#someone else pointed this out but it's so funny when one of the big beefy guys growls 'come hither boy' or whatever

[cctinsleybaxter]

I like how 90s parts of furiosa felt but they really had to include 'oh woah the badass warrior is actually a pretty lady with long flowing hair' like at least do a Mulan and have him fall in love with what he thinks is a weird twink.

[pansexualkiba]

i love how utterly fucking abysmal The Wild (2006) is. it's a horrible movie, and not even in a fun way. it's agony to watch. literally don't watch this movie. it's like. okay hold on.

so we all know how Disney's business plans worked in the late nineties to mid oughts, right? here's the big three:

appeal to the teens. because, ysee, word on the cool cat street was that disney just wasnt jivin with those rad hip youngsters, the teens. this was because then-CEO michael eisner learned his teenage son thought disney was like, soooo whatever. so in order to appeal to a wider demographic that potentially had money to spend on disney, Eisner would purposefully have things appeal to teens. or, at least, a 40-year-old's idea of what teens were like in the 1970s.

one-up Dreamworks Pictures. any disney fan will tell you that Michael Eisner and Jeffery Katzenberg were BEEFING, and this was reflected in the Disney-Dreamworks feud, not LEAST of which was that Dreamworks was created because Katzenberg was passed up for CEO in favor of Eisner.

jealousy. the most famous examples of this are Disneyland's California Adventure (a famously California-themed area in the California Disney park in the middle of the California-themed California) and Animal Kingdom (an entire third zoological park built just thirty minutes away from the famously safari-themed Busch Gardens (complete with live giraffes!) in Tampa, FL). if someone else did an idea, Eisner would try to have Disney do it better.

we caught up on that? good. most of you will be pointing something out by now: Eisner left disney in late 2005! The Wild was released in 2006! there's literally no way he could have been involved! which, ignoring how long movies take to make, COULD make this whole thing not an issue... except for one little event that happened in 2005. a little Dreamworks movie that was taking america by storm. the little-known snuff film... Madagascar (2005), released by Dreamworks to insane success. kids LOVED Madagascar, they loved King Julien, they loved the funny talking animals, they loved the use of old songs for fun interstitial plot beats, and they ESPECIALLY loved those silly little spy penguins. critics thought it was juvenile, however, so Madagascar now sits at a middling, but still positive, 55% critical reception on RT.

for a fun game, imagine for yourself what The Wild, released by Disney in 2006, could have a rating of. Go ahead, without looking it up, guess. we'll come back to that.

now, what i'm saying here isn't substantiated and the timeline doesn't exactly work, but hear me out. The Wild was often criticized for ripping off not only similar to Madagascar, but also The Lion King. Disney and Dreamworks's little pissing contest wasn't exactly subtle, and Eisner's jealousy when he saw how that stupid little animal movie was going over like gangbusters would've been enough for him to greenlight a similar idea, but with that little disney twist. and then he left, like a rat on a ship.

let's discuss the plot of The Wild.

we hear Samson the Lion start with telling someone a story about a previous fight he had had in The Wild, which is apparently just Africa. the logo is happening, yknow with the little firework line making an arc over the castle? except the much-younger teenage son then keeps interrupting by saying he's heard this story, and the firework keeps getting pulled back to the start in Comedic Fashion. the story is about how Samson, who apparently has sonic fucking roars, sent a bunch of wildebeests flying into the horizon, but then they had a big beefy furry wildebeest in the background who was like 46 feet tall. the son, Ryan the Lion, says he can feel the roar coming up, and Samson tells him to let loose, and Ryan does an alley cat soundbite because they didn't want to go to the Central Park Zoo and record actual lion cub noises.

By the way, this movie IS, in fact, opening in the Central Park Zoo. because we couldn't be more obvious. Samson the Lion is appropriately very famous, but not more famous than Nigel the Koala (voiced by Eddie Izzard), who is the basis of "the most popular doll in america", a pullstring plush koala that has two phrases: "I'm so cuddly; I like you!" and "I'm having a really nice day!". anyways, similar to madagascar, when the Central Park Zoo closes for the night, all the animals just get out and mingle. every single animal has a very distinct accent for some reason, as well??

anyways we're at this point introduced to the other main characters and their running jokes: Benny the Squirrel, whose joke is that he can't take a fucking hint; Bridgette the Giraffe, who is every sitcom woman in one and the unwilling target of Benny's affections; Nigel, who is extremely surly and the worst character in the movie; and Larry, a burmese python whose running gag is that he's stupid but sometimes he says something smart.

i'd like to just take an aside here to tell you all that Larry, despite being the idiot comic relief, ended up being my favorite character in the entire movie because the movie keeps forgetting he's supposed to be stupid?? like he'll just keep being very observant, but because every so often he'll drift into a nonsequitor all of his friends will angrily tell him to shut the fuck up, but it's like - bro he's the only one who's making sense. like at the end of the movie he puts forward an idea and before anyone can respond he goes "yeah, yeah, i know, shut up Larry :(" and it's like. bro get better friends.

anyways through a wacky series of events, Ryan's attempts to stop his friends from causing a Gazelle stampede cause the gazelles to stampede, and despite all of Ryans efforts to stop the stampede he caused, they run through the Turtle Curling competition the Samson is trying to win, costing Samson the Big Game, which means we gotta have Samson and Ryan having a big fight. i should mention that Ryan is insecure that he can't roar despite literally being prepubescent, and Samson is just like "are you acting up all because you can't roar?!" like DUDE THAT IS YOUR SON AND HE IS EIGHT. HIS VOICE HASN'T EVEN CRACKED YET.

Ryan then runs off to the green shipping crates that are being sent to New York's Harbor, and Samson and Benny go off to save Ryan after the workers somehow fucking miss the lion cub sleeping in broad fucking daylight. the dynamic duo is then joined by Bridgette (who knocks Benny off the truck), Nigel, and Larry. we then get a montage set to, and i am not fucking kidding, Clocks by Coldplay, where the animals experience the mysteriously-empty Times Square for the first time. more uhhhhh Wacky Hijinks ensue, and the rescue party are too late to get onto the cargo ship heading to africa, so they COMANDEER A PONTOON and tail the ship - after Benny rejoins them.

and here's where it gets to the point where i realized this movie was trying TOO hard to be dreamworks. if you'll recall, dreamworks likes to sneak in adult jokes, like famously Shrek looking at Duloc and going "do you think he's compensating for something". yknow, little innuendos like that.

Benny, having ridden in on a flock of Canadian Geese that mysteriously vanish after this scene after being hired as navigators, turns to Bridgette and, in an attempt to flirt with her, says that he's an expert goose rider, and that he rides bareback, and then slaps his flank.

it was becoming clear to me that every character was slowly becoming unmanageable to feel sympathy for.

after what would be, realistically, a few months - much too long for a pontoon to remain fueled, and WELL too long for a ship with passengers and sans supplies to remain populated, they reach the shores of Africa, which is... well it's not the shores of Madagascar, despite it literally being exactly like that scene in Madagascar where the animals are beholden to the rich jungles of madagascar. but for some reason this area of Africa not only has rich jungles, but ALSO an ACTIVE VOLCANO centrally located in the jungle. this is the purpose of the green transport crates: the wild animals are being rescued from an impending eruption. this is never brought up, but Ryan confuses the situation despite spending LITERAL MONTHS on that ship and potentially- actually

now that i'm writing this out, HOW DID NO ONE ON THE FUCKING SHIP. NOTICE THEY HAD AN ADOLESCENT LION CUB ON THE- THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE EMPTY CRATES. THEY WOULDN'T HAVE. NOTICED THE. LION CUB???? PROBABLY MEWLING FOR HELP???? IN A CONTAINER WITH OPEN-AIR WINDOWS????? BRO????

anyways Ryan runs into The Wild, and Samson and friends run after Ryan but lose him somehow. Samson, whose main character trait is that everyone else is saying that he always talks about being a real child of the Wilderness (notice that Samson himself never backs this up), eventually comes clean about his past after a scene with a hyrax that goes WAY too long in anyone's opinion - Samson was sold to the zoo after being raised in the circus. Samson was Ryan's age, as in like eight years old, when he was forced to attempt to roar in front of an audience, and when he couldn't because he was eight, he was SOLD TO THE ZOO. and his father's parting words were "if you had been born in the wild, you would have been able to roar" LIKE SIR YOUR SON IS STILL A CHILD DOMESTICATION DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN'T FUCKING- HELLO???

anyways everyone treats this as some Big Betrayal, and Samson goes off on his own to find Ryan. meanwhile Nigel gets kidnapped by wildebeests.

yes, there are wildebeests living in this fucking jungle.

Nigel is then brought to the ACTIVE VOLCANO, where the WILDEBEESTS HAVE STARTED A DEATH CULT. they are led by William Shatner Wildebeest whose name i have forgotten because despite being the main antagonist he was revealed fifty minutes into a seventy-minute movie. turns out, one of those Nigel dolls fell off of a cropduster plane over this nondescript african jungle, interrupting a lion hunt against this wildebeest despite the fact that neither of these animals live in the jungle. the pullstring then scared the lions into fleeing, and Shatbeest took this as an OMEN FROM GOD to START A DEATH CULT where ALL WILDEBEESTS WILL BECOME CARNIVORES AND ALL LIONS WILL BECOME HERBIVORES. also he made a whole song out of the "I'm having a really nice day!" voiceline complete with choreography. this is somehow not only plot important but also instrumental in his downfall.

anyways Nigel immediately gets drunk with power because he has no morals and is the worst character in the movie.

the wildebeests kidnap Bridgette and Larry and knock Benny out. have you noticed Benny just keeps getting put offscreen so he can solve the plot later? anyways Samson hallucinates dr seuss colors because he's activating his "predator instincts" to find his cub, which - red flag - but it also works. and then the wildebeests kidnap ryan after throwing Samson off a cliff, and you would not believe how much i wanted him dead so the movie would be over.

it was around this time that i realized i would much rather watch cars 2 again. my girlfriend had long since admitted that.

Benny wakes up in the middle of a bunch of German scarabs (who are all like. yodelling milkmaid types?????) who thought he was shit, and tbh yeah good call, but anyways Benny wakes up Samson who is somehow completely unharmed from being dropped off a cliff with an entire tree on top of him. Samson then has a tangible hallucination pointing them to the volcano, which he and Benny both see.

Nigel meanwhile actually has to weigh the pros and cons of siding with the wildebeests and watching them cook and eat his friends, or saving his friends. Shatbeest meanwhile REALLY wants to eat a LITERAL COWERING CHILD.

outside the volcano, we find out that Samson's hallucinations are a LITERAL LEGION OF SECRET AGENT CHAMELEONS who are trying to get people to defeat the wildebeests - which, like, WHY DID YOU NEED THESE TWO YOKELS???? YOU'RE LIKE. THERE'S A WHOLE JUNGLE OF POORLY-PLACED ANIMALS. THERE ARE OTHER LIONS IN THE JUNGLE SURELY. WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LIONS IN THE FLASHBACK??

anyways the chameleons can make benny and samson invisible by covering them and going transparent. obviously.

the finale is incredibly like. it's such a nothing finale. the chameleons barely factor into it?? like Benny and Samson are just suddenly there, and Shatbeest keeps physically overpowering Samson and later Ryan, but Shatbeest angers the other wildebeests because one of them couldn't get the choreography right and so he's kicked towards the sacrifices as one of them. and then Ryan is like "aw dad... i wish you had the father i had. :(" which like. WHEN was it explained to you what happened with your dad. you were JUST told that your dad was born in captivity you don't know WHAT HAPPENED you just IMMEDIATELY went to being mean to him. and that inspires the wildebeests to turn on Shatbeest because this is the lion king so we gotta have that hyenas eat scar scene. but then the volcano, the LITERAL ACTUAL VOLCANO EVERYONE'S BEEN INSIDE OF THIS WHOLE TIME, starts to erupt, and Shatbeest is crushed under rocks.

everyone gets to the pontoon, and Samson, Ryan, the group, the wildebeests, and for some reason the chameleons all escape just as the island erupts, and it's like, fuck all the other bitches right? anyways then we have a heartfelt moment immediately undercut by the animated movie dance party ending where Nigel the koala just starts twerking. Benny stops being sexist out of complete nowhere despite never learning his lesson and this is completely undercut by Bridgette kissing him and revealing she was into being objectified this whole time, she just wanted Benny to be Woke about it. every single character in this movie was awful (except Larry i just feel bad for him) and in my mind the movie ends with that fucking pontoon sinking in the middle of the atlantic for exceeding its weight limit.

it's such a nothing movie. every scene feels like it's from something else. my girlfriend maintains that everyone who defends this movie is a corporate shill. my experience with this movie was i watched it multiple times as a kid, and i had somehow convinced myself this WASN'T a disney movie and was instead made by one of those low-budget studios that makes a single animated film before vanishing forever. it feels like a parody of itself, like someone had made a prior movie that doesn't exist that they then warped with ten consecutive funhouse mirrors.

it feels like michael eisner's teen son tried to make madagascar but Edgy.

and now we come back to the fun game from before the cut. what was the number you came up with on rotten tomatoes? what would rotten tomatoes rate this movie that has effectively been scrubbed from disney's records? Madagascar has 55%, what could its ugly step-reflection be?

...well that's not good.

[marlynnofmany]

A Peaceful Upheaval

The mutiny started politely enough. This was a courier ship, not some rowdy bandit cruiser, and the dozen or so people onboard approached the situation with all the calm levelheadedness of businessfolks at a board meeting. The captain was new. He was bad at this. He’d only gotten the job because his cousin had recommended him, and she was probably regretting that.

“We will discuss the matter with Captain Kamm when we land,” said Piercing Sunlight, the lizardlike Heatseeker with bright yellow scales. She was taking point in the conversation.

“Kamm doesn’t have to hear about this,” objected Captain Pockap, his green tentacles lashing in agitation. “All of you need to go back to your stations and reconsider how you talk to your captain.” He looked like an octopus with freckles, and he sounded like a petulant child.

“Did you not hear the statement?” Zhee asked with an irritated click of his pincher arms. His patience never seemed lengthy, but now it was getting shorter by the minute. “You are no longer our captain. We have decreed it.” His exoskeleton shone with purple glory, and he radiated annoyance.

The rest of the crew spoke up, agreeing in one way or another. Teeth were bared, and body parts I didn’t have made increasingly urgent threat displays.

I, the only human and the newest arrival to the team, stayed well in the back. This really wasn’t my business. I didn’t have much of a say. And I didn’t like the direction it was going.

When Pockap the ex-captain started yelling, I gave up on playing silent witness and ducked into the next room. I’d seen him pull a tiny stun gun out of nowhere before, hidden among his tentacles, and I didn’t like the odds of him opening fire on the crew.

Just as I thought that, he yelled “Who emptied the charge in this??” Then came the loud slap of a tentacle against someone’s face, followed by insulted gasps and an open brawl.

I edged farther from the door, looking around and realizing I’d trapped myself in the storage room where the extra stun guns were kept. Great choice. Stellar. And there was only one door.

Time to be a hide-and-seek champion, I thought as the sounds of alien violence grew closer. Somebody else gets to wrestle the octopus with the gun.

My hiding options weren’t great: under a table, behind a crate, maybe inside a cabinet, and the ventilation shaft was too small. The table and crate were terrible coverage. The cabinet with the stun guns was close to the door, but the one against the far wall looked big enough. I dashed over and flung it open.

Yup, that’ll do. Only the bottom shelves were full; the top three held just a couple stray tools, and I knew from time spent cleaning that the shelves were removable. I yanked out the top ones, stashed them below, then climbed in to curl up in a space that was roomier than my childhood closet. I crouched among wrenches and whatever, watching through the air slits as I pulled the door shut, making sure to keep it from latching. Locking myself in was another problem I didn’t need.

Speaking of problems, I thought as Pockap spun into the room, his green tentacles thrashing against Mur’s dark blue ones in a cartoonish tumble. I’d never seen two Strongarms fight before. It was kind of funny. They were slapping at each other’s faces and going for eye gouges, which meant neither could see where they were going. They knocked over the table and spread tools all over the floor before anyone else caught up.

When the twin Frillians waded in to break it up, followed by other beefy crewmembers, an unfortunate development happened: Pockap found a stun gun.

“Back off!” he shouted, blasting the nearest Frillian in the face and wriggling free of Mur’s grasp. Mur ducked behind a box while the other Frillian caught her frozen brother before he could hurt himself against the floor. Pockap froze her too, then brandished the gun at everyone else, yelling about how much the stun would hurt when it wore off, and how they had better respect him or else.

I held very still inside my cabinet.

What can I do? I thought. Too bad I can’t call the other ship from here. Nobody’s told Kamm yet. I shifted in place to keep my feet from falling asleep, and nudged the random tools I hadn’t cleared out. I froze at the scraping noise.

No one heard; they were all busy shouting at each other.

What even is this one — Oh hey. I rested my hand on the distinct shape of another stun gun. Whoever put things away last time did a terrible job, and I thank them for it.

I held it up in the dim light. Half power. Good enough for self defense. Or…

“One step closer and you’re spending the rest of the trip as a statue!” Pockap was yelling. “Only thawing out to hurt before getting frozen again!”

I opened the door just enough to snake my arm through, aimed, and zapped him in the back of the head.

Pockap froze mid-rant, and slowly toppled forward. Stunned silence filled the room until somebody saw my hand.

“Ha!” Sunlight laughed. “Is there a human in there? How did you fit? Great shot.”

I opened the door the rest of the way to loud approval, with half the crew exclaiming over the way their tall new crewmate folded up so well, and the rest dealing with Pockap’s mess.

“No amicable splitting of ways for this one,” Mur declared, cradling a sprained tentacle. “I won’t be writing him a reference.”

“No, I don’t think any of us will,” Sunlight said. She gazed at him thoughtfully as I climbed down. “Let’s call Kamm. No point in waiting til we land; she’ll want to know.”

“I’ll put the stun guns away,” I volunteered. “This cabinet is full of things in the wrong place.”

“Thank you,” Sunlight told me. “How did you fit in there? You have bones. Have you practiced hiding in tight spaces before?”

“No more than the next person,” I said. “Though I was really good at hide-and-seek as a kid.”

The lizardy alien blinked at me. “Hide and what?”

“It’s where everybody hides and one person has to find them,” I explained. “Then the last person found has to take a turn as the seeker.”

Zhee tipped the table back upright with his pincher arms. “Half of that sounds like a standard predator game, but I can’t imagine taking turns being prey too. How embarrassing.”

I shrugged. “If you say so. It was pretty useful today.”

“Yes,” Sunlight said with a smile. “You’re only prey until you decide otherwise! That’s the spirit. Well, we’re grateful for your childhood practice today. Let’s get this  unworthy individual locked up, then talk strategy. I have some ideas of how we can improve on Pockap’s business plan that I think everyone will be on board with.”

I had no doubt. Captain Piercing Sunlight would be a much better leader than her predecessor.

She started off by giving me a bonus for putting my skills to good use, so clearly she was very wise.

~~~

The further adventures in backstory for the book! There’s more to come.

[sleepysnk]

i can't stop thinking about cockwarming for some reason, so here are some headcanons to feed you all! ✨

Cockwarming Headcanons

Characters: Eren, Jean, and Reiner

Warnings: NSFW

Eren Jaeger:

- ohhh boy, cockwarming with our boy Eren? this is such an absolute delight let me tell you.

- Eren loves when you cockwarm him, he loves the way your walls suck him in, or the way you cry out in pleasure whenever he shifts his hips around. he also loves when you flutter around him randomly, it makes him feel so good.

- he usually let's you cockwarm him whenever he's playing video games or when he's fresh out of the shower, sometimes he'll do it as a punishment if you're being too needy.

- if he's feeling really cocky, he'll sit you in front of the mirror while his cock is buried inside of you and make you watch your cunt quiver around his dick. occasionally he'll play with your clit or dirty talk to you to get you going, trust me, this man knows how to make your brain turn to mush.

- "you like my cock inside you like this princess? you have such a tight little pussy,"

- if you even roll your hips against his cock, he'll literally hold your hips so you can't move. he's such a fucking tease and don't even think about cumming, he won't let you.

- every so often he'd move his hips around to feel you deeper, he also loves to see your facial expressions whenever he thrusts.

- eventually, Eren would finish the job and grind your hips against his cock, but he wouldn't go extremely fast. he wants to savor the feeling of the slow, sensual, parts of you.

- sometimes if you sit on his lap wearing a skirt, he'll move your panties aside and let you sit on his cock, plus it hides anything that may be suspicious to others ;).

- Eren wouldn't let you cockwarm him in public, there's too many risks, but he has thought about it before. he thinks it'd be funny to watch you try and suppress any moans, he is such a tease like that.

- when you both cum it is the hottest thing ever, the orgasms hit different, and you're both left feeling amazing.

- someone make this happen with me and Eren, thanks.

Jean Kirstein:

- cockwarming Jean is such a hot and sexy experience, you will not be disappointed when you do it with him.

- Jean thinks cockwarming is the hottest shit ever, he thinks that just letting you sit on his cock without any movement is an amazing way to tease the fuck out of you. he loves when you do it or when he does it to you, there's no in between, this man will love it either way.

- Jean likes to cockwarm you during sex or he'll do it after a long day of work or classes, just feeling your pussy surround his cock, all wet and dripping, it drives him nuts and he can't resist. during sex it's hotter because he's already stimulated you enough, and cockwarming? it'll make you go crazy.

- you once did it in the car..

- "i love your pussy baby girl.. you're so fucking pretty like this,"

- Jean doesn't like if you start moving around, so sometimes he'll sit up and wrap his arms around your back so you can't move. he wants you to be sensitive and beg for it, whenever you beg him to let you cum, he swore he'd cum right then and there.

- sometimes he'll tease you and act like he's going to move, but he never actually goes through with it. your whines are the hottest thing ever, it makes his dick twitch.

- eventually, he'd get bored of what he's doing and he'll start pounding into you, it takes you by surprise but nonetheless is it hot and you feel so good. he spanks you and rubs your clit so you'll see stars 😩.

- Jean likes to put a blanket over you when you're cockwarming him, it's fun to hide, and he has a great view of your clit right in front of him.

- he would like to do it in public, the idea of you being flustered and all messy for his cock in public makes him go crazy. he thinks it'll be fun if someone is watching or potentially getting caught.

- when you cum, Jean groans really loud, it feels like he was holding something in and it just feels so good whenever you two cum. he could make you squirt 😩.

- jfc get him to me now.

Reiner Braun:

- oh boyyy, Reiner fucking Braun and cockwarming? you are in for a fucking treat let me tell you right now.

- Reiner is a huge fan of cockwarming, he thinks that having his cock inside of you with zero movement is hot. he also likes the intimacy of it all, this man is a huge love bug, so he's definitely a fan besides all of the sexual reasoning.

- Reiner cockwarms you whenever you two have sex or whenever you're cuddling, if things get heated, he'll move your panties aside and let you sit on his cock. he loves your pussy and the way it feels, it takes a lot inside of this man to not move or go down on you.

- the amount of times you've done it at someone elses house.

- "that's right princess, take my fucking dick."

- Reiner has a big dick dude, he's thick, and i just know that you'd struggle to not move. whenever you do, your brain goes all dizzy and you can't help but cry his name because his dick just hits all the right places. he usually let's you slowly grind against him, but otherwise, you gotta sit and take it.

- overstim to the max 😩 he'll rub your clit or whisper dirty things in your ear.

- there is a point where Reiner is gonna be impatient and just start fucking you, this man cannot resist how you feel around him, so he'll just start guiding your hips along his cock or he'll start bouncing you on him.

- Reiner likes when you wear a short dress because he can slip his cock into you quickly, and you can hide it with your clothes. plus he can see your ass 👀

- just like Jean, Reiner will definitely want to cockwarm you in public. there has been occasions where you two have done it at someone's house, of course no one noticed, but you could barely act like yourselves because it was so good.

- Reiner loves when you cum on his cock after cockwarming, he cums a lot, and he'll most likely cum inside you because of that breeding kink 😩.

- i love big beefy bf Reiner

[beastenraged]

Spring Tide

@hallowed-nebulae

Oops.

Demyx is definitely not supposed to be here. 

Guess he screwed up going that water-spiral-thing. Ended up...here. Wherever here is. 

What a nice fountain this is, big enough for several people to stand in it. Surrounded by blooming flowers and carved up with all kinds of fairy pictures. 

He traces a carving, humming to himself. What a nice place, full of the magic that tugs at his gills and encourages his scales to grow. The fountain’s water is especially full of magic in particular, splashing onto him. 

“There’s someone in the fountain.”

Hm? A person? Who is that? Demyx looks over to see two people looking over at him. A muscly man, with black hair and freckles. Blue eyed too? Blacksmith looking guy. The other Demyx actually knows. 

That blue hair and the hum of that Heart...even if a lot else is different, Demyx would know who that is anywhere!

“A baby Saix!” He waves. 

The baby Saix stares at him. Almost the exact same glare too, funny. “It’s Isa.” 

Demyx bobs his head in a nod. “Right, right, Isa.”

His scales are itching up his neck right now. Clear and obvious for everyone to see, like his exposed gills. 

“Isa, do ya know this person?” The beefy man asks the baby Saix.

“He doesn’t,” Demyx says cheerfully before he can answer. “Don’t worry about it!”

“He knows a different me,” Isa confides in the man. Low enough that a non-Nobody wouldn’t catch it over the rushing water. Not that Demyx cares to point that out. 

“Still, sharing names ca’ be dangerous.”

“I’m Demyx,” Demyx offers. He takes out Arpeggio, strums it. “If you want a name from me.”

“Alright. That doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

“Accident.” Demyx strums a long chord, start humming a tune. Building up the magic in it. Maybe he should sing-

“Mind not doing that around here?” The man asks. 

Oh, right. People don’t like when strangers start using magic randomly, without letting them know why they’re there.

“Right, my bad!” Demyx lets Arpeggio fades away, running his gloved fingers along the slick rock making up the fountain. Sitting down on the watery sill. 

“You can come out, you know.” 

He flaps a free hand. “Nah, I’ll just stay right here!”

Don’t want to risk missing the loop that got him here appearing in the fountain without him. Also, the water’s not too bad. He’s waterproofed his coat well enough and his overcoat will just take it in for later magic usage.

His overcoat’s a new one, patterned lace with seashells and waves and maybe a crescent moon or two. But who’s counting? Who cares? Just Demyx, that’s all. 

The fountain burbles out slowly with water. 

Lazy. Just like him. 

Splash splash goes the water. 

“Oh, who’s that?” Demyx perks up, looking at the newcomer with silver hair and a red scarf. 

“I’m Ephemer,” the newcomer offers. “Who are you?”

“Demyx.” There’s a grey cat off to the side, watching them with thread blue eyes. “Oh, a Chirithy!”

The word comes out without him even knowing where it’s from. Inwardly he shrugs. Done a lot of stuff like that, it’s fine. Part of being a Nobody for Demyx. 

The two kids exchange glances while the adult watches him carefully. In case he moves out of the water probably. The Chirithy looks him over. 

“Heya, how’re you doing? Working hard?” Demyx asks. 

“You don’t seem the type to work at all, but want all the benefits anyway.” The Chirithy tilts their head. 

Demyx deflates. “Aw man, do you have to say it like that? Ouch.”

“Sorry,” the cat eventually says. In the end. After their silver haired owner nudges them with a foot slightly. 

“Sure, whatever.” Hm, it’s getting boring just sitting in the wet without playing any music. His gills flutter as he scratches the back of his head. 

There is one thing he can. 

“Soooo...” he draws out. “Want any sea salt ice cream?”

Baby Saix jerks. “What? Why even offer that?”

Demyx digs into his pockets, pulls out a bag. Holds it up. “Have a stick!”

Silence. 

Ephemer speaks. “Uh, it’s not blue? That’s brown. I thought it was blue.”

“Huh. So it is.”

The ice cream’s for Saix anyway. He’s sure the man won’t mind if a different Saix ends up with it in the end. 

A little explanation, maybe. It’s sea salt ice cream from the world Demyx just visited/fell out of. But also not because he’s too lazy to actually find a store that sells the stuff in whatever world he’s visiting. 

Nah, he finds an ice cream place with a willing maker/crafter/whatever who’ll try making him sea salt ice cream from pure description. 

Demyx’s returned with some pretty interesting combinations that way. Like this one, not quite blue.

Look, it’s nothing special. Not really. Demyx isn’t even doing any real work, he’s making other people do the work of creating the ice cream. Most of the time it isn’t any good and Demyx just gets to see Saix’s face screw up in disgust at the experimental taste. 

Just a joke, just funny. 

“It’s homemade,” Demyx tries, shaking the bag. “I’m bringing it for my Saix, the look on his face is going to be hilarious.”

“Your Saix?” Baby Saix, Isa, lifts an eyebrow.

Ephemer, on the other hand, looks almost delighted. “You’re dating him?”

“...maybe?” Demyx tries, suddenly feeling wrong-footed. “What, you want to give me a shovel talk about it?”

Joke’s on them, Rinoa already did that. 

“No. Just...” Baby Saix looks pained. “How would I ever want to date someone like you?”

Ah. “Well, I blackmailed him first.”

The looks on their faces-! Demyx almost folds over laughing. Waves a hand. “Nah, nah, it was more than that. I guess it was...”

He looks over at the fountain he sits in, the spray creating a rainbow. “Saw him in a different light, I suppose. He cares a lot but doesn’t care a lot about himself.”

Demyx shrugs again, putting his hands behind his head. His scales are probably pink at this point, oh well. “Need someone lazy like me to remind him to relax. Every once in a while. That’s all.”

“I see,” the grown man says, nodding his head. And it looks like he might, unlike the teenagers. “Yah didn’t use magic on ‘im or anythin’ like that?”

Demyx gives out a surprised laugh. “Nope! Saix would go berserk on my ass if I tried that, ha! The thought!”

Fizzy at the edges. Guess his time is up. 

He tucks the bag of ‘sea salt’ ice cream away. Stands up straight. 

“Guess it’s time to go! May your heart being your guiding key!”

Fade. Gone. 

Back where he should be. 

(”Demyx, this tastes like caramel. Did you ask for sea salted caramel?”

“Oops! I might have. Taste good?”

“...not too bad. Come here.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t thank you!”

“You didn’t have to.”)

[skepticbeliever-bookclub]

Hey, I was wondering if you guys some fics about opposite attract between Shane and Ryan? Thanks

that first, initial feeling - varnes | E, 21k, Complete

“You’re called the Treasure Chest,” Shane says blankly to the man behind the counter, who is looking at him with a completely neutral expression. His name tag suggests that he is called Ryan. “It’s -- literally every sex shop in the history of sex shops was called The Treasure Chest. I’m pretty sure it’s in the by-laws.”

“The by-laws ... for sex shops?” Ryan asks.

Shane fixes him with a look. He sells crystals, which means he’s a con man, which means he’s a deviant of at least some kind, which means he’s been to a sex shop and he knows exactly what Shane means. “Listen,” Shane says, and then nothing else, because Ryan The Counter Man pulls an arm behind his head to stretch and the sight of his surprisingly beefy arms short-circuits Shane’s brain.

The man blinks patiently at him. “I’m listening,” he says, encouragingly.

OR: An AU in which Ryan runs a crystals store, and Shane is beguiled by him anyway.

how big your heart can get (with a little water and sunshine) - abovetheruins | E, 18k, Complete

In which Ryan deals with a new neighbor, nosy employees who care a little too much about his love life, and flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.

Crystal Clear - punk_rock_yuppie | T, 6k, Complete

Shane’s first thought when he sees the guy is, you don’t belong here. His second thought is, arms.

Shane works at a wellness shop. Ryan is a customer.

flitting eyes, fast beating hearts - popkin16 | E, 12k, Complete

Paranormal investigator Ryan Bergara is forced to spend the night with his rival, professional nonbeliever Shane Madej.

Great. Just great.

Resuscitation, Sounding Heartbeats - Steeella | M, 17k, Complete

"Very funny," he said shakily, looking nervously at the pair. Shane was now avoiding his gaze, not the usual emotion for someone who just pulled a wicked prank. "Yeah, that’s a good one. Now, we need to decide-"

"I’m not joking, Mr Bergara," Madame Alexandrina said. "Or should I say, Mr. Bergara-Madej."

And oh, fate was nasty. Because now the name that had chased Ryan’s nightmares and taunted him wherever he went was the second half of his own.

He really ought to have learned to read the terms and conditions.

Little Bit Magical - blacktofade | E, 19k, Complete

Shane is a demon in need of healing and Ryan just so happens to have magic that can heal him. When Ryan needs protection from someone trying to steal his soul, they strike a deal to save each other.

stay the night with the sinners - bodhirookes | E, 85k, Complete

“Enjoy recess?”

Ryan doesn’t recoil, even as his stomach does. “Yes.”

Shane Madej doesn’t back down at the cold, one-worded answer. On the contrary, it makes his grin widen until Ryan can see every single one of his big, pointed teeth.

“I’m sure the City of Angels really does it for you, Bergmeister. Lots of innocent, impressionable souls. It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet out there.”

“Sounds like it’s more your speed. And don’t call me that—I’ll light you up with Holy Fire before you even have the time to take it back.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Shane cooes, stooping closer. Ryan hates him, hates the icy-hot cavity that forms in his gut at the sight of his unruly hair and his black, black eyes. “L.A.’s big enough for the both of us, sweetheart. We can share.”

Or, Steven Lim, an angel, and Andrew Ilnyckyj, a demon, flee Heaven and Hell to be together, and Ryan Bergara, an angel, is forced to serve on the jury for their trial. He hates every single second of it, and Shane Madej, one of the oldest Greater demons around, is constantly there to remind him why Heaven and Hell should never be allowed to fraternize.

Why Don't You Get Up and Make Me? - Golden4278 | E, 33k, Complete

A woman’s body is found at the bottom of a staircase with multiple blows to the head. Her husband was the only witness. Straightforward murder case, right? Prosecutor Shane Madej thinks so. Maybe it’s not so simple. Ryan Bergara is a defense attorney seeking redemption after a recent fall from grace. He knows his client is innocent, but how far is he willing to go to prove it? Can Shane protect Ryan from the truth while maintaining his professionalism? And can the two rivals keep their hands off each other in the process?

Lost a fic? Check out our fic found tag, and if you still can’t find it, send us an ask!

[vannahfanfics]

The Sacred Art of Hamburger-Making

Category: General Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Momo Yaoyorozu, Denki Kaminari, & Hanta Sero

Hey, hey, everybody! This is the second story I wrote for @cuizineco​’s Heroes in the Baking zine, which is free to download!

Momo hummed under her breath as she filed her nails, sitting between Hanta and Denki on the common room sofa. The air was filled with clacking and clicking as the two boys feverishly jabbed the buttons and spun the joysticks on their controllers; both of their eyes were fixed on the martial arts video game they were embroiled in. Momo enjoyed the rare instances where they came down to the common room to play; she found something about their competitive energy so invigorating, especially after a hard day’s training. 

Just as she had finished buffing her shiny, neatly-trimmed nails, a deep voice boomed from the television to announce with dramatic fervor, “Fatality!” while thick red blood splattered the word across the screen. Hanta jumped up from the couch with a triumphant crow, nearly flinging the controller as he flung his hands into the air, while the defeated Denki melted into the couch cushions with a groan. 

“Don’t worry, Denki. You’ll beat him next time,” Momo encouraged with a sweet smile. 

“No, he won’t, because he’s a loserrrrr!” Hanta teased while making an L-shape on his forehead with his fingers. Denki stuck out his tongue angrily to his friend before humming thoughtfully. 

“Man, we’ve been playing for hours. I’m starving… You know what I could go for right now? A big, greasy, cheesy, American-style hamburger,” he sighed dreamily, salivating at the words alone. Momo perked up, her interest piqued. 

“Oh, I’ve never had a hamburger before.” 

If they were on a comedy show, one would have heard a record scratch. Denki’s head whipped around to stare at her with owlish eyes for a second before he chuckled magnanimously and slipped his arm around her slim shoulders, his expression melting into one a mixture of pity and mischievousness. 

“Momo. Dear. Honey. You’ve never had a hamburger?” the blond asked in a polite but disbelieving voice. Unsure what all the fuss was about, Momo slowly shook her head. 

“Now that’s what I call a got-damn tragedy,” Hanta observed before shoving a handful of potato chips into his mouth. As he munched on the barbecue-flavored crisps, crumbs and powder raining from his lips down onto his tee-shirt, he looked at Denki pointedly. “We have to amend that, don’t we, Denks?” 

“We most certainly do,” the blond nodded sagely, pinching his chin and closing his eyes like the picture of a pensive philosopher. “We cannot allow Momo here, our dear friend, our beloved classmate and light of our bleak lives, to remain in such a sorry state. So… To the kitchen!” he announced and jumped up, pointing a finger into the air. “By our hand, we will allow Momo to suffer no longer!” 

Are hamburgers really that good? Momo wondered as she followed the two boys to the adjoining kitchen. They probably weren’t, but watching the two tear through the cabinets and refrigerator to gather all the necessary tools and ingredients was so energizing that Momo found herself growing excited. She’d never seen Denki so animated about cooking before; he was all smiles as he pranced around wearing a “Kiss the Cook” apron of All Might in a chef’s hat, so she couldn’t refuse him even if she wanted to. 

“All right, Chef Denki,” Momo chuckled as she tied an apple-patterned apron around her waist, “I’m under your tutelage tonight.” 

“It’s the only thing he’ll ever tutor you in,” Hanta joked, earning a sharp jab in the ribs from his cohort. 

“Anyway,” Denki said and cleared his throat, “pay close attention, Momo. I am going to teach you the sacred art of making hamburgers. First, we have to make the patties.” He took a few packs of ground meat and sliced open the plastic, dumping the stringy pink-red meat into a large aluminum bowl. 

“Everyone says they’re down with hamburgers tonight,” Hanta reported, sitting on the counter typing away at his phone. 

“Let’s see— with twenty people plus Mr. Aizawa, with an average of two burgers a person, that would be… forty patties,” he rattled off, using his fingers to count as he multiplied in his head. “We should be able to manage that between the three of us. Hanta, would you go ahead and plug in the mini-grill so it’ll be heated up?” 

“Sure thing, boss.” 

Denki returned his attention to the patiently-waiting Momo. 

“Now then. First, you want to make sure your patties are the right consistency, so you mix it with bread crumbs.” Momo watched with raised eyebrows as he took a box of them and dumped some into the bowl. “You want your patties to stick together, obviously, so you add eggs—” he continued as he cracked some open, spilling the golden yolks into the bowl— “and then milk to soften up the meat a little. Finally— and this is the most important part, Momo— you season it to perfection!” 

Momo watched in wonder as he added several spices and a dark brown sauce to the mix, saturating the meat in flavor, without even taking measurements. As he was telling her how to mix it up, scrunching the meat and other ingredients together with his hands, she smiled endearingly. 

“Wow, you’ve cooked this a lot, huh?” 

“Yup! Me and my folks took an overseas trip once to America when I was young, and we loved the hamburgers so much that we got a recipe from one of the locals! It became a staple in my household! Fast food burgers are nice n’ all, but nothing really compares to a good ol’ beefy homemade burger!” Denki grinned widely. 

“I think that’s great! Would you like me to get started on another bowl of ground beef, then?” 

“Yes, please!” 

Under Denki’s careful guidance, Momo added the ingredients one at a time to the bowl. When it came time to combine them, she squealed at the odd sensation of the sticky, gooey meat, fluid sauce and egg, and gritty powder squishing between her fingers. Denki laughed heartily at the disgusted faces she made while mixing up the ground beef, squeaking and shuddering all the while, until it was uniform. In the background, Hanta had been doing other small tasks like chopping lettuce and onions, slicing tomatoes and cheese, and setting out condiments. He finally joined them at the counter, wiping tomato juice off his hands with a dishtowel. 

“It’s a messy job,” Denki said as he grabbed a fistful of the meat, “but we’re not done yet! Now it’s time to make the patties.” 

“Ooh! My favorite part!” Hanta grinned, grabbing hamburger meat from Momo’s bowl with both hands. “Ya just roll it into a ball, then flatten it into a nice, round patty,” he said while demonstrating the motions. He then walked over to the simmering grill to plop it on the ridged surface. “Then ya grill it until it’s just right, and boom! Nice, tasty, juicy hamburger.” 

“Hanta, have you been to America, too?” Momo inquired as she slowly replicated the motion, still cringing at the sliminess of the raw meat. 

“Nah. I spent a lot of summer break at Denki’s house, though, and his old man taught me how to make ‘em!” Hanta said as he slapped another patty onto the small grill and closed the lid, filling the air with sizzling and popping. While he waited for the meat to brown, he leaned against the counter and flashed Momo a wink. “I felt kinda honored being included in the Kaminari family tradition of summer cook-outs!” 

“You’re my best friend! Of course you would be!” Denki grinned, sauntering over to bump elbows with Hanta. “And, since Momo is our best girl,” he continued while turning around to wink saucily at Momo, “it’s natural that she be included, too!” 

“Ah! Stop it; you’re going to make me blush!” Momo cried and, in her momentary embarrassment, slapped her palms to her cheeks. All the blood drained from her face as she realized she was smooshing raw meat and seasoning on her face. She screamed shrilly and ripped her hands away from her face, horrified by the bits of pulverized meat falling from her cheeks. As she raced to the sink, Hanta and Denki fell to the floor howling with laughter. “Stop it! It’s not funny!” she cried as she scraped at her face with a soapy sponge, tossing a glare over her shoulder. 

“Actually, it really is, Yaomomo,” Denki snorted as he climbed back up to resume making hamburger patties. Momo just sniffed dourly, thoroughly embarrassed. Then, an evil idea hatched in her mind; stealthily, she filled her cupped hands with ice-cold water and crept up behind Denki. Just as he took notice of her presence, she dumped it down the neck of his shirt. He yelped and his back arched backward as the cold liquid hit his skin. 

“Aye, aye, what the hell was that for?!” 

“Serves you right!” Hanta laughed, pointing at him and completely unaware that he was the next in Momo’s cross-hairs. “Wha—?” he blinked owlishly as Momo flung a glob of the raw meat at him; it collided with his cheek with a wet slap, slowly sliding down before landing on his tennis shoe. “I guess I deserved that.” 

“Hey, you morons! Don’t tell me you’re messing around in the kitchen!” boomed a grouchy voice. Momo turned to see Katsuki stomping in, his hands buried in his cargo pants pockets and his lips stretched in a scowl. His vermillion eyes slowly slid down to the chunk of meat dripping on Hanta’s shoe. “What the hell?! You can’t just waste food like that! Who taught you losers to cook?!” 

“Oi! This is my show! Go yell at someone else, Baku-bro!” Denki whined and poked at Katsuki with his foot as he continued to quickly pile up patties on aluminum foil next to Hanta, who returned from cleaning off his face to take the broiled hamburgers off the grill and put them on some buns. Katsuki slapped Denki’s foot away but obediently shambled out of the kitchen to join the rest of their peers, who had been attracted by the savory aroma now clouding the air. 

“All right, the guest of honor gets to try first,” Hanta grinned as he presented Momo with a fully dressed hamburger complete with a side of potato chips. As she took the paper plate, she was amazed at the weight of the thing, nearly spilling it all as she hastily recovered from the plate dipping. She set it safely on the counter before looking at it, wondering how the heck to eat it. 

“I… With my hands…?” 

“Hell yeah, girl! Get in there!” Denki encouraged with an airy laugh. Momo blushed before timidly grabbing the hamburger, grimacing at the juice that leaked onto her fingers when she lightly squeezed it. She craned her neck over the plate as she leaned in for a bite, trying not to drip it all over her clothes. First came the soft bread, then crunchy lettuce and tomato, then melty cheese, and then finally the savory meat. Momo hummed as the robust flavor exploded on her tongue, complemented by all the toppings. 

“Well? Amazing or what?” Denki grinned as he sidled up to her, wiggling his golden eyebrows expectantly. Too busy savoring the symphony of flavors on her tongue, Momo only nodded with her eyes fluttering shut. “Woohoo! Atta girl! Look at our Momo, getting messy with a big ol’ hamburger!” Denki laughed as he did a celebratory jig. 

“Ehhh? Did I hear Momo eating hamburgers?” Mina said as she poked her head in. Momo was mid-bite, her mouth stretching wide to accommodate the thick patty, and she froze to blink owlishly at the pink girl. “Ahhhh! Look how far you’ve come! Finally embracing the ways of us commoners, eh?” 

Instead of replying, Momo just crunched down on the burger, smiling dreamily as the deliciousness once again graced her senses. 

She had the answer to her question. Hamburgers were really that good! While the others began to file into the kitchen to claim their meals from Denki and Hanta, Momo savored hers bite by bite until she was finished. When she sheepishly presented her plate to Denki for seconds, he laughed and began fixing it for her. The others had vacated the premises, leaving only the two of them. 

“Thanks for sharing this with me, Denki. I had a lot of fun, and it was really good!” she said as he plopped a piece of pale green lettuce atop her patty. 

“To be honest, I was a little scared you wouldn’t enjoy it,” he admitted shyly, giving her a side glance as she gasped in shock. “I know you come from a really wealthy family, Momo, and generally… Rich folks don’t think highly of us little guys, you know?” 

“I know.” Though Momo’s family was kind and tolerant, that still didn’t mean that she hadn’t seen the uglier side of the bourgeoisie. With a soft smile, she wrung her arms around Denki’s waist and laid her head on his shoulder to squeeze him in a tight hug. “But I consider myself lucky! You guys teach me all kinds of neat and wonderful things, and I get to share things about my life with you all, too. I would never, ever judge you.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Denki hummed and gently bonked his head with hers. “Here you go, Momo. I hope you enjoy your seconds.” 

“Thanks,” she said as she took the plate. She then grinned roguishly. “To be honest, I might be up for thirds.” 

Like the hearty scent of homemade hamburgers wafting around the small kitchen, her and Denki’s laughter filled the air. 

Nope. In Momo’s book, nothing really did compare to one of Denki’s hamburgers, and it soon became one of her favorite things to cook with her friends, even out of all the things she learned from them.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

The Rumor Around Hogwarts (prologue)

Hi everyone!! This is the prologue and it is pretty much exactly what the author wrote and I don't take credit for it. I made a couple of changes to the chapter but it is towards the end so if you want to skip through you can until about the last paragraph to find the part about Y/N L/N. Enjoy!!

Male reader insert for now, future addition of they pronouns as it will lean more towards a non-binary insert with the only change being less reference to Y/N as a young boy and more gender neutral terms. Still masc/male aligned.

Previous // Next

Prologue:

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had two small sons, too, but they had never even seen them. These boys were two good reasons for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realise what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. "The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard--" "-- yes, their son, Harry--" Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey Or Harold There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drill that afternoon and when he left the building a five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside of the door.

"Sorry" he grunted as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary his ace split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerbys stare,

"Don't be sorry my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?" "Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early -- it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son -- he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on -- he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't affect them...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, I've been celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone--"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what they're saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..." Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder.

"I know... I know... " he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's -- it's true ?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore.

"We may never know." Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here ?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!?"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous -- a legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly." said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore. "I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild -- long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -- ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" "Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map o

f the London Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house. "Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles--"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"

The boy who lived, however, was not the only threat to Voldemort's plans. There was another baby boy who would grow up to be extraordinary. His fame would not reach the height of Harry Potter, but he need not be the boy who lived for he will be the boy who decided to speak.

        "I heard a rumor"

[nysscientia]

OKAY but Birds of Prey was straight-up healing for my soul. just. please. the more I think about it the more I love it.

first of all: the main characters are women—and some of them are poor women, queer women, women of color—facing off against a cruel, self-centered, entitled, corrupt, whiny, rich white guy, plus his enablers and a faceless horde of beefy patriarchy symbols who are in it for the money or the power trip. and the women don't just fight and win, they take them down with style. they get to be sexy, sure, but they're sexy on their terms—just look at the differences in Harley's costumes from Suicide Squad to this film—and they also get to be funny, and angry, and scared. they're all obviously damaged but the movie never pivots into trauma porn; the characters grab their stories by the reins, instead of earning a plot payoff by enduring pain and devastation. there is gendered and sexualized violence, but it's not there to be titillating; all of it is depicted as gross, and unambiguously villainous, and the perpetrators are condemned by the narrative.

and there's the treatment of Harley in particular: she's goofy, and happy-go-lucky, but she's also an expert. she succeeds in some moments through luck, but in others through skill: her background in psychotherapy comes up multiple times, her ability to read people quickly, to figure out what they want and how they're trying to get it. she's impulsive and she doesn't always know what she's doing and she gets herself into plenty of bad situations, but she also trusts herself to get back out of them again, and she's got the chops to back that confidence up. and she's loud, and "tacky," and she does things just for the Aesthetic; she makes her own clothes and decorates her weapons and makes her break-in elaborate and dramatic because she wants to and it will be fun. AND THE NARRATIVE DOESN'T PUNISH HER FOR THIS AT ANY POINT.

because that's the thing! the story acknowledges all of these features, and even that they can cause trouble for her and make her unlikable, but THAT'S not the problem to be resolved! the big climactic moment, when the stakes get raised and things seem darkest and we're not sure our heroes will win, isn't set up because Harley makes a stupid tactical mistake, or because she's too weak to win a fight, or even really because she hurts or offends someone else. (she offends people all throughout the story.) it's because she betrays her OWN values. she lets HERSELF down. she says it in the narration: "this part isn't pretty" (or something like that) before she makes the call.

AND THEN she gets the opportunity to rectify her mistake, again on her own terms! and she doesn't have to change to be a perfect angel to get a happy ending. she stays an antihero, stays part of the rogues gallery. but she makes amends to the person she regrets wronging—and doesn't worry about the people who still hate her.

and not only does the story give Harley the space to fall down and get back up again, all the while inviting us to root for her—but there's also NO TRACE of "I'm not like other girls" and setting her up as having to be SPECIAL in order to earn that space. we follow her story the closest, but she doesn't have to be better than the other women in order to be awesome. she's cheering on the other characters every step of the way! she's impressed with Cassie Cain! she tells Renee Montoya how hot she is! when she turned to Huntress and said "you are so cool" I wanted to cheer because I was thinking the exact same fucking thing, and it was so fun to see that kind of admiration and support onscreen.

it feels, to me, like a very natural progression from everything I loved about Wonder Woman—Diana has moments of weakness and faces obstacles, yes, but ultimately she's one of the most powerful people in her universe, and her conviction and strength of heart means she was always going to win. Wonder Woman gave us a woman embodying the fantasy of being a heroic paragon, of being able to rise and defeat evil in a really pure way, and that's fucking amazing because people of all genders should be able to live out that fantasy the way that cis men have been invited to for decades (centuries).

but Birds of Prey was a totally different kind of wish fulfillment: the idea that you don't have to be a paragon to be a hero, that you can be a badass and a mess, that you don't have to compromise on who you are to get shit done, that you can partner with people who lift each other up and take a baseball bat to evil's face and also go out for margaritas afterwards. aaaaaaahhhh

please go see Birds of Prey!

[the-mandalorian-clone-lover]

Aces in Spaces Chapter 3

Hey everyone! I think my plan going forward will be to post new chapters on Mondays so in light of that, here’s the next one! 

Summary: Roman gives Butcher the run down and explanation of Asexuality and how it pertains to Erica, warning for excessive cuteness from both. This takes place within a week of the last chapter.

(Chapter 2 can be found here and Chapter 1 here)

Tags: @princessxkenobi @sunshinepascal @rentskenobi @maybege @obaby-wan

If anyone else would like to be tagged let me know?

“Butcher, Erica is an Asexual”. The other man blinks at him and he realizes this may not be an easy fix. “It means, she doesn’t experience sexual attraction.” He takes the moment that the other man spends in confusion to turn on the projector on the table and stands so he can see the slides and Butch in the same space. The first slide is the only opening template that Microsoft power point had that didn’t make him want to roll his eyes so hard they rolled back into his skull, but now that he’s standing in front of Butch he’s convinced it really was just as bad as the others. ‘Asexuality, what it means, what it’s like, and what our response should be’ is written across it in big bolded letters and he takes comfort in the fact that Butch has always been a good listener before, and certainly seems to like Erica, so he should have his attention. He clicks to the next slide, intent on making sure not a single detail is missed, he starts to read the definition he’d gotten of the internet before turning to Butch.

“Did you read the title? I suppose since it’s the two of us this could be more of a discussion, it’ll have to be a briefing when I give it to the boys.”

Butch’s thoughtful face hasn’t uncrumpled itself, nor have his eyes left the screen but Roman’s patient, this is important and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to help Erica.

Butcher closes his mouth to purse his lips before speaking. “So, she likes you for your personality?”

Roman shrugs “I know. I was surprised too.” He says it casually and Butch huffs a laugh, Roman pauses before joining him, it is a funny thought, for how many people have told him he’s incredibly disagreeable. Assuming Butch has absorbed the definition on the screen he continues. “I’ve known for a little while now, but I wanted to be sure she was comfortable coming out before I briefed everyone.”

Butcher nods again. “How do we, is she like a nun?” he leans forward to emphasize the question and Roman turns back to the screen taking a breath.

“Well, that’s the thing. Asexuality is a spectrum, there’s a lot of different types.”

“Like a box of chocolates.” Butch says sagely, and Roman considers it before nodding

“Yes, well. I suppose so. The common denominator is that they don’t experience sexual attraction. Some still enjoy sex, some only with certain people, and some not at all, those are sex-repulsed.” He clicks the button to switch slides again, “Let’s outline the different types of attraction quickly.”

Butch is nodding again, ���Yeah, that’s a good start”

“Sexual attraction is wanting to have sex with someone” Roman says it despite how crass it sounds and carries on ���Platonic attraction, is wanting to be friends with someone. Aesthetic attraction is thinking something is pretty, wanting to look at it, a painting maybe.” He pauses, having gone through a slide for each definition that featured the pictures he thought best explained each and a few that Erica had suggested in her edits. He turns to Butch “I’d like to add this isn’t all inclusive by any means, I’m still learning, which is why I found a support group that I’d like to start going to, I don’t think I’ll need a guard but you do like to be aware of my schedule.” He turns back to the screen to resume before Butch cuts in, eyes never leaving the slide. “I’ll be along with you then, can’t let you wander around the city alone.”

Roman almost wants to ask if Butch heard what he said but the man says it with such a finality that he doesn’t see the point in arguing. “Well, in general, since Aces, that’s another name for them, don’t experience this attraction, it’s quite common for things that allude to it to go over their heads. The car ride earlier this week for example, Erica hadn’t meant to approach me in that way and was incredibly confused when you left.”

Butcher now looks horrified “Oh, Boss, I never meant—”

Roman shakes his head “She took no offense, it’s just not a place her mind goes.”

The sentiment obviously does little to comfort Butcher and he says as much before adding “I feel like I called her, a, well a whore Boss. I never ever would do a thing like that—” Butcher’s gentle upbringing where women are concerned is making itself known and Roman really needs to send his mother a ‘thank you’ card because it really does help them work well together. “She didn’t feel that way about it at all, I’m mostly telling you this so you can watch for if others try to suggest things to her.” Butcher’s face clears a little in understanding before Roman goes on “She’s handled herself extremely well before knowing me, we both know that, but, well, if someone is getting, well you know, and she isn’t understanding then just get rid of them, yes?”

Butcher’s face is now completely serious and even a little threatening “Consider it done Boss.”

Roman maintains his business demeanor but inside he’s positively thrilled, this is going even better than he thought. “Now I want to talk about Erica specifically, she told me a bit about how she fits into the ace spectrum and its vital for our forward plan.” He hopes Butcher is appreciating that he’s using the same format they do when they discuss upcoming business meetings and the protocols necessary for each one (location, parties involved, and prior contact, etc.) because this really is just as important to him as business. This next part is going to be the hardest though, he spent a whole night on it, because how exactly do you talk about someone’s sex life (or lack thereof) and not make it seem demeaning or judgmental or any other terrible thing? In the end he’d thrown himself on Erica’s mercy and asked how she’d prefer it to be done. He’d even offered to let her come talk to Butch herself, but she had told him she was certain Butch wouldn’t judge her.

“Now, without invading her privacy, she is an ace; so, I want to keep sex related things away from her as best we can. No dirty jokes, no crude gestures, no crass people if we can help it.”

Butch is nodding along with each condition and Roman wants to breathe a sigh of relief because being vague was the best way he knew to keep her dignity. “Any questions?” Butch pauses and shakes his head before pausing again and opening his mouth “Are there, slurs, we should know? Like, if someone calls her a nun, do we get to hit them?”

Roman beams. “That’s my next topic.” He clicks the remote again and he’s suddenly realizing he missed clicking buttons, Butcher usually gives these briefings as the head of security, have to file that away for later. “Some responses aces get when they come out is that they just haven’t met the right person, they’re a later bloomer, or that they haven’t had sex with the right people. Obviously, all of these are incredibly insensitive and downright rude. If someone says these things, feel free to immediately remove them from the premises.” Now its Butcher’s turn to beam, and Roman clicks the remote again “On a lighter note, some aces really prefer food to sex and this definitely applies to Erica. She has said, and I quote, ‘sex may be great but have people ever tried beefy 5-layer burritos?’. Aces also seem to have claimed dragons as their mascot, big ones, little ones, all colors, wings or not, dragons are where it’s at.” The slide for this section is a collage of dragons and when he’d seen Erica light up at viewing it, he’s so glad he included it.

Butcher interrupts his daydreaming with a raised hand “Are stuffed dragons acceptable?”

Roman smiles, “Yes, Erica loves small soft things. I, however, am an outlier and should not be counted.”

Butch snorts at this but Roman decides to ignore him. “As always, it’s no one’s business what she and I do together, but if someone does start giving her a hard time about this, I want you to step in. Only if she gives you a direct signal not to, should you wait.” Roman pauses then, giving an amused hum “but, if she does do that, that means she’s already got a plan to absolutely destroy the person herself so stick around for the fun because that gorgeous woman knows her way around a good insult.”

Butcher furrows his brow at this, “Are you allowed to say that? Can you, say things about her, physical, ness?”

Roman pauses before answering because this was a conversation he’d had with Erica after she came out. He had called her sexy once before and noticed the small bit of hesitation before she had smiled and changed the subject. When he brought it up in light of coming out, she had said she didn’t want to lead him on. She knew her body fit under society’s definition of ‘sexy’, but she didn’t have any intentions of performing the action, so she shied away from the designation. He’d tried to compensate afterward, only complementing her personality or intelligence before Erica had once again set him down and said she didn’t mind being told she was pretty, he’d taken the moment to ask if this meant he could compliment her aesthetically instead of sexually? She had grabbed in him in a hug. He learned this was one of her favorite words and that yes, she would be thrilled to receive compliments on her aesthetic. It’s this sentiment that he conveys to Butch, though he isn’t sure he likes the idea of Butch complimenting her. He swallows the jealousy though, he’s an adult and so is she, he trusts Butch, and Erica, and that extends to conversations they may have.

“I don’t plan to butter her up boss, just looking to make sure I understand all the circumstances that warrant the use of force.” Butch affirms calmly and Roman knows it’s the truth, he scolds himself for thinking otherwise.

“I want to move on to something else that I think is important to mention. There is another sexuality called Aromantic. It means that someone doesn’t experience romantic attraction. Erica defined romantic attraction as ‘I would slow dance in the kitchen with that person in my pajamas as we wait for coffee in the morning’. While it is possible for someone to be both Aromantic and Asexual, aro/ace is the abbreviation, Erica is not. She has said she does experience romantic attraction. Albeit very rarely.” Roman softens a bit picturing himself and Erica in the scenario he’s just described, it’s warm, easy, and while it’s probably too soon to ask her to move in so they can share their mornings, he’s definitely jotting slow dancing down for a date idea. He forces himself back to the present again and fixes Butch with a look “Any questions?”

Butch leans back in his chair and folds his massive arms across his chest as much as his jacket allows before pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes again. “This support group you mentioned, where’s that at?”

Roman clicks the remote again, this slide has a map of about five city blocks as well as the floor plan of the local library that is adjoined to the community center (he may find some of the security briefings a little too detailed but he knows what essentials Butch likes to have by now). “it’s at the local community center, heard about it on the internet” He leaves out that he spent four hours looking for one before he found a random Facebook post about it on the fourth page of chrome results but he figures his dedication is obvious either way at this point. Butch is already typing on his phone, no doubt tasking someone with retrieving more information about the whole affair.

“Do you want a scout to go in first?”

“No” Roman has already thought about this, the likelihood of it being a setup is pretty slim, and he wants to keep the business part of his life out of this as much as he can, for the sake of the other attendees. “I think it’s safe enough to go ahead.”

“Date? Time?”

“Fridays, noon, and its usually about an hour but I’d like to clear the whole afternoon indefinitely”

Butch nods along to the sentence, still typing on his phone before finishing and putting it back into his coat. “Anything else I should know?”

“Yes, I want you to schedule a meeting with the rest of the team, anyone who’ll interact with Erica, I don’t intend for there to be any misunderstandings.”

Butcher grimaces at that, “I really didn’t mean to upset her about that boss, any chance I can apologize for that?”

Roman knows Erica would say it was unnecessary, maybe even brush Butcher off, but he also wants her to know he’s taking the utmost care (Butch is too) to make sure she’s comfortable; so he nods before answering “I know she isn’t offended, but I wouldn’t mind if you did”. It has the potential to build trust between them if nothing else, and if Erica decides she wants to stick around, trusting Butcher will be integral to that process.

[unholyplumpprincess]

You Laughed

For @kiwi--bot who asked:  “No, sorry, you laughed,, Never saw before. It’s — pretty.” (Trojan to Lilith?)

Trojan and Lilith are our ocs for Destiny, which you can find on both his blog and my sfw one if you search #Destiny.

Reblogs > Likes

Though this post is SFW, this blog is not! Minors please do not follow but this post is okay to interact with!

Fandom: Destiny 2

Relationship: Trojan-13/Lilith (OCs)

Warnings: SFW, fluffy, stupid tsundere girl yearns for big beefy bot

Words: 1k

_____________

Unspoken, yet burning, Lilith knew what she felt. What that desire was in her body whenever she saw the massive exo. How even his silliest of phrases made her want to turn her body inside out so her smile couldn’t be seen. She gave a good face, she’ll give herself that, when her thick brows creased and she’d huff, turn her head if he said something flattering or funny.

Trojan-13, the bane of her existence at this point, was everything on her mind. The crucible made it even harder to stand, when they would ditch guns and bang fists. He was never light on her, and she never stopped her tricks with him. A constant touch, give, and take situation.

She finds herself watching him now from afar, sitting on the railing edge of the tower. Like a watchful predator with her head cocked, she watches him interact with Lord Shaxx. They are bantering, with Trojan beaming and his optics shining brighter than before. He’s animated, hands moving, excited, only to pause when Shaxx grasps his shoulder firmly. Lilith is sure if exo’s could blush, he’d be burning.

~Rest under the cut~

Yet, she watches the small head nod direction Shaxx gives towards…herself- no it must be the shops behind her, watch your ego Lilith, she tries to reason.

But when Trojan, ever the man of no subtlety, looks directly her way and smiles that stupid smile and waves with his first three fingers like a blushing school girl, her insides warm. Lilith’s stomach flutters, butterflies threatening to spill from her throat. So, she huffs, rolling her eyes and giving a two-finger salute back like she’d only just caught sight of him.

The sickening desire, the want, the need, the almost jealousy of seeing him so…free to express his affections.

If she could just…match it. If she could let go of her pain, if she could just let him know what he meant to her, maybe. Just maybe they could…

Be something.

–

Trojan had wound up asking her for a private spar. Nothing new, just a simple reply back of weapons or hands?  

She arrives weaponless, save for her trusty dagger strapped to her thigh. The area is open, an area in the tower that has a flat surface of dirt. It stretches a good ways out, meant for guardians to work out frustrations on each other or perhaps to find games to play. It was their spot now, quiet, away from the world. The night sky is bright with its stars, closer than any other planet she’d been on. Something she liked to watch when she was at peace with the world.

Trojan comes weaponless and clearly excited, greeting her with open arms that she shies away from. Her heart almost breaks to do it, but the anxiety of letting someone in- she couldn’t. Yet, as always, Trojan is respectful and offers his hand instead. Allowing him to have her own, and watching as he bows his head down to press his face plate to the back.

“My friend, you are late.” He starts, voice full of playfulness.

Lilith hates the way her heart beats a bit harder.

“Aren’t I always?” She murmurs back, taking her hand back once he stands to push her hair from her face, eyeing him up briefly before making a note. “Where’s your armor? I thought we were-”

“Sparring! Yes, have made other plans! Come, you love stars, yes?” Trojan cheerfully replies, turning his back before she can even question or call out a What The Fuck.

–

Turns out he doesn’t know how to ask someone out on a date. Trojan brings her to the garden’s edge towards the railing of the tower, leaning over it and pointing out different stars and planets. He knew of their names, what they were, who they were. Lilith knew of things upon the planets, of the animal life and foliage, and yet he could pin point which was which without even being in a ship.

“That is IO,” He starts, pointing a finger towards the sky towards the east. A small ball of blues and pale whites, “It is-”

“Where I am from, Trojan.” She reminds him playfully, her full lips quirking up in amusement as if he’d forgotten, but Trojan continues as if he was never even interrupted.

“Place where most beautiful, tiny, tiny, angry lady come from.” He finishes, voice full of amusement as he turns his head down to the side to look at her. His white optics shine bright, his brow plate seeming to lift a bit with affection. With the way it’s worded, with how nonchalant he sounds, that seems to do the trick-

Lilith laughs, turning her head to the side to bury it into her forearm. It’s a high sound, free and almost a giggle if she’d dare label it anything. A small snort escapes her, only causing her laughter to twist again as she presses her palm to her mouth, muffling the noise.

When she finally catches herself, she turns her head to argue back that she was NOT the tiniest guardian around, but she catches him looking at her…fondly. He’s got his hip pressed to the railing, one hand gently resting upon his own cheek and seeming to lean into it. He looks like he’s seen a kitten.

“What?” Lilith huffs, starting to inflate her chest and stand straighter in defense, “I’m no-”

“No. No. Sorry, you laughed. Never heard before-” Trojan pauses there, seeming to try and find himself, watching as her defensive stance starts to deflate, Lilith’s cheeks flushing violet, eyes flickering to the side as if trying to find an escape.  

“It is pretty.” He finally finishes, knowing that he had a million other words he could have rambled, said, spoken, whilst he fell to his knees and told her how much he cherished her. How her laugh had set his circuits alight like no other, like no one else, how she could say jump and he would do so without a second thought-

“Thank you.” She finally replies. Quiet and sincere, nothing like her fiery disposition, nothing like how she’d argue and snarl at any given moment. Lilith’s eyes flicker back at him again, turning her head and pointing back to the sky and insisting for him to continue his educational lesson.

Trojan had never loved a stubborn person more.

[alarawriting]

52 Project #1: The Chicken Story

Every part of this story is true. Even the lies. In fact, especially the lies.

***

Yes, I live in the city and I have chickens, no thanks to city legislature. You’d think that cities would be more supportive of having chickens; they kill rats and they produce eggs, what’s not to like? Well, okay, chicken poop isn’t all that pleasant and they destroy all the plants in their run, but unlike, say, cat or dog poop, chicken poop is useful as fertilizer. The city’s somewhat tolerant of hens, but they’re appallingly sexist toward roosters; I mean, yes, the poor guys are loud, but so are dogs and I don’t see anyone banning dog ownership within city limits. Roosters protect their flock from predators and they can serve as watch animals. They don’t actually crow to tell you it’s dawn, though, that’s a myth. Mostly they crow to tell you “Goddamn, yo, check me out, I’m a rooster.” Or something like that. If roosters could talk they would absolutely perform hip-hop.

Anyway, I have a funny story about those chickens, and roosters, and my son, who’s a ninja. No, I’m not making this up, it’s his superpower. He could be standing right there and I could be looking for him and I wouldn’t see him. He’s not invisible, he’s just… very good at going unnoticed. That was really helpful when we were trying to get our second house.

Oh, yeah, so this place is actually two halves of a duplex, and originally, we owned just one. Then the neighbor overextended himself bricking up all the yards back there. You see the street back there? All the yards behind my house are made of concrete now. Rudest thing you ever saw, because they didn’t put in drainage, so all those yards that used to be soil and dirt ended up flooding, directly into my garage. I had my car floating in it, out to the street. I mean, it was raining pretty heavy and all the cars down at the bottom of the hill were also floating, but I’m halfway up the hill so you wouldn’t expect my car to float, but no, I open my garage, and there it is, bobbing up and down. I loved that car. It floated down the street and ended up in the river – yeah, there’s a river down there, you can’t tell most of the time because it’s so shallow it’s barely a creek, but that day it was overflowing and my car floated right into it and sailed off. Never got it back. Pretty sure it’s in the bay someplace. Now all we have is my wife’s minivan, because she was at her parents’ house with the younger kids that weekend, and I’m really not a fan. Who builds a car large enough to transport drywall but too small to stretch your legs if you’re an adult man? Honda, that’s who. She doesn’t care because she’s short, but I miss my car. It was a Chevy Impala, we called it Vlad because you have to call an Impala Vlad, right? Vlad the Impala? Come on, it’s a Dracula joke.

Right, so anyway, the reason they’re all bricked up is that my neighbor was trying to buy up all the properties there, so he had a business offering people that he’d brick up their yard – no more tickets from the city about high grass and weeds, no more kids sneaking into the back to grow illicit tomatoes, no rats – and a lot of people took him up on it, because they didn’t realize about the flooding. Sure, most of it ended up in my garage, but a lot of it ended up in people’s basements, and no one around here has flood insurance, we’re halfway up a hill. And that dislodged the ghosts. See, most of this city’s built on an ancient burial ground of some kind or other… I don’t think Native American, I think it was one of those colonial cemeteries or something, so when you flood basements, you’re gonna get ghosts. And that meant people trying to sell their properties because they’re haunted. So he figured he’d buy up all the houses on the block cheap, right? Except some investigators came in from a government agency and they figured out that he’d known about the ghosts and that’s why he talked people into letting him pour concrete all over their yards, so there were lawsuits – I considered joining in myself, but at the time, he lived on the other half of my house so I didn’t want to stir things up. And at the end of the lawsuits, he was the one who had to sell his house for cheap in a big hurry or face foreclosure, because he’d had to mortgage his house like three times to pay the lawsuits.

Well, we tried to get it legitimately. My wife’s name isn’t on the title to my house, so she was eligible for an FHA loan. But they absolutely refused to believe that she wanted to buy the house next door to the one she was living in just to live in it. They were convinced she wanted to rent it out. She pointed out that the mortgage payments were like twice what anyone would pay to rent a place around here – yay for gentrification, I guess – but they weren’t convinced. So we rented her an apartment and she was going to live in it for six months so that she could go back and get the FHA loan – I mean, she wasn’t really living in it, she was just storing her books in it, but no one was going to be able to tell she wasn’t living in it because if an auditor came to the house, she had it rigged with cameras and speakers and whatnot so she could talk to people remotely and tell them not to come in because of the books, and if you looked through the windows you could see that you couldn’t see a damn thing because of the piles of books everywhere, like seven-foot-tall stacks of books all over the place. But before she could go back to get the loan, the bank finished foreclosing on the guy and then the house wasn’t available for sale.

Now, see, we knew that sooner or later, the bank was going to sell that house, so we went into action. Here’s where my son being a ninja came in; we had him go over there and steal all the doors inside the house and hide them in the attic. The embarrassing thing is that he forgot where he put them so the entire house still doesn’t have doors. We have to have a curtain up in front of the bathroom, since it’s an old house and the width of the doorjamb doesn’t match the sizes they make doors anymore. The cops came and searched for the doors – I think they were suspicious that we took them, since how many houses have a ninja? But after they went up into the attic and two of them fell through the ceiling and broke their ribs, they decided it wasn’t worth their time. Also, I kept pointing out to them about the lawsuit, and the ghosts, like my family was the only one who’d have motivation to steal the doors? Really?

Then we filled the bathroom with dead rats. I guess this requires a little bit of explanation. We didn’t have the chickens yet, or the assassin cat – did I tell you about my assassin cat? No? Well, let me finish telling you about the house first. So we had a lot of rats, and we were poisoning them, as you do when you’ve got that many rats, and we also had traps, and a giant dollhouse with murder dolls in it. You’ve never used a murder doll on a rat? It’s a doll that’s got a knife in its hand, and when the sensors in its eyes detect that there’s a rat walking by, it starts slashing at it like Jason at camp. My wife dressed them up nice so the rats would be fooled, and changed their clothes every day so they wouldn’t smell like rat blood. They had these frilly Victorian white outfits that she just drowned in bleach to get the dead rat smells out.

So anyway, when you’ve got four dozen dead rats, what do you do with them? If you put them all out in trash bags, the city might condemn your house for having that many rats. Never mind that most of them were swarming over from the other house anyway because it was abandoned. So we piled up the dead rat bodies in the bathroom. Then my son stole their refrigerator and rolled it out in the late evening, strolling along with it, mostly because at the time he wasn’t 18 yet but also because ninja, and we loaded it into my wife’s minivan and drove it to a friend’s house because his wife had gotten drunk on cheap wine and stabbed their refrigerator to death with a knife. Apparently it was a really big knife. Then we took the oven, which was good, because there were rats living in it, and we hid it in our garage, which we didn’t keep cars in anymore because of the risk of the garage flooding and the cars floating away. Since we were cognizant of the cops potentially looking for the oven, I let my wife take all the books back out of the apartment she’d been renting because we couldn’t really use it for what we’d intended anyway, and she stacked them all around the oven, and after she was done not only could you not tell there was an oven in there, but you didn’t want to go anywhere near it because you were afraid of a seven-foot-tall stack of books toppling over on you, and I’ve never met a cop who’s seven feet tall. They never did come by, though. Which was good, because the first time it rained, my wife went out there to retrieve all her books to save them from flooding, and of course then you could see the oven again.

We tried to steal the hot tub, but someone else got to it first, along with my lawnmower and backup generator. I felt really bad about the backup generator because we had some really beefy squirrels in there running the dynamo wheel and I don’t know where I’m going to get squirrels that big and strong again.

Then the bank started showing the house, so we stepped up our game. We played death metal at ridiculous volume when people would come to see the house, until we found out from my youngest son’s friend’s mom that she’d actually come to look at the house and thought the death metal was encouraging, as it suggested neighbors she could get along with. So after that it was endless repetitions of music from Sesame Street and The Song That Doesn’t End and Dora the Explorer. During that time period we all wore headphones; it was kind of unbearable, except for the youngest kids, of course. They didn’t mind.

We put cat food and sardines in the air conditioning vents, and potatoes in the closet so they could rot and turn to mush in the dark, and my oldest daughter, whose room was absolutely full of ghosts, did a séance and an exorcism to get the ghosts to move to the other house, and of course it was full of flies because of all the dead rats, and then we randomly placed mannequin parts in strategic locations. It must have worked, because in the end, no one bought the place and the bank put it up for auction, and my wife’s parents bought it for her. And then, of course, we had to clean up the potatoes, and the flies, and the ghosts, and the cat food – someone had gotten to the dead rats already – and deal with the power company being too scared of the ghosts to come hook us up, and the insurance agency rejecting my wife’s parents’ insurance application because someone came by while my daughter was doing her séance/exorcism and apparently black magic is one of those things they don’t tell you you can’t do in an insured house, but they won’t insure your house if they know you’re doing it.

So after all this, after my son the ninja has busted his butt trying to make this place unliveable so we could get it at auction for cheap enough that my wife’s parents could afford it – they’ve got that kind of professional man and housewife money that only boomers get to have anymore, not rich but sure as heck not as poor as I’d be if my wife didn’t work – he says, he wants chickens. He’s found his spirit animal, or something, and it’s a bird. It doesn’t hurt that I have a new boyfriend – yes, I said it, I have a wife and a boyfriend and they know about each other and we all live in the same house, and if you don’t like it, you know what you can sit and spin on. Anyway, my boyfriend is a wild animal dude from Canada, who, like, communes with animals and has conversations with them and is very possibly actually delusional, but he has all these ideas about how we can convert the two yards into an urban farm. It’s his original idea about the chickens, but my son is thrilled with the idea and I’m not gonna say no to the guy after he helped us get our second house, and I like the idea myself, so we go and get chickens.

First snag. My wife’s parents hate chickens. They hate birds in general. Apparently when my wife was a kid, they had a dog who didn’t believe in birds, and the birds pecked his eyes out, so they’ve got a grudge. I… gotta say, much as I love dogs, any dog who told a bird to its face that he didn’t believe in birds had it coming. You just don’t tell people that they don’t exist while you’re looking straight at them. That’s rude.

Second snag. The city won’t let us have more than 4 chickens per yard, but my boyfriend has acquired eight because he thought we’d be able to use the second yard, and because my wife’s parents hate birds, that isn’t happening. And no one wants to give any of the birds up. We’ve got some amazing chickens. We’ve got a white Silkie who I like to keep on my lap and pet when I’m being a supervillain, because any villain can have a long-furred white cat but it takes a really original guy to have a long-furred white chicken. (Obviously, Silkies don’t really have fur, but their feathers have a consistency like silky fur, hence the name.) We’ve got a Silkie crossbreed who sings dubstep. She’s a tiny little bantam chicken, but because she was raised by my son, who has been taking care of all the chickens since we got them, and they think he’s the alpha hen, she gets to boss all the rest of the chickens around because she’s the daughter of the alpha hen, which I guess makes her Princess Hen or something. We’ve got a big black Cochin with feathers on her feet, and a Naked Neck chicken who wants all the rest of her feathers off too, and a bunch of others. Really exotic chickens. So we’re not giving up any of these chickens for anything. We hide the two bantams – the Silkie and the princess – in the house, which necessitates chicken diapers, about which the less said the better – and we just kind of pretend that we have four outdoor chickens instead of six.

And our chickens are heroes. The cops come by one day looking for an armed robber who’s hiding somewhere. The chickens are all riled up. We think they’re worried about the cops, until eventually, they start pecking at something under their coop, and here comes the robber, crawling out from under the coop shrieking because he’s being pecked by half a dozen birds. The cops give the chickens a medal – one for all of them, they don’t have that many medals lying around, and we have to take it away from them and hang it in the house because they’re fighting over it all the time. And the news decides to do a human interest piece on our hero chickens, and we think the world should know how awesome our chickens are, so we let them.

This turns out to be a mistake. Because we’re not legally allowed to have six chickens. So one cold winter afternoon, while we’re getting ready to spend a weekend in another dimension, Animal Control comes and steals all our chickens, and trumps up charges against us such as “no water” (which is what happens after you tip a waterer over on its side), and “inadequate shelter” because they tore the door off the chicken coop to get at our birds, since naturally we had the coop door locked, and “immoral consecration of chicken souls to Satan” which is just a flat out lie. We’re atheists, not Satanists, and even Satanists don’t actually consecrate chicken souls to Satan. That’s mostly edgy teenagers who were raised Catholic.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever gone through a dimensional portal, but the thing is, they are only open for a short period of time, and it can be years before they open again. We couldn’t change our plans; the tickets for the boat were very expensive, since only so many boats were going to be allowed to sail through the portal so it was a really limited thing, and this close to sail time there was no way we could sell our tickets or exchange them. So we had to go on our trip for the weekend, which was great. Really fun. Not as much fun as the time when I was a kid and my family went to the moon and had a barbeque, but do you ever really have as much fun on a vacation when you’re an adult as you did when you were a kid? I keep meaning to take my kids there one of these days – among other things, my family’s barbeque grill is still stuck up there and I want it back – but I’m a little bit afraid that I won’t be able to get the magic back and it’ll be really depressing. While we were sailing out there, we actually got to see the Kraken, at a safe distance away, breaching out in the bay some ways away. My oldest daughter wants to be a marine biologist, so she was telling us all kinds of Kraken facts, and disputing my statement that the fire that burned down the city a century ago was actually caused by the Kraken.

It was carrying a car in its tentacles. I couldn’t be sure – my vision’s not the best even with a telescope – but I could swear the car looked just like Vlad the Impala.

Anyway, when we came back, we found out that the chickens had already been shipped out to a zoo in a different city.

My wife piled us all into the minivan and we drove five hours to go see the chickens at the zoo, and they were doing fine – they were apparently now a traveling exhibit at a petting zoo – but it turns out chickens can see ninjas, particularly ninjas who raised and cared for them. They got so excited when my son snuck into their enclosure to steal them back that they raised a huge ruckus, and even the most talented ninja can’t stay invisible when he’s surrounded by clucking chickens. Then my wife started trying to tell a sob story about stolen chickens, but I’m afraid I got a little angry at the injustice of it all, and it is possible that a zoo employee ended up in a pond, and as a result we were thrown out of the zoo. And then they went to the other side of the country, and we just couldn’t figure out how to smuggle six chickens onto an airplane, and we couldn’t take off enough time from work to go out there with the car… so we basically gave up. The chickens were having a good life at the zoo, and getting them back was going to take way too much effort.

We hardened our premises, securing the run with a locked gate so an animal control officer would have to climb over a six foot fence to get at our chickens, and then protected the fence by getting clematis to grow all over it so it turned into essentially a six foot tall flowering bush, and got a set of eight chicks that we were assured would grow up into hens. Spoiler alert: you can’t tell what sex a chick is. Half of them grew up into roosters. So we ended up with four hens, plus the two bantam hens in the house, to live outside again, but we also ended up with four roosters, and we had to keep the poor guys in the basement. My boyfriend lived in terror of Animal Control, fearing that every time he heard a cop car, it was the cops coming to break into our basement and take our chickens. I’d say he was a little paranoid if not for what happened later; turns out it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.

Well, some of our new chickens had a case of wanderlust. We had Raspberry, who really liked to sleep in the bush, and Henry the Eggth, who was something of an escape artist; we kept finding her running down the street, sometimes with my son’s ninja headgear on her body, like she thought that if she just dressed like her ninja Queen Chicken Dad, she could borrow his powers and sneak out unseen.  It didn’t work like that; no matter how hard a chicken trains to be a ninja, she just can’t do it. Not if her goal is to go unseen by humans, anyway. I have no idea whether Henry was able to hide from other chickens or not. The other two, Marie Curie (she got that name because she was a Polish, and Marie Curie was from Poland) and Hen Solo, would sometimes fly up to join Raspberry in the clematis bush. Chickens can’t technically fly, most of the time, because they’re too big for their own wingspan, but Solo was a bantam and Polish are a pretty tiny chicken breed too, so they were both light enough to fly as far as the bush.

Down in the basement, we had Eggy Pop, the sweetest little bantam chick size of an egg you ever saw, who grew up to be an asshole bantam roo, the kind who have a real chip on their shoulders about being bantams, and will try to kick everyone’s ass, including humans; MeToo, a beautiful Silkie who got his name when we thought he was a hen and figured that if anyone was gonna harass a chicken it would be that one; Dr. Tran, whose name I really can’t explain if there are young kids around; and Lyndon LaRoo, who kept trying, and failing, to improve his own position in the pecking order. (Dr. Tran and Lyndon got name changes when we figured out they were roos, as previously they had been named Nightmare Moon and Twilight Chicklet.) We had to keep them boxed in with baby gates, otherwise they’d have escaped through the secret tunnels we’d dug in the basement. (And what a pain those were. Ever try to dig secret tunnels in an area full of ghosts without disturbing anyone’s bones and getting a poltergeist infestation in your house? We had to use the stud finder to find the bones and then avoid them. Must have made the whole project take four times as long.) Upstairs in my son’s room, we have the two bantams, Scootaloo the Silkie crossbreed princess, and Ms. Bigglesworth, the white Silkie.

One day, all the outdoor chickens disappear. Gone, without a trace. This is deeply upsetting to me, my boyfriend and both my sons, so when a neighbor comes by and tells us that there are a lot of chickens running around an empty lot up one of the streets behind my house, we’re very hopeful, and we go into action. We take as many cardboard boxes as we can, the kind my wife uses to store books, and the four of us head up there on foot, since my wife is the only person with a car and she’s taken it and my younger daughter to go visit my oldest daughter in college.

Well, we find there are a lot of chickens up there in that empty lot. We find ours, all right – Raspberry and Henry and Marie and Solo – and a whole lot of others. A Barred Rock rooster, two Orpingtons, a Wyandotte, four random Cornish (these are meat birds, rarely found as pets because of their short life spans, so who knows what they were doing up there), a gamecock and two game hens (couldn’t tell whether they were American Game, Old English Game or some other kind, but they were little and the roo was fierce), an Ameraucana, an Easter Egger, a Brahma, a Rhode Island Red and a Jersey Giant, and then there were the really weird ones – a Sumatra, a Yokohama, a Houdan, a large Oshamo, an Onagadori, two ducks, a baby peacock, and a flamingo. I have no idea what those last guys were doing hanging around chickens.

We’re very worried for these chickens. They’re running around free in an abandoned lot and they’re expensive chickens, a lot of them, that someone is probably looking for… and my experience with Animal Control tells me that if they come along and take the chickens, the families who bought these chickens will never see them again. I have a lot more faith in my boyfriend’s ability to find local chicken owners on Craiglist or various neighborhood sites than I do in Animal Control’s willingness to actually look for owners of the chickens. So I tell my boys, and my boyfriend, that we should grab as many chickens as we can – not just our own, but all of them, so we can repatriate them to their correct homes.

We start boxing chickens. For most breeds you can get two in a box. Little chickens, sometimes three. My ninja son is an experienced chicken wrangler and my younger son is good at making a lot of noise and scaring chickens toward my older son, my boyfriend, or me. We get our own chickens boxed up quickly and start boxing the other chickens.

Then this woman I don’t recognize shows up and starts screaming at me that she’s called Animal Control and I don’t have any right to have any of these chickens. I point out that some of these chickens are mine, but she isn’t having any. She accuses me of being a chicken thief and insists that the chickens have to go to Animal Control. I tell my ninja son to get himself, his brother and my boyfriend out of here with all of the chickens they already have in boxes, and I distract the woman by arguing with her that I have every right to my own chickens and all of these chickens are mine or belong to neighbors of mine that I intend to return them to, and there’s no need to call Animal Control, who will probably ship the chickens off to a petting zoo and the owners will never see them again. She’s not having any. I’m the worst person in the universe for taking chickens that belong to me out of a yard they don’t belong in.

I stand there arguing with her until Animal Control actually shows up, at which point I head back home, hoping my boys have been smart enough to stash the extra chickens somewhere safe. Here’s where there’s a problem. I have a permit for four hens. Not the six hens I actually own, where the bantams live in the house half the year; the city doesn’t let you keep chickens in your house, never mind that bantams have a hard time living through the winter if they live outdoors. And not the four roosters I own, because you’re not allowed to own a roo in the city, and also you’re not allowed to keep chickens in your basement, which would be a reasonable prohibition if not for the prohibition on roosters and the fact that you can’t sex chicks worth a damn.

While Animal Control is gathering up the chickens we didn’t get to, plus the ducks and the baby peacock (the flamingo has flown off by this time), this crazy woman follows me back to my house, continuing to harangue me about stealing chickens and she’s going to have Animal Control inspect my house. I turn back toward her. “Do they have a warrant?”

“I – what? They’re Animal Control, they don’t need a warrant!”

“The only entity that doesn’t need a warrant is Child Protective Services. Everyone else – the cops, the FBI, the Time Police, the SCP Foundation – they’re all required to get a warrant. Why do you think Animal Control would be an exception?”

“Okay, well! We’ll go to a judge and see about getting that warrant!”

“And who’s ‘we’? Unless you work for Animal Control, you’ve got nothing to do with them getting a warrant. All you are is a complainant.”

“You’re a terrible person who mistreats chickens!” she shouts. “Your yard is horrible, your lawn is nothing but weeds all year long, you put construction trash out on your parking pad, and you keep six chickens when you’re only allowed to have four! Four! Four chickens and only four chickens!”

I’ve just figured out who called animal control on us the first time, when our chickens were confiscated, and I feel sudden rage. “You seem to pay a lot of attention to my house for someone I’ve never seen before,” I say. “You know that stalking is against the law, right? Maybe I need to get a warrant served on you.”

She flounces back toward Animal Control, but now I know that she knows where I live, that she has some kind of long-standing grudge against me, and Animal Control actually listens to her. This could be bad.

So when I get back to the house I find a zoo waiting for me. My sons released all the chickens… into the house. Argh. “You’ve got to get them into the basement,” I tell my oldest. “Use the secret tunnels and get them out of here before Animal Control arrives!”

Animal Control shows up five minutes later when my sons have just finished boxing chickens, and after I’ve just finished texting my wife about what’s going on so she can get back here. They demand to come inside my property because they say I have illegal chickens. I tell them the only chickens I have are the ones I’m permitted to have. They don’t believe me. They tell me they’re going to go and get a warrant. I tell them to have fun with that. They insist they can hear a rooster inside, and my heart sinks, because they absolutely can. The basement roos have set up a cacophony of crowing in response to the sound of all the chickens who my son has just finished boxing up and who were previously running around my house.

Now they’re telling me that if I don’t let them in to get the roosters they can plainly hear, they are authorized to use force. Since when has Animal Control been so hardcore? I can’t afford to let them in; quite aside from the roosters and all the extra chickens, I have an illegal rabbit and none of the cats have licenses. Plus, there’s a tarantula. I can’t remember whether it’s legal to have a tarantula for a pet around here. “Fine,” I snap at them, and with great regret, I go downstairs, I get Dr. Tran and Lyndon, and I hand them over to them to protect the rest.

Meanwhile my sons are in the basement on the other half of the house, the half owned by my in-laws, and they’re using the secret tunnels we dug under the entire street to deliver chickens to every house on our side of the street. My boys managed to recover 16 out of the 24 chickens or so we found running around in that lot, and my older son the ninja dropped 2 or 3 chickens at each house (he kept the game hens and their roo together and left them in our old enemies’ basement. I haven’t talked about our war with the people down the block whose son has always been a terrible person and who always decorate outrageously for the holidays, but you have to hate people who have a 20 foot Frosty the Snowman on their roof all winter long.)

Animal Control leaves. The woman, who is hanging back in the yard watching Animal Control, leaves. My wife arrives. Now the thing you need to know about my wife is that, at heart, she longs to be Big Sister – like Big Brother, but just surveilling everybody without actually doing anything about it. Also, she can’t recognize faces. She recognizes me because my hair is distinctive, but she always mistakes my oldest daughter for one of her friends with a similar hair color, mixes up my son and my boyfriend a lot because they have vaguely similar hair, and one time stalked a guy through a shopping center because she thought he might be her brother. There was absolutely no reason to think he might be her brother, to be honest, her brother lives in a different state. So she’s got all this software on her PC that does facial recognition and matches it against databases.

She takes the pictures my youngest son took with his cell phone of the crazy woman, runs them through her databases, and gets a hit. The woman lives on the street behind ours where all the back yards got bricked up. Don’t recognize her name at all, and my boyfriend confirms she is not one of the people he corresponds with online who’s a fellow local chicken owner. So we have no idea what this woman has against us, but my wife doesn’t care.

She goes online to those places that want you to subscribe to three dozen print magazines, and subscribes to them all, in the name of the crazy lady up the street. She orders cheap sex toys and has them shipped there. She signs the crazy lady up for a subscription to monthly snacks in the mail, and Book of the Month Club, and yes I want more information about energy choice, please send an agent to my home. She gets the woman’s phone number out of online databases and requests car insurance quotes, home insurance quotes, quotes on solar panels, quotes on home renovation, quotes on exorcising ghosts, and please send me information on cruises and destination vacations.  She prints the woman’s name on about fifty shipping labels and starts putting moldy VHS tapes of children’s cartoons from the 1990s into envelopes, creates a fake online business so she can buy a Stamps.com account in the name of the fake online business, uses a prepaid Visa card from the drug store to pay for the postage, and mails all the tapes to the woman… one at a time, every day, for two months. She prints fake labels for empty prescription bottles for AIDS anti-virals and really hardcore anti-psychotic drugs and puts them on the prescription bottles, and she’s gonna have my son drop them off in the yards of the neighbors of the woman, but I point out to her that that’s kind of ableist because her entire idea revolves around getting revenge by making the neighbors think the woman is sick, so she shelves that idea.

You don’t mess with my wife.

Animal Control comes back with a warrant the next day. We show them around the house. See? No chickens here. No chickens in our yard, they disappeared. No chickens anywhere in the house! We don’t open any of the doors to the other side of the duplex, so they don’t know that the other side of the house is also ours and therefore they don’t know about the chickens that belong to us that we hid in the basement over there, nor do they know about the secret tunnels we have running under our entire street so they don’t know about the random chickens in the neighbors’ basements. My boyfriend reports that on his neighborhood forums, lots of people are complaining they can hear rooster noises, but they can’t find any roosters, because none of them expect to find roosters in their basements, so they don’t look.

After Animal Control leaves, we go down to the shelter where they drop the confiscated animals, and try to claim four of the eight chickens that got picked up yesterday because if this works, then we’ll find who in the neighborhood lost their chickens and try to get them back to them. We’re told that the confiscated chickens have already been identified as to who they belong to and their owner has picked them up.

Owner, not owners. Remember, you’re only allowed to have 4 chickens per house in this city, but someone managed to get eight.

My son retrieves the various chickens he’d been hiding in people’s basements, we pile them all into the car, and we drive to my boyfriends’ parents’ farm in Canada. Extradite these chickens, assholes. When the heat dies down we can try to find their real owners, we figure. Meanwhile we retrieve our own chickens from the basement on the other side of the house, put four out in the yard and put the two roosters in with the bantam hens, then think better of it and remove MeToo and make him a house rooster. He wears a chicken diaper well enough and he never crows anyway, and Eggy bullies the crap out of him so it’s best he doesn’t stay in an enclosed environment with him.

Then my youngest daughter comes home from school with a story. Apparently there are wild chickens in the woods near our house. What?

I should explain this. We live in a city, but we live close enough to the outskirts and to various parks that there are small patches of nature all over the place. The “woods” is about a block long and four trees deep, hardly what I’d consider woods, but it’s a good place to dump possums when you find them hiding in your laundry room. (Yes. Possums in our laundry room. Lots of them.) So my son and I go back there, and sure as day, yes, there are chickens back there. All of the chickens that got confiscated from that yard, plus additional chickens who have been disappearing from people’s flocks all year. Either somebody has been stealing chickens and then keeping them in a mega-flock in the woods… or the chickens have been escaping, and gathering together.

We leave the chickens where they are; I’m no narc, to rat out chickens who maybe just want to be free. But my son and I do put up wire fencing to keep our chickens from joining them, because one off-leash dog and those chickens could be in a world of hurt. We do notify the other chicken owners in the neighborhood about the woods chickens, and over the next few days, several of the chickens disappear from the woods as they’re retrieved by their owners.

Meanwhile, my wife has continued her vendetta against the crazy lady. She has my son go over in the middle of the night and throw trash into the yard, which she stole from trash cans in the park so there’s nothing that can be tied back to us, and then calls 311 in the morning to report that the woman’s yard is full of trash. She inspects our car every day to make sure no one has slashed the tires, but she uses a ballpeen hammer to break the crazy lady’s headlight because that will get her a ticket. I tell her to let it go. She buys a bale of hay and throws it in the woman’s yard. And she’s still sending moldy videotapes.

A For Sale sign pops up on the woman’s house. We’re currently extending the tunnel network over there so we can sneak in and leave tripe in the air conditioning system and dead rats. It’s not next door to our house, so there’s a very good chance that my wife actually could buy it, this time.

Never found out why she had a grudge against us, but she’s moving out, so who cares.

[johannas-motivational-insults]

For the DVD commentary ask, my first thought was the BDE/“no toasters” scene from Chapter 3 of Satisfaction, because the idea of a “making of” commentary over that is very funny to me for some reason. But since that probably falls quite a bit too far on the NSFW side, my fallback was the scene from Chapter 20 of Demons where Catra decides to leave the Horde. That one is probably my favorite of the story so far.

omfg, that would be hysterical but I don’t even know what I’d say about that. Your easy pick is an excellent choice though so I’ll do that! (Commentary is bolded.)

I was so excited to finally release this chapter after so much buildup of Catra becoming disillusioned with the Horde and her identity in it. It was clear to me that Catra would not leave just because something bad happened to her, that would only make her more determined to stay and prove herself, so she’d have to see people she cared about getting hurt to make that mental leap. And so, this scene was born.

Eyes scrunching shut, Catra covers her mouth in an attempt to suppress a yawn. It leaks out through her fingers all the same, high and squeaky and embarrassing. Blinking the focus back into her eyes, she flicks them around in search of witnesses. Seeing no cadets looking her way, she sighs in relief and folds her arms back together. She scowls into the sparring circle, watching but hardly paying attention. Is she really supposed to give a shit about any of this?

Don’t forget this happens the morning after Catra has her big breakdown when it hits her that she’ll never have another chance to earn Shadow Weaver’s love or approval. She’s finally at a tipping point.

A few more moves and Lonnie is victorious, slamming her opponent on his back before rolling and dragging his wrist into a devastating arm bar. He taps out and Lonnie gets a modest amount of applause as she stands. Grinning with a sweeping bow, she offers a hand to her opponent, who takes it grudgingly. Kyle and another boy take their places in the circle and Lonnie shares high fives with a few cadets on her way out. She’s nursing a sprained ankle from a couple days ago, but you wouldn’t know it by the way she struts.

When Lonnie’s eyes lock onto hers, Catra groans internally. Of course Lonnie can’t just ignore the folded ears, crossed arms and twitchy tail that very clearly say ‘leave me the fuck alone.’ No, that’s like a homing beacon for Lonnie. She’s always gotten a kick out of getting under Catra’s skin.

Well, Catra won’t give her the satisfaction. As Lonnie sidles up to her, she extends a congratulatory fist. “Nice armbar, dipshit.”

Lonnie grins, bumping it with pride. “Thanks, bitch.”

I love these two so much. Anyone who reads my fics can probably tell but I am Invested in Catralonnie. In my head this ship falls under the category ‘brotps who hate fuck.’

She turns to the circle and they stand silently side by side, watching as the next fight gets underway. In theory, anyway. Catra’s zoning out, her lips sinking into a frown as she settles back into the numb, dark, heavy place she’s been inhabiting today. Grief, she supposes, though not in the usual sense of the word. She’s not grieving that abusive witch who tormented her all those years, body and soul. No, what she’s grieving is the end of their relationship, how it’s encased in stone forever, how she’ll have no more chances to make things right. No more chances to make Shadow Weaver proud, to earn a gentle touch and kind words, to earn her pride and her trust. But that’s bullshit, and she knows it. Those things were never earned, never given fairly.

Oh, she’s starting to get it...

Catra grits her teeth, glaring straight ahead. Today’s numbness has been punctuated by occasional bursts of anger, rage so blinding it makes her wants to tear her own skin to shreds to purge the feeling from her body. (*thousand year stare into the camera*) She rides out this latest wave of fury in silence, clenching her fists but keeping her claws sheathed to avoid making a scene in public. She takes a few deep breaths, pushing them out until the sensation releases her and she sinks back into the depths.

Shadow Weaver is gone. Catra will never get what she needs. It’s over.

Girl, you need to get you some therapy.

“What’s eating you?”

Catra jumps slightly at the invasive words, turning to find Lonnie watching her with those infuriatingly smug green eyes. Licking her lips, Lonnie cracks, “I know it isn’t Adora.”

Me @ y’all:

Catra’s eyes narrow and she gives Lonnie a weak shove, prompting a laugh. “Nothing’s eating me,” she growls. “I’m fine.”

“Then why aren’t you sparring?” asks Lonnie. “Usually you love the chance to beat the shit out of some dumb human.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Catra answers flatly, mouth twitching only slightly. She doesn’t have the energy to be indignant. She doesn’t give a shit.

Damn that’s when you know Catra’s really got it bad.

Nodding with an exaggerated hum, Lonnie remarks, “You’ve been weird all day, dude. Broody, like more than normal.” (Have I mentioned how much I love Lonnie??) Catra summons the strength to shoot her a withering glare, but she’s undeterred. “You snuck into the barracks after midnight last night, then you woke me up again with your snivelling at four in the fucking morning,” she says with a glare of her own. “You owe me an explanation.”

“I don’t owe you anything, assface,” retorts Catra, jamming a threatening claw against her chest. “And I was only snivelling because I inhaled something weird up on the rooftops.”

Lonnie tips her head with a condescending smirk. “Sure, Catra.”

Yes, this is in fact a hat tip to ‘Sure, Jan.’

“I’m serious,” insists Catra. “There must’ve been some kind of spill in one of the factories.”

“Uh huh.”

Catra turns away with a glower, shaking her head. “Whatever, fuck you.”

“You wish,” snickers Lonnie.

“Ughhh!” Catra smacks her forehead with a huge sigh of exasperation. “Fine, I’ll fight you if it will get you to shut up. For fuck’s sakes, Lonnie.”

Lonnie’s preferred method of therapy is to piss people off enough that they’ll fight her and I think that’s very sexy of her.

Chuckling deeply beside her, Lonnie slings an arm around Catra’s shoulder and gives her a playful shake. “That’s my girl.”

Catra would usually shove Lonnie away in this situation, but she doesn’t this time. She’s too tired to fight the contact and needs to save her strength for the actual fight. Besides, it’s not the end of the world. Lonnie’s arm is beefy but not so heavy as to be uncomfortable. The pressure is actually kind of soothing in a way, clearing Catra’s mind and lulling her into a state of calm. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone, let alone Lonnie.

BROTPS WHO HATE FUCK Y’ALL. Okay but honestly I love that I have this relationship to work with because having someone who’s really good at getting under Catra’s skin is another way to open up her character. Lonnie is not only a loveable character she’s a very useful one for a writer who tells stories primarily through character work and relationships.

A loud thud and a howl of pain pierce the air, snapping Catra back to the moment. Her ears prick up at the familiar sound and she moves toward it on instinct, only to realize she’s half a step behind Lonnie. Humans like to say that cats aren’t pack animals, she’s heard that one many times as a reason she can’t be trusted. Catra is no more an animal than anyone else here, but she thinks Magicats must be different from their feline relatives in that way. The urge to protect her pack is overwhelming and immutable. One of her squadmates is hurt, and she needs to be there to help. Now.

Anyone who says Catra doesn’t care about other people can fucking fight me and that’s a fact.

She and Lonnie arrive at the edge of the circle to find Kyle sprawled on his stomach, moaning and writhing, pounding the floor as he tries to hold back wails of pain. It’s not immediately apparent what the problem is from Catra’s vantage point, but Rogelio is already kneeling on Kyle’s other side, telling him to breathe and that he’s going to be fine.

Okay so I fucking went 16 chapters never specifying whether the rest of the squad understood Rogelio’s language because it wasn’t clear in canon and I wanted to see if they would confirm it one way or the other, and of course as soon as I posted chapter 17 (where I specify that they can) season 4 came out and implied that they know him well enough to understand via his tone and gesturing but they don’t understand the language. So mark me down as annoyed over that. Anyway that wasn’t something I wanted to retcon so I kept it for the rest of the fic.

The instructor, some lower tier officer Catra doesn’t really know, steps into the ring. Pushing Kyle’s worried sparring partner aside, he shouts, “Enough theatrics! Get up and fight!”

Oh boy, Shadow Weaver likes to use that word on Adora too. I don’t remember if this mirrored that intentionally.

Catra feels Lonnie tense beside her, hears Rogelio snorting at Kyle that his leg is broken and he’d better stay the fuck down. Cringing in anticipation, Catra peeks over Kyle’s body and immediately wishes she hadn’t. The sight of his unnaturally bent shinbone sends a shudder of sympathy through her bones.

The instructor must not have any reptile friends (likely) or he understands and is a complete and utter asshole (also likely), because he keeps yelling at Kyle, “Come on, don’t be such a princess! I said get up, you coward!”

The boys’ wailing and snorting is getting them nowhere, so Lonnie intercedes. Gesturing down at the deformed limb, she shouts over the din. “His leg’s broken! You really think that’s a good idea?”

The instructor’s mouth falls open and he peers down at Kyle and then back up at Lonnie, his face turning red. “Don’t talk to me that way, Cadet!” he barks. “You’re running laps for the next half hour.”

Okay, Shadow Weaver Lite.

Lonnie blinks, purging her face of emotion. “I’m just trying to help. You needed a translator.”

“The next hour!” he shouts. “Wanna push it more?”

Scowling, Lonnie shakes her head tersely and begins to push her way out of the circle of cadets. Watching her go, the instructor puffs out his chest and waves a dismissive hand down at Kyle.

“Someone take this weakling to the infirmary,” he orders.

Rogelio glares up at the instructor, though to be fair the asshole probably can’t read reptilian expressions either. Lucky Hel. Rolling his whimpering boyfriend to lie on his back, which results in another howl of pain, he grunts out an apology. Then, supporting the injured leg with one massive arm and the rest of his body with the other, he scoops Kyle up and carries him away.

Okay but the bridal carry is *chef’s kiss*

As the crowd reforms around the sparring circle, the instructor claps Kyle’s partner on the shoulder and declares, “Alright, let’s get a real soldier in here to fight this guy!”

I feel really bad for this kid tbh.

The cadets erupt into cheers and several rush forward to take Kyle’s place, which results in a couple of impromptu fights as they try to push each other out of the circle. Catra is knocked back into the crowd in the process, but she doesn’t react with her usual bared teeth and claws, too busy staring slack-jawed at the chaos. Never in her life has she felt more disconnected from her surroundings, not even when she wanted to be.

At one point in her life (okay, many points), Catra would have been clamoring along with the rest of them. For a chance not just to prove herself, but to avenge her injured squadmate. But she feels no need to prove herself to this incompetent asshole of an instructor, and it’s not that kid’s fault they’re compelled to fight each other like this. He clearly felt terrible about Kyle, anyway.

As Catra watches the scene play out, watches the instructor continue to egg the cadets on, only one clear thought forms in her head.

What the fuck is wrong with these people?

Seriously. How is it weak and cowardly not to stand and fight on a broken leg? That’s not how the body works. Then again, they also like to say that deserters are weak and cowardly. Maybe they don’t know what those words even mean. Maybe weak and cowardly just means having a mind of your own.

Catra’s eyes track Lonnie as she hobbles around the room with a red face and clenched fists. Though she isn’t visibly fuming in the same way, a similar heat smolders deep in Catra’s belly, filling her mind with treasonous thoughts. The whole thing is so fucking unfair. But that’s hardly some grand revelation. Nothing that happens in the Fright Zone is fair.

So what is she even doing here?

That thought in particular makes Catra blink. Hard. She knows why she’s here, she’s been saying it over and over, clinging to these words, this need. She needs to show them they were wrong, she needs to achieve what everyone thought her incapable of. If she leaves, she’ll never do that, and everything that happened here would be for nothing. But if nothing is fair here, rising to the top says nothing about her qualifications, only her ability to work the system. A system that’s absolute bullshit.

And who does she need to prove it to, anyway? These mindless idiots submitting to an incompetant authority figure? Her temperamental former boss who put blind faith in her one day and took it away the next? Her deceased sorry excuse for a mother? Her ex-best friend who left her alone to suffer, but has since come to understand her wrongdoings? No… the only person Catra really needs to prove it to is herself. But if the system is bullshit, there’s nothing to prove, only a painful void to fill with… something.

Honestly this is a rough feeling to deal with but at least now that the illusion has been broken she can go about trying to find that thing to fill it. And no that’s not a sex joke lmao, though I suppose it could be.

Scorpia’s words from last night filter into Catra’s brain through the distant sounds of cheering and shouting. If it feels like everything is for nothing, she needs to find a way to make something of her suffering so she can be at peace. Her eyes fall on Lonnie again, her ears recalling Kyle’s sounds of agony. If she can stop other people from being hurt the way she was, would that make something of it? Would that be enough to satisfy the longing deep inside her, to heal the yawning, yearning chasm Shadow Weaver created with her rejection and cruelty, with her refusal to provide validation and affection? Catra doesn’t know.

All Catra knows is she’s done with this shit.

Catra I am so proud of you bb I love you and you deserve better.

Anyway sorry I had less coherent thoughts for this commentary but this scene makes me emotional so I got a little meme-happy. I have had many experiences like this where I was just holding, holding onto something that was unhealthy or a lost cause and then something happened and a switch flipped in my brain, releasing me from that mind trap. I really wanted to get the feeling of that experience across and I’m proud of how it turned out. It’s a great payoff scene for that whole ‘return to the Horde’ arc for Catra. I didn’t want her to leave for Adora but I also knew she wouldn’t leave for herself until she witnessed the brutality and inequality hurting someone else.

[whumpiary]

27. “If they mess with you, they’re messing with me.” for Cass

The new charge is scared. You can smell it half a mile away. Scared and young.

Not young in age, maybe. He’s got scruff on his chin that suggests he'd be likely pushing twenty. Plus, he's tall enough and has thick, broad shoulders like a footy player. But he's got the naive, nervous little face of someone who's never been away from his parents. Young in the heart. In the head. 

Cass hasn't seen him talk to anyone yet. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t. Does mean he’s not comfortable trying to do so. Especially with all that wanting, wanting, wanting for someone to talk to coming off him. Dude was gonna have to curb that.

So when Cass spots him across the common room, eating his lunch in the most isolated corner he can get himself, Cass travels over there, pushing himself up to sit on the table beside the guy, feet swinging.

"Hey, man. We haven't met,” he says. The guy jumps in his skin a little, skids to the side, pulling his plate in close like someone's gonna take it from him. Cass smiles, all teeth, tilts his head "What's your name?"

"Why?"

"Because... That's how you meet you new people”

“Oh,” he says. A frown. "No one else has bothered asking"

"Well I’m bothering" 

The guy considers that for a minute, twists his lips to the side like he’s chewing the inside of his cheek “Neil”

“Cassius,” Cass says, thumb towards his chest “That’s a good name”

"They keep calling my Thumper," Neil says "Don't even know why"

Cass glances down at the foot that hasn't stopped rapid-fire tapping since he sat down. Smirks. Doesn't mention it "Don't worry about it, they do that to everyone"

"No they don't"

Cass snorts a laugh, points to another charge, sprawled on the lounge, so tall his ankles are propped up on the arm of the couch, "You really think the name on that guy’s birth certificate is Hetzo?"

"Whadda they call you?"

Cass shrugs, steals a chip from the guys plate. "Golden child. Lapdog. Lover boy. Whatever they feel like"

The guy's face scrunches up, "Why golden child?"

It's almost funny that that's the one he gets snagged on. Cass grins, "Cause the sun shines out my arse, baby"

The guy laughs just a little at that, head ducked low, barely half a smile. It’s easing. The desperate ache that’s been rolling off the guy to not be so alone here. It’s easing. But he’s really not Cass’ type, nor does Cass go for babysitting. Dude needs some friends. He’d be here at least a year.

“Anyone hurt you?”

He shakes his head.

“Anyone threaten you?”

He pauses, something in his face changes slightly, then he shakes his head again. So that was a yes.

"Look. Don't let 'em get to you, alright?" Cass says with a shrug "Next time one of them calls you Thumper, give 'em a reason to"

The guy’s face crumples again. Man this guy is really really good at the dumbfounded frown.

 “Whaddya mean?”

Cass leans forward, grabs the guy’s beefy hand, ignoring the barely there flinch, and curls it into a fist “Big guy like you must know how to take a swing”

“I thought we weren’t meant to fight,” he says, barely a whisper, pulling back to hide his fist in his lap as though Cass had just placed a gun in his hand “No violence policy”

“You’ll get away with it once,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially “Especially if you tell them Cassius told you to”

“Why would I let you take the credit?”

Cass snorts. Credit. Not blame. Yeah, this guy was gonna do just fine once he got past the lost little lamb shtick.

"That way they know that if they mess with you, they're messing with me," he says with a shrug. Then he leans real close, lets the smile grow on his face that he knows looks like the glint of a knife “And trust me, Neil. None of these motherfuckers ever wanna mess with me”

[boogiewrites]

Reports & Repertoire 17: Resentment & Return

Characters: Eddie Brock x Venom x Candace Miller (OFC)

Summary:  Candy tries to find her way about the world after being roofied and hushed by the media. Eddie is hit with a strong dose of karma, and it's two against one.

Warnings/Tags: Angst. Talk of past trauma and drugging. Revenge plots. Violence and threats.

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On the navy comforter of her queen size bed, sat in the middle of her minimalist white and grey room, Candy sits with her best friend Steph who is currently threatening her if she blinks one more time.

“You act like you’ve never put on eyeliner before.” Steph remarks with her judgment not hidden in her tone or expression.

“It’s different when other people are doing it!” She whines. “The makeup artist at work doesn’t do it as hard as you.” She mutters. “She’s also a lot nicer.” She shoots an accusatory brow her way.

“Well she’s getting paid isn’t she?” Steph smirks.

“Fair point.” Candy responds without nodding her head. “But you love me so you should be nice to me. I’m about to go do some important stuff I need support.” She reaches out and grabs at Steph’s unoccupied hand desperately as she bites her tongue and titters.

“Yeah, that’s what you got Eddie for now.” She snarks and shakes her head. “Speaking of, what does he think about all this?”

“He’s as pissed as I am so he’s down. He’s my backup.” She answers with a sultry lilt.

“I’m sure you are backing it up on that beefy, award-winning journalist.” She teases with a fanciful swipe of her hand. “Tell me. When you two have sex do you both have a press conference afterward to discuss the transaction?” Her face remains without a hint of sarcasm as was her skill set.

“As a matter of fact we do. It’s very productive.” She retorts with sassy. “The copy is good to keep and read later alone.” She grins.

“You fuckin’ nerds.” Steph mumbles and shakes her head. Steph was more skilled when it came to makeup than Candy. So for this undercover mission to the rich tech club where the drugging happened, she was helping her not look like herself.

After the initial turn down of her idea to expose the apparently rampant problem she’d been a victim of, she does what few journalists choose to do and gives away her story to someone else. There was a smaller female journalist who did some excellent work at a small newspaper locally. Candy offered her help to give her some footage, evidence and lend the story and support to the endeavor.

The night for the first recon mission was finally upon them. Eddie sits nervously in the modern and cozy living room, knee bouncing and knuckles white with worry. Venom tries to console him, assuring him they would never let anything happen to Candy. Eddie knows, finding his counterparts attempts at comfort to be failing. Putting his favorite person in danger wasn’t really something he could be talked into being excited about. Not a worst-case scenario by far, but a loudly nagging issue, was having to sit and listen to the men hit on Candy all night and that alone was raising his blood pressure.

Candy had pulled out all the stops when it came to mission from the glasses that had a camera inside and nail polish that reacted to Rohypnol, or Roofies. She had to specially ask for the kick starter to be sent to her before the release with the promise of free advertising after the fact to get it. She reveals her disguise, exiting from her bedroom, Venom slithering around the back of the couch to see her before Eddie. She was in something that looked entirely unlike her. A short and tight black dress, a push-up bra with chicken cutlets and enough makeup to give her flashbacks to middle school cheer competitions.

“How do I look?” she asks with a scrunch of her nose.  It’s usual button shape now straight with the help of Steph’s contouring.

“Not like you.” Eddie remarks with an approving nod.

“A big titty goth girlfriend.” Venom says with no humor or irony and the girls begin to laugh. “Why is this funny? This is what Eddie says. Why are you embarrassed Eddie? Large mammary glands and gothic styling are wonderful things in a girlfriend. She wears black. Like me.” he grins as Edie blushes.

“It’s a...an old internet thing, dude just… don’t go around talking about titties so freely. It’s rude.”

“I did not mean to offend… thought it was a compliment.”

“Good use of slang there, hun.” Candy praises his efforts. “I appreciate both of your thinking I have big tits though. It’s just the bra.” she laughs and shakes as Venom’s grin grows wider.

“Calm down.” Eddie groans.

“We are calm,” he says retracting himself back to Eddie’s shoulder. “Are you ready? We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

“Let’s check the camera first.” Candy says with a clear enthusiasm Eddie did not share.

They run the tests and she learns how to direct her gaze most efficiently. They’d gone over the plan a dozen times. Arrive alone, sit and be bait while Venom lurked on the roof and kept a lookout for her and her victim. They left the house separately, both in taxis that picked them up at places other than her house. She arrived as planned and sat, and waited.

For a girl that looked like her, in a bar like that, it didn’t take long once it was established she was alone. No one recognized her, but she didn’t expect them to, Steph’s contouring really was a miracle worker. She played fun and easy, and it took a few guys, but late enough in the night she finally caught one as she played drunk on top of everything else. She didn’t see the guys who had drugged her before, which was a letdown but anyone who would do this deserved it right?

She talked him up, a trust fund baby who, with his father's money, had a tech start-up. It took no effort on her part to get him talking about his genius and how HE would run Tesla if he had the chance. There were a lot of “Oh my god that’s CRAZY!” and “That’s SOOOO smart.”’s from her but he was so caught up in hearing himself he didn’t notice the soundboard answers as they came from her like a kid hitting buttons on a customized keyboard. With the mere suggestion of her excusing herself and asking him to get her another drink, he was antsy to put his own plan into action. On return, she tested it while distracting him with her chest. A task that proved almost too easy. She fake drank for a while before claiming to feel sleepy and wanting to “get this show on the road” before it got too late.

With a short walk, not even a few blocks down, she knew her alien accomplice was close, slinking in the darkness of the rooftops. The disguised Candy pulls the unsuspecting predator out of the street lamp lit sidewalk and into the dank shadows of the greasy alleyway.

“I  just can’t wait.” she giggles “I don’t want to chance my roommate being in and I want you all to myself.” she coos with a bop of her manicured finger to his nose.

“I mean, your roommate can join in too if she wants.” he offers with a smug smirk.

“Well, the problem is my roommates a dude.” She answers with an upward inflection.

“Ah, red flag much?” he laughs.

“No. He’s my boyfriend… and inhabited by a symbiote.” Her delivery goes flat, sober eyes meet the pursuer turned victim.

“What the fuck? You goth girls are fuckin’ crazy, man. Not even the drugs could come up that shit.” he shakes his head, still laughing.

“No. Really. He’s huge and dangerous and doesn’t like you. You’re a piece of shit who tries to drug women to sleep with them because you're a pathetic excuse for a human who can’t get laid on his own.”

“Wait, what?” he stutters, suddenly standing up straight as Venom drops from the rooftop behind her in an impressive slinking mass. She has to admit, the look of horror on his face did things to her. The sheer terror that only being faced with death could give a dense, self-worshiping asshole like him.

“We’re going to eat you. First that big head of yours...then slurp up your organs like fava beans and then drink your adrenaline glands like a nice  chianti.” His dagger teeth drip with drool, proof of his hunger and intention.

Candy beams with pride for the completion of their plan, stepping back and chuckling quietly at the reference Venom made. The guy doesn’t even have time to scream. There’s not a drop of blood or splatter left of him to find. It’s like it never happened at all.

Candy is left with a deeply satisfied, albeit disturbingly good feeling in her gut. “I’ll see you later, babe.” she whispers and just as quiet as they’d came, they fled.

This continued for a few weeks, the footage of the drugging is stored on an external harddrive Candy kept in her safe. Eddie thought it’d only happen once. But it happened again, twice, three times more before there were articles about mysterious disappearances of the young rich elite in town. Was it the work of the Illuminati some articles asked? She read them with her coffee every Tuesday and smiled knowingly. It pleased Venom. Finally, a human that understood him and his need to kill to eat and protect this planet and its people. But Eddie was more worried than relieved at this point.

—- “You made us stop hunting when we got too much media attention. And now you want to go out and do it again?” Candy could hear the concern for her in Eddie's voice but her own was too strong to heed his warning.

“I wanna find the guy that originally did it to me, Eddie.” Her eyes give away the hurt that’s been fueling her anger as her hands move animatedly while she argues her point. “These are awful people, same as who you get rid of, there’s no reason not to give it one more shot.”

Eddie sighs and puts his hands on his hips, feeling as if he was talking to his old self. “Candy, I don’t want a fight alright? I get why you’re upset and I’d be upset too!” His voice inflected hugger pitched with feeling, “Hell, I AM upset! I get it. I do but ya know you can’t keep pushing it. Your luck will run out… like mine did. You’ll push it just one step too far because of your pride and then boom, it all falls apart.”

“Am I supposed to just let it go what they did to me? To the countless other girls they’ve done it too?” He saw the tears she fought back and his heart hurt for her. He suddenly understood everyone that had tried to warn him of the same thing in the past. It was weird karma to witness.

He sighs and gives her sad and tired eyes, much like the ones she was giving him. “You aren’t… losing by moving on ya know. You can’t win them all, just believe me, babe, please. I’ve BEEN where you are alright? I GET it! I swear I do but you can't fix every wrong out there. You just can’t… I’m sorry.”

“I’m going out tonight. And you’re going to be there. That... I hesitate to call him a person but that asshole will be there who did this to me. I just know it. Let me do it just one more time and I’ll stop okay? Please Eddie?”

He groans and feels Venom wants to give his two cents. He was on Candy's side. But of course, he was, he didn’t grasp the situation fully because he couldn’t, he was damn near indestructible right now and one more buffet of bad guys seemed like it had no downsides when you took into account it meant making Candy happy. And they both wanted that, so desperately. She’d been so much happier since they’d started this after the funk she denied she’d fallen into after the roofie.

“Fine.” He says with more anger. “But just one more time Candy I swear to god, this is the last time I’m helping you do this.” He wags his finger and she doesn’t care. She doesn’t notice. She’d already gotten her way.

—— She had her ritual now she liked to do, the getting ready and primping. The adrenaline rush was enough to get anyone hooked on the feeling. Perhaps it was what made her go against sound advice. Perhaps it was the lack of justice for herself, feeling like a martyr to take on people who seemed untouchable. It was the origin story she’d dreamed of since she was young. A woman wronged, going against the bad guys for the ultimate revenge and winning against the odds. It was everything she’d wanted. And she foolishly thought she could have it.

She was right about one thing. The guy that drugged her was there that night. She and Venom only used this convenient coincidence to shut Eddie up. “It’s a sign!” They’d hissed together.

“It’s a bad idea.” was Eddies defeated reply.

Candy enjoys this one a little too much, a little too true-crime podcast subject for Eddie's liking.

She leads him to the alley with her curves and promises. Her heels giving her no trouble but her wobbly ankles playing like they did all the same to the target.

“You believe in karma?” She proposes, lips so close she could taste the alcohol in the air on his breath.

“Nah, you get what you work for. You gotta step on some toes sometimes to prove you’re the best. If you lose you didn’t try hard enough.” He cockily answered. Something he’d probably picked up from the few interactions he had with him billionaire father growing up. His trust fund was a shield against his own evil deeds.

“That’s a shame. Because I do.” She sighs.

“I don’t think we have to match up on our philosophy 101 ideas, babe.” He chuckles. “Don’t have to have anything in common at all to do what I wanna do to you.” His hands lead to her hips and next thing he knows there’s a knife pressed into his neck. This was new. This wasn’t part of the plan.

Eddie's heartbeat picks up as he sees through Venom's eyes what’s happening. She was in too deep and she was only going to dig herself deeper.

“I’m glad we have one thing in common for what I’m going to do to you.” She snarls, taking her wig and glasses off.

“What the…?!” He says with no fear and only surprise. “Wait aren’t you? Holy shit you again?” He laughs. “So you’re the one doing this little vigilante justice thing. How cute.”

“Cute? You were going to rape me and my friend you fucking disgusting, baby dicked piece of shit.”

“They're onto you sweetie.” He grins. “You can do whatever you want to me but you think killing the brightest minds in the world was a smart idea? Like no one would come looking? You really are stupid.”

“You can call me whatever you want because you’ll be dead and I’ll be able to breathe a little easier knowing one less asshole like you is in this world.”

“Do what you want little girl, but I’m gonna put up a fight you can’t win.” He smirks.

“Doubtful.” Is Venom's response as he appears looking over Candy in the dim and dank alley.

“Good riddance.” She says angrily, putting her wig back on. She continues to mutter curses and name call while her eyes well up with a long-held release that was a long time coming.

“Are you-“

“I’m FINE.” She snaps and wipes at a falling tear. Venom recoils noticeably. “I’ll... see you later.” She rushes out before stomping off.

“Eddie?”

“I know man. She’s just… going through a lot.”

“We are worried.”

“Yeah. We are.”

-----------------------------

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[breathlester]

Three for the price of one

pairing: dan howell/phil lester

summary: ‘the holiday’ inspired au where Dan and Phil spend a promising first date until Phil leaves in a hurry, dropping his wallet. Dan returns it the next day hoping for an explanation, but gets more than he bargained for.

genre: angst and fluff, angst with a happy ending, parenting, halloween/autumn

cw: references to minor character death, car accidents and trauma/injury; mentions of alcohol

"Soo ur still good 4 tonight?"

Dan taps away at his laptop nervously, waiting for the reply that comes seconds later.

- "I am indeed. x] Why, are you having second thoughts?"

He exhales, a smile forming on his face. Phil has a way of combining perfect grammar with strange emojis that makes Dan’s stomach flip over in the most pleasant way. And thinking about the effect Phil will have on him when they’re face to face for the first time in a couple of hours does absolutely nothing to calm his nerves.

"Nah just making sure haha :D" he types, ignoring the fact that he is nowhere near as relaxed as the casual “nah“ suggests.

Phil just sends a "♡" in response and Dan promptly chokes on his own saliva, hurrying to replicate the symbol, accidentally adding a second 3 to the heart. Hopefully Phil won’t think he’s overly eager. Although he is, but Phil doesn’t need to know that.

- "Can’t wait to see you, but you will have to let me leave now if you want me to be on time! ^-^"

"k, see u in 3 hours!"

- ":)"

Dan stares at the smiley face for a good half minute, his own face mirroring the expression, before he pulls himself together and logs out of the dating website.

„Right, time to choose an outfit.“

He turns around to consider the assortment of clothes laid out on his bed. His two favorite pairs of black skinny jeans, four different black t-shirts, one button-down (black) and two jackets (both black as well). At least the colour won’t be a problem...

-

Hushed beats of a slow-paced indie song sound softly through the walls and the lights are comfortably dim, the pub warm and buzzing with people, but it doesn’t have the same relaxing effect on Dan as it usually would. His eyes scan the room anxiously and his teeth torment his bottom lip. He’s about to make his way over to the bar when someone calls his name and he halts, turning and catching the eye of a tall black-haired man on the other side of the room. “Phil,” Dan says under his breath, exhaling in relief, and starts towards him.

His date is sat on one of the sofas in the corner, looking absolutely gorgeous. Even though they’ve skyped a handful of times before to make sure neither of them is a 60-year-old pervert, Dan finds himself speechless at the sight of Phil. His denim shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a turquoise t-shirt that brings out the various colours in his eyes and his black hair is pushed back to reveal his forehead. His features are clear-cut, skin as pale as if he’s carved out of marble, and he’s smiling at Dan.

“Hi,” Dan breathes, feeling himself blush and his heart beat quicken.

Phil gets up to greet him and they behold each other for an awkward moment before Phil chuckles and leans in to hug him. “Hi,” he says softly next to Dan’s ear, and it takes all of Dan’s self-control not to melt right there in his embrace, butterflies tingling his stomach. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with a delicate flowery scent.

“You smell really nice,” he blurts out as they pull away, blushing even deeper when Phil’s beautiful eyes widen.

“Oh, thank you. I don’t wear cologne a lot. It’s not too much?” he asks abashedly, glancing up at Dan, who to his own surprise is slightly taller than him.

“Not at all! It’s, uh, it’s perfect.”

Phil answers with another bright smile that catches Dan off guard and giggles when it takes him a moment to sit down.

“So, do you feel more like dancing or talking?”

“How about a drink first?” Dan suggests and Phil waves a nearby waiter over to them. “Two margaritas, please. - Unless you need to drive?”

Dan shakes his head quickly and Phil adds with a playful little wink, “They’re on me.”

-

It’s been four months since Dan stumbled across Phil’s profile on the dating website and three since he’s worked up the courage to message him. Phil, who described himself as a “wanna-be writer and muse enthusiast”, replied a day later and from then on they’ve been chatting almost non-stop. Although Phil is four years older and lives on the countryside whilst Dan is a film student from central London, they’ve bonded over a similar taste in TV shows and music. However, it has taken Dan a while to coax some more personal information out of Phil and even longer until Phil agreed to their first date – even if the other man assured him that this was only due to being busy and not because he was hesitant to meet him. To be honest, that didn’t really convince Dan since he could not imagine a self-employed writer and editor to have an immovable time schedule.

All that aside, if tonight goes well, Dan is more than willing to forget about this tiny drop of bitterness.

And so far, it’s going great.

They’ve sipped their drinks and Phil has interrogated Dan about the internship with the BBC he is currently diong in the course of his studies. In turn, he’s let Dan in on his work as an editor and his new-found obsession with house plants.

“I’ve got quite a nice garden, but there’s not much to do out there in the cold season, so I thought, why not get some green inside? Big mistake. Turns out house plants are a lot more high-maintenance! I’ve already killed two!”

Dan giggles, taking another sip of his drink. “I couldn’t even keep a cactus alive. I guess student digs just aren’t the most healthy environment.”

No matter what he’s talking about, Dan finds himself drawn in and fascinated by Phil. He’s got a uniquely funny way of telling a story that has Dan giggling like a teenager and hanging on his lips like snake bite piercings.

And his eyes sparkle when he laughs. “Oh, I like that song! Fancy some dancing?”

Feeling warm and pleasantly tipsy, Dan nods and takes the hand Phil offers him. More like I fancy you, he thinks as they take their place among couples and singles on the dancefloor in the adjoining room and after some stumbling around fall into an easy rhythm.

Phil’s arm is resting on Dan’s shoulder and it feels both casual and meaningful, like a careful experiment. The exhilarating beat of Muse’s Madness pumps through Dan’s veins and lets his spirit soar, makes him throw his head back and grin at Phil whose eyes are reflecting the flashing spotlights like lighthouses. He’s beautiful and he’s mouthing the lyrics at Dan, pulling dramatic faces, and Dan feels so good, so alive and amorous…

When the song fades into a slow-paced one, Phil’s arm slips down from his shoulder and snakes around his waist, and Dan gently pulls him closer until the other man’s chin rests on his shoulder. They sway on the spot, engulfed in each other’s presence like a small bubble in a sea of people. The butterflies in Dan’s stomach have doubled and are swirling uncontrollably.

“Hi there, again,” Phil whispers, and Dan runs his hands up his torso, feeling him shiver under his touch. “Hi.”

Slowly, his hands move from Phil’s shoulders to his cheeks and he gives him a questioning look. Phil’s forehead is pressed against his as they lock eyes and he smiles, all flushed skin and the tickling of soft hair, of warm breath. Dan glances down at his lips…

A ringtone disturbs the ballad now playing in the background and Phil recoils, his right hand darting into his back pocket immediately. Dan releases the breath he’s holding, feeling disappointment seep through him like a sudden downpour.

He catches sight of Phil’s phone screen for a second and registers against his will that the caller is a pretty blonde woman saved as “Louise” in Phil’s contacts.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Dan, I have to take this!” Phil says loudly to make himself heard above the noise, offering him a quick apologetic smile before he pushes through the crowd, away from Dan.

-

He waits for one song, then another, moving awkwardly on his own along to an unknown beat. But when the third song spins into the fourth, Dan gives up his position and goes on a search. Another couple is snogging on the sofa where they had their drinks, and Phil’s not in the queue for the toilets, nor is he sitting at the bar. Perhaps he’s outside, Dan thinks and debates whether or not it would seem intrusive to go look for him if he’s still on the phone – but then the bartender waves him over.

“You haven’t seen a man with black hair done like mine, about my height?” Dan asks hopefully.

The heavily-tattooed, rather beefy guy nods and adds, “Told me to tell you he had to leave. Seemed terribly sorry about it.”

Dan’s heart sinks in his chest like a coin dropped in a fountain. “Did he say anything else?”

The bartender shrugs, continuing to rinse the glass he’s holding. “Was in a hurry. And besides, do I look like an answering machine to you?”

“I – no. Sorry,” Dan stutters, feeling his face grow hot with disappointment and embarrassment.

The barista’s face softens slightly. “Hey, better luck next time, mate, alright?”

Yeah, Dan thinks bitterly. Except there won’t be a next time after he’s let me down like this.

There’s no point in staying if Phil’s gone. Trudging to the front door, all excitement seeped out of him, he’s close to wallowing in self-pity when his foot catches on something on the floor.

Someone’s dropped a wallet. Not just any wallet though – it’s an Adventure Time themed one.

A grin has already halfway spread across Dan’s face when he bends down to pick it up, unfolding it carefully. What kind of adult would use an Adventure Time wallet on a date in a pub?

His assumption is confirmed when his eyes fall on the card tucked into the front pocket. “Philip Lester, editor and freelance writer,” it reads, and listed below are Phil’s phone number, email and home address.

I’ll give him one more chance, Dan decides as he pockets the wallet and pushes open the door, the chilly October wind ruffling his hair. Tomorrow I’ll drop the wallet off at his place and see if he’s got an explanation for me.

He hates to admit it, but he really hopes Phil does.

-

Dan looks down at his phone once again, double-checking the small blue dot that indicates his position. “This is the middle of fucking nowhere,” he declares out loud.

Behind him, though long out of sight, lies the city of London. To the left – nothing but fields. To the right a forest is climbing up the gentle curve of a hill. And ahead there’s this bumpy path he’s been following for the past thirty minutes that was most definitely not built for motorcycle trips. He’s beginning to regret his impulsive action.

And yet the app on his phone insists that he is on the right track. Dan takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet-smelling autumn air.

“Okay, let’s give this one last shot. Another half mile and if nothing turns up then except for more scarecrows and creepy abandoned barns, I’m going to turn back and send him his wallet by mail.”

He snaps the visor of his helmet shut with a sort of final resolution and mounts his motorcycle again.

The frosty head wind makes him wish he’d worn a jumper underneath his leather jacket and Dan is about to give up when the path leads through a small grove and turns a corner – and there it is, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

A single small, ancient-looking house, leaning alarmingly to one side, its uneven stone walls covered to a large part by rampant roses, some of them still in bloom.

There’s no fence surrounding the cottage, but the letterbox in front of it bears a wooden sign that dangles in the wind and states in ornate letters “Rosery Cottage”.

Hesitantly, Dan clambers off his bike and retrieves his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. “You have reached your destination.”

The narrow path of cobblestone that leads up to the door is framed by a couple of crooked walnut trees whose leaves are scattered across the lawn. To the right, an old battered VW Golf is parked on a makeshift driveway. A pair of wellingtons stand guard on the wooden patio.

Dan takes a deep breath and starts towards the house, thinking as he rings the bell, this better be Phil and not some misanthropic old hag.

-

What he certainly does not expect is a little girl in dungarees and a yellow jumper opening the door. Her copper brown hair is braided in two rather messy pigtails, her round face dotted with freckles and there’s a bit of chocolate in the corner of her mouth.

“You’re tall,” the girl remarks casually after looking him up and down, pinching her chestnut eyes as if he’s blinding her.

As perplexed as Dan is, the comment makes him chuckle. “Am I really?”

“Yeah… you’re like, taller than my daddy.”

The last word makes Dan’s heart pick up speed and he’s about to say, “I’m sorry, I must be in the wrong place,” when a voice drifts through the hallway, accompanied by the dulled noise of a blow-dryer.

“Who’s at the door, Liv?”

It can’t be Phil, Dan tells himself. This guy just sounds similar because the noise distorts his voice.

Phil doesn’t have any kids - right? The image of the beautiful blonde from Phil’s phone screen reappears in front of Dan’s inner eye and he draws in a sharp breath –

“A man in a leather jacket, Daddy,” the girl yells back. “He’s very tall,” she adds after a second, almost reproachfully.

There’s a moment of silence, then the noise of the hair-dryer stops abruptly and the man who sounds like Phil shouts, “I’ll be right there!”

The girl keeps her eyes trained on Dan, making him uneasy, so he lets his gaze drop away from her face. She’s holding a furled newspaper in her hand, Dan can just make out an advert proclaiming “Three for the price of one!” and underneath it a crossword, partly filled in with wonky letters.

Someone clears their throat and Dan looks up, feeling his heart take a leap.

The man facing him is wearing mismatched socks and his black hair is still wet and ruffled, but it’s unmistakably Phil.

His eyes are wide and he looks like he can’t quite decide whether to smile or not. He looks a little bit guilty, Dan thinks with a selfish trace of satisfaction, but the feeling fades when he remembers the elephant in the room – although elephant is perhaps too large a word.

“I’ll take it from here, Olivia, thank you,” Phil says to the girl and her eyes flicker from Dan to Phil and back before she turns and skips off into another room.

“Olivia,” Dan repeats, avoiding Phil’s eye until he hears the other man sigh.

“Yes, her name’s Olivia, and she’s my daughter, as you might already have guessed.”

I’d be concerned if other children than your own called you daddy, Dan thinks, but he doesn’t say it because this is not the time for a joke. It’s time for an explanation.

“So who’s Louise?” he asks at the same moment that Phil asks, “So what brings you here?”

They finally look at each other.

“Shall I go first?” Dan offers. “Right. Last night, when you, er, bailed on me – you lost something.”

He tries to sound casual but the guilt becomes more evident in Phil’s face for a moment until Dan pulls the wallet out of his pocket and holds it out to Phil, whose eyes grow comically wide.

“My wallet! Thanks, I hadn’t even noticed – oh man, I owe you -”

“An explanation? Yeah, I’d say so,” Dan says with newfound confidence.

Phil exhales. “You’re right. I have some explaining to do. - Oh god, I haven’t even asked you in yet, I’m the worst -”

He steps aside, holding the door open. “Please, make yourself at home. I know you’re probably less than elated by me right now, but I promise I can explain if you let me.”

Dan looks down at the threshold in front of him. The welcome mat he’s standing on has a pattern of sleeping cats on it. One small step for man, one giant step for Dan, he thinks dryly. If he steps into Phil’s house now and more than that, into his life, it will never be this easy to leave again.

For some reason, the image of the newspaper the girl was holding appears to him. If only life were as simple as a crossword puzzle, with only one right answer to every question.

“Tell me one more thing before I come in,” Dan asks. “Seven letter word, starting with M, or eight letters starting with D?”

Phil stares at him for a moment, then his smile falters as he gets the hint.

“Seven,” he says quietly.

Married, then – Dan thinks, a sick feeling rising in his stomach, and he’s about to turn away and leave for good, when Phil adds in an even smaller voice, “But the first one’s a W.”

-

Seven letters, starting with W. It’s just like a crossword, but it’s not an easy solution at all, and having solved it doesn’t make Dan feel any better, instead it makes him feel awful.

Widowed, he thinks, and bites down hard on his bottom lip. Widowed. Of course, that makes sense. It explains the careful pace at which Phil went about their blossoming relationship. It explains his inability to be spontaneous, and the fact that he didn’t want to talk much about his past.

Phil’s a widower, and he’s got a child, and Dan is so, so insensitive.

He looks up at Phil slowly, afraid of meeting his gaze. But Phil doesn’t look angry or as if he’s about to cry. His face is painfully composed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Phil replies, and somehow that is all it takes for Dan to step inside and pull the door shut behind him.

He hands Phil the wallet, but instead of letting him pull his hand away, Phil holds on to it.

“Thank you,” he mutters and Dan gently presses his hand.

“Daddy, Micah keeps trying to take my pen!”

The bright voice from the right makes them both flinch, and Phil gives him a little smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “This way, please.”

The room to the right that they enter is the kitchen. Sunlight falls in through the windows and illuminates the large wooden table at which Olivia is sat, facing the door. The newspaper is spread out in front of her, opened to the kids’ page.

A small boy, a toddler at most, is squirming in his high chair, reaching out across the table for the pen Olivia is holding. As Olivia pulls it away from his grasp, he whimpers.

“Micah, hey!” Phil rushes towards them and takes the boy’s chubby little hand in his. “This is Livy’s pen, okay? Here, those crayons are for you. - And you, Liv – don’t be so harsh on him, you hear me? He doesn’t understand that it’s yours.”

He turns to Dan again, his face relaxing slowly. “Dan, these are my children, Olivia and Micah. Kids, this is Dan, who I was meeting up with last night.”

Dan smiles nervously as Olivia observes him, then she gives him a sudden toothy grin and turns back to her crossword.

“Here, take a seat please”, Phil says. “Do you want to drink anything? Coffee, tea?”

“Coffee would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble,” Dan replies, sitting down on the wooden chair next to Olivia.

“Not at all.”

As Phil is busy with the coffee machine, Dan’s gaze drops to the table. Opposite of him, Micah is scrawling something undefinable with crayons. His hair is thick and darker than Olivia’s, his eyes azure and large in his round face. He seems to have trouble controlling his crayon, his small hand is clenched in a fist around it. Dan doesn’t have a lot of experience with young children, but Micah has to be at least two years old…

“I need a word with four letters for this flowery thing, daddy,” Olivia pipes up, catching Dan’s attention. “It’s not a tree, but plant and flower don’t fit.”

He peers at the crossword she’s working on. It has pictures in front of every line instead of questions.

“Give me a moment, Liv,” Phil says, rummaging in a cupboard for a mug.

“Have you tried rose?” Dan suggests charily.

Olivia looks up at him in surprise, then back at the paper. Her letters fit neatly in the boxes. “It works! Thanks, Dan.”

He smiles charily. “You’re welcome.”

Phil places the mug of coffee down in front of him before he sits down next to the high chair. Leaning on his elbows, he hides his face in hands for a moment.

When he emerges, he looks up at Dan. “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “You wanted to know about Louise.”

Dan, who’s about to take a sip from his coffee, puts the mug down, barely avoiding a spill of the scalding liquid.

“She’s a friend who occasionally takes care of my two rascals when I’m out. She was here last night and called to tell me Micah had banged his head. Turned out to be half as bad, but I tend to panic about my baby.” He reaches out to gently brush the hair back from Micah’s forehead, revealing a small reddened bump near his hairline.

The young boy reacts promptly. “Owie.”

A caring smile lingers on Phil’s lips. “Yes, you had an owie. Does it still hurt?”

“No more owie,” the toddler babbles, shaking his head.

“Good.”

Phil withdraws his hand, turning his attention back to Dan. His smile fades. “I’m sorry I left so abruptly, I overreacted. It’s just – Micah, he was in the car when…”

His voice trails off, but Dan’s fairly sure he can finish the sentence for himself. Phil must have lost his wife, the mother of his children, in a car accident.

Before Dan can think of what to say, Phil leans towards him across the table. “That’s why he’s a bit behind in development,” he adds in a low voice.

Dan glances at the toddler who’s clearly in his own world, scribbling away at the paper in front of him (and occasionally straying over the edges onto the wooden plate of his high chair). He tries to find something to say in reply, but quickly comes to the conclusion that there isn’t anything.

And Phil doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer. As Dan looks back at him, his eyes have gone out of focus, the iridescent blue glazed over with a hazy dolour that’s impossible for Dan to grasp. With a leap of his heart he reaches out one hand and places it on top of Phil’s that’s resting on the table.

Phil’s starts, blinking at him. He doesn’t smile, and yet there’s a glint that returns to his eyes as he becomes aware of Dan’s touch. When Dan dares to gently run his thumb over the back of his hand, he doesn’t flinch or pull back.

Silence settles into the room, not empty but filled with the sound of pencil scraping against paper and the strangely reassuring noise of an old house, alive with the creaking of wood and rattling of wind at its window panes.

The mug of coffee sits in front of Dan, gradually cooling down, forgotten in the moment.

-

It’s Micah who breaks the silence eventually.

“Daddy,” he says, and Phil startles, looking up and withdrawing his hand gently from Dan’s. “Yes, darling?”

But Dan observes with a hidden delight the faint flush of pink that’s settled on his cheekbones.

“Doggy,” is all Micah says in response, and Dan thinks he’s beginning to see what Phil meant earlier. Although children are more or less a novelty to him, surely a two-year-old would be able to form simple sentences?

He is torn out of his pondering by Phil’s voice. “Go on, take it.”

Dan looks up, finding that Micah is holding a sheet of paper out to him. There’s a bunch of brown crayon lines in one corner that vaguely form the shape of an animal, but that might be just interpretation because he knows what it’s supposed to be.

“For me?”

Micah nods, his blue eyes sparkling.

Dan smiles. “That’s… very kind of you, Micah. What a beautiful dog you’ve drawn there!” He takes the edge of the sheet between his fingertips; Micah lets go with a satisfied expression on his round face.

Phil reaches out to kiss the top of his son’s head. “Good boy, Micah.”

Dan looks down at the drawing, blinking, trying to conceal how touched he is. He really isn’t accustomed to children, doesn’t know how to behave around them, but his reaction to Micah’s drawing seems to have made the boy happy.

“Daddy, when are we leaving for London?” Olivia asks. She doesn’t seem to have noticed the change of atmosphere before, much to Dan’s relief. He has no idea how she feels about him getting to know her dad. Surely it can’t be easy after she’s lost her mother…

“Another two hours,” Phil says after a glance at his wristwatch. “Are you hungry yet? We can have lunch in a bit.”

Olivia nods, putting her pen away and folding up the newspaper. “I’m done with the crossword. Correct it for me, daddy, please?”

Phil smiles. “Of course, honey. Later, yeah? Though I’m sure there won’t be much to correct.” He takes the paper from her.

“You’re going to London today?” Dan asks.

“The therapist has her office in the city,” Phil replies, adding, “can we offer you a ride?” as if the thought has just occurred to him.

“Oh, thank you, but I came on my motorbike.”

“You’ve got a motorbike? That’s so cool! Daddy won’t let me get one,” Olivia pipes up.

Dan laughs. “Oh well, you see, motorbikes are very dangerous, so your father’s right about that. You’ve got to get a license so they’ll let you drive one. And for that license you’ve got to be of age.”

Olivia pushes out her lower lip. “That’s not fair. I’m so old already. Much older than Micah who’s just a baby.”

Phil, whose face has tightened up again, reaches out and strokes a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Patience, darling. Why don’t you draw a nice picture for the therapist before we leave? I’m sure she’d love that. And I’ll go have a chat with Dan – if you don’t mind?”

The last part is directed at Dan. He shakes his head, looking at Phil.

“I’m not in a hurry.”

-

He lets Phil lead him down a hallway framed with pictures. Some are drawings by Olivia, showing what is unmistakably the cottage, or a field of flowers – or a family, complete with a stick figure in a dress and long flowing hair.

The others are photographs.

Olivia in a nice dress with her schoolbag in hand and a wide grin on her first day of school. Micah lying in his crib, smiling up at the camera. The two of them playing in the snow together.

Phil reading to Micah who’s cuddled up to him. Phil braiding Olivia’s hair. Phil with his arms around the two of them.

Phil holding a newborn baby with flimsy hair and a reddened face, a younger Olivia leaning into the picture, curiously gazing at the small human. But they’re not the only ones on the picture – there’s a woman lying in the hospital bed behind Phil, her face out of focus, but the radiating smile still clearly visible.

There are more pictures of her. Ones of her baking biscuits with Olivia kneeling on the counter, stealing batter. Her rocking Micah in her arms, her mouth opened as if she’s singing a lullaby. The woman wearing a white dress and flowers in her hair, stood next to a beaming Phil in a suit. The two of them kissing.

Dan averts his gaze. He feels like an intruder.

“In here, please.” 

Taking a deep breath, Dan steps into the room.

It’s an office, complete with an old mahogany desk and shelves of books framing the walls instead of photographs as Dan notes with relief.

There are two armchairs near the window to which Phil guides him. They sit down, and Dan waits for Phil to speak, anxious suddenly about what he will have to say.

A moment of silence stretches at Phil looks around the room, letting his gaze wander as if he were the visitor.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Phil begins with a sigh, looking at his hands. “I’m not an easy person to date. I’m not your average single person – I’m a package deal.”

The newspaper advert comes back to Dan’s mind and he mutters, “three for the price of one.”

Phil chuckles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks up. “You could say that, I guess… though the price might be higher I fear… You should know - in fact, you deserve to know, the truth. I’m a single father. I work around the clock. I get up at six. I cook, I clean, I comfort, I play, I sew, I fix. And at night when the kids are in bed, that’s when I find time for my actual job. I never have any free time except for when I get someone to watch my children, and I can’t do that very often, considering how far out in the country we live and…”

He breaks off, lowering his face into his hands. “I don’t like leaving them. I can’t be at ease when I don’t know exactly that they’re safe. I know they probably seem fine to you, but Olivia has nightmares and Micah rarely sleeps through. Sometimes he has crying fits that last for more than an hour. Liv has days when she’ll only speak to a photograph of her mum. Some days it’s almost alright. But it’s never easy and we’re not a perfect family. When I lost… when we lost Sophie, when she was brutally torn out of our lives by a careless driver -” his shoulders quiver as if in a quiet sob, and Dan holds back from reaching out and touching him.

“It was very hard for all of us. It’s been two years, and sometimes it still feels like there’s a hole we’ll never be able to fill completely. Once a month, I take the kids to a therapist in London. They stay there for an hour – meanwhile, I’ve got my own therapy session.”

He lifts his head slowly, keeping his gaze fixed on his hands as if they’re particularly interesting.

“I’m a man in therapy. I’m four years older than you, and I’ve got two children who demand a lot of care and attention. I barely make enough money to scratch along. I guess what I’m saying is… Dan, I really like you.”

That’s when Phil looks up to meet Dan’s eye. Dan sits transfixed, blinking in surprise. He didn’t expected that, not after the speech Phil’s just given.

The other man looks earnest, but his eyes are misty and his face contorted in regret.

“You must have noticed that I do. Talking to you over these past months has made me happier than I’ve been for a long time, and I’m so thankful for that. Meeting you last night was a dream. I’ll never forget it. I really do like you, Dan.”

Dan swallows hard at the repetition of the statement. His eyes have begun to sting. “Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming on?” he asks, willing his voice not to shake, willing his gaze not to stray from Phil’s sorrowful, beautiful face.

Phil takes a shivering breath. “I want nothing more than to get to know you. But I can’t leave my children, and I can’t have you come here and let them get used to you. They’ve already lost their mother. If we find we’re not meant to be, when we break up – they’ll get hurt. I can’t do that to them. I won’t let my children go through the pain of separation again, Dan. That’s why I have to say, I’m sorry. I like you, Dan, but I’m sorry, I can’t do this. And I know it’s not fair, and I probably shouldn’t even have agreed to meeting you, but I just -”

“Okay, Phil, hang on - ” Dan interrupts him, and Phil stops mid-sentence, his lips still parted. “What if we don’t?” he asks.

Phil’s staring at him. It’s so quiet Dan can hear him breathe. The moment feels extremely intimate and Dan wants to kiss the fear and worry off Phil’s face, but he remains where he is.

“If we don’t?” Phil repeats blankly.

Dan leans forward. “What if we don’t break up? Who’s to say it wouldn’t work out? What if we do, we click and we stay together…”

Phil’s eyes shut slowly, drawing ragged breaths.

“I mean, I guess I’d understand if you didn’t want to take the risk…,” Dan continues, but Phil cuts him off.

“Say I was willing to do so,” he replies, “would you want to bear with us? I’m in no way eager to send you away, but you’d have to be absolutely sure, Dan.”

He wants to say yes, but the word gets stuck in his throat. It’s not easy. It’s not as easy as he wants it to be. So he sits staring at Phil, mouth opened but no sound coming out, and Phil gives a sad little smile, not reproachful, but understanding.

Dan lifts his hand to prevent him from jumping to a conclusion.

“I’m going to need… time… to think about this,” Dan says slowly, looking Phil in the eyes as he speaks. “Because – I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it – but I really like you, too.”

There it is again, that sparkle in Phil’s eyes, the one that makes Dan’s stomach churn and the back of his neck prickle.

This time, it’s Phil who reaches out to take Dan’s hand. “I can give you time,” he says, and then, after a moment of contemplation, he adds, “You know what? How about this. Olivia is currently obsessed with dressing up” - a small smile curls the corner of his mouth upwards - “so we’re having a little gathering on Halloween. PJ will be there, the kids’ godfather and incidentally also author of the book I’m currently editing, and Louise with her husband and daughter. If you want to come, you’d be welcome to do so. If you don’t…” The look he gives Dan is gentle, and so is his voice when he finishes the sentence. “… then we’ll know.”

It’s two weeks until Halloween. Dan’s fellow students have already begun talking about the parties they’re going to attend.

He presses Phil’s hand. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” He manages a small smile.

Phil smiles back, carefully, his eyes still not entirely free of pain.

“I believe,” he says then, very quietly, “there was something you wanted to do before my phone so rudely interrupted us last night.”

Dan’s eyes widen as realization hits him.

Phil’s face is close due to the fact that they’ve both leaned forward during their conversation, and his eyes are half-shut. There’s a tender smile still playing on his lips, and Dan’s eyes flicker down to them as he takes a shuddering breath.

Then, carefully, he closes the distance.

Phil’s hands move up to his cheeks. His lips feel warm and chapped against Dan’s, and he’s shivering ever so slightly, Dan feels it when his hands come to rest on Phil’s shoulders. He tastes like apples and cinnamon, as if he’s made of autumn spices.

The butterflies in Dan’s stomach are back, swirling like leaves in a thunderstorm. He tips his head to the side, deepening the kiss, drinking up Phil’s fear and sorrow, his sadness and his fondness, all of him.

The kiss doesn’t last for more than a few seconds, but it lingers in the air, tickles in their lips and their hearts after they part.

They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, not saying anything because there’s nothing to say, yet there’s a sort of intuitive understanding between them that fills Dan with hope. Maybe they will be able to work this out. But he needs time to think. He’s only twenty-four, still a student – a family hasn’t really been on his agenda until now, much less one that’s already sort of complete in itself.

“I should probably go check on Micah and Liv, see if they’re hungry,” Phil says, still so close his breath brushes Dan’s face. Melancholy has already worked its way back into the creases of his forehead and Dan wants to wipe it away, but he knows that he can’t, not yet.

So he says, “And I should probably head back, look into some work for uni.”

“Well,” Phil pulls back and the moment is gone. “Thanks for bringing me my wallet -”

“Sure -”

“I’ll walk you out,” he stands, holding his hand out to Dan who grasps it.

“- and the kiss,” Dan adds, “I owed you that, too.”

His playful words manage to conjure up another one of Phil’s smiles, and he doesn’t let go of Dan’s hand until they’re at the front door. Outside, the wind has picked up, sending swirls of crimson leaves across the yard.

Dan and Phil stand facing each other, drawing out the moment of their parting. Finally, Phil averts his gaze and opens the door, and Dan zips up his leather jacket.

“I’m glad you came, Dan,” Phil says honestly.

“Yeah,” Dan replies, shivering slightly, though not from the rush of cold air.

“Me too.”

-

The last day of October is clear and bright, the sky a pearlescent grey. A strong breeze chases leaves across the country lane, making the trees sway and rustle. It’s cold, but this time Dan’s wearing a woolen jumper underneath his leather jacket, and anyway, he’s positively buzzing with a vibrant energy that warms him from the inside – and tickles him to push his foot down further on the accelerator, but he’s a responsible driver. He smiles to himself, feeling the wind and excitement drive him towards his destination.

When the cottage comes into sight behind the tree line, Dan’s smile grows wider. Two unfamiliar cars are parked outside the property on the side of the road, but he lets his motorcycle wheel past the post box and to a stop next to Phil’s car.

Taking off his helmet, Dan inhales the frigid, exhilarant autumn air. His pulse is throbbing both with adrenaline and anticipation. As he approaches the house, he picks up on snatches of cheerful conversation and hushed music that seep through cracked windows.

Two large pumpkins stand guard on the patio this time, their expressions hardly threatening. Dan feels like he must look somewhat like them – glowing with excitement, grin unalterably carved into his face.

Standing in front of the door, he takes a deep breath. He’s nervous, but not because he’s uncertain. He’s made up his mind, he’s decided to come here tonight for a reason. It’s just that it might be the biggest decision he’s ever made, and that does scare him quite a lot.

Okay, Dan. This is your last chance for turning back, he thinks, but instead he reaches out and rings the bell.

The sound seems to resonate in his chest.

A face appears briefly in the door window and with a squeal of excitement the door is wrenched open.

“Hi Dan!” says a cat the size of a young girl. She’s wearing an Alice band with cat ears on it and someone has painted crooked whiskers across her cheeks.

“Hi Olivia. Nice costume.”

Olivia grins. “Thanks! You too.”

He’s opted for a jumper with ghosts and pumpkins on it rather than a full-on disguise.

Stepping aside to let him pass, she adds, “Daddy’s in the kitchen.”

There’s a familiar twinkle in her eye that makes Dan wonder how much she knows, but he just smiles back and follows her inside.

As he closes the door behind himself, Olivia skips back down the hall to where the music is playing, but Dan remains where he is.

There’s a clanking of pots coming from his right. He swallows nervously, taking a final deep breath of courage before he steps into the kitchen.

Phil’s standing at the counter with his back turned to Dan, wearing a vampire’s cloak. His pale skin certainly fits the image, Dan thinks, feeling a grin tug on his lips.

For a moment he wonders how to announce his arrival, but then Phil turns around and flinches violently.

“Jesus, Dan!” he exclaims, blue eyes wide with shock, stumbling back against the counter. “You scared me!”

“Kind of the whole point of Halloween, isn’t it?” Dan asks, taking a few steps into the room. “Though I must say, your appearance is a lot scarier than mine.”

Phil’s face relaxes and he smiles, which entirely refutes Dan’s statement.

They stand facing each other for a moment, the realisation of what Dan’s presence means prickling like electricity in the air between them.

Then Dan clears his throat. “So, uh… Trick or treat?”

Phil laughs. “I’m afraid the treats are reserved for the children,” he says, biting his lower lip. His eyebrows are raised as if in a challenge.

“That’s too bad,” Dan’s about to say when Phil adds, “But I might have kept a special treat for you.”

They’ve gravitated towards each other almost subconsciously so that when Dan speaks again, he can see the sparkle in Phil’s eyes, the smudged red paint below his lip and even a few faded freckles that are dusted across his nose and cheeks.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

Phil’s gaze drops and Dan feels his heartbeat speed up again. Instead of replying, he slowly leans in. Licking his lips, Dan lets his eyelids flutter shut in expectation.

They snap open again a mere second later, accompanied by a gasp when he feels Phil’s hot breath fan his neck.

“Ph-phil, what are you -”

“Never trust a vampire, Dan,” Phil mutters, lips ghosting over a patch of skin, not quite touching it.

Instinctively, Dan’s hands have shot up to hold onto Phil’s shoulders. He moves them now, his breath hitching, heart thudding, to Phil’s face and tilts it gently upwards.

“You sneaky little shit,” he murmurs affectionately.

Phil’s grinning widely, his eyes scrunched up and lucid like the pumpkins outside.

“Now I have no choice but to trick you,” Dan continues quietly, “seeing as you wouldn’t give me,” he leans in closer, “my…” his mouth brushes Phil’s cheek, making his breath stutter. “…treat,” Dan completes the sentence against Phil’s lips.

They kiss slowly, unrushed, lips parting and reconnecting again in sync with their breaths. As if to prove his previous statement, Phil eventually takes Dan’s bottom lip between his teeth and nibbles on it gently, causing Dan to let out a small moan. They’re stood pressed together from head to toe now. He can feel Phil’s heart beat against his own and the gentle touch of his hands on the back of his neck.

When Phil begins to pull away, Dan whimpers in protest, holding on to him tighter, and Phil smiles against his lips, his fluttering eyelashes tickling Dan’s cheek.

“Happy Halloween, Dan,” he mumbles, winding his fingers into Dan’s hair.

“I’m glad you came.”

*** this used to be on my ao3 page (softiejace). i’m taking down my phan content for personal reasons but reposting it here so people can still enjoy it :) ***