoed as they listened to the calls for a job well done. The Army wished them well with cries, cheers, and waves of the army-bombs.

80 days post kiss.

The boys kept smiles, waves, and proper idol etiquette on display until they disappeared beyond the staff doors. That door closed, and it was pandemonium. They were either bent over with hands-on knees, sliding down to the floor against walls, or leaning on a staff member. Everyone was sweating, there was no escape from it. 

The fact that she wound up under Taehyung’s arm with another member didn’t matter. They were panting, hot, and suffering signs of dehydration. She could see their pulses throbbing in their necks. 

“We need to cool them down.” The head PD came in with towels wrapped around ice-packs. There was a flurry of motion to get them out of layered outfits. Luckily, they had a desperately needed two-day break. 

It took an hour to get them hydrated, calm, and mobile. 

Everything went off without a hitch. Everything was seeming...normal.

Taehyung held a bottle of cold water against his neck. The world passed by in a hazy blur as they made their way back to the hotel. His head seemed to loll to the side. The city lights flickered in his gaze. The fabric of his sweats bunched in his hand, the only thing keeping him lucid. 

His nostrils flared as he tilted his head to the side, her scent still there. He could again feel her skin against his from under her shirt. The trail of sweat along the column of her neck, he remembered it visibly. It gave her a glow, a sheen - a brilliance, even. They had been too busy for him to make any moves. 

The shadows played along her skin, a peek of cleavage had him gulping the rest of his water down. He pulled the hoodie over his head and let the sound of the drive lull him to sleep. The fresh air in the van was enough to ease his frazzled nerves.

90 days post kiss. 

The night blurred into a stumbling trip to his room. His clothes were haphazardly tossed to the floor as he pushed into the bathroom. He wanted the shower to rid himself of the day. He tried to lay naked on his bed and sleep. Taehyung ran his fingers through waterlogged strands of hair. The shower was hot enough to ease his muscles. His hands braced against the wall as the shower pelted his skin. 

Massaged his skin? A groan slipped from his mouth at the sensation of fingers, kneading the knots from his shoulders. Fingers? Foreign hands. Small hands. “I don’t know who you are, bu-...” He whipped around, pressing against the shower wall. There wasn’t a chance to finish the sentence. Taehyung’s nostrils flared as his lips were captured. 

His fingers slid against smooth skin, the taste of peaches, and the soft mouth that tangled with his own. The kiss broke as he pulled back, confused. “N-noona?” Her lips formed a heart as she smiled. Her arms slid around his neck as he dared to let his hands settled into the wet nakedness of her body. 

Her head tilted up to him, “Kiss me again, Taehyung.” 

When did the shower get hot? There was so much steam. He could scarcely make out his own hand in front of his face. It was better than the first time. Nothing was holding them back. She didn’t try to stop as his tongue pressed against hers. The scrape of his nails against the curve of her ass as he pulled her closer. She was so soft, responsive, as he pushed his hips into her. 

Perfect. 

Everything about her, to him, was perfect. He loved the way her skin felt beneath his teeth. The length of him pushed between her legs as he shuddered at the clench of her thighs around him. His fingers dug into her skin as tongue and teeth nibbled, licked, and marked her. The heat didn’t bother him at all. She clung to him as he pushed between the squeeze of her thighs. He was going insane with want. His hands slid over her ass, and he pulled her against him. The squelching noises as he slipped between the folds of her sex, not entering - Not yet. All he had to do was angle himself, just a little. She bit into his collarbone, and he knew there’d be a mark.

Taehyung didn’t care, not one bit. He spun her into the corner pinning her hips. She bit her lip as their eyes locked. He tilted his hips down, just so, causing the throbbing head of his cock to slip between those folds. Finally. Finally.

His tongue swept his lips as he held her firm. His whole body trembled with the effort to maintain control as he slipped upward.

…and inward.

“V.” A breathy, far away sound.

His brow furrowed as she repeated it. “V.”

There was a sudden flash of cold air that nipped at his ankles. “V!”

Taehyung sat up too quickly in the back of the van. The staff member had tried calling to wake him up. But, the side door opening and the violent shaking did the trick.

“G’damnit?!” He growled, snatching his arm away from the staff member.

“Sorry, V. I called you for ten straight minutes, and you didn’t move.” The guy looked crestfallen at his reaction. Tae ran his hands through his hair, thankful for dark clothing.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. I’m just…I’m exhausted.” The PD nodded softly, moving to the side to let the taller man out.

“Just get upstairs and get some rest. We’ll send the usual up.” The PD clapped Tae on the shoulder with a sad smile and made his way inside. Taehyung’s dark eyes narrowed as he was left, momentarily, alone.

His hands were jammed deep into the front pocket of his hoodie. He was doing everything he could to keep that massive erection hidden. Everything was painful - the air, breathing, the clothing against his skin; all of it pissed him off. He held his cock in one hand, under cover of his hoodie, pulling his bag behind him with the other. He just needed to make it to his room.

Tae got his room key from the front desk and made his way to the elevator. He rolled in, slamming the keycard against the reader. The elevator dinged as the doors began to close. He groaned as his head slammed into the back elevator wall. He could feel his pulse in his hands as he squeezed himself.

“Hold on a sec!” A voice, far away, called out as the elevator began to squeeze shut. Taeyung turned around to face the corner, trying to school his face into something less malicious. The door popped open for a hot second and was allowed to close. “Thanks for -” A female voice began cheerfully before pausing. “…V, is that you?”

Taehyung’s nostrils flared at the sound of that voice. His eyes popped open to catch her reflection, full of trepidation, in the silver of the elevator interior. The look he shifted over his shoulder caused her to press into the corner of the already small space. She suddenly noticed the length of his fingers as they wrapped around the bar lining the wall. It had been three months since that kiss. She had been doing everything in her power to avoid being alone with him.

The subtle way, of course. She dipped in, making sure to say her piece and evacuate the area. Business as usual; everything normal.

And yet, it wasn’t.

She found herself staring at the resource monitors too long. There were times she could feel him staring her down from afar. It made her skin itch. The sound of beeping was so loud in the silence of that elevator.

“Yah, Noona.” He turned to face her leaning back against the cold metal wall. “You’re really here, aren’t you?” She furrowed her brow as he looked at her from the fringe of his bangs. “This isn’t a dream, right?”

“V …are you alright? You don’t look so good.” They had all been suffering from this late-season heat. The night time cool-down had been a welcome relief. She ignored the alarms ringing in her head as she moved forward to place a hand on his forehead. “Jesus, you’re still burning up.”

Her hand was soft, cold, and real. Tae could smell the heat of her again. That scent of sweet something floral, and the slight musk of sweat. He turned his face into her palm with a heavy exhale against her wrist. She sucked in a breath pulling her hand away.

Well, she tried pulling her hand away from the iron grip of his fingers. “I have to make sure this is real. If this is another dream…” Tae offered a bitter laugh as he pulled her against him. “V you nee-” She spoke on a rushed breath before he interrupted her.

“That’s not my name.” He tugged her into the corner, spinning and pinning her hands above her head. They were eye to eye; nose to nose. It was just like in his dream. That one kiss gave him the blueprint to her proportions, and she was perfectly snug against that wall. Her eyes went wide at his obviously aroused state.

“V- T-Taehyung. You need to rest. You’re overheating.” A thick swallow as she corrected herself. The grip on her wrist eased at the use of his name. They were both breathing heavily as the elevator continued to beep along steady to the topmost floor.

“I know what I need.” He was leaning in again. There was nowhere to run this time. There was nothing but time and fifteen more floors before they reached the top. Taehyung tilted his head as he leaned in. “…I need this,” spoken against her lips as her chest bumped into his. Her lashes lowered as her gaze went to his mouth.

A moan broke the sudden silence, causing him to momentarily pause.

She didn’t mean to, it slipped out. It was the contact of their bodies as he crushed her against the wall. Tae smirked against her mouth, “And you need it too.”

14 floors left to the top…

[domesticatedantelope]

adorn

Pairing: Logan x MC

Rating: Explicit | NSFW 18+

Word Count: 1500

Summary: The one where Mercy makes her love quite certain.

Kinktober Day 2: scars, body worship.

@brightpinkpeppercorn @choicesarehard @desiree-0816 @leelee10898 @client-327 @zaffrenotes @navigatorholmes @lovehugsandcandy @anxious-arliah @aworldoffandoms

Logan wears his scars like testimony.

Every misstep immortalized, penned into the splits between his knuckles, written in the jagged lines that carve across his ribs - harsh lessons he has learned the hard way, and even long after the bruises and the bleeding have healed over, all the scars remain.

Mercy makes certain that he wears her love as well.

Peach-colored kisses crown his neck and shoulders, monuments to her affection stained in fading lipstick down his skin. Her lips adorn his cheeks and both the edges of his smile, and when he reaches out to hold her face between his hands, she sets a kiss against each roughened palm. She lingers on the marks that span his knuckles as if she might somehow mend the damage there. She’s tended to a few of them herself, and she can still recall the rattle of adrenaline that trembled in her hands, his freshly bandaged fingers closing tenderly around her own.

Logan’s touch is just as gentle now as his thumb ghosts along her cheekbone, focus settling with obvious intention on her mouth. “Do I get to kiss you now?” 

She almost lets him, sorely tempted by the open promise in his eyes; she knows that look and all the blissful things he offers with it, how quickly she can fall apart when she allows him to distract her. “Baby, I’m just getting started.”

He hums and nuzzles teasing teeth at the base of her throat. Over the years, he’s grown proficient with the tender places in her body, and it doesn’t take him long to find a span of nerves that trigger shivers down her spine. 

That’s not playing fair.

“Behave yourself,” she chides him as the blush rises like clockwork in her cheeks.

Logan tilts a smirk at her. “I’m not so great at that.”

Her palm wanders and falls to rest over his heart, tracking the steady, rapid beat of it behind his ribs. “I think you’ll find a way to persevere.” 

He laughs then, but the sound breaks off into a groan when Mercy rocks her hips against him. Callused fingers sink a blazing journey down her waist, curling in just deep enough to feel the pressure of his grip. Logan holds her with the certainty of passing time; his hands will find her body just like days will turn to weeks, to months, to seasons.

While he feels out the fullness of her hips, she maps the places where her teeth have marked him, too: faint red shadows in the vague shape of her mouth, bitten into sunbronzed skin when she was lost to climax. 

(There was a time when she was horrified to find her own bite marks in bloom across his shoulders. He touches her like she is paradise made human, and she hurt him to the point of leaving bruises -

Baby, I’m so sorry.

But he laughed then, too. I’m not.)

She soothes them over all the same, planting soft apologies where she has been so careless. Her fingers drift the contours of his arms, travelling from faded love bites to a fissure of scar tissue that curves up his side, risen and pale against his skin. He fidgets restlessly among the bedsheets, watching her with rapt attention, following the slow progression of her touch. Something like hunger flickers in his gaze, teeth raking hard across his bottom lip.

She trails a path of lazy kisses down his ribs, and Logan shudders in response, sucking a breath in through his teeth. His muscles twitch beneath her fingers, tense with finely held restraint. He wants - oh, she can feel how badly - but he waits, impatient, groaning as she starts to trace the palm fronds inked in black across his hip. The mirror image of her tattoo claims him as her own, and when she splays her fingers out across those dark and branching lines, it feels like coming home again.

His scars are testimony, but he wears her love by choice.

The peach press of her lipstick, half-healed hickeys, black ink cast like shadows on his skin.

The soft look of relief that dawns across his features when she takes him finally in hand. 

“Ha - Mercy -” His head falls back, throat working as he drags in empty air. The first touch of her lips and tongue coax shivers through his body, and he clenches gentle fingers at her hair, surging with anticipation before jerking back against the sheets. “Fuck, that feels amazing.”

Emboldened, Mercy sinks between his knees to take him further. She feels him throb against her tongue, a strangled whine lodged in his throat, falling apart around the rough sound of her name. 

With shaking hands, he gathers up the dark waves of her hair, taking great care not to pull even as her tongue winds teasing pathways up the hard length of his cock. His eyes are transfixed on the sight of himself nudging past her lips, the slick wrap of her hand around the thickest part of him, every point where she attends to him with such tender devotion. 

“Mercy…” Logan groans, a husky rumble fraying at the timbre of his voice. The flush of effort heats him through, desperation clear across his face as he arches beneath her. “Perfect, perfect, please…!”

She takes her time releasing him, kneading with suction as she lifts away, her fingers curling tight around the very base. Her head swims at the way he fills her grip, and she aches to think of how he feels inside of her, that breathtaking fit when he sinks home. Her body sings for contact, slick with craving, and she succumbs at last to her temptation, falling against his chest to claim his mouth beneath her own. His arm tugs her in close, trapping her between his hold and racing heart, frantic with need.

Urgency roughens his kisses. He nips with teeth and licks over the sting, letting his mouth wander the soft arch of her throat, slipping her hair aside to mark her shoulders. She was right - he’s horribly distracting - but that singular, possessive drive reverberates with every crashing heartbeat in her chest: take him, make him yours.

Mercy wets her fingertips against her tongue, dropping them in spiral circles down his cock before she leads him gingerly between her thighs. The weight of him prods hot against the raw folds of her sex, and then - oh god - she’s sliding down around him, seething out a gasp as she takes more and more and more of him. Her mouth spills open, shaping soundless whimpers when their hips slot finally together. 

The first stretch always leaves her reeling, dizzied by the depth of their connection. Tears swim in her vision, laughter catching at the back of her throat, near delirious.

Sensing the tension in her body, Logan reaches up to steady her, soothing his fingers down the column of her spine. One broad hand settles at her hip, the other laced securely with her own as they begin to move together. She falls into a fitful rhythm, lifting, taking, every downswing dragging him against that dull, sweet ache inside of her, and she can only cling to him with frantic hands, dropping messy kisses to the scars across his knuckles. 

His eyes roam greedily over her body, deference of the devout in one soft, longing look. The fingers at her waist dig in just short of pain and drive her down around him, urging himself deeper with a suddenness that steals her breath. Strain begins to burn among the muscles in her thighs, but she persists, pleading his name as he takes rough hold of her hips and fucks up into her.

Parting her lips, she sucks two of his fingertips over her tongue, and Logan jerks beneath her, choking out the sliver of a curse.

“Fuck, fuck, Mercy - I’m close, baby.”

She curls her hand into his hair, tilting his head to bite a moan against his throat. “Please,” she begs him, and her voice breaks with another harsh swing of his hips. “Logan, please. Let me feel you.”

He tears a gasp in through his teeth, pinning her against him as he comes, tension bunching in the muscles of his hips. He fucks a few last frantic thrusts, and Mercy shudders at the feeling of him spilling deep inside of her, the urgent pressure of his touch, the sound of his breath wrecked and labored in the wake of coming.

Panting, she prods exhausted kisses at his jaw, humming when he turns to catch her mouth against his own. His hands have gentled on her skin, already tending to the indentations that his fingers left along her hips. She’s soft, and she marks easily, dark bruises blooming down her thighs, but she has never minded them.

She doesn’t mind the blush he summons when he settles eagerly between her legs, or the smile that she mirrors back when he grins down at her; the blossoms that his teeth will surely leave across her skin; the slick of him still warm between her thighs. 

Logan parts her legs and touches her with purpose, every loving stroke of lips and fingertips heavy with promise. From the slow and teasing pace his mouth sets down her body, she can tell he means to keep her here all night. 

And by the time he’s finished with her, she is certain she will wear his love as well.

[ineffablecolors]

The Wife [5/?]

The Wife || Ch 5 ~ 4.1 k || Ch 1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 || FF.NET&AO3 Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are?A/N: Alright, time to start bringing some things into the light.  First, there is a slight possible trigger in this chapter but it's also a pretty big spoiler so you can check it out in the notes at the end, if you wanna be prepared. Second, just on the off chance that anyone side-eyes Emma in this chapter - you're totally entitled to it but I'd just like to point out that considering the (vague) time period of this piece and what and to whom she is revealing, she is actually being pretty strong and stoic. And lastly, the touching is off the charts yo (you know, by this fic's standards :D).

No good day starts with bloodstains on your bedspread and a pulsing pain in your lower back but, like with much else in her life, Emma tries to make the best of it. She asks Ruby to heat some water for her and rubs her hands together to bring some warmth into them, knowing all the while these next few days her soul will feel even more coldly received in her body than usual.

She pulls on the heavy doors of her overly large wardrobe to pick as dark a dress as appropriate for a sunny day and pulls her hair away from her face in a shape she hopes is acceptable for suffering silently in the comforts of one’s home.

*****

She fixes her sympathetic eyes on the woman leaning as close to the stove as safety will allow to seek some alleviation of her present condition.

“Surely you will be more comfortable in your room. I can come right up and get the fire going.”

“Oh, no, it’s alright. It’s not cold at all.”

That it is not – it is a perfectly sunny day for early September but Ruby has quickly learnt that “It isn’t cold” does not equal “I’m not cold” when it comes to their new mistress.

“Have you had a chance to enjoy the swing in the garden?”

Emma turns to look out of the window.

“There is a swing in the garden?”

“Oh, yes. It’s at the very edge of it but it’s quite perfect,” Ruby smiles and dusts off her hands before she urges Emma to follow her outside.

It’s indeed a perfectly pleasant day, though Ruby can’t help but feel like the air is much too thick and still, as if hunkering down and preparing for one of the first storms of the season. She makes a note to hang the last of the laundry and gather the flowers that will surely be ruined, if left outside for the first rain.

“When she was young, Alice refused to lie down for a nap inside when the sun was shining. And then she would fall asleep on picnic blankets or right on the grass before we could so much as bring her a pillow.”

She sneaks a glance at Emma’s smiling face and feels something soft and hopeful bloom in her chest. She and Granny have always done their best for Alice with pleasure and devotion but Ruby can’t help but feel like a weight has been slowly slipping off her shoulders ever since Emma arrived.

“So Captain Jones had the swing put up – just far enough so that the noise in the house wouldn’t wake her but close enough that we could watch over her. And large enough to fit a child and heavy enough not to topple over,” she adds with a chuckle.

They take a turn and right there, behind the apples trees, the black, iron cast swing sits, bathed in sunlight, the way Ruby hoped it will be. One look at Emma tells her that she has found the perfect spot for her mistress to pass the worst of those days of the month that every woman has to bear.

“Let me just fetch you some pillows and a blanket.”

*****

She mustn’t forget to thank Ruby for bringing her here. As the sun shines down on her midsection, Emma almost feels comfortable in her body for the first time today. She has to give credit to Killian, the swing is positioned perfectly – benefitting from the best of the warm sunshine, the smell of fruit and flowers just out of reach and the lush green views to the side. It is not at all a hard task to picture a cherub-like Alice running around and refusing to be brought indoors and lose even a second of the summer days.

Yet, the pleasant image brings a sudden stab of pain that is much worse than the dull ache she has been suffering all day. She tries to chase it away the way she has learnt to do but the damage is done and the fragility of the present is not as easy to dismiss as the immutability of the past.

Just like in this very moment, Emma has started to become much too comfortable in this space that miraculously seems to have a place for her. She has done a terribly good job of avoiding the stone that can still trip her and send her hurtling into the dark unknown that she can only speculate about in her nightmares.

The worry of what may follow has been keeping her carefully and obediently in check but the guilt of what is rears to the forefront now, as she lies in the iron cast evidence of what a wonderful father Killian Jones is.

“Do you need to be rocked to sleep as well?”

She startles horribly and the only thing that saves her from toppling to the ground is that Ruby was right and the swing has indeed been made to keep its cargo safe.

Killian’s hand takes a hold of one end and stops the last of the wobbling as Emma tries to slow the thunder beating of her heart. She looks up and frowns at the bowl cradled in his left elbow before she realizes that he must’ve had to quickly free his right hand.

“I see Ruby didn’t teach you how to use one of these before she gave you free reign over it.”

Half an hour ago, she would’ve laughed. Half an hour ago, the bowl of cut peaches and apples he passes to her now would’ve made her heart flutter pleasantly. But neither the bird song, nor Killian’s sparkling eyes above her can make her heart feel less burdened and twisted up right now. Only she can do that.

“Emma, are you alright? Ruby said you were indisposed but I didn’t think—“

She flushes a little, thinking that this particular subject must certainly be taboo between most husbands and wives, even ones that have been intimate. But then she considers and realizes anew that, in the absence of a truly caring mother, Killian has probably been too good a father to his daughter to remain ignorant on such matters.

She twists around and rises to a sitting position fast enough that he stumbles back a step. She doesn’t even let herself take a proper breath, she can’t allow the worry of what will follow to cower her into silence once again.

“I must tell you now.”

She must, should have done it a dozen times already, should have done it before he tied himself to her, should certainly do it before he allows his whole family to publicly stand beside her, should do it before there is no turning back even if turning back will cost her more than she can afford and comprehend.

She sees the moment the gravity of it, of whatever is in her voice, reaches Killian. The sparkle is tempered as if pouring water over fire, his mouth thins out into a perfectly straight line and all but the most permanent lines on his face smooth out as if to hide away the very humanity, the very vulnerability, of him. His shoulders straighten to give him his full height and the ability to take on whatever she intends to put on them. He has been in battle and he knows how to prepare for an attack.

From where she is sitting, he is an intimidating sight, but it is the fact that he manages so quickly to raise a defense against her that causes Emma’s heart to shrink even further within her – if it could escape the prison of her entirely, it probably would have done so long ago.

“Could you… could you sit down?” she hates how small her voice sounds, how fragile, if not broken already, but it seems to soften Killian’s stance just enough that he can fold his knees and take a seat on the pillowed swing, his gaze focused on the grass beneath them.

“I should’ve done this earlier. Regina told me that she had disclosed—“

“Emma, I am…” he clears his throat and looks up at her and she can see the question in his eyes, the permission he seeks to speak freely on a topic that will shame any woman worth anything. “I am aware that you have lain with another man… men.”

If nothing else, Emma is glad to discover that she cannot perish from mortification alone – for if she could, her time would’ve most certainly come already.

“Man. He… it was just one man.”

Killian nods and she can’t tell if he is relieved or indifferent, can’t even stop to consider what it is she wants him to be, not with what is looming ahead of her.

“He was—“

“You don’t have to—“

“I know you can’t wish to hear it and… please, believe me, I don’t wish to tell it but… Regina— Regina did not tell you all. She only told you what needed to be immediately—“ she cuts off, aware that had Regina never told Killian anything, he could’ve still believed her chase and pure now. “What she thought needed to be immediately known.”

Emma watches her fingers pinch the fabric of her skirts and her chest rise with her next deep breath and her next, and her next. Until she dares to look at the man beside her and find his eyes resolutely focused on her and filled with confusion.

“He was a horse dealer.”

She watches his brows furrow and then lift as his eyes widen with quick realization.

“Yes, I… I used to ride a fair bit but Regina would never actually buy a horse so I just kept—“

“Emma.”

The tone of his voice makes her freeze, her mouth staying half open as she tries not to flinch at the rage that finally begins to simmer in Killian’s eyes. She knew no man would want to listen to this sort of thing, especially coming from his wife’s mouth but—

“When we were at the stables, you— Emma, did he force you—“

“Oh! Oh, no. No, this—“

A moment ago she thought herself beyond the point of blushing but now she discovers it anew when she has to reveal another turn that puts her conduct in an even worse light. For surely, for anyone but her – she cannot make herself regret that it was not so, no matter what fault it might take off her – it would’ve been much better, if at least she hadn’t been complicit, if she had tried to deny him.

“It was not… It was in the stables that I—“ she looks down at her hands again to find them clasped firmly together, holding onto each other when they could find nothing else. “I asked him to… to run away with me.”

“And he refused?”

Again she does not know if he is surprised by how far she wanted and dared to go or by how unwanted she found herself to be.

“He said he could do better.”

“He could do be—“

“And that he couldn’t have—“ the word literally chokes her and she has to choose between it and a breath but the look on Killian’s face now says he will not finish this sentence for her and she has to. “A child.”

The seizing in her stomach now is all things past and present all at once and she clutches the seat of the swing in her hands and strains her arms so they won’t allow her to fold in on herself.

“Where—“ Killian clears his throat and the sentence that comes next is less words than action ready to be realized. “Where is the child now?”

The swing groans and his feet shuffle as if he is ready to get up and go, though where and what he might wish to do she does not have the strength to imagine right now. It’s only when the tears slide down her cold cheeks that she realizes she is so aware of every sound because her eyes have fallen shut.

“There is no child,” it’s an eerily calm whisper and she rocks along with it, the swing groaning harder.

“What?”

“There is no— He left, disappeared. And she wouldn��t let me… Regina wouldn’t— She knew best and I—“

A fire poker in her side would’ve shocked her less than his hand on her shoulder but it is as he quickly withdraws it that she realizes her own is clutching his knee in a vice grip. She lets out a hysterical little laugh at her body’s sad attempt to keep him where he is.

“Emma, I need you to try to listen to me, alright? You don’t have to—“

She jumps to her feet before he can say something he will have to take back in a second and feels her head spin a little from emotional vertigo and blood loss and good old fear and lord knows what else.

“And now I can’t!” she hears her voice grow a little hoarse and a strange part of her mind worries if it carries all the way to the house. “Again. They said… T-the women she brought to… to do it. T-they said I was too weak and that I might never— I—“

Save for the very event she is trying and failing to retell, Emma has never fainted in her life but she knows in a minute she will crumble right where she stands. She will try not to but she knows she will.

But as Killian rises swiftly to his feet and erases the distance between them in a single large step, she does not try to stop her body from falling against his own. Every last bit of her is too cold to resist the warmth of his arms around her, too cold to wonder if he will recoil from the way her wet cheek lands against his neck, too cold to wonder if her hand has a right to clutch the back of his jacket in a desperate attempt to keep him from separating them.

*****

“It’s alright, Emma, it’s alright.”

If it wasn’t for the way she is clutching at his back, he would’ve thought that she had gone completely limp against him, but what worries him most is that he can’t properly tell if she is shivering or sobbing or some awful combination of the two.

“Just lean on me.”

Killian tightens his arms around her and looks toward the house, unsure if he should bring her inside, if she would want to take the risk of anyone seeing her. He wouldn’t. So he keeps his left arm around her and bring his hand to rubs gently up and down her back. She is certainly shivering and the wetness at his neck and shoulder tells him that she is crying as well and he has never been more sure of what he wants and more unsure of how to achieve it.

He lets his arms drop but her grip on him doesn’t loosen, he doesn’t want to push her away or touch her with his wooden attachment so he tries to take half a step back instead. The whimper that follows him surely tears a piece of his heart clean off – there is no other explanation for the way it seizes at her blind terror.

“Just a second, love.”

He pulls his jacket off his left arm with her still half holding onto it before her arms drop to her sides. Killian makes quick work of shrugging the garment off completely and sets it around her shoulders before tugging on the ends of it to both pull it more securely around her and bring her closer again.

“Alright. Let’s sit down again, yeah?”

Emma finally focuses her eyes back on his and the sheer hopelessness and resignation in them makes him discover a whole new reincarnation of feeling helpless.

“Emma, it’s al—“

“I’m sorry. I really— I was going to tell you before… before we—“

“You—“

“And then right after. But I kept putting it off and I kept— I didn’t want to—“

He urges her to sit back down and wonders how to explain that her giving him any children was the furthest thing from his mind when he married her.

“I’m sorry I—“

“Emma, stop. Listen to me,” he doesn’t know how to ease the pain of the past but he hopes he can at least alleviate her fear of the present, her fear of him, he thinks sadly. “I’m not angry. I’m not angry at you.”

“But I-I can’t—“

“I understand and I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened but it doesn’t affect— That is, I realize it will always affect you but it doesn’t affect—“

Bloody hell, he doesn’t know how to reassure her, he doesn’t know how to explain. He never intended to be with her, he never thought she’d want much of him except what he could easily give – independence, money, security.

“You’re safe here.”

She blinks at him a couple of time, the tears making her eyelashes sparkle in a way that both pains and mesmerizes him. Something in her face softens and relaxes, cautiously hopeful. She still looks fearful but he realizes, with some relief, that she is more afraid of believing him than of him.

“I did not intend to deceive you.”

“You—“

He wants to say she didn’t but that would be a lie. Just because he isn’t angry about it, just because it doesn’t in any way affect what he imagined or expected of their marriage, doesn’t mean that she didn’t keep a secret. Yet, he cannot blame her.

He cannot blame her for keeping close to her heart something that hurt it so badly. He cannot blame her for being afraid to share her secrets when he trembles at the very idea of putting his own into words.

But Killian is afraid that whether he passes judgement or not has little bearing on her guilt. The only sin he can pardon is the one she seems to think she has committed against him. He remembers the unsettled feeling when he raised his voice at her, when he thought he’d upset her, he remembers the relief of her absolution.

“You are forgiven.”

He wouldn’t dare call it a laugh but, as she closes her eyes and lifts her shoulders, the sound that escapes her mouth is not as hopeless as a sob.

“And I don’t want you to think…”

Killian takes a breath and ducks his head, he tries to remember how one talks to a person they are allowed to be more open and honest with – fears he has never known and probably never will. But, looking up into Emma’s tear-bright eyes again, he thinks this woman deserves someone who knows, someone who can, and if she is not to have that, she at least deserves for him to try.

“I don’t want you to think I’ll think less of you because of this.”

*****

The silence is absolute – even the birds have gone quiet, even the swing has become completely still. She is unaware of this, she is aware of how hard her heart is still beating, how much control it takes to keep her breathing even, how incomprehensible his words are.

Emma has been defined by the word “less” as far back as she can remember. She is a granddaughter but less than a daughter, she is pretty but less than exquisite, she is well-trained but less than well-educated, she was a lover but less than a wife, she was expecting but less than a mother, she is collected but less than dignified, she is inexperienced but less than pure, she was unmarried but less than a good match, she is married but less than a proper wife.

She doesn’t really understand how she could’ve been saved from becoming less in Killian’s eyes unless she was already nothing. But it’s exactly his eyes that tell her she is not nothing and she finds them almost capable of convincing her.

She drops her gaze to her hands. She cannot bear to shed any more tears – she feels physically and emotionally exhausted, but she cannot bear to appear any weaker. Yet, everything already trembling inside her trembles all the harder at the thought of him leaving in the face of her inadequate silence. Only she doesn’t quite know what—

So she reaches for his hands and lays her cold ones over them. The contrast between his warm flesh and the smooth coolness of the leather glove on his prosthetic is curious but the way his left arm seems to flinch makes her breath back into her throat. She waits for a second, two, three, not daring to look up, waiting to see if he will pull away, if after all else, this is the way she manages to push him to his feet and away.

But whatever instinct seized Killian he seems to master and Emma curls her fingers a little more securely before she looks up. She is surprised to see him staring somewhere in the distance, as if recalling something else that will inform him what to do now. But then he shakes his head and looks back at her, his face composed but still watching her as if to make sure parts of her are not falling off.

“Let me bring you something to drink.”

She doesn’t want anything to drink, she just wants him to stay right where he is, but she is not selfish enough to deny him the opportunity for escape, she is grateful he has delayed it as long as he has, so she just nods quickly and draws her hands back into her lap.

“Something refreshing or—“

“Something warm.”

She tries not to think about that as he walks away. How much she needs something to steal comfort from, how cold and empty she felt right after and how frozen and stiff her fingers feel even now. How she hasn’t felt truly warm even once in the last ten years.

Emma stares at the sun – it too is slowly starting to take its leave. She expects Ruby – she hopes it’s Ruby, she cannot fortify herself enough to face Mrs Lucas right now – to come out with a cup of tea, so it’s only when she actually sees Killian returning and feels her shoulders release, that she becomes conscious of how tense she was.

He has the same set up of a pot and two cups hanging from his thumb and the familiarity of it settles her further, just like the smell of the hot chocolate. He crouches down, depositing his cargo on the grass before he sits down on the ground, leaning one shoulder on the swing and looking up at it before he starts pouring the chocolate.

“Do you want to know how long it took to make this?”

Emma blinks, realizes she can now send away the demons she summoned – the fresh air and sunshine seem to have made them shrink just a little.

“You actually made this?” she asks with genuine surprise before she takes the cup he offers her.

“I dare say I was rather good at building things before—“ he shrugs his left shoulder and takes a little sip.

“The war?”

“Hmm? Ah. No, no,” Killian takes a more generous gulp, his tongue pressing against his utter lip, seemingly lost in thought. “This didn’t happen during the war.”

“Oh.”

She always just assumed that’s how he lost his hand and secured his reputation as a daring war hero.

“No, this was… another voyage I took later in life…”

His eyes lose some of their focus, staring unseeingly at the liquid he swirls lightly in his cup.

Emma believes some thoughts have the ability to carry you so far away that you might never come back. She believes one of those had possession of her just minutes ago and Killian Jones managed to bring her back.

She hopes when his own thought comes for him, she manages to do the same.

“So how long did it take?”

*****

“Honey, you must be starving. Let me put something out for you. Lord know when they will come in.”

Ruby watches Alice smile benevolently at Granny’s disgruntled face.

“Oh, let them be. I still believe it is a crime to spend an hour of sunshine inside.”

A/N: Very vague mentions of abortion and possible inability to conceive.

Taglist: @bmbbcs4evr @laschatzi @darkcolinodonorgasm @shireness-says@profdanglaisstuff@courtorderedcake @passports-and-postagestamps @nikkiemms@winterbaby89@wyntereyez@sherlockianwhovian @mayquita @cocohook38 @snotelek@yasbio2015 @superchocovian @facesiousbutton82 @lawgeeks @whimsicallyenchantedrose If you wanna be tagged in future updates (or if you want me to fuck off your mentions :D), just drop me a line ;)

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[thecollegefootballguy]

Bizarro Football: An Alternate History of College Football in 2017

It’s time for the 2017 installment of Bizarro Football. This series is imagining a world where the last conference realignment cycle never happened. Every football program is in the conference they called home before the 2011 season.

Check out the previous seasons first if you’d like to catch up: 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016

This post is basically an amalgamation of the various other conference posts I’ve made throughout this (and part of last) off season. Check those out here:

ACC: 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018 Big East: 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018 Big Ten: 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018 Big 12: 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018 PAC-10: 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018 SEC: 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018

I’ve made some adjustments for games that were never played as well as incorporating the G5 and Notre Dame, but otherwise things haven’t changed from these earlier posts.

So far, there hasn’t been too much difference in the Playoff scenarios outside of 2014. We’ll see if that trend continues into 2017, which obviously was an interesting year for the Playoff, as it featured two teams from the same conference in Alabama and Georgia. Will it play out the same way this time around?

-

ACC

Atlantic Division

Clemson 13-0 (8-0) Wake Forest 9-3 (5-3) NC State 8-4 (5-3) Boston College 6-6 (3-5) Florida State 6-6 (3-5) Maryland 4-8 (1-7)

Coastal Division

Miami FL 10-2 (7-1) Virginia Tech 9-3 (5-3) Georgia Tech 5-6 (4-4) Virginia 6-6 (3-5) Duke 6-6 (3-5) North Carolina 4-8 (1-7)

ACC Championship Game: Clemson over Miami FL

With Florida State unexpectedly collapsing, Clemson suddenly became the unchallenged rulers of the Atlantic Division. They would have been masters of the whole conference without any pretenders to the throne if Miami hadn’t had a stunning turnaround of their own. Both the Tigers and Hurricanes went into the final week of the regular season undefeated, but Miami lost to Boston College the same way they lost to Pitt in real life. Clemson then put a hurting on the Canes in the ACC Championship Game to punch their ticket to the Playoff for the third year in a row.

-

Big East

Louisville 10-2 (5-2) South Florida 9-2 (5-2) West Virginia 9-3 (5-2) Syracuse 8-4 (5-2) Pittsburgh 7-5 (5-2) Cincinnati 3-9 (1-6) Rutgers 3-9 (1-6) Connecticut 2-10 (1-6)

Without the threat of messing up the Playoff race, the Big East can be enjoyed for the beautiful mess that it is. This was actually one of their stronger years in recent history, only the bottom third of the league was terrible. I have the conference finishing the year with a five team pileup atop the standings, so I assume that tiebreakers would essentially be useless outside of the rankings. So with the fewest losses, I assume Louisville are the NY6 representatives. 

-

Big Ten

Penn State 11-1 (7-1) Wisconsin 11-1 (7-1) Michigan State 9-3 (6-2) Ohio State 9-3 (6-2) Iowa 9-3 (5-3) Northwestern 7-5 (4-4) Purdue 6-6 (4-4) Michigan 7-5 (3-5) Minnesota 5-7 (1-7) Indiana 4-7 (1-7) Illinois 2-10 (0-8)

This incarnation of the Big Ten was a huge mess. Ohio State was the league’s best team, but the Buckeyes dropped the ball a few times down the stretch to Penn State and Iowa (plus they got embarrassed by Oklahoma early on). Penn State was 11-0 before falling by a field goal to Michigan State at the end of the year, putting a shoo-in Playoff spot in doubt. Wisconsin is also in the Playoff mix, but the Badgers’ own loss to Ohio State makes their bid also somewhat complicated. Conference stalwarts Michigan State and Iowa obviously impacted the race, but couldn’t muster enough wins to make their own cases.

-

Big 12

North

Iowa State 9-4 (6-2) Kansas State 9-4 (6-2) Missouri 8-4 (5-3) Colorado 7-5 (3-5) Nebraska 4-8 (2-6) Kansas 1-11 (0-8)

South

Oklahoma 13-0 (8-0) Oklahoma State 11-1 (7-1) Texas Tech 8-4 (4-4) Texas 6-6 (4-4) Texas A&M 5-7 (2-6) Baylor 2-10 (1-7)

Big 12 Championship Game: Oklahoma over Iowa State

The Big 12 runs through Bedlam in 2017. Without a trip to Ames, the Sooners barge through the season undefeated. With TCU still in the Mountain West and Kansas State off the schedule, the Cowboys also go 11-0. In a likely top five matchup, OU outpaces their rivals in Norman and secure the Big 12 South. Oklahoma won’t lose to Iowa State in the Big 12 Championship Game. Props to the Cyclones for securing their first ever North title. OU punches their ticket to the Playoff.

-

PAC-10

USC 10-2 (8-1) Stanford 9-3 (7-2) Washington 10-2 (7-2) Washington State 8-4 (5-4) UCLA 6-6 (4-5) Oregon 7-5 (4-5) Arizona State 5-7 (4-5) Arizona 6-6 (4-5) California 5-7 (2-7) Oregon State 1-11 (0-8)

Somewhat in reverse of the previous season, USC wins the conference championship despite Washington really being the better team by the end of the year. The trend of the PAC-10 not being a very good conference is in full swing, so they really had no impact on the Playoff race. With the Rose Bowl hosting a semi-final, the Trojans aren’t even guaranteed a NY6 bid.

-

SEC

East

Georgia 11-2 (6-2) South Carolina 8-4 (5-3) Florida 4-7 (3-5) Kentucky 6-6 (3-5) Vanderbilt 5-7 (1-7) Tennessee 5-7 (1-7)

West

Auburn 10-3 (7-1) Alabama 11-1 (7-1) LSU 9-3 (6-2) Mississippi State 8-4 (4-4) Ole Miss 6-6 (3-5) Arkansas 5-7 (2-6)

SEC Championship Game: Georgia over Auburn

The SEC plays out a lot like it did in real life, with a few key differences. This time around, both Auburn and Georgia enter the game with two losses. The Tigers lost to Clemson and LSU as they did in real life. In this scenario, the Bulldogs lose to Auburn as well as suffer an early loss in Tuscaloosa, which I’m sure would have been an amazing game.

Alabama and Georgia were the best teams in the conference, but the confusing knot involving both these teams and Auburn complicates the Playoff picture. We have the Crimson Tide, plowing their way through the toughest division in football, going 11-0 before dropping the ball in the Iron Bowl. UGA had a slight loss early in the regular season on the road in Tuscaloosa, and a not as slight loss later on to the Tigers. Then they beat Auburn, the only team to beat Alabama, in the rematch in the SEC Championship. The Tigers obviously won’t make the Playoff, but they had an incredible season themselves, going 2-2 against Playoff-bound opponents. That loss to LSU stings a bit, though.

One interesting point is that the bottom half of the SEC actually kinda sucked. They certainly weren’t head and shoulders above the rest of the Power Conferences in 2017 despite all of the fireworks going on at the top.

-

Notable non-BCS Conference Teams

UCF 12-0 (8-0)* Memphis 10-1 (7-1) TCU 12-0 (8-0)* Notre Dame 9-3

*conference champions

2018 was UCF’s “national championship” year, but do the undefeated Knights even get into the NY6 with a 12-0 TCU Horned Frogs team potentially throwing up a road block?

-

Projected CFP Rankings

#1. Oklahoma 13-0 (8-0) #2. Clemson 13-0 (8-0) #3. Alabama 11-1 (7-1) #4. Georgia 11-2 (6-2) #5. Penn State 11-1 (7-1) #6. Wisconsin 11-1 (7-1) #7. Oklahoma State 11-1 (7-1) #8. Auburn 10-3 (7-1) #9. Washington 10-2 (7-2) #10. Miami FL 10-2 (7-1) #11. USC 10-2 (8-1) #12. TCU 12-0 (8-0) #13. Ohio Sate 9-3 (6-2) #14. UCF 12-0 (8-0) #15. Iowa 9-3 (5-3)

Boy, I would not have wanted to be on the Selection Committee this year. They really had their work cut out for them. Oklahoma and Clemson obviously get in as undefeated P5 champions. Alabama should be a no-brainer for the #3 spot as the best team with only one loss. I assume it would be obvious that Wisconsin and Oklahoma State were longshots and would get passed over. So, the tough conversation needs to be had between 11-2 SEC Champion Georgia and 11-1 Big Ten co-champion Penn State. Both teams were REALLY good in 2017. Bulldogs fans probably don’t want to hear it but the Nittany Lions probably were as good as UGA, many of the computers bear this out at least. I think that Georgia gets in based on the strength of their resume. Still, I could definitely see it going the other way. The Bulldogs already had their shot at Alabama and lost. Boy this would have been controversial, even though it is probably the right choice.

As an aside, here’s what the Rankings probably looked like before rivalry week:

#1. Alabama 11-0 (7-0) #2. Oklahoma 11-0 (7-0) #3. Penn State 11-0 (7-0) #4. Clemson 11-0 (7-0) #5. Oklahoma State 11-0 (7-0) #6. Miami FL 10-0 (7-0) #7. Georgia 9-2 (5-2) #8. Auburn 9-2 (5-2) #9. Wisconsin 10-1 (6-1) #10. Washington 9-2 (6-2)

I mean, come on, that’s tough.

Oh yeah, the NY6 bowls. With the Rose and Sugar hosting the semifinals, there are actually a lot of at-large bids to go around.

-

Projected NY6 Games

Cotton Bowl: #5 Penn State vs #12 TCU

I’m betting that TCU gets the G5 bid over UCF. That 12-0 record in Conference USA just doesn’t mean as much. Plus the Horned Frogs were a bit better anyway. Can I say that? I’m saying it. Also Penn State probably crucifies TCU to make a point over getting left out of the Playoff.

Fiesta Bowl: #7 Oklahoma State vs #9 Washington

I like this one. The purest of the Big 12 spread offenses against Washington’s plodding, efficient offense and defense. The computers say the Huskies were a bit better, but I’m really not super confident in UW’s ability to outscore a team like Oklahoma State if their defense gets run out of gas. 

Orange Bowl: #6 Wisconsin vs #10 Miami FL

We had this one in real life. The turnover chain was fun, but Miami couldn’t take the pounding Wisconsin exacts.

Peach Bowl: #8 Auburn vs #20 Louisville

This time, Auburn gets lobbed a softball instead of a a punch to the mouth via a UCF team trying to declare themselves national champions. I assume the Tigers win easily. God bless the Big East.

Rose Bowl (semifinal): #1 Oklahoma vs #4 Georgia

Deja.

Sugar Bowl (semifinal): #2 Clemson vs #3 Alabama

Vu.

This one feels a bit stickier than last 2016, which felt like a slam dunk. Alabama makes the Playoff so I assume they win, but any number of things could have changed the Oklahoma-Georgia outcome. I guess I’ll give the Tide the championship though, they were the best team and they’d have deserved it.

-

I’m feeling pretty good about Bizarro football in the Playoff era. It’s been nearly identical to the real life top 4. This season could have had Penn State over Georgia, but overall the champion wouldn’t have changed.

[sephirothmon]

whenever i have a dream about super mario sunshine and my brain makes up a feature or map or story or anything of it that  doesnt exist and labels it as ‘lost sms feature’ it fills me with so much everything, that its something thatmaybe if things had gone a little different, could exist.

earlier i took a 30 min nap, and in that time my brain told me there was a lost sms feature that included the gameboy advanced camera addon. if you hooked your gameboy up to your gamecube you could import 1 video from the gba camera (not possible to record video on those btw) and send it into sms. when it was sent into sms, a super rare cutscene would play of fludd telling you the video was uploaded, and one or more characters would walk on screen and turn into a little dot that would fly into the video (for this one it was just princess peach). then in the gba video, it would play and the characters would be inserted into the video, kinda like some shit you would make with the ar camera for the 3ds, except they could ‘interact’ with things and change what theyre doing based on whats around them (didnt get far enough in to see this full video). this was the first part of a broadcast on youtube that was a guy explaining little known sms facts btw. he also said that for years and years, there had only been 1 video of this feature ever recorded and put on youtube, by a gaming historian who wanted to record the feature in action, and it was the only way anyone knew about the feature. this was because the switch version removed this camera feature and the cutscenes attached to it.

in the second part of the dream, the announcer talked about how the most beta version of sms known had been reconstructed and modded into the game by a dedicated modder. there was also only 1 crunchy video of this super beta’s existence and a handful of screenshots found on the wayback machine. the story behind the beta is that, in this logic apparently, at this time in 2002 nintendo gave all their betas to a branch in puerto rico for playtesting. this contributed to why no one had footage or information about it, as apparently really close to this time, nintendo would eventually make their playtesting internal (only in japan). in this beta, there was a cutscene that would play at the beginning of the game. mario would be standing on the little island with the swing on gelato beach (for some reason it took place here instead of delfino plaza) and would be introduced to 5 main ‘shine sprites’. these shine sprites were kind of like shine sprite gijinkas but they were also quite literally those two girls from zelda oracle of ages/season (blue and red) plus an older version of saria (green), there was a yellow girl i didnt see, and then the white shine sprite was secretly princess peach. they also all had these outfits that i can only describe as gundam-style kimonos. these 5 ‘shine sprites’ would act like the 7th shine in each area except there are 5 of them and each would give you a long cutscene with lore and further the story, so sms was a lot more rpg like. in the dream, the only thing i saw was the side by side of the old crunchy footage of the cutscene and the crisp bright hd fanmade recreation used in the mod. everything relating to these characters and cutscenes had been cut from the final version of the game also, so the one crunchy video was the only proof they had existed (the video’s existence was also supposedly because it was shown during the playtesting in puerto rico, and someone had managed to record part of  it or a make copy of it that then got kinda messed up, it was 2002)

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking With the Schuylers (49)

It’s here, I finished! Thanks for your patience, this one is an emotional burden, and honestly took a lot of time. But hello to all of  the new readers! I’ve been watching the notifications (thanks for liking, by the way) so thankful that you guys have given this long ass story a chance. This series is my entire heart, so thank you. I appreciate every like, comment...everything. 

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   1112   I  13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18C  I 19   20   21   22   23   24   25  26   27  28   29   I  30  31  32 33 34  35  36  37 38  39 40  41  42 I 43  44  B  45 46  47 48

Tagging: @linsnavi  @workworkbae​ @adothoe @oosnavi​

Warnings: This story is pretty heavy on mentions of both physical and emotional abuse.

“Schuyler Liar? A look into the life, love, and lies of America’s middle daughter.”

Social media was buzzing with a flurry of mixed emotions when James Reynolds, political hopeful, admitted the rekindling of his relationship with Elizabeth Schuyler. The two had called it quits in March based on terms James “couldn’t and still can’t understand.” In September, in flooded news of a new romance for the middle Schuyler. And in November, those rumors were confirmed. From there, Shuyler’s social media has been dotted with photos of herself and Alexander Hamilton, a fellow student at Columbia University. But even these photos, beautifully presented have raised a lot of speculation. The main question? Is Elizabeth Schuyler really dating this poise-less immigrant? Sources have been back and forth on this argument from the day Eliza herself confirmed it. And Mystery Man? His private Instagram has recently been made public, his follower count raising by the thousands.

               But is this all just a publicity stunt? Reynolds says yes. According to an anonymous source, the two have started dating again. And Hamilton? A front. But other sources say that these allegations are also false. And at the center of it all? A red-handed Schuyler, caught in the act of serial dating. All three parties refused to comment on these accusations, Reynolds offering only “If it’s true, if she’s dating someone else, I don’t know what I’ll do. That would break me, I think.”

               What do you think? We think that someone has some major explaining to do.

___

               Madness is a murky pond; stagnant and still, a breeding ground for new life that isn’t quite wanted. The lurking of bacteria within that pond presents itself as a tightened stomach, nerves that roll and flip and eat at the soul. It’s the disguise of something simple that sparks the nerves, paranoia consuming the murky waters until they bubble over with the addition of new rainfall. But this is rain that falls heavy, with gale-force winds and storms that shake the land around her. This madness is a pond wracked by fallen branches. It’s a rain that will not cleanse.

               Eliza spends a majority of her time in a state of busyness; the winter has brought along a lot of busywork she isn’t prepared for. The holiday season, and then Alex’s birthday, had come and gone so quickly that her course work piled up. Now, she sits on it-or, within the depths of it. With a full backburner of work, Eliza finds herself in a state of uncommon disarray; her hair in a messy bun, the canvas bag she uses to tote things back and forth now cluttered with a collection of her week’s discarded items. Empty gum wrappers crinkle as she gets out a book, the floor receiving a coating of glitter from an art project she’d lead in an Early Childhood class. Among these things, charcoals and pens that have lost half their volume, shortened by a newfound flaring of emotions she’s unable to convey through any other means.

               Then, the white journal that Lisa had given her. She’d been asked to use it frequently, with assignments and with the use of another outlet. It’s supposed to help, to clear her mind and give her something to keep herself busy, and grounded to reality. So far, her work had spanned from a quote written in neat handwriting over the front cover (which she’d spent far longer on than necessary) to the first page, which she’d covered in Polaroid photos and similarly picturesque captions. Everything reads sweet, docile. She uses pastel pens and watercolor paints in this book, which she’d presented proudly to Lisa the next session.

               “It looks very well put-together.” She’d turned the journal over in her magenta manicured hands, considering it with a nod and half of a smile before returning it to Eliza’s waiting hands. “Soon, we’ll work on pulling you away from that.”

               Lisa does a lot of half-smiling in the weeks that pass; Eliza’s journal does not get filled, nor does what has been put inside encompass a stitch of her therapist’s expectations. Each week she presents it like a master chef showing off his greatest dish, and each week Lisa nods. She takes notes. She fills up the legal pad she’d opened when they’d first started working together and immediately opens a new one. Her hand can’t seem to stop during their sessions, where Eliza fills Lisa in on her week in broken up fragments, bits and pieces she tosses in to fill the awkward silence.

               “Are you ready to talk about the journaling?”

               Eliza shakes her head.

               “I’m working on it.”

                 Thursday morning has Alexander practically bursting through the door of Starbucks, scanning the tables and couches until he finds her in the back, scribbling in a white book in an enclosed area of the room. He ducks past a line that swivels out the door, grabbing the espresso-laden drink John had made ahead before sinking into the seat across from his girlfriend.

               Eliza doesn’t look up. Her eyes are glued to her book, her hand frozen in time. He clears his throat. She takes in a soft breath, just enough of a clue for Alexander to know that she hasn’t died right there on the unsteady corner table. He presses, saying her name again in a soft and gentle sort of tone before her head snaps up from her work. Eliza’s hands are shaking when she brushes the loose strands of hair from her face, combing it between her fingers before her long, dark locks fall over one shoulder. She tips her head in the opposite direction, leaning over the table for a kiss.

               “How’s work?”

               “Good, I wish I could go in and finish filing those papers though.”

“Does your boss have another stupid, weird task for you to do today? Dusting the ceilings of his office, getting his mail from the P.O box?”  Alex turns his head slightly, subconsciously.

“Liza, it’s Thursday…I have off. We always meet here on Thursdays because of that, before my 7 a.m?”

“You’re right,” She shakes her head. “This whole change of schedule thing is really killing me, I only knew what day it was when I had to say it during morning lesson.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay over last night; our whole electric bill problem? Insane. They had to take the phone from me. Apparently I’m not as calm under pressure as Laff is.”

“You? Stressed? Never.”

She laughs, then, tucks her hair behind her ear again. There’s a crack; somewhere, within the smile that’s not quite hers and the shaking hands that bring a hot cup to peach colored lips. She’s not present in the writing upon it-Soy caramel latte, espresso- that’s not quite right, or in the way that her feet swing slightly under the table. He reaches over to take one of her hands, hold it in his.

“Eliza,” He can only say her name at first, stuck between her eyes and the half of her smile with a gentle sort of unease, one that hits him with only the smallest wave of rolling-stomach nerves. “Are you alright?”

One hand squeezes his. The other cups his face, thumb rolling off of freshly trimmed stubble that bristles as she touches it. She brings her lips to his cheek, lets them linger before releasing herself. There is just enough space between her lip and his cheek for air to pass through, and she speaks to him in a reserved, dulcet sort of tone before kissing him one last time.

“I’m fine.”

His nerves had always been overactive anyway.

                  Emptiness would have been a better companion than this-hell, it had been for a very long time. The more time she spends with Lisa, and on her work, the more she feels the progression of the inevitable collapse. She had been warned. Multiple times, Lisa had taken stock of their conversations and attempted to bring up the change in emotions that would come with the sudden release of what she’d been repressing. Eliza had brushed it off, told Alex and Angelica and Peggy to ignore the words. She’s always been the face of positivity. In a storm, she’s that first heart-stopping breakthrough of a lighthouse’s illuminating guidance.

               She doesn’t feel much like a lighthouse anymore.

               With each passing day; with the conversation crawling deeper, and the darkness cracking through its long-housed hiding place, Eliza feels like she’d like to hide as well. So she does. She fills her schedule with meaningless tasks, highlighted and underlined as if their significance is related to anything but her gradually fraying mental state. There is suddenly too much, yet not enough. Not enough work, not enough of a responsibility outside of herself to maintain. But this state of being is different, trapped between the living and the successful and those just barely scraping by. On any given day these feelings create a dissonance that wracks Eliza’s body with sickness and sucks away the hope. The confidence of success; of receiving a good grade, or reading a positive article written about her (finally, because these are now dwindling), makes her heart soar. But in that same note, that same day, the churning storm that hovers over her soul continues its darkness, takes that lightness and positivity away in one greedy draining of shining water from her shoreline.

               “I need you to think about this for a moment, Eliza.”

               She runs a lot; three miles, then five, and suddenly her feet are pounding against concrete and her heart against her chest and the ten mile mark rolls around and finally, finally, she can’t feel a single thing except the exhaustion that weighs on her bones and the sweat that drips down her nose. It cakes her face in moisture that blends itself with the salt-ridden drops that come from her eyes, osmosis implementing a perfect disguise. There’s a track her feet beat along the pavement; the heat of her frustration could melt the perfection of that shoveled, blackened tar, create craters of catharsis that don’t quite reach high enough into her mind to ebb her issues completely. There aren’t enough hours in the snow-ridden days, aren’t enough degrees on the thermometer to cure everything. She runs anyway. She runs until her cheeks are bitten red with cold, until the snow has penetrated black sneakers and wool-thick socks.

               It feels amazing in the moment. In the moment, with the span of a sparsely populated Central Park is lain out in front of her, Eliza is able  to clear everything else away. There is nothing but the bitter air and her hot breath, rhythmic and visible against the continually grey sky. At first, it’s as if every blog she’d been combing through held a truth comparable to her own; running truly is the best therapy, the curative she’d been looking for all along. It’s a stronger prescription than a silly white journal, or even the sketchbook under her mattress. For Eliza, running is the best therapy until her feet no longer hit the pavement.

               Everything shatters when she enters her apartment again, strips off her sweat-ridden clothes and lets her body adjust to one simultaneous temperature. Without the biting wind or the surroundings of the busy city to distract her, the perfect solution she’d read and prescribed herself to so intensely becomes nothing but an illusion. There is no change in her soul, which is riddled with a hot-breath-in-February swirling, a smoke-and-mirrors game just teasingly perfect enough to hold an addictive property. When she’s home, when her feet are given their long begged-for respite, Eliza wants nothing more than to beat them up again. A shockwave of pain begins to pound up her leg, to knees that pinch and pop in protest. Her soul begs her to continue anyway, to carry on this bodily abuse if only for the temporary relief of her soul.

…

               “I have something to tell you.” Eliza’s soft hum is her response, and she stirs the pot on the stove in concentration. The strain in Angelica’s voice is evident, yet hidden. The wood flooring knocks beneath what Eliza envisions as her sister shifting her weight from foot to foot, focused-or hesitating. She guesses the latter when Angelica lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.

               “You know I love you more than anything else.”

               “Yeah…”

               “And I’ll always be here for you, no matter what,”

               “Did John propose? Because I know you weren’t into that idea but if he did,” She can feel the roll of Angelica’s eyes before she sees it, stops herself mid-sentence and turns back to her work. There is an air about the room, an air between them that Eliza cannot decipher. It is not the golden, shimmering playfulness they’d had as kids, or when Peggy is with them and they’re hit with the freedom to spend the day together. It isn’t the air of purple guidance, a soothing lavender brushing against her porcelain skin when Eliza wasn’t sure if she was going to get into Columbia. It isn’t even the placid sort of mocha, comfort and a coffee shop warmth in just being together. This is something new altogether, a flickering orange that stops and starts itself as Angelica moves herself to stand next to Eliza at the counter. It moves up and down that orange spectrum just slightly as Angelica fidgets; taps her foot, puts a hand on the knob of the stove. It’s in her breathing, slightly irregular, and the press of her darker hand against her middle sister’s.

               “Back in September, I applied for an intensive study abroad program in England. It would mean that I could get my double major completely done instead of having to come back to Columbia next year. I could be in a law firm at the start of next year. I could be heading protests, working with the Association for Women’s Rights in Development. Do you know how many job opportunities are right in this city, how many lives I could change?”

               “So you applied.”

               “I got in.” She nearly whispers the words, as if they are a secret so precious that she must keep them close to her chest. She breathes in, a great upheaval of emotions, before a wide and exuberant grin shift her mature, more collected features. It is a resounding firework of bliss and unfiltered pride that buries itself into Eliza’s stomach, and she begs her own lips to turn up in a congratulations she can barely manage.

               “I’m so happy for you,” this is honest. Her mind repeats the words, holds on to them as her older sister runs through the details with a fine-toothed comb, explaining the process of application and sorting through the emotions that had been running through her head.

               “When I got that letter, I just-I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t know what to do. It’s been a crazy month going back and forth, and John wasn’t happy with me for a really long time. But this is so important to him, and Peggy agreed that it wasn’t fair that you didn’t know, and,”

               “Wait, Peggy knows?”

               “Yeah…yeah, I told her when the letter came in, back when I told mom and dad and they were being crabby about my going across the country with John, as if we haven’t been dating our entire lives.”

               “Oh.” It’s all she can muster. She turns back to the stove, where the soup has begun to bubble up rapidly from the lack of attention she has paid it. Eliza turns the burner down, focuses the turn of her stomach and the prickling of tensed nerves on the stirring of the liquids in the pot.  She pictures her oldest sister, her source of guidance, spending a semester away from her in England. The grin that had encompassed her face, the one that had seemed so different on her typically composed features that would be a common occurrence at Oxford. John had always wanted this, Angelica had pretended not to. Eliza feels the tears before they come, attempts to blink them away.

               It seems silly to cry over something as simple as this; Angelica deserves this happiness, this time apart from the chaos that is erupting. And Eliza is nothing but willing to give it all to her. If it had been her choice, if Angelica had come to her first, she would have sent her on that plane instantly. No matter what. There is a piece of her that realizes that. Angelica moves to hold her, to turn off the burner and wrap her in her arms.

When they were younger, when Eliza was scared or hurt or unable to sleep, she’d crawl under the duvet in Angelica’s room. Her older sister would brush her fingers through her silky hair, press their faces close together and hum words of encouragement through the light innocence of a child’s voice speaking a mother’s words. This feels no different; her tears, although they are few from what she can feel, soak through the shoulder of Angelica’s soft purple work blouse. The material is butter in Eliza’s hands, where she keeps them wrapped tight around her sister’s waist. She longs for the darkened silence of her childhood bedroom, where Angelica had been able to keep her safe from everything with just her words. And then, her weakness snaps with the resistance of a rubber band. Heat encompasses the muscles that had relaxed and numbed with sadness. She pushes herself from Angelica’s embrace, her eyes engulfed with the clouds of a storm.

“Why am I the last person you told?”

“Betsy,”

“No, really. Why? Because it’s not like I’m the last place you’ve visited in a day. You got accepted last month. You’ve been hiding this from me for that long. And not everyone, just me.”

“Eliza, you know it’s harder with you. You’re…it’s different. I can’t just up and leave you, I’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Why, because I’m fragile? Because I’m broken? I’m not a child anymore, Angelica. I’m doing perfectly fine, and you would know that if you spent more time talking to me than at me. I’m not just some project you can throw yourself into because you’re looking for someone to fix. I’m fine, and I’m tired of being treated like I’m not.”

Angelica, wounded from the verbal bullets her red-eyed sister had aimed her way, takes a step back. She gathers her coat, laces her boots, and stands by the door without a single word. She shakes her head, multiple times, as if the motion is settling the jumbled mass of thoughts and emotions that have clouded her usual judgement. The calm, collected state is gone from her mind, replaced with a form of despair as she looks upon her sister’s cracked frame, which is held together by arms that hug herself tight.

“I’ll call you later.” Angelica’s voice is soft, cracking as she closes the apartment door behind her. And when she does call, over and over, Eliza does not answer.

…

               “Breakthroughs don’t just happen with the bare minimum of work. If you choose to ignore this, the loneliness? It’ll only get worse.”

               …

               Monday brings a missed class, Wednesday a canceled date night. By the time Friday rolls around, Eliza claims sickness and burrows herself in a pile of blankets and tea. She attempts to read, but the words on the page dance and rearrange themselves into situations she remembers only in the faint hours of the night, when there is nothing else to distract her. She watches reality television that holds none of her interest, watching beautifully made-up girls try on wedding dresses and fight with their bridal parties over the pros and cons. First there is a low, one that picks at her brain and forces her to place her head upon these bodies, imagine herself in such a state of bliss. But each time she gets close enough to feeling the light that would allow, it disappears.

               The effects of her current state of emotion are instantaneous, and frightening. Eliza lingers in a limbo between them all with no control, begging her brain for release from the heinous behavior she no longer has the will to contain. She will not answer Angelica’s phone calls. She considers skipping brunch. The thought of socialization hangs heavily, exhaustingly over her head. And when she attempts to write in her white journal, it only intensifies.

               She begins with something simple; his name. She writes it over and over, until her hand has memorized the pattern she had known so well. She presses hard with her pen, then soft. She uses writing delicate as spring, with curly letters and hearts, and next to it places the stark contrast of capital letters and roughly pressed ink. She researches, looks up the origin of his name and laughs when it tells her the meaning ‘to overthrow.’ She’s sure the truth is just a coincidence, that the action of taking over her mind isn’t caused by some stupid website on the internet with little historical citation. Her mind must be playing tricks to consider the fact that this one word is exactly what is happening. But then, Reynolds; a powerful ruler.

               She gives up on her little white journal.

               She shuts herself further into her burrow.

               It is a reluctant Sunday brunch, one which she barely remembers through the closed pieces of her mind and the pushing of her fork over another beautifully done vegetarian dish. Her father prods her, reminds her of the chef’s kindness in remembering her dietary choices after all of these years. It is Peggy who drowns the potatoes and tofu in Sriracha and blocks her nose, playfully mocks her sister’s choice over steak and chicken. Eliza holds herself well enough to bring some of the shining light into the photographs they’re asked to take.

               She falls asleep almost instantly when she gets back to her apartment.

               There isn’t enough time in the day to sleep anymore, not when her dreams are restless, filled with dark hands that press themselves too tight, suffocate her until she wakes in choking agony.

…

               “It is not your fault. You did not choose for this to happen.”

               On Monday, after a full week and a half without seeing Eliza, Alexander picks at the spare key dangling from his keyring. He holds it during class, lets it make indents in his palm until he is sure they will be permanent. Her name rings through his mind for the entirety of the day, until he feels a strong and bubbling nausea rise to his throat.

               He excuses himself from his class half an hour early. He makes it to her apartment in record time.

               She isn’t anywhere to be found, and at first he is thankful; maybe she’s in class, or with Angelica. Maybe she’d decided to take the unseasonably warm day to roam the city instead. But the slight differences within his once home are evident, calling him to search further than the kitchen. There are dishes in the sink, a dishwasher full of dirty ones that hadn’t been run yet. There aren’t any blankets on the couch, but a line of teacups take over the coffee table. The floor crunches with a layer of salty outdoor debris, its origin made clear by the shoes that litter every corner except the empty basket they are supposed to be in. Every blanket in the apartment; the one that used to be on the couch, and the armchair, and even one of his own fleece touristy blanket-they’re all discarded on her bed, crafted into a cocoon worn and wrinkled with use. Laundry litters the floor there, too, as if everything she had said to him about discarding his clothes in the bathroom had been a joke.

               The bathroom-when he approaches the door, there is a light shining through its narrow crack. There is no sound; not from the outside, and not after his entrance is announced with the creak of its hinges. He notices her instantly, the way she sits in the middle of the tiled flooring. She is surrounded by papers, papers covered in blacks and blues that have transferred to her arm. From the tips of her fingers to her elbow she is covered in paint, the substance drying and caking itself, consuming. Her head is bent, legs spread as her body stretches over another recently blank canvas. She paints this one a brilliantly crafted grayscale, one that begins with a single speck of white in the center. From there it is a spiral, a blend of darkness that leads to complete black, darker than night and lining the canvas. It traps the brilliance of the white inside of its spiral, keeps it prisoner within itself. Eliza’s brush moves with delicate, shaking strokes as she perfects the lines  , concentrates and hides behind the thin veil of the unruly waves of her hair.

               He is silent. For a moment, he watches her focus, although he is sure by the slow and unnatural rhythm of her breathing that her focus is drawn to something other than acrylic paints and the storm cloud of paints that decorate her arms. Her silence is broken by a minute sound, a sniff that barely reaches the motion of her body. It is enough; enough to bring him next to her on the floor, the bitter cold of the tile seeping through his jeans. Alexander’s voice is just above a whisper when he holds his hand out, asks if he can use the warmth of his touch to break through the numb, unresponsive state she had holed herself up in.

               When his warmth reaches her back, when his hand rubs small circles and his voice takes the place of the stagnant silence she had been living in for a week, her head falls to the floor. His heart, which had all but stopped upon seeing her so still and silent, cracks and throbs as Eliza’s body shakes. She presses one hand to the floor, hitting the brilliance of her painting without noticing, and uses the last ounce of her strength to pull herself into his lap. One cheek presses into his jeans, which are just beginning to lose the chill of the outside air. He uses both hands to support her now, one on her back and the other in her hair, on her waist. He presses her as close to him as he can, feels the feeble weight of her body lose the last ounce of its strength.

               He does not say anything.

               He doesn’t have to.

               For that singular moment, Eliza presses play on her life.

               Alexander transfers her to her bed, presses a kiss to her forehead and promises to return. He cleans the teacups, washes the dishes and starts the dishwasher. He folds the laundry stuck stagnant in the dryer. He cleans the paintbrushes in the sink, watches the water go from clear to murky black and back again. By the time is done, and he pulls the covers back from her bed, Eliza is asleep in the deconstructed cocoon. Alexander lays beside her, and draws her closer.

               Eliza, for the first time in a week and a half, sleeps through the night.

               “Breakthroughs don’t happen in a night. They take patience, time…they take a hell of a lot of work. But if that work is put in, if pain is felt for just a moment, your life could change.

               Take this journal; I need you to remember, Eliza. I need you to feel.”