#stole some squash though

[bahrtofane]

just your luck to have your favorite study spot taken, even if he’s cute, you’ve decided you’re enemies now. jude thinks other wise

word cout - 800+

watch it - puff fluff and silliness

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5.43 pm, 4th floor library. partly cloudy but pleasant early october day. not cold enough just yet for snow but chilly enough for cute sweaters. 

halloween is just around the corner, then thanksgiving. winter break is so close ! life is good. great even. smooth sailing. you have a celebratory donut from the cafe downstairs in one hand, and chai in the other. a little treat for the exam you just finished. 

you hum a song aimlessly under your breath as you maneuver around students and staff to get to your place. 

it’s a hidden jem. up on the top floor, allll the way back in the farthest left corner lies a tiny nook with a bean bag that overlooks campus in the prettiest way. Large triangle window with tiny little details in its fixtures.  it’s quiet, calm, and you actually get work done there. 

no ever comes up and it’s peace between the hectic campus life and extreme party culture. you're thinking of maybe just getting comfy and watching a movie today. a blanket would be nice, you could bring one next time, that one that-

your train of thought is derailed faster than it can recover.

your safe haven has been invaded.

there’s a man ! in your spot !! uhg. 

you can't believe it after almost half a semester of serenity the one thing you had is ripped away from you. mid chai, donut and all. the cruelty of the world has never seemed more apparent. you are reminded again that as soon as you can get comfortable, your ripped away and thrown back to reality. 

are you being dramatic ? yes. do you care ? no

the audacity of some people. 

you know logically this isn’t your spot. it’s in the public library where any student can sit and it’s good to share, morals are good. but holy fuck do you hope the guy who’s all cozied up has a fantastic time and maybe trips out the window. 

you resort to having to use a table like some commoner. 

——-

day 2, 4:30 pm. 4th floor. this time, you're sure everything was just a fluke and you’ll be back in business in no time. comfy cozy spot with pretty window. 

your inner peace gets squashed as yet again, your spot is being occupied. this time you need to look into the eyes of the criminal. 

you choose a seat facing the bean bag and set up shop to judge and send him bad vibes. 

unexpectedly, he’s pretty cute even from far away. handsome even. he’s got one of those faces people remember, his features sit so nice and the way he’s basically burying his face into a text book is a little cute you won’t lie. but this doesn’t change anything. 

he’s your enemy. regardless if he’s aware of it or not. 

you soon tune him about in favor of getting work done, but don’t miss the occasional glaces he gives you. 

how interesting. 

——-

your friends tell you this is the start of some enemies to lovers after you fill them in. but you don’t agree. 

especially now that it's the 3rd time. 

you think he’s quite stupid. no amount of pretty smiles and shy glances is going to change the fact that he stole your special once secret library spot. he’s ruined your life ! this is the third time he’s done so. there’s no way you're going to forgive this behavior. 

never mind you don’t know his name or the fact that you’ll most likely never talk to him. your rage runs deep, silent and personal. 

you hope his socks are wet for the next month. 

you might even start a diary just to be able to complain about him in a stupid amount of detail. whatever. 

you spend the next hour or so typing a little aggressively while hoping he bursts into flames or disappears. funny enough, while you take a little social media break, you look up to find him gone. it would be good riddance, expect for the fact that he appears in front of you not a moment later. 

“um, hi?” are the timid words that come from him. his voice does not match the face wow. 

though, he’s even more attractive up close. 

“hello? can i help you?” you try 

“yeah um, actually. i wanna apologize.” 

your left in awe. is he going to apologize for his thievery? is the criminal going to confess his guilt. is this the end of your rage. 

“ i know the bean bag is your spot because you come in at the same time i do and always use it. “

you narrow your eyes, “so you decided to take it because?”

he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, “um actually i just think you’re really cute and couldn’t think of another excuse to talk to you. my bad.”

“for the record i’m still very mad you took my spot. “ you sigh, not really though. You just like to be drammtic, but he eats it right up. cute.

he nods quickly. “understood. how about i take you out to make up for it ?”

you hum, “i’d like that. “

he smiles, “great. can i get your number to plan it out ?”

“mhm”

and with that your left with your spot now yours again. and a blooming possibility on the horizon. 

[mollysunder]

Before the first season of Arcane premiered Riot released this interactive visual novel for the Riot x Arcane event. The setting was a hybrid of LoL and Arcane's universe, Piltover literally on top of Zaun, Cait is the Sheriff, but characters like Silco exist. The whole premise for the story is that Jinx stole some hextech and tapped into the Arcane oand opened a rift between worlds.

That's a lot. Personally I enjoyed this more to just see some characters out in the wild. Silco gets to be his charming self to you, the self-insert reader that's trying to find the culprit of the heist, which he knows was his kid.

Here's Jayce hating on Silco for something Jinx did.

This came out before the show did, so it's interesting to see how the game wants us perceive the characters' dynamics before we get further depth from the show. Most of it's related to Jinx because she makes herself the center of controversy.

For characters like Vi, who's already an enforcer that works directly under Sheriff Caitlyn in this world, she's clearly over Jinx's actions and wants to squash any further escalations.

Sevika is just as harsh and plainly sick of Jinx. I do find it interesting that the novel makes it clear tha Sevika believes that Jinx deserves some kind of punishment, though Jinx did endanger them all by ripping realities into eachother.

The only sympathetic voice outside of Silco in this story comes from Viktor, who after finding out Jinx was responsible for the Rift between realities asks you to remember that she's a real person that lived a life just like him. He goes so far as to contemplate another way to solve the situation and avoid a confrontation that may end with terrible consequences. (It's wild because the show then dedicates a whole scene to him defusing one of her bombs).

My favorite part is near the end where Silco tries to stop Jinx from harnessing anymore Arcane energy because it threatens to upend their reality.

I WISH they got to talk like this to eachother in the show, but so much was happening already. Even better Jinx gets the last words in and it justlays out what's ALWAYS been there.

This scene helped me understand that Jinx was always going to fire her rocket at the council, because she and Silco have both always been motivated to by power. They both know what it's like to be perceived as "weak" and they way it destroyed their lives respectively. It's kind of the reverse of what Mel and Ambessa have going on, you've got the diplomatic intrigue parent and the militarily minded daughter who wants to go further and absolutely will when you're not looking. And that's always been the thing with Jinx, if you give her any form of power, either a gun, a grenade, a rocket, or even magic she will take it and she will use it.

Right after this confrontation you have to defeat Jinx with the Power of Friednship or something (it's been a while). But even as put an end to the near calamity Jinx created there's at least one voice before it ends affirming Jinx's personhood.

It's weird honestly, Jinx didn't turn into vapor or anything, the story's pretty vague about what happens as you try to defeat her.

Well the novel's good when it's good anyway.

[rydiathesummoner]

Rating FFXVI characters based on how badass they were when they died*

*the official status from Square Enix for three of the characters is "it's up to the player's interpretation" but for the purpose of this post obviously I'm rating as if they died.

Spoilers start here!

Elwin 4/10

It's always a bit badass to die saving your kid. So he gets some points there. And he didn't go out crying about how he was betrayed. That said, he was REALLY caught off guard by Head Chopper, and as the ruler of a nation and the spouse of a conniving bitch I expected more from him.

The Bastards 7/10

Squashed by Boulder Dude gets lots of points for the memorable epic scream. Axe Dude here gets points for getting murdered without messing up his hair. Now THAT's talent. Tiamat gets no points. He was easily beaten by his subordinate, plus he was given a chance to escape his position and he chose to remain loyal to Sanbreque. Like bro. That was your chance. So many people died in that battle. You could have just vanished. Did anybody go looking for Clive after he vanished? No! You died Sanbreque's loyal little bitch.

Benedikta 9/10

Benedikta went out like a champ. An absolute badass. She didn't even flinch at the previously unknown Eikon of Fire, she just took one look and was like "ok yeah sure I''ll kick this one's ass too." Girl regrew limbs and stood on Ifrit's face. She showed the player how scary eikons are. I'd give her a 10/10, but she threw my dog.

Cid 10/10

Cid destroyed a mothercrystal, got stabbed by an interdimensional monster, STOOD BACK UP to stab Ultima in the neck, then spent his last moments giving Clive a heartwarming and encouraging speech. He went out on his own terms, despite being a dominant. Bravo Cid 🫡

Imreann 0/10

Just look at this asshole. He genuinely thought Jill wouldn't kill him. His last moments were spent like "Wait, why is the girl I horribly mistreated killing me? That's not fair!" I considered giving him a pity point because Jill's badassery is awesome in this scene, but nah.

Hugo 4/10

The fight was a 10/10, but his death was too quick after that to really show any badassery. He used up everything he had to fight Clive, which I'll give him points for. But just turning instantly to stone like that... I dunno, he just seems pretty 'armless.

Sylvestre 6/10

Again, giving points here for dying to protect your kid. Even if your kid is a possessed monster from a conniving bitch. I gave him an extra point for running even though he needs a cane. And another because I'm pretty sure he figured out he was a dumbass all along in his last minutes.

Olivier 2/10

I'll give points for this death making me laugh. It wasn't a badass death at all, but I still clapped in my head.

Annabella 4/10

I hate this cunt so much. I wanted to kill her myself, but she stole that too. I'll give her points for the mystery of whether she actually thought Joshua was a demon or if she was just manipulating to the very end. Plus a point for trying to cut Joshua with her knife. If she really did think he was a demon, at least she tried to defend herself.

Barnabas 9/10

The fight was great. The crazy-man laugh was great. The best part though, is that he got one over the most overpowered person on the planet just by grabbing his ankle. Clive didn't even want Odin's power, but Barnabas was like "nope, you're slurping my powers whether you want to or not." I took off a point for his last words reminding the player of the scene of him cuddling his mom naked, ugh not the last thing I want to remember about the dude.

Dion 3/10

I gave him points because the "I ask not for acceptance but for forgiveness" part was cool, but everything else about this death was stupid. He's still babbling about his worthless father. He doesn't even mention the one person genuinely in his corner. He's badass the rest of the game, so his Suicide by Demigod death is incredibly stupid. Look, I've spent way too much time in the past in a therapist's chair ticking The Bad Boxes so I really, really understand the mental state. But that doesn't change the fact that killing yourself over something you didn't have control over is stupid. It would have been far more badass if he managed to find a way to live with himself, because that's far harder than offing yourself.

Joshua 10/10

Joshua was frail and weak, but he really powered through until the end. His dedication was admirable. He gave it his all, including his Phoenix powers. His last speech to Clive was so sweet, and it really showed his faith in Clive to do what was right for the world.

Ultima 7/10

The fight was great. But the sheer pettiness here won me over. Clive won fair and square, and Ultima is STILL getting his digs in, right up to the last second. His last words are pure snark. Maybe that's not very badass, but I can at least respect it.

Clive 9/10

I respect his ability to swim/float to the beach after that last fight. That's badass. I only took a point off because he didn't drag himself very far onto the beach. His body may be in trouble when the tide comes in. It's nice that his last moments are thinking of the ones he loved. But most impressive of all is that despite JUST dragging himself out of the water, his hair looks like he just stepped out of the salon. Like, damn. Nobody will ever top that ability. No man can compete with that.

[x-abysmal-x]

Some old-ish Toon AU stuff I found. Originally, everything used to be your run-of-the-mill grayscale cartoon show until a creature from outside their universe entered it. Because of the rift used to travel to it, the laws of their world were distorted. Squash and stretch wasn't so squashy and stretchy anymore, people began to age, people began to bleed. As if that all wasn't bad enough, the creature that entered the rift stole Sonic. Outside of his universe, Sonic ended up growing and changing at about the same rate as things do on average out there. What was worse, he was essentially being trained to be this entity's soldier (against his will of course). His home universe needs to learn how to adapt to the new laws of their reality, and Sonic will do anything to get back home.

There are so many more details but I don't really want to write a whole book right now. If it's something y'all would be interested in though, do let me know.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟔.𝟓𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟎𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

Rooster’s looking at you something funny.

You’re standing before him, facing the wall, gripping the wooden siding of the examination table almost entirely motionless. Your spine is straight, your neck is rigid, your shoulders are pulled up to your ears, your knees are locked, and the pigment in your knuckles is lightening because of how tightly you’re holding onto the side of the table. 

Surely you’re giving yourself splinters, Rooster thinks. Christ, birdie.

There’s a pile of clean linens in front of you, some of them half-folded. There’s an opened bag of pretzels, too, but they’re untouched like you were interrupted by something. Kenny Loggins is playing quietly on the radio. 

Nothing is out of place. Not really. Even you standing there, folding sheets, munching on snacks you stole from the canteen, listening to music isn’t out of place. Walk by the nurse’s cabin anytime this summer and passersby would see precisely this.  

What’s out of place, Rooster realizes, is the petrification that is holding you tight in its arms. And he realizes that is exactly what it is, this strange mood that’s infecting you, holding you down: it’s fear.  

He can’t imagine what’s got you this spooked in the middle of the day--Mable? Jake? Him? 

God, he hopes not. 

He wonders if he came on too strong earlier--really, it’s been gnawing at him all afternoon. He doesn’t want to come off as some Clydesdale who’s pissing all over you to mark his scent. He likes how fiery and independent you are and he’d never wanna squash that--partially because he knows that you would squash him if he even tried it. 

“Birdie,” Rooster tries finally. He’s been standing with one foot in the door long enough--he can’t bear to stand there and watch your frozen figure a moment more, not when you seem so off. “Hey. Birdie! C’mon, honey, did I come on too strong?” 

He’s really regretting it now--telling you that he’s been thinking about you all day.

What an opening line, he thinks. Idiot supreme.  

Still stuck in that gripping bit of farce that is nestled between awake and asleep, you can’t hear anything except for your own racing heart. Your lungs are in a vice and it’s getting tighter with each sunsoaked moment that passes, forcing your grip to get tighter and tighter on the wood until splinters embed themselves in your hands. 

Whatever is here with you is getting closer--so close that you can feel its heat radiating off whatever skin it wears, infecting your own flesh with goosebumps. 

This has to be a dream. 

Whatever you’ve seen isn’t real. It can’t be real because there is no Heaven and there is no Hell. There is only here and now. There is no such thing as monsters or ghosts or ghouls or cryptids. You’re dreaming. You didn’t sleep well last night. You fell asleep standing up like prey in the wilderness. It’s like a defensive mechanism.  

Yes, that must be it.

And even though your mind is pulsing with all these concrete conclusions, you still can’t move. And your heart will not cease in its racing because you can feel it coming closer and closer, the floorboards crying beneath their heavy footfalls, the stench of sulfur almost suffocating you. 

When it finally touches you, you’re ready for a fight. You whirl around, ready to face it, ready to scream, ready to dig your nails into its flesh. But it’s just Rooster standing there with his brown eyes wide and his hand on your shoulder. 

“Jesus!” You exclaim, all the breath punching out of your lungs and into his flushed face. “Way to sneak up on a girl!” 

Rooster’s brows furrow. 

“Sneak up on you? What planet are you on?” He asks, squeezing your shoulder. “I said your name, like, a hundred times.” 

Twice. But who’s counting? 

Swallowing hard, you put a hand over your still-racing heart and just blink at Bradley. 

“Didn’t hear you over the radio.” 

The radio is hardly loud enough to hear at all. Bradley knows that. You know that. But instead of pushing you, instead of asking you what’s got you so scared, he just nods curtly. His hand is still resting comfortably on your shoulder now. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” you say softly, quietly. “Tired, I guess.” 

Rooster burns. He wants to say didn’t get much sleep last night, huh? But he reserves that special bitterness for Jake--lets it sit in a cool and dry place like an aging red wine.  

It’s quiet. My Sharona by The Knack is playing now. 

The two of you just stand near each other, touching in some places but far away in others. You’re still coming down from your waking nightmare--which is what you’ve decided it is. Just a waking nightmare. It’s not uncommon in stressful situations--and this is as stressful a situation as any.

“Freaked out about what’s going on around here?” Rooster asks 

Things still feel relatively okay around here. Mable’s a nightmare and a half, you’re having freaky sleep paralysis, the tree is still blocking the drive. But the kids are still playing tag and Coyote still freestyles to entertain his gremlins at lunch. Everyone’s wearing their camp uniforms and taking turns cleaning the mess hall. Grass is still green and sky is still blue--so for right now, everything should feel okay. 

But you can’t shake that pit in the bottom of your belly. One that you get when you hear a rattling in a baby’s cough and know, with all your heart, that they have RSV. One that you get when you know why an elderly patient has been smiling at the foot of her bed all day like she’s seeing an old friend. One that you get on very, very quiet nights in the hospital. 

It’s impending doom. 

“Sure,” you answer, clearing your throat. “Things haven’t been tubular, right? I’d be a quack to not be a little freaked.” 

Rooster nods. He knows you won’t come completely undone--not here, not now. 

“But you do know things will be hunky-dory, yeah?” 

A beat passes. 

“Sure I do,” you answer quietly. 

You don’t. 

“Your turn to comfort me,” Rooster teases. 

He’s waiting for a grin to split your face. He’s waiting for an eye roll or an exasperated sigh or a nudge or a shove. But none of it comes--you’re just staring at him, your eyes wide and watery. 

“Do you think someone sliced her?” 

He swallows hard. 

“What do you mean? Didn’t you say it was man-made?” 

He knows precisely what you mean. 

“Yeah. But, like--do you think she did it to herself?” 

Another beat passes. He isn’t sure what to say to make you feel better. 

“What’s the alternative?” He asks softly, parroting your previous conversation from the night before. 

He wonders, right then and there, if hysteria is going to eventually take hold of this place. Are things going to keep on happening, is this vibe going to keep getting infected? Are they all going to die by the end of summer? Or will all the men be able to hack the tree up, haul it out, and get everyone the Hell outta dodge before then? Is this just some fluke that you all will talk about next summer and the summer after and the summer after? 

He wishes he knew what was going to happen next.

You shift uncomfortably, wringing your hands together. 

“Someone running around cutting people up.” 

“Haven’t we been over this?” He asks this gently, but seriously. “She’s a nut. A martyr, right? Who’d wanna cut her up, anyway? I mean--the bible I understand, I guess. Take her down a peg or two. But who would really wanna hurt her? She’s a kid.” 

Your mouth is dry. 

“Right,” you say. “Who’d want to hurt a child?” 

He knows it’s a rhetorical question--but he deflates when he can’t find an answer for you.

“I mean--we figured out no knives were used, right? So, what? Another kid uses a broken up sea shell or a stone to cut Mable? I don’t really see that happening, birdie. Mable’s obedient, but she ain’t obedient enough to sit there and be worked on with a rock.” 

“They could’ve been strong,” you tell Bradley. “Maybe she didn’t have, like, a choice.” 

Bradley shakes his head. 

“Mable’s the tallest in her group. What kid’s big enough to hold her down?” 

Shifting on your toes, you bury your nails into the soft part of your palm. 

“What if it wasn’t a kid?” 

“All the counselors were accounted for--!” 

“--I know that,” you interrupt, looking at Rooster through your lashes. “I know that. All I’m saying is that we need to be vigilant. Just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Rooster asks. 

“In case shit hits the fan and we can’t leave.” 

Rooster blinks a few times. 

“Well, at least we’ve got two good shots now. Right, bullseye?” 

You don’t laugh. 

Another beat passes. 

Bradley very carefully pushes the pads of his fingers into your cotton sleeve before pulling you a centimeter closer, inhaling the thick scent of jasmine on your pulse points before slowly resting his forehead against yours. 

His sweat bleeds onto your skin. Your salt is his salt now. 

Gingerly, you reach out and take his left hand, carefully tracing his bandages. They’re dotted with a tiny bit of blood--nothing to worry yourself over, but enough that you’ll change them before he heads out again. 

But neither of you are keen on moving at this precise moment. Everything else can wait.

“I’m a survivor,” Bradley whispers with a small smile, wrapping the fingers of his left hand around your inspecting fingers. “Don’t you worry about me.” 

“Oh, I don’t,” you assure him. “I worry about me.” 

“I worry about you, too.” 

Even though you’re mostly kidding, he isn’t. 

“Don’t,” you say quietly. The very tip of his nose nudges yours--a bead of your sweat rolls down your forehead and into his messy curls. “I’m big and strong.” 

“I’m bigger and stronger,” Rooster teases. He isn’t surprised when you pinch him, but he grins anyway. “And I’ll protect you from all those big, bad monsters out there.” 

“They only want to cut up bible-thumping little girls,” you answer. 

He heaves a sigh of relief. 

Good. You’re teasing again.  

“Maybe it’s virgins,” he says quietly, beaming down at you. And then when you gasp and step on his toe, he’s laughing a big and broad laugh, pulling you closer to him. “Oh, birdie-girl, I’m only joshing you!”

“You know, I was gonna change your bandages,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes at him as he grins a boyish grin at you. You smooth your fingers over his mustache sweetly and he kisses your fingers, which sends the butterflies into a fluttering frenzy. But then you pinch his lip. “But now I’m gonna let you sit in it. Bathe in your own blood.” 

Bradley smiles softly, wrinkling his nose. 

“You’re already goo-goo under her influence,” he teases. “Only a matter of time before you start telling Hangman he’s gonna get chopped up, too.” 

Shrugging, you hold both his hands in yours. They’re so big--riddled with veins that you know like to bleed, callused from working construction during the year.

“No one’s getting chopped up on my watch.”

♀

Just as the sun is setting, when it’s a ball of orange fire sinking below the towering oak trees and the wispy pink clouds, you happen upon Mable standing at the old barn. She’s not supposed to be standing there--none of the children are. Not only because it’s basically falling apart old red plank by old red plank, but because it houses the old bus which is basically a hunk of tetanus. 

“Mable, honey,” you call in an even and gentle voice, turning towards her and stepping a few paces in her direction. 

She doesn’t turn around--she’s starting intently at the old dust-covered bus with her hands limp at her sides. Her bandage is soaked with blood. 

When you make it to her, the cooling air goosing your skin, you can feel the strange charge in the air that kisses her skin. It’s intimidating almost--how thickly her energy buzzes, how it makes you feel peculiar. 

“I’m just looking,” she whispers defensively, taking a half-step away from you. “Not doing anything wrong.” 

“I know,” you say, straightening your shoulders. “But you know you aren’t supposed to be over here, right?” 

You watch her face. She wrinkles her nose, blinks her glazed eyes a few times. Then she gives a tiny nod. 

“I wanted to see it,” she says, quieter now. “Wanted to see if it would…turn on if we needed it to.” 

The immediate reaction in your gut is to huff and puff, roll your eyes, and tell Mable that she’s making a big deal out of nothing. But that’s what everyone has been doing to her. And right now--well, right now she isn’t hurting anyone. She is just looking. You remember what it felt like to be her age: when all the attention you got was from boys who dropped worms down the back of your shorts and tried to steal your panties during cabin raids. Being a twelve-year-old girl was lonely, rotten work. 

“Why do you think something bad is gonna happen?” You ask her very softly. You hope no one passes by on their way to the fire and hears you asking her this--they’d never let you live it down. “Is it a feeling or…?” 

“It’s more than that,” Mable tells you. She digs the toe of her Ked into the gravel and twists it. “Miss Nightingale, I saw the Devil.” 

“What makes you so sure?” You whisper. 

Now you’re staring straight ahead, too. There is no way the hunk of rust before the two of you will start up--it’s thick layer of dust is an indicator of that. You can’t even imagine how many spiders live there now in the hot, dank barn. Wedged between old leather seats. Gathered in the corner in webs of cotton. Underneath the wheel well. 

“I saw him. I was going to the bathroom and I saw him going to Mister Hangman’s cabin. I got in his way on accident. I was so scared when I smelled his rot that I wet myself.” 

“What did he look like?” You ask. 

“Like one of us. But funnier. Like a wolf in sheep’s skin.” 

The sudden urge to retch overwhelms you, but you take a deep breath and stay quiet, waiting for her to continue. 

“I could not run. My legs were like Jell-O. He told me he is going to get Mister Jake. He told me he is going to get us all. I tried to push the holy book against his skin, but he shredded it. Shredded it.” 

“With what?” You press, assuming that she will drop the act and suddenly be at a loss. 

But she answers instantaneously. 

“One of those knives that has clippers and a corkscrew.” 

“A Swiss army knife?” You ask. 

She nods. 

“That’s what he cut me with, too. Slice. Right there.” 

“You’re bleeding,” you tell Mable, taking her wrist and pulling her arm to you so you can start rolling her bandage back. “Does it hurt?” 

“It bleeds when I think of him,” she answers, all breath. She shakes her head, still not tearing her glassy eyes away from the barn. She doesn’t even move to slap a mosquito away from her face. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.” 

You nod, tongue swollen with fear. 

“Alright,” you answer. You sigh. “What do you think is going to happen?” 

Now Mable turns and looks at you in your eyes--they’re wide with fear, swimming with unrest. She’s tearful, but not in a babyish way. In a petrified way. In a hopeless way.

“It’s already happening,” she whispers. “The tree. The first cut. My blood being drawn. My bible being shredded. It’s getting stronger. And we’re stuck here.”

Despite the lightning bugs dotting the green grass and the stars beginning to litter the sky, a chill runs down your spine. You’re staring at Mable’s undressed cut now, eyes glazed, when it suddenly begins to ooze dark red blood. It is thin and watery, cascading down her arm and into the dirt below you. 

She’s thinking about him. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up before the bonfire starts, huh?” 

“I’m not going,” she says. 

The both of you know that attendance is necessary. But both of you know that she will not go and you will not make her. If need be, you’ll tell everyone she’s running a fever. 

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m gonna give you a new bandage, okay?” 

“Miss Nightingale?” Mable asks, her voice thin. 

Despite your better judgment, you meet her wide-eyed and watery gaze.

“Yes?” You whisper. 

“I don’t want it to get you,” she whispers. “When it comes for you, you have to fight it.”

“That’s enough now,” you whisper. Warm blood drips onto your hands. “That’s enough.”

“You can get it,” she mutters. “God has touched you. You’ve been close to death--I can see it on you.”

Fingertips tingling, you shake your head. 

“How do you know that?”

“I smell it on you,” she says. Her cheeks pinken at the confession like it embarrasses her. “I can always smell good and bad.”

“I think you need to go to bed,” you tell her softly, nodding towards the nurse’s cabin. “Let’s clean you up.” 

She nods. And then she chews her lips for a moment, feet dragging on the gravel. 

“I don’t wanna die,” she admits to you. 

Staring straight ahead, straining past the dying call of the sparrows and the beginnings of a roaring bonfire just down the courtyard on the edge of the lake, you swallow hard. 

“You’re not going to die,” you tell her. And then you shake your head, holding Mable’s wrist tight. “But don’t you have a spot waiting for you past the pearly gates? Thought death wasn’t supposed to skeeve out believers and all that.” 

You can’t help yourself from asking this. It claws at your fingers after the fact when Mable takes a moment to respond. You shouldn’t have said anything. She’s just a kid. But right before you’re about to turn around and apologize, she opens her mouth. 

“God has a place for us all in Heaven,” she says, measuring herself. “My mama says it’s like a guest bedroom. Some of them are ready--like, when you’ve got the AIDS or when you’re a grandma. So, their walls are painted and their quilts are finished and there’s little chocolates waiting on their pillows. But when you’re young like me or you…they’re not ready yet. And we’ll have to wait in the hallway while they make our beds. And when we go in our rooms, the walls won’t be painted and the photos won’t be framed. None of our friends will be there yet. It’ll be like staying at a hotel by yourself.”

For some reason, you can’t breathe for a moment. You’re about to cross the threshold of the nurse’s cabin but your foot pauses mid-air, hesitating. 

Mable just watches your spine stiffen, your fingers tighten. 

“Oh,” you whisper. And you don’t know what else to say. “But you know that’s Heaven?” 

“Yes,” Mable answers--and there’s no hesitation this time. “Hell is much, much worse.” 

Like a Motel 6, you think. But then you can’t seem to find the humor in any of this at all. 

Heaven and Hell, life after death, the great beyond--you wonder about it a lot. Not enough to send you through chapel doors on Sunday’s, but enough that you sometimes let The 700 Club play on the television while you cook. You’ve watched a plump, pink baby slip from their mother in a flurry of blood and fluid on the emergency room floor. You’ve held a dying man’s hand in yours--even taken off your gloves quietly to let him feel skin one last time before the cancer takes their last bite of him. You know that cuts bleed on living flesh and clot under decaying flesh. You know the scent of rot and the smell of someone’s insides when they’re opened up for an appendectomy. You know the differences between these two things. 

It bleeds into other areas, too. Like right now: you’re tenderly cleaning the bleeding cut on Mable’s live skin as she sits on the examination table, her skin warm and her lungs pink. Just down yonder, there is a tree that is dead. It’s leaves will no longer be green in a few months--the ones closest to the trunk have already begun to brown. Being alive and being dead seems to be such a simple state of being.

Petrification tickles the base of your spine when you wonder about what’s coming next. When you die, will you smell drying paint and hear the dull humming of a naked bulb? Or will you smell your grandma’s peach cobbler and sleep between two down-comforters on silk sheets? 

And as Mable watches your face--your brows drawn, your lip bitten, your cheeks hot--she prays. 

Dear God, It’s Mable again. Please turn on the bus or else you’re gonna be spending a fortune in bedsheets. Thank you. Amen. 

♀

Bradley and Jake both notice how little you’re speaking within the first ten minutes of your arrival. You’re late--the sky totally dark--when you finally show up in your lazy cotton dress, nestling yourself between Bob and Phoenix on the opposite side of the roaring fire. Both of them saved a spot for you and were keen on finding out where you’d sit; both deflate when you don’t so much as glance at them. 

When spooky stories begin, each camper holding a wide flashlight beneath their faces while they tell their fragmented and, frankly, not-so-spooky stories, you just nod along. You only laugh when Phoenix nudges you or when Bob twists to look at your orange-lit face. 

“You not jiving with spooky stories tonight?” Phoenix asks as the cicadas sing. “You look peeved.”

“Tired,” you answer with a small wrinkling of your nose. 

“Tell me about it,” Bob whispers to the both of you, fire reflecting off his glasses so pristinely that it looks like his eyes are on fire. “I’m beat. Today’s been Hell.”

“Let’s get blitzed!” Phoenix grins.

“Let’s,” you agree, wilting.

By midnight, you’re perking up a bit. You’ve been passing around the brandy bottle for a while, your cheeks and the tip of your nose hot from the hissing fire before you. There’s marshmallow in your teeth and goosebumps down the backs of your arms. Seats have been arranged and songs have been sung and stories have been told. 

Now, you find yourself buzzed and sitting between Hangman and Rooster. They’re both buzzed, too, and their pink cheeks and glossy eyes are a dead giveaway. Stolen glances, sly swipes of the thumb across the back of your hand, the occasional lean-in have all occurred on the left and right side of your body. 

“What’s next?” Bradley asks, his worn acoustic guitar settled on his lap. He’s holding the brandy bottle in one hand, his lips wet from the swig he just took. You watch as a marshmallow melts on a rock. “Got any requests, birdie?” 

He’s asked you this half a dozen times tonight. 

“Buzz off,” you whisper, a smile tugging on your lips.

“Yeah,” Jake echoes. “Buzz off, Bradshaw.”

“Easy now, Bandit. Easy now, Cledus!” Payback grins. “There’s enough Carrie to go around!” 

“Hey,” you say suddenly, turning to Bradley with a faux-frown. “You took my copy of Carrie!” Bradley swallows, his brows sloping. You cock your brows, too, lips quirking. “What?”

“I think I might’ve misplaced that,” he says, sighing through his teeth. “Sorry about that.”

Pretending to gape, you don’t shrug Hangman’s arm off your shoulder or his lips from your cheek as you continue to stare at Bradley. 

“Bad move, man,” Fanboy sighs, clapping Bradley on the shoulder. He takes the bottle from Bradley’s hand and takes a swig, too. He doesn’t grimace. “Pushing her right into his arms!” 

“Aw, can it!” Phoenix quips from across the fire. She’s inspecting the joint she’s had tucked in her suitcase all summer. She brings it out at every bonfire and usually never smokes it, claiming that the energy just isn’t right. “They’re endgame.”

“Says you!” Bob laughs, pushing his glasses up his nose. They’re somehow still crooked. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

“They’re betting on us now,” Hangman whispers, shaking his head. “Should I tell them to bug?” 

“Nah,” you whisper, pressing your open palm to Bradley’s cheek--he leans into your touch, laughing. “Let them guess!”

The brandy’s really making you feel better about all this spare-bedroom business. Who cares if you live or die, go to Heaven or Hell, when your face feels this warm and your belly feels this full? And who cares if you choose Hangman and Rooster? You feel good enough to even consider both of them--

Stretching your body out, your skirt riding up deliciously on your plush sighs as your rear scraped the bark of the log you’re sitting on, you sigh and run your fingers down your dress. 

 “Alright,” Coyote calls, coughing quietly and sending the joint back to Phoenix. “Jakey-poo! Why don’t you fill everyone in on that story you were telling me earlier? Gave me the willies!”

Grinning, you turn to Hangman. Bradley’s palm falls on your knee. 

“But my song,” he says, brows knit. 

Hangman grins at Rooster and then winks at you--so quickly, so slyly that you almost miss it.

“Your song can wait, brother,” Hangman says. “I’ve gotta scare everyone’s pants off real quick!” 

Rooster makes a show of glancing at you and then back to Hangman--everyone groans in unison when he throws his arms up and bites a boyish grin. 

“Oh, by all means, then!” Rooster calls. “Take it away!” 

“I’m not even wearing pants, you goons,” you mutter. Then you pinch Jake’s thigh. “But give it an honest try.” 

“Yeah, and maybe something else will come off instead!” Coyote grins, winking when you send him an o-shaped mouth. “Aw, honey, I’m only razzing you!” 

“Yeah,” Fanboy echoes. “We all want you to keep your panties on!”

“Speak for yourself,” Hangman laughs, winking at you. 

“The next person to say panty is going to get an Indian rugburn,” Phoenix declares, hands on her hips. The joint is hanging coolly from her lips, her dark and shiny curls slicked back into a ponytail. “And then a swift kick in the ass.” 

“I’ll throw in a loogie,” Bob says, nodding at you. He waves away Phoenix when she offers him a hit. “You guys are real beasts!” 

“We’re only kidding,” Bradley says, nudging you. “Right, honey?” 

“I’m gonna bite the next man that touches me,” you sigh. 

“Promise?” Hangman and Rooster say in total unison. 

“Tell the damn story!” Payback insists, borderline incredulous right before he swigs the brandy. “Idiots!”

Bradley’s laughing as Jake grins, running his hands through his blonde locks before he holds his hands up in defense. 

“Alright, alright!” He grins. He presses a lewd kiss to your forehead and you growl softly, digging the toes of your shoes into the dirt. “Four score and seven years ago or however fucking long ago the fifties were, there were six camp counselors and one nurse--!” 

“--Wait a minute,” Coyote interrupts dumbly, counting all counselors and then you with wide eyes. “There’s six counselors and one nurse here!” 

“Jinkies!” Bradley says, mouth wide open and grinning. 

“Christ, can’t we make it through one story?” Fanboy groans. 

“So, there’s a whole gaggle of these idiots here,” Hangman continues, laughing. You lean back on your palms, the bark rough on your hands. “And one day, some big old fucker decides to trot onto camp grounds and start slicing and dicing everyone! And I mean everyone--even the nurse.” He pinches your sides and you roll your eyes but bite a grin. “But these people weren’t just, like, regularly sliced and diced…” 

Everyone oo’s and ahh’s. 

“Like, what were they, man?” Bob asks, mocking Shaggy Rogers. 

“Axed,” Jake answers ominously, eyebrows raised. “Into little tiny bits and little tiny pieces. One by one, counselor by counselor…” 

“Oh, bullshit,” Phoenix says, lungs full of smoke. Her voice is pitched from holding her breath as she passes the joint to you. “Seven versus one. Bullshit he killed them all!” 

“He did, though,” Jake insists. “Right here at our camp!”

“Nah,” Payback returns. “We would know about it!” 

You hold the joint to your lips, its earthy scent tickling your nostrils, before inhaling deeply and titling your head to the sky full of stars as you hold your breath. 

“Well, I’m telling you, aren’t I? Stop interrupting,” Jake says, passing the joint back to Phoenix for you after taking a tiny hit. “What I was gonna say was: he was strong enough to take on all them weaklings because he wasn’t working alone.” 

“A Bonnie and Clyde situation?” You ask, coughing. You can already feel the high in the tips of your fingers and toes. “That’s ridiculous.” 

“No, not another person,” Jake insists. “The Devil himself.” 

“Right, okay--Mable.” 

Everyone roars with laughter except you. 

“Hey,” you snap, turning towards Bradley, whose eyes are gleaming in the firelight. “Knock it off. She’s just a kid.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Jake says, brows furrowed. “A kid who said I was gonna die before the end of summer!” 

“Yeah, and little Susie ran around camp saying Rooster gave Nightingale a rib inspection,” Coyote defends. “Kids say shit. Doesn’t mean jack!”

“She meant whatever the fuck she was saying,” Fanboy sists, eyes fixed on the flames. “Freak.” 

“C’mon,” Payback says, bumping Fanboy. “Lay off, man. At least she offered to save your soul before you croak, Jake!” 

Everyone laughs again. 

“Okay, so the Devil helped him,” you interrupt, glancing at Jake again. The laughter dies off until it’s no louder than the bullfrogs. “Then what? He killed everyone and got away?”

“Let me guess--he’s still living on campgrounds today! And he only comes out when there’s a--!” Bradley gasps, pointing to the half-crescent moon. “A crescent moon!” 

Jake straightens his shoulders, just drunk enough to wanna grab that serious face of yours and press his lips against yours. But he refrains, shrugging softly. 

“Well, that’s the mystery. This guy’s strong enough to pick off seven adults--but he’s found dead, too. Some say he had shot himself. Others say one of the male counselors drowned him before kicking the can too. But only a few know the truth.” 

Oooo. Ahhhh. 

“And what would that truth be?” Coyote prompts, practically vibrating in his seat. 

“The truth is…” Hangman says, pulling you against him as he leans in and drops his voice to a whisper. “Only the Devil knows what happened that day. But the whole town of Great Oaks remembers when the Devil met the Maniac.”

And, on cue, Coyote suddenly jumps out of his seat and hollers. There’s a collective jump, then howling laughter from Coyote and Hangman as they high-five each other. 

“I’m gonna kill you guys,” Bradley grumbles, eyes narrowed. “Or die trying!”

Hangman grabs both your hands, dropping to his knees before you as he beams up at your sweet-but-annoyed face. This is how he likes you: a little bit pissed off, but drunk enough to forgive his idiocy immediately. 

“Did I scare the pants off you?” He asks, warm palms sliding up the outside of your thighs. He bites his lip when your smile begins to fade, a certain wanton hunger dancing across your pupils. “Or should I tell another?” 

Rooster clears his throat and throws his arms around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You really feel like a ragdoll tonight. 

“How about a little Joni?” Rooster asks. 

You gasp--just like he knew you would. 

“I love Joni Mitchell!” 

And with that, Rooster begins to strum on his guitar. His notes are a little bit sour, but after a moment, the chords become decipherable. 

He’s strumming A Case of You.  

He’s not the best guitar player here--but he’s the only one who brought his guitar and he isn’t keen on letting anyone else touch it. It makes Bob squirm every time he sees the uncareful way Rooster cares for his instrument, always throwing it around and letting it hang off that awful paisley strap that looks like it’s about to snap right off. But Bob never says anything at all; he’s content knowing he could outplay anyone here and not get a scratch on his guitar. 

Sometimes, when everyone works together at something, it gives you chills. Like when someone is crashing and all the nurses and doctors work in total unison to push epi and transfer stretchers and grab a crash cart. Or when everyone’s washing dishes in the canteen and there’s an assembly line of ringer-wearing friends drying and rinsing. You get it the most when people sing together--even if no one sounds particularly good. 

You feel the chill now, sitting complacent at the base of your spine before springing to life and sending shockwaves all the way to the ends of your hair, when everyone begins to drunkenly sing and hum. 

“Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine,” Bradley croons, his voice exacerbated and rocky as he winks at you. “You taste so bitter and so sweet!”

Just as you’re about to fall head over heels for the idiot with the big brown eyes, Jake suddenly takes your hand and pulls you to your feet. Before you register the placement of your feet on this earth, Jake’s spinning you out and pulling you back in as everyone hoots. 

“Oh, she’s a fantastic dancer!” Hangman narrates, grinning at you. His face is warm and sweet in the light of the flames. “Watch her now!”

I’m frightened by the Devil / And I’m drawn to those ones that ain’t afraid

“You’re embarrassing me!” You try--except you’re beaming when Jake pulls you close to his warm body, stroking your hair from your face carefully. “Really!” 

“Sure,” Hangman says, kissing your forehead before spinning the two of you in a circle. “Tell me to stop then.” 

You can’t find your voice suddenly.

And she said, “Go to him. Stay with him if you can. / But be prepared to bleed."

And just as everyone is clapping and the bottle is being passed and the joint is being devoured and the guitar hits a few sour cords and you can feel the lustful heat from two sets of eyes, you are suddenly overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by it all: Heaven, Hell, Mable, Jake, Bradley, Joni Mitchell, the fire, Maine, the bullfrogs. 

Jake watches you blink a few times, your grin dying on your lips. 

“Invite me over tonight, huh?” Jake says close to your ear. “I’ll make it worth it. Again.”

 And even though his inquiry makes wetness pool in your panties, your cheeks are too hot and your body is too full and your mind is too foggy. 

Before he can ask if you’re okay, you tear yourself from him abruptly and give him (and everyone else) a weak smile. 

“Bathroom break,” you say softly. 

Phoenix jumps to her feet. 

“Me too.” 

You and Phoenix finish the joint in the privacy of the girl’s restroom--which is really just a glorified outhouse with broken tile floors and only one working sink. The naked bulb above the two of you rocks back and forth as you two smile at each other from across the tiny, dingy floor. 

“I think they’d tear you in half if they could,” she says, shaking her head with a sigh. “Dumbasses.” 

Rolling your eyes, you nod. Your arms are crossed and the heat radiating off your own chest is lulling your heart to a steady beat. You feel better being alone with Phoenix in here--it’s cooler but stuffier. You’re getting high quickly. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “They’ve both got it pretty bad for me.” 

“Is that why you’re losing sleep?” Phoenix asks, ashing the joint before taking a tiny hit. When your eyebrows pull together, when your lips twist, she cocks her head. “Bags. Under your eyes.” 

Instinctively, you press the delicate skin there. It’s thin and warm. 

“That noticeable, huh?” 

She shrugs. 

“Oh, like you’re not the hottest person here anyway,” she says, rolling her eyes with a good-natured grin. 

Moving towards the mirror, you examine yourself in the mirror. Yes, there’s definitely a puffiness below your eyes that reads exactly like hey, I haven’t been sleeping! Good morning! 

When you groan, Phoenix pats your shoulder. 

“It’s not the boys,” you tell her finally, swallowing. 

For some reason, just the prospect of talking about it outloud makes your heart race. How do you even begin to explain what’s happening to you? The figure, the blood, the kiss, the sleepwalking? 

“What is it then?” Phoenix asks, glancing at you with her face open and earnest. Her shoulder is pressed against yours and despite facing opposite ways, you know you have her full attention. “Night terrors?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Something bogus like that.” 

“What--like, really?” 

You nod. 

“I don’t know,” you mutter, looking into your own eyes as Phoenix pulls out her ponytail and lets her curls spring free. “Just, like, the worst nightmares of my life. They make me sleepwalk sometimes. And fall asleep standing up. It’s--well, it’s weird, right?”

Phoenix blinks at you, combing through her hair. She watches your serious face as you look at your reflection, absently touching all those little places you consider to be less-than. 

“When did it start?” 

“They’ve been going on for a few days,” you answer quietly. 

“Like--recurring?” She asks. You nod. Her hands fall to her side. “That’s bogue.” 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.” 

She swallows, chewing her lip. 

“What happens in them?” 

Shaking your head, you hum. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it. Don’t wanna--I don’t wanna, like, give it any more power over me, you know? And even talking it outloud feels like I’m doing just that.” 

Phoenix nods--she understands. 

It’s quiet for a few moments. You’re high enough to wonder if you can hear the campers dreaming--but then you realize it’s just crickets. Phoenix is high enough to want to take a dip in the lake and is heavily considering asking Bob to join her. 

“Let’s not leave ‘em waiting,” she says, nudging you. “Don’t want any maniacs to chop ‘em up!” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, shaking all the bad thoughts away. “That’s my job.”

And just as the words leave your lips, just as you turn and smile tiredly at Phoenix, you feel something pop between your nostrils. Suddenly, Phoenix looks confused then horrified as warm, wet blood begins to gush down your face. 

“Nightingale!” Phoenix says, scrambling. “Your nose!” 

As quickly as you can, you lean over the sink. But then Phoenix is grabbing your shoulders, tugging you towards the shower. 

“Too much blood!” She insists, laughing despite herself. Pennies settle on your tongue. “Your shoes!” 

Kicking your shoes off, you let her lead you to the dirty shower tile. You’re both laughing and blood is dripping onto the floor and you’re too high to care about the blood spilling down your throat and the chest of your dress. 

“What the fuck is going on here?” You ask between laughter. “My God!” 

Phoenix laughs, holding your hair back. 

“There is no God here,” she laughs, dropping her voice a few octaves. “Only the maniac! And the devil!” 

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: PHOENIX IS ON ONE, I LOVE HER!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

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[all-eyes-lead-to-the-truth]

All Eyes Lead to the Truth | Tempus Fugit (4x17)

The Headless Woman’s Pub was crowded wall-to-wall with red-faced employees of the Federal Government who had traveled the measly few blocks after work— despite the fact that it was a Sunday. As far as Val could tell, these people never took a day off.

Before getting this gig, he always imagined the feds drank like they were in one of those film noirs, pulling a handle of whiskey out of their desk and mulling over it after a hard case. He thought being an FBI Agent must’ve been so cool and mysterious.

“Oh shit!” a voice slurred from the other side of the room.

Val glanced over and saw that kid from the Violent Crimes Unit wiping spilled beer off of his date’s lap.

After getting this gig, he realized everything he used to think about the feds was bullshit. 

These were some of the most depressed fuckers he’d ever met. The ones that got the job for the glory would inevitably crash and burn, and the good ones would be haunted by the evils they saw. He couldn’t blame any of them for needing to indulge at the end of the day, but, Christ— J. Edgar himself would blush at the things these people said when they were drunk. He was starting to wonder if there was a single desk in that building that hadn’t been defiled. Though that was nothing compared to the guy who drank himself under the table because the ‘alien-guy’ stole his job. Val still didn’t know what the hell that meant, but he could still hear the way that guy kept muttering “fucking grey.”

“Excuse me.”

Glancing up, he saw a tall guy easing himself in between two people sitting at the bar. “Do you have a tab started?” Val asked.

“No, uh, I actually had a favor to ask,” the man clarified while his hands fidgeted against the bar’s wooden ledge.

Glancing around and seeing everyone’s drinks were full, Val stopped what he was doing and replied, “Shoot.”

Lanky started fumbling around with the pocket of his suit coat, and he began to worry the guy was gonna pull out his badge. They were too damn short-staffed to spare anyone for a twenty-minute interrogation about some drunk guy making a fool of himself after having one too many.

But agitation quickly made way for confusion when he was presented with one of those pink Hostess monstrosities. Ho Ho? Zapper? Chocodile Kazbars? Whatever the hell it was called, it should be illegal to put coconut in anything that was supposed to be called a dessert.

“I’m on a diet,” he deadpanned.

Ignoring his comment, the man tried to fluff the pink ball back into shape after presumably squashing in his pocket. “The woman I came in with— it’s her birthday, and she loves these things. I was wondering if there was any way you could ask someone in the back to put it on a plate and bring it out to her?”

Now that was a new one, especially for a shithole like this place. “Ya mean like Chili’s?”

“Well, hey, I certainly won’t say no if you have any sombreros hidden away in the kitchen,” he chuckled, looking over his shoulder as if to make sure his date wasn’t getting suspicious. Then, as if nervous Val would say no, he added, “They don’t have to sing Happy Birthday or anything. I know you guys are busy and—”

Interrupting the man’s rambling, he grabbed the pink cream ball. “What’s her name?”

“Scully.”

Val’s eyebrows rose at that. “She related to Vin? I was more of a Jerry Doggett fan myself.”

The guy exhaled a laugh, but then he shook his head. “No, and sorry, actually.” He spared another glance over his shoulder, and this time Val looked with him. It must’ve been the redhead who was glancing around, presumably searching for her boyfriend. He watched the shy smile that spread across her lips as her eyes met the man’s, and damn if she wasn’t one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Her man must’ve known that too based on the nervous smirk that was on his face when he turned back around. “Dana. Her name is Dana,” he clarified, straightening out his tie.

It was common for Val to see men bring women from the office out for a drink in the hopes they’d get some. This might’ve been the first time he’d seen a fella do something thoughtful for his lady. Even if it was a 99¢ piece of garbage. “I’ll pass this to your waiter. I’m sure he can fix it up for Dana.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it,” Dana’s boyfriend replied. Val watched as he slid a five into the tip jar and started to make his way back to the table.

“Hey buddy,” Val called out, causing the man to turn around. “Ya told her you were going to come up and get drinks, didn’t ya?”

“Oh!” he exclaimed with an embarrassed wince, rushing back to the bar. Across the room, behind the man’s back, the woman’s brows furrowed and her lips quirked into an amused smirk as she watched him fumble to retrieve his wallet. “Thanks. Uh, one water and one vodka tonic, please. It’ll go under the name Mulder.”

After he sent Mulder on his way, he watched him take long strides back to the woman who was digging into their shared appetizer. He must’ve said something funny because the redhead started laughing and shaking her head. Val was impressed with how suave the guy was being after how nervous he had just been.

“D-did that man say his name was Mulder?”

Val turned and saw a meek, blonde woman sitting at the bar, not far from where the man in question had just been.

Val shrugged while trying to flag down a waiter, “Yeah. Know him?”

She glanced at the couple over her shoulder before turning back to face him, nervously playing with the cuff of her sleeve. “He’s a friend of the family.”

Read the rest of All Eyes Lead to the Truth on Archive of Our Own!

@gaycrouton

Happy Birthday Dana Scully!

[oceanbug]

when worlds collide

smau non!idol ningning x reader

15. double trouble.

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“Holy shit, Wonyoung’s coming; phones down." With Yunjin’s frantic words came even more frantic movement from the whole table. Everyone scurried to put their phones away so that it wouldn’t look like they were texting each other on purpose. That would be rude.

“Hey, babe~ How’s the food? Isn’t it delicious?” Wonyoung’s voice is always sweet, like honey; it felt like eating cotton candy with how light yet sweet she sounded. If you hadn’t known her, you’d be shocked to know that she hung out with a vicious dog like Ningning.

“It’s actually pretty good; we should come here more often!”

“Let’s call it a date then! And a hello to all you lovely ladies! Sorry for interrupting; I just needed to say hi to my baby.”

“Oh, it’s not trouble. It’s perfectly understandable to say hi to your girlfriend when you guys coincidentally meet up at the same restaurant. You’re never a bother, Wonyoung.” It was pretty weird that you all ended up at the same restaurant, but they did just open. It’s understandable for a bunch of college kids to go to the first place offering free food.

Wonyoung walked away, and everyone’s phones went right up again. Both tables were frantically texting, and the whole ambiance of the restaurant was awkward. Even strangers could pick up the tension. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize both tables were texting about each other. The glances at each other every 10 seconds gave it away.

Giselle was the first one to break the silence.

“Aw, you got some cake on you; let me wipe it off." She wiped off the frosting next to your lip and licked it off her finger. Everyone at your table stared at you two in awe and confusion.

“Y/n, what the fuck?” whispered a very confused Jimin.

“Just go with it, please.”

No one understood what was happening except you and Giselle, which is understandable since your plan was made in the study room yesterday.

_______________________________________________

17 hours prior, in the library’s study room.

“Why would she think Wonyoung would lie about that?”

You felt your jaw drop and your eyes widen. Is Giselle insinuating what you think she is?

“Well, if you don’t mind me asking, is the rumor true? Did you hook up with Yeonjun Giselle?” She could be lying to you, but you might as well ask. You were too curious about where this story was going to even care if she might be lying.

“No, I didn’t. I’d never cross Ning like that; we’re besties. Well, we were besties.”

“Then, why would Wonyoung lie about something like that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, and that’s where you come in. Wonyoung would never spill her secrets, and especially never to you. But if we were to keep her distracted enough, we could get some info from everyone else.”

“But why me? I’m sure Jimin or anyone else would be a better choice.”

“It’s simple; you’re the only one who can keep Ning distracted long enough for us to even get to Wonyoung. Everyone else is a breeze, but Ning’s tough; they’re glued against the hip.”

“Me?” In your mind, Ningning hated you.

“Haven’t you noticed? Ning’s tame around you. She does that for no one else. I don’t exactly know why, but she considers you human. Everyone else just happens to be a bunch of roaches that she’s ready to squash. Not you, though.”

“Ok, well, how would I even distract her?”

“That’s where I come along, my little kitten. Ning hates me enough for ‘stealing’ Yeonjun; imagine her fury when she sees the two of us together. Not just in a friendly way, but together.”

“It’ll be like you ’stole’ me from her, like you 'stole’ Yeonjun.”

“Bingo-bingo, my friend.”

“Ok, let’s do it. Let's fake a date.”

______________________________________

Present Day at ‘Le Dessert’ Cafe

The plan wasn’t supposed to take effect so fast, but I guess now’s a perfect opportunity. You couldn’t really tell your friends that you were fake dating; it had to be as believable as possible. It did make you blush a bit, which in some sense makes things more believable but also way more embarrassing.

You wanted nothing more than to turn around and see the look on Ningning's face, but you had to play it cool. That is, until a certain honey-voiced princess came skipping back to your table.

“Omg, I just had the best idea! We’re all friends, aren’t we? Why don’t we combine tables? Then I can be close to my baby. What do you say? You wouldn’t have any objections, would you?”

Fucking shit. No way is Wonyoung on to your plan already? She knows Ningning wants nothing more than to maul Aeri’s eyes out, and bringing Yeonjun to sit at the table with us? Even worse. What’s her plan? You could feel your heart beating faster and faster as the table stayed silent. It wasn’t until you felt another hand on top of yours that you calmed down. You turned to the source, and Giselle was giving you a reassuring nod. Right. Breathe. If this was part of Wony’s game, you could play better.

“We’d love that, Wonyoung! Hey Ningning, let’s pair tables.” You turned to her and gave her your biggest smile. Behind it was true fear as to what could come of this, but you had to look confident. You will make your plan work.

Ningning gave you a death stare but simply scoffed and began to move tables.

That’s it? After glaring daggers at you all day, she’s just going to move without a fight? Fine.

There was an awkward shuffling of tables, and everyone got settled into their slightly cramped seats. The tension in the room seems to have gotten even worse. Now, everyone is face-to-face; no one could hide behind their phones.

“So, this place is pretty cool, am I right, ladies?” Can this prick Yeonjun shut up?

“Yeah, pretty good food, I guess.” At least Yunjin was trying to converse; you could tell her, along with all your friends, had been incredibly confused about things. You wanted nothing more than to explain to them, but you couldn’t risk jeopardizing the plan.

The awkward silence was quick to return.

“I hear half of you knew each other in high school! What was that like?” You couldn’t fault Minji for asking such a painfully awkward question, but in her defense, she’s barley in the group chat enough to know. The body language of everyone who went to Spring Hill High became very tense. Everyone straightened their posture and avoided eye contact with each other. It was Giselle who finally broke the tension once again.

“I couldn’t tell you; I transferred out before senior year.”

“Sure, ‘transferred.’”

“What was that, Ning?”

“Nothing. Just that, I don’t consider getting shipped off to a rehabilitation center as ‘transferring’, but whatever.”

“Ok guys, can we just be civil?” You tried diffusing the situation, but all it got you was a death stare from Ningning.

“She asked a question; I’m giving more context to Aeri’s answer.”

“Ok. That’s fair.” That’s all you managed to get out; you didn’t want to argue. You knew you would be getting nowhere if you continued. 

“High school was pretty chill; my lovely lady and I here dated. I guess you can say fate brought us back together, right?” Yeonjun completely washed over any negative aspect of him and Ningning’s relationship and made it sound like they just drifted apart, then reconciled in college. The thing is, he couldn’t even bring himself to make eye contact with anyone else at the table other than Ningning. It was almost like he wanted her reassurance that they were in love, or more specifically, that she loved him. All he got in response was an eye-roll from Ningning and an “awe” from Wonyoung. It was a tough crowd for someone like him.

Trying to avoid Minji’s painfully awkward question, you took a bite of your cake, enjoying it. What was in this cake that made is so delicious? You couldn’t get enough!

“Oh no, you got more cake on you! Let me get it off.”

You prepared yourself to have cake wiped off your face again, except that’s not what happened.

The cake was off your lips but is now plastered on Giselle’s, or was until she licked it off. You sat up in shock. Giselle just kissed you. I guess couples do kiss, even fake ones, but could she have given you a warning? Before you could respond or even turn your face, a voice came blaring from the table.

“Ok, what the fuck was that?” It was Jimin.

“Oh, Y/N didn’t tell you? We decided last night we had a lot in common, so why not start dating? We look totally cute, don’t you think?”

The look on Jimin’s face quickly turned from confusion to hurt. Along with Ningning, who just stared at you,

“What happened to ‘You don’t know her, she doesn’t go here’” You forgot you texted Jimin that.

“What happened to ‘it didn’t mean anything when I hung out with Giselle’” You also forgot to text Ningning that. Ok. Double trouble. You have got to start reading your text more thoroughly before sending them.

“Look, I can explain." Before you even got another word out, Ningning had already begun spitting poison.

“What’s your fucking problem, Aeri? Huh? What problem do you have with me that you can't resist stealing from me? Are you that fucking obsessed with me? First you fucked my boyfriend four years ago; now you're crawling back for more? When will it end? You’re sad, pathetic, and lonely. Go fuck yourself.”

The room was silent. The restaurant was silent.

“Ningning-“ She was quick to cut you off again.

“And you. What’s your problem? I confided in you. I told you how I felt after I got cheated on. I thought you would understand, but it turns out you're just a mega-bitch like everyone else. Was anything you told me even true? If you’re already dating this tramp, did you ever really like Jimin? Or was that a lie just to get on my good side? Did you get your little friend Yujin to help you? You’re such a fucking freak for playing the long game. I bet you found it funny when I kissed Jimin at our graduation party, huh? Like it was all part of your plan? Let’s all laugh at Ningning! Well, not anymore. Fuck you. Goodbye.”

With that, Ningning stormed out; half-way through her meltdown, she had started crying. She was too focused on her words to even notice. Her group of friends were quick to follow along, except Yeonjun and Wonyoung, who remained at the table.

Before you even get to process what had just happened, round two was already brewing up.

“You... like me, Y/N? Is that what this is all about? Why’d you feel the need to lie? Did you not trust me enough to tell me? You decided to lie to me for our entire fucking friendship; are you serious? I told you that we could talk about anything; why couldn’t you talk to me about this?” Jimin was red in the face, slightly tearing up and choking on her words.

Speechless. That’s all you were. You couldn’t think of a response. Overwhelmed, you couldn't think of anything. Your throat began to close up more and more, feeling your body become heavier. You gave into the weight and collapsed onto the ground. Before your eyes fully close, all you hear is Sakura’s panicked voice:

“Is there peanut oil in this cake? Y/N’s has a peanut allergy! Fuck, I’ll get her epipen pen; call an ambulance!”

Everything faded into black.

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masterlist ~ next

(Synopsis) Y/N had never been the type to take life for granted. You grew up with the mindset that if you wanted something, you had to work for it; So getting paired up with the university’s “Rich Bitch” Ning Yi Zhuo for your midterm was the last thing you wanted. Are you willing to step into the world of fame for an A+?

taglist (open): @azraism ; @kimsgayness ; @sewiouslyz ; @winieter ; @llluvbluy ; @i06kkura ; @everydayiloveyves ; @edamboon

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Fic - Path of Kingship, Chapter 6: "Not That Type of Story"

Long before Graham woke, he was aware of the smell of the earth after rain, and breathed easier. Something on the end of his nose tickled him awake. He swatted at his face. It evaded his fingers, and he gasped when he saw it was a ladybug, then sighed in relief when it zipped away, unharmed. He yawned, and rolled onto his back. Every muscle was sore. His cuts and bruises still gave him grief, of course, and some had closed up painfully tightly. But there was a welcome autumn chill to the air, Triumph was curled up nearby, and gentle morning light played over the stable rafters. He had dreamt of the stable too, so it came as no surprise to find himself there.

But he was surprised to find that his bed consisted of more than just straw. In a jolt of confusion, Graham’s senses came alive. He bolted upright. He was nestled in a cocoon of fine linens, an embroidered summer comforter, and fringed cushions. He squashed a pillow experimentally between his hands, and smelt lavender. It was quite real. Yet under him was still the layer of fresh straw he had fallen asleep on. Looking beyond himself, he found the stall had been curtained off by crisp, white bed sheets draped over the ceiling beams, as though someone had decided Triumph deserved to sleep in a four-poster bed like his master’s.  A wooden stool stood by his right side, covered with a tiny table cloth and laden with everything he needed for washing. He recognized his blue dressing gown hanging from a harness hook. And… were those the sketches of their family Ginger had given him as a coronation present? Framed and hung over his gerbil’s manger?

What in the blessed stars?

“Hey Triumph,” he murmured, elbowing his steed, “somebody gave you a home makeover last night.”

Triumph snored.

It seemed a bit pointless to put on a dressing gown, since he was still fully clothed in the village homespun. He rose to his feet and crept to undo the stall latch. He hesitated, then pushed the sheet aside, as though to catch an intruder behind the bath curtain.

Except for the animals, there was not a soul to be seen. But the unknown someone had lined the floor of the passage between the stalls with burlap sacks. Near the stable entrance, which had also been covered by a bedsheet, hung a few of his own outfits from the royal wardrobe, lined up on a wheeled clothing rack. Even his old adventurer’s leathers, which he hadn’t seen since before the coronation! He stole up to the rack, and ran a finger down the slick satin trim of his red cloak. It felt softer than before, and he noticed the stains he had despaired of scrubbing out were gone. He couldn’t even find the familiar rip near the shoulder. Had they sewn him a new cloak? More to the point, what was it - and all the rest - doing here?

“Oh, sire!”

The voice came from a few steps off. Graham rounded. Someone about his own height stood silhouetted by the morning sun, on the other side of the stable door’s sheet. The voice was familiar. “Good morning, sire! I didn’t know you were up. Do you need more time? I was just bringing in your shaving things.”

He did know that voice. He glanced round at the bedroom furnishings, and just like that, it made a kind of ridiculous sense. “Uh, sure,” Graham called uncertainly. “Come on in, Clockett.” Because what else could you say when your valet showed up at your stable, all ready to go with the morning routine?

In strode the unmistakable Clockett, carrying a tray loaded two layers deep with every bit and bob that could possibly be used for shaving or, for that matter, for dressing the hair. Graham had no idea he even owned so many things of that sort. He ordinarily shaved himself with his old razor, even since becoming king. Every morning Clockett brightly offered to do it, and seemed oddly crushed when Graham told him he was okay on his own, thanks though. Sooo, could Clockett wash his hair? Brush it? Dress him? Trim his fingernails? No? What about his toenails? Moisturize his elbows? Graham would smile awkwardly and turn them all down. He wondered when Clockett would take the hint. While he brushed his teeth, the valet would make up the tremendous bed, putter, and disappear so quietly Graham seldom noticed when he left. Graham had to deal with him again before bed, but only for a minute or two. Otherwise, they had barely spoken.

Clockett looked neat and bright as ever this morning, if a bit dark circled about the eyes. His blond hair was caught back in a faultless queue, his ivory-tipped spectacles were hooked on his turnover cuff, and every button on his plum coat gleamed with polish.  

His extreme tidiness brought Graham’s mind back to his own situation. His hand stole to his paint-stiff hair. He had almost forgotten. It was probably full of straw and tufts of fur now too. He must look like a kindergarten craft.

Clockett’s gaze followed Graham’s self-conscious hand. He swallowed. He rocked back on one heel, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. When they opened, Graham could see him summon a smiling warmth into them. “Welcome back, sire. I heard about how you handled those appalling people up in the Stove. And if it’s not out of place to say, bravo, sir.”

“Well, it wasn’t completely my…” Graham trailed off, processing his words. “Br…bravo? What?”

Clockett selected a tiny porcelain jug from the tray, and poured steaming water into a silver bowl. “Well, the brief your guards gave the household was just that - brief. But we were given to understand that they pretty much walked you into a death trap, and you were incredibly magnanimous about it all.”

“Magnanimous?”

A dachshund that stood about as high as their shoulders yipped in the next stall, matching Graham’s pitch exactly.

 Clockett nodded pacifically. (Was the water changing from clear to pale blue as he poured?) “I know you made your name as Sir Graham the Brave - and you earned every inch of it - but maybe we should start calling you the Compassionate. You just walked it off, didn’t say a word to them about it, didn’t cart anyone off to prison. Though I do have to say,” he looked up with a rueful glance, “you should at least have arrested the scoundrels who left your hair in that condition.” He shook a tiny vial of powder over the bowl, which made the blue water fizz into a faint purple that smelt of lilac.

“Oh, I can’t blame them too badly. They did their best,” babbled Graham, hardly knowing what was coming from his mouth. “Um, who was it who briefed you? Number Two?”

“Royal Guard Number One.”

“He said that?”

“More or less-ish,” said Clockett, scrubbing his hands in the bowl. “Except about the hair. Captains are generally good about protecting the royal person, but they pay a shocking lack of attention to the hair. Now, if you’d just sit down,” (he flicked the water from his hands, donned his spectacles, and pulled the rocking chair from Graham’s bedroom out a shadowy corner,) “I’m just going to have a closer look at the, er, damage. Don’t you worry, sire. We’re going to save your hair. It’s probably bounced back from worse. In your days of knightly glory, surely. I’d bet, if it can stand getting singed by a dragon, it can come back from anything. Like yourself.”

Graham let himself be pushed gently into the seat, where Clockett at once began walking circles round him, fussing and clucking over his head. But Graham’s mind was not in the stable. It had flown across two courtyards, up the castle wall, and in through the window of Number One’s office. Magnanimous. That was how Number One had framed it for those who weren’t there? That he, Graham, had been wronged by the townsfolk, and now was acting the benevolent king in spite of how they’d treated him.

Well, Number One was right in a way. Graham might have messed up royally in every sense, but he wasn’t the only one. This brief was probably just Number One’s way of saving face, anyway. It must have been mortally embarrassing for him and all the guards, and making the king look good made them look good.

But that didn’t stop it from taking a huge load off Graham’s shoulders. The shameful return to the castle, all those awful conversations with the curious, having to explain over and over what an idiot he’d been - none of it was going to happen. He’d slept here to put it off a few hours, and now it simply wasn’t going to happen. 

Clockett pinched a lock of his black hair, still stubborn with pills and streaks of hard paint in every colour. He grimaced, sniffed discreetly, and grimaced more. “Oh. Whatever did they use to wash your hair?”

“Hair soap,” said Graham. He decided against mentioning he had washed his own hair at Hector’s house. “And, uh, linseed oil?””

“They used linseed oil?” Clockett didn’t speak the question like a question. He stopped circling. His pale face went rigid. Somehow his spectacles went askew as though they too were shocked, one arm flying off his ear.

Graham chastised himself for feeling defensive over something like this. “One of the housemaids thought it might work,” he explained. “They put linseed oil in paint thinner, don’t they?”

“They also put it in paint. To make it hold together.” Clockett closed his eyes, rocked back on his heel, breathed, and unstoppered a bottle from the tray. A rich, buttery scent reached Graham’s nose. Clockett dribbled a few drops over his fingers and replaced the cork, chattering the whole time. “Just the thing. Walnut oil. You’ve got a splendid head of thick hair, sire, and it’ll be so good to finally get a feel for it. We’ll just get a mask soaking into it now, so the wash’ll be easier.” He whipped a barber’s cape from some mysterious place behind his back, and fastened it round Graham’s shoulders. Then he slipped his fingers into Graham’s hair and began working the oil in, massaging it into his scalp and crunching it into the tangles. 

“I can really do this myself,” Graham objected, but either Clockett didn’t hear, or he had decided that when it came to hair, he was king.

“And honestly, this a pretty strange place to-” Graham began again, but lapsed into silence. After all, he had been dreading people seeing him looking ridiculous. Had Clockett read his mind and swooped in with a solution? And it was kind of nice. Relaxing. By some preparation or other, the walnut oil was warm. Clockett’s kneading fingers were firm, but they never snagged or pulled. There was a rhythm in them. Graham found himself tilting back in the rocking chair and breathing slower.

“You’re looking much better rested than you did before you left.” said Clockett. “You slept soundly last night?”

Graham smiled. “I think you know I did, if it was you who gave my stable the fairy godmother treatment. I didn’t hear a thing!”

“No? Excellent.”

“Seriously, that must have taken you all night! It’s at least five minutes’ walk from here to the main doors. And I’m a light sleeper. How’d you sneak everything in so quietly?”

Clockett paused to re-oil his fingers. “A smidgen of elf blood goes a fairish way, sire,” he said with a grin, though it was the most proper, professional grin Graham had ever seen. “Quiet’s our thing. Now, about the furniture. You’ll have to forgive me, but you were asleep, so I had to make decisions without asking you. When I found you meant to sleep here, I wanted to give you some choice, so I also brought a wheelbarrow down with your old bedroll from your quests, and also a camp cot. Because, technically, this is sort of outdoors. But like I said, you fell asleep, and I had to make some decisions.”

“Including pinching my sister’s sketches off my desk?” said Graham slyly.

 “And varnishing them, “ said Clockett with evident pride.“And cropping them, framing them, and arranging them aesthetically.”

Graham turned his laugh into a cough. “Hay, it’s all good. You didn’t have time to stall. If only I’d been barn with such good taste.” 

Clockett smiled and nodded, but Graham thought he caught an “It might help the puns if you had,” under his breath. 

“Sorry. I couldn’t help it,” said Graham with a shrug. “We’ll have to update the prices in the brochure. A room at a five star stable like this shouldn’t come cheap. But, uh, how did you even track me down? This has got to be the last place you thought of looking.”

“My first guess, actually.”

“Really?”

“I’m your gentleman’s gentleman.”

Graham cocked his head in confusion.“And?”

“I polish your boots.”

“Oh. You do? Uh, thanks. But, um, how does that…?”

Clockett stopped rubbing, and fixed Graham with a look.He tilted his head to the same angle. “And this is the fifth time you’ve been here since your coronation. Though it’s the first time overnight, I think.”

“Oh.” Of course. Graham smiled sheepishly at his borrowed boots. “Sorry. I make a lot of work for you, don’t I?”

Clockett looked as though he were trying to keep his face bland.  “Frankly, you don’t make enough. But we’re going to fix that. Now,” he said, stepping back and reaching for a hand towel, “We’ll just let that soak in a few minutes before the wash. I rigged up a weight I can hook to the back of the rocker to lean it, like this, and - yes, I think you’re tall enough we can just lean you back over the basin and do it all here. I’ve posted a watch outside - no one will disturb you.”

“A watch?”

“Kyle and Larry.”

“Oh. Hey, Kyle! Hi, Larry!” called Graham loudly.

“Hi, Graham!” chorused two familiar voices from outside. And then an overlapping gobbledygook of, “I mean, Majesty Graham!  Your Highness! No, no, Majesty! Yeah! Highness is for princes and princesses! No, King! Can we just say King? No, that sounds wrong by itself. King Majesty?”

“Nah. Graham’s fine.”

“That’s what everyone will be sayin’ when Mr. Clockett here’s done sprucin’ you up.” said Kyle enthusiastically. “You’ll walk past, and they’ll all say, “Graham’s fiiiiine!”

Clockett caught himself mid eyeroll. “I suppose that’s on me. They’ve been here all night, after all. They say sleep deprivation isn’t actually that different from drunkenness.”

“Hey, by that logic, what you’re sayin’ ought to be a bit pickled-sounding too!” cried Larry. By this point they were standing so close to the bedsheet that Graham could see their sunlit outlines - er, outline? - perfectly. 

Clockett resumed the interrupted eyeroll.”I did say one of you ought to go find a pair of guards to relieve you.”

“One of us? Go?” echoed Larry, with a note of confusion.

“We were planning on asking someone after breakfast,” said Kyle at the same time. “A lot o’ the guards take this way as a shortcut, and we thought we’d wave a couple down. But nobody’s been by this way. Bit weird, that.”

“Maybe it’s new rules,” said Larry thoughtfully. “There was some kind of big meeting last night in the barracks. We missed it, of course,  on account of Mr. Clockett telling us you were sleeping here and needed us. But maybe Number One finally laid down the law and said no more cutting through the stables. He’s always getting on our backs about how messy it gets our boots.”

“That’s prob’ly it.”

Graham frowned, unbuttoning the barber’s cape from round his neck.  “But… isn’t there a guard cranny just across from us? You should be able to see it from where you are.”He stood up from the rocking chair in spite of Clockett’s careful efforts to push him down. “You know, riight next to the treasury office. There’s gotta be someone there, right?” He flung the bedsheet aside and stepped into the morning sun. The guards started back in surprise, so that Larry lost his grip on the plume, and nearly fell from his perch on Kyle’s back. 

“Sire, you’re still a work in progress!” whispered Clockett urgently, laying a light hand on his shoulder. “You’re dripping oil!”

Graham shrugged him off, squinting into the bright light and across the courtyard. Sure enough, the gable-like shelter next to the treasury’s double doors, where a guard always, always stood on duty, was empty. At least, he thought so. It was a bit far away and blurry, but surely he’d see the glint of the guard’s armour if there was one. His frown deepened. He scratched his head, and of course his fingers came away slick. “Guys,” he said to Kyle and Larry, “could you just run over there and check everything’s okay? Ask the treasurer or something? I don’t like this. Guards don’t just leave their posts except for distress.”

“Good job, Graham!” cried Larry approvingly. “That’s Decree 6645! You’re already gettin’ the hang of it. Told ya!”

“Yeah, for sure,” said Graham. “So, can you?”

“I don’t know, can we?” asked Kyle, then muttered, “Oh, wait, no, that was the right one. Whoops. I mean, no, we can’t, because of Decree 6645, which you might have heard before. It says a royal guard can only leave his post if -”

Graham couldn’t help smirking a little as he drew himself up, hands on his hips. “I’m the king. I make the decrees. Or, well, Daventry does. And… I’m Daventry. Apparently.”

Kyle and Larry looked up and down at each other respectively. After a pause, they both nodded. “You got it, Graham,” said Kyle. “I mean, er, Daventry.”

“You mean King Daventry!” Larry said with a knowing bobble of the head. “I mean, er, no, you did tell us to call you Graham, so, um…”

“Daventry Graham Sire Majesty, of course.”

“Majesty Daventry Sire Graham. Be back in a jiffy. Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup!” Off dashed Kyle, knees sky high, while Larry patted him on the back encouragingly.

Graham found Clockett’s hand on his own back, gently steering him back into the stable. “Come inside, sire. It’s entirely time we turned you back into a human being. Now, I always believe in choices, so which shampoo will you have - lavender, lavender-bergamot, or lavender-clary sage?”

-

A tremendous double thump on his door made the slumped Number One glance up from his inkwell. “Well? What’s that racket?” he called sharply.

“Sorry!” came Number Two’s voice. “Arms full. Had to give the door the boot, you might say. You mind gettin’ it for me?”

“Your boot’s not freshly sharpened, is it?”

“It ain’t stuck in the door, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Number One hauled himself from his seat and drew the bolt. He usually propped his office door open, but he couldn’t take the sight of another guard slinking in, muttering shamefaced excuses as they dropped yet another folded paper onto his desk. This way they could slip their resignations under the door and be done with it. 

Number Two shuffled in with two stacked armfuls of envelopes, some plain, some clearly castle stationery. 

Number One hadn’t thought his heart could sink again, considering how many times it had already done so this morning. “Add them to the pile.” He shut the door, eyeing the height of the stacks incredulously. “That many. Are you and I the only guards left?”

“We’ve still got a couple dozen, maybe,” said Number Two, strewing them unceremoniously across the desktop. 

“Then those aren’t resignations?” Number One asked, afraid to hope.

Heaving a sigh, Number Two leaned his back against the mantelpiece. “Oh, they’re resignations. Just not guards’ resignations.”

“You mean…?”

“Sounds like that little viper, Number Three, made the grand tour of the castle last night. Servants’ hall, kitchens, all of it. Gave all the staff the whole song and dance about how he was walking out. Dragged the king and all of us through the mud, the whole spiel. You ought to know though,” he added, “I don’t think there’s much we coulda done. I guess it’s been building for a while now. These last few days was just cream on the cake, if you ask me.”

Number One nodded wearily, sinking into his red-brown easy chair. “There’s been talk of this sort since even before Edward fell ill. This was just the final straw.” He considered. “But if those are the staff’s resignations, surely it’s the steward’s job to handle them? Why did you bring them here?”

“Steward quit.” 

“Of course he did.” The captain closed  his eyes. “Well at least we know where we are. Who’s loyal and all. Have we got enough to keep the castle running?”

“Just, I think.”

“Good enough. We’ll support the servants as we can, even if it means we have to wait tables.” He met Number Two’s eyes, nodding resolutely. “ And every man, woman, and child who’s still here in three days’ time will have a bonus. They deserve some appreciation. Stars know they’re going to be overworked.”

Number Two paused. “I don’t think the treasurers will like that. We did like you said - gave all the quitters double pay. And Graham -”

Number One looked up sharply. “The king.”

“Well, you know that I -”

“Even among ourselves. It’s a touchy time. A lot rides on what we say.”

“Right, the king.” Number Two corrected himself. “He just did  that whole three months’ tax forgiveness thing for Mannerly Stove.”

“I don’t doubt we’ll be getting a receipt soon enough for two-hundred-and-sixty-five shades of paint,” grumbled Number One.

“And Crispin still hasn’t been able to undo the charm on the lock of the magic chest. We might have to tighten our belts a little.”

“So be it.” Number One rose and made for the door. “I don’t suppose the steward has left yet? I’ll have to make arrangements with him. Get his keys. Perhaps I’ll stop by the treasury on the way. Have a word with the officials. Come along?”

“Along I come.”

-

“You have curls.”

Graham peeked out at Clockett from the fluffy towel he was aggressively rubbing over his sopping head. “Yeah, it tricks you that way when it’s wet. But as soon as it’s dry and you brush it, it snarls really badly, and it gets huge, and all the hairs sort of separate from each other, and -”

“You have curls,” cried Clockett, and this time it rang out almost like an accusation. 

“Well, they -”

“And you…” Clockett reached with unseeing eyes for the bottle of hair grease Graham usually kept by his looking glass. It had somehow wound up on the tray with all of Clockett’s other hair doodads. The valet unscrewed it, and poured a slow, gluey glop of it onto his fingertip. “You… this?”

“It’s the only thing that keeps it from turning into a crazy frizz.” Graham reached for the bottle.

Clockett snatched it from his reach, and smashed it against the dachshund’s stall door. The solution inside spattered everywhere.

The dog howled. Graham gaped. The towel dropped from his hands.

“Forgive me, sire,” murmured Clockett, breathing heavily. “You have every right to fire me. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t in good conscience. I would sooner let you drink that stuff than put it on your head. Now, did I hear you say that you dry brush your curls?”

“My oldest sister has the same hair as me, and she always, um, does it like that,” said Graham, remembering as he spoke that Madeline’s hair was always such a stubborn poof that she virtually never let it hang loose. 

“Heaven help the poor woman,” said Clockett.

Graham stooped to pick the towel up from where it had landed on the burlap bag.

“No!” shrieked Clockett, darting forward but apparently catching himself before he could do another snatch. “I have to ask for your forgiveness again, sire. When I brought that towel for you, I hadn’t realized you had such an excellent head of hair. You’re never going to towel it again, sire. You’ll destroy it. Here, let’s wet it again.”

And Graham found himself back in the chair, his hair floating round his head like a cloud in the water. When Clockett tipped the chair back up, he began raking his fingers slowly through the hair, detangling, and then scrunching Graham’s hair in handfuls. “To define them. Make them clump,” he explained. Then came a sweet smelling cream, so light it nearly melted in Graham’s hands, as Clockett showed him how to form his curls without weighing them down. 

“There is no way I am doing this every time I have a bath,” Graham privately thought. But he kept glancing in the hand mirror as they worked. It was an enormous relief to finally have clean hair. And as his locks dried a little more, turning springy and soft, he did have to admit they looked a lot better. And would it really take much more time than all the ages he spent slicking it down with the Merchant’s grease?

“Well done,” said Clockett with satisfaction, turning the mirror to different angles. At first Graham assumed he was congratulating himself, but he continued. “Well done. You’re been the soul of patience with all of us. With the guards and their ways. With me dragging all your things down here and pushing you out of your comfort zone. With your subjects up there, and down here. It must all be a lot to navigate at once. You’re carrying a great deal, I think.”

Graham blinked. This wasn’t the direction he’d anticipated they’d go. “Yeah, it’s a lot. But I’ll manage,” he said quietly, looking away so as not to accidentally lock eyes with Clockett in the mirror.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that.” Clockett went on over his shoulder. “You’ve clearly got what it takes. It’s just a different element for you, I’d guess. Though that’s hardly my place to say,” he added hastily. “Pardon, sire.”

Graham didn’t dare answer. Once he opened his mouth, he was terrible at shutting it. “No, you’re good,” he said.

“But since I’ve already crossed a line,” Clockett said, as though he hadn’t heard, “let me go on a little further. I can’t speak for you, of course, and I’m clearly not cut out for kingship like you are. King Edward definitely saw something unique there. But if I had to be king in a situation like yours, I’d guess I’d be feeling a great deal of pressure by this point.”

He was not going to be one of those people who sit down with a hairdresser and suddenly find their hearts pouring out. But he suddenly felt he could understand why that might happen. He picked at a bit of magenta paint caught under a fingernail.

“You know you don’t need to fit any kind of mould to succeed at this,” Clockett went on, turning away and brushing absently at the outfits on the rack. Graham’s red cloak billowed out in that physics-defying way it had whenever it felt the slightest movement. “They don’t know what kind of king to imagine you as yet, because you’ve had no time to define yourself. But you were injured on this trip. There’s no need to keep any of your appointments. You don’t have to keep up that tour of the villages without knowing what kind of person you want to show yourself as. You just got all the time you need - all the time in the world. And all the people you need to help you, in whatever way you like.”

Graham raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t help himself. He rose from the chair, and followed Clockett to the rack. “What are you getting at?” 

Clockett’s smile came back at last. “I said earlier that you don’t make enough work for me. And perhaps that was over the line too. But since I’ve said it - you don’t. I scramble all night and all day just to find something useful to do, just to keep my living honest. And I think that’s the case for a lot of your staff, and your guards too. We’re all dreadfully good at what we do, sire, or we wouldn’t be here. And it’s all at your service. But naturally, you are used to making your own way. You’re an adventurer. But I think now you might be…” (he reached in the air, as though he could physically pluck the phrase he was searching for out of nowhere,) “... might be still figuring out how the new puzzle pieces in your life fit with the old ones. What kind of picture king and adventurer might make together.”

“That’s a really good way of putting it, actually.”

“We’re all so eager to help you, but we can’t unless you want us to. I’ve tried showing you today  that my help can look like whatever you please. You want to spend the night in the stable? Great! Let me make that work for you! And that is true of everything!” Clockett’s words were speeding up into a birdlike chatter. “You’re just a little short on confidence lately, but confidence is a valet’s specialty! if you put yourself in my hands, I’ll make you feel more like yourself than you ever did. That’s what I’ve earned my reputation on. When I start caring for a count or a duke, I turn him into a fine-looking nobleman. But I reinvent that idea of a nobleman into him. We’re going to reinvent kingship into you.”  

Clockett seized the red cloak off its hanger and held it up. “For one thing, you need to stop wearing all those formal things they put in your closet, sire. They’re meant for receptions and dinners and things. But you - you’re the dragon blinder! You get to dress like it! And if they think a king shouldn’t be off fighting his own dragons, well, maybe they think that because your clothes, the way you carry yourself, the look in your eye, are telling them the wrong story. But when we’ve fitted you out properly, not just like a knight but like a knight-king, they’ll step out of your way. I’m seeing gleaming armour. I’m seeing your cape embroidered with the arms of Daventry. Maybe a tabard that harmonizes the armour and the crest. You know what I mean, right?”

“Yeah, I see!” said Graham, beginning the feel the excitement flaring up like an ember. “Not that type of story.”

“No, I meant, someone told me you had a background in costumiery?” 

“Minored in it at the Knighthood Academy!” said Graham, lighting up the more.

“With Old Maybrock?” “She’s the one!”

“Small, small word, isn’t it?” said Clockett, pressing the cloak into his arms. “But seriously, I think that if you’ll trust me, you can open up so many doors for yourself. What’s something you want? Something you don’t think you can have as king?”

Graham paused, and turned aside to think. “Um.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the stall where he had spent the night. Triumph was up on his hind legs against the stall door, leaning his head out and trilling, the edge of the white bedsheet draped over one long ear.

“I’d like to ride Triumph again,” Graham said quietly. “They say he’s not an appropriate mount for a king.”

Clockett gestured exansively in the gerbil’s direction. “Oh, he’ll be more than appropriate for you once we deck him out in all the trappings. We can make him magnificent. We’ll match him to you. They won’t be able to say no once you start telling them the right story. And I think you know a lot about storytelling, don’t you?”

Graham grinned lopsidedly. “I’ve been told I’m not bad at it.”

“Then don’t let them stop you from telling the story of the king you want to be! You can't just tell them. You’ve got to show them.”

Just then, Graham realized he was hugging the cloak to himself, so tenderly he probably looked ridiculous. He could just hear his sisters’ teasing voices in his ears. “If you love your cloak so much, why don’t you marry it?” He slung it over his arm nonchalantly and tried to look casual. But the words that came out of his mouth sounded anything but casual. “You think we could actually reinvent the whole kingship thing?”

“Every king anyone remembers does. We can make kingship - and you - into anything. But you’re letting Number One and the guards tell you what the story should be. They ought to be bending over backward to make your plans work.”

“So…” Graham took a deep, deep breath. “Do you have clothes that would let me get away with anything? Has anyone ever used this for crime?  Do you charge the mothballs in my wardrobe with elf magic? Is it fate that Clockett and Pockets almost rhyme? Can you make me super buff? WILL TRIUMPH GET HIS OWN GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN?” Graham stopped, realizing breathlessly that he was now doing a handstand on Clockett’s shoulders. His ears burned as he flipped down to the ground.

Clockett didn’t seem phased. He swept a glorious bow, smiling from ear to ear. “Your majesty,” he said, “only say the word.”

Thank you, @gerbiloftriumph, for all the bouncing this chapter around and writerly support!

[woklaza]

Dazai seemed too focused on Chuuya’s side as Port Mafia instead of Chuuya. But to be fair, what is Chuuya? As a human. Dazai wanted to find out– no, he will find out.

“Turn around, Chuuya,” Dazai said into the wireless as the message transmitted to Chuuya’s receiver. Chuuya tutted but did as he was told, stealthily turning around to face the vase centring the floor of the closed museum.

“This one’s the baby we’re after– the vase is from the Qing Dynasty, Yongzhen Period. But make sure to see if it’s the real thing. The dragon should have no pupils–”

“–Yeah, okay. No need for the History lesson.” Chuuya patted the dusty porcelain vase as he confirmed the vase was real. It was. “It’s the real one.”

Double Black is currently doing a big job– stealing a vase from the thief market (British Museum) in the middle of the night. There is no need to ask why they are doing it with Chuuya as the robber and Dazai as the operator, it’s working out, so it isn’t the point. The point is, that the mission was done within ten minutes, no exaggeration. 

“Alright Chuuya, to your south-west direction, look up and what do you see?” Dazai was pretty clearly not taking his job as the operator seriously, almost as if it were child’s play (it was, but still).

“Absolutely nothing except from the fucking ceiling,” Chuuya said blankly.

“No, there should be a staircase. Wait sorry! I have miscalculated!” Dazai cheered without any signs of feeling sorry.

“What have you miscalculated?” Grunted Chuuya impatiently.

“Your height. I estimated your height as one metre, so you must look up! Okay, just look forward and you’ll see the staircase.”

“Fucker.” Chuuya found the staircase with the help of his torch and sprinted through it with ease. It was a one-way staircase to the roof, where a loud helicopter was waiting for him, rotor blades still buzzing. Dazai waved from the inside, a set of headphones still on his head. Chuuya hopped into the helicopter and the pilot droved it away, with London under it.

Dazai was squashed with Chuuya in the backseats of the helicopter (consider it a small one) and quickly snatched the vase away from the redhead to examine it.

“Hmm… breakable. What’s this, Chu-Chu?” Dazai pulled out a piece of irregularly shaped metal from the vase. 

It was an understatement to call the object a metal, even though it was one. It was entirely gold (Chuuya had later confirmed this with his experience of meddling with precious stones), and shaped like a rose. In other words

A golden rose.

“That’s mine!” Dazai announced happily as he rubbed the cold flower with his hands. Chuuya, noticing how he had let Dazai keep such a treasure, snatched it away immediately.

“I stole it!” Chuuya argued.

That sounded so wrong.

But the Port Mafia intended to steal the vase, and the flower seemed like a bonus the pair needed to learn how to split and share. Dazai seized the rose from Chuuya.

“Nah! I’m keeping it!” He laughed, “I’m the reason you made it out there unscathed.”

Chuuya’s next reaction was not something Dazai predicted or considered. The redhead sulked and after a few seconds his face flushed crimson, and he jumped off the helicopter.

Dazai did not worry about Chuuya dying from the fall, he is a gravity manipulator after all. What he was feeling was confusion. Why was Chuuya so angry at him?

The pilot laughed at Dazai (Yes, at ). 

“Nakahara-kun’s just a kid. Why wouldn’t he want flowers? Snatching it away from him is just mean. You don’t have those emotions, but he’s like any teenager his age. He wants flowers, of course.”

Dazai blushed. Then felt ashamed. All the while, he never really thought Chuuya would care about flowers and love. Well then, even if he is good at martial arts and has some strong ass ability, it doesn’t make him less human. Dazai seemed too focused on Chuuya’s side as Port Mafia instead of Chuuya.

But to be fair, what is Chuuya? As a human.

Dazai wanted to find out– no, he will find out.

~

Continue reading here:

[forthegothicheroine]

Could you make a text post of that "The Big Sleep (1946) Explained" video instead? I really like that movie. I'd love to know what it's about

Glad you asked! Let me start by saying that The Big Sleep is my favorite movie, and it is a testament to the sheer pleasure it offers that I have watched it enough to put this post together. Spoilers for a movie from 1946.

Author Raymond Chandler was and is admired for the beauty of his prose, the intensity of his characterization and his descriptive powers- but not for tight plots or skill at crafting mysteries. The film The Big Lebowski was a parody of Chandler novels, where the detective hero pulled into a series of interlocking and confusing different plots is just as baffled as the audience. On top of that, he liked writing about salacious things like sex and drugs, and in the 40s, the Production Code forced the film to hint at these things instead of spell them out. As such, the film The Big Sleep often leaves people confused about two specific mysterious deaths. The first, most famously, is...

Who killed the chauffeur?

Chandler himself famously said he'd forgotten by the time the film adaptation was made, and Kim Newman uses it as a running joke in Something More than Night.

There is an answer, though! Or rather, there are two answers, one for the book and one for the film.

The novel The Big Sleep is kind of a patchwork of the plots of several of Chandlers crime stories, in particular one about a woman at a casino taking part in an elaborate fraud. In the transition from different, originally unconnected stories to one narrative novel, some of the details got squashed. As a result, the death of the chauffeur is solved in one blink-and-you'll-miss-it line: he killed himself. He was in love with his boss's younger daughter Carmen Sternwood, who liked to spend her nights blacked out on opium and in bed with strangers. On one of these benders, she ended up in the house of a pornographer who took naked pictures of her and then blackmailed her rich family with them. To save the woman he loved, Owen Taylor the chauffeur killed the pornographer and stole the photos, only to have them stolen from him by another disreputable character, Joe Brody. Having committed murder for nothing and failed to save Carmen, Taylor killed himself.

That's in the book. In the movie, the detective protagonist Marlowe responds to the discovery of Taylor's body by saying it wasn't suicide. Remember Joe Brody the thief? When Marlowe tracks him down, he claims he only knocked the chauffeur out to steal the blackmail material. Marlowe accuses him of having gone so far as to kill him. Brody says "You can't prove I did it." Marlowe says "I can make an awfully good try." And then Brody himself gets shot by a man coming in the door, and the plot rushes forward.

But there you have it: in the movie, at least, Brody killed Taylor.

Now on to the less famous question that nevertheless seems to polarize critics...

2. Who killed the Irishman?

Once again this question has two answers, one for the book and one for the movie.

Sean Regan, IRA member and friend of the wealthy General Sternwood, has disappeared. When Marlowe is called in to help about Carmen's blackmailing, everyone, including the boss's older daughter Vivian, assumes he must have really been hired to find the missing Irishman. He wasn't, but the more people tell him not to look into the matter, the more curious he becomes. Once again, it all comes down to the naughty and erratic Carmen. In the film, gangster Eddie Mars tells Marlowe that Carmen killed him during a drug blackout, enraged that he rejected her. By the end of the movie, however, Marlowe has told the police that Eddie Mars himself, now dead, killed Regan, and then tells Vivian that she'll have to have her sister sent to a place to cure her addiction (and her nymphomania.) Marlowe and Vivian are left world weary, but bound to each other. So, was Marlowe just covering up for her out of love for Vivian?

Raymond Chandler liked female villains. In the book, Carmen absolutely killed Regan in a jealous rage, and tries to kill Marlowe later for the same reason. Vivian knew about this but would do anything to protect her sister. Marlowe agrees with her not to tell the police, so long as Carmen is sent away to a sanitarium and General Sternwood doesn't have to learn the truth. Vivian and Marlowe never go beyond a bit of hostile flirtation, and he ends the book sad and lonely, reflecting on how someday they'll all be sleeping the big sleep.

In the movie, where newlyweds Bogart and Bacall as Marlowe and Vivian sizzled with chemistry, this would have been a real bummer of an ending. Chandler himself advocated for a brutal ending where Marlowe knowingly sends Carmen to walk into a hail of gangster bullets, which would have been the obvious worst ending out of all of these. Instead, pay attention to what Marlowe says to Mars in the final scene.

Mars says he saw Carmen kill Regan, but Marlowe asks if he'd seen her before, why didn't he recognize her earlier in the movie? It's a good question. And what about the known fact that Regan had been in love with Mars's wife? Marlowe calls Mars a liar. The speech where he runs through the whole plot is fast and not everybody picks up on these lines, but he's saying that Mars himself killed Regan out of jealousy towards the man trying to steal his girl. And who better to blame than the drugged-up nympho who couldn't deny anything, and who better to blackmail than the sister desperate to protect her?

In the film, Mars killed the Irishman. Carmen Sternwood, as big a problem as she is, was more danger to herself than to others.

[sugawara-levi]

We’ve been friends pt. 3

❀ Chifuyu Matsuno x reader

❀ friends (to lovers?), same friend group, fluff

❀ tw: alcohol, partying

<- pt.2 navi. pt.4 ->

Gimme! Gimme!

After you’d all played games for a while, Baji and Draken somehow making it out on top each time, Hinata’s wishes were heeded. You’d played ticket to ride of course. Draken was the type to dramatically plan his every move and turn, whilst Baji went for the longer routes and got all the stretches and tunnels with the most points. It was infuriating, even though all of you saw through him at this point he always managed to snatch the best cards and get the best plays time and again. Chifuyu had also won a race, after bashing out on Baji for cheating. Which he didn’t of course, but he might as well have with the amount of times he won this game. They had worked each other up into a rouse and for a whole round you had been stuck between two pairs of aggressively shaking legs and determined gazes. Squeezed with your elbows clamped to your sides. It was your worst round, needless to say.

“Guys, guys!” You had tried talking to them one time when they almost elbowed you in the head as well as skipped your turn in their engagement. They only looked up for half a second though, Chifuyu muttered a short “sorry y/n” followed by Bajis “yeah, sorry babe” before they seemingly dived back into it. Baji calling you babe wasn’t unusual, you two being friends since childhood and all, but squashed between the two of them, with the new circumstances in mind, it crossed your mind that it might seem a bit odd for others. Well, if Chifuyu didn’t seem to mind then it was nothing to worry about. And why would he mind anyway? There was nothing between you two.

With the games came also the blood alcohol level. When the looser has to down a box of their choosing, as well as drinking throughout the game, the levels easily rise. Draken and Baji had penalty shots for winning, Chifuyu got one as well. And most of the others ended up joining in.

“This round was so tense I need one too” you said after the last round, grabbing the glass from your blond seat mate before filling it to the brim again and downing it in one go. It never tasted good, but was exactly what you needed to get rid of the tension you had been quite literally caught in. Head resting against the cushions you felt rather than saw the two others rise from the sofa and engage in a heartfelt bro hug, friendship still intact.

“Girl that was so tiresome I’ll need some of that too”, Emma came over to lounge on top of you as she stole the glass from your grip and it trailed on in its journey. “Hina come get some you too, and then I’ll accept dancing,” she gestured the re-re-filled glass to the other girl. “Oh my god! Yes, dancing!”

With her smile the size of the moon you couldn’t hold back your laughter as she pulled the both of you up from the sofa. “Oof”, the floor wiggled under your feet. Damn, you should probably slow down a bit on the liquor.

Where had Chifuyu gone? No matter, you were dancing. He was not. You were dancing. What were your thoughts doing?

It wasn’t even 10pm yet. You were dancing. With Hinata, Emma and Takemichi. The others were joining too. Emma has really nice hair. Damn. You needed to sit down for a bit.

Before you can really register how you got there you stumble back into the sofa, sideways, leg landing kinda awkwardly on the armrest. Okay. Crisps. And you’re up again and on your way to the kitchen. Where did he keep the popcorn? Popcorn popcorn popcorn, oh, there it was. Third shelf to the right.

The music is blaring through your thoughts but you can barely register them as you wait for the microwave to give its signature beep. Bleep. There we go, popcorn, bowl, chair. Aah. You can hear your thoughts again.

©sugawara-levi: do not copy or republish as your own

a/n: I honestly have no idea how many of the guys are in your gang, you can choose ig, also i guess you’re either switching up who gets to play or some play in teams idk and idrc, its just for funsies 🤩

[narrators-journal]

Hiiii this is so last minute but could u do ryomina 26… I just love love lovvveee the way u write them Hehehehehe

So, I’ve been very chicken about exploring body worship this year. I’ve been just nudging it and leaving it as an implication, but this time! This time I did my best to dive in and actually try to sprinkle in more direct body worship. Nothing TOO worship-y still, but I still think it’s more strongly there than the other attempts, and I hope you can agree to that fact!

Kinktober prompt list: Here

Kinktober masterlist: Here

CW: body worship, more strongly this time, and that’s the only real kink so far. Though, I also tossed in some yandere vibes for some fun. I’ve done a fair bit of monsters, thought I’d give a freebie yandere lol, so be warned of that and sorry if you don’t like it. You can read the vibes less as yandere and more as dark humor and a slightly unhealthy crush. Also, naturally for the pair, Teratophilia is there since this is kinda canon-ish. AKA Minato’s a persona user.

Curves.

Ryoji Mochizuki’s body was all softness and curves. The thickness of his thighs, the softness of his belly, the roundness of his face, all of it was made up of curves. Which, was, surprisingly, what had led to the dark-haired man’s infatuation with the old exchange student. Or, it was at least partof why he had never forgotten the brunette.

Though, the surprise didn’t come from Minato’s attraction to Ryoji’s body, the wildcard had slept with a wide variety of body types in his life, he wasn’t shallow or petty about such things. No, the surprise came from the fact that he still felt the same intoxicated level of vicious attraction he felt back in his time at Gekkoukan after all of the years that had passed. Despite the six or so years that had passed since graduation, the midnight-haired man still thought of the tall brunette. He still hated to see women flock around him to flirt and cling onto him.

He’d thought that feeling would have long since faded, and that when he’d seen Ryoji Mochizuki’s round, chipper face in the lobby of the hotel he was at for his vacation, he wouldn’t be as bitter as an ex at the sight of him with a dude at the bar. Yet, he had been, and he’d still been a petty ass to the stranger with the way that he stole the gorgeous brunette’s attention away. The wildcard hadn’t grown a damned inch in the years since he last saw Ryoji, and now he began to understand why.

Ryoji’s smooth skin, the softness of his body, the way that his thick thighs locked around the dark-haired emo, the way that the brunette’s silky hair splayed out across Minato’s pillow. His innate perfume of graveyard dirt and nightly air, the lust that Minato could see in his sapphire eyes, despite the darkness around them. All of it was Ryoji, and all of it kept the brunette a rent-free room in Minato’s mind. Which, the shaggy-haired man wasn’t used to. Usually, whenever he’d develop some form of obsession or territorial urges for a person, all it took was some space for those to fade. Usually, apathy would replace the feelings within a year.

Yet, this time was different. Ryoji, was different.

Everything about Ryoji had driven Minato a little bit crazy ever since high school. And, even with six years having passed, that effect obviously hadn’t faded. The way the gorgeous man wrapped his arms around Minato in the darkness of his hotel room, his sighs, the twitch of the brunette’s cock between their bodies, the way that he whined his name while the emo thrust into him. It was like Ryoji’d unlocked the pandora’s box that Minato had squashed his urges into.

Maybe this time I’ll just keep you in my basement. Keep you as my personal fucktoy so you can’t leave me for another six years. The wildcard thought darkly, a small smile on his lips while his warm breaths fanned out over his lover’s pale throat. The thought of the brunette collared and obedient to his every whim enough to make him moan and bite into his lover, which, in turn, made the brunette dig his nails into the wildcard’s back and press himself into the man when he arched his back. Oh yeah, you’re so going into my basement. Minato thought in response to the simple bit of contact with Ryoji’s skin.

So, as a reward, he littered Ryoji’s shoulder with kisses and cruel bites to earn more noises and twitches from the brunette. The wildcard’s lust quick to match the desperation of Ryoji’s noises, his pace quick to follow as a result. Though, the midnight-haired man knew he couldn’t keep such a rough pace up for long, even if the quicker slam of Minato’s hips against his got the brunette to make more beautiful, needy noises in the darkness of his hotel room. Because, as much as he loved how needy his lover was, the way his ass squeezed down on him when he did was just too good.

So, despite how much the wildcard wanted to linger in Ryoji’s grip for longer, he only lasted a few more sloppy thrusts before the fire beneath his skin finally drew out a long stream of curses. Thankfully, Ryoji wasn’t too far behind, so, while Minato did have to lay in a puddle of cum when his strength vanished, he also knew he’d successfully satisfied the brunette. “Feel better, funeral lily?” Ryoji chuckled, his breathless words light and undoubtedly amused by something he knew. Minato could almost feel the teased implications of his words even through the sting of embarrassment that crawled over his sweaty skin. “The fuck do you mean by that, Mochizuki?” He huffed, but all his lover did was run his fingers through his hair affectionately. Whatever knowledge he may have known, he didn’t share with the wildcard.

[lolotheparagon]

Sofia the First Season 3 in a Nutshell

Cool Hand Fluke - 7/10

Finally, an episode about the mermaids that isnt shit... That is a sentence I just said.

Minimus is Missing - 10/10

Every pegasus in the kingdom has been Pied Pipered away and he mastermind behind this is revealed to be a spoilt kid wizard who really wanted a pegasus for his birthday and decided to steal every horse in the kingdom cos he can. He also gets a rock ballad villain song. Yknow, this show really surprises you sometimes.

Cedric Be Good - 9/10

After all this time, Cedric finally has the amulet by swapping it for a fake copy and goes through the five stages of grief cos he doesnt realise he stole his surrogate niece's most priced possession.

Princess Adventure Club - 1/10

Oh, a new princess who's an adventurer? Now that sounds cool! I wonder if there'll be regular adventures she'll take Sofia and the gang to- OH MY GOD AMBER CAN YOU STOP BEING A BITCH FOR 5 MINUTES?? This girl's characterisation really is the prime example of "depending on the writer"

Minding the Manor - 4/10

Aunt Tilly instructs Sofia to housesit her mansion for an afternoon whilst dealing with gargoyles. Then its revealed Tilly wants to pass onto Sofia the role of being a errand girl to everyone else's domestic problems, even though she's like 8

The Secret Library - 6/10

Okay, not a bad start to this Secret Library arc and its a good story about Minimus making amends with his free-spirited big brother. Also Cary Elwes is the villain in this, which was a delight to see. Also Merida's in this and she gives the last good advice out of all the Disney Princesses to Sofia.

New Genie on the Block - -3/10

This is the most whack shit Ive ever seen in a kids cartoon. So a genie is loose in Tangu and theres a genie patrol, who is run BY a genie and he's designed to look like an American cop for some reason and Sofia becomes a honorary deputy throughout the episode. Their flying carpets are designed to look like American police cars but we're in fucking Arabia. WHAT IS THIS DESIGN CHOICE? The kid genie that's supposed causing trouble is just doing party tricks for a group of kids but Sofia and the genie cop chasistise him anyway for breaking the rules (oh yeah there's genie rules and unlike Aladdin, there's like a bajillion of them even though this kid genie isnt even doing that much rulebreaking) and thus ends up causing more trouble. Wow, its like the actual American police. I dont know what the fuck the writers were smoking but its fucking hilarious

The Fliegel Has Landed - 1/10

Jessica DiCicco plays an mean alpha bitch fairy who's just moved next to the trolls and its up to Sofia and Cedric to teach this bully a lesson? Nice! I cant wait for them to squash this nasty bug- oh no theyre redeeming her, for fucks sake!!!

The Princess Ballet - 10/10

Kari is a wonderful side character and Sofia and Amber helping her overcome her crippling perfectionism whilst practicing ballet and hiring a special tutor to teach her in ways she can understand before the big show is super sweet. THIS. This is what Sofia the First is all about

All the Sprite Moves - -5/10

Vivian has moved into a new castle and hates it, so she enlists the help of the sprites to make the castle haunted so her family can leave. There was also a subplot where Clover gets drunk on love potion berries and obsesses over Crackle and apparently these berries are a plot device cos Sofia uses them again to drug the sprites to leave the castle. That was really weird, dont ever do that again.

Sofia in Elvenmoor - 10/10

The most kid friendly acid trip episode you'll ever get. A good lesson about being focussed on what you're doing and not getting distracted by whats around you. Also there was an adorable moment when the King tries to communicate with one of Sofia's critter friends (even though he cant understand squirrel) when he's trying to find her. He also didnt want to cut down an ancient tree when his men were constructing a road and wanted them to build around it, even before he noticed Sofia was in the tree. King Roland's environmentally friendly and thats just neat.

Stormy Lani - 1/10

They really pulled the magical native stereotype with Lani and had the gall to have a white girl teach an indigenous girl to calm her temper cos her emotions change the weather. WOW. That is Steven Universe levels of racist.

Lord of the Rink - 7/10

Huh, imagine that. A good Prince Hugo episode . This one's a flip-around from Just One of the Princes where Hugo worries his interest in a feminine sport like ice skating will cause his friends and his father to mock him and Sofia reassures him to just do the sport and not worry what others think. Nice to see theres no gender double standard in this show.

The Secret Library: Olaf and the Tale of Miss Nettle - 0/10

Once I found out Ms Nettle was getting redeemed, I skipped through the entire episode cos im so DONE with this show redeeming every villain in its path. Why cant we teach kids that sometimes people are just dicks?

Gone With the Wand - 9/10

We meet Cedric's niece, Calista, who adores her uncle as much as Sofia does. Now im entirely convinced Cedric cared for Sofia all this time cos she reminds him of Calista and I find that so sweet. They then go to Merlin's castle where Cedric goes into fanboy mode, manage to imprison an evil sorceress and have Calista learn not to steal stuff thats her favourite colour cos its still stealing. Only downside is why that evil sorceress had to be Morgana. Girl gets way too much hate in fantasy stories.

Bad Little Dragon - 7/10

Weird title aside, its a great Crackle episode where her jealousy over Vivian's new baby dragon is completely justified as the new dragon is not only an international jewel thief, but an adult dragon just with a baby body and talks like an old school gangster. This is the funniest shit

Bunny Swap - 6/10

It's a solid Clover episode where he gets his privilege checked by his doopleganger

Her Royal Spyness - -7/10

SEAL PEOPLE EXIST IN THIS WORLD.

Best In Air Show - 5/10

Minimus has an overbearing mother zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Dads and Daughters Day - 8/10

Sofia gets a similar problem like what she had in Mom's the Word, this time its with her dad. Her and Amber's class are going on a field trip with all their dads and after Hildegarde's remark about Roland not being Sofia's real dad, Sofia fears that because she doesnt have memories of previous dad and daughter trips like Amber, she doesnt believe she's truly his daughter. Cue heartfelt speech from Roland about how he'll always love her and in comes my unintelligble bawling.

Elena and the Secret of Avalor - 8/10

A Sofia the First episode tackling the destruction that imperalism causes to a nation, a new princess protagonist named Elena getting the upper hand and finally getting her crown, her family and her kingdom back from an imperalist bitch? Well, damn, I'm impressed. Although Sofia's family couldve done a lot more and the idea of a Latina princess being trapped inside an amulet that was used by white princesses really bothers me. Like, why couldnt Elena just be in forced exile thanks to the villain or have her be trapped in a magic mirror or some shit?

The Tale of the Noble Knight - 4/10

Kevin Michael Richardson plays an amazingly hammy knight. Shame he wasnt in a better episode.

The Bamboo Kite - 7/10

Nice to see the lesson of respecting both old and new technology and resources. Its just neat.

Beauty is the Beast - 9/10

This time, Sofia gets summoned to help a princess. She meets Charlotte, who's been turned into a beast as a punishment because she was racist to a goblin. Sofia tries to get the goblin and princess to get along and they end up being besties cos they both nerd out over royal stuff. Honestly, I wish Charlotte kept her beast form. Its very ugly cute.

Cauldronation Day - 2/10

Lucinda's having some witch graduation ceremony but her two new friends are both fighting over the position to be the witch of honour so Sofia tries to make them become friends, even though they clearly arent good enough friends to Lucy. Its fucking infuriating how Lucinda never puts two and two together and just makes Sofia her witch of honour and tell her friends to fuck off cos Sofia is right there being supportive.

Camp Wilderwood

Yknow that spoilt wizard kid Wendell from Minimus is Missing? That kid who stole a kingdom's pegasi cos he really wanted one instead of a magic lute? That kid who even took over a small kingdom for the evulz? Lets redeem him and have him befriended by James all because htey both hated going to a summer camp. Great, a terrible slap-dash villain redemption and a mediocre James episode. Man, this kid never gets a good episode.

Royal Vacation - 5/10

"See, parents? The best way to get your family to spend more time with each other is by forcing them to go on vacation! Even if the vacation turns out to be 90 percent a disaster. As long as you come home feeling happy at the end, that's all that matters!"

Hexley Hall - 8/10

Sofia has unlocked new amulet powers and Cedric takes her to his old wizard school to meet Billy West wizard to get more info about the amulet. I love how halfway throughout the episode, Cedric gets interested in Sofia's amulet and you'd think "oh no, is he gonna go back to stealing it again to take over Enchancia?" but thes its immediately dropped as Cedric's friendship with his pet raven suddenly becomes the focus and he goes into papa wolf mode when Sofia is threatened by Billy West wizard later on and he didnt even care about the amulet. Dont know if that was either a writing flub or an intentional twist, but I like it.

The Princess Prodigy - 10/10

Vivian gets manipulated by an evil musical baron who's preying on her musical talent to fuel his own musical magic, by isolating her from her bandmates and making her lash out at her friends, causing them to help her come to her senses and take down the baron. Cue an epic Scott Pilgrim style music magic battle between Sofia, Vivian and the others and you have an absolute baller episode.

One for the Books - 9/10

A nerdy prince named Desmond, who hasnt had a major appearance since Enchanted Science Fair, struggles with an eccentric assignment giving by the best teacher in the entire school (Seriously, I love Mr P, he's such a cool unorthodox teacher and those are the best. He reminds me of my old geography teacher when I was at school) and he's too embrassed to ask for help since he's usually the top student. A good lesson about never being afraid to ask for help and dont give magical growing food to an already magical plant. This is how you get Piranha Plants

[songofsutarima]

Some poems a friend asked for

A friend asked me to write some poems for him. Based on this short little list of words. So…here is a small little poetry dump.

_________________________

His words:

Happy

Sad

Underdog

Champion

???

_________________________

1- (you can name this one)

It’s just me, I am the breeze

I can be however I please

Flow through me, electricity

As our joy overwrites my history

I breathe in and I swear the sky wasn’t always so blue

But perhaps it’s that I’m content and my eyes are a jovial golden hue.

————

2- Cryopreservation

Frost fills my nostrils, when your presence I am in,

From the judging gaze, my misted breath turns crystalline.

And so to save my heart, I go cold without reservation,

And find me lifeless-loveless in my cryopreservation.

————

Defective

It’s late tonight, a time in which I get reflective,

And I try to convince myself I am good, with opinions subjective,

But know what I am, in a different paralyzing perspective.

As much as I like to pretend to be good and effective,

Rusted joints, malfunctioning heart and mind.

I know I am defective.

——————-

Anchor

Tie it to me

For my misdeeds

Let it be

You squash my seeds

For I have seen

These hands unclean

In horrifying scenes

I can’t redeem

Take me, tie me to the stone

Cast me, throw me, have me flown

Have my anchor tied tight around under the chin,

Quickly quickly, lest I sin again.

———————

Sundered

I was whole…just last night…

And then you came and stole my light.

It was me and you through every fight

And yet in the end it was never right

You’ve torn me to pieces with your bite

And at this point I’m blind; of hope I’ve lost sight.

So tonight with one final rite I’ll turn my ‘might’ to an imminent ‘sad, quite’.

——————

ROASTED

Yes yes, I see your belts, trophies, the plaques you have posted.

But up to this point in your life, I swear you have coasted

I’m the nightmare your mind wishes it wouldn’t have hosted

Give me a minute, you’ll find my fire is more than I’ve boasted

———————

5- DEVOUR

Many have tried, many have failed

And yet you think you’ll have me derailed?

The play is easy, I pick and I choose,

I haven’t begun to sweat, can’t you smell that you lose?

I can hear it in your voice, taste it; all your fear, swirling in the air,

But when it comes to sheep and their wants or beggings, why would a lion care?

——————

TWILIGHT

Find me in the morning with small slices seeping

As I beg, but sleep is from my eyes keeping

Itself tucked away, though it teases as I pray,

“Father God, please allow rest before the break of day.”

[reapdheir]

*/ CLOVE KNEW SHE WAS GOING TO DIE. from the moment her eyes caught the rock gripped ominously within thresh's white-knuckled paw , she knew . dangling nearly a foot off the ground , too stunned to even kick or squirm , his other hand was firmly around her windpipe . it tightened with every cry or whimper she dared utter until her desperate pleas of ' no ! it wasn't me ! ' were nearly impossible to squeak out .

clove was meant to be clever , nimble , and far too fast to ever be caught . she'd thought herself the cat that'd finally cornered its pesky mouse ; only , she'd played with her food a second too long and , now , some dog had her between its jaws .

the girl from district two had failed . maybe if she had been as big as brutus she'd have fought back . brutally animalistic as enobaria . shrewd as lyme . then , maybe , she wouldn't have been reduced to this crying child caught beneath the reaper's blade a couple decades too soon .

it's true what they say about life flashing before a dead man's eyes . except , instead of seeing that which she'd already lived , clove experienced the world she'd be leaving behind . a trillion minutes squashed into one : enobaria's fangs bared in discontent. her parents' bitter smiles, their expectations of another failure met. cato's thick hands pressed down on peeta's neck, hearing the cannon's echo . . . not knowing until it was too late.

desperation crawled up her throat , shooting past her lips , echoing through the trees . " cato ! cato ! " she fought against thresh's hold , screaming so loud her vocal cords nearly snapped like taut thread . the taste of iron prickled her tongue . he'd come , maybe . clove thrashed harder .

his rock came hard against her skull . the impact was followed by a nauseating crack , but all clove could hear was ringing . she knew her body had crumpled back to earth by the cold grass that tickled her palms , yet the world had otherwise gone dark . she could see nothing . she could hear nothing . and , soon enough , the tribute would be nothing . just another casualty . fodder for the capitol to momentarily regale before the world ultimately abandoned her .

her fingers spasmed uncontrollably . a hot tear caressed her cheek . mercy !

something was touching her . someone . the feeling felt far away , though , like her consciousness was free-falling , slipping away from its host .

had thresh decided to finish her off ?

mercy.

was katniss toying with her soon-to-be corpse ?

mercy .

she choked on her own tongue , pathetically gurgling through the blood that puddled in her mouth . but the harder she fought inevitability , the quicker death's cold hands pulled her further down to hell .

soon , her twitching would slow and tears run dry and strained whimpers cease .

it was horrible to think , as she floated down the river styx , how no one would remember her right . they wouldn't celebrate how she'd gotten top marks in the academy . that her freckles were always darkest in july , decorating her nose like confetti . no one would recall her favorite color being magenta , or how her big brother used to save his allowance to buy her cinnamon sticks .

they would remember the lives she stole . the blood coating her hands . the knives strapped to every inch of her lithe frame . they'd condemn her rotten soul over deeds once praised . and then , after patting themselves on the back for the narrative they'd spun — pleased with the sick character they'd made her — clove's body would be unceremoniously tossed atop the pile of one-thousand-six-hundred-and-ninety-seven others before her . forgotten .

clove wouldn't forget , though . even in death she'd haunt herself . clove had let ego consume her , so , like sisyphus and his rock , she would spend death wondering what could've gone differently . reliving her defeat . reducing herself to shortcomings and faults and failures for all eternity .

everything was dark and cold , and the young girl died in this empty void feeling utterly alone .

[onepartbrave]

INSOMNIA :  for one muse to find the other still awake at 3am.

a comprehensive list of scenarios

Staying awake to the early hours of daylight was nothing uncommon for Squall. Taking on the responsibilities that came alongside the role of ‘Commander’ was demanding at best and downright hellish at worst, eating away at any free time he accumulated and stole precious time he needed to sleep and recuperate. Although, being in a military role regardless promised such, unruly working hours and endless compromises on his behalf… so when he woke up in the middle of the night after getting an early night was highly disorienting.  

Groaning softly as he half-peeled open an eye painstakingly slow to glimpse at the horrendously bright light of the alarm clock on his nightstand, his sleep-addled mind eventually comprehended the time. 02:56AM.  

…Really. When I can actually sleep ‘til morning, I wake up. Ugh.  

A sluggishly paced hand popped out from under the duvet half-covering him (no wonder his left foot felt cold) and rubbed lightly at the previously open eye. Grumbling inwardly, he sleepily turned on his side in the direction his slumbering partner was and fully intended on worming his way over to Maru to snuggle in tired protest of being awake—to pause at finding the other side of the bed empty.  

Thoroughly puzzled in his exhausted state, he propped himself up on an elbow with some effort. Both eyes forcibly opened by now, half-lidded and exceptionally heavy, he searched the immediate area for any sign of the Miqo’te. Devoid of life barring him, Squall debated between collapsing back onto the tempting bedding and passing out until the shrill beeping of his alarm or pulling himself from comfort to seek out the one he missed. A second or two of silence passed in mind and it was easily made up. Therefore, with great effort that matched the desire to locate his misplaced person, he rolled out the tangle of sheets and up off the side.  

As soon as both feet met the floor, he pushed up with weakened arms, having not yet woken from the deeper sleep he’d been in. Nonetheless, he was standing upright readily, albeit unbalanced, and wandered off in search of Maru. With the bedroom vacated and no noises emanating from the ensuite, he beelined for the adjoining lounge just outside the bedroom without his usual composure. Blinking more frequently to stave off the teasing lull of slumber that his mind wished to fall back into, he pushed the obstacle of the door out the way and plodded on. Determined more than he was tired, a small victory fanfare echoed in his conscience at spotting the desired individual situated comfortably on the couch, seemingly watching whatever program was on after midnight. 

Traipsing over without uttering a word, Squall did part ways with a faint, exceptionally dozy smile for Maru when the feline’s eyes shot his way. Decorum splintered by sleepiness, he wasted no time in promptly collapsing on the free space of the couch when close enough, shimmying his way up to try and nudge Maru into cuddling with him instead of hugging up to the couch arm. He misjudged though, arm missing its mark of his partner’s shoulder and instead slipped out from beneath Squall. The result was him toppling sideways and faceplanting onto Maru’s thigh gracelessly. Nose squashed and throbbing slightly, he wiggled with a great effort of turning his head, and body subsequently, to face Maru.  

Graceful in nature as always when it came to his peculiarities, Squall’s tired irritation settled at feeling Maru altering his posture to accommodate the sudden addition of him. Feeling digits brushing through his hair helped settle what little vexation was left and he was cozy enough to remain there, head resting on Maru’s lap and close enough to nuzzle against his stomach. Blindly, the arm he wasn’t laying on top of worked its way slightly around the Miqo’te in an improvised embrace and, after that tribulation, he finally relaxed.