#sometimes the best defense is a brick

[darkmatilda]

╰┈➤ HALLOWEEN TRADITION

in which one you and reid match your outfits every year for halloween

tw: mention of shoo!ing, dea!h of an animal

contents: spencer reid x fem!reader, they're both obviously in love with each other, time skips

words: 7.5k

disclaimer: it's my first fanfiction written in english.

a year ago

“Oh, I already ordered. Caramel cappuccino, almond milk, double amount of vanilla syrup and cinnamon sprinkled on top, am I right?

“Your photographic memory is sometimes just terrifying”

“Thank you. By the way, are you still afraid to order this coffee in front of Rossi?”

“Yep. I always take regular macchiato. The last thing I need in work is his judgemental, Italian look…”

Meanwhile, as Reid let out a short laugh, you quickly took in your surroundings: the brick walls and oak tables, the decorative pumpkins by the entrance, and the menu hanging above the barista’s counter, adorned with (artificial) leaves. Just like every corner of this trashy coffee shop was trying to remind you about autumn.

 One thing about you — you were an extreme autumn lover, who unfortunately was allergic to pumpkins, so you couldn’t fit the autumn white girl stereotype completely, by ordering a pumpkin spice latte. And you would rather die than wear a sweater. All of them were scratchy. 

“So” started Reid, hitting a notebook cover with a pen. "I spent all of last evening and more than half of this morning writing down ideas for our Halloween costume this year. I made sure none of them were too similar to our last year's outfits or anything our friends have ever worn to make sure we’ll be the best-dressed people at the party”

“God, Reid, you really took it seriously this year” you raised your eyebrows, shocked and full of admiration at the same time. “And how many ideas did you find?”

“143”

“143?!” you repeated, assuming that he was just joking. Spencer was looking at you with a deadly serious face. “Are fucking crazy? How are we going to choose between 143 ideas? I can’t even choose what socks to wear in the morning…”

“144” he corrected. “When you were saying that I came with another one, Tyler and Marla from Fight Club…”

You had this tendency to forget the names of fictional characters (though, somehow, you could name every American serial killer who ever existed and everyone from your high school class. It was both funny and slightly terrifying that, in two cases, those names overlapped) so it took you a moment to realize who Reid was talking about.

“A guy with a red leather jacket? And this woman who was always smoking?”

“Their names are Tyler Durden and Marla Singer. I don't mean to sound rude, but you made me watch this movie and claimed it was one of your favorites, yet you don’t even remember the main characters' names?"

You shrugged your shoulders. You could say nothing in your defense, that was just the way you were. A subtle smile danced on your lips.

“When I started working with you” you meant the whole BAU “I couldn’t remember all of your names. About two months later I slowly started to recognize them because of how you were addressing each other but because everyone was calling Hotch by his surname I didn’t know his actual name for, like, years…”

Disbelief showed on Spencer’s face but then got replaced with amusement.

“Years?”

“Don’t you dare laugh at me because of my memory problem, mrs. I know the moon signs of everyone around me…”

He raised his hands in a defensive gesture.

“How could I dare, ms. I don’t remember my boss's name even though we’ve been working together for five years…”

“I couldn’t remember it back then! Shame on you, Reid. I shared my secret with you and you immediately started laughing…”

“And what did you want me to do? Make you an appointment with a neurologist?” 

That's what our usual conversation looked like. Like a professional ping pong game. Year after a year, month after a month, day after a day you were just becoming better and better players. 

Waitress came along your table, setting your orders on the table. You always had to smell your coffee first, cinnamon aroma ticked your nose. 

“"Not that it means anything, but my memory problems have worsened since I met you." you said, taking the first sip of a coffee. 

“What do you mean by that?“

“Well, I don’t have the need to remember anything when you remember literally everything that comes your way. You've spoiled me a bit in this regard."

Spencer smiled softly, with a little bit of pride, caused by your words. 

“ Always at your service”  he declared. Suddenly his back went straight, as he probably reminded himself about something. ”Did you call your brother today? It’s his birthday… 

“ No way” you jumped on your seat and immediately started looking for your phone to check what day it was. 14 October. “God, Reid you’re right. I completely forgot…Have I already told you how much I love you? 

You standed up, ready to leave the coffee, declaring that you’ll be back in a moment. People around were having their lunch. The whole place became too noisy for a birthday phone call with your older brother, who lived in a different state. 

“Not today” He replied shortly. 

“So, I’m telling you now, Spence. You’re the best friend I could ever imagine…”

As you were busy with dialing the right phone number and trying to wear your coat at the same time, you couldn’t see how his smile faded after the last sentence. 

a week later

“It cost me like half of my salary” You said, tossing your dark hair back so it wouldn't accidentally catch fire while lighting the candle. A damn expensive candle, as you mentioned. “Another half goes for that little shit”

With a nod, you indicated the ginger cat that had already settled comfortably next to Spencer. He didn’t take his eyes off the laptop screen, checking something with a furrowed brow. With one hand, almost automatically, he gently scratched Mr. Cinnamon Roll behind the ear.

“It’s made only with fully natural ingredients. Vegan friendly. People with migraines friendly. Almost everyone friendly, except of your wallet” You continued your speech, agitated, recalling the guy in the store who refused to sell you a simple, cheap autumn candle, explaining its poor quality, and convinced you to buy the most expensive one he had.

Finally, the wick caught fire.

“So, you’ve got something?“

It was a late evening after work when you both felt exhausted, yet you decided to meet at your apartment to search online for essentials for your Halloween costumes. The idea of going as a couple from Fight Club had won.

You were supposed to be Marla, and he was to be Tyler. You weren’t a couple or anything like that, but for the past five years, it had been your tradition to wear matching outfits for the halloween party organized by your team. Usually, various other friends would join, and having more people allowed for a best costume contest, which you nearly won every year.

“Yeah, but you probably won't like that, considering that you’ve just confessed to spending your entire paycheck”

You set the candle down on the small coffee table in your living room and joined him on the couch, almost crushing Mr. Cinnamon Ball. He didn’t look offended by that — this cat would rather be crushed than leave Spencer’s side. Somehow, he loved him more than the hand that fed him. 

Sitting so close to your friend, your head nearly touched his shoulder, but neither of you minded.You had known each other for four years. You met regularly to watch movies or just to chat, and more than once, you had fallen asleep with your head resting on his arm, that was way more comfortable than any pillow. The rest of your team sometimes joked about your close relationship, but in your opinion, it was only because you were almost the same age! And maybe a bit because you felt the most comfortable in his presence, you understood each other the best, and he made you laugh the most…

For God's sake, why did you start thinking about that at that moment? When you were so close to each other and his gentle scent was slowly enveloping you...

Okay, you’ve thought of him as more than just a friend once or twice. Like that time he stayed over at your place, and you didn’t want him to sleep on the uncomfortable couch, so you shared your bed. You felt so good waking up next to him and regretted that it was just a one-time experience…

You realized he must have said something to you, but you were too lost in thought to hear it.

Instead of repeating himself, Reid pushed the laptop closer to you. On the screen was a website featuring an auction for….the original red leather jacket from Fight Club! You almost screamed. If you had won her over, the victory would have to be yours...

Your enthusiasm faded like a blown-out candle when you saw the final bid amount. 

“What the fuck? That's more than the total of our annual salaries…” 

 "Actually, it’s twenty thousand less than..."

You both fell silent in disappointment. Then, a very silly idea came to your mind.

“Reid” you started slowly. 

“"Oh no, I know this tone. You're either about to say something extremely absurd or something inappropriate, and I don’t know which one scares me more."

 "But listen. We'll wait for the auction to end and for someone to buy that jacket. Then we’ll talk to Garcia and convince her to track down the buyer. We'll go, knock on the door, and when they open it..."

"We’ll politely ask to borrow it?"

"No, sweet boy, we’ll show our badges and say the auction was illegal, and we need to confiscate the jacket."

Spencer burst out laughing.

"Your ideas are brilliant. But how are you going to explain this to Hotch afterward?"

“He won’t find out”

“He find out”

“Okay, you’re right. He’ll probably find out”

A silence full of smiles fell between you.

Spencer closed the auction page and started browsing something else when you let out a laugh at your own thoughts. 

“Okay, I have another idea that won’t cost either of us our jobs,” you said, capturing his attention. He tore his gaze away from the laptop and focused completely on you and your trembling lips, which hinted that you weren’t going to say anything serious “The beginning of the plan sounds the same but instead of showing our badges, you’ll give him a blowjob… “

“Fuck you!” he shouted, unable to stop himself from laughing. At the sight of his expression, a wave of laughter hit you so hard that Mr. Cinnamon Roll jumped off the couch and ran away from his sick owner. “I’m not giving any random guy a blowjob in exchange for a jacket. In exchange for the original diaries of Einstein, well, I wouldn’t say no; I would think about it, but not for a jacket!”

“But it’s the jacket from Fight Club, Spence. Brad Pitt was wearing it” you encouraged him, amused. "Besides, how do you know some guy will buy it? It could be a woman.” 

Spencer rolled his eyes and was ready to continue arguing on the topic, but suddenly it seemed as if he changed his mind. His expression grew more serious.

"Actually, it doesn't change much, but that's not the point. What worries me more is that I've lost my touch. Maybe you'd want to replace me in this? The buyer might not be satisfied."

He said it in a tone as if he were talking about a truly serious, real transaction, which only amused you even more. Also pretending to be serious, you patted him on the shoulder.

“Don't worry, Spence. I'm sure you'll manage just fine.'"

"Really? What makes you think that?"

You considered making a joke, but then you realized what you were talking about while studying him. After a whole day at work, he looked... surprisingly... attractive? With slightly tousled hair and two buttons of his shirt undone…

"‘Nothing,” you replied. For the first time in his presence, you felt slightly embarrassed to continue the topic. Your closeness on the couch didn’t help at all, and you regretted scaring off Mr. Cinnamon.

“No, something makes you think that” 

The tension between you escalated to the point where you weren't sure if he was still joking. You realized that in this silence, every change in your breathing would be audible, so you tried to control it. 

What makes you think that? Spencer just seemed that way. I mean, you often talked about your relationships, and you assumed that his potential partner would lack nothing.

Embarrassed, you wanted to say something when he suddenly burst out laughing.

"Jesus, we were talking about blowing somebody for a jacket. Why did you get so scared? 

You hit him on the arm so hard that he let out a groan.

"I didn't get scared! You just suddenly became so weird that I didn't know if you were joking or what” 

"‘Of course I was joking. Why would I ask you that seriously?” he asked, and you noticed that he also carried a hint of embarrassment.

"I have no idea. Maybe you wanted to know my opinion or something” You desperately tried to return to the atmosphere that had existed between you just a moment ago, one that felt more friendly.

Spencer swallowed hard. It was clear he also preferred to drop the topic. 

“I don’t know why you would have any opinion on that, but let’s get back to what we were talking about before you switched into perverted weirdo mode...’"

After his words, you had to hide your face in the sleeve of his shirt, unable to contain your laughter. He seemed surprised by your reaction.

“ What? What did I say this time?” 

“Perverted weirdo” you blurted it out, almost choking on your words.” You called me a perverted weirdo…”

“Well, considering your recent ambiguous comments…”

“I'm going to tell Emily about this. Hey girl, you know how Spencer called me last time? A perverted weirdo…Oh no, I got your shirt dirty with my makeup… “

Spencer looked at the sleeve of his shirt and shrugged, saying, "It's nothing."

"No," you shook your head, trying to rub the stain off his shirt with your fingers, but of course it didn’t work. "I spilled coffee on your pants last time. Take it off; I'll wash it today."

"It's late; you’re not going to deal with washing my shirt right now. Let's get back to looking for our costumes."

You agreed and once again found comfort leaning on his shoulder. He still held the laptop on his lap, and whenever you wanted to type on the keyboard, you had to rest your elbows on his body, on the lower part of his stomach. Why were you even paying attention to that? You shaked your head and leaned over the laptop when you found the perfect shoes for Marla's costume.

In that position, you couldn't see Spencer, but you felt he was almost completely still. After a moment, however, he slowly reached for your hair, gently brushing it with his fingers as if checking its texture.

"We don't need to buy you a wig, right? Your hair will do just fine."

You murmured in agreement as he continued to play with your hair, probably unaware of how much he was distracting you. You had been staring at the picture of the shoes for five minutes and couldn’t remember what you wanted to check. Ah, the size!

"Reid, we have a problem," you said. "They don't have my size. I checked to see if a larger size would be available, since I could stuff them somehow, but the smallest is a 10!"

"Your shoe size is 7; in such large ones, you'll either look ridiculous or kill yourself before even arriving to the party…Do they have to be those specific ones? Maybe you can find some others..."

"They have to be those! They're identical to the ones Helena Bonham Carter wore."

Spencer sighed thoughtfully. His breath tickled the back of your head, which distracted you slightly once again. Anyway, this one time, you came up with a solution faster than his brilliant mind…

You turned your head toward him — after he stroked your hair you were very, very close to each other. The flame from the candle on the table reflected in his eyes, filling the area with the scent of cinnamon that had lingered for a while. When your face unexpectedly came just in front of him, he looked at you with a surprise and a gaze that he had never given you before. It was as if he were trying to stop himself from doing something, while at the same time, a voice in his ear incessantly urged him to go ahead.

You looked away to avoid doing something foolish. You could feel warmth on your neck and cheeks. Finally, you remembered what you wanted to ask.

"Spence, what’s your shoe size?"

5 years ago

 It all started when the rest of your team found out about Penelope and Morgan's Halloween tradition. Every year, the two of them held a movie marathon of the scariest films they could find, watching them until sunrise.

 "Why didn’t you invite any of us? I love watching horror movies with friends!" Prentiss exclaimed indignantly.

You were on board a private jet. You had been working with this team for only a few days —  in fact, this was your first trip with them to work in the field.

The prospect of solving the case had you feeling stressed, and you were also wondering if you would find common ground with your team. You lagged slightly behind, pretending to read a book while actually listening to all the conversations around you. You wanted to get to know everyone better. Someone sat down beside you, leaning in to read the title of your book.

 "Rebecca. Have you gotten to the part where it turns out Maxim killed his wife?"

You looked shocked at the second youngest member of the team. You had a serious problem with remembering names, so you only knew his last name. Reid was a tall man with longer hair, dressed in a vest with a shirt peeking out from underneath. Until now, you hadn't formed much of an opinion about him, but that was about to change — he had just spoiled the ending of the book for you.

“No, I haven’t gotten to this part! “

An older man in a black suit chuckled quietly to himself.

"Guys, listen up," said the brunette with bangs, wearing a tight red shirt. "It just came out that Morgan and Penelope have their own secret Halloween tradition."

The woman mentioned was present only on the laptop screen. She was working with you remotely and seemed really nice to you. 

"Sweetheart, we weren't trying to hide anything from you; it just happened that we didn’t mention it..."

"That’s exactly what hiding is," Reid added, giving you an apologetic look for spoiling the book.

"What do you say to all of us getting together this Halloween? The whole team?" asked a muscular man dressed in gray, sitting across from Prentiss with his elbow casually resting on the table. "With a special invitation for you, newbie."

Saying this, he winked at you. You were surprised, but still smiled. Are there better circumstances for getting to know your team than a party? Everyone around you approached this idea. 

a week later

You stared at your phone in fear after just ending the call. JJ said something came up and she wouldn’t be able to make it to the party. You knew her best out of the whole team and had hoped that with her there, you would feel more at ease. Most importantly, you were supposed to wear matching outfits. You realized your breath had quickened slightly. You weren't sure if anyone else besides you planned to dress up. After all, they were mostly older than you —  maybe they weren't into that anymore?

 Back in high school, you were the only one who showed up in costume, and you felt embarrassed the whole evening walking around in a zombie farmer outfit while all the other girls wore mini skirts and beautiful, subtle makeup. You didn’t want to go through that again, but making this costume had taken you a lot of time. Recently, you and JJ had been enchanted by the animated movie Corpse Bride, and you planned to dress up as the title character and her rival, Victoria. Since you loved dressing up for Halloween, you chose the more challenging costume. You bought a cheap white dress that you styled to look more tattered. You applied pale blue makeup and heavily contoured your cheekbones. You even managed to get a veil.

In fifteen minutes, you were supposed to be at Morgan's house. If you removed the makeup, you wouldn’t have time to do anything else. You contemplated what to do. Ultimately, you decided it would be a shame to waste your hard work, and soon you found yourself in the car, heading to the address you were given. As you parked, you felt stress start to take control of you.

You needed to sit in silence for a moment, so you turned off the engine and stared at the empty sidewalk in front of you. Morgan lived in a large house in a quiet neighborhood, where all the homes were spaced far enough apart to host small gatherings without bothering anyone.

Suddenly, someone appeared by the driver's window. You screamed in surprise, your thoughts racing back to all the cases when women were killed in their own cars. 

You quickly realized that it wasn't another UNSUB. That one wouldn’t have screamed alongside you.

“Damn it, Reid, you scared me!”

“You scared me too” he managed to say, placing a hand on his chest. He glanced toward the house. "Weird that Morgan hasn't come out to help yet."

“Maybe the music is too loud and he didn’t hear. There are quite a few cars. Did they invite that many people?” you wondered as you got out of the car. 

Reid glanced at your costume. He wasn’t dressed up at all, just wearing a plain dark gray blazer and a shirt.

"Is that some fashion trend, or are you dressed as a zombie bride?"

“Neither, actually,” you replied, feeling stressed about being the only one in costume. “It’s from the cartoon Corpse Bride.”

“I haven’t seen it,” he admitted as you both headed toward the entrance of the house.

“It’s a great animation,” you recommended. “You should check it out. Although, from what I’ve noticed, you prefer reading more.”

“Not entirely. I like movies too, but I rarely choose cartoons,” he said, ringing the doorbell.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” you replied.

A very short girl you'd never seen before opened the door. She seemed slightly tipsy, confirming your suspicions that people from outside the team had also been invited.

"Oh, you dressed up! How cute!" she said, delighted to see you both, even though she didn’t know you. "Wait, I think I even know who you are. Emily and Victor from Corpse Bride?"

She pointed at the two of you, at your dress and his gray blazer. You exchanged glances, realizing she must have mistaken his usual clothes for a costume.

"No, we’re not…" Reid began to explain.

"Actually, I was supposed to match costumes with JJ…"

But she wasn’t listening. She let you in and shouted through the whole house,

"Look at their matching outfits!"

Everyone gathered around to see you, and you endured the whistles and applause with growing embarrassment.

Penelope appeared right beside you, placing her hands on your shoulders and inspecting your makeup closely. "Oh, sweetheart, you really went all out. This must have taken you ages."

"Which is more than I can say for you," joked Prentiss, holding a beer bottle and pointing it at Reid. "You decided to keep it a secret for a better effect, I assume?"

Reid tried once more to explain that it wasn’t intentional, but you stopped him with a nudge. He looked at you, puzzled.

"Let’s go get a drink," you suggested.

Not waiting for a response, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him along.

"I’m not going to be the only one in costume, so you’re going to stick with me and pretend we planned this all along."

He let out a surprised laugh, thinking you were joking at first.

"Wait, seriously? So… I’m Victor now?"

"Yes, you’re Victor, and you accidentally proposed to me. By the way, I’m dead."

"Okay," he blinked, processing the information. "I definitely need to watch that movie."

You spent almost the entire evening sticking close to each other. Without you by his side, Spencer looked like he wasn’t wearing a costume at all. And without Spencer next to you, you felt a bit awkward.

A few hours later, the two of you were sitting alone in the kitchen, drinking non-alcoholic cocktails and talking about… psychology. Not exactly a party topic, but somehow that’s where your conversation about favorite sodas had ended up.

“Next year, we have to do this again. I mean, plan a costume together. On purpose this time."

Spencer nodded.

"I think I even have an idea."

And that was how your tradition began.

now

He said Halloween is for kids. 

Starting from the beginning, everyone always asks how you met Travis. Well, your story has some potential for a romantic comedy — if only you were a bit more attractive and funnier to make it more watchable on screen. And maybe if there were some breathtaking plot twist. But real life has little in common with a romantic comedy, and you didn’t meet under any crazy circumstances. You only had potential. It happened during your rehabilitation.

Perhaps we need to go back a bit further. Six months ago, Emily passed away, and you weren’t even there for the funeral because, in the rescue attempt to free her from Doyle’s hands, you were shot. Seriously wounded. You spent two weeks in a coma. That might not seem like a long time, but when you woke up, it felt like years had passed. Everyone around you seemed so distant, changed, almost as if you’d suddenly appeared in an entirely different reality.

The following weeks were even more blurred, like rain hitting fiercely against the window with such frequency that the droplets slowly merged into a single cohesive stream. You weren't accepting visitors while in the hospital; something was wrong with you. Perhaps it was due to the grief and shock from Emily's passing, along with the trauma. You didn't want to return to that job; you were too afraid of the risks. Of dying yourself or losing someone from your team and having to relive it all over again. Fortunately, you quickly received an offer for a transfer. An office job, terribly boring, but there was something in that monotony that filled you with a sense of safety. You hated it, but you were afraid to engage in anything else.

Before you took the job, you had to go through rehabilitation. It was led by Travis, eleven years older than you, which stunned your older brother when you introduced them. “You’re dating a guy older than me?” he asked, shocked. They didn’t hit it off, but you didn’t worry too much about that. Everything in your life had changed, and being in a relationship with an older, more mature guy made you feel more stable. And since so many things had changed, why not go all in? You moved in with him. Just as you were starting to climb out of the pit, another tragedy struck. Mr. Cinnamon Roll was diagnosed with stomach cancer and passed away despite treatment.

Since that moment, you almost stopped talking to your old team. You still loved them — they were like family to you, but whenever faced with life's struggles, you felt that burning need for isolation. On the day Mr. Cinnamon Roll died, you received a message from Spencer, asking how you were doing and suggesting a meeting. You stared at your phone for hours, and ultimately replied to him only the next morning with a brief, "Sorry, I didn't notice you wrote." He responded just as briefly. He was also suffering due to the circumstances and probably didn't have the energy to chase after his friend who openly refused to give him any attention.

You pushed him away because you weren’t ready to confront what you were feeling. Something had happened between you during that Halloween party, shortly before Emily's death. After that, you acted as if nothing had occurred, but both of you knew that you needed to talk about what to do with your relationship. But before you had the chance, there was Doyle, your accident, then Travis, and it seemed that everything that had ever been between you was lost. A new agent, Ashley, joined the BAU. You knew her —  you were around the same age, and sometimes you caught yourself wondering if something might blossom between her and Reid.

You thought that if you accepted the loss of your previous life, it would be easier to move on. It was the opposite. Day by day, you felt more and more depressed, empty inside. This morning, you went into a café to buy coffee. While waiting for your order, you looked at the tiny pumpkins on the counter and realized it was Halloween—the holiday you used to love so much. This moved you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a spark of life within you. You felt like you wanted to do something. Dress up as a character from a cheap horror movie, have a few drinks. Maybe even go trick-or-treating, hiding behind a mask like kids do. You did that with Spencer two years ago, but no one wanted to give that tall guy any candy.

You shared this idea with Travis.

And he said that Halloween is for kids. 

a year ago

“How the fuck I’m suppose to walk in these….”

As soon as you saw him in a black dress that reached mid-thigh (it should have been longer, but you bought it when you still assumed you would be the one wearing it), a short fur coat of the same color, and sunglasses, you nearly choked on your laughter. And when he added black heeled ankle boots and started cursing their practicality, you fell onto the couch, unable to stand on your legs any longer.

Mr. Cinnamon Roll watched his antics with curiosity.

“Run away, little one,” Spencer advised him. “Those heels are so sharp I might accidentally kill you.”

“Don’t exaggerate. I wear shoes with higher heels every day.”

“Your spine will thank you for it in ten years.”

“Alright, mom.”

The deadly shoes landed on the floor. You were planning to leave in an hour and a half, once you finished perfecting your costumes. Until then, Spencer had no intention of risking his life by parading around in them. He lay down on the couch next to you, the dress ungracefully riding up.

“Now it’s your turn to change,” he said, pointing to the Tyler Durden costume lying on the table. “And mine to laugh.”

“First, I wanted to do makeup.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Are you kidding? What kind of Marla Singer would it be without a bold smokey eye?”

“Fine by you,” he muttered, looking at the watch on his wrist. “One hour and thirty-three minutes. Will we make it?”

“Relax. Remember, for a better impression, we need to be a little late.”

You disappeared for a moment into your bathroom, only to return with a makeup bag in hand. You had bought a new eyeshadow palette specifically for this occasion. Tilting your head to the side, you looked at your friend, wondering in which position you would be most comfortable working on him.

“Okay, lean against the couch,” you instructed, feeling like a professional makeup artist. “And don’t look at me like I’m a mad scientist trying to perform some dangerous operation on you.”

“From my perspective, that’s exactly what it looks like. A mad scientist and a dangerous operation. Just don’t accidentally poke me in the eye.”

“God, Reid, I’m not going to do this with a knife…”

You stood in front of the couch, facing him. Following your instruction, he rested his head, but as soon as you tried to apply the first product on his eyelid, you felt that you weren’t doing it precisely. You sighed.

“It’s uncomfortable for me to work this way. I have a better idea. Lie down.”

Reid looked at you with raised eyebrows but obediently lay down on the couch. You sat on a free spot next to him, leaning over his face. You were glad he closed his eyes. It would be awkward to be this close and still have to endure his sharp gaze. Your hair brushed against his neck. A gentle smile appeared on his face as soon as the brush touched his skin.

“This is quite nice,” he said.

You didn’t respond, focused on turning him into a doppelgänger for Marla Singer. You would sooner die of embarrassment than admit it out loud, but you deliberately prolonged the entire process. You felt as if you were working on a painting. Additionally, you enjoyed the awareness of having him beneath you, so defenseless and completely unaware, that you wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

You would simply press your lips together to see what would happen. There was a possibility he would push you away, but even considering that, you were ready to do it. You didn’t even try to push those thoughts away. They had completely dominated your mind, and you were just observing them from the sidelines, wondering where they came from. Throughout your years of friendship, you had never experienced them. Or rather, you had experienced them so rarely that you didn’t consider them significant. After all, everyone sometimes feels like kissing their friend. The problem was that for quite some time, the only thing you had been thinking about was his lips on yours.

Spencer opened one eye. You felt as if he had caught you doing something wrong.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice slightly husky.

You brushed aside the one strand of his hair that had strayed onto his forehead.

“About one of my friends.”

“You look worried. Can I ask why thinking about this person makes you feel that way?”

You let out a quiet laugh. You wondered if he knew you were talking about him. He should have.

“I doubt you want to hear about it,” you replied evasively. However, after a moment, you broke down and added something more. “Do you ever feel like you want to do something stupid so badly that you feel like you're physically shaking, even though you know it’s wrong?”

He frowned slightly. You accidentally applied too much eyeshadow, licking the tip of your finger to wipe away the excess product from his skin.

“Can you give a specific example of such behavior?”

You shrugged.

“I don’t know. Kissing a friend, for example.”

He smiled gently.

“Well, in that case, yes. All the time.”

You exhaled through your nose, feeling a painful tightness in your chest. You didn’t know what was happening to you.

“Done,” you said, abruptly rising from the couch. “I need to change. We don’t have much time.”

“There’s still an hour and eighteen…”

You grabbed your costume from the table and hid in the bathroom, not hearing the end of his sentence.

one hour and eighteen minutes later

Usually, nighttime drives had a calming effect on you, but this time it was completely the opposite. You were in a small space with Spencer, with whom you had just had… let’s call it a complicated conversation. You felt every part of your body tense.

You hated yourself. You hated that you didn’t understand what you were feeling. You hated that you didn’t know what you wanted. You felt like banging your head against the steering wheel. Maybe the sound of the horn would bring you back to your senses.

Reid just stayed silent, inscrutable.

“I’m afraid we’ll be right on time,” he said after clearing his throat. “And you wanted to be a little late.”

“So what should I do now, drive around the city for the next ten minutes?” you asked, slightly irritably.

He shrugged stiffly.

“Or stop and wait. It’s a much more environmentally friendly option.”

In the end, you pulled up outside Morgan’s house, where the annual Halloween party was set to take place for the fifth year in a row. You sighed with nostalgia and turned off the engine. You might have been in the middle of an emotional crisis, but you still intended to win that contest. And that meant waiting out those ten minutes.

You adjusted the sleeves of your red leather jacket.

“Remember when we dressed up as Harry and Voldemort?” you asked suddenly. That had been your first intentional costume pairing.

Spencer let out a short laugh.

“For the next two days, I couldn’t wash off all that white paint,” he muttered, reaching into the black purse you had lent him. Spencer had been outraged that mini dresses had no pockets, leaving him with nowhere to keep his things. You frowned when you noticed he had taken out his wallet. From it, he pulled out a photo taken on that memorable day, showing the two of you standing in front of the fireplace at Morgan’s cabin. You had your arms around each other, Voldemort and Harry Potter.

“You carry our photo in your wallet?” you asked, touched, admiring the picture with delight.

Slightly embarrassed, he nodded.

“And not just ours,” he reached into his wallet again, this time pulling out a photo of Mr. Cinnamon Roll curled up on your lap. You leaned closer to Spencer to get a better look, almost forgetting about your earlier conversation.

You extended your hand, but instead of taking the photo, you just grabbed his hand. He squeezed it tightly and briefly kissed the back of it.

“It’s been ten minutes,” he announced, letting go of your hand. “We can go inside now…”

He trailed off as you suddenly grabbed a piece of his fur and pulled him as close as possible. You felt as if someone stronger had taken control of your body and finally did what you had wanted to do for a long time. You were kissing him.

At first, he froze as if spellbound, completely surrendering to the pressure of your lips. You pulled back a little, unsure if you should continue.

“Why did you stop?” he asked softly.

“I wasn’t sure if you liked it.”

He laughed right into your mouth and resumed the kiss in a hungry way.

“I wanted to do it earlier,” you admitted after a moment. His eyes were shining, and yours probably were too. “When I was putting on your makeup. You had your eyes closed, and it was all I could think about.”

His hand rested on your neck, his thumb gently drawing circles on your sensitive skin. You had your arms around his neck, entwined like strands of hair in a braid.

“Good thing you didn’t,” he said. You raised your eyebrows in surprise. “I’d venture to guess we wouldn’t have even made it to this party.”

“Don’t get too bold with your assumptions. I wouldn’t let such good costumes go to waste…”

He kissed you one more time, pulling you close by the chin. Okay, he was right. If you’d done this earlier, you’d probably still be at your apartment, entirely wrapped up in each other. In fact, you’d lost all interest in going to that part

You spent a good few minutes smiling at each other, foreheads touching. You felt the need to talk to him — to make sure this wasn’t just a release of the tension that had been building between you recently, but something more. Before you knew it, though, you were walking arm-in-arm toward Morgan’s house.

“This year, you’ve outdone yourselves,” he commented as he finally came out of his shock at seeing Spencer in heels. He, too, was in costume. For the past four years, it was almost impossible to find anyone there without one. You could say you were the ones who started the trend.

Without letting go of his hand, you encouraged him to spin around in a circle. All evening, you wondered if people noticed that something had changed between you or if they just assumed it was all part of the act. His hand almost never leaving your waist, your conversations with faces close together, the prolonged disappearance in the bathroom under the pretense of fixing his makeup.

“Have you thought about what we’ll dress up as next year?” he asked, pinning you against the upstairs wall, his hand slipped under the fabric of your loose shirt.

You looked into his eyes thoughtfully.

“I liked the idea of Mia and Vincent from Pulp Fiction.”

“Mia and Vincent. White shirts and fake blood. Don’t you think it’s a bit too simple? We should raise the bar each year.”

You rolled your eyes.

“So, what is your suggestion?”

now

 You lay in bed next to the sleeping Travis, staring at his bare back.

Every day, he started with a run around six in the morning, so he didn’t let you drag him anywhere in the evening, despite it being Friday. You tried to fall asleep, but you knew it was useless. You’d always been a night owl. Besides, it was Halloween—your favorite holiday, and for the first time in years, you were spending it with your head on the pillow at 10 p.m.

You sighed and quietly, so as not to wake him, went to the living room to watch some show on TV and maybe have some ice cream. Sitting on the couch, you constantly felt the urge to reach out and pet Mr. Cinnamon Roll, who used to keep watch by your side. Each time, it ended with you touching the cold leather of the couch instead. You buried your face in your hands, stretching the skin on your cheeks.

You couldn’t live in this emptiness any longer.

It happened so suddenly. One moment, you were curled up on the couch, and the next, you were slipping back into the bedroom to grab one of Travis’s plain white shirts from the closet. Just regular black jeans. The only thing missing was fake blood, but you decided you’d just be a more polite version of Mia.

Your heart felt like it was about to burst from your chest as you drove. Doubts crept in, and the absurdity of your behavior caught up with you. It was highly likely that your previous team had stopped organizing those events due to circumstances. And even if they were still happening, why would you feel invited? You had limited your contact with them, almost cutting it off in recent months.

Your breath was painful as you pressed your hand against your side, where a scar from a gunshot wound marked your skin. The red light of the traffic signal turned into the flashing lights of an ambulance. You were inside, bleeding, the whole world blurring around you.

You tried to calm yourself so as not to accidentally cause an accident. However, that tragic feeling didn’t leave you even when you found yourself there again. For the fifth year in a row, on Halloween night, at Morgan’s doorstep.

Derek opened the door for you, wearing a plain t-shirt. No music was coming from inside, and no cars were gathering around. He blinked in surprise at the sight of you.

You greeted him sadly, ready to throw out some excuse, though none came to mind. You had shown up unannounced, unwelcome, when he was probably spending the evening at home working or resting. A flush of embarrassment covered your cheeks.

Before either of you could say anything more, Penelope appeared behind him. She wore a headband adorned with little pumpkin decorations.

“Morgan, we have a serious problem with picking a movie because Hotch…”

She stopped, stunned by your presence. But a moment later, she shouted your name and swept you into her embrace.

“Oh, why didn’t anyone tell me you were coming!”

Over her shoulder, you could see Derek’s gentle smile.

“We went back to basics, and instead of throwing a party, we’re just watching movies,” he explained, eyeing you closely. “But costumes are always welcome. You’re not even the only one who thought to dress up.”

Both of them pulled you into the living room, where the rest of the team was arguing about which movie to watch. As all eyes turned to you, you felt like someone had forcefully shoved you onto a stage and blinded you with a spotlight aimed directly at you. Lost, you didn’t know what to say.

Then your gaze landed on that one person sitting alone in an armchair. Dressed in an identical white shirt and a black blazer draped over the arm of the chair.

You managed to smile at your Vincent.

[kanene-yaaay]

The Benefits of a Restful Sleep (and other things that a friend can help you with)

Kanene's notes: In my defense, Dogday is way too cute and kind. That was his mistake. Now I just HAD to make an entire story where he is alive and the Player is both the most stubborn bean ever and the biggest softie to set a foot in the factory. That is it. That is the entire story. Warnings: Mentioned death as a form of reset, angst and mention of injury and blood. It's discussed but not too deeply and isn't the main plot of the story. Raspberries, nibbles, lots of teasing, hurt/comfort and roothing fluff. Reader is adressed with they/them. Around 9.500 words. Heavily inspired by @fluffymary 's wonderful, incredible stories. Take a look at them too :D

[~*~]

You were exhausted.

That was a problem.

Sure, tiredness wasn’t really a new feeling in your life when you looked at the big scheme of things. Even before you went back to your old workplace, it used to cling on your bones, to fill your mind with memories and to pull your spirits down at any time of the day when a kid’s laughter or flowers would remind you of everything you tried so hard to leave behind.

(And look where you are now.)

The constant ‘fighting for your life’ thing also hasn't been helping a lot lately. Adrenaline and the will to keep on living were perfect for the battles but could only get you so far when the feeling of danger and fear scrutinized all of your steps, stalking in any and every corner, waiting for the right moment to strike. Days and hours became a total mess and the longer you spent on exploring and surviving, the more and more things that were once important started to fade to a background thought in your head.

Food was one of them. Water. Sleep. The debris and destruction brought a lot of memories and enemies but hardly a safezone where you could actually sit down, breathe and rest for a bit. It was fine, though. The solution was simple and quick. 

Dying.

Sounded harsh when you thought about it in that way, to be honest. 

Resetting. 

Or something like that.

Not during a fight, of course. After the first couple of times, it quickly became annoying and no fun at all to have to experience all the chase and… other things more than once. However, on other occasions, missteps into an abyss happen and sometimes a bad calculation using the grabpack could be fatal (and more frequent than you should admit.) 

You couldn’t deny its convenience. In a blink you would wake up, not hungry, thirsty or exhausted, a few meters behind your previous location and then you would be ready to go until the pain of hunger or the feeling of being in a brick of passing out appeared once again.

It was not the best, you knew, but it was a good enough solution. 

It was fine.

(It was fine.) 

Especially now, when you have someone else depending on you to survive. Saving Dogday had been tricky and much, much harder than the alternative. Keeping him alive after that, during the smiling critters chase and the aftermath, even more so. None of this didn’t really matter, though. It was worth it. 

The beginning had been tougher. With all the emotions, the changes, pain (and how to keep going after all of that), going back to Home Sweet Home and getting into more trouble trying to turn on all the generators. The fact that, not very longer after getting into the Daycare, you found a new, clean fabric and a set of tools to take care of Dogday’s injuries was the perfect help, even if the coincidence of that encounter had bordered on a miracle that made your skin prickle in discomfort as you had stared at the sewing kit localized (placed) just a few meters away from you two. There was no way that this could have been accidental. 

(Ever since you set a foot in this factory not a single encounter, voice, tape or battle seemed a coincidence and the fear of the image that this puzzle was creating haunted your every choice.)

Nevertheless, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Even though Dogday stayed unusually quiet for a really long time after his injuries were taken care of, he still insisted on using it despite both of your strong suspicions, not wanting to be a ‘burden’, anymore.

You disagreed strongly with that word, of course. Not only because his knowledge of the place and the little shortcuts or hidden spaces had been essential both to escape from the hungry toys and to make your path confusing enough to mislead any pursuers you had was essential to your survival, but also because… 

Damn. 

You just really missed this.

Chatting. Having someone truly by your side. No second intentions or guesses or working around to earn a couple of moments of dialogue. Just a companionship and a fighter if needed, someone bright who could, just with their presence and company, help to keep your focus and your objectives in mind. 

Dogday’s voice was raspy and rough but his words were light and kind. He would insist on calling you ‘angel’ and gesture excitedly around when he was talking, pulling your attention back when you began losing yourself in your thoughts. He would help solving the complicated puzzles spread through the factory and hold your hand tight to hide the tremble of his own paws when you both went through somewhere too dark. He would joke and hold and help and you wished you could put in words how no trouble in the world could make his presence here not worth it. 

That is why you couldn’t afford passing out right now. That is why you kept pulling one foot after the other and continued your path to the end of this hell.

Unfortunately, the very reason that kept you moving forward was the same one blocking you from actually managing to reset your body and get over that tiredness.

The fact that Dogday cared.

He was smart and quite smooth too. That was clear after all the times he would ‘accidentally’ get in front of you when you managed to step a bit too close from a deepless hole or how he would suddenly remember a shortcut that would have you to deviate from the giant abyss you had been eyeing for a few moments ago or when he distracted you as he followed another direction, a light pull on your wrist and a inviting conversation on the tip of his tongue, the pit getting farther and farther away.

It was a bit endearing, you couldn’t lie.

However, when a badly placed hand of your grabpack successfully made you slip from a fatal high and you only had time to listen to a surprised yelp (or more like a ‘yap’?) before a giant orange arm held you close to a fluffy chest you were actually torn between hitting something in frustration and melting in the warmth.

Dogday smiled, looking down. 

“Ops, you almost fell in there, angel.” His eyebrow was crooked and his expression filled with tension and confusion. Yep. He definitely realized what was going on. That kind of sucks.

He started heading the other direction, taking a different path to where you were going. “You‘re really tired, aren’t you? Saving everyone must cost a lot of energy.” His eyes softened. You struggled to keep yours open, body inevitably relaxing with his voice and kind touch. “And, well, I don’t think you had a lot of opportunities to rest since you got here too, right? Ehehe. That is… a bit worrisome. Humans need plenty of sleep and we have been walking for a long time already!”

You have survived longer without it. It was fine. There were more generators that had to be turned on before anything else. Those were your priorities.

Dogday acknowledged the end of your sentence before shaking his head vehemently, his ears flopping around in an endearing way. 

“The generators have been turned off for a long time now, a few more hours won’t hurt. You are our priority, angel.” Dogday tried to not let his tail wag in adorableness when he pulled you closer to his chest and you let your head and eyelids fall with a really tiny, quiet sound for a moment too long before opening them and watching him in a stubborn manner. “And I think I know somewhere where we can hide for long enough before continuing.” 

He watched as you deviated your gaze, thoughtful. Almost there.

“Besides, my kind angel” he let his posture go, just a little. The exhaustion from… everything showing from the light of his eyes to the darkness of his mouth. Trusting had been what got him stuck but also what freed him. He could offer this human a bit more of it. “I-I really think I need time to recover. Sometimes it just… hurts.”

He looked down and you didn’t need to follow his gaze to get what he was saying.

Oh.

Oh.

That was what settled it. You nodded. But he had to put you on the ground. 

You kept your expression firm and ignored his playful chuckle and the way he only pulled you closer with your words, because if he kept holding you, there was no way you would not fall asleep instantly and you both couldn’t afford that until he got to that safe place.

With a huff and a beginning of a pout he acquiesced and put you on the cracked floor, getting your point. He had to hide his snickers with his paw when you wobbled on the same spot for a second before eventually gathering your strength back, feeling a million times more tired. 

Urg. Relaxing was a mistake.

“Don’t worry, it’s not too far from here. We will get there in no time!” 

(...)

Took longer than he expected for you to finally lay down, but it was worth it. The place was one of the old dorms so there were a lot of pillows and mattresses thrown around, a few somewhat still holding a good condition for use. With the help of some furniture and moving around, you managed to barricade the door and build a sort of nest hidden in a farther corner so that it would be really difficult to notice through any window. 

The human seemed ready to pass out at any moment, yawning and giving the door a last look, watching every creek and tear on the walls for anything that could be dangerous, even after all their previous care to make this place as safe as possible. Silly dear.

Dogday has always prided himself in being perceptive. Both because of the kids he once needed to watch and take care of and also because it’s important to notice and understand the details around your teammates so he would know when to help them.

(Old habits die hard, as it seems.)

And, yeah, maybe it had something to do with how long he spent without seeing a human or how he missed having someone (anyone-) who cared so much around. But he couldn’t really help to watch, prod and pick every little detail and gesture of yours around as if he was collecting flowers in a garden. Humans were so… expressive, and this one wasn’t different at all. 

Angel was fierce and determined, going silently and non stop through the facility and all their objectives with a focused mind and precise movements. Their senses and general environmental awareness were good, too, catching hints and dangers just a second or two after Dogday himself caught them, which, considering their small ears and eyes, was an incredible feat. 

Still, like a true angel, strength and kindness walked side by side with them. Dogday didn’t say that only because that person was the literal reason he was alive today, but simply because it was clear as water how much of a true softie you were inside. It was in the way they fired only around the small smile critters, avoiding to actually burn and kill them (even though he didn’t really know how he should feel about it), on how they carried and treated his wounds and how all their features - tensed, anxious and angry - softened everytime they looked at him. 

It was on the way that they walked slower to accompany him, amusing his rambles with pokes of fun and interesting additions and in how each touch or word was filled with tenderness and respect. He didn’t feel like a toy with them like some old employers had made him feel before or a failure as… others made him believe.

So, his companionship was extremely captivating and maybe that was why it hadn’t been really hard to notice how the little tiny hints and actions came together to form a quite worrisome image of how disregarding about their own safety they were. Jumping into fights, crawling into dangerous, small spaces without thinking twice (he couldn’t get them there, if he needed he couldn’t get them there-), following strangers’ orders and running over cliffs as if their life wasn’t the thing that mattered the most and Dogday would always be there to catch them when they fell.

(What did they use to do when he wasn’t?)

Even now, he huffed as the human slowly took off the grabpack while still not even lowering themselves on the mattress or trying to get comfortable even though they seemed ready to slip into unconsciousness at any time now. Alert to the very last second.

It felt a bit nostalgic, if he was being honest. At least helping someone to go to sleep was a kind of problem that he knew how to solve. 

With no further ado, he let himself fall on the soft pile with a ‘oof’, slowly rolling around the cleanest pillows they found and hugging the mattress as a loud, relaxed sighing fled from his mouth. His entire body seemed to untense with the unexpected comfortable feeling. How long had it been since he could just enjoy being surrounded by softness and safety like this?

His tail began contently thumping on the pile, another sigh leaving his mouth and making him forget for a moment his objective as he rolled more and more on the spot, the pure feeling of bliss taking over his senses until the sound of amused chuckles brought him back to reality.

He opened his eyes only to find an incredibly fond gaze looking right back at him. The absurd weight that haunted his friend’s shoulders seemed to have disappeared for a moment and, if he really concentrated enough on those kind eyes, it was like the rest of the world became unfocused. That is right! Dogday shook his head, as if cleaning it from his distracting thoughts. He had a mission to accomplish! Get the human to rest! No more fooling around!

“Hmmmm, It’s so, so, sooo comfy here!” Dogday controlled his voice so his playful tune wouldn’t show too much and give away his plan. He got a pillow and shoved his face on it just to highlight his words. “Like a kingdom made of clouds, where all the citizens get to lay down and rest all day, everyday and their favorite hobby is to cuddle and snuggle. Sounds like a nice place, don’t you think?” 

You agreed, snorting when two expectanting lights turned around and Dogday patted the spot right beside him, only smiling bigger when you pretended to roll your eyes and finally, finally, laid down, barely touching the pile before your body crumbled the rest of the way.

It was… really soft. Even more than you expected from such old furniture but that could be the exhaustion talking. A relieved groan filled the place and before you could process that it came from your lips two arms came and carefully pulled you to a bunch of even softer fluff, which automatically made you snuggle closer, hugging the pillow (friend?) and relaxing, body aching with how much tension flew away from it so quickly.

A sweet voice said something in the background, but all of your senses melted together with your muscles when a hand began rubbing your back, drawing light circles on your spine and following it to your neck, briefly massaging it before going back to the back rubs.

That nice voice kept talking and you could briefly distinguish the words ‘deserve’, ‘rest’ and ‘good’ before the hand got a bit too close to your side and you giggled. The hand stilled but it was okay, it just tickled, that is all. No need to stop. 

This was really nice, you kind of missed it. 

You snuggled more.

All of it. It’s been a while.

As the darkness of the unconsciousness started taking you away, an amused, fond ‘aww’ was the last thing you heard.

(...)

You woke up with a scare.

Nothing necessarily happened, but your body immediately tensed, in alert. Blurry eyes traveled with speed around the room in search for any kind of movement, the silence helping to amplify the sound of any enemy that could be closer. 

One second, two seconds…all you could pick up was the paused, calm snoring of Dogday still being deeply asleep.

Right. Safe. You were both safe.

You let go of a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, blinking rapidly to scare the sleep out of your sight as you looked up, mind finally getting time to grasp the memories from last… (night? hours? day? irrelevant). The quick beating of your heart started to slow down to a normal pace and you laid down again on the mattress, now wide awake.

Dogday was still sleeping. That was good. He deserved all the peaceful rest he could get after everything that happened.

And, to be honest, it was quite amusing to watch him sleep. Each time he snored his big ears flopped just the slightest bit around and from time to time those little muffled barks would appear on the back of his throat and his tail would wag a bit, not so different from a real dog.

(He truly was a marvel of science.)

At one time you could almost swear he said a name, but it was so low that you couldn’t quite catch it.

Beyond all of that, you couldn’t deny how right Dogday had been, resting really did wonders to your body and mood. You could feel your mind clearer and your muscles less stiff, even if still quite sore. Also, it was made in a rush, that is true, but the soft pillow pile really was comforting enough that it didn’t make it any easier to get up and go on about your day.

Still, as always, there was work to do. It really wouldn’t hurt to get up in the vents and walk around a bit to see if there was any murder toy wandering close so you could attract them away before they could interrupt Dog’s sleep. 

It wasn’t anything really that urgent, however,… It felt weird not doing anything in this place, to deliberately choose to stay instead of to move. Letting your guard down last night had been literally the only thing you could do with how exhausted you were and having a trustful friend close by your side, but now? When you were more rested and nowhere close to the exit? The jittery feeling was already catching up to you. 

You tried to get up, only to be stopped by an arm closing on your midriff, a nose being pressed on the top of of head and nuzzling it with care before a raspy voice - you really needed to find some kind of oil or toolbox to help with his voicebox, sometimes it felt like he was always with a sore throat - glitched for a half second before coming to life in a quiet, slurred “Angel?”

Good morning, sleepy beauty.

Dogday huffed in amusement. Silence washed over you both once again.

A while passed and no more words were exchanged. Uh, probably went back to sleep already. You tried to carefully extract yourself from his hold. 

“Mm? What happened?” Dogday yawned, sounding a bit more awake this time. “Do we have to go?” He propped himself in one elbow, using his enormous height to peak over the hiding place and watch the door and windows, ears perking up in a search of any strange sound. “I’m not listening to any danger. This is a good spot.”

You agreed, feeling a tad bad that you woke up your companionship unnecessarily with your unrelenting thoughts. Nothing really happened, you assured, he could go back to sleep if he wanted. You could stay with the guarding shift.

Rubbing his eyes and yawning more, the sentient toy then changed his focus to you, noticing the slight drop in your tune, mind becoming clearer as he added to that detail the stiffness that went back in your shoulders. His brain tried to connect the dots.

“Did you have a nightmare, sunshine?”

No, not really. 

“What happened?”

It’s all just… too much thoughts. You wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep like this, not without a distraction. It would be the best if you got something to do, so he could go back to his nap. It was fine, you would stay awake in guard.

“I see.”

He laid back down, however, instead of letting you go and immediately go back to sleep, as you expected, he began massaging your shoulders, mouth turning into a pout when that didn’t make you melt completely in blissful slumber like last night, but at least got some of the tension out. 

Even if it felt like the human continued to hold onto every last drop of stress for some reason, refusing to close their eyes or fully relax. Knowing their current situation, Dogday could understand. But still, his friend should be able to enjoy this little chance of a rest that they’ve got. They were both so tired and finally had a good place to spend some good old lazy time without being worried about running for their lives or seeing nightmares at each blink of eyelids. It was not the best spot that the factory could once offer, of course, yet nowadays it was like a piece of heaven.

He wished he could help his angel to enjoy it. Yesterday they seemed so happy. But unless he could think in a good distraction…

A sudden thought then popped in his head, a memory from what happened the previous night. An idea.

Hm.

“Sunshine, do you like games?”

Games? Like… hide and seek or catch? 

Dogday nodded, looking eager. 

Yeah, you did. Even so, you don’t think that making up some ruckus will be good to keep up their hidden spot, well, hidden.

“No, no! This one doesn’t involve running or anything that could give up our location. Actually, you won’t even need to move from where you are to play it.”

Really? Well, it was worth a shot, then. 

“Alright. Do you remember what happened when we found those old rags in one of the corridors a few days ago?”

Yes, you did.

You watched as Dogday chuckled, like he knew something you didn’t and, with a crooked eyebrow, you stared at him, trying to remember the mentioned moment better. 

Nowadays his fur was no longer the bright orange that it once was like the old cardboards and tv episodes showed, but at least it got a resemblance of a cleaned state after using some good-enough rags you found on the way to one of the generators. You both did the best to take out the debris, dust and blood from him. It took longer than it should because the taller toy kept squirming and wiggling around in an adorable inescapable fit of giggles, not really being a big help as, in between his laughter, he kept claiming that it really, really tickled. 

As a good friend, of course, you just grabbed the rag he let fall after a bit of lil cleaning on his poor ticklish tummy and racked both hands up and down his sides, scribbling away while he hid his smile behind hands, muffling his loud crackles. The cleaning didn’t stop there and hunted each tiny spot and slight hint of dust off him with plenty of scratches, prodding and drumming everywhere your hands could reach, catching all the titters, snickers and snorts that danced in the rhythm of your fingers. Your own giggles did not take much longer to follow them. 

Dogday’s paw continued to run in a light touch on your back and suddenly a bolt of electricity jolted you up when your mind connected the memory of his playful demisse to what he just said.

Your eyes widened and his expression opened into a smirk, sensing the very same moment you got to the conclusion that you were about to get absolutely and utterly destroyed with tickles.

You tried pushing him away, one hand twisting behind to catch his wrist as the other hand fought to snatch his free one, which kept flying away from yours in a game of mouse and cat. 

“Wait, angel!” He couldn’t help but laugh, especially as your movements got more and more uncoordinated the longer they kept this little game, even before he truly attempted to do anything. A wobbly smile was already taking over your face, only growing bigger when every swipe he did in your direction - only to be deflected by your hands - made your entire skin tingle and prickle in anticipation. Each adorable reaction only assisting in making Dogday more determined that he choose the right distraction. “Don’t you want to know about the game? I bet that you will love it! I used to play and win all the time so I can teach you every special trick of mine.”

No, no, no, no! You knew exactly what he was doing! There was no such thing as a game!

“Gasp!” You were sure that Dogday would be dramatically putting a hand on his chest if it wasn’t for the rough housing, but sudden noise was successful to break your concentration. He used his trapped hand to sneak a quick jab on your side, ripping out a delightful screech before you slammed your back again on the mattress, both hands now in front of you, no longer moving, yet still ready to defend and attack. “I would never lie to you, my beautiful, beautiful beacon of light, the only and one sunshine, my angel.”

He was not going to succeed in distracting you again with those sugary sweet nicknames! You knew exactly what he was doing and you wouldn’t let him get you.

“No, no, you got me wrong, angel.” Dogday booped your nose, seeming like he couldn’t control himself with excitement and a smug kind of joy that only grew the longer you both stared at each other, waiting for the moment to strike. His tail wagged and he pretended to lounge at your stomach, stopping inches before touching it and drinking the way that a squeal escaped from your mouth, body stuck into a position between laying down and curling on itself, giggles quickly filling the room. Actually, you could feel yourself getting giddier at each second, completely aware that there was no way for you to get out of this and no other option besides wait for the next attack.

The way that this thought only made butterflies go crazy on your belly should be illegal.

Dogday continued as if nothing happened. “This isn’t the game. The game only starts when I start to tickle you, silly! And it is called ‘Try To Not Laugh’.” He managed to waltz through your defenses, his index finger and thumb catching your side in a grip way too light to even be considered a pinch. It made you try to squirm with a snort to the other direction, as if he just had unleashed a ruthless attack of squeezes on the spot. 

His grin glimmered and he let you go, chuckling. You could feel the phantom touch still. 

(Why did his paws have to be so fuzzy!?) 

“It means that you can’t giggle, squeal, snicker, chuckle, snort, chortle, shriek or laugh! No matter how much it tickles, itches or ‘feels funny’.” Dogday counted each reaction pulling up a finger and you tried to not let your face melt as he just kept talking, looking more and more delighted with how each word seemed to make you twitch on the spot, his paws clawing in your direction when he was done. 

Before you could think, he went for your neck, fingertips barely, just the slightest bit, grazing the skin before you catched his wrists and pushed them away, scrunching your neck as tiny tickly sparks spread like fire across your nerves. A sound akin to a keysmash left your lips and Dogday looked like you had just given him the best news of his entire existence.

He tilted his head and watched his own captured paws for a piece of moment before shrugging. He continued on with his explanation.

“In turn I will try my true best to make you laugh. And that can mean anything! I can fill your entire cute neck with aaaaall the raspberries that it could ever want, wiggle my claws on your ticklish armpits, play your ribs like a very lovely piano, squeeze your sides non stop until you’re dancing around like a wiggly worm, maybe even give your tummy a few scratches and scribbles, or, or even better! I can play ‘This little piggy’ with your toes over and over again until your sweet laughter fills this entire room like the sweetest melody. And then we can do it all over but with you giggling and snickering ringing free the entire time! Doesn’t it sound like a fun idea, my angel?”

Oh, you were going to die. Whether he decided to tickle you right away or keep the teases for who knows how long, you don’t think that your face would survive being under so much heat for so long.

Besides, this is not fair at all! He will win it anyway, you couldn’t hold on your laughter forever while he t-, while he attacks you.

“Aww, but, sunshine, tickling is hardly an attack!” His face got closer and suddenly you realized that he did not need any free hand to accomplish his first promise of tickles. 

With wide eyes you tried to roll away, but to do so, you would have to let his paws go, and you knew very well that the moment this happened, it would be a game over for you. For the way that Dogday grinned in your direction, he reached the same conclusion as well. “Also, I can’t even touch you, right now! I think you can win this.” Dogday wiggled his paws in your hold, as if proving his point. 

With (an eager) trepidation, you watched as his face continued to get closer, prying a couple of titters when his floppy, fuzzy ears brushed your own ears. He chuckled at your reaction, a mix of fondness and playful, fake frustration painting his words. “Sunshine, you’re already giggling? I will have to take my last words back, then, I don’t think this game will last too long, anymore.” 

Oh ho ho, he should just wait, because when you get him back you then he was going to see who was-

Dogday shoved his face on the crook of your neck and immediately began nuzzling the spot without a worry in the world, successfully cutting your threat short.

Wait! Wait!

“Don’t mind me, angel, please continue.” He huffed and puffed on the spot, shivers running in a hilarious cacophony across your every sense, almost ripping a squeal from your lips. Actually, just like his words hitting the skin, you could feel the way that snickers began pooling in your throat, waiting for any tiny chance to escape. You clamped your mouth shut, a muffled snort taking over. You were going to at least try to hold them in and try your chances at winning this childish game, for your own pride, if nothing else. 

He didn’t have his paws to tickle, right? I mean, how bad could it really be?

Dogday hummed, each word vibrating on the skin in an almost unbearable manner, making you want to jump away and at the same time let yourself get lost in the sensations. “What were you saying, angel? Please, don’t stop because of me! You know I always love to hear what you have to say.”

You shook your head, partially in an attempt to somehow escape from the tickling and partially to dissipate the energy that was building up on your system. Anything to not focus on the snickers bouncing freely in your chest.

“No? Not a word? Aw.” You could feel the fake pout the sentient toy did right before letting his features go back to that dangerous, mischievous grin. “I have a question for you, then! Do you know what is the tickle puppy favorite’s fruit?”

You knew a trap when you saw one, so you kicked your legs, trying and failing to let out any protest because you were sure that if you stopped pressing your lips in a tight line for even half of a second, there would be no stopping from the waterfall of laughter.

“Raspberries!”

A shriek almost made you lose when he unleashed the first raspberry, more and more of them being quick to follow right after. On the base of your neck, your collarbone, under your chin and in every inch on the unprotected spot. There was nowhere safe from the awfully buzzing that made every other feeling disappear, seeing to tickle every nerve and making tingles to run crazy in absolutely everywhere. He even grazed the back of your ears with a couple of raspberries, cooing when you tried to shrink and hide the spot by pressing them on your shoulder, only succeeding to leave the other side of your neck completely free for more nuzzles and tickles, an opportunity that Dogday was fast to take, taking turns in bashing every side of your neck in a tickly attention. 

Another quiet, muffled squeak painted the air.

Dogday lifted his head again, entire demeanor completely melting for a piece of time when he saw you (oh my stars, look at this amazing smile!) before that joyful light was back in his eyes. Once more, he tried wiggling his paws out of your hold, but your grip continued to be as firm as ever, your wobbly smile shining in a challenge.

Oh, you’re just so fun!

“Gasp! It seems like I am stuck! Oh no, angel, what will I do now?” His gaze then traveled to your stomach, and all the hints that softness had ever been present in his features instantly evaporated as his face became something more playful, even a tad devilish, with a hint of hunger. 

“My, my,” you didn’t exactly know why, but his voicebox glitched, jumping between a light taunting tune and his usual lower one. “Is that a delicious tummy that I see? Poor thing, it must be so cold to be shaking like this. Well, and what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t offer any help, huh?”

Your friend was quite tall and kind of clumsy when he walked around, too. Now, how that clumsy toy was able to, in a span of less than a blink, take a gigantic breath and immediately attack your stomach with it was a true mystery that you didn’t had a lot of time to think about when your entire body took a screenshot for a long, long second, ticklish sensations exploding in a frenzy, before your entire torso instinctively beginning to trash, loud peals of laughter jumping freely on the tip of your tongue, begging to be free. They cheered in excitement and only grew stronger when other smaller raspberries took their turn to explore every spot, every sensitive creek or place of your stomach, breaking more and more of your barriers, little by little. It took every single ounce of strength to not lose the game right here and there.

Dogday didn’t even pretend to be holding back, anymore. Right as you survived another tiny raspberry that got way too close to your side to be an accident, a nibble appeared, catching you so out of guard that it made your arch your back, legs kicking with adrenaline. But the tickly, light nibbles weren’t diverted, intertwining with tiny raspberries in a mischievous dance that increased your internal laughing into a tenfold.

That was when one of them hit the spot closer to your bellybutton and you couldn’t take it anymore. Your hands let go of his wrists to push his stupid smiling - so proud and so bright - face away, body squirming and eyes crinkling on the corners with mirth.

“I am free!” He laughed, pretending to not hear the tiny low titters flying from your mouth as you regained your strength, taking the breather as what it was. His ears twitched with every cute little giggle and he kind of wanted to immediately go back to bash every sweet, soft spot in tickles you until that beautiful laughter was ringing loud and free across the entire room and that soft, relaxed state you were in became so much common that he wouldn’t see you stressed ever again.

But he was going to wait for you to rest a tadbit first, that was the main objective of their game, afterall.

Feeling calmer, you looked at your friend, who jolted in the same place, seeing to get out of a trance. He recovered quickly and lifted his paws, easily slipping into the tickle monster persona as he slowly clawed in your direction.

“Now that my hands are free, I wonder where I should attack next…” He looked thoughtful, slowly bringing his paws closer and closer to your torso, wiggly fingers softly scrapping the ticklish skin, but not really drumming on it, not yet. “Maybe I should try your armpits first? Aw, but you were so jumpy when I squeezed your side that one time! And you seemed really excited when I mentioned tickling your ribs… Ah! So many options, so many options… We will have to try every single one of them, of course. What do you think, my giggly angel? Which one do I tickle first?”   

None! Absolutely none of them!

“None?” He tilted his head, knowing very well how cute he looked like when he did that. “But then … Oh! I see!” Dogday snapped his fingers and you were pretty sure that if this was a cartoon a lamp would appear shining right above that absolute, silly, mean, goofball. “You want me to tickle your legs!” 

What!

At your wide stare and sputtering pretenses of protests his smirk turned sharp, which didn’t quite help the anticipatory bolts of electricity that suddenly left you feeling even more ticklish than usual, trying to curl and hide your legs but feeling him dig more on your torso every time you did so. He continued. “That is why you didn’t stop kicking and squirming the entire time I was tickling your neck and tummy, right? Aww, sunshine, if you wanted my attention so much, you could’ve just asked!”

That was literally not the reason at all! Dogday!!

He hummed in an answer, turning around and easily pinning your legs by holding your ankles down, his touch so gentle that you were pretty sure that if you really wanted and struggled you could escape from it.

(And if that didn’t make everything even more endearing, you honestly didn’t know what would.)

Without wasting any more time, Dogday started squeezing the sensitive spot right above your kneecap, skillfully jumping from one leg to another unexpectedly, digging on the skin and following your leg around with no problem as a new round of kicks started once again, keeping up with the tickling. The ticklish sensations made your head spin, tingles spreading across your muscles and teasing all the nearest tickle spots, leaving them prickling in anticipation and a funny kind of energy that made every nerve of your knees crazy as more and more squeezes and pinches continued unmercifully assaulting the spot non stop. 

A sudden move and you yelped when your legs were lifted, his curious hand worming its way under your knee to lightly scratch the sensitive skin there. The touch was so incredibly fuzzy, so adoringly soft that the sudden change from the rough to light technique almost ripped a series of snickers from your throat without permission, the hilarity and urge to laugh taking over your every thought. 

Dogday continued scribbling and drawing shapes, leaving a couple of pokes here and there just so he could listen to those delightful muffled snorts.

(He would really love to listen to them more clearly, though.) 

“You really love this, don’t you, angel?” 

You barely sputtered out an answer before being obligated to clamp your mouth shut, uncontrollable laughter making your shoulders bounce as he took the chance to crawl his fingers upwards to your thigh, skittering them there for a couple of seconds before spidering them right back to under your knees, repeating the cycle for a couple of times before mirroring them on the other leg. 

“When I tickle you.” He scratched under your knee. 

“When I tease you.” He squeezed your calf.

“When I fluster you.” He swiped at the space right under your toes.

“It’s really adorable!” His paw stopped right on your sole and he pressed it, firmly enough that it didn’t tickle, still, for some reason you couldn’t stop your smile from becoming even more wobblier, the giddiness growing stronger and spreading in your every cell just like the heat that seemed to take over your face. 

“Especially because I can’t wait to hear aaaaall those cute giggles and beautiful laughter that you have trapped right there.” Suddenly, he raked his fingers up, from your heel to under the toes. A squeal filled the air. Dogday’s eyes shone, like an arrow findings the target. His fingertips curled, kneading on the skin. “That is why I have to apologize, angel, because I lied to you. That is a game that I just have to win.”

He then attacked.

It was less than a half of a piece of time, but suddenly your soles were being overcomed with scribbles, scratches and wiggling everywhere they could reach. There were digging fingers under your toes and a spidering that followed them to the pads, tweaking and scritching them all while curious pokes payed attention to the entire path of your arches, even if shouldn’t be possible for him to be tickling both places at the same time. Nevertheless, Dogday’s paw was so big that he was able to torment both of your feet at once while still holding them through all the resulting kicks those created.

And the teasing… Of course there was also the teasing.

“There we go! Oh my, oh my, look at you! You just can’t help being so adorable, now, can you? Awww, angel, you always get this… sweet expression when you are happy, so I like to call it your happy face! It’s delightful. The corner of your eyes gets all crinkly and your face gets all soft and your smile… your smile is the best part, it’s so bright! No matter the size or the time, it really feels like we have our own special rays of sun down here.”

He found a rather sensitive spot right above your heel and immediately concentrated on it with all his might, drumming and prodding there as if the salvation of this entire factory depended on making you laugh.

“That is why it was so easy to see how much you love tickles, sunshine. First when you were tickling me a few days ago and now. Since we started that game… you didn’t even ask me to stop and all while you simply never ceased looking so adorably full of joy like this! I could really spend the entire day just here, you know? Tickling you silly over and over again.”

That did it. The barrier broke. Loud peals of laughter were fished from your lips. Every sound and reaction filled the air in a frantic, unrestrained melody of mirth. 

Now, with them flying freely in the room, there were uncontrollable, hysterical giggles when Dogday decided to knead your calves up and down, those only being taken down by an unstoppable crackling, painted with one or two snorts, as his paws wiggled away to squeeze right above your kneecaps, taking his sweet, sweet time to give the ticklish skin under it a few swipes before moving away.

Finally, he let your ankles go, both paws resting on your sides, unbothered by all the squirming and protests that this simple act created, drinking in every reaction with a so fond, so tender gaze that it bordered on dotingly as you got another break.

You tried to take big gulps of air, but everytime your gazes found each other, titters grew anew, distracting you and leaving you in a constant state of a silly, giggly kind of joy.

M-Maybe he should reconsider! You laughed already, he won the game! That should be the end of this, right!

Dogday chuckled, fingers tuttering in their spot, curling and uncurling slowly, content to feel the trembling on the skin under them. 

“The end? But we just started! And you still got so much beautiful laughter trapped right here to show.” With his index finger, he highlighted his word by tapping on your belly, right in your bellybutton, ears perking at the screech this brought. “So many cute snorts and melodious shrieks that I would love to meet. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help to let them out, huh?”

A flow of words, more unintelligible than anything, fell off your lips. A mix of pleas,  threats, high pitched giggles and some indistinguishable sounds that could only be considered a true keysmash rather than a sentence. Dogday hummed in agreement and nodded his head as if it was all a well constructed and understandable sentence.

“I knew you would eventually see my point, angel. You’re such a delight, you know, that?”

He smiled, so kindly and caring, and then he digged.

His paws, big enough to cover your entire midriff drummed non stop, squeezing the lower part of your stomach while scratching everywhere they could reach. He stayed there for a while before his wiggling fingers crawled up, scribbling and pinching your sides unmercifully. They looked for any weak spot, any lovely place that would make you snort and squirm away and latched there with pinches and kneading until your back arched, only then moving back to tickle your stomach until you went back to try to curl yourself in a ball, starting the cycle over and over again. 

You felt almost high with laughter, the thought that it tickled, it tickled so so much and more than anything ever taking over your brain in sync with the loud, high pitched squeals and belly laughter (ha- Dogday would love that pun if you could say it to him) that chased after each other. After so much teasing, every tickle seemed to be accompanied by the brush of thousand of tiny phantom feathers that still tormented your stomach even when he moved away to your ribs, carefully pressing down on the bones and quickly scribbling with so much skill that it should be illegal the actual, loud crackle such a simple action created.

Your hands flied to hold his wrists, caught between pushing them away and pulling them close and, at seeing that, the sentient toy couldn’t help but feel himself melt and snicker fondly, barely controlling the urge to shove his face back on your neck and nuzzle and nibble the daylights out of it in a pure attack of cuteness. His tail was wagging so much that it dislodged a few pillows from where they were.

“Such a good friend. Such a cute, nice friend for me. For us.” The praises fell from his mouth naturally, your companionship too focused on keeping those happy reactions to really think too much about them. “You do so much to all of us, to me, and keep going above and beyond just to accomplish what you set your mind in. You’re brave and one of the strongest humans I’ve ever known. And there is so much kindness in you that I could talk the entire day about it! You saved me, you cared and tried and sometimes down here it feels like a nightmare but you… you make everything so much better, like a true angel. That is why I love this nickname so much. It really fits you.” 

You tried to answer, to say how much especial, strong and essential Dogday was for you as well, but every time a single coherent word slipped from your lips he immediately reinforced his attack, fully aware that if you said anything sweet he would inevitably let his guard down and you would be able to turn the tables, and he really needed to say all of that to you before that. 

His tickles were now focusing on keeping up the flow of starry laughter, watching them grow up to chortles and tune down into snickers as he scribbled in between each bone, keeping track of every special spot that pried a shriek from your lungs only to randomly attack it with prodding and poking, slowly fishing all kinds of joyful sounds that you could make.

He then buried his paws in your armpits, swirling the fingertips there for a few moments before digging energetically, fingers dancing and prodding every inch they could reach, which immediately made your arms come down with a loud chortle, head shaking and legs kicking at the sensation.

How was he so good at this?

Dogday gasped dramatically (not again-) and lightly pulled his paws in faux alarm, not really stopping his attack. “Oh no! Once more, you have trapped me!” Such a goofball. Such a silly, mean goofball and you could not wait to put your wiggly hands on and see how flustered you could make him be. “Dang, I really didn’t want to resort to this but I guess that I have no other option but to keep tickling and tickling and tickling on your poor ticklish pits forever and ever until the end of our days.” He then winked when he found your shining eyes. “But you would actually love that, wouldn’t you, my giggly sunshine?”

That was it. You were going to die. Right here and there. The playful tickles, the unrelenting teasing, the fond stares and gentle words… you could actually feel your entire body about to melt.

With a strength you didn’t even realize you had, you pulled your arms up to hide your flaming face, a pitched ‘eee’ sound mixing with the hysterical, absolutely uncontrollable laughter, your body rolling to the side and curling, shoulders bouncing with the force of each of your giggles.

Dogday let go of you, giggling together with your reactions, resting his hands on the ground and just observing, amusement and care clear as water in every trace of his features.

After a while, you felt a paw lay on your back, retracting for a bit when just that made you wiggle away, a new round of chuckles spilling, before it came back to rub your shoulders, touch kind and too firm to tickle. “Okay, okay, sunshine. I’m done. You can calm down for now.”

Laying down on the floor giggling yourself silly didn’t feel so embarrassing when Dogday’s own quiet snorts and snickers were quick to accompany you, especially since the rubbing really felt relaxing, making you melt on the touch bit by bit. 

After a few minutes, when a comfortable silence had fallen on you both, you rolled on your back, finally being able to stare at your companionship without feeling like you would explode. Dogday smiled bigger at your direction. He lifted a paw to gently wipe a tear from your cheek, not thinking too much about it.

“That was so fun! I didn’t know you were so ticklish, angel. You are almost as bad as m-” He stopped right in his tracks when a gasp and a new string of titters fell like a waterfall from your mouth and you pushed his paw away, fastly rubbing your cheek so the feeling of fuzzy tickles would go away. It was like the softest makeup brush had just touched your skin, and you had no idea that just this could tickle so much.

Dohohogday! You sahaid you werehe done! 

But your companionship didn’t answer. Astonished, he stared at his paw before looking at you again, gaze jumping from one to the other like he was watching a tennis match.

Suddenly his entire face brightened like the sun and he looked at you as if you had just said the funniest, most brilliant pun he had ever heard in his entire life.

“Aaaangel!” Every letter was bathed in pure, disbelieved delight.

No! You knew very well what that tune meant! No way! Nononono! Don’t you dare!

“Are your cheeks…”

Dohohogday! Don’t you come closer!

“Ticklish?”

Before you could push yourself from the mattress and jump away, there were two thumbs softly scratching on your cheeks, scribbling so lightly that it immediately made a giant smile take over your expression. Titters started to fill the air once more.

“Oh my… angel! This is adorable!” Dogday looked like he was about to bounce around the room with how much excited he was, his voice getting higher and glitching in excitement. “I can’t believe how fun and cute… You just… Ah, sunshine, I can’t help but!”

And before you could even blink, he shoved his smiley, stupidly fuzzy face right on your neck again, nuzzling there without a single worry in the world. His fingers kept  tickling your cheeks, sometimes even slipping to tease the back of your ears with a few scratches as he giggled in joy since he could literally feel the rumbling of your snickers. They twirled and spun in the air for much minutes more until his tickly attack from cuteness overload was finally finished and you both just kept layed down on the comfy pile, cuddling in between content sighs.

Dogday listened to your calm breath, saw how relaxed your entire body was and, according to the few sneaky peaks he had, saw that happy, full of mirth, smile was still in your face, leaving him melting in contentment, entire body relaxing as well. 

Perfect. His plan had worked.

Not that it was that big of a deal, but it had been such a long time since he had the opportunity to…

He was just glad that it worked. That he still got it in him. 

(Being playful. Happy. Helping the others. Being there when they needed him. Matter when it was necessary. Being silly and fun)

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t sense the hand coming until it laid on his head, playing with the fur there and scratching on that place right behind his left ear that never failed to make him embarrassingly become a mush of pleased hums and wagging tail. A low, sleepy voice crossed the air.

You said you would take him out of here. It’s a promise, Dogday.

How his angel knew exactly what to say was a mystery to him. And, it didn’t quite hurt, but his entire being ached at those words. His smile was sad and he was glad that the human couldn’t see as he blinked quickly, eyes suddenly moisty. “Alright.”

There would still be some revenge when you woke up, though. Be ready.

And that reminded him so much of others playful, sleepy conversations he had before everything happened that it ripped a surprised laugh from him. He tried to look up to see the very much likely mischievous glint in his friend’s eyes, but a few more purposeful scratches turned him right back to a content puddle. He nuzzled the human a bit more. “Sleep well, angel.”

You too, Dogday.

(And sleep well they did. Lost in a peaceful rest as the entire world outside left them be.)

[~*~]

Random fun facts!

-There is a parallel I made by mistake between CatNap and DogDay and the whole 'trusting and following the being that saved your life'. It's not too deep and Dogday isn't as bad as Catnap but that was an interesting thing I noticed :D

-Different from the reader, Dogday is more used to the time down there so he has a good grasp when day and nights happens in general.

-I am actively ignoring the plotholes here about food and water here. Ya know when you have to poke holes in a lid so the bugs in the container can breathe that is what I doing kjhgfdfghyhgfd

-Nothing to do with the fanfic but I kept listening to this song when I was writing it and I think it's cute.

[horoscope1078]

You’ve known Ruben for a couple of years now and though he’s known as the rock of Manchester City’s defense, to you, he’s just your goofy, overly competitive friend. You met at a mutual friend’s barbecue and despite his intimidating presence on the field, you quickly found out that off the pitch, Ruben was full of sarcasm, bad jokes and a surprising love for random trivia.

One lazy afternoon, the two of you had planned to hang out at your apartment.. nothing fancy, just a chill day. When the doorbell rang, you opened the door to find Ruben standing there, holding a bag of snacks in one hand and a giant stuffed shark in the other.

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s.. that?”

He gave you a wide grin, lifting the shark up like it was a trophy. “It’s Jaws.”

You blinked, utterly unimpressed. “You named a shark Jaws? Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“It’s classic!” he said, walking past you into the apartment as if carrying a giant shark was the most normal thing in the world. “And I didn’t name it. The shark spoke to me.”

You crossed your arms and followed him. “Oh great. Now you’re talking to stuffed animals. This is why you need more rest days.”

He flopped down on the couch, plopping the shark on the cushion next to him. “Don’t be jealous of my new friend, okay? He’s more supportive than you’ve been lately.”

“Supportive? Me?” you snatched the shark off the couch and held it in front of you like a shield. “I’m not the one tackling people for a living, Mr. Brick Wall.”

He chuckled, leaning back into the couch. “Hey.. you know it’s not all tackles. I’m delicate. Refined.”

You burst out laughing. “Ruben, I’ve seen you bulldoze through players like a truck. Where’s the delicate part? Was it when you almost took someone’s head off with a header last week?”

“Look, headers are an art form, alright?” he pointed at you dramatically. “You wouldn’t understand the nuance.”

“Oh the nuance?” you said, collapsing into a chair across from him, still clutching the stuffed shark. “Tell me more about the nuance of body-slamming people into the ground.”

Ruben crossed his arms and smirked. “You know, you’re really mean to me sometimes. I’m starting to think you don’t appreciate how much joy I bring into your life.”

“Joy? Is that what we’re calling it now?” you said, tossing the shark back at him. “I thought it was more of a.. chaotic mess situation.”

He caught the shark effortlessly and cradled it like it was precious. “Admit it, you’d be bored without me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure. Because my life was so empty before a giant man-child started showing up at my door with questionable stuffed animals.”

“Hey.. don’t insult Jaws like that. He has feelings, you know.”

You gave him a flat look. “You’re scaring me a little with how attached you are to that thing.”

He leaned in, eyes narrowing playfully. “You know, for someone who pretends to be so cool, I’m pretty sure I saw a stuffed penguin on your bed last time I was here.”

You blanched. “That’s.. different.”

“Oh is it? Care to explain?”

“It’s nostalgic!” you protested. “I’ve had it since I was a kid.”

“And Jaws is nostalgic for me.” he said, feigning seriousness. “Reminds me of all the shark movies I watched as a kid. Don’t judge me.”

You snorted. “Fine. You win this round, Dias.”

“I always win.” he said with a grin. “But thanks for admitting it.”

Before you could respond with something snarky, Ruben suddenly jumped up from the couch. “Wait, I almost forgot!” he rummaged through the bag he brought and pulled out a random assortment of snacks and.. a box of trivia cards.

You eyed the cards suspiciously. “What’s that?”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Prepare to be defeated.”

“Oh no..” you groaned, already knowing where this was going. “We are not doing trivia again. Last time, you cheated!”

“I did not cheat!” he gasped, looking mock-offended. “I just.. knew the answers. It’s not my fault I’m full of random knowledge.”

“You Googled the answers!” you shot back.. laughing. “Mid-round! I saw you.”

“That’s called resourcefulness.” he said, sitting back down and opening the box. “Come on, just one round. I’ll play fair this time.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Fine. But I’m not letting you get away with it again.”

As he dealt out the first card, you squinted at him. “What’s the theme this time?”

He glanced at the card and smirked. “Sports.”

“Are you serious?” you groaned dramatically. “You do this for a living and you want to play sports trivia?”

“Don’t worry.” he said, eyes twinkling. “I’ll go easy on you.”

You shot him a glare. “If you go easy on me, I swear I’ll..” 

“Okay okay!” he held up his hands in surrender. “No going easy. I promise.”

The next half-hour was spent bickering over trivia questions, accusing each other of cheating and laughing way too much over the ridiculousness of it all. At one point, Ruben got a question wrong about football and you just about fell off the chair laughing.

“Oh my god, you’re literally a football player and you didn’t know that?” you wheezed.

“I’m a defender! They didn’t teach us this stuff in defender school!” he said.. trying and failing to keep a straight face.

By the time the trivia game ended, you both were sprawled out on the couch, exhausted from laughing. You looked over at him, smiling.

“You know, for a professional athlete, you’re really bad at trivia.”

He grinned back, throwing an arm around the stuffed shark. “Maybe. But I’m great at making you laugh.” 

And, annoyingly enough, he was right.

[ominous-feychild]

CHARACTER INTRO:

RISING FROM THE ASHES

KIEVA CARON

(slightly sarcastically) “I'm sorry, it appears I must've left my sense of humor at home.” - Kieva Caron

Despite being the adoptive son of Caron—head of one of the world's most well-renowned academies and a man extremely prominent in the public's eye—Kieva himself is a bundle of mysteries.

When Kieva was only seven years old, a feral berserker appeared on the outskirts of Maunne. It brought ferocious storms, savage lightning, and a senseless brutality with them, attacking all who approached and causing dozens of casualties.

None of the local guards or mercenaries were able to do much more than escape with their lives or those they'd been tasked with protecting.

So they sent for aid from the king, who then dispatched Kieran Caron himself—a man well-adapted to combat and disabling opponents of all kinds—to quell the savage beast's fury.

Only for him to discover that it was a child.

A child incapable of speech, more animalistic than human... ignoring, of course, the fact that it wasn't human. But Caron still saw it just as worthy as protection and love as any other, and, recognizing its frenzied attacks were attempts at self-defense, petitioned to be allowed to take in and raise the child himself.

He was later named Kieva.

Due to Kieva's inability to speak, read, write, or understand language prior to his adoption, he was never quite able to tell Caron or any others why he'd been found in the frantic state he was. By the time he knew enough to share what'd happened, he'd long-since forgotten... and had grown comfortable in his new life as Caron's son and Tián's brother.

Kieva's history prior to his adoption is surrounded in mystery, but his life afterwards is easily tracked: he was raised no different from Caron's biological son, treated with love, all but pampered, and allowed to wander about Lotus Academy to attend any and all classes so long as he never disturbed other students.

Which... he didn't.

Even before Kieva officially enrolled in classes himself, he observed other students learning, lowkey participated in lessons when he could without disturbing others, and picked up various skills from his observations.

So Kieva had a major head start—alongside being raised and given self-defense lessons by Caron himself—when he officially started taking classes himself.

And that's not even mentioning his berserkerness.

Berserkerness?

Kieva Caron is a berserker: a creature gifted with enhanced senses, healing, and strength��both physical and magical—directly tied to their emotional state. Positive moods make them generally healthier and more resilient, while negative moods take a toll on their overall health, strength, and resilience.

Anger and fear can even further boost the strength of a berserker, amplifying it past "inhuman" to straight-up monstrous. They can crush bricks or trees with a simple grip, heal from near-fatal wounds within minutes, react to things with a speed and dexterity far beyond human capacity, and accomplish magical feats 10x their usual might. All it takes is for them to choose to lose control.

That's where berserkerness turns into a curse: tapping into that power slowly corrupts both their will and appearance, making them visibly less and less human while increasing their tendency toward rage and violence.

Even if they manage to stray from the path of wrath, their appearance will be forever warped, a reminder of what they've done.

Although it's unknown in-universe—and, in fact, theorized to be random or genetic at best—berserkers' appearances are warped relative to one (or both) of two things: what they want to be or what they see themself as.

Beyond his typical berserker antlers and fae-tipped ears, Kieva has two pairs of wings—a small set on the sides of his head, naturally covering his ears, and a large set stretching over his back and shoulders that let him fly.

Similarly, he sometimes can have talon-like claws for fingers and the taloned legs of a falcon.

Which brings up the last point—although it's next to unheard of in berserkers, Kieva naturally has mild shapeshifting abilities. On top of being able to mildly warp his limbs and features to hide parts of his berserkerness (but never remove his wings or antlers), Kieva is able to transform parts of his body into electricity. He uses this ability during fights both to avoid attacks and to move near-instantaneously across large distances.

Not only is Kieva an absolute mystery because of his origins, but he's a marvel in the face of what arcanists and scientists alike thought they knew about berserkers.

Fortunately, Caron has kept their investigations far away from him.

And may it forever be a mystery.

Appearance

Beyond his fae-tipped (pointed instead of rounded) ears, double-pairs of silvery-gold wings—one small pair often covering his ears and the other, large set stretching over his back and shoulders—and deer antlers, Kieva otherwise tends to look human when not tapping into his berserker strength.

Kieva is a pale, effeminate, 5'7 (170cm) young adult man with messy, shoulder-length white-blonde hair he often ties back into a bun, grey eyes, and thin-but-soft features.

Kieva overall has a wiry frame, bags under his eyes from a frequent lack of sleep, and often appears deadpan or unassuming.

After the beginning of RFtA, Kieva gains (non-continuous) burn scars over his jaw, chest, arms, and hands from the Disaster of Vemor.

Personality & Motives

Kieva, now aged 19, has long-since acclimated to his life as Caron's younger son. Early into his childhood, he would constantly wonder about his life before, where he'd come from, and what had happened to his biological family, but he's given up hope of learning.

Not only are the memories lost to him, but Caron's own investigations—incredibly thorough and the results of which were occasionally shared with Kieva—pulled up nothing.

So, instead, Kieva has fully accepted Caron as his father and Tián as his brother.

Caron's strong sense of justice—and the nobility of taking him in to begin with—has rubbed off on Kieva, making him incredibly stubborn, kindhearted, and protective of his loved ones.

Despite his known origins as the berserker that terrorized the outskirts of Maunne twelve years ago, Kieva is an incredibly calm and collected person, mostly minding to himself. He's overall professional, but turns deadpan sassy around his friends and casually intimidating with aggressors—both his own and others'.

He's spent his entire life learning about combat, had nothing but a loving family who've made him well-aware of his strengths and weaknesses, and has no problem turning the tables against those who deserve it.

Kieva wants nothing more than to become a knight, protect those in need, and, most importantly, make his family proud.

So... how's he going to feel when the investigations into the disasters around Kihroin start bringing up more questions about his past?

Rising From The Ashes Taglist:

@honeybewrites @the-golden-comet @illarian-rambling @ashirisu @urnumber1star

@the-letterbox-archives @48lexr @aalinaaaaaa @thecomfywriter @an-indecisive-nerd

@leahnardo-da-veggie @world-of-iridensia

Introductory Taglist:

@paeliae-occasionally @pluppsauthor @thelovelymachinery

(request to be added to the permanent taglist if you'd like to be! You will be dropped after a few introductory posts!)

Dividers made by @saradika!

[unhetalia]

Recently I've been reading the Kith and Kin series by AnAppleofDiscord and it's really got me interested in the Kirkland brothers, so I've been building a few headcanons. I want to do this for all the characters in Interconnected 'verse just so I can have everything straight when/if I write.

One point - I split Nations' ages into 'legal' and 'physical' age. This is something I think they probably do, especially when they're staying in one place or working with humans who don't know who they are. Sometimes it's something they do as a result of societal norms - a 40 year old working in government will have more respect than a 30 year old, for example.

Alwyn Kirkland (Wales) — legally 42 years old, physically around 30-35 years old. The oldest Kirkland brother, and the shortest at 5'9/175cm. Thin, and less physical than his brothers. More reliant on spell work and is an expert in defensive spells. He has strawberry blonde hair and brown eyes. He's the plainest looking out of all the brothers, though is still quite handsome, especially when he smiles.

He is very quiet to the point of seeming cold, and tends to be above his brothers' quarrels. He's the best at diplomacy and has impeccable manners. However, he holds grudges the longest and is generally uninterested in the rest of the world. He tends to take England's side in all official matters, which makes both Scotland and Northern Ireland trust him less. He's an expert harpist and has a beautiful voice, the latter which he uses to strengthen his spell work.

Alisdair Kirkland (Scotland) — legally 40 years old, physically around 30-35. Second-born Kirkland brother. 6'7/200cm and built like a brick house. Very physical, and a lot of his magic doesn't require verbal incantations but certain body movements. Dark auburn hair, green eyes. Handsome, but in a rougher way that the high society circles he's forced to mingle with turn their nose up at. As a result, he thinks he's unattractive.

Abrasive and brutally honest, but also easy-going and with a great sense of humour. He's also not easily offended, and is therefore great for banter, but he has a resting bitch face that intimidates people who don't know him. He took care of England as a child and they're the most alike in temperament, and therefore fight the most. He has a soft spot for children - especially the naughty ones. He shows obvious favouritism towards America among England's ex-colonies. Takes rugby and football very seriously.

Aidan Kirkland (Northern Ireland) — legally 38 years old, physically 30-35. Third Kirkland brother. 6'0/182cm, willowy. Best at long range spells and the bow and arrow, as well as sprinting. Fiery red hair and brown eyes - more delicate featured than his other brothers, earning him the nickname "pretty boy" (Scotland). Warm, and the most in touch with his feelings. Great at telling stories. He has the most human friends out of all his siblings.

[kydrogendragon]

I saw your birthday post and had an idea. It's comics canon Dream gets obsessive over his romantic partners, but... But! I wanna see that kind of obsessive devotion showered on his friend. His friend who waited and procured a new meeting place. No romance, no sex though QPR levels of skinship would be nice. I could see them both being different levels of touch starved. I would love to see 0 to 100 levels of friendship. Dream should get the chance with Hob who has already shown such loyalty.

We got our fifth post for the day!!

Ohhhh I loved this promp, thought! Honestly, this deserves it's own full length character study-type fic cause there's so much you can do with it here. I tried my best to fit bits in in a coherent manner and tried my best to show that obsession and devotion without it feeling like it dove too close to the "romance" track.

Thank you so much, anon! Hope you enjoy!

Relationship: Hob & Dream Words: 4141 Warnings: None Ao3 Link

The first time that Dream met with Hob Gadling after escaping Fawney Rig and restoring his realm, he had expected a great many things. What he hadn’t expected was for the White Horse to have been demolished and for his friend to create a new meeting place for them. The words The New Inn hung proudly against the brick building and a sense of warmth emanated from it in a way Dream had not experienced in many years.

Hob Gadling greeted him with a smile. Dream shouldn’t be surprised by this. The man was a well of optimism and joy. He has always looked upon life with a sense of wonder and excitement that Dream could hardly fathom. He should not be surprised his arrival was treated with that same level of happiness.

Still, he was surprised nonetheless.

They had talked well into the night, far past the normal operating hours of the establishment, but it did not matter when Hob owned the place. Being here with Hob, simply talking and listening to the mundane stories of his life, brought a peace to Dream. It was a comfort to simply be in a way he has not known how. When he was imprisoned, even then he had not simply existed. He was far into his mind, constantly staking out any weaknesses in their defenses or gaps in their bindings. Even when he had not moved in over a hundred years, Dream had not known rest.

But here was different. In these walls, rebuilt and lovingly fashioned with friendly intents and hopes, and with Hob’s cheerful baritone voice washing over him, Dream could finally relax. It was a strange sensation, one he fought initially, but sometime, after most patrons eased out and it was just the two of them, Dream managed to let the tension in his shoulders drop.

Then, Hob had invited him back. He had said Dream was welcome to visit anytime. Didn’t matter when, he was welcome. It was an offer he had never received before. A standing invite, one that Dream well knew Hob meant with all his heart, was a rare thing to be extended to anyone, let alone an Endless. And yet, the impossible immortal did so anyways.

Which is why Dream is currently sitting on Hob Gadling’s couch in the dark.

He had shown up to his flat the next day. Repairs in the Dreaming were progressing and, if Dream is being honest, he missed the sense of comfort he got from being near his friend (a friend. He did not have friends. And yet, he now has one.) Dream had failed to account for his work schedule, however, and upon arriving in Hob’s living room, found the place empty. It was no matter. Hob had told him he was welcome at anytime. He could wait.

Dream had explored the living room, trailing a finger across book titles and picture frames, ghosting touches over ancient artifacts with stories so embedded within, it made Dream smile. He brushed against the daydreams of sunlight and warmth from the plants upon his window ledges and, when the sun began to tilt down, heading for the horizon, Dream plucked a book from the expansive selection of Hob’s personal library and began to read.

He had lounged upon the plush fabric couch, his boots fading to sand as he tucked his legs underneath him. The book in had was an original print, well loved and well worn. The pages still carried with them the dreams of the author, though faint. It had also been many years since Dream had simply taken the time to read a book himself. Yes, the knowledge, the story told, it lay inside him, but the act of turning each page, of reading each word, there was something also calming about it.

Dream was nearly finished when Hob Gadling finally arrives.

The door creaks open into the darkness that’s settled into the room. There is a faint glow from the streetlights outside. Dream watches as his friend shuffles his bag off of his shoulder as he closes the door behind him. He tosses his keys on the counter beside him and sighs. “Ah, Christ,” his friend mutters, slinging the bag onto the counter as well. He looks up. Then he screams.

Dream blinks.

“Jesus, fuck! Dream?” Hob cries, stumbling backwards into his front door, one hand raised out, as if prepared to defend himself.

“Hello, Hob.”

His friends sighs and visibly sags. Dream frowns. Perhaps the invitation had not been made genuinely. Perhaps he should leave-

“Christ, you scared me, my friend,” Hob says, chuckling to himself. “Are those... do you have cat eyes?”

Dream blinks again. “Cat eyes?”

“Yeah, s’what scared me half to death. Two beady little eyes staring up at me in the darkness.”

“Ah,” Dream says, closing the cover of the book in his hands and setting it on the coffee table in front of him. “They are stars that you are seeing. They are not cat eyes.”

As Dream’s gaze lifts back to his friends, he sees Hob just staring at him, mouth slightly agape. “Right. Stars.” He says. Hob takes a steadying breath before nodding. “Sure. Star eyes. Why not.” Dream follows Hob’s movements as he makes his way to the kitchen and flicks on the soft under cabinet lighting. It brightens the room, but not considerably. The soft glow is comforting, almost. “Tea?”

Dream nods as he stands. He makes his way to the other side of the counter, watching Hob go through the motions of preparing two cups of tea. He pulls down a pair of novelty mugs, chuckling to himself as he reaches for the black mug peppered with small stars. He looks over to Dream with a smirk. “Star mug for Mr. Star-Eyes.”

It is after they had drank their tea on the comfort of Hob’s couch in the darkness and when Hob’s foot taps against his leg with a smile at a joke he cracks that Dream begins to realize that he cares quite deeply for this man that he calls friend.

It is a month later when Dream returns to the New Inn. It is not his third visit, but rather his tenth, though this one is special. He had brought with him a gift. It is customary, he has found, to give gifts to ones friends. And, Dream finds, he wishes to. Hob Gadling, who waited, who was loyal. Who stayed here, knowing Dream would return eventually when he had given him every reason to believe otherwise. He showed a level of faith he’d seen only in one other - Lucienne. And she had been his Raven, his first. How better to reward, to thank, such faith, such loyalty, than with a gift, spun from dreamstuff by his own hand?

The fine metal bracelet rests in his coat pocket. It it warm against him, thrumming with his own power and vibrates, perhaps a bit too excitedly, against his hand, eager to fulfill it’s function. Dream steps into the building that has become as close to a home in the Waking as Dream could ever know. Hob sits at their usual table, engrossed in his laptop. He walks forward, pulling his usual seat out, and sits as Hob looks up and greets him with that familiar smile.

“Well, hello there, my friend!” Hob says, closing the top of his laptop. He crosses his arm atop it. “How are you doing?”

“I am well. Yourself?”

Hob smiles and dives into their usual routine. He talks of work and his students, he talks of the staff and the customers. He talks of the frustrations with the Dean and the lack of support for a new course he wishes to teach. Dream makes a mental note of this. But most importantly, he talks of himself, of his latest botched cooking attempt and his struggles with keeping his newest plant alive.

As the conversation naturally ebbs, Dream speaks. “I have a gift for you.” Hob’s eyes widen comically.

“A gift? For me?”

Dream nods and reaches into his coat pocket. The thin gold metal band shines in the overhead lighting. It is simple in design, though the underside of the band contains script of a language few speak any longer, though Hob was borne into. The Middle English reads, “Min Gadling”. He holds it out on his palm in front of Hob.

His friend looks between him and the bracelet, shock and confusion on his face, but reaches forward, slowly, and plucks the metal from his hand. Dream sighs, his hand retreating, as the dreamstuff hums in Hob’s hold. He examines it, turning it in his hands, when his eyes finally spot the text. He inhales sharply as his eyes dart up to Dream.

It is in this moment that Dream realizes, perhaps, this gift is too much. When he’d broached the topic to Matthew, his raven had ensured him that gifts between friends were fine, though the examples given were often food or small tokens. This, he realizes, may not qualify as appropriate gifts.

Dream tenses, his mind already spinning tales of possible ends, most of which involve Hob revoking his offers of friendship, of visitation permission. Even in friendship, it seems, he is too much. Then Hob speaks.

“You know, my last name apparently means companion or comrade.” He smiles. Dream lets out a breath.

“It can also mean rogue,” he replies, allowing a small smile to grace his face in return.

Hob chuckles. “Yeah, pretty sure that’s what mine was meant to mean.” He looks back down at the bracelet, fondness in his eyes. “Thank you for this. It means a lot. Truly. I don’t have much with my true name on it these days. It’ll be nice to have something always on me to remind me where I came from. How far I’ve come.” His eyes lift, meeting Dream’s. “The friends I’ve made along the way.”

Hob fiddles with the metal in his hands, his brows furrowing as his eyes dart across Dream’s face. “Not that I’m not grateful. I am. Completely! And I love it and will always happily accept any gifts, but… why?”

“I-” Dream starts, letting his eyes fall to the table between them. The truth? Dream wished to bestow upon Hob all that he could offer for everything Hob has given him. He wished to thank him for his friendship, for his stories and companionship. He wished to offer him but a paltry piece of the debt he has piled himself with off of Hob Gadling's kindness. He wished to see Hob wear that which marks him as his, as his friend, his one and only. Dream only knew intensity. His lover often complained of such, but change does not come easy to Dream. And in friendship, it seems, he is no different.

“Friendship bracelets, I’ve been told, are common in this century, are they not?” It is far from the truth, though it was the inspiration for the gift’s form.

“Well, yeah,” Hob chuckles, finally sliding the bracelet over his hand. It shrinks, fitting his wrist perfectly. His friend’s mouth drops as he stares at the metal. “I- did that just shrink?”

“Yes,” Dream replies. “It will adjust to whatever size you desire.”

Hob runs a hand through his hair, his eyes glued to his wrist. “I’ll never get over just how incredible you are, you know that?” Dream smiles, preening under the praise. Hob shakes his head and manages to tear his eyes away and turn back to Dream. “Anyways, yes, friendship bracelets are a thing, but they’re usually small things made of twine or colored yarns, not decorative metals with fancy scripts and fancy magics. Besides, usually friendship bracelets have a twin. One for each of us.”

“Oh?” He has made an error, it seems. One that can be resolved quickly. He moves, readying to whirl in a matching bracelet for himself when Hob speaks again.

“But! Key part- I have to make yours. Just, you know, don’t expect anything as fancy as this, yeah?” He says, waggling his wrist just above the table with a grin.

Ah. The act of the creation is as important to the function as the bracelet itself. “I look forward to the fruits of your labor then, Hob Gadling.”

If the Dean suddenly wakes up with an overwhelming nagging feeling to greenlight Hob’s proposed class the next morning, who’s to say?

The first time Hob truly touches him, Dream stiffens. They are out visiting the newest exhibit at the Natural History museum. Hob was staring up at a wall-sized painting of a Titanosaur, the largest dinosaur, according to the various placards in the room. Dream had been talking to the inaccuracies of the painting, noting a distinct lack of fur and a poor distribution of fat when a large school group makes their way through the smaller hallway they are standing in.

The hoard of teenage youth slide through, jovial and pointing at various pieces of arts and relics as they pass. Hob reaches out, a hand resting on Dream’s back as he guides the pair of them a few steps closer, making room for those walking by. His touch is warm and melts into his core like honey-sweet syrup. The sensation is so startling, Dream simply… goes. He follows Hob’s hand and allows his friend to move him. Then, he returns his hand to his side.

Dream, on principle, does not allow touch, not unless he wishes. And he most certainly does not allow for people to move him. But, he finds, his mind allows both of these to Hob Gadling, even if he had not consciously made the choice. It is a strange realization, learning the allowances he would have for his friend. The worst is Hob seems oblivious to the inner turmoil occurring in Dream.

The strangest, he supposes, his how a part of his wishes to list into his friend, into his warmth again. It has been mere minutes, yet he is left wanting for the feeling. He looks down, his eyes drifting beside the nameplate to the right of the large work of art as Hob’s voice washes over him again, talking of archeology and his desires to “give it a shot, one of these lives.” Perhaps, Dream thinks to himself, he has been without touch for far too long.

The second time Hob touches him, Dream had initiated it. Well, more than he had the last time, at least. They are in his flat, this time, resting on the couch, watching a movie Hob had insisted upon. It is evening in London. A few boxes of Thai takeout rest on the coffee table beside a plate of biscuits Hob had made just for Dream after learning his preference of the sweet things. He has a blanket draped over his form, another insistence from Hob. He claimed movies were always better when bundled up, then accused him of always looking cold.

Dream had been unable to argue against him. He was always cold. It lingered on the edges of his form. The memory of cool, unforgiving glass pressed against his skin, chilling him to his core. Though, Dream is certain he has been cold for longer than that. But with Hob, in his flat, under a well-loved blanket that feels and smells of his friend, Dream finally feels almost warm.

Hob sits beside him, still upright, still near, as he works through the last few bites of his Pad Thai. Dream could shift his foot just slightly and rest it against Hob’s thigh if he so wished. So he did. The slight curve of his foot melds into the soft give of his warm flesh, covered as it is by corduroy. Hob tilts his head back and to the side, eyes looking at Dream with a question in his brow.

He stares at the television, refusing to meet Hob’s gaze. It was an ask, nonverbal as it was. He did not wish to see the rejection should it come. But it didn’t. Instead, he felt Hob shift, setting down the now empty takeout container on the table and shifts, letting his arm drape over the back of the couch as he presses back against Dream’s foot. When he finally glances over at Hob, he’s met with a gentle smile before those warm brown eyes turn back to the movie.

If Dream rested his head against the back of the couch, just beside Hob’s hand, and if he let his eyes fall closed as fingers carded through his hair, he would never say.

“Hey! I was hoping I might see you today,” Hob called from his usual spot in the New Inn. Dream made his way over to the seat across the table and looks at him with a confused frown.

“Is something the matter?” Was he in trouble? Or perhaps Hob was finally shifting from this current life to the next one. He had talked with Dream about running out of life left in this place after all.

“No, nothing bad, don’t worry.” Hob said with a smile. He turns, digging through the bag to his right. He exclaims in joy as he pulls forth from the depths of his bag a small paper box. Sliding it across the table, he looks up, excitement in his eyes.

Dream reaches down, plucking the small, light-weight box from the table. Already, he can feel the daydreams that waft through the box from the object inside. Tales of friendship and hope, of care and consideration flow through. Most importantly, though, is how he is the focus of all these daydreams. When he removes the lid and sees the delicate black leather cuff inside, he knows exactly what it is.

“The twin to your friendship bracelet, yes?” Dream asks, taking the leather cuff in his own hands. It is thinner than many cuffs. Perhaps two fingers wide, but the face is decorated, stamped with care, with trailing vines and images of birds - ravens, he suspects - in flight. It is not perfect. There are imperfections in the stamping, shadows of a second press just slightly misaligned from the first. The stitches are mostly even, though there are spots, Dream notices as he rubs his thumb over the edges, that are off– a little too close to the edge, a little too far from it.

It is imperfectly perfect. It is human and hand-made. Dream would not have it any other way.

Hob nods, speaking as Dream slowly buttons the leather cuff around his wrist, letting the softness of the well-worked leather cement him more firmly into this form. “Yeah, took forever trying to think of what would match your all black ensemble. Figured a dark stained leather would be a safe bet. Plus I’m shit at weaving.” He smiles, watching Dream’s deft fingers finish securing the leather around his wrist. Dream turns his wrist, watching the light cast shadows in the small indents of the hide.

He has not been gifted things often. Less so is he gifted things with the sole intent of giving him something without wanting something in return. He is also nearly certain that this is the first time he has been given something with the intent to match, so that they each hold claim over the other. Dream shivers at the thought. Hob had eagerly accepted his gift, his mark, and that alone had been a heady thing. This? Having Hob Gadling's mark upon him? Having the spoils of his work and effort, all done solely for him, so that they’d “match”?

There are tears in his eyes. Hob’s face falls into one of concern. “Hey, you okay? Is it too much?” He asks, resting his hands, palms up, on the table in front of Dream. An offer of comfort, if needed. Hob has always been considerate in this regard since that movie night in his flat. The offer of touch has become an open one, though gestures such as this make accepting it all the easier.

Dream rests his hand, the one bearing the black leather, on top of Hob’s own. Warm fingers wrap around him instantly, giving him a gentle squeeze. “No,” Dream manages, tearing his eyes away from their hands and up to his friend’s face. “It is perfect. Thank you, my dear friend.”

And Hob smiles. “Anytime.”

It has been well over a year since Dream returned to the Waking, since first returned to Hob Gadling. He has just arrived for their newest tradition: Monday Movie Nights. Matthew rests on his shoulder as he stands outside the door to Hob’s flat, a bottle of wine plucked from his own dreams along with the venison pasties he had so wished for Dream to try back at their 1589 meeting.

Hob opens the door with a wide smile and ushers them both in, taking the food and drink from Dream’s hands with a fond chuckle. “Grab these from a dream, did you?” Hob asks, setting both offerings on the coffee table next to the fish and chips and the plate of biscuits. There’s also a small bowl on the table beside the chair that Matthew has taken to resting in full of different seed. “Can’t imagine you slaving away in a kitchen.”

“Ha!” Matthew cries, flying from Dream’s shoulder over to the chair’s armrest. “Now that’s something I’d pay to see.” His raven cranes his neck up, watching as Hob uncorks the wine and pours them both a glass. “Can you even cook? Like, I know you don’t usually eat, so you probably don’t really need to cook. And you could probably just… magic up food if you really wanted it.”

Dream sits on the edge of the couch, waiting for Hob to take his usual spot before getting comfortable. He whisks away his boots and coat with a thought, letting them fall into sand, disappearing before hitting the ground. “I contain the collective subconscious, Matthew. I could cook if I desired to.” He takes the offered wine glass in hand. Hob nabs the remote from the table and falls back into the plush cushions. He wears his usual lounge wear, the cuffs of his joggers riding up his legs slightly. He leans back, his spine pressed into the soft curve of the edge of the back cushion as it flows into the armrest. Dream scooches himself closer, letting his back fall against his friend’s chest as he settles himself between his legs.

He has found, after a night spent in tears in Hob Gadling’s arm after telling him the tale of Fawney Rig, of cold glass and dried blood, that he feels calmer than ever when enveloped in his warmth. So, when the situation allows, Dream lets himself be draped in Hob’s arms and enjoys the solidity he finds in the touch and the warmth. Hob has since admitted, during one of their previous movie nights, that he is happy Dream enjoys these moments, that he’s missed being able to hold someone close like this.

Dream had been surprised at the time. Hob was always a touchy person, based on his interactions with others, though after the many many months together, he’s found that while Hob may have other friends and expresses his affections through hugs and touch and friendly slaps on the back, he misses this. He lacks the skinship they have with each other here. Human society may be getting better at allowing such gestures among friends, “cuddling with the homies” as Matthew had so gracefully put it, was still not widely accepted. But they had each other. And that was enough.

Hob’s arm wraps around his center, holding him close, his other sets his glass down on the side table next to Matthew’s seed. He hits play on the remote and retrieves his glass again, giving it a gentle tap to the edge of Dream’s own. He smiles, tilting his head against Hob’s shoulder.

The movie plays. Dream snacks on the freshly baked biscuits and even tries one of the venison pasties, much to Hob’s delight. He will admit, they were quite tasty. Hob, himself, works a steady pace through their acquired snacks and drink and sighs contentedly when he sets down his emptied glass of wine. He and Matthew chat, commenting on the film and it’s poor special effects work while Dream listens. The fireplace below the television crackles gently.

Dream smiles, closing his eyes as he lets his mind focus on the friendly chatter, the warmth of Hob’s body against his own, and the the feeling of happiness that starts to stir inside of him. He must thank his sister one day for bringing Hob Gadling into his life. Dream doesn’t know what he would have done without him.

[pupyr0arz]

Amab!gn!reader x stalker!soap. Dubcon/nc (sexual harassment), stalking, etc. soap is an awful ex. Mentions of murderous intent, guns, assault and abusive behavior.

you’re still working on the timing. You can’t bring it up too early, it’s a date killer and you refuse to let him win. It’s what he wants, to send any prospective other scrambling for the door, and even if spite is the only thing keeping you in the scene it’s a damn good motivator. You’re going to be happy with someone goddamnit, and it’s not going to be his toxic ass. It’s not like you’re asking much, just a casual relationship. You’re not one for commitment, marriage isn’t something you’re willing to consider, and honestly these days who is?

Aside from him, at least. You’re not sure if that counted. The ring he bought seemed more of a collar, the creep.

Never doesn’t work either, he makes sure of that. You’re not sure how he finds you, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to assume he can pick your shitty locks. You don’t move, you don’t have the cash for that out of the blue and you’re seventy five percent sure he’d track you down in a week. He was always the type. The other twenty five percent was him finding you after two weeks. You really should be smarter about who you date, an army man is one thing but one with ties to intelligence? Awful stuff to separate yourself from. You’re smart enough not to thrash, he’d only pull you down tighter. The trick to quicksand is floating away slowly, calm and measured.

The third date, if it’s going well, seems to be a nice time to bring it up. Wind the conversation into personal topics, troubles, issues, soothe them and give whoever you’ve brought back a shortened version of events. The best version of this conversation you had was at four pm, high off your ass on a hot girl’s couch where the two of you ate canned sardines and crackers and you put your head in her lap. It’s just an annoying ex who kept sniffing around the area, you know how it is. Girls pat your arm sympathetically, guys tell you they’ll send him packing. It’s all self defense tips and reminiscing on psycho exes. Guys don’t get stalked as often, or they don’t talk to you about it as much, but you hear a lot of horror stories. One time a girl lifts her shirt and presses your hand to a scar where her ex stabbed her with a knife.

You take some solace in that he’s never been violent with you. He has a temper, sure, but compared to the many, many opportunities he’s had, he’s only sent maybe one person to the hospital. He’s more than intimidating in person, built like a brick shithouse and he gets that look in his eyes that tells anything with a pulse and anything registering on a brain scan to get the hell out. Sometimes you dream of him handling bombs with that look in his eyes. You don’t know if you find that crazy, suicidal hate is more unsettling, or the warmth he still has when he looks at you.

he’s a ‘chivalrous’ stalker. Follows you around at night when he’s in the country. Burner phones leaving messages and texting constantly, he still sends you money. You use it, of course, you’re in no position to deny yourself the nest egg, but you hate how he acts about it. Every glance to him, acknowledgement of his existence or not, hell the way you pour your coffee seems to be some coded invitation to him. He leaves long voicemails of him, hand on his dick as he alternates between obsessing over your body, your dick, the time you had together, and with how worried he is about you. It’s pathological, some fucked up fetish of his to imagine you like that, an object he keeps locked away and dusts ever so gently to avoid bruising. It makes you want to punch him until his stupid, pretty face is unrecognizable and bury him in the woods. Your face burns as you try to look back the disgusting, annoying fucking babbling for the sounds of his moaning.

Like clockwork, he stops by. Jiggling your locks open and fucking around with your things. He doesn’t steal anything, but you’re pretty sure that’s just because you left your stuff when you broke up and hit the road. You used to buy shitty dollar store cameras, but he’d break them and leave thumb drives of him jacking off in your room, so you stopped the habit. He’s never had an ounce of shame in his life, and it doesn’t seem to have changed when it comes to you. He’s more brazen, if anything, when you’re dating. You play hard to get and all he wants to do is chase the bone more, stupid dog with his eye on a moving car.

You never say his name to your new flings, he babbles yours in the calls and messages. Once he mails a notebook, full sized, where he’s spent every page but one with nothing but your name. You called him a schoolgirl, and your boyfriend at the time had given you a wide eyed look of general horror. Admittedly, he’d been spooked by too many run ins with an aggressive stranger, but it was a stupid reason to break up in your eyes.

Maybe it was more than a little impulsive, but the number you’ve memorized still works. Still, you’re more than a little tired of the whole mouse and cat game. And you’re a bit drunk. Whatever, it’s not like you’re much better sober these days. You’re never rational when it comes to him, otherwise you would’ve tried to kill him by now.

It rings.

You know you’ve timed it right when he doesn’t pick up, off killing and fighting and being the scariest thing in the dark. You don’t say much, but you don’t need to. He was always sensitive when you two dated, and he’s gone above and beyond to prove the desperation of the depths he’s sunk to. You’re not trained to read people, and your only experience with fighting was kung fu at thirteen. But this fight is going to be on your own goddamn terms from now on.

You’ve gone to the range without him, a week before. He lamented about it like you shot his dog instead of some paper targets. You’re no gun nut, but you’ve learned a couple things.

Load. Aim.

“Johnny.”

Click.

[basedkikuenjoyer]

Today I wanna take a break, because it is Pride Month and we lost an icon sadly far, far too quietly. Made me realize I don't think I've really heard much about Lynn Conway in queer circles for a long time. And honestly? That's fucked. If anyone deserves to be held up as a trans luminary of the past century it's her. I wish I had the knowledge of computer chips to fully explain how landmark her contributions were in her career, but truth is her story as a trans woman is what's truly fascinating.

If I have the details right, tried to transition during college in the 50s but ran into hurdles. Then got a job at IBM, fired when she sought out Harry Benjamin (another important name y'all need to quit glossing over) and was one of his patients in the late 60s. Transitioning before 30 and if I may say, being quite attractive...even when I was coming out in the 00s the general wisdom was if you could go "stealth" and just start over you should. Which Lynn did. Then went on to make some groundbreaking waves in computer chip design and really had this hellacious 30-year career as just a woman breaking barriers in tech. Keep in mind no one knew she was trans, ain't no way she'd have ended up working with Reagan's DoD on some Cold War defense tech if that was public knowledge.

Then at the end of her career, a new chapter began. Got out ahead of realizing some people were about to make the connection to her time at IBM so came out publicly through a website I remember being a pivotal find in my own journey. It was one of the best collection of resources out there and her story was one of the first ones I saw where you could transition and not be stuck in some small box forevermore because of it. You can shrug off the blowback and get on with your life. Ever heard of Blanchard & Bailey, the Autogyneophilia guys TERFs love to quote? Conway was a prominent academic speaking out against their dodgy methodology as well. Her lengthy and through takedown of that Man Who Would Be Queen book is fuckin legendary. Honestly, if you can find the old archived pages from her website it's worth a read. We don't really have many stories of like, a long life after transition without also being a mainstay of the community the whole time. There's a lot she'd get roasted for today, but generally for the wrong reasons because holy shit is my revisit showing so much honesty and stuff I've needed to hear at a similar point. We get so focused on the actual coming out and exploring and transitioning phase people miss that's just the baby steps on a lifelong journey. I miss how straightforward this old guard could be. In my experience queer youth today love it but it will absolutely enrage the late-blooming final wave of my own generation who lack so much perspective on how little the difference makes at this point.

I know it's fun to raise up queer names who were outlaws and radicals, everyone loves the (false) story of Marsha Johnson throwing the first brick at Stonewall more than her tireless decades of boring organizing. We like our fabulous and festive faces, but honestly...younger generations of trans folk should probably pay a little more attention to stories like Lynn Conway's where we actually do sometimes get to just have a "normal" and highly successful bulk of our lives after the identity struggle. So far ahead of her time it took until my own generation for us to see the whole having an experience more like hers.

[countrymusiclover]

2 - Swords and Winterfell

Part 3

The Last Velaryon

Tag list @rise-my-angel @cdragons

It had been almost a week since Chezney and I had traveled to King's Landing. Jaime and I had only simply said a few words and shared silent glances with one another. So nothing really worthwhile in my opinion. Staring at the ceiling above me the sun had already risen and brought light into my chambers. "How am I supposed to act about all this? I didn't have a mother growing up." I mumbled to myself in thought.

Sitting upright on the edge of the bed I run my hands down my face remembering that Chezney's mother had taught me about most things that my mother would have but I still wasn't as confident as she always seemed. "Haelesa!" Hearing three knocks I sighed in relief.

"Chez, finally I have been here bored counting the tiles on the ceiling waiting for you." I sighed in an over dramatic tone flinging the chamber door open revealing my friend.

She quickly pushed the door shut and locked it. "Sorry this place is much more massive than Driftmark. I got lost a few times trying to find your room."

"Then let's go exploring." I responded instantly.

She flopped back on my bed with a confused expression. "Are you serious? Did you forget the part where I said I almost got lost getting here?"

"I've been trapped in a castle surrounded by the ocean my whole life. I don't intend to stay locked up here in a city like this one. I want to go explore and see what else is supposedly out there." Putting one hand on my hip I sent her a half smile.

Chezney didn't waste another moment getting up to her feet. "That settles it then."

"And if my so-called betrothed has a problem with it then he can come find us." I looped my arm through hers and we quickly left the room rushing down the hallway.

I was still wearing the same outfit that I arrived in but I had let my hair loose since the climate was much warmer than I had ever felt. And I would never wear uncomfortable heels unless someone forced it upon me. Chezney and I took a few wrong turns yet we did manage to find a doorway out of the castle. Placing one hand on the brick wall the wind blew my hair in my eyes until I brushed it behind my ear. There was an open fenced yard out in front of us. "Maybe we took another bad turn."

"Nah I don't think so...look swords." Chezney moved past me and picked up one of the blades that was laying on the dirt a few steps away from us.

Shrugging my shoulders I ran over to her taking the handle of the other one she held out for me in my own hands. "Ah you're right. This should be fun since neither of us are probably good at this."

"You're telling me you've never watched Antler train?" She asked me.

"No, have you?" I asked her back and she avoided my gaze meaning she was lying. I gasped, teasing her back. "Oh you have!"

Chezney grips her handle slightly swinging at me. "Shut up!"

"Ah!" I squeaked, raising my blade and heard our metal clash together meaning I blocked her hit. "Hey don't get defensive, it was a genuine question that you brought up."

She shakes her head. "Just because I have watched him train sometimes doesn't mean that I have feelings for him."

"Actually it kind of does mean exactly that, Chez." I smirked, spinning the blade in my hands trying to balance the new weight in each hand to get used to the new feeling.

Gaining a firm grip on the blade I made my first advance on my friend but she was somewhat ready for me. We both ran at each other and swung at the same time hitting the other's blade. We separated them quickly and I swung upward and she went downward hitting my blade again until we heard someone speak up and catch us off guard. "Ladies aren't supposed to be playing with swords from the lessons I was forced to sit through."

"Ser Jaime." Chezney stumbles dropping the sword and doing the best curtsey she could for him.

Yet I kept my fingers wrapped around the blade but lowered the tip of the weapon down into the dirt. My eyes focused on his letting uncomfortable silence fill the air and I didn't bother to address him like a lady should. "Jaime. I'm shocked you came looking for me. From the day I arrived you didn't seem to have much interest in getting to know me."

"Hmm you are right that I am not really concerned with the whole idea of marriage. But here we are since my father was very demanding of the king to release me from my guard title." Jaime moved away from the doorway we had came from reaching me until there was little gap between us.

Lifting my gaze upward he was slightly taller than me but I wouldn't let him know that I was worried about what he would do. "At least we are in agreement on not wanting this arrangement. Come on Chezney, let's keep practicing."

"Oh I don't think that's a good idea." My friend's demeanor completely changed around the oldest lion son.

Whipping my head around to her I scoffed. "Come on, Chez. You don't really think he is going to judge us when we are just having some fun."

"He's the best swordsman in the seven kingdoms, Haelesa." She trailed off.

Snorting out a laugh. "I'll see about that."

"Is that a challenge I'm hearing, Haelesa?" I sucked in a breath hearing Jaime's voice closer than I was expecting when I had put my back to him talking to my friend.

Slowly turning around on my boots, Jaime and I were almost pressed chest to chest now. "I wasn't calling a challenge with you, Lannister."

"That's not what I heard from you, Haelesa." He smirked smugly. "If you're not calling a challenge, let's still just see what you can do."

Jaime moved around me picking up the sword that my friend had dropped. Chezney parts her lips in shock watching me before I gasped, not sure I heard him correctly. "You're joking."

"Actually I'm not in the slightest. If you want jokes you should meet my little brother Tyrion." He responded holding the blade in his right hand.

Blinking a couple times I still remain where I was originally. "I'm not going to fight you, Jaime."

"As you said it's just for fun and I'll take it easy on you if you truly want to learn how to wield a blade." The Lannister lion smiled at me.

Chezney moved off to the side and nudged her head in the direction of Jaime telling me to go. Sucking in a breath I finally caved in wrapping my fingers around the blade a little tighter than a minute ago. "Okay I suppose we can practice a little." Stepping forward I take the first swing towards him thinking that this might not be as bad.

Yet Jaime only let me have confidence for a brief period of time where he swung at me and I ducked, dropping to my knees. Our swords hit one another but he pushed me into the dust. "Relax your dominant arm. If you use the same move all the time your opponent can learn which arm is the weakest."

I raise my sword trying to strike him but he lightly elbows me in my side to strike me from below. "So why did you really come out here for -uh!" I grunted out, pressing my sword against his. He pressed his sword against mine, never losing gaze with mine. His green eyes holding love with his face remaining the serious one he uses in battle. We never break the hold on each other as he finally answers my earlier question.

"The king has informed me that we are to ride North. He claims to be wanting to make Eddard Stark his new Hand of the King." He lowers his blade and takes a few steps backwards away from me.

Lowering my blade I tilted my head to the side. "Why would we need to ride North?"

"It's a command by the King, Lady Velaryon. You don't go against the royal family unless you wish to lose your head." He told me to slide the sword in the holder on his hip.

Chezney came over to my side where I slid the blade in the belt that was attached to the tunic I was wearing. "I suppose you're right."

"I'd suggest you ladies dress warmly." He responded.

Chezney looped her arm through mine once more about to leave. "Thanks for the advice, Ser."

"I assume that you'll be riding a horse with the men, Haelesa and not in the carriage." Yet he spoke up one more time, having us halt in our tracks one more time. Sending him a head nod I glanced over my shoulder and then Chezney and I went to pack some things for the second trip.

It took many long days ahead that I did spend in the carriage with the queen and her children until the guards had informed us we were near Winterfell. The next time we stopped Chezney followed me and Jaime on horseback not caring what looks his sister had given us for not acting like proper ladies. The wind ran through my hair and my nose ran a little stuffed up from the new sense of cold that surrounded us. Glancing out in front of me I came into a view of a large castle in front of us that had some torches burning around its entrance clearly to keep some warmth there. The royal family enters through the gate and I turned my gaze hearing King Robert struggle to get off his horde from how fat his stomach appears to be as he stops in front of the man I assumed was Lord of Winterfell. "Your Grace."

Robert eyed the man in front of him. "You've got fat....Cat!" The two men laughed before he embraced both him and his wife with red hair.

She greeted him once they broke the hug. "Your Grace."

"Nine years. Why haven't I seen you, Ned? Where the hell have you been?" Robert asked the man Ned who was clearly his friend.

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours." The queen and her other children descend from the coach as the lord of Winterfell responds.

Chezney got assistance climbing down off her horse and I was about to do the same until I heard a young girl's voice. "Where's the Imp?"

"Will you shut up?" The girl that was older with hair that looked like her mother's snapped back.

Shaking my head I couldn't help but watch the whole scene before me. The king began going down the line first stopping at the oldest boy who appeared to have dark curly auburn hair and the same eyes of his mother. "Who have we here? You must be Robb." He shook hands with the king and then glanced my way making me look the opposite direction.

Next the king went to the two girls. The one all dressed properly like her mother smiled. "My, you're a pretty one...Your name is?"

"Arya.' Said the young girl who looked to be rather uncomfortable in the dress she wore and honestly I could relate with her.

The king went to one of the young Stark boys who showed his muscle to him. "Ooh. Show us your muscles. You'll be a soldier."

"That's Jaime Lannister. The queen's twin brother." Whipping my head back around at Jaime he removed his helmet tossing around the blonde hair and dismounted his horse.

The oldest Stark girl grumbled to her sister once more with the queen approaching the family. "Would you please shut up."

The king spoke to Eddard. "Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects."

The queen sighed clearly tired. "We've been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait." But the king led Ned off and ignored her sentence altogether.

Arya looks around before everyone starts breaking off in different directions. "Where's the Imp?"

Jaime had left after talking with Cersei leaving me and Chezney on our own. Running my hands over my horse he made a quiet nose where I attempted to get off the horse without any help. Yet my boot got caught in one of the foot straps where I screamed gripping the saddle thinking that I'm gonna hit the dirt. "Agh!...huh." I felt strong arms that couldn't belong to my best friend hold me up when my boot fell from the strap and my body was pressed against the front of whoever it was.

"It's a good thing my mother sent me over here to help you otherwise you would have had a nasty fall, my lady." I recognized the voice of the young Robb Stark who helps me to my feet and doesn't remove his hands until I'm stable on the ground.

Turning around to face the Northern boy I smiled getting a better look at him. His eyes were bright and I could see the curls better now. To my surprise I found him more attractive then Jaime which I could only assume was because Robb was near my age of seven and ten. "Thank you for catching me, my lord. I must sadly admit this is my first time on a horse."

"It's quite alright you'll get used to it in time. And please my father is Lord of Winterfell so I'd ask you'd just call me Robb, my lady." He suggested staring down at me but he wasn't nearly as tall as Jaime was.

Shaking my head, I corrected the wolf boy. "I'd prefer if you'd call me Haelesa, Robb. We're not in fancy lessons at the moment." Running a hand down my tunic I changed into some thicker pants and stole one of the Lannister red cloaks over my shoulders for warmth. Chezney was wearing a simple ocean blue dress, some brown winter boots, and a yellow fur cloak and her brown hair put up in a messy bun.

"It's nice to meet you, Haelesa." He greeted me with a cheeky smile.

Chezney came over to us and extended her hand to him in excitement. "Hi Robb, I'm Chezney. Her best friend and lady in waiting."

"It's nice to meet you both." Robb shook her hand firmly gesturing his head back in the direction of the castle offering me his arm. I looped my arm through his and Chezney followed him on his other side. "Come, I'll personally show you Winterfell." I sent him a smile, already feeling better about being around the young wolf than the oldest lion.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

[wolftozier]

extremely niche field hockey losers club au taken entirely from my experience playing field hockey as a teen <3

Bill

Centre midfield

Right in the middle of the field, halfway

This is mostly due to the fact that as a kid when i played hockey, centre half was always the position of the team leader

Thats because they have to organize both defense and offense due to being in the centre. and the midfield

Surprisingly good at talking around his mouthguard

Sometimes forgets to even take his mouthguard OUT when coming in for half time so everyone just listens to him slur about the game for a couple minutes before he realises

Has a couple spare sticks in his bag always so if anyone forgets theirs he lets them borrow them

Probably the best overall player. You could stick him anywhere and he’d thrive

Except maybe eddie and bevs position, lol

Richie

When he was younger richie was definitely a really annoying winger (sometimes called forwards or strikers)

This is because he mastered the art of seagulling. essentially swooping in last second to flick a ball into the goal when not needed

However once he got older and taller he was way too gangly and awkward to shove up field

So he ended up as a fullback. a completely defensive position. which is in fact very different to playing an offensive position like winger

He's actually really good at defence surprisingly

Hes ALSO annoying here but for a different reason

He has such a good hit on him that its ridiculous. Even with a little bit of a windup and he can crack the ball from way deep in defense up to the offensive quarter

Takes his mouthguard out of his mouth to talk. And tucks it under his sock when not using it (REAL THING WE USED TO DO). to do so you have to buy slightly-too-large socks so they fold over at the top so if he doesnt fold them over his socks do go over his knees

Always wearing colourful inners (a type of sock we wear underneath our shinpads bc shinpads are extremely awkward and uncomfortable to wear)

Has to wear a facemask during shootouts and it fits so weirdly around his big head and big glasses

Wears a protective glove on his left hand only (the hand that touches the ground if you tackle)

Takes the original tape off his stick so he can replace it with more colourful tape

Eddie

Eddie plays inner. and will always play inner. (position is also called sweeper, freeman)

This position is just essentially running up and down the field, relatively in line with the ball so you can always be an available pass

Which means eddie is constantly running. running up and down the field (about 90 meters or 300 feet long) for the entirety of the sixty minute game

Eddie also buys his socks large enough to have them fold over at the top but he will not tuck his mouthguard into them. he thinks thats fucking disgusting and yells at richie for it every game

He sucks ass at talking around his mouthguard though so if hes relatively free from other players hell quickly take his mouthguard OUT OF HIS MOUTH to yell for the ball

Wears protective gloves on both hands bc one time richie nailed him in the knuckles with a pass and it bruised so badly mrs k barely let him out of the house for three weeks

Wears defensive shinpads (you can get both defensive and offensive style shinpads) bc he thinks the offensive ones are way too small

Mike

I think he’s also a fullback with richie

Probably stays closer to the goal than richie does

Because i think he’s probably the best tackler

An actual brick wall when he’s tackling. low to the ground, knees bent, everything. and then he’ll flick the ball OVER your stick and pass to richie to get it out of the defensive quarter

Hes only played defensive positions so he has an eye for where players will run to to shoot

He’s the one that brings the snacks to the games. it isnt halftime without a bag of jelly beans. 

Whenever theyre having an offensive-heavy game and the ball isnt coming back to defence he’ll lean against his stick like it’s a cane and just watch the game (youre supposed to always stay prepared but its nice just watching the rest of the team deal with bullshit)

He’ll play kicking back if theres no goalie but he HATES it (kicking back is essentially a goalie without the uniform. you get a face mask and thats it. you do get to kick the ball without the ref calling it though)

Gets bits of artificial turf all over him and he isn’t even running like eddie is. somehow it just all splashes up onto him

Bev

Girls are allowed to play with the boys teams here occasionally (as long as you have less than eleven players- which is the maximum amount of players on the field)

When she plays with the boys i think she’d be an inner with eddie

Shes not the best at inner, she’s just fast

Worlds most annoying dribbler oh my god

Constantly flicking ahead of herself and just begging for people to try and steal from her

She’s really good at getting the ball past people’s sticks and through their feet (which is a dick move bc if it touches someone’s foot the ref calls for a penalty hit. the game stops and all opposing players have to move at least five metres away)

Plays super offensively even as an inner and bill is always calling for her to run back and help defence

Also de-tapes her stick to retape it fun colours

When she plays with the boys she also wears two protective gloves 

Also tucks her mouthguard in her sock during half time

However she will forget to put it back in and sometimes plays a couple minutes of a game before she realises shes not wearing it

Makes her own inners from fun fabrics

Ben

Ben as a kid i think always got put at fullback

They do this to fat kids its why i got put at fullback too

But as he grows into being a teenager i think he ends up a half back

Essentially like bill’s job except without the offensive. Calls out to people on his side to move up or down or left or right. Helps defensively, that sorta thing

Stays super low in defence even when he doesnt need to bc its what he’s used to

And if its a slow game he talks to mike and richie (he and richie like gossiping)

Also has a super good hit but rarely uses it because he’s worried he’ll hit someone with it

Probably the second best at talking around his mouthguard

He and eddie are the only ones that enjoy full-field warmups where you run around the outside of the field. everyone else likes the shorter sprints up and down the middle

He gets a part-time job at the stick-shop near the field and everyone badgers him for discounts

Stan 

Pure offensive wing

Rarely comes back past the half-way line

Has the highest goal-count out of all of them because of this

This was not true as kids because richie used to seagull all his goals like the little asshole he was

stan still high fived him (begrudingly) at each of richies seagull goals though

De-tapes his stick because he uses a special kind of tape that’s a little more lightweight and cushiony

Definitely has a full stick bag with sections for every kind of gear. Has a separate section for his gloves. A separate section for where he puts his uniform. A separate section where his shinpads go.

Always the one bringing the ball bag onto the field bc everyone else forgets it

Also talks around his mouthguard

Not good at it but he’d rather die than put it in his sock

He’s the only one that will replace his mouthguard every two months like youre technically supposed to

[professor-amaryllis]

:{ A Video file is embedded. Valencia Island, Orange Archipelago. 8/29/24 1:03 am. }:

There's a stillness, a weight that sits as heavy as the thick fog that creeps over the gentle waves of the moonlit sea. Even through the recording the tense atmosphere is hard to ignore, the two figures sitting on the low brick wall watch as the local lapras and lapup doze in the warm waters as if desperate to look anywhere but at each other. The smaller figure, Casi, risks a glance over, but if the gardevoir notices she does not react.

“Rose, I-” Casi falters, the sound of his own voice so loud in the silence seems to startle even himself. He shakes his head trying to focus but something seems to interrupt his train of thought, and he looks over more attentively at the pokemon beside him.

Rose makes no move to look at Casi.

“I'm here because we have to talk about this sometime and I'd prefer it to be now before you come home with us.” It’s hard to tell from where we watch whether he is trying to convince Rose or himself. “Once I have a talk with Ivy we're leaving Valencia.”

“What do you mean no?” There’s a slight incredulousness to Casi’s voice, and he turns to look at the taller pokemon that seems to be paying him no real attention. “You want to come home don't you?”

Casi flinches, something in the unheard response striking a nerve. “I'm not leaving without you. If I had any intention of doing that I would've left months ago when you wouldn't even stay in the same room as me.”

It seems whatever response that the pokemon wanted to hear, this simply wasn’t good enough. She sighs, the statue stillness broken as she turns away from him. There's a quiet moment, as if Casi is waiting on something.

“I was... scared before.” Casi doesn't seem proud of his own answer, hesitating and scratching wrist with his opposite hand. “I got in too deep and by the time I realized that much it didn't feel like there was any time left. So I panicked and left. Thought maybe leaving a note would make up for it but…”

Rose tenses, an angry tremor in her shoulders and what we can see of her expression narrows.

“It was a mistake. Leaving you like that without an explanation... And it was a mistake not going back on it once I realized that too. Then life got in the way and…” Casi’s hands ball up in his lap and his body tenses as his words shift from trying to convince to a more uncomfortable tone, every word careful, like it has to be forced from him. “Did you ever see the newspapers that came out? All the ones saying Melody died..?”

This question seems to catch Rose off guard, perhaps a nerve touched, and she blinks as she looks back at him, some small guard lowering as she finally seems interested in what he may say.

“...I thought it was too late to go back. Which was still cowardly of me. I mean that was... Three years in between that? At least. Maybe less honestly. And all the things I thought I was going back to went up in smoke the moment I got home... I lost my job. One boss had disappeared, the other suffered from some sort of..” He makes some vague gesture with his hand, as if the rolling of his wrist would conjure the Unovan word he's looking for. Eventually he seems to find it, or something close enough. “Mental breakdown I guess. Fired everybody pretty much on a whim. Left Aracelis to care for his son while he worked in Area Zero alone and then when Aracelis left it... Fell to me. For a while.”

It seemed for a short moment like perhaps Casi had broken through Rose’s defenses, but as the words tumbled from his mouth, whatever small opening that he had made slammed shut once again. As hard as it may be to read her body language, the way she shrank back into herself, arms in front of her left little to be questioned.

“I... Yeah... He's um.. The point is I didn't make the best choices and I can't take them back. I can't pretend that I did right by you or Melody or anyone and when I found out that you were still around I insisted I come along.. Because I can't fix what I did before but the least I could do was make sure you get to come home to A.. Amy. To Amy.”

Casi’s voice quiets as he stumbles over the words, and there's a sincerity as he continues.“You don't have to forgive me, but I wanted to at least see you again.”

Rose won’t look at him, but there's something sad in the way she holds herself that seems to resonate with Casi, his expression becoming more determined and his words more forceful and genuine.

“You can leave, I'm going to make sure of it. Ivy can argue all she wants but there's no justifiable reason to continue to keep you here. You and Miairu aren't dangerous and I find it hard to believe your needs are being met on Valencia if she believes that you somehow are. I'm not giving up on that even if you decide you never want to speak to me again.”

There’s a long pause, Rose staring out over the water as her hand brushes up and down her opposite arm, as if thinking.

Casi Visibly chokes up at whatever response he hears, and he has to swallow back the tears that threaten to fall. They both stare out at the fog rolling across the water for a long while before Casi manages “...I’m sorry.”

Casi looks over at Rose, reacting to some unheard statement. His words feel carefully picked, deliberate as if sorting out his own thoughts in real time. “It's hard watching someone deteriorate like that... Not knowing what to do. Not knowing if there's anything you can do... And you were just a Kirlia back then. At least for part of it.”

Rose looks down at her hands, focusing so intently on them that it almost looks as if she’s ignoring Casi, if not for his responses.

“...I really hurt her. Didn't I? I hurt you.” There's a settling tinge of disbelief in his words, and Casi seems to make no attempt to conceal from Rose that fact.”After spending so much time trying to be a part of her life I sort of assumed she'd get over me. That all the sweet talking aside she didn't... Care.”

Now it's Rose's hands that shake, her eyes that water. What walls she has been keeping up seem to crumble down as she tries desperately to hold them together. Casi takes her hand and through his own tears runs a thumb over her hand in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. His voice is weak now, a tremble running through them as he forces out the words. “I'm here now. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry Rose.”

Rose makes a real audible sound for the first time since Casi joined her here, and it's almost startling how the quiet sob can sound so extremely loud in the openness of this space. She leans into Casi, folding down into the smaller figures arms as he hugs her close, gentle despite his own obvious pain. She seems so much smaller as her tears fall. It takes a few moments for their shaking breaths to settle enough to speak at all.

“I won't.” Casimir's voice is soft and broken, the words a promise of the most serious kind. “I'm not going to leave you here. No matter what it takes, we're going to bring you home.”

Rose nods weakly into his shoulder, her shuddering breaths slowly coming back under control. She makes no effort to pull away, and for a few peaceful moments all that can be heard are the quiet waves below and a soft, hummed melody.

[Transcript ends.]

// here's the full story with rose's side of the argument! Telepathy isn't recorded on video.

There's a stillness, a weight that sits as heavy as the thick fog that creeps over the gentle waves of the moonlit sea. Even through the recording the tense atmosphere is hard to ignore, the two figures sitting on the low brick wall watch as the local lapras and lapup doze in the warm waters as if desperate to look anywhere but at each other. The smaller figure, Casi, risks a glance over, but if the gardevoir notices she does not react. 

“Rose, I-” Casi falters, the sound of his own voice so loud in the silence seems to startle even himself. He shakes his head trying to focus but something seems to interrupt his train of thought, and he looks over more attentively at the pokemon beside him. 

[Why are you here?] There’s not much emotion in her ‘voice’.

Rose makes no move to look at Casi.

“I'm here because we have to talk about this sometime and I'd prefer it to be now before you come home with us.” It’s hard to tell from where we watch whether he is trying to convince Rose or himself. “Once I have a talk with Ivy we're leaving Valencia.”

[No.] Rose doesn’t move or react, but she sounds harsher, just barely.

“What do you mean no?” There’s a slight incredulousness to Casi’s voice, and he turns to look at the taller pokemon that seems to be paying him no real attention. “You want to come home don't you?” 

[Why are you here? Why bother now. You should have left again.]

Casi flinches, something in the unheard response striking a nerve. “I'm not leaving without you. If I had any intention of doing that I would've left months ago when you wouldn't even stay in the same room as me.”

[That’s not an answer.]

It seems whatever response that the pokemon wanted to hear, this simply wasn’t good enough. She sighs, the statue stillness broken as she turns away from him. There's a quiet moment, as if Casi is waiting on something.

[... Why did you leave? Why not now.]

“I was... scared before.” Casi doesn't seem proud of his own answer, hesitating and scratching wrist with his opposite hand. “I got in too deep and by the time I realized that much it didn't feel like there was any time left. So I panicked and left. Thought maybe leaving a note would make up for it but…”

[How could it?] 

Rose tenses, an angry tremor in her shoulders and what we can see of her expression narrows.

“It was a mistake. Leaving you like that without an explanation... And it was a mistake not going back on it once I realized that too. Then life got in the way and…” Casi’s hands ball up in his lap and his body tenses as his words shift from trying to convince to a more uncomfortable tone, every word careful, like it has to be forced from him. “Did you ever see the newspapers that came out? All the ones saying Melody died..?”

This question seems to catch Rose off guard, perhaps a nerve touched, and she blinks as she looks back at him, some small guard lowering as she finally seems interested in what he may say.

[Not then. Later. I didn't mean to.]

“...I thought it was too late to go back. Which was still cowardly of me. I mean that was... Three years in between that? At least. Maybe less honestly. And all the things I thought I was going back to went up in smoke the moment I got home... I lost my job. One boss had disappeared, the other suffered from some sort of..” He makes some vague gesture with his hand, as if the rolling of his wrist would conjure the Unovan word he's looking for. Eventually he seems to find it, or something close enough. “Mental breakdown I guess. Fired everybody pretty much on a whim. Left Aracelis to care for his son while he worked in Area Zero alone and then when Aracelis left it... Fell to me. For a while.”

[A…son.]

It seemed for a short moment like perhaps Casi had broken through Rose’s defenses, but as the words tumbled from his mouth, whatever small opening that he had made slammed shut once again. As hard as it may be to read her body language, the way she shrank back into herself, arms in front of her left little to be questioned. 

“I... Yeah... He's um.. The point is I didn't make the best choices and I can't take them back. I can't pretend that I did right by you or Melody or anyone and when I found out that you were still around I insisted I come along.. Because I can't fix what I did before but the least I could do was make sure you get to come home to A.. Amy. To Amy.”

Casi’s voice quiets as he stumbles over the words, and there's a sincerity as he continues.“You don't have to forgive me, but I wanted to at least see you again.”

[I can't leave. You should go back to your family.] It's not really possible for telepathy to have a volume, exactly, but if it could Casi would swear that this was quieter.

Rose won’t look at him, but there's something sad in the way she holds herself that seems to resonate with Casi, his expression becoming more determined and his words more forceful and genuine.

“You can leave, I'm going to make sure of it. Ivy can argue all she wants but there's no justifiable reason to continue to keep you here. You and Miairu aren't dangerous and I find it hard to believe your needs are being met on Valencia if she believes that you somehow are. I'm not giving up on that even if you decide you never want to speak to me again.”

There’s a long pause, Rose staring out over the water as her hand brushes up and down her opposite arm, as if thinking.

[I wish we had left too.]

Casi Visibly chokes up at whatever response he hears, and he has to swallow back the tears that threaten to fall. They both stare out at the fog rolling across the water for a long while before Casi manages “...I’m sorry.”

[She got bad, after. Quiet. She wouldn't say, but I knew. Can't hide them from me.]

Casi looks over at Rose, reacting to some unheard statement. His words feel carefully picked, deliberate as if sorting out his own thoughts in real time. “It's hard watching someone deteriorate like that... Not knowing what to do. Not knowing if there's anything you can do... And you were just a Kirlia back then. At least for part of it.” 

He was never good at hiding his surface level emotions, and he was making absolutely no attempt to conceal them right now. There was grief resting there. Older than a lot of the emotions he's been letting bubble up to the surface.

[I tried. Turned it down, made it quiet. I don't know if it helped.]

Rose looks down at her hands, focusing so intently on them that it almost looks as if she’s ignoring Casi, if not for his responses.

There's what seems like a memory here, Shared through her telepathy. The vantage point is much lower than one might expect. Aiko sits on the bare bed of an absolutely ruined room, holding something in her hands, nearly shaking with anger. Images flash here and there of the rampage that led to this, torn cloth and books scattered from desks. A kirlia's hand settles on Aiko's arm and the shaking starts to settle

“...I really hurt her. Didn't I? I hurt you.” There's a settling tinge of disbelief in his words, and Casi seems to make no attempt to conceal from Rose that fact.”After spending so much time trying to be a part of her life I sort of assumed she'd get over me. That all the sweet talking aside she didn't... Care.” 

He isn't sure what Rose can see, if anything, in his memory. It's not strictly visual to begin with. It's more focused on feelings. Snippets of things. Little interactions between Casi and the shiny Kirlia. The two of them making blackout poetry, doing puzzles, buying food, getting kicked out of the library. There was care there. Patience. Understanding.

[She didn't want... I didn't want... you to go.]

Her voice can't break, thought alone is immune to the weaknesses of the body and yet she struggles to put her sentences together, to translate her thoughts into what is not the most natural way for her to speak. Instead there is pain, loneliness, worry, anger, all spilling out all at once and nearly overwhelming to Casi's senses. Nights of empty rooms flashing by, any company never staying more than needed. Never paying them any real care. It becomes clearer that Aiko never let anyone else close enough to.

Now it's Rose's hands that shake, her eyes that water. What walls she has been keeping up seem to crumble down as she tries desperately to hold them together. Casi takes her hand and through his own tears runs a thumb over her hand in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. His voice is weak now, a tremble running through them as he forces out the words. “I'm here now. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry Rose.”

Rose makes a real audible sound for the first time since Casi joined her here, and it's almost startling how the quiet sob can sound so extremely loud in the openness of this space. She leans into Casi, folding down into the smaller figures arms as he hugs her close, gentle despite his own obvious pain. She seems so much smaller as her tears fall. It takes a few moments for their shaking breaths to settle enough to speak at all.

It's a flood of both their thoughts, their pain, their grief, their memories of the closeness they had and the longing to have it back. It seems like more is being communicated non verbally than there is verbally, but Casi still makes the effort to speak those feelings out loud.

[Don't... leave. me. Don't leave. Don't leave me. Here.

Please.]

“I won't.” Casimir's voice is soft and broken, the words a promise of the most serious kind. “I'm not going to leave you here. No matter what it takes, we're going to bring you home.” 

Rose nods weakly into his shoulder, her shuddering breaths slowly coming back under control. She makes no effort to pull away, and for a few peaceful moments all that can be heard are the quiet waves below and a soft, hummed melody. 

Casi can feel the smallest doubt in the fear that already grips her that Rose seems unable or unwilling to hide in this state of openness that she so rarely allows anymore. But that pales in comparison to the longing that she feels for the comfort that Casi offers. Something she couldn't believe she would ever have again. A thank you doesn't need to be spoken when it is felt so deeply.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

seven degrees east - chapter three

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: multiple Rating: T (may change) Chapter: 3 / ? Word Count: 4075

read on tumblr: one | two

The roof was considered an obvious and necessary extension of the dorms. Which was to say, the boys were not encouraged to spend time up there, but it was widely acknowledged by the administration to be an inevitability. Which was to say, there was a standing rule that they were not allowed on the roof, but it was understood to exist for insurance purposes only. Which was to say, the rule had been enforced before, but not in a way that singled out any one student’s rooftop proclivities. Which was to say, John Egan, specifically, had been banned, and, yes, the photograph from his school record had been used on the poster taped to the roof-access door. Which was to say, the boys had taken to reaching the roof via the decidedly more dangerous yet not technically banned route of climbing out their windows and getting a foothold on the sill.

It was already after dinner when Crosby decided to swing his legs out the window and scale the wall. He preferred to do this with Bubbles, who he trusted implicitly to map the wall with his eyes on the fly and find the best handholds, but Bubbles was at the library, likely sniffling in the stacks. He had come down with a small cold, and Crosby had urged him to stay in bed. Unfortunately, he suspected it had been his offer to make dinner that had caused Bubbles to flee. Crosby tried not to mind. They were frequently at playful odds over exactly what constituted a “good meal.” Crosby had no defense for his Bagel Bites, but maintained that they wouldn’t put “Chef” in front of “Boyardee” if the canned ravioli wasn’t imbued with superior nutritional and gastronomic value. Bubbles vocally doubted that Jean, Crosby’s long-distance girlfriend, would agree.

Rosie was smoking on the roof when Crosby scrambled up. As their eyes met, Crosby offered a meek and panicked smile, which Rosie correctly interpreted to mean Help! Rosie tucked the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and leant down to give Crosby a hand. Crosby’s shoes came scrabbling up brick, then slipping across the gritty surface of the roof. Rosie released him, laughing, once Crosby had found his footing.

“You probably don’t want to try that alone again,” Rosie observed, plucking the cigarette from his lips and exhaling into the wide sky that arched above their heads.

“No shit,” Crosby panted. He eyed Rosie. “Thanks.”

Rosie shrugged this off. He waved his carton in offering, but Crosby patted the back pocket of his jeans to indicate he’d brought his own smokes.

“Nice job on the seminar today,” he offered, lighting up.

It was Rosie’s turn to reply, “Thanks.”

Neither of them had counted on the company, but, equally, neither was bothered by it. They smoked in silence. Rosie watched Crosby like he was waiting to see what he would do next. Crosby watched the smoke from their cigarettes, how it trailed and dwindled in the air, how it looked dirty and hazy against the prolonged light of a summer evening. He felt that it polluted the world, that he, himself, was an irritant in the eye of the nature that beheld him. But self-loathing was just the kind of thing a guy felt, Crosby knew, when his shoes were tied a little tight, or he hadn’t eaten a vegetable in a while, or he had to go looking for fun without his best friend.

Rosie wasn’t sure he had a best friend. He had admirers—some for his scholastic confidence, many for his mustache—and he appreciated the respect with which he was treated, but he did sometimes feel as if he were in a place the others weren’t. (He had pondered this deeply while standing alone on the roof.) In a way, it made him feel adaptive, flexible, primed. It also gave him probably too much opportunity to heft unnecessary weight onto his own shoulders, to summon into existence pressures that would strain but not quite break the idea of himself that he believed in: tireless, committed, an emotional island. Rosie didn’t see that he felt much the same as they all did, but then none of them did. All listening too hard to their own tell-tale hearts to realize no one else would ever hear them if they didn’t make a noise.

Exhaling until he couldn’t see the smoke from his third cigarette in his breath, Rosie turned his body towards Crosby to indicate that he wanted to speak. He cleared his throat for good measure.

“You wanna rent a movie tonight?”

Crosby picked the cigarette from between his lips like he was picking food from his teeth. There was a showy machismo in the sharp line of his movement, like he thought about closing his fist around the cigarette so the tip would burn his palm, just to give him some little pain to endure. The motion was too deliberate, a little stupid, and Rosie’s slight smile reminded Crosby of that much. Rosie wouldn’t say anything outright though, lest they find themselves in a Mexican standoff—Crosby and his touches of noir versus Rosie and the mustache which stood as a symbol for his allegedly mournful, tortured soul.

“Yeah, sure,” Crosby said with a shrug.

“Cool. I’ll grab Nash.”

“Nash is gonna want a Meg Ryan flick.”

“So?” Rosie stared at him. “They can’t all be Lauren Bacall, Croz. At least try to pick an actress from this half of the twentieth century. Julia Roberts?”

Crosby made a sound of partial assent, then narrowed his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter though, does it? You’re just gonna overrule us and pick whatever the hell you want to see anyway.”

Rosie grinned.

“I drive, I pick.”

“I hate how that works,” Crosby grumbled.

“I know you do,” Rosie said, patting him on the shoulder.

—

“Adapt or die,” Bubbles said, settling himself before one of Thorpe Abbotts’ two new Macintoshes and depressing the power button. His voice was cottony due to his stuffed-up nose.

“Die,” John decided.

He didn’t spare the Mac so much as a sideways glance, continuing to knock out his essay on the same electronic typewriter he always used. The school wanted to appear cutting-edge—especially to the British universities they continually sensed, correct or not, were breathing scornfully down their necks—and this time, John had had to haul the typewriter from the closet at the end of the space increasingly referred to as the “computer room.” It wasn’t a perfect machine, but John preferred to grapple with the devil he knew rather than submit before the unexplored complexities of a sleeker word processor. Where was the glory in that? Where was the struggle? The allure of the logo on the front of the Macintosh was wasted on John, who thought Eve’s theft of the apple had more style than Thorpe Abbotts’ foisting of the new technology upon its students.

They weren’t supposed to smoke in there, but John had the window cracked, and he flapped a hand to fan the smoke from his cigarette towards it as he paused to review what he’d typed so far. It would do, he thought. If it provoked Professor Harding’s urge to murder him back out of its currently dormant state, so be it. John liked his enemies where he could see them. Except in a mirror.

The truth was, he’d been wrestling back some impulses since Gale had shared news of his and Marge’s breakup. Impulses to avoid Gale, impulses to stand at his elbow and wait to be noticed. It made John’s skin itch, this newly single Buck Cleven, with his hair like American wheat.

“What’s Buck gonna do?” Bubbles suddenly asked.

John stiffened. Ash flaked onto his fingers before he brushed it into the primeval coffee cup he was using as an ashtray.

“What?”

“Well, is he a luddite like you?” Bubbles wondered, nodding towards John’s typewriter.

John exhaled slowly.

“We’ll see.”

“He should get his essay typed up soon,” Bubbles said. “Always takes longer than you think. Maybe he’s distracted thinkin’ about the breakup.”

John drew smoke into his lungs to calm himself, then scratched at the side of his head like Bubbles’ remark was something he could scrape from the surface of his brain.

“Nah, Buck’s fine.”

“He’s lucky he has you.”

Bubbles made sure his eyes were on the Mac’s brightening screen when he felt John turn to look at him. He didn’t think he shouldn’t have said it, but he didn’t want John’s expression to make him feel like he needed to backtrack or add a joking insult so they—specifically John—could move past it without having to accept that Bubbles had intended it genuinely. You didn’t just tell a guy to value the closeness of his friendships, point out that those friends valued him in turn. Bubbles knew nobody thought of him as particularly risky, particularly brave. That was how he got away with it, his sincerity slipping in under their radar. And while they were thinking about themselves, they would never notice that he had a vested interest, that he counted himself luckiest of all to have Crosby as the other pea in his two-pea pod.

Before John could insist on a confrontation on the battlefield of his feelings for Gale, he saw Ken Lemmons walk past the doorway.

“Yo! Lemmons!” he shouted.

Ken re-entered his line of sight walking backwards and looking both quizzical and ready. He usually did look like that; an undergrad with a possibly bottomless bag of mechanical and technological tricks, Ken had become a dogsbody around campus. If he couldn’t immediately fix whatever needed fixing, he didn’t require long to figure it out. He’d gotten a job locally that summer instead of going home to the States. Everyone who knew or knew of Ken Lemmons felt the luckier for it.

“Egan,” Ken greeted with a grin, gripping the doorframe and leaning into the room. “Bubbles.”

“How’s the wife?” Bubbles inquired.

“She’s great, thanks, Bubbles.”

The fact that Ken, just 19 years of age, was a married man should perhaps have triggered in them some instinct to defer to his emotional maturity. Instead, it only made them feel more fatherly towards him, and, incidentally, act more childish.

“What the hell have they got you running around for now?” John demanded teasingly. “Go enjoy your fuckin’ summer. You should be at a rave or a topless beach or something.”

“Lotta those in England, you think?” Ken joked back. His feet and attention shifted. “Printer’s on the fritz.”

“Don’t you worry too much,” Bubbles soothed. “The summer edition of the journal isn’t that important.”

“Tell that to Kidd.”

“Yeah,” John said, gaze wandering back to his essay. “Jack’s probably sweating bullets.”

“Sure is. Poor bastard. You’d know if you ever took a position on the journal.”

“Nah. I’m just one of the people, Ken. I don’t want to run shit.”

Ken shrugged.

“Got some empty pages too,” he said in a hopeful tone, glancing between John and Bubbles. “Either of you have an essay you want to put in?”

John grunted noncommittally—it took him a long time to know what to think of his own work—but Bubbles said, “I’ll talk to Croz. I think he might write something.”

“Sounds good.”

“Don’t say anything to Kidd yet,” Bubbles added quickly. “Croz might get a little… nervous if he thinks Kidd’s waitin’ on him.”

Ken gave him a loose salute in understanding and pushed out of the doorframe, hurrying down the hall once more.

Bubbles released a massive sneeze and collapsed over his keyboard, forehead nudging the mouse aside. John shot him a look.

“Don’t get that thing sick.”

“Your computer virus jokes are tired,” Bubbles mumbled.

But they seemed to invigorate John, who began to type rapidly as the setting sun blazed through the window. The shadows of his hands were jumping spiders. Bubbles watched them as he summoned the strength to begin transposing his own essay.

—

It was foolish for more than three of them to attempt to decide on one movie. It was foolish for three, or even two. Nash wandered the aisles of the video store, the protective coating on the empty VHS cases too shiny and bright under the fluorescents. He wouldn’t try to pick anything until Rosie and Crosby squabbled at the check-out. That first squabble was only ever the opening salvo; they would then sigh their way back into the aisles under the disinterested gaze of the minimum-wage kid at the register, feeling the pressure (that wasn’t really there) to make a better selection. Even that would not necessarily be the moment for Nash to insert his own filmic preferences. He would wait and see. The key was to pounce in the moment when both his friends were feeling highly frustrated by the impasse, solving the problem with the simple solution of offering the movie neither of them wanted to see (Nash’s first choice du jour).

Yes, they could have rented more than one video, but they didn’t. They never did.

Nash stood and contemplated the latest Scorsese; he and Gale had once talked for an hour of their love for the director’s Age of Innocence adaptation, but Nash wasn’t sure about Casino. Seemed like more of a Crosby thing. Nash was lifting his gaze to the genre signs positioned along the top of each aisle when he spotted something more compelling: girls. Two—no, three—girls clustered by the far wall, chatting as they perused the titles. All three were brunette and Nash’s heart fluttered hopefully as he thought of Helen, the memory of her dark waves pulling at him like a current. (John had been going on about Gatsby lately, repeating the final lines with a rhythmic insistence that had formerly threatened to put Nash to sleep but now seemed to assist in holding him in hypnotic stillness.) Without looking away from them, Nash reached out with the empty copy of Casino. There was a plasticky clatter as he fumbled the case back onto the shelf.

“Dude, what’s wrong with you?” Crosby asked, coming down the aisle—a witness to Nash’s episode.

“I think—”

Nash stopped speaking as quickly as he’d begun and cleared his throat. She’d turned her head, laughing; it was Helen. The world was a good place, the arc of history bending towards justice and peace and harmony amongst all people. Nearly thirty years prior, humans had walked on the moon, and tonight, Nash would be reunited with that beautiful girl from that one night at the bar—a miracle even Kennedy would not have had the balls to prophesize. Nash wished he were wearing a nicer shirt, but he smoothed a hand down the front of the baggy sweatshirt he’d—at some point—borrowed from the laundry hamper of John or Curt or maybe Crank, over winter semester, and blindly pressed Crosby aside to clear his path to her.

Crosby gave Nash a head start before alerting Rosie, because he recalled how Rosie had shouted at this girl (by Nash’s transfixed reaction, he assumed it was the same girl) across the bar, embarrassing Nash. But, because Crosby was also preparing to be greatly entertained by the scene that promised to play out, he needed Rosie to join his audience. What were friends for if not laughing at other friends’ awkward attempts at romance? It was necessary to physically remove Hitchcock’s Rebecca from Rosie’s hands, but Crosby got his attention.

“Our boy’s lovesick so often it’s practically a chronic condition,” Rosie pronounced, grinning.

“Yeah, too bad we’re all studying to be the wrong kind of doctor,” Crosby added.

As much as they loved to rib Nash for putting himself out there so very frequently that he could rarely be considered in, they watched, slightly awed, as Nash confidently approached the girl and was greeted with a wide smile after her initial surprise.

“Huh,” they said together.

“Well, we’re not letting Nash have all the fun,” Rosie decided, smacking the back of his hand into Crosby’s chest to get him moving.

Nash didn’t mind his friends joining him. He didn’t mind Helen’s friends looking on, or that they would almost certainly talk about him as soon as he left their vicinity. Only the way Helen was looking at him was important, and she was doing that with a gaze that didn’t wander, that didn’t light up with greater interest when Crosby locked his puppy-dog browns on her, Rosie his glittering blues. Helen just went back to looking at Nash, talking to Nash, and soon, they had drifted slightly apart from the others, engaging in a lively conversation about Meg Ryan’s filmography. When Herbert Met Helen, Nash thought, entirely captivated by Helen, from the toes of her Mary Janes to the lettuce-edged sleeves of the t-shirt she wore beneath her spaghetti-strap dress.

Rosie was alarmed by his dissipating impulse to humiliate Nash. He’d only come over to keep Nash humble, and to make sure the girl—Helen—who’d caught his friend’s eye twice now seemed worthy of Nash’s at least momentary captivation. He hadn’t counted on Helen’s friend. Very quickly, he’d learned that she went by “Liss,” considering the name that’d been passed down from her grandmother old-fashioned, that she was studying law, and that the way she combed her fingers through her straight-across bangs while she talked was damn cute. Really fucking cute. Rosie forgot about Nash, about Crosby, about Hitchcock. The Flaming Lips’ “When You Smile” poured distantly through the video store speakers and Rosie realized he might be falling into love at first sight—and that it came with none of the doom reading Poe had foretold.

In contrast, Crosby felt he was having everything his hard-boiled books had ever taught him about women confirmed. Had Rosie not been otherwise occupied and noticed Crosby with Helen’s other companion, he would’ve said, Whoa, Croz. He would’ve said, Careful. Because there was Jean, back home, and Crosby wasn’t thinking about her at all as he watched Sandra bite the end off a string of red licorice.

“You’re supposed to pay for those first,” he said, glancing at the other movie snacks by the check-out, their packages stacked in neat rows.

Sandra’s lipstick was as red as the licorice and Crosby swallowed when she did, watching her mouth spread into an unconcerned smile.

“Don’t I look trustworthy?” she asked him, and Crosby felt a rush of sympathy for every detective who’d ever been drawn in by a femme fatale. Which was exactly what he’d determined this girl to be. If he were correct, he should’ve grabbed the boys and run—but then, if he were correct, Crosby figured, it was probably already too late.

As Sandra looked back at him, not knowing about Jean or Chandler or Hammett and seeing only a young man with expressive dark eyes full of seductive fatalism, she thought, Why not? and offered Harry Crosby a long piece of licorice.

—

Inside, they’d gotten so stoned they couldn’t remember what they were talking about, and so Curt and Gale had decided to climb to the roof for fresh air that would clear their heads. The evening was warm and breezy, but Gale loved the wind, and Curt tended to roll with the circumstances as they presented themselves. Which didn’t mean the way he’d flailed onto the roof was graceful.

After a while, they’d picked out the loose thread of their last conversation. Like many conversations the boys had, this one landed on a book recommendation as predictably as a plastic Life car landed on “Taxes due.” Curt was trying to sell Gale on the works of James Baldwin. He was a cheerful inebriate, confident that all his points were compellingly made and that his audience was keen to hear them. He was touchy as well, tugging Gale’s sleeve when he talked about Baldwin’s voice. Gale didn’t mind this, since he roomed with John, who was far touchier. That was at least half the reason he was smiling as Curt talked, the weed he’d smoked helping him construct little mental sandcastles and wash them away again: John’s elbow on his shoulder as he asked what Gale, sitting at their desk, wanted to add to the grocery list; John’s foot prodding Gale’s hip to tell him to change the channel even though he was sitting sideways on the couch, reading instead of watching TV; John’s hand on Gale’s knee, then his thigh, the other day in Harding’s class, not long before Gale had named the woodchopper.

Like wet sand, the woodchopper and John got mashed together in Gale’s head as he listened to Curt launch into his pitch for Gale to read Giovanni’s Room.

“It doesn’t matter that he’s gay,” Curt was saying.

“Of course it matters that he’s gay,” Gale countered.

“No, like, it matters, but—”

“What the hell else matters?”

“It’s bigger than that! It’s about what it means to be a man,” Curt insisted. “Socialization, alienation, internalization…”

“If you throw one more ‘ation’ at me, I’m pushing you off the roof,” Gale warned waggishly.

“It’s fucking Baldwin, man! He had his thumb on the fucking pulse!”

“His finger, not his thumb. You can feel your pulse in your thumb, so using it to find a pulse doesn’t work.”

“Whatever,” Curt said, grinning and waving him off. “Fucking pedant. Read your fuckin’ Baldwin.”

“Never said I wouldn’t,” Gale asserted.

“Good.”

Curt gently patted his pockets. He couldn’t remember if he’d brought a joint to the roof or left all the ones he’d rolled on the table. He also didn’t want to stow one in his pocket and forget about it. He’d definitely made a mistake tossing a pair of jeans in the wash in the past.

“It’s just that Brideshead Revisited is a little more up my street,” Gale added.

“Oh, fuckin’ BRIDESHEAD REVISITED,” Curt shrieked, setting Gale laughing quietly. “You can’t even tell those assholes are gay!”

“’Course you can,” Gale argued at a lower volume. “If you’re paying attention. You can tell if you’re paying attention.”

Curt, who was paying even less attention in that moment than he had been while reading the novel, said, “Fuckin’ EVELYN WAUGH!”

Gale shook his head in amusement. Happening to glance out away from the building atop which they were perched like eaglets in their eyrie, he saw Rosie, Nash, and Crosby ambling towards the dorms from the rear parking lot.

“BOYS!” Gale called down sharply.

Three faces tilted up towards the address. Crosby threw up an instinctive middle finger that Curt heartily returned.

“Meet you inside?” Rosie shouted back.

“My place!” Curt offered, receiving Rosie’s nod.

Gale lived with John, Nash with Rosie, and Crosby with Bubbles, who Curt knew to be sick at present. Curt lived with no one. Well, he lived with Dickie, but Dickie wouldn’t be back until the fall. Technically, Curt should have been getting charged more in residence fees living as a bachelor for four months, but between being well liked by faculty and staff, and the students who’d elected to remain on campus through the summer knowing Curt was shy about neither bringing guests back to his room nor the type and amount of noise that emanated from such visits, he paid the same as he did when he had a roommate. He tended to be quite smug about it. Regardless, his friends didn’t complain; they’d have happily paid less and did not begrudge Curt his good fortune. Curt’s temporary lack of roommate also made his dorm the perfect place to go whenever any of them were annoyed with their own. Anyway, Curt loved to host.

When he got all the boys inside, sprawled over his furniture, he found that the air on the roof had un-addled him a bit, but not enough to easily follow the trio of narratives unfolding at once. There was Nash gushing about finally getting Helen’s number and Rosie wearing a dopey smile while he explained about Liss and the haunted and yet lustful look in Crosby’s eyes when he talked about Sandra and—

“Who the fuck are all these girls?” Curt cut in.

“You met them at the video store?” Gale, who had caught slightly more, clarified. “What’d you rent?”

Crosby, Rosie, and Nash glanced at one another’s dreamy eyes and empty hands.

It was Crosby who voiced their joint realization: “Uhhh… we forgot.”

[cathumanthing2]

sometimes i think, "i wasn't THAT weird of a child", then i remember that i:

hypnotized/tried to hypnotize people.

jumped off of playground equipment then when teachers told me to stop i would explain how ACTUALLY, i was doing it in a safe way because *starts talking about physics* (i was 9. it consistently got me out of trouble)

convinced kids to buy "moisturizer" made of crushed rocks and water for the price of 2 stickers and a dime. i got my best friend to help me

sharpened woodchips on bricks to turn them sharp so i could use them as weapons

geniuinely thought i had an invisible tail and cat ears at one point. like. actual tails and ears

regularly listened to subliminal audios

practiced genuine witchcraft

did not understand boundaries and heard a guy had a crush on me so i kept trying to flirt with him. he moved to a different school the next year. i was 7

made ants a restaurant made of leaves

yelled at kids for stepping on worms

meowed and hissed at people

dug a "burrow" in the woodchips under a slide because i heard that in the winter animal burrows under the earth were a lot warmer - and guess what, it WAS

spread a rumor that there was a beast in the fenced in area that only janitors could go in that the teachers fed annoying kids to

believed my friend wholeheartedly when she tricked me into thinking she was secretly a mermaid princess. in my defense, i was 6

tried to learn how to pickpocket people

ate inedible objects and convinced my friends to eat inedible things aswell

started a bread cult

brought books to a playdate so we could read the whole time

helped spread a rumor that the ghost of (guy who thr school is named after) haunted the playground by basically vandalizing

would bring carrots to recess and put them in piles of snow to feed any hungry animals who can't find food due to the winter

convinced myself i had crushes on countless boys when i really didn't which caused me to become slightly obsessed with making it look like i really did. cue me making kissy faces at other 6 year olds at recess and giving a kid who absolutely hated me a love note on his birthday with a few chocolates

related to the last one, in kindergarten i would say i was in love with this one kid so much everywhere even in school projects that my teacher had to talk to me about it

when my cat was dying in front of me i started cackling like a madman

ive regularly stayed up past midnight reading since i was 7. back then tho i did it on school nights

when i had to do a "what would i do if i were president" project in the 1st grade the thing i suggested to do was literally socialism

i regularly snuck classroom books home from school without permission from my teacher cuz i didnt wanna stop reading them and i was scared she would say no

my reading level was around freshman in highschool level when I was in 1st grade

and finally, in 4th grade when I started watching the owl house, I related to Luz on SUCH massive amounts like. YES THAT IS *ME* I SEE *MYSELF* ITS *ME*

anyways i was such a weird kid. i was very very odd.

[sanajeh1909]

Natal Chart Analysis : Chamber

First of all this is headcanon of mine and im not an expert in analyzing birth charts, i only know little about this so i got some help from my acquiantances. I compared his chart qualities with his lore , his personality and his voice lines in this article. The comparison can be irrelevant on some parts because of my lack of knowledge in English. Please respect even if this doesnt meet with your expectations i have put a lot of effort in this. This is hell of a long article. I have written with some a lot of details and i cut it short, otherwise it would be hell of a long article than it already is. I had to think about general species of the zodiac signs and i found Scorpio as the most suitable zodiac sign to him. I went from his release date (16 November) as reference, and for his birth year all i knew was he is between 25-30 years old. So i calculated every year between 1993-1998. As his birthplace (i dont know if RIOT gave this type of information about this) i went with Paris because i have no idea where he can be born in France. In the end i came to the conclusion that his birthdate and birthplace may be : 13 November 1993 07.10 pm Paris/France

THE SUN IN SCORPIO

☽ Scorpios know what they want and won't go out and grab it at the wrong moment. They sit back, watch (quite expertly), and then get it only when the moment is just right. It might seem like patience, but it's more likely their powerful skills at strategy at work. Scorpios aren't afraid of getting their hands (their bodies, their minds) dirty. The darker side of life intrigues them, and they're always ready to investigate.

☽ Physical energy and courage. Strong passions. Regeneration and improvement. Strong sexual powers.

☽ Potential issues: He is suspicious, defiant, extremist; he is sometimes vindictive. ☾ The Frenchman Vincent Fabron lives his life in search of one necessary goal, willing to sacrifice anything that gets in his way of achieving it. He has spent much of his time involved with combat and weapons, having worked for the French military before becoming a PMC marksman and then a weapons designer for Kingdom Defense. His employment at Kingdom was only a stepping stone for him though, as by this point he was already set on his path in pursuit of his sacred truth.

THE SUN IN 6TH HOUSE ☽ The work that they do and the services that they offer are very important to their sense of identity. To feel good about themselves, they need to be busy with daily activities and produce work they can be proud of. They are sensitive to criticism about their work, and they work best when they create their own schedule. ☽ Helpful, concerned, detail-oriented, observant, competent but not hugely ambitious, and sometimes given to fretting. Various minor health issues or concerns, and a strong attachment to his work or routine.

SQUARE BETWEEN SUN AND SATURN ☽ Self-awareness to the point of real self-consciousness is possible with this aspect. Aim to worry far less about always being right or appearing suave and accomplished. When they ease the pressure they put on themselves, they don't face as many brick walls. ☽ Magnetic, intuitive, inventive, unique, and innovative, always seeing where improvements and progress can be made. At his best when he feels free to be themselves--doesn't like to be told what to do. ☾ With a blend of suave nonchalance, professional poise, and smug comedy, Chamber is fully confident with the skill he provides and the value that he offers. He sets high standards for himself and his team, reminding everyone that if they were to secure victories, they might as well go all-out and be the best in what they do.

"None of this "a win is a win" nonsense. We should win big and look good doing it."

THE MOON IN SCORPIO

☽ Lunar Scorpios are diggers in the world of emotion--they can see beyond facades and cut right to a person's core. This ability to "see" what isn't apparent to the rest of the world can be intimidating to others or wildly attractive, depending on the audience. Most have powerful, emotionally intense lives. Some feel like it is beyond their control -- these natives seem to attract emotional upheaval, and their lives appear to consist of plenty of dramatic ups and downs. Doing things halfway or having meaningless relationships simply doesn't fulfill them. Lunar Scorpios want all or nothing.

☽ Moon in Scorpio people often have a strong fear of betrayal. Some will put the people they love through a series of tests, and these are not always conscious. Their apparent suspicion can be trying for the people who love them. ☽ Potential issues: difficulty letting go.

THE MOON IN 6TH HOUSE

☽ They have an emotional need to be useful, work productively, be organized and on top of things, and lead a healthy life. If these matters are chaotic, it's a symptom of emotional unrest. Their observation skills are excellent, and they succeed at whatever they choose to do. They are a valued worker.

☽ They are excellent at finding flaws, quickly seeing details others overlook. A problem-solver, they not only recognize problems, but they are also compelled to fix them. People see they as a great friend, supportive, knowledgeable, insightful, and reliable.

SQUARE BETWEEN THE MOON AND SATURN

☽ When the Moon is in hard aspect to Saturn in the natal chart, natives need to learn to trust others more. Fear keeps them from fully enjoying personal relationships, and fear is behind the occasional rigidity that they express. When they let themselves receive nurture or care from others, an inner voice cautions them that it might not be sincere, long-lasting, or enough! This is essentially a defense mechanism designed to protect themselves from harshness in the world.

☽ Changeable moods, a reserved character, can be stubborn and may lack assurance. ☾ Chamber has shown friendliness with many of the agents in the Protocol, but he is very much aware that he holds many secrets which are better kept hidden. It's revealed much of Chamber's history is swathed in a veil of making deals and withholding the truth from those around him on multiple occasions.

SEXTILE BETWEEN THE MOON AND URANUS

☽ Their life is out-of-the-ordinary, with lots of changes and a great knowledge of the world not necessarily through reading but through personal experience and brilliant intuition. They like the sensational, new things. They act instinctively, but fortunately has a good sixth sense. They like to be surrounded by original people, artists.

SEXTILE BETWEEN THE MOON AND NEPTUNE

☽ Kind and sympathetic, with a strongly compassionate nature. When in love, they are usually very devoted. In fact, they are devoted by nature, not only in matters of the heart. More often than not, their intuition is correct, although their imagination is also powerful and they can read too much into a situation as a result.

CONJUCTION BETWEEN THE MOON AND THE PLUTO

☽ They can waver between a rich and successful domestic life and social success. Very perceptive and given to psychoanalyzing people. A strategist. Powerful emotions and intense feelings.

MERCURY IN SCORPIO

☽ They are extremely observant and astute, always reading between the lines and looking for the real meaning behind things. Passionate in speech, excellent at strategy. Natural psychologist.

MERCURY IN 5TH HOUSE

☽ Taste for intellectual games, sports that require skill and finesse. They are very curious about everything, even in love.

☽ They can be witty and humorous, an engaging communicator, and a fun friend. They love playing games, especially ones that employ their intellect. They love tricks, jokes, plays on words, and mimicry. They might be skilled at impersonations. Some of them could be clever at lying.

"Oh no, invaders here to take our radianite. Laughs I'm sorry, let's go shoot them."

"Toaster is broken!"

"It is sad what happened here, such a terrible accident. One that I have nothing to do with."

CONJUCTION BETWEEN MERCURY - VENUS

☽ They enjoy speaking and writing, and they do both with charm and artistry. Their intellectual pleasures are very much influenced by their feelings. They are amorous and sensual. They like beauty, the arts, travelling, frequent changes of scenery. Aims always for diplomacy. Very charming.

CONJUCTION BETWEEN MERCURY - JUPITER

☽ They are intelligent with big ideas: They are tolerant and have a strong sense of justice. They have good judgement, good sense and have their feet on the ground. 

VENUS IN SCORPIO

☽ Venus in Scorpio people attract others with their intensity and willingness to commit. Their appeal lies in their focus on you, and their dedication. Venus in Scorpio seems fearless when it comes to intimacy. Potential lovers get the feeling that Venus in Scorpio will never stray, that they are intensely loyal to the one they love. They possess you, and somehow make it seem attractive to be possessed.

☽ They have a strong need to control their partner, although this won't be immediately apparent, and they may not ever admit to this. Their body-and-soul love and commitment can be so intense that it eclipses fun and makes loving them a very heavy experience. Their emotion and intensity may seem overdone to those looking for a more lighthearted relationship.

☽ When you've upset these lovers, you'll know it. Depending on the moment, Venus in Scorpio will shoot you one of the most piercing glares around, or totally blow up. Whichever style they choose, a slighted Scorpio lover is not a pretty sight. These people can be jealous of all of your attachments, but few will admit it. 

☽ Remember, though, that some Venus in Scorpio lovers can and will take advantage of you on a subtle level, if only to keep you all to themselves.

☽ Sensual and passionate. Passions run hot and cold. Full of ardor and desire where the partner needs to be able to match his level. Can be jealous and possessive. If disappointed or deceived in love, he can become bitter. Usually very loyal.

VENUS IN 5TH HOUSE

☽ There is a romantic, playful side to them that is unmistakable. They enjoy surrounding themselves with beautiful art and music, and these may play a role in their ideal date scenario. They are generally quite loyal to their partner, and they are both charming and easily charmed. It's also easy to turn their head. They are a warm, fun and playful date.

CONJUCTION BETWEEN VENUS - JUPITER

☽ They are good-hearted and generous, possessing a good character. They have good relations with their social circle. They are easy to approach. All the same, they may fall in love easily. They have a successful partnership and professional life. People usually trust them.

MARS IN SAGITTARIUS

☽ Most of the time, Mars in Sagittarius is playful and fun-loving. They love friendly debates, although they can go to extremes. Mars in Sagittarius people see themselves as warm-blooded folk. They can be blunt with people, although if they have a more tactful Mercury placement, this quality will be subdued. heir direct, blunt approach is most obvious in bed. They're passionate lovers, and are turned on by open-mindedness and good humor.

☽ Mars in Sagittarius can be a little hard to understand. Sometimes they seem to be the most easy-going of people--they love a good joke and a good time. Other times they are on fire--intense and impassioned about something or other. 

☽ Mars in Sagittarius is used to getting their way and persuading others to believe what they believe in. Every now and again, they face the few that don't quite buy their grand theories, or, worse yet, poke holes in their plans. This is when these normally fun-loving people get frustrated. In fact, they take it personally when others don't agree with their philosophies.

MARS IN 6TH HOUSE

☽ They tend to work hard, sometimes to the point of exhaustion! They put a lot of energy into their work, and would do best working for themselves or for someone else but independently, as they can quickly become impatient if other members of a team are not working as fast as them. They can easily become riled up or defensive if someone criticizes or intrudes upon the work that they do.

CONJUCTION BETWEEN MARS - PLUTO

☽ They are ambitious with a great capacity for work and effort, self-confidence, and determination. Will stick it out to the end with his plans. They are committed, determined, and passionate. They are generally confident about their own talents. They are naturally very resourceful and usually quite persistent when pursuing a goal. 

☾ Through a series of emails found on Fracture, it's discovered that both Chambers have been working together towards an unknown goal for potentially as long as a year. In Fracture, we can assume that the Chambers attacked and kidnapped Thomas Poe, for reasons that aren't fully clear. It is likely to interrogate him for some valuable information on the Facility and the work they are doing there. 

JUPITER IN SCORPIO

☽ Values decisiveness, intensity, willpower, commitment, and strength. Very strong problem-solving nature, cutting to the chase. Science and research may be prosperous avenues.

JUPITER IN 5TH HOUSE

☽ He has much passion that lights up his days. He is lucky in love, but also professionally, with pleasant working conditions and duties.

TRINE BETWEEN JUPITER - SATURN

☽ They are serious, patient, honest, hard-working, orderly. Their judgment is good and they are inclined to think things over. They pursues their objectives to the bitter end, usually knowing when to choose the right moment. They are upright, usually law-abiding and respecting order.

TRINE BETWEEN JUPITER - ASCENDANT

☽ They like meeting friends, enjoying a good meal and cordial atmospheres. They are pleasant, jovial, and engaging.

TRINE BETWEEN JUPITER - MIDHEAVEN

☽ They live the high life, wanting to have fun but knowing what they want and doing what is necessary to get it. They want to - and does - succeed socially. This is a "work hard, play hard" placement.

SATURN IN AQUARIUS

☽ Long-term studies and, if family circumstances do not allow this, they will teach himself. They are serious and methodical in work, perhaps liking to visit the elderly and intellectuals who enrich their mind.

☽ Potential weaknesses: a sense of having bad luck and frequent disappointed hopes.

SATURN IN 9TH HOUSE

☽ They are studious, patient, rigorous, austere. They like reflection, meditation. They carry out all the plans he makes. They can be a stay-at-home.

SQUARE BETWEEN SATURN - PLUTO

☽ They are not always open to others' ideas, especially if they are disorganized or free-thinking. They should watch for rigid thinking and egoism.

TRINE BETWEEN SATURN - ASCENDANT

☽ They are serious, sober, thoughtful, paying attention to detail. They like to be with older or mature/serious people.

CONJUCTION BETWEEN SATURN - MIDHEAVEN

☽ They are ambitious, but in a deliberate, calculated, well-balanced way. They are persevering, mostly serious, and orderly. They climb the ladder slowly but surely; if need be, they are willing to change his ideas. They are wise and experienced.

URANUS IN CAPRICORN

☽ A great battler. They have so much power that one thinks nothing can defeat them. Their mission in society and in the world can mean everything to them.

URANUS IN 8TH HOUSE

☽ Their financial situation has its highs and lows, which an inheritance can help out.

CONJUCTION BETWEEN URANUS - NEPTUNE

☽ They can be wildly creative with an odd but happy sense of humor and perspective. They are an idealist, easily disappointed by those using power plays to advance.

SQUARE BETWEEN URANUS - LILITH

☽ They may have difficulties achieving a peaceful love life. They can have lots of adventures, love-at-first-sights which can lead him into risky territory, as these can complicate and perhaps even poison their life.

NEPTUNE IN CAPRICORN

☽ They are discerning, wise, and sensible.

NEPTUNE IN 8TH HOUSE

☽ May have problems collecting inheritance and could encounter difficulties on a financial level through the marital partner. Most often quite creative and imaginative sexually, and they understand and accepts a wide range of styles and preferences in these matters.

SQUARE BETWEEN NEPTUNE - LILITH

☽ Love can dominate their life. They could lose their head over someone to whom there's an intense attraction, which can become troublesome if they lose all idea of reality. If they are not loved in return, so what - they will love for the two of them. With time, if the bond loses its spark, they can have difficulty disentangling themselves and they can suffer enormously. It's best to look to a trusted outside source for guidance in vulnerable times.

"Viper, don't pretend you're not happy to see me. You're smiling on the inside, I know it."

PLUTO IS IN SCORPIO

☽ Fear of betrayal.

☾ The Blackmailer admits that they do not know of Chamber's motives but mentions that there is one truth that he holds sacred, suspects that it is only true moral, the only thing that he wants in life. The Blackmailer states that no matter what Chamber's intents are, his deeds will be judged, always result in the world referring to him as a villain and asks him if he can face the possibility of being seen as villain if the judgement goes against him, implying he may struggle with even the thought of being judged with disgust, she questions whether he can live with such treatment.

PLUTO IN 6TH HOUSE

☽ Power struggles can be an ongoing issue at work. 

SQUARE BETWEEN PLUTO - MIDHEAVEN

☽ They may risk losing everything, having to start from scratch in order to duke it out with authority figures. They may end up in meaningless stalemates with bosses and authority figures, which can block them from achieving success or goals at times.

LILITH IN ARIES

☽ There can be some fear of taking the lead, asserting oneself, and making executive decisions.

TRUE NORTH NODE IN SAGITTARIUS

☽ They may limit themselves unknowingly through mental overstimulation or by overdoing logic at the expense of intuition. They may have so many things going at once that they only dabbles and does notcommit to a particular project or path. Their path is to tune out distractions and build faith in their intuition so that they can follow a vision. ☽ Qualities to develop: Prioritizing, commitment to a path, faith.

NORTH NODE IN 6TH HOUSE

☽ They tends to retreat or escape when times are tough, and while they are a compassionate and perceptive person, they may limit their luck and opportunities by avoiding the realities of their life. When they do not know all the facts, they may live in fear of them! Their path is to pay more attention to details and routines, even if these feel uncomfortable at first. Doing so will build emotional and physical health. ☽ Qualities to develop: proactivity, diligence.

ASCENDANT GEMINI (GEMINI ON HOUSE 1)

☽ There is a cleverness to Gemini Ascendants that can intimidate some, especially sensitive folk. People with, for example, predominant Water signs may feel a little ill at ease with Gemini rising people (that is, before they get to know them more personally), while strong Air types more fully appreciate the fun and cleverness of these individuals.

☽ I have found two styles of presentation most common with Gemini rising people. One style is bubbly, changeable, talkative, and a little quirky. These natives are interesting and fun. They constantly explain things, whether it's their own behavior and opinion or those of the world around them.

☽ Another distinct "style" is a rather cool and intellectual demeanor. These natives are often quite witty and clever, but they present themselves in a less cheerful and changeable way than the first group. Their observations are sharp and the overall manner is a tad brusque.

☽ No matter the style, Gemini rising natives are given to analysis and making sense of their world. Their powers of observation are well-developed, they are mentally active (more often than not, their minds are racing!), and they almost always have something bright or witty to say. 

CANCER ON HOUSE 2

☽ Cancer is a fruitful sign to have on a money house. They can rely on sound instincts to acquire and save money. Very good money sense. They can use their keen ability to home in on what the public wants and needs, and benefit financially.

LEO ON HOUSE 3

☽ Keenly interested in education, and a good teacher. They are a very good organizer. Everything is carefully studied, explained, and swiftly executed.

LEO ON HOUSE 4

☽ May conduct family life like a business, rigorously and authoritatively. Great sense of organization, looking after what they own well, with pride.

VIRGO ON HOUSE 5

☽ They do not lack for practical sense to run their business and home. They are ingenious and good with their hands. They are modest and prudish.

SCORPIO ON HOUSE 6

☽ May like risky professions. Health: the genital area.

SAGITTARIUS ON HOUSE 7

☽ A union with a foreigner or a marriage abroad. They seek happiness and intellectual companionship more than anything.

CAPRICORN ON HOUSE 8

☽ Natural death in very old age likely. Inheritances.

AQUARIUS ON HOUSE 9

☽ A professional, they are innovative and original. They like travel, communicating with different people. Long research.

AQUARIUS ON HOUSE 10

☽ Success in teaching. He likes contact with others, to speak and explain in the profession.

PISCES ON HOUSE 11

☽ They may have only a few friends, but with these the friendship is sincere and frank.

TAURUS ON HOUSE 12

☽ Business affairs will have their highs and lows, financial loss can be heavy if it does happen.

"Be careful near the ship, that portal does not work as intended. Such a bad investment."

Thank you for reading all these. I know its long but i tried my best to create the chart, analyze and compare with Chamber's characteristics. There might be some/a lot of information on the chart that doesnt fit him, but its hard to make a whole chart fit to defined character (since all the calculations are already hard to find to fit his personality).

Again, thanks for reading. I hope it does fit him like i calculated on natal chart.

[theanalystau]

WIPs and some important notes

Finally working on this thing again! Not gonna lie, I got pretty demotivated for all of this and was almost thinking of discontinuing this AU altogether. And while I've mentioned this on insta, I never quite did on tumblr.

Part of the reason why I still do this AU even when I'm not really into DR anymore was from the fun this AU brings me. I like thinking of the different ways Hinata can put Komaeda under the wringer, and I like wondering how Komaeda would work dealing with a cheeky but manipulative analyst. But then, the reason I share this AU to others is because I like seeing what others think too. Though sometimes, hearing it is quite rare, so it makes me question whether people even want to see this finished, or if its even worth doing anymore.

But then I asked some ppl on instagram (which was where this AU really blew up) and so far, their encouragement was enough to keep me going. But if you have any thoughts for the things going on in this AU as well, I'd love to hear them. Can be big, medium, even tiny thoughts. It makes me feel like I'm not talking to a brick wall, and lets me know others are actively interested in seeing what happens.

Though in everyone's defense, I'm horrendously slow in doing this! Unfortunately all I can do is keep asking for your patience each turn, but I'll do my best to see this AU through. And a bit of a hint for what happens, this scene will deal with Hinata's first FTE, and acts similar to how canon Komaeda's 1st FTE worked in the game. And for once, we'll start seeing that lil komahina action I've been teasing of the moment I started this whole thing XD

[starrynightmuse]

In Defense of Public Speaking

Is it just me or do you think public speaking is so much easier than having conversations with people, one to one?

This may be an unpopular opinion because I often hear the reverse. As a college student, I'm always amazed when people who are quite talkative in class struggle when it comes to making a speech in front of everyone.

To me, public speaking gives you the element of control. Unless I am making an impromptu speech, everything I say is calculated, planned, and rehearsed. Every word is thought out in advance and the tone and tempo of the speech is something I can spend days perfecting before my presentation. Perhaps it is the perfectionist in me speaking, but I believe it's beautiful. Public speaking is more predictable than speaking one-on-one, which, to me, has numerous variables that can't be calculated in advance.

But whether I am delivering a rehearsed speech or making an impromptu one, there's a sense of peace in knowing that I have an allotted time to express myself and that I will be able to use it to its fullest. No one is going to interrupt me, at least not usually, and even if interruptions do occur, that's okay. As a speaker, I have control of the room and I can navigate the situation with poise to bring my audience's attention back to me. This is the "default"; etiquette commands people to be respectful, quiet, and to listen carefully during a speech. In normal conversations, it's less of a requirement and in my experience, most people are horrible listeners.

In public speaking, questions and comments won't be asked until the very end. During Q&A time, people are more likely to think twice about what they're going to say. This may be due to exercising careful listening skills or be a result of fearing that they'd misspeak or voice something unintelligent in front of the crowd.

Additionally, there's an appreciation for pauses when making public speeches. Rather than being perceived as awkward silences, they are seen as a public speaking strategy. When I pause during my speech, people won't see it as an opportunity to interrupt and shove their words down my throat. Instead, they'll think, "Oh. A dramatic pause. I wonder what she will say next."

On the other hand, when you converse with someone, you must repeatedly make quick decisions about how you're going to respond to the other. There's a back-and-forth. Now, don't get me wrong, I love dialogue and love listening to others share their thoughts and discussing with them! I would not want to talk to a brick wall.

But with many people, I try to plan carefully before I respond to them. There are a lot of steps involved in the "art of conversation", at least for me. First, I have to actively listen to the other person. Then, I have to interpret the information they're telling me. Sometimes, this means simply remembering what they said. Sometimes, it means analyzing, giving sympathy, getting rid of personal biases, and trying to understand the many nuances of their words and truly seeing them as a person. Lastly, I have to carefully choose the words that I think would be best for the person and the situation. With people I know and trust, the last step is easy. But with most people, they're not. It might take me a second to reply. I might pause as I talk.

Sometimes, this silence is seen as "Oh, she just doesn't have anything to say." But no. I'm simply thinking carefully. And then they move on to a new topic while I'm still over here, thinking about the old one. This is especially an issue with people who aren't patient or have very low attention spans.

I care deeply about how I communicate my ideas, and I like to choose and calculate my words before speaking. I also like to give my whole attention to a person when they are speaking. I won't start thinking about my reply until I know for sure that you are done saying what you wish to me. So please, do give me one second to collect my thoughts to form a reply. For this reason, I like to speak slowly when I am conversing and if you make me feel like I have to rush to get my words out, I will get frustrated and feel as if you are not giving my thoughts the respect and consideration that I am giving yours.

I listen more than I talk when I'm in conversations with people... but public speaking? My speeches tend to be longer than I originally planned. I love it.