#there was also an old sewing machine i was tempted by

[knifegremliin]

hell world. there's a house for sale in the neighborhood i grew up in and we went to the open house tonight and it is PERFECT AND LOVELY but WE CAN'T AFFORD IT.

[munsonsgirl71]

Let's Risk It - Eddie Munson Fanfic

Warnings: 18+ ONLY as always. There is a teeny tiny mention of self harm, like blink and you'll miss it. That's it. Some fluff, some agnst, Eddie being... Eddie. This is an older rockstar!eddie and even though age isnt mentioned I did write this with the reader being younger in mind. I also tried my absolute hardest to keep this neutral and I think I did but if I didn't please let me know and I will remove the tag. Use of pet names: sweetheart, angel, baby.

You heard his whistle echo off the cinderblock walls of the venue before you heard the steady thump of his boots on the tile. He was getting closer to the wardrobe room and you knew he was coming for you. To give you that cheeky smirk and a wink as he passed by on his way to own clothes. Your eyes stayed focused on the shirt you were steaming the wrinkles out of when the door opened and clicked shut with a loud thud. 

“Maverick.” Eddie greeted your boss with a nod as he made his way over to where you stood with your back to him. “Sweetheart.” 

“Mr. Munson.” You greeted as professionally as possible as his ringed hand grabbed a handful of your hip on his way past you. “I was able to fix that rip in your shirt, it’s in your case.” 

“You’re an angel.” He drawled as he flashed you his dimples over his shoulder and threw you a wink. “Thank you.” 

“Just doing my job.” You shook your head at him before turning back to the shirt in front of you. “Would you like me to steam it for you?” 

“Nah… I’m not as prissy as Jeff.” He chuckled as he pulled open his case and riffled through the clothes hanging on the racks. “I like my shirts to have a few wrinkles. Makes me look metal.” 

“Makes you look messy.” You giggled as you threw him a glance and both of his eyebrows shot up behind his curly bangs. 

“Did you just call me messy?” His eyes narrowed into a glare as he turned on his heels and stalked back over to you. His hand came up and wiped a bead of sweat off your forehead before pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “I can show you messy, baby. Don't tempt me.” 

“That’s enough, Eddie.” Maverick hollered from behind you two and you jumped at the volume of his voice. “She has work to do and you need to get ready. You can flirt with her after the show.” 

“Mav, you’ve been busting my balls for nearly ten years.” Eddie barked a laugh as he looked over at the plump man positioned behind his sewing machine. “You never let me have any fun!” 

“Like I said…” Maverick gave him a pointed look over the top of his glasses as he lifted his foot and let the machine stop. “You can have your fun after she’s done working. Leave her be.” 

“Fine, fine.” Eddie held up both of his hands in defense as he backed away from you slowly, a small smirk pulling up the corner of his lips. “Have it your way, boss man.” 

“Thank you.” Maverick pushed his foot down on the pedal and let the machine whir back to life as Eddie kept his eyes trained on you. You turned back to your work but could feel his eyes burning a hole into the side of your head. 

You started working for Corroded Coffin about a year ago when you were desperate for a job and an escape from the shitty small town life you had been living. Working paycheck to paycheck at the diner, killing roaches in your studio apartment as you tried to cook another dinner of fifty cent ramen noodles, hooking up with randoms who were passing through just to feel something. You hated it. You were lonely, you were sad and truth be told you were on the verge of ending it all. But then you got a call from an old friend saying she was engaged and would be quitting her job and they were looking for her replacement. She helped you fly out to LA where you met Maverick in some swanky bar where the drinks cost more than your rent. He offered you the job on the spot, paying five times what you had previously made in a month and the next day you were on the bus to Cincinnati where the band was kicking off their world tour. 

It took about a month before you officially met Eddie at an after party. You’d seen him backstage and had passed him in hotel lobbies but you had never spoken to him. Maverick had pulled you off the bus that night, saying you needed to let loose, and drug you to the bar the band had decided to hole up in. He walked you right over and introduced you to the guys and their ladies of the night, muttering about groupies after he pulled you away for shots. 

The next night Eddie sauntered into the wardrobe room hours before lights up, which you were told was not normal. He perched himself up on Maverick’s sewing table and shot the shit with him until he needed to get dressed. The zipper on his leather pants broke and you were forced to sew him into them since Maverick was busy helping Gareth fix his boots. It was all soft, brown eyes and beaming smiles, pet names and soft brushes of his hands after that. There was a very fine like the two of you were toeing and you knew it. You wanted him and he wanted you but it would never come to be. Flirting was fine, stolen glances and grabbing touches when no one was looking was okay too, even the nights you two found yourselves alone in a bar was great but he was the talent and you were a lowly seamstress that worked for his record label. You needed the job and you wouldn’t risk it. Not for anything. 

“I think that shirt is wrinkle free.” Eddie chuckled from next to you, shaking you out of your thoughts as he reached over and took the steamer out of your hand. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine, Mr. Munson.” You nodded as you fiddled with the hanger in front of you trying to avoid his gaze. “Thank you.” 

“Wanna go for a smoke?” 

“Can’t.” You shook your head as you chewed into your bottom lip and let your eyes flit across the room to Maverick. “Gotta work.” 

“Seeing as you almost melted that shirt I’m sure Mav won’t mind if you take a quick break.” He gave your wrist a reassuring shake as he started to pull you towards the door. “I’m taking her for a smoke, boss man. We’ll be right back!” 

The door clicked shut behind you but you still heard Maverick’s shout of ‘god damn it, Eddie’ as you scampered off down the hall. It was a crisp Autumn night in Seattle and the sky was clear enough to see the stars. You leaned back against the brick facade of the building and let Eddie light a cigarette for you before taking it from him with a small smile. 

“You sure you're okay?” He spoke around his own cigarette as the end burned cherry red and you nodded as you took a long drag of your own. “You do that a lot? Zone out like that?” 

“I was just thinking.” You whispered as you blew the smoke out of your lungs. 

“Sweetheart, I was calling your name for a good five minutes.” He gave you a look that you couldn't quite decipher as he blew out his own smoke. “If you were thinking that hard it must be something big on your mind. You wanna talk about it?” 

“I uh… I just…” You looked down at where you were kicking a small rock with the toe of your dirty chucks. “I need you to stop being nice to me.” 

“I’m sorry?” He jerked back like you had just slapped him in the face and his eyes were full of shock as he looked over at you. “You need me to stop being nice to you?” 

“I need this job, Eddie.” You stressed as you took another drag of your cigarette and let your words sink in as you blew it out. “I have nothing to go back to; no home, no job prospects. I can’t risk losing this. And the flirting and the touching and the quiet talks tucked away in bar booths is putting this at risk.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s not risking…” 

“But it is!” You spoke a little louder than you intended as you turned your whole body to face him. “I know Maverick makes his jokes but he is watching me. He sees everything and I know with just one slip up I’m gone. You’re the talent, Eddie! This thing between us, whatever it is, has got to stop. I cannot lose my job!” 

“Baby,” he whispered as he threw down his half smoked cigarette and took your face in his hands. “You are not going to lose your job. I promise. I will never let that happen.” 

“It’s not up to you.” 

“Like hell it isn't!” He scoffed as his grip on your cheeks tightened. “This is my band, my tour. I’m the fucking boss and if I say you’re safe then you’re safe. You really think those boardroom assholes want to piss off their money maker? Think again, baby.” 

“Eddie…I can’t… we can’t…” He cut you off with his lips crashing into yours as hot tears rolled down your cheeks. Calloused thumbs swiped over your cheeks as your lips moved with his. Soft but chapped, warm and honey sweet tasting like smoke and bourbon and Eddie. Your hands gripped the lapels of his shirt and pulled him in as close as he could get. Hips pushing yours back into the wall as the bricks scraped against your bare shoulders and a soft whine escaped your throat. It was all teeth and tongues, hands in hair and his knee wedging between your own. It was hot. Messy. Too much. Far too much and you both pulled away, panting as he leaned his forehead against yours. 

“You’re safe.” He breathed out as he placed a few more chaste kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your forehead. “You’re safe with me.” 

“Promise?” 

“Baby, I swear on my life.” His eyes sparkled as he pulled back to look at you fully. “Nothing is ever going to happen to you. Not with me.” 

“I gotta get back to work.” You sniffled as a few more rouge tears rolled down your cheeks. “You gotta let go, Eddie.” 

“Never.” He laughed as he pulled you into a tight hug and kissed the top of your head. “But I will let you get back to it. I need your help with my pants.” 

“Jesus Christ!” You groaned as you pushed him off and gave him a playful glare. “Did you break the zipper again?” 

“It’s not my fault, sweetheart!” He threw his hands up and let them fall to slap against his leather clad thighs. “The fucking zipper just can’t contain The Beast!” 

“Did you just…” You clicked your tongue as his eyes sparkled and you rolled your eyes. “Get inside and take your pants off.” 

“Easy, tiger!” He giggled as you shoved him towards the doors leading back into the venue which he held open for you so he could slap your ass as you slipped back inside. “I’ll report you for harassment if you keep talking to me like that.” 

“Well lucky for me the fucking boss is into me so I think I’ll be okay.” You smiled sweetly at him as he threw his arm around your shoulder and tucked you into his side. “What do you think of a lace up fly? For your pants?” 

“A lace up?” He cocked his head to the side as he looked down at you and you nodded. “Would you help me tie them every night?” 

“Oh I don’t know, Mr. Munson.” You feigned innocence as he pulled open the door to the wardrobe room for you. “I might need a raise if that’s added to my job duties.” 

“I’ll talk to the fucking boss and see what he can do for you.” He smirked as he followed you and kicked off his shoes, shimming out of his pants and handing them over to you. “Thank you for taking care of me, angel.” 

“Thank you for keeping me safe.” You whispered as you took the pants from him and gave him a sweet smile. “No get outta my work space so I can fix The Beast tamer!” 

His hearty laugh echoed all the way down the hallway and you couldn’t help the face splitting smile that spread across your lips. 

Maybe he was worth the risk after all.

[cedarboughs]

Hiking Journal: The West Coast Trail

Day V: Crabshack Blues

September 1

Cribs Creek to Tsusiat Falls

The new month, not that such things had any meaning on the Trail, dawned in a thick fog. We couldn’t even see the Cribs rising at the shore as we packed up the tents. The trees were painted in a gentle newly faded palette, though the myriad flotsam bouys still coloured every branch around the campsite.

When we clambered up onto the rock to trek along the Cribs, leaping sea lions appeared like sleek silver ghosts arcing through the waves.

Please appreciate this video because it took like twenty minutes to upload. And, you know, four days of hiking to shoot, but that’s further in the past right now. The buffering is present.

The first starfish!

The morning trail passed through many small pockets of Ditidaht land. Past the cute cabins of Clo-ose village, along a hard climb, an old sewing machine rusts beside the trail.

Boardwalks and bridges are wonderfully maintained and easy to walk here, or should be, but I guess the sum of kilometres was beginning to wear on me. I faded quickly here, needing what seemed like an embarrassing volume of snacks and rest to maintain the energy to walk. It was a relief to at last see the waters of Nitinaht Narrows.

This tidal connection of lake to sea is more or less the halfway point of the West Coast Trail. A ferry bridges the gap as well as taking people in and out of the village of Nitinaht an hour’s putter inland up the lake if they only wanted to trek half of the route. I would have been tempted, but that was a decision to make after I was full of crabmeat.

The ferry dock also serves the freshest, best, least freeze-dried meals on the whole Trail. A freshwater giant Dungeness crab, the only ones in the world, fished out of the lake within the hour of service, will set a trekker back eighty-five dollars, but when else will you have a meal like this? Money isn’t a real concept on the Trail anyway. We got salmon, too.

While we waited on our order, “Hippie Doug,” who’s been the ferryman for almost fifty years, showed us his photos.

Our table at the crabshack was like a reunion of our northbound group. F—— and S——- were there, along with C—— and another of her fellow Regina nurses whose name I can’t remember and it doesn’t matter since I’m censoring them like a nineteenth-century novel anyway. The “Sema Four” had come up from Portland. Apparently one of the couples who as trying to teach the semaphore alphabet to the other. The Sema Four were staying at the crabshack tonight along with the nurses. It sounded like it would be a good party. Sure, it was forty dollars per tent and the tents would be crammed in side by side on the porch; on the other hand, it was another hard, muddy, inland seven kilometres to the next campsite at Tsusiat Falls.

And that's how the drama began.

Mom didn't want to carry on, but wouldn't insist on it. Dad didn't want to spend eighty bucks on a likely sleepless night. A few scattered words went back and forth, but to no avail. Even tually, newly full of crab energy (at least I was,) we shouldered packs and moved on.

The ferry ride across the channel was nice. Hippie Doug pointed out the fleeing hind legs and tail of a river otter disappearing up the north bank into the bush.

But north of the bank the vibes quickly turned rancid. Mom marched ahead without waiting, checking, or stopping, a passive agressive (though not especially passive) sort of expression of an easily parsable sentiment: you wanted to go, so we’re going, and that means going ceaselessly forward without help or advice or patience, not even where bridges are entirely collapsed down treacherous slopes. No waiting to stick together even to put gaiters on before plowing forth past shin-deep mud patches. When we caught up, it was to disparaging remarks about our speed, and we trudged on in terse bitter silence. I desperately wanted to make peace, but it was hard to find neutral ground. We needed time, but time the way we were going was just making everyone more exhausted.

I managed a few good words of accord before the return to the beach, four gruelling inland kilometres past the crabshack. It was still a long misty beach trek to Tsusiat. Somewhere there, though, we passed the flip of the two sided map. Whatever happened now, and however impossible the first few days had seemed, it was beyond any doubt or question now that we were in the latter half in the trek, going out. From here on or likely earlier, every step no longer took us deeper into the wild, but took us closer to the comforts of the grid.

Some writing says that the “Hole in the Rock” is the most iconic view on the Trail. I don’t know how it ranks personally — it’s not visible from very far away, compared to the wide arc of Carmanah or the slope of the Cribs — but it’s a cool spot for sure. The tide was too high to pass through the south-side surge channel and climb or circle around to the hole, but we could double back from the north and stand beneath the natural arch, nearly lapped by water on either side.

It was a joy to see the coloured tents of Tsusiat down the beach. This is a beautiful campsite tucked below towering sandstone cliffs. Water is collected for dinner boiling beneath a grand waterfall.

[afriendlyenigma]

Autistic Tips for Getting Enough Sleep

If you are anything like me, getting enough sleep (both in terms of length and quality) can feel impossible when you are autistic. Ironically, being under slept makes it even harder to deal with the challenges of everyday life caused by the sensory differences, executive functioning issues etc. that go along with being autistic, that can ultimately lead to burnout.

Luckily, there ARE things you can do to help. Here is a list of things that I and other autistic people have found helpful:

Maintain consistent sleep/waking times as much as possible - Autistic people generally thrive from routines. If you aren't in a consistent sleeping pattern it will take some effort to get into the habit, so be gentle with yourself at first. Everyone's natural circadian rhythms are different, so experiment to figure out what works best for you (obviously if you work different shift patterns, have young kids etc. this might not be possible every single night).

Ensure your environment is optimal for sleep - Towels or clothes can help block out light, or use an eye mask. If noise if an issue, make sure windows and doors are closed, or try ear plugs or white noise machines. Think about your bedding, too - make sure the bedclothes aren't scratchy or irritating, that your mattress and pillows are supportive enough, or try weighted blankets, or toys that play soft sound (like this one). Clutter can also disturb some people, so it may be time for a clear out!

Reduce tech/blue light before bed - these days, a lot of people are in the habit of scrolling on their phone/watching Netflix etc. during their free time in the evening. However, it's easy to get sucked in for hours, way past the time you meant to be going to bed, keeping yourself awake and overstimulating your brain. This is a hard habit to break but it is totally worth it. You could decide not to look at your phone/TV after a certain time, at least an hour before you want to fall asleep. Switch your phone into bedtime mode, or get one of the apps that create a minimalist interface to reduce how stimulating it is (like this one). Most phones/laptops have timers and wellbeing features built in to help with this. I know some people who have gotten a old fashioned alarm clock because they know even looking at their phone to set an alarm will tempt them to scroll.

Wind down with something relaxing - to further the previous tip, try to find a gentle, low stake activity to do to help quieten your mind. Reading can be good, but only if you are sure you won't be tempted to stay up all night finishing the book! Options to try are puzzles, knitting/sewing/embroidery, meditation, colouring in and journaling. Avoid anything that gets your heart rate up, so no exercise within a few hours of bedtime!

What you do during your waking hours can impact how well you sleep at night. Getting regular exercise (even if it's just a daily walk/ whatever activity you are physically able to do) helps your body be physically tired at night, allowing you to fall asleep more easily. Daily fresh air helps regulate your circadian rhythms, so your body knows to actually feel tired at bedtime. Your diet can also play a role - try to eat reasonably healthily so you get all the nutrients you need, and avoid sugar, alcohol and caffeine close to bedtime.

A huge issue for me when I'm trying to fall asleep is anxiety/worry. Things swirl round and round my head, imagining worst case scenarios in vivid detail. If you are stressed or anxious a lot during the day (like a lot of autistic people are), this can make it more difficult to fall asleep at night. Exercise, fresh air and a good diet as mentioned in he previous tip will help, but there are things you can do to help with the mental aspect. Relaxation exercises (here are some to try), journaling, therapy or sharing your worries with someone you trust are some ideas. Remember that issues always seem much at night - if thinking about something is keeping me from sleeping, I write it on a piece of paper and shut it in a drawer to deal with the next day.

Be prepared to negotiate with others and assert your boundaries - I'm aware that the ability to enact a lot of this advice depends on a number of factors which may or may not be within your control. For example, my sister likes to shower late at night (like midnight onwards) whilst playing music, which I can hear in my bedroom. If someone else's behaviour is keeping you awake, communicate your needs clearly and calmly and try to work out a solution together. It can be difficult when you live in close proximity to others and are conflict avoidant, but if you don't put your needs first, there's no guarantee anyone else will! If asking by yourself is too much, ask someone you trust to advocate for you. Have a think about what factors are within and out with your control, and which you may be able to influence by communicating your needs/enforcing your boundaries (try this template to organise your thoughts). You may be pleasantly surprised about how much control you have!

I hope there is something in there that will help you! Improving sleep is often not a quick process, so don't beat yourself up if it takes longer than expected. Autistic people have different needs than neurotypicals, so don't let anyone make you feel like you are wrong for prioritizing your own health. Once you are well rested, your ability to use your neurodivergent strengths will improve!

One last thing - problems sleeping can indicate an underlying health problem, so if you have any other symptoms such as headaches, gastro-intestinal issues etc, or if your mental health is having a detrimental effect on your quality of life, make sure you see a healthcare provider.

[brandyy0moss]

your costume and makeup look so cool!! :D

Thank you so much!!!! I’m incredibly proud of how it looks :> I’ve never sewn anything before and snapped the sewing machine needle the first day so I spent the next four on the floor hand sewing but that’s okay!

The skirt was originally designed just for casual wear as I love this style but I loved it so much that I really wanted to wear it for Halloween!! Tho of course I decided this like five days before haha

The jacket was winged! I had it plain and just cropped and added the button as well as the pockets— tho I did sew it inside out TWICE 💀 to be fair it was like 2am and I had been doing it all day haha (and I’ve never actually sewn anything proper before)

I did want the star over the chest like a centre piece but just couldn’t make ir look good so the sides work too!!

Lots of re doing stuff :> and fighting with the blue yarn because it kept peeling and getting stuck.. so worth it for the cartoon look tho!!

And the makeup— I’ve always wanted to do this style!! Just for casual wear but tried once and I did it awfully- I guess the kick of motivation to get something down for tomorrow helped this time around :D genuinely very excited to explore this style more and now that I know I can customise clothes- I’m so tempted to do it to everything I own!!

I also have some great accessorys for it!! Please take this video of me dancing around my room at very late hours showing the whole thing!!

Technically I’m too old for  trick-or-treating but I got baby sitting duty so loop hole >:)

[chthonicrose]

there are two thrift stores where I live that I love a lot, both superior to goodwill in different ways

one is run by a local charity that runs a homeless shelter that I know a lot of people who volunteer with and donate to and I think even some people on the board, so like I'm confident that it's good. they sell shit for an absolute song--bins of clothes $1 for a grocery bag full, it's harder to find things but more rewarding--and they get some really nice furniture. last time I was in they had a free piano lmao. I've also seen antique sewing machines in their built in tables for $100 and was I ever fucking tempted. and I've seen like $200 name brand blazers in those clothes bins.

the other we refer to as 'the thrift store that [a friend] hates', and it's a decommissioned strip mall church that's been turned into a store stacked with the contents of dozens of estate sales with tiny little aisles between china cabinets and roll-top desks, with a pit full of used mattresses off the stage at the front of the old sanctuary, where my best friend once got a thirty piece stoneware set for $10. it's less good for clothes but it's always an experience to look through!

I fucking hate Goodwill because it's a scam. My dad says the owner of the Goodwill in town takes like 10 high end vacations a year. But I desperately needed cheap clothes. I found a pair of pale green linen shorts with daisies printed on them

[princessnijireiki]

sometimes adulthood is setting aside all your art supplies to give away bc you got them at a more optimistic time in your life when you thought you had the time, space, and energy to use them & not wanting them to go to waste

sometimes it is also taking some of those art supplies back bc not to be an Artist about it but like the yearnings of your soul to express itself are not a petty indulgence the way a purse is, a creative outlet truly is a need— and maybe you can't do all the things you wanted, and maybe some supplies will be better with other people who would love to use them in a way you really can't or won't, with your physical or time or space limitations— but it's important to have something that makes you feel alive, and to make space & time for what you love, and to prioritize pouring energy back into yourself and your self-development

[phykios]

honesty and promise me, part 10 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

“If you don’t talk to me, I’m not going to leave you my keys.”

Annabeth looks at Piper from behind the loom, glaring through the threads. “Then you won’t come back to ten bolts of fabric.”

In fairness, it was sort of an empty threat. Piper has all the good stuff: the surger, the embroidery machine, the industrial sewing machines, plus a million sources for fabric that aren’t Annabeth’s stress weaving. Annabeth only has her own shitty sewing machine at home that she’d gotten for Christmas when she was fourteen.

Also, Piper wouldn’t actually lock her out. She needs those fabrics.

“Why don’t you just not go?” Annabeth says. “If you stay, I promise to tell you all the gritty details.” She’s joking, but the second she says it, she’s hit with a strange wave of desperation.

She wants to tell Piper all the gritty details. How she had giggled and smoozed and looked so pretty on Luke’s arm, tattoos and undercut and everything else so carefully concealed. She never wanted to tell Thalia the gritty details. The dirty ones, sure, particularly when the dirty things didn’t involve Thalia’s beloved younger cousin. But she had spent two years, two hard painful years, hiding vast swaths of herself from Thalia.

She thought of the night of the gala, of Thalia telling her family she knew Luke from college. NYU. They’d been actors together.

Annabeth hadn’t been the only one hiding things.

It had stung, in all sorts of ways.

Piper stares, narrowing her eyes. “How dare you tempt me into giving up my creative retreat for gossip.”

Annabeth shrugs. “It’s one or the other.”

The glare at each other, stubborn as all hell.

Piper throws up her hands. “Fine. Just make my fabric and call Leo if you’re having another crisis.”

The truth is, she will tell Piper. Eventually. She knows she will. It will probably be in eight months, when she gets back, when hopefully the shame of her false life and the devastation of losing Percy has lessened, but she will tell her. But eight months is a long time. “I do have other friends, you know.”

“Then call Luke. Or Thalia.”

It takes absolutely everything Annabeth has not to wince at the names.

She would never have told Thalia. Not really. Even things like this, even if it hadn’t involved her. Thalia wasn’t… good at relationship stuff. Not like Piper. And she never knew all of Annabeth’s romantic history--not like Piper did, anyway.

And it wasn’t just romantic relationships.

Annabeth might have been able to share her pain, and share her pain with Thalia, but it had, in many ways, only been a surface level thing. Thalia saw her pain after Annabeth’s mom had rescinded her approval of her life, but she'd taken Annabeth’s silence as the end of the matter, and responded to it by acting out, and arguably drinking too much.

But they never talked about her mother. They never talked about Thalia’s, either, and if there was something Annabeth learned from Hazel’s gala beyond how unfairly handsome Percy was going to look in thirty years, it was that there was a lot going on there.

It is a little hurtful on reflection. Making her feel less close to Thalia, but also less guilty about what she never said. And less willing to accept her reactions.

Her emotions have been all over the place the last few weeks.

Piper notices, because of course Piper notices, but she is an angel, and has known her for a long time, so she doesn’t badger her too much. She also doesn’t mention that Annabeth’s measurements all seem to be off. Not even to say something about beauty at every size or her well publicized efforts for diverse bodies in fashion.

But it was still nice to spend time with her. It felt like the old days, staying up too late making the next thing in fashion, and then passing out together, surrounded by bobbins and bagels, Gossip Girl playing on TV.

It did make Piper’s impending departure that much harder, though.

Two weeks into November, she meets Piper and Leo for dinner, and then sees Piper off to JFK for her eight-month creativity retreat in Oklahoma. “You know, like how you decided you couldn’t have a doorman for creative reasons,” she’d said with a raised eyebrow when Annabeth had questioned the move. Piper likes to treat the last two years of Annabeth’s life like some sort of creative exercise. Her dad had done that too, once, when she bothered to answer his call.

Not that she’s not doing anything other than helping Piper pick stitches, and sewing hemlines Piper is too important to deal with herself. She wishes that earlier estimation had been true.

Since the gala she’s been living on Uber Eats at Piper’s, unless she gets bullied home, in which case it's the same but less varied selection with more meat, so the night out with Piper and Leo the night before Piper’s flight feels like a radical departure from the norm. Even though they just go to dinner.

Which does not stop her from feeling hungover the next morning.

“You had half a glass of wine last night,” Leo points out from the door of her bathroom.

“I remember,” she agrees when it lets up for a moment.

“If you get me sick,” he says, “I’m sending you the doctor's bill.”

“Fair,” she chokes out.

Leo doesn’t hug her goodbye, but he does tell her he hopes she gets better before heading back to Boston.

Annabeth, hugging porcelain, wishes she could go with him.

She was very seriously considering it a few days later. Magnus would take pity on her and Alex was always fun to hang out with. Plus, they’d probably think she was too pathetic to be called on her shit. She only did not make plans to go up to Boston because on Wednesday Luke texted her: Already a shit week, brunch this weekend? And she knew if she ran off to Boston, she wouldn’t leave Magnus and Alex’s guest room until they forced the issue.

But it would be nice to talk to someone in New York City who doesn’t hate her guts, she thought.

So, on Sunday morning, she throws up the wonton soup she’d ordered in for dinner the night before, gurgles some mouthwash, uses the expensive concealer to hide the dark circles, and over does the mascara in hopes that she mostly looks awake.

“You look terrible,” are the first words Luke says to her.

“You have no idea how to talk to women,” she says, slumping down across from him.

“I do,” Luke says, “I just know not to bother with you.” But he frowns at her, taking her in. She’s broken out a Chanel jacket, but she isn’t sure when she last washed these jeans. A real winning combo, her.

“But really,” Luke says, “you look miserable. Is it about what happened on Halloween?”

She shrugs. It isn’t not that. Percy’s words still circle through her head, his sad, defeated face as he bemoaned the, how did he put it? All the rich girls who fucked him to make a point. Made all the worse because she believes them. Probably not the same points as those princesses, but… probably not as different as she would like.

She wonders if Europe is full of very wealthy aristocratic women who are all secretly and shamefully still in love with Percy Jackson. And Frank Zhang.

It makes her feel hollow and nauseous all at once.

But she’s been feeling nauseous for weeks now, so at least it's not a new feeling. If it keeps up, she’s going to have to go to the doctor soon.

She hates going to the doctor. It feels like cheating when she just goes and pays and knows other people can’t. She had once lied to Thalia about getting money for a side gig, and then given her two hundred bucks for a trip to the clinic. Now that Annabeth has spent many hours in his cousin’s apartment, and has heard Nico talk about his yearly income on top of the money his dad gives him, she’s not sure how it came down to her.

“Not really,” Annabeth says, “I mean, I still feel just as terrible, but that’s mostly the problem. I feel sick.”

“It's been three weeks.” Luke looks genuinely concerned. “What’s going on?”

“I’m exhausted and nauseous all the time,” she says, groaning at the thought. She was okay right at this moment, but she knew it could come back at the drop of a hat.

Luke frowned at her. “That’s all?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I mean…” He looked at her, his eyes gazing lower, to her body. Luke had never really come on to her in any kind of real way. But she’s not sure he’s ever looked at her with less lust than he does right at that moment.

It is calculating. She’s gained some weight, she knows. But if Luke points it out, she’s going to kick him in the nuts with her steel toed boots. Or maybe make him explain himself and his relationship with Thalia.

“Annabeth,” Luke says, his voice lower, a frown on his face, “please don’t freak out.”

She can feel her heart pick up, just a bit. “That’s a terrible place to start.”

“Have you been feeling… emotionally volatile lately? Having a lot of mood swings?”

She frowns. She’d maybe been crying a little more than normal at sentimental hulu ads, but she always has a soft touch for that kind of thing, and she’s going through some stuff. “I don’t think you should ask a woman that.”

“You are really not going to like my next question, then.” He leans close and says, “Are your… breasts tender?”

“You’re right, I don’t like that question,” Annabeth says, crossing her arms over her chest. Even though they are. “I don’t know why you thought that, and how you knew.”

Luke looks at her with such pity, she feels like she’s suddenly eighteen years old again, and crying on his couch at the end of freshman year about the greatest heartbreak of her life. (It had moved to second place. Lucky it. The boy in that bar had only been theoretical, mostly.)

Luke reaches out, grasping one of her hands, and for a second, Annabeth is sure he is going to tell her that she’s dying.

“Have you considered you might be pregnant?”

She yanks her hand away. “I can’t be pregnant,” she says. “I haven’t had sex in weeks.”

“Have you had your period since then?” Luke asks.

“Not that it's any of your business,” she says, “but I haven’t had one in years.” They do talk about sex sometimes, but periods had long been off the Luke table.

Luke grimaces. “Well, you’ve been sexually active recently…”

“It’s been more than a month!”

“When did you start getting morning sickness?” Luke asks “You were throwing up at Halloween.”

“That wasn’t in the morning,” she snaps, “and I feel fine now.”

“You know morning sickness doesn’t just happen in the morning,” Luke says. “And with the rest of your symptoms, well--”

She shakes her head, glaring at Luke. His judgement would have been better than his patient mansplaining. “You think I don’t use birth control?”

Luke shrugs a little. “I mean… you’re… not great at things like daily medication. That’s what happened last time. And if a condom broke or you didn’t use one…”

Last time. Oh, last time. Last time had been the worst four hours of her life, in between realizing that she hadn’t been remembering her birth control pills every day, that her period was a few days late, and that she’d definitely been having unprotected sex with that boy in Luke’s cohort who was probably too old for her. Last time had been her having a panic attack on Luke’s Cambridge apartment couch while a very reluctant Leo was sent to buy a pregnancy test or twelve, and Piper reassuring her via speaker phone that it would be ok, while Luke rubbed her back and reminded her to breathe.

“I do remember what happened last time,” she says. “That’s why I got an IUD. Which, if you don’t know, from all your girlfriends' pregnancy scares, has the same failure rate as permanent sterilization, less than one percent. So…” So it would be okay. She couldn’t be pregnant. That’s why it had been okay for Percy and Annabeth to start fucking without a condom.

“When was the last time you got a new one?”

“August.” She says, thinking back. She was almost sure. “I remember because it was before the Eta thing--Leo called me to tell me about the ceremony while I was at the gyno.”

“So you were distracted and being a bad patient when they were trying to put it in?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

But she won’t give Luke, of all people, the satisfaction. “They are professionals. They should know what they’re doing, even if I was on the phone.”

Luke gives her his most disappointed dad face. It is worse than Annabeth’s own father. “You’re the one who always tells me I need to not make people’s jobs harder by being a bad client,” he quietly reminds her.

She fucking hates him.

But despite herself, she pulls out her phone, and begins googling misplaced IUDs and pregnancy.  

They haven’t even ordered yet, but Luke is already standing up, probably based on the look on her face as she manages to fight through the dyslexia and figure out what it says. “Come on,” he says, helping her out of her chair, even though she’s not an invalid. She just might be pregnant.

She pushes that thought away as she follows Luke into a cab and then up to his apartment. He makes her some tea and hands her a banana while he goes to get her a pregnancy test, because Luke’s not quite shameless enough to have one at home. She waits for him in a living room straight out of American Psycho and reads up on IUD pregnancy complications online. Which she probably should not have done.

By the time Luke gets back, she is crying again. He’s gotten her 3 tests, which is very considerate of him, as she’s going to need them.

Walking into the bathroom, she’s shaking hard enough that she needs to brace herself on the wall. He lets her use the nice one off his bedroom, though it's not like she needs the jacuzzi tub.

When she’s done peeing, she sets a timer on her phone and sits on Luke’s bed. He tries to speak to her several times. She doesn’t respond.

It isn’t the longest ten minutes of her life, because the truth is, she knows.

She already knows.

When the alarm goes off, she shrugs off Luke’s arm and silently walks back into the bathroom.

Luke got a digital readout, because what else was he going to do. And so she looks at the little screen and just barely processes the word pregnant.

She doesn’t need to take the other tests. She doesn’t need confirmation or to be convinced.

She reaches down and pressed on her lower abdomen, lifting her shirt. She had noticed a slight change. But she’d also changed a lot of her daily routine lately, had eaten a lot more ice cream. Right now, she can’t see any kind of bump, not really, but she can see a shift. Something flat gone fuller.

Annabeth is pregnant.

Annabeth is pregnant with Percy’s baby.

Percy’s baby.

She bursts into tears all over again.

An eternity later, there is a knock on the door.

“Annabeth,” Luke calls, “can I come in?”

She manages to choke out a yes.

Luke finds her sitting on the edge of the tub. He looked at the test still sitting on the counter.

“Let me make a call,” he says, sitting next to her, resting a hand on her arm. “I know a doctor. He can get you a pill or maybe even see you if you need it. Probably today or tomorrow. We can get this all taken care of and then I’ll buy you ice cream and we can watch Legally Blonde, and you can complain about how it doesn’t accurately reflect the admissions process.”

Normally Annabeth would pre-complain, and point out that given Elle’s GPA, LSAT, and extracurricular activities, she would have been a shoe in for her program, and the movie was dismissive of her prior academic achievement. But she’s too busy parsing what Luke is saying.

He squeezes her hand in support. “It's going to be okay,” he says, sweetly.

“No.” She says. But not because it won’t be okay. “No, I’m not going to have an abortion.”

“It's okay,” Luke promises. “I would never judge you. And no one else would ever have to know. This isn’t something you have to do.”

“I know that,” Annabeth says. “I don’t have to do anything.” She detangles her hand from Luke’s and rests it on her stomach, where her uterus waits under her skin. “I want to do this.”

Luke looks at her hand. “Poseidon Olympianides’ son?” he asks. “That’s the father?”

She nods.

Blowing out a breath through his teeth, he sighs. “Well, you’ll be able to get some good child support out of him at least. That family is loaded.”

“Don’t say that,” she nearly screams, and Luke actually jerks back a little. “He doesn’t have any money. He’s his dad’s bastard kid,” she says, feeling a little bad about revealing his family history, but knowing that the word would spark something in Luke. “I don’t know if I’m even going to tell him.”

It feels like something cheap and shallow, trapping a man with a lie, then a baby.

She’s still crying and tentatively, Luke reaches out and wraps his arms around her, pulls her to him.

“Come on,” he says, pulling her up. “You still need ice cream and a movie.”

Annabeth cries. And she doesn’t fight him, but it feels so strange. Half way through her Caramel Sutra and the Legally Blonde proshot, she realizes what’s different.

For the first time since Percy walked out of her apartment without a good-bye kiss, Annabeth Chase is happy.

She’s pregnant with Percy Jackson’s baby.

She’s going to have Percy Jackson’s baby.

She’s not sure if she’s ever heard anything as wonderful in her entire life.

And if she’s going to be worthy of it, worthy of her baby, then she’s going to have to get her shit together.

[steve0discusses]

S5 Ep 15 Pt 1: The Gang Gets Lost in India

Ah, back to Yugioh classic. Sort of. We’re going into the second filler arc before Bakura, which I have been told is kind of nonsense. And youknow what, from the first scene--this is the first scene by the way--yeah I can see the nonsense.

We got Yami cosplaying as the Chrysler building, we got Yugi saying WTFWTF, we got...this thing?

This thing tells us “Join my game, Yugi!” and then the demon just kinda bounces.

K, bye, I guess.

(read more under the cut)

Waking up from this nightmare, Yugi reveals that he has outgrown his good pajamas. Or maybe he just overused them like I did to my favorite pajamas during quarantine (which, not gonna lie, I hand sewed my favorite pajama pants back together 2 or 3 times like they were the Velveteen Rabbit. Quarantine pajamas and me were like best buds for a year there.)

RIP Yugi’s good pajamas.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

I can get used to Yugi in his normal ass old man pajamas without any cute stars on them. I can accept this. He’s getting older. So much older that for a second I thought he was learning Hebrew, by the looks of his books on his counter. I thought...wow, is Yugi actually attempting to learn a language spoken around the time of ancient Egyptians???

But uh...I went a searching and unfortunately that’s not Hebrew, and if that is a language, I don’t know what it is. Pretty sure it’s just random marks because this show has to be translated in so many languages. Man. For a second there that looked like really sneaky world building, but nah, Yugi is still kind of a dumbass who has yet to attend a solid year of school.

Also, I got to take in this mustard yellow as if I’ve seen it for the first time.

It has strong building blocks energy. It’s...so much yellow and it’s extremely the vibe of that one set of animal crossing decorations that I have because it’s a very common recipe, but, can’t figure out for the life of me how to fit into any room.

What am I supposed to do with these, Nintendo? Other than recreate Yugi’s Muto’s haunted game store/house?

Like I live in the Bay area and we have wild painted houses so you can see them through the fog (back when we...still had fog, RIP California) --but this is a little much. This is such strong Protagonist energy but as a house.

Also, I’ve don’t think I’ve brought this up before, but like...Yugi is loaded, right? Like he’s way too good and humble to ever say he’s loaded, and they sort of make it seem like he’s not (when compared to Seto Kaiba) but damn, this location of his real estate sure is something. That and Grandpa’s tiny shop seems to run on a constant deficit and his family just doesn’t care.

We flash back a bit to Gramps sneaking out, and Yugi is like “oh great, my only Father figure I ever talk about is getting a backpack together and just...leaving without any notice, huh? Without telling me you were going to go? Didn’t think that would maybe be a little off putting?“ and Gramps is like “Yes?”

Like Gramps nearly died going to an amusement park a few episodes back so I can see why Yugi is a little bit concerned.

Down the street at a little town lottery, Joey is getting further into gambling (I don’t know what those little street lotteries are called, it’s in a lot of anime--but kinda looks like mom lotteries for moms.)

I’m not sure why India is on Joey Wheeler’s bucket list, seems a little random, but he went to Pegasus’ country, after all and that’s barely even a country.

Joey going nuts on a lottery machine instead of going to school was pretty peak filler, so I’m not really minding this stuff so far.

And then, just to spook me, check this out:

I can’t believe they even let them back into a classroom. In my nerd school, if you missed one too many days, you were sent to the bad schools to be someone else’s problem. But in Yugi’s case...that either IS his school or...Yugi is failing International School, which is just a thing he’s allowed to do, because, as I said before, this kid has got to be loaded. Even Seto Kaiba was like “I’m not spending money on this school anymore. That outfit is like 50 bucks a jacket.”

Youknow, I have seen all the other characters knock on Tea’s choice of cute ass monsters for the last 5 seasons, and she has never once changed them out. She is holding onto this scary seraphim thing with the many wings like every child with their first Pidgey. She does not care.

Also how is this thing cute?

like the front of this orb has a face with hearts on it but like...it is kind of remarkable what Yugioh decides is cute. Magma golem: not cute. this thing? This thing that looks like it’s a chibi version of the last chapters of the bible and will sound the trumpets of the second coming? So cuuuuute.

Tristan used to be the Janitor/hall monitor/square archetype. Like hell he can walk around with that 00′s R+B soundtrack.

Joey appears in order to get us the hell out of school, and the art team retires this school background for the rest of what I assume is this entire series.

Goodbye school. Maybe you’ll come back with Bakura. Which would be weird, since rumor is that arc takes place in ancient Egypt.

On their walk home, Tea lets out in an inner monologue that no one could hear that after 5 straight seasons of his BS, she’s sick and tired of Pharaoh being the center of attention all the time and she needs a freakin break.

TBH, as she was thinking in her head like “Pharoah is just so freakin much” Yugi switched over to Pharaoh and was like “WHATS UP TEA, THINKING ABOUT ME??” and I thought for a split second maybe he read her mind with his Pharaoh powers.

And like...maybe he did? Seems like a thing he can just do but chooses not to tell anyone about. I mean would you tell anyone? I wouldn’t.

So, unlike Miho in Season Zero, who at least had the decency to try to take her Mother to Australia, Joey Wheeler has wisely decided that the 3 other ticket holders will not be the 3 other members of his immediate family. That would have been the most awkward trip between Serenity, his mother he hasn’t really spoken to in 7 years, and his absent father who was written out of the series for being a raging alcoholic. They would have not even made it to the plane.

Instead he’s gonna take the ghost in Yugi’s head and call that an adult (two tickets in one, really). It’s honestly not that bad of a plan, since his only other father figure, Grandpa, is MIA, and his only other, other father figure, Roland, charges like 300 dollars an hour and wants stock options and health insurance.

And honestly they should have taken Roland because he’s one of their best plane guys.

So they take the smallest little Amelia Earheart plane in the world, going from Japan to (checks map) India...which 2 times the distance this plane can go and it crashes...which is exactly what would happen if you took a teeny tiny plane over the Himalayan mountains without refueling that thing.

We call this a magical incident later in the episode, but this is just basic math.

So, fun fact, (and probably why I discuss planes so often on this blog) two of my Grandfathers were pilots (well, three, since my grandmother remarried another pilot), which sounds like a crazy coincidence until you recall that their generation was in WW2 and we just shoved children in planes for 20 years and called that normal.

Anyway, to save on travel costs, my engineer Grandfather built his own plane out of junkyard parts, which, as you can imagine, is a living nightmare, and it was held together by like duct tape and gasoline (which at one time used to be cheap). Tempted God every day that Howls Moving Castle touched the sky.

And while I only know it from photos since I wasn’t exactly born yet, it looked exactly like this plane. So looking at this, all I can think is...yeah...that’s what you get for flying to India in a tin can car. To this day I cannot trust any plane of this size.

So, they climb out of their wreckage virtually unscathed and into familiar Californian territory.

At least Joey thought about bringing a tent.

It’s interesting how our cast has become so accustomed to this that they’re not even all that shell shocked. It’s just another day in the life.

So next time we shall find out what India has in store for us. Or if we’re even in India...because again...feels a lot like this BG team doesn’t do any research into their landscapes and every place feels a whole lot of the same. But...at least they didn’t put any Arizonan mesas in India.

[artificialqueens]

Kids Have Terrible Timing (Biadore) - Sarcastacnt

Summary; One of Roy and Danny’s two daughters has a tendency to get over excited at the smallest things and at the worst possible time for her fathers.

“We can always return her right?”

“See, this is what happens when we trust your genes. Let’s take a second to notice how the spawn with my genes is basically a Saint compared to her sister.”

Danny pulled a face and whacked Roy with a pillow. “Not what you said when she ruin, how many of your gowns was it again? 9?”

“It was 15 and you know it.” Roy grumbled still puzzled at how the then five year old Sabrina had gotten a hold of the gowns, let alone figured out how to work his sewing machine. Something that still eluded Danny.

“Let’s just agree that they’re both evil in their own special ways.” Danny offered, trying desperately not to laugh at the pained expression on Roy’s face.

Roy snorted, “Not much longer until they go through puberty. That’s when we cash in all those offers to babysit from Shane.”

Danny groaned and flopped down dramatically against the bed. “Two teenage girls in one house. What the fuck were we thinking?”

Roy shrugged, “Probably that at least one of them would be a boy.”

Danny laughed, “At least then they wouldn’t bug to borrow our drag. Well, your drag.”

Roy laughed at the memory of the two dark haired girls gasping in disbelief at the room full of princess gowns and lumberjack clothing. “Still can’t believe how good that read was, fucking lumberjack.” He was still snickering when Danny decided he was no longer comfortable laying on the bed.

With a surge of power from his left leg he moved to straddle Roy’s hips. “You’re the one who married a lumberjack Haylock.”

Roy automatically dropped his hands to rest on Danny’s thighs. “You married a princess, least I’m still gay in this version of reality.”

Danny snorted, “Whatever, that makes you a princess, least I’m still a man.” He leaned forward and licked Roy’s neck before whispering in his ear. “Although every single time I’ve fucked you while you were dressed as a princess was hot as hell. You really should let me fuck you in drag more often.”

Roy let out a groan as Danny squirmed on his lap. “Why would I put a bunch of clothes on for sex? Doesn’t being naked make everyone’s lives easier?”

Danny began kissing Roy’s jaw, taking a familiar path down to the collar of Roy’s shirt. “I meant when we preform asshole.” He said as he started to work the buttons of Roy’s shirt open.

Roy rolled his eyes, “Because normally after we preform you’re so fucking horny that you beg to get fucked.” Roy brought both hands crashing down on Danny’s ass, “Remember?”

Danny started to kiss his way down Roy’s chest now that the button down was pushed open. “Fuck yeah I do.” He looked up at Roy, eyes gone a little glassy with arousal. “Speaking of which, it’s been quiet for almost an hour. We should probably take advantage while we can.”

Roy chuckled and began to tug at Danny’s shirt. “You’re absolutely right.” When Danny didn’t move to remove his shirt quick enough, Roy rolled them so he was on top. He quickly pulled off the light sleep pants Danny wore and began stroking the already half hard cock. “Doesn’t take much to get you going, does it?” he teased before taking Danny’s erection into his mouth.

“Never has.” Danny admitted before groaning at the very talented tongue that was quickly turning his brain to mush.

Roy held out his hand, without stopping the blow job and Danny reached blindly for the small bottle of lube on the nightstand. He pushed it into Roy’s hand before letting his head fall back against the pillows.

Wasting no time, Roy lubed up two fingers and pressed them into Danny. It only took a few thrusts before Danny was demanding that Roy ‘stop fucking around and put your dick in me!’. With such a sweet request, how could Roy refuse? He pushed his own sleep pants down and lubed up his erection before taking a second to tease Danny’s entrance.

“Fuck me Roy!” Danny demanded, his hips lifting off the bed in frustration.

“Fine, but next time we have time I’m gonna make you pay for being an Impatient bitch.” Roy said as he grabbed Danny’s hips and started to push himself inside-

“DADDY!!!”

*CRASH, SLAM, BANG*

Roy didn’t know how he did it but somehow he got both of them covered up under the blanket before 6 year old Stevie managed to scramble up on the bed.

“Stevie remember how we talked about knocking? And you’re not listening to me at all, are you?” Roy sighed as he swung his legs over the far side of the bed and pulled his pants up. Danny had no chance to pull anything on, Stevie was not only on the bed but sitting happily on Danny’s stomach.

“Daddy! I found something cool! You gotta come see this!” the little girl had a big grin on her face as she waved her hands in the air. Stevie’s grin was an exact match for Danny’s (pre lip injections, of course). In fact Stevie was the spitting image of Adore, especially on the odd occasion her fathers put her in make up. Not only was the physical resemblance strong but both Stevie and Danny were two of the loudest people Roy had ever met.

A quiet knock at the open door caught Roy’s attention. He looked up to see blue eyed eight year old Sabrina shaking her head in exasperation. “Sorry dad, I tried to remind her to knock but…” she trailed off with a shrug, gesturing to the excited noises coming from the bed as Stevie and Danny talked about something Roy couldn’t quite catch.

Roy chuckled, “It’s okay, I understand my love. What were you two doing anyways? I thought we said goodnight an hour ago.”

Sabrina walked around the bed, giving it a wide berth. She had walked too close to the bed once during a similar situation just in time for Stevie to launch herself off the bed (much to her fathers horror) and land on not only her feet but her sister’s as well. “I showed her a book.”

Roy ached an eyebrow, “Why is she so excited about a book.”

Sabrina made a huffing noise as she crawled up on the bed to sit next to Roy. “There were no pictures in it.”

“You’re telling me your sister is losing her mind over a book, without pictures?” Roy could feel his eye start twitching.

Sabrina nodded, “Are you sure she’s really my sister?” she eyed Roy suspiciously.

Roy sighed, they had this conversation every few weeks. “Yes Rini, you both have the same mother, remember?” Roy remembered the initial thrill when they discovered that the surrogate they had used for Sabrina was more then happy to take on another pregnancy for the pair when they decided to expand their family a year and a half later.

“Are you really sure? Did you check?” Sabrina grilled her father as she watched Stevie and Danny (who had managed to pull pants on while he was distracted with Sabrina) rush out of the room to get a look at this ‘amazing book’ that Stevie had discovered.

“Yes Rini I’m a hundred percent sure she’s your sister. Besides she acts just like Dad, doesn’t she? I promise she’s part of this family.”

Sabrina frowned, “Whatever. I’m gonna go make sure they don’t break my stuff.” She hopped off the bed, her long twin braids floating behind her as she stormed off after them.

Roy fell back into bed and began laughing uncontrollably. He had no idea which part of the last five minutes he found so funny. The interrupted sex, Stevie’s excitement over a book without pictures or Sabrina’s continued irritation that her sister was insane.

Tears were streaming down his face, high pitched giggles still escaping him and abdominal muscles cramping when Danny returned.

“She’s nuts.” Danny proclaimed as he flopped down next to Roy.

A minute later, Roy managed to get his laughter under control. “Was she really that excited over a book with no pictures?”

Danny nodded, eyes wide in disbelief. “War and Peace! I didn’t know books could get that big! That shit’s more complicated then anything I ever read!”

Roy nodded, “Katya was reading it last time her and Trixie were over with their hellspawns. She probably forgot it here.” They almost always used drag names when referring to Brian and Brian just to save themselves the confusion.

Danny snorted, “Least we had time to breathe between kids. I don’t know how they managed 3 at once! Like who even has triplets?”

“Trixie and Katya do, poor bastards. If two teenage girls seems like a nightmare waiting to happen, imagine three hormonal teenage boys. The structural damage alone may just bankrupt them! If those two weren’t bald already that’s what would finally do it. Trying to figure out how much to add to the budget for household repairs every week.” Roy mused, choosing to ignore the fact that while he and Danny did in fact have one less kid, one of said kids shared genetic material with Danny. Roy hoped, not for the first time that Stevie calmed down as she got older. Last thing he needed was one of his daughters proudly proclaiming to be a ‘messy slut’. The thought of the generally sweet (if loud) Stevie strutting around in a mini skirt and low cut shirt made Roy shiver in fear.

“We’re never gonna have sex again, are we?” Danny half heartedly complained, lacing his fingers with Roy’s as they looked at each other with tired smiles on their faces.

Roy released Danny’s hand and rolled so he was on top of his husband. “So dramatic.” Roy teased as he captured Danny’s lips in a breath taking kiss.

It wasn’t long before Danny was a moaning, begging mess under him. Roy sighed in relief as he entered Danny roughly, rather pleased with himself for the broken sound that tore itself from Danny’s lips.

“DADDY!!!!”

“I’m taking her back!” Danny proclaimed loudly as Roy pulled away from him and managed to get their pants back on before Stevie came flying into their room again. This time she was screaming something about the ‘coolest bug ever!

Wasn’t parenting fun?

A/N Thank you to the annon who requested a kid fic where Roy and Danny keep getting interrupted. Swore I’d never write one of these but hey, here we are! I’m also tempted to continue this but for the moment it stands alone.

The girls names; Stevie is named for Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac fame and Sabrina is name for an alternative name for a boat neck collar. I know nothing about fashion so that’s what a quick Google search pulled up.

As for the teasing each other about which kid has which genes, it doesn’t mean they love either kid less then the other. I think most parents like to harass their partner about who is responsible for which less desirable trait their off spring demonstrates. Like when Sarabi says to Mufasa in The Lion King “Before sunrise, he’s your son.”

[onthepageoftears]

Hold Them Closer ~ Ch.5 [Jaskier x assassin!reader] || Witcher

A/N: 

Your kind words and reviews mean a lot to me, so please don’t afraid to leave a message/comment!

Summary: Gaining the information you needed isn’t easy, and brings up old memories.

Warnings: language, mentions of death/killing/blood

Words: 2,043

Please Don’t Plagiarize My Work!

Night cascaded the sky around you — it wasn’t nearly as dark as it was in the village you and Jaskier had been holed up in, but the city of Novigrad still had a way of surprising you. The torches only lit the streets enough to see a couple feet ahead of you, but the darkness was comforting. It made you wonder what Jaskier was doing right now, as you made your way towards Arnet’s guild.

To say being back in Novigrad was strange would be an understatement. The nearer you got to the city, the worse your stomach churned. It reminded you of the months prior, of the incident with Rauf and Jaskier and how everything that you once knew seemed to fall apart.

But being completely honest, your life was better than it had ever been. You were happy, you felt safer — despite constantly fearing someone after you or Jaskier’s head. But being with Jaskier did make you calmer, as Geralt noted. You weren’t a machine like Rauf once saw you. You were just…you.

But now, with your cloak hood hiding your face as you wandered the alleyways of Novigrad, you felt more like your old self than you had in a while. The patch that you re-sewed into your cloak felt like it weighed a ton on the fabric, but still, you kept walking. Because you were going to get the information you needed, no matter the cost.

You rounded the corner on the street to Arnet’s guild, slowing your steps as you neared the main entrance.

The last time you were here, Rauf had just died by your knife. His lifeless eyes still haunted your dreams, but being back in the city made you think you would see them around every corner.

You were glad when the door hatch opened before you, where a woman grimaced at your figure.

Silently, you flipped the collar of your cloak so the woman could see your patch.

“Y/N.”

You weren’t completely surprised that she knew who you were — you were more…unsettled.

Walking through the familiar guild had you internally cringing. Assassins all around were sharpening weapons, healing their wounds, hanging around. More than anything, you wanted to exterminate this guild just like your own. But you knew doing that, right now, wasn’t the right choice. Until you found what you were looking for, these people would have to continue on killing others for nothing but coin. You hoped, at the least, that some of these people felt the heavy weight of guilt that you did.

But you doubted that.

As soon as you were lead to Arnet’s room, he got up to greet you, “Y/N. It’s a pleasure, as always.”

You nodded, forcing a small smile on your face as he clapped his hand to your shoulder. “What do I owe this pleasure, child?”

You shifted under his gaze, swallowing the lump in your throat. Though you were far from being an assassin, you had the urge to stab him right there, to end both the suffering you were feeling and the suffering that he would inevitably bring to others — by his hand, or by the members of his guild. Instead, you shook it off, and cleared your throat.

“I have to be honest, Arnet. I didn’t come to catch up.”

Arnet nodded and walked over to the seating area in his room. “I figured as much. You were always a bit more serious than your uncle, though that isn’t a bad thing.”

The words stung you, but you masked it. “I came to ask about my mother."

“I can’t say I know too much. Why do you ask?”

You froze. In all the time it took to come back here, you never really came up with a plan. You tried to, multiple times, but then would get distracted by other nerves. But in this moment, a conversation with Rauf entered your mind. It was after one of your visits to Arnet, when you were still too young to go on your own missions. Rauf was mostly talking to himself, but he spoke aloud: Arnet is a bit of a stubborn bastard. But he knows the sweet taste of revenge. The need for justice.

You took in a breath, shoving the memory of Rauf to the back of your mind before it made you want to smash something.

“Rauf told me the truth. The night before he died.” You swallowed down your lies as Arnet tilted his head. “I’m sure you knew already. That he killed my father.”

Arnet blinked, not showing any other emotion on his face. “I did.”

“He…he told me of the betrayal my mother showed him. That she didn’t remain loyal. But he also told me that he couldn’t kill her for the heartbreak she forced upon him.” You had to swallow the bile that rose in your throat. These lies you spoke made your tongue feel heavy, your saliva thick. “I want to finish what Rauf couldn’t. But his journals leave no trace of her. I can understand why, but…I thought you might be able to help.”

Arnet considered you for a moment. You may have been seen as sort of family to him, but that didn’t mean you were close. You couldn’t read his expression as he took a sip of his drink, so you kept your face as stoic as possible. Stiff as a sober Geralt, Jaskier would say.

“Though I don’t know if this is the best way to spend your time, I can respect the drive you show.” You nodded, hiding the desperation in your eyes. “But I hate to tell you that I don’t have a clue where your mother could be.”

This time, you visibly shrunk in your spot. The disappointment filled your eyes, nearly consuming your thoughts. But you weren’t giving up that easily. “What about the village I grew up in? Do you know where that is?”

Arnet nodded, “It’s in Velen. Not far from the crossroads. But I doubt that she stayed there.”

“Of course.” The fact didn’t matter. You were tempted to jump out of your seat then, to get on your horse and find the village by morning. Even then, you would have more of a lead as to where your mother went. But the sense in you kept you put. You needed more information, just in case.

“And…what do you know about my mother?”

Arnet sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve only heard of your mother through your uncle. She was a beauty, but many women like that are…trouble. Your uncle had his head in the clouds. I told him that more often than he could count, and he always told me to piss off.”

“Sounds about right.”

Arnet chuckled, continuing on with a small smile. He looked like a simple old man telling a story of an old friend; it almost calmed you, until you realized who he was, and who his friend was.

You frowned as he spoke, “He was quite the romantic. Wanted to give your mother everything she wanted —buy her land for a farm, get her a shop to sell her goods. He was ready to give up everything for her. And for you.”

You blinked away the anger that had begun to form in your eyes. If he was such a romantic, he could have left you and your family alone. He could have let his ‘beloved’ live the life she wanted to instead of the one he wanted her to.

He gave up everything for you. That must have meant he gave up his morals, his honor, his humanity, as well. And that was not something to be proud of.

Noticing the amount of time he had been talking, Arnet faltered. He leaned forward in his seat. “Maybe I can find some of my men to help you on your journey. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind—“

“No.” You backtracked, realizing how panicked you sounded, “I mean, I need to do this alone.”

“I understand.” Arnet smiled at you, just for a moment, before standing up. “Well, I’m afraid that is all the information I have for you.”

You stood up as well, “Thank you, Arnet. Really.”

“Thank you, Y/N. For carrying your the burden’s your uncle couldn’t seem to fulfill.”

You couldn’t help the memories that surfaced to your brain. Rauf’s blood. His eyes, glazed over. But unlike from your dreams, these memories made you straighten your back, clench your jaw. Because though Rauf seemed to haunt you, you were glad he was out of this world. Dead. And one day, you would be glad to see Arnet in his place as well.

You nodded your head at the man in front of you, looking straight into his eyes as you spoke. “It is my honor.”

—

As you descended the path away from Novigrad, you realized you hadn’t gotten there in the middle of the night, but rather the end. The sun had already begun to rise as you and Buttercup gradually left the city behind you. The further you got, the better you felt — though now, there was a new feeling rising in your chest. Hope, yes, but also worry. Now that you knew where to go to find your mother, you wondered what would be there to greet you. You didn’t let yourself believe she would still be there, because you knew she wouldn’t. But still, you hoped there would be more of a clue of where she had gone.

Your mind was racing when you caught sight of something on the road away from the city. You pulled on Buttercup’s reigns, slowing her down as your eyes focused on something you really hoped you didn’t see. But as you got closer, you knew it was exactly what you feared.

“You’ve got to be joking.” You grunted, getting Buttercup to stop just on the edge of the path next to another…very familiar horse.

You pat Roach's side before walking a bit further into the woods. And just as you suspected, there a small camp with Geralt and Jaskier sitting around a fire. You were almost amused at their presence — they hadn’t even bothered to hide, being just off the path.  But your frustration slid the smirk from your lips, replacing it with a scowl.

“I told you not to follow me.” Your voice startled the men — and by men, it was mostly Jaskier. He jumped from his spot on the ground, only to give a relieved smile at the sight of you.

You kept your scowl firm as he made his way over to you. “Oh, my. Y/N, how funny it is to see you here! Geralt and I were just on…a stroll. A very, very, very long stroll. Towards the same place you happened to be. What a funny coincidence, hm?”

You blinked. “Hilarious.”

You glared at Geralt as he walked past you two and back to the horses, before turning back to Jaskier. The bard tilted his head, placing a hand on your shoulder with a sigh.

“Come on, we let you go in alone. I just wanted to make sure you got out alone too.” Noticing your glare soften — only slightly — he brought his arm around your shoulders and guided you back to the horses, where Geralt was patting Roach's side. “We couldn’t let you take this wondrous, self-discovering journey alone, could we Geralt?”

Your furious glare made Geralt sigh, finally turning to look you in the eye. “He wouldn’t stop talking”

“Then you should’ve knocked him out.”

Jaskier squeezed your shoulder. “And he is standing right here, love.”

You would’ve swooned at the new nickname if not for the anger in your chest. But just like it always happened with Jaskier, once you looked into his eyes, your shoulders dropped.

“We need to find a place to stay for the night. We have…a bit of a journey ahead of us.” 

Jaskier clapped his hands together and helped himself up to Buttercup with an all too-bright smile. “Ah, just like old times, huh?”

Both you and Geralt rolled your eyes, simultaneously barking out a, “Shut up.”

———————————————————————————————————

And so another journey begins! Let me know your thoughts :)

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Song For Autumn: Away || Morgan & Deirdre (pt.2)

TIMING: The weekend

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: A day trip with antiquing, horseback riding, and apple picking takes a surprising turn.

CONTAINS: violence, gore, death

The Old Town Living History Museum was two hours’ drive and several towns past White Crest. In addition to touting people in full historical reproduction dress, hand pressed apple cider, and demonstrations on everything from blacksmithing and farming to dance and cooking, it had a number of genuine antiques on display that were a little easier to get their hands on than anything they would find in more of a ‘don’t touch the glass’ museum. Morgan reached over the console and squeezed Deirdre’s hand. “I know we’re here for a very important mission but we don’t get out of town much, and I trust you to tell me if, for any reason, you don’t feel okay while we’re walking around, so I think that we can also enjoy ourselves a little. Or a lot, even. You can tell me all kinds of good, nerdy things about farming, and I read on the website that they have hayrides, and a restaurant that recreates genuine eighteenth century recipes, and there’s even wildflower picking, apple picking, it’s a whole thing, they really care about getting other people engaged with these older and different ways of being. Which is good, since somebody’s wool comb is about to get a new way of being with me.” She kissed Deirdre’s knuckles. “What do you think?”

As it turned out, the type of comb Morgan needed could be found at...Deirdre squinted at the sign; some living history museum thing. To her, it looked exceptionally bizarre. Like a place pulled from time, except for the cars, and the people walking around in modern dress and the, well, everything else. “Humans are so strange…” she mumbled, unbuckling herself and leaning across the console to kiss Morgan, though her eyes remained stuck on the scenery around them. She wasn’t sure why humans saw value in a place like this, gawking at the things that were done in the past. Deirdre couldn’t wait to escape her days of churning butter, and these people seemed enthused to watch some woman in historically accurate attire getting fatigued doing a job that would take a machine minutes to do. Or were they the ones churning the butter? Deirdre stepped out of the car, looking around with mounting confusion. She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Bewildered, she moved to her girlfriend’s side in shock. “Restaurant..?” Deirdre shook her head, finally processing her words in the car. “Fates, no. I’m done with oatmeal. I don’t need any more of it.” Although, she considered, if this was an establishment trying to make money, they probably wouldn’t serve gruel. And so, maybe she was safe from the terrors of it. Deirdre sighed, peeling her gaze away from the museum and on to her girlfriend; who was both a much less confusing sight and a much prettier one. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. This place is just---” Laughter cut Deirdre off, and she snapped around to look at the source: a tour group being enthusiastically led into a barn. “--odd. Very odd.” She wasn’t sure how great wildflower picking--an activity she loved as a child--would be with a group of humans watching her. If she wanted hand-pressed cider, old fashioned farm life and hayrides, she’d just go back to Ireland. Then again--Deirdre turned back to Morgan. Ireland didn’t have Morgan, and her girlfriend was more than enough to enjoy any amount of strange, dated activities. “It’s no grave robbing…” She smiled and leaned in, “...but I will accept any reason to steal you away. It’s nice being out here together, it’s nice being anywhere together.” She kissed her; long and deep and as much as she could before some upbeat actor told them about bonnets.

Deirdre reached for her hand, “Let’s go in then, yeah?” She pushed the doors to the museum open, which summoned a far worse feeling of anachronism inside of Deirdre than the exterior could ever hope to--but unlike how Dolan manor had simply been a hodgepodge of time periods, the museum seemed strangely insistent on looking as dated as it could be, while also---”I see they’ve installed lighting fixtures.” They also had brochures. Deirdre picked one up and occupied herself with flipping through it.  

“Do they not have living history or reenactments or Ren Fairs in Ireland?” Morgan asked. Deirdre was bristling with confusion, as if they’d stepped into a nonsense world instead of an obsessively maintained historical settlement. “It’s a little niche, but I’ve always wanted to go to one. It’s so easy to forget that people back then were also...people. They were dumb and they had lame problems, and theses glorified novelty acts like baking your own bread were commonplace and nuanced. It can be nice, to a point, to see how different things were, and how much the same. At Deirdre’s kiss, Morgan rose onto her tiptoes, all but falling into her girlfriend’s body as they kissed. “I like being with you too,” she whispered, her smile lopsided and drunk with affection.

She didn’t quite have her feet when Deirdre led them inside, but stumbled behind, still dazed and delighted. Beyond the gate, the open-air settlement looked like the set for some BBC Drama. There were houses in white-painted wood and well maintained brick, women in straw hats with heavy baskets, and horses and buggies trotting through the street. There were animals smelling and squawking in pens, clangs of hammers at wood and anvils, the murmur of a happy autumn wind and cut through it all were screaming babies and ringing cell phones and plastic stroller wheels. Steam rose from every other chimney and Morgan was almost glad to not be able to smell it, so she could imagine steam, hickory, or spices coming from those hearths as much as she liked. She peered over the brochure with Deirdre, looking for the map, when a shadow stopped in front of them.

Morgan looked up. “Oh! Good morrow, or I guess, good day? Hi?” The shadow belonged to a woman around their age, who sported a large straw hat that was probably great for working in the sun, but not so much for letting Morgan strategize her movements with Deirdre in peace.

“Good day, and welcome,” the woman said, goodnaturedly. “Prithee, may I help you find your way, travelers?”

Morgan exchanged a look with Deirdre. Wandering around was supposed to be half the fun, but it wouldn’t hurt to know where they needed to end up. “Uh...sure! I was looking, uh, for the sheep? There’s um, demonstrations on preparing wool in the afternoon, right?”

“Aye, indeed! Right this way.”

Morgan lingered, waiting for directions to be given, but it was soon clear that the woman meant for them to follow her. She shrugged at Deirdre, silently asking for her input. It would be rude not to follow, right?

“Well, all you had to say was that you’ve always wanted to come,” Deirdre smiled, laughing her qualms about the place away. If Morgan wanted to be here, that was all she needed to know. If she thought churning butter was interesting, then Deirdre did too---or she didn’t, but she did fully support Morgan’s interest in it. Nothing about the way humans once lived their lives was interesting to her, but everything about Morgan was. Even if her old home had been just this, with an Irish paint over it, she was excited at the prospect of exploring it with Morgan.

The brochure only served to fill her head with more ideas. The wildflower picking did seem nice, now that she was reading about it. And the map showed off labels of various activities that sounded more interesting the longer she started at the text. The blacksmithing demonstration was set for an hour from now, and there was a real sewing circle they could join in to hear the town’s (scripted) gossip and make poorly stitched abominations. There was a carriage ride and-- “Aha, they do have a butter churning demonstration.” Deirdre pointed it out on the brochure, delighted by the correctness of her instincts, though blinded by it just the same. By the time she looked up, Morgan had already finished her conversation with the reenactor and was looking at her. “Oh, uh…” She nodded, and moved back to Morgan’s side, anchoring them close together as they followed behind the woman. The pictures of the orchard on the property was, admittedly, quite gorgeous and the promise of keeping the apples they picked (provided they pay) was tempting. It was where Deirdre wanted to suggest they go first, or after, maybe--or something. It was strange to be off to the wool so soon, it felt more like the last thing they should do. Despite the minor upset to her burgeoning plans, she nudged Morgan excitedly as they moved through the grounds. The order didn’t really matter, even if she would have preferred not to be carrying around an object of ill-gotten origin with them while they looked around. Although, she figured, it probably would make exploring more exciting. “People have died here,” she whispered in Gaelic as she leaned down to press a kiss to Morgan’s temple. She tried to point out a few of the places where she was pulled the strongest, but felt strange under the woman’s backwards glances--as if she was afraid they’d wandered off somewhere. She withdrew her hand and was content enough to press herself into Morgan, and pepper affection where she could as they walked.

“We should get some cider after this,” she suggested, shifting around to try and pull out the brochure she haphazardly stuffed into her pocket when they started moving. “I hear autumn is the season for it, after all.” But before she could pull the glossy paper free and figure out where the cider was, and where they were being led, a thick wooden door slammed open and the woman was gesturing them into an old stone house. Deirdre glanced back at the way they’d come, and realized she had no idea how they were supposed to get back. It seemed to her then, that they’d be stuck with this strangely nosey woman for a while, especially if she insisted on leading them everywhere. “Thank you,” she smiled tightly, stepping inside.

Morgan stayed latched to Deirdre as they walked, reveling in the firm safety of her grasp and the delight of their surroundings bristling around her senses. She eyed Deirdre at her words in Gaelic. “Show me?” she said back. And then in English, “Anything good?” She wasn’t sure how the death pull worked with places, or how differently they felt next to her, but even if Deirdre’s senses sometimes yielded horrible visions, they also lead them to good hiding places and sometimes beautiful discoveries in a buried bone or some abandoned minutiae of a life like an engraved pen or a receipt from a fancy chocolate store. There weren’t any ghosts, at least not that Morgan could see yet, which boded well for the place, overall, though it might have been nice to talk to one that didn’t want to murder her. But there didn't seem to be time to stop, at least not yet. Apparently all the wool-working stuff was way in the back, and Morgan didn’t even have time to admire the (probably?) faux graveyard in front of the church and the social cliques that seemed at least half-genuine. Several of them stopped to wave at them as they passed, and Morgan, confused as she was, waved back awkwardly.

“Ooh, we should!” Morgan replied. “Maybe a quick detour? Or we could go to the orchards for a little bit before then? Pick some apples, find some nice ripe ones to take home for turnovers, cobbler, pie…” She batted her eyes coyly. She could see the heavy tops of the orchard trees from where they stood, and several couples milling out proudly with old-fashioned buckets brimming with spoils. She couldn’t eat any, but it would be fun to gather a stash, and Deirdre almost certainly had a story or a practical secret to go along with it. But before she could say, ‘thanks, we got it from here!’ the barn door was being rolled open, seemingly just for them.

“Oh my stars!” Morgan didn’t have Deirdre’s banshee control, even when she was bracing herself for impact. And despite Deirdre’s observations about the performance town, she hadn’t been prepared to see the headless ghost standing under the lights. She laughed, searching the room for a sign this was just a Halloween decoration, some obscure historic custom she knew nothing about and would be eager to learn, but--nope. She was, without a doubt, the only one who could see the man without turning the color of her eyes. “It’s just so beautiful in here!” She said. “And that lamb is so adorable! I mean, just look at it!” She turned to the woman at the spinning wheel. “What’s the cutie’s name, uh, prithee?”

The lamb was named Jeremy. The spinning woman was Dolly, and the woman who had appointed herself as their guide, still lingering in the doorway with her tight, starched smile, was named Prue. There was a man who strolled in from some unseen door in the back who said he was Ben, and suddenly Morgan had more names than she could keep track of and more of a crowd than she wanted for what was supposed to be some very casual theft. Circling back later was looking like a better idea, but more people were coming in, peeking at what was inside and joining in the fun. Morgan tucked herself into Deirdre and rose on her tiptoes to kiss her cheek, lingering to whisper more Gaelic in her ear, “Ghost. Bad or good sign?”

Despite charisma that rolled naturally off her tongue, and confidence that pulled her motions instinctively, Deirdre was not one for crowds. Or people, most days. And certainly not one to be forced into some demonstration of something she already knew about. But the woman, and the other woman, and also the man, were looking at them expectantly. And now people whispered and came around to watch whatever display was going on. And though it was funny to Deirdre that humans could be so curious they would just turn their attention to whatever strange thing was happening around them, she didn’t want to be stuck in some gawking circle of people. She was not, and never would be, an easily-amused human. Her pride didn’t enjoy standing there, just as much as Jeremy didn’t—being a creature that disliked isolation from his herd. Not that anyone else seemed to notice Jeremy’s stress; his bleating probably sounded cute. “Well…maybe I’ll show you after,” she frowned, “and we can just go to the orchard next…” But she didn’t feel right.

“Ghost?” Deirdre squinted, glancing around the room. She’d been so distracted by the lamb and her own discomfort that she missed the gentle tugging right in front of them. “Good, right?” She turned to Morgan and bore confusion, and then a shrug. “Is it a good ghost?” Their Gaelic conversation drew stares from Prue, who, in fact, hadn’t seemed like she stopped staring at them. Not until Deirdre met her gaze, and she turned away as if suddenly shy. “What’s her problem?” She tried in English, shaking it away. It wasn’t the first time someone had a vested interest in them; scorn or jealousy or confusion or admiration. The situation simply drew Deirdre’s sensitivities, and as much as she hated crowds, she hated being stared at when she wasn’t trying to be—and especially in a crowd. She was equally as perturbed by the child jumping up and down to her right, and the older couple to their left that couldn't decide if they wanted to stay or go someplace else.

“It would depend,” she continued, sighing as she leaned down to press a kiss to Morgan’s cheek. “On what it looks like, right?” If it was a ghost that was going to chat them up the moment it realized Morgan could see and hear it, then it was bad. If it was one dressed as old as the actors were, then it was relic, and probably good. Deirdre paused. “Them.” She blinked. “They. What they look like. Not it.” She shook her head, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered to Morgan, but it felt like one of those steps she needed to take to be better. “But we are already here, we might as well stay.” Despite her discomfort, there was far more she would bear for Morgan’s sake. And, truly, this couldn’t have been any worse for her than any new situation was. If she could learn not to throw anyone out a window at a children’s birthday party, she could handle some demonstration on wool preparation. “Do you see the comb anywhere?” She asked Morgan, looking around for herself. It seemed, however, that the more curious she got, the more Prue’s gaze burned into her. Deirdre turned to her, smiled and winked, but whatever amusement she felt, wasn’t shared. She couldn’t help but feel like she was the one breaching some social ruleset, and being unaccustomed to the atmosphere they were in, Deirdre withered and kept her attention forward.

Morgan squeezed Deirdre’s hand, appreciative and encouraging as she corrected herself about the ghost. “No. Head.” She explained in Gaelic, nodding slowly in the direction of the figure. He had a cloak on, but the cheap Party City kind, not something one of the actors or even the original inhabitants would wear. Definitely a patron of the enthusiastic variety. There were plenty of them milling around, one was even in the crowd with them. The headless ghost raised a finger to where his lips should have been, ssshh. And pointed at Morgan, or somewhere behind her? As he gestured, Morgan could spot the modern finishings on his belt, that included a novelty buckle from a TV show that was only a couple of years old. Morgan didn’t know enough words to explain this, so she settled with, “New.”

The headless ghost, from wherever his head rested, seemed to hear her and pointed more emphatically again at Morgan. Did he not want to be talked about? Did he think literally anyone else here could understand them? Morgan couldn’t tell, so she wrapped Deirdre’s arms around her, playing the affectionate girlfriend (which wasn’t much of a play at all) and snuck a peek at what was behind her while she brushed Deirdre’s hair back in tender strokes. There was nothing, only Prue and the elderly couple, who had decided to go to the smithy after all.

Dolly, the spinning woman, welcomed everyone in and went on with the history of woolwork and how it was done. Everyone was encouraged to come close and Morgan, seeing an opportunity, edged her and Deirdre to the side of the room where most of the tools seemed to be, and a little away from the families and well-dressed nerdy teens. As she shifted, she noticed how tense Deirdre felt, coiled like a spring. “Do you wanna to step out, babe?” She asked gently, her eyes flickering up, reading whatever cues Deirdre’s face was leaving her. But something else caught her attention. Prue, still...staring at them with a lot of...focus, was the only word for it. She didn’t seem disgusted or hateful, not yet anyway. Just...intense, like she was trying to study them. “I’m gonna need a distraction anyway,” Morgan whispered, turning back to watching the wool. Dolly had just taken a rather intimidating looking carder from a sheath at her hip and was showing off how the work was done. It was definitely iron and definitely a lot heavier than Morgan would’ve expected a woman almost her build to be able to work with so much ease. “You, go. We meet in apples?” She whispered, letting her sidelong glance emphasize that she was open to other suggestions for their plan. Dolly held out the carder for the audience to admire. “Mind ye, ‘tis sharp!” She said cheerfully. When she came by them, Morgan only gave a polite nod and a smile, and watched with relief as it went down in front of a table, almost within reach. Maye it would be a good thing that they were getting this over with.

Burning with curiosity, Deirdre let her imagination fill in the visual gaps. A headless ghost wouldn’t talk, which suited her just fine, but a recent headless ghost meant something was wrong--excitingly wrong. She could say she respected the pageantry of murder in a themed museum, even if decapitation was tired. But either way, a murder meant there was something fun for her to find around here. More fun than wool, anyway. The thought pulled her lips into a lopsided smile. “Did he die here?” Deirdre asked, “in this room?” She knew Morgan wouldn’t really be able to tell, not unless the ghost was gesturing secrets to her, but she’d asked for the sake of her own thoughts. With renewed interest, she surveyed the room. Which corner would their ghost have died in? What tool did the killer use? Though under Prue’s gaze, her delight withered quickly. She couldn’t help but feel she must have been doing something wrong, and maybe it was getting excited about murder. She didn’t belong here. Deirdre sighed, watching the carder settle on the table. “Do you want that distraction now?” Distractions she could do, chaos was always hers to incite; she couldn’t do much just standing there, pretending to be as awed and entertained as the people around her. She spared one more glance back at Prue, shooting her another ill-met wink before she turned her attention back to Morgan. “Don’t keep me waiting ‘in apples’ for too long,” she pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

Jeremy was a nervous creature, like most sheep were. A shrill, chilling, inhuman shriek was enough to set his fear ablaze. And it was exactly the sound Deirdre let slip from her lips as she jumped back, spooked by an invisible threat. “Bee!” She offered her reason, not that it mattered much under Jeremy’s panicked bleating. He kicked, desperate for escape from the room as Deirdre stumbled back, bumping the table as she tried to find her own. She knocked a number of tools to the ground as she scrambled to leave, trying to yell something about a bee allergy over Jeremy’s cries. But the moment she was sure everyone’s attention was on the lamb, her acting fell apart and she strode out of the room with a grin. She would’ve liked to stick a knife between Prue’s eyes before she left, but such desires she could quell in the name of helping Morgan and getting a few apples out of it. Pulling the brochure out of her pocket, she folded the flimsy paper back until the part of the map that outlined the path from where they were to the orchard was the only visible face. She left the map under her feet, in one way to help guide Morgan in case she’d get lost, in another to make her feel better about leaving her girlfriend behind--even if this was her plan. With a skip, and delight in each long stride, she left for ‘apples’.

Morgan gave Deirdre one more squeeze, affirming yes, do it now, and soaking up a little more affection before they parted. It would only be a few minutes, with any luck, but chaos was a funny thing. Deirdre’s shriek rattled more than just the lamb. Two people near them ducked, covering their ears, a toddler started to wail, and that was before Deirdre knocked into as much furniture as possible. “Oh, honey! Be careful!” Morgan stumbled away from her and towards the table. Everyone was rushing to wrangle Jeremy, who was already kicking a few shins and scaring the rest of the children.

“Mommy, make him stop crying!”

“Maybe we should go…”

“Did she say a BEE?”

Morgan picked up the carding comb from the table and dropped it into her bag with ease. This far in the shadows, no one could possibly be paying attention. When she was done, she went back to clutching her chest and panting, as if the whole thing had taken the wind out of her with fright. “Oh, honey, don’t go,” she called lamely. Then, laughing awkwardly to everyone else, “...I think I’m just gonna--” and gestured that she would show herself out. The other visitors in the room seemed to agree and started milling out, ready to move on to something less stressful. Morgan tried to push herself into the middle of the pack, no longer anyone special, just another face to be forgotten before the next group found their way in.

“You, there!”

Definitely not a thief.

“Prithee, did you get the carder, Ben?”

Definitely not the kind of woman who would take an antique iron wool comb and just dump it in her conveniently sized bag. Morgan would never. Except Morgan had, and despite her best efforts, Morgan found herself cut off at the door by the spinning woman, Dolly. “Not so fast,” she said. “I would like a word, Miss.”

Morgan tried to edge around her. “I’m really sorry about my girlfriend. We came prepared, obviously, but she had a really horrible allergic reaction as a kid and they just make her really afraid still. I hope Jeremy feels better--” But Dolly was clutching her wrist, too tight for Morgan to slip free.

“T’isn’t about the bee that I should like to speak on,” Dolly said, her tone still matter of fact.

“Let go of me. Now.” Morgan replied, twisting her arm away. But Dolly’s grip was strong, and Morgan struggled to put even a few inches of distance between them.

“I would very much like to, Miss,” Dolly said, throwing her back into the barn with a strength a woman her size should in no way have. “But I’d been holding your hand a lot longer than you realized.” She descended on her, elbowing her in the stomach and pinning her against the wall. A knife came out of her belt and slashed through her sleeve. No blood. She had to twist Morgan’s flesh to make dark blood ooze out of the wound. “I’m afraid we don’t welcome zombies in these parts.”

It was with great impatience that Deirdre remembered how dull everything was without Morgan. Even the sweet apples she plucked—stole—after sneaking into the orchard had suddenly turned sour. The bright, green and carefully maintained grass had become a murky swamp in her eyes. And while she knew she was being entirely too melodramatic, she also didn’t care. Her life was simply better for Morgan’s being in it, and activities she loathed always became enjoyable with her presence. Even as she tried to wait around like a sensible person should, sat against one of the trees, eating her terrible apple, she missed her girlfriend. As the time between their departure grew, Deirdre missed her more and more until the feeling was unbearable. She stood and threw her apple aside, marching back the same way she snuck in; around some old house and over a bit of flimsy fencing. But where she should have come round the corner to face the rest of the museum, she found Prue smiling at her. Deirdre stepped to the side, and Prue followed, blocking her path. She stepped to the other side, and Prue followed again. The game grew tiresome quickly. “Fates, bother someone else, prune.” She sighed and shoved the woman out of her way, stepping on to the bright pathway leading into the Orchard. From there, she remembered it was a series of rights, and then a straight walk back to the wool demonstration, where Morgan must have gotten held up. Where she— Prue stepped out in front of Deirdre again, thin knives pulled for her dress, clutched tightly between her fingers. She stepped forward, forcing Deirdre back into the darkness between houses. It occurred to her then, after her impatience settled, that something was wrong. It wasn’t the knives that bothered her, she didn’t care that Prue had begun pressing one of the blades to her abdomen; it was the fact that Prue was meant to be at the wool demonstration. Yet, she was here. Which either meant she’d snuck out, or the demonstration was over with. And if the demonstration was over with…. “Where’s my girlfriend?” Deirdre hissed, earning her a sharper press of Prue’s knife.

“Prithee,” Prue chirped, a facsimile of the polite woman who’d lead them around in the first place. She dug her knife in further, not wanting to puncture skin just yet, but adamant that Deirdre fall back into the shadows. Deirdre guessed that she didn’t much enjoy public scenes, and there was something funny about a woman who had just enough sense left not to murder in front of children. It was that way that Prue and Deirdre were very different. “Prithee,” she tried again, “wouldst th—“

“Oh, shut up.” Deirdre growled, gripping the woman by the shoulders and shoving her aside and out of the way. The action jerked Prue’s knife forward, and as it stuck out of Deirdre’s abdomen, the banshee knew exactly what the searing pain she was feeling meant. She gasped, steeling herself as she stumbled forward onto the path. Blood spilled between her fingers, where she held the wound, her plum dress quickly claimed by the color. She pulled the blade out in her quivering hand. The small knife was entirely metal, where a handle would’ve been, the metal was braided and pulled back to the blade to make a loop, just the right size for Prue’s delicate fingers. Every inch of it burned Deirdre. She dropped the knife and staggered into the crowd, clutching her stomach as if she’d eaten something rotten. Her one safety was the knowledge Prue wouldn’t dare chase her here, but she couldn’t do much for the trail of blood she was dropping. At first, she tried to kick dirt over it, but quickly realized the action was both time consuming, and terrible for her already challenged balance. “Morgan!” She yelled, the crowd wincing away from her. “Morgan!” There was no way, with how her voice travelled, that Morgan wouldn’t be able to hear her. But just hearing her might not have been enough. Deirdre’s body lurched, and she fell against the side of some building. She raised her hand and pushed herself steady, leaving her blood stained against the grey stone. It didn’t matter to her how much her body protested, how badly she was bleeding or what manner of hunter was chasing her, she would find Morgan, and she would make sure her love was safe. “Morgan!” She called again, resuming her trek back, teetering from one side to the other.

The first rule of fighting was don’t die. The second rule was don’t get knocked on your ass. Morgan had already failed the first nearly six months ago, and as Dolly struck her again, knocking over her bag, she nearly failed the second. Morgan’s head cracked against the barn wall. This was bad. If Dolly was a slayer, then what was everyone else? What about that woman who’d been staring at them? Had Deirdre even made it to the orchard? A blade bit through Morgan’s joints. She sank to her knees, mind scrambling for something to fight back with. She’d already broken the spinning wheel and the posts on the enclosure. They hadn’t done anything to stop the woman, who had dodged every attempt she didn’t simply shrug off. Morgan was running out of options.

Then she heard her name, carried on the wind in its frightening, inhuman timbre. “Deirdre!” Morgan cried back, loud as she could. “In here!” But Deirdre only called her name again, louder.

Behind her, Dolly cringed at the harshness of the sound, dropping her blade. This was Morgan’s chance. She picked up the iron comb from the ground and brandished it like a bat. Dolly saw it all coming, picking up her blade and dodging, feinting her way until she had the chance to nearly sever Morgan’s right arm. Morgan let her. The pain bit almost sweetly through her body and it brought Morgan close enough to do what she wanted.

“I am not your fucking voodoo doll!” Morgan screamed. She swung the comb into the woman, eyes squeezed shut as the iron spikes made contact with her face. Blood flooded Dolly’s white cap and collar. Morgan struck her again, steeling herself against the soft, wet sound of her skull caving in. Dolly kicked Morgan away, screaming, and Morgan took her chance. She scooped up her bag and ran, still holding the bloody comb as she entered the street. “Deirdre!” She called. They had to get out of here. They couldn’t even risk holding still, or hiding, not with hunters around. “Deirdre—!”

She saw her slumped against one of the buildings, clutching her stomach, a dark stain spreading down the front of her dress. For a moment, Morgan considered working her way through every actor in period dress, swinging the comb in her hand until all of them were puddles on the ground. She could do it. If it meant paying back whoever had wounded her, it would be worth it. And if they didn’t make it out of this alive, she just might. But humans were backing away, getting wise to the lack of performance in this theater, and Ben was coming around the side of the barn with a sharp looking scythe in his hands. No time, lucky for them. Morgan ran to her, her right arm still dangling at her side and her jacket growing splotched and heavy with dead blood.

“S-some date, huh?” She said. There was no keeping the fear out of her voice, or the frustration at not having enough arms to hold her safely. Morgan wheezed through her teeth, looking furtively around them. “We need to get out of here,” The only question was how.

To hold Morgan in her arms again was the greatest relief. Deirdre brought her in close, holding her as tight as she could despite her body’s protest. “Hey there,” she cooed, “you know, stabbing aside, I’ve had a wonderful time.” She smiled, reaching for Morgan’s hand, trying to ease her out of the tight grip she’d taken around the bloody carder. Gently, she took the now-weapon from her hand and slipped it inside Morgan’s bag. “It’s okay,” she murmured, pressing her lips against her cheek. The world had begun to blur and spin seconds ago, and she knew that she probably looked as terrible as she felt. Of course, where appearances were concerned, Morgan looked like she was nearly missing an arm. Deirdre peeled the fabric of her jacket back and inspected the wound. “Hold your arm up, my love. It’ll heal faster that way,” she pressed another kiss to Morgan, leading her hand to do as she was asking. Her own wound didn’t look nearly as bad as a severed arm, but iron had a funny way of ruining a fae’s health. She felt feverish, and like her soul was slipping out with each gush of blood. She watched Ben approach them with his scythe, clearly intending to do more than mow grass with it, and spared her energy to look at their surroundings. Buildings had swirled into incomprehensible blobs, the sun was both too bright and impossibly dim, and Deirdre had no hope of telling the retreating humans apart from the spots in her vision. But off to the side, she knew without a doubt there was a horse—a large, black horse with a comically tiny cart attached to its harness. The creature was calm, if not a little bored pawing at the dirt; she didn’t know by which miracle the horse hadn’t startled from her yelling, but she imagined some combination of hearing impairment and its blinders had saved it. She glanced over Morgan and back at Ben, who appeared torn between helping Dolly and pursuing them, taking slow steps as he must have been thinking it over. She’d make the choice easier for him.

“My love,” Deirdre kissed Morgan again, using her as a crutch when they parted to help her hobble towards Ben. “I need you to go cut the harness off that horse, okay? Keep the reins and the blinder, just cut everything that’s leaving it attached to that cart.” Shakily, she pulled a knife from her jacket and offered it. “Approach it slowly. I’m going to get a saddle from the barn and then I’ll join you, okay? Okay.” She left Morgan reluctantly, though her body was relieved to have both of its hands to press against her wound again. She looked at Ben, and figured he must have had something valiant to say, he certainly looked like he did, but she couldn’t much hear him over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Instead, she steeled herself and shrieked, watching his body crumple and his grip on the scythe slacked. Under any other circumstance, she would have delighted in taking her time, but eager to get back to her girlfriend, she kept screaming and stumbling forward until his life spurted out of him and he fell. She did the same to any unfortunate actor that crossed her. She did the same for Dolly, who had been trying to squirm away. She stopped only when her body lurched again, and the wound claimed the last of her energy. She heaved, taking the saddle she’d been eyeing off its rack and then...dropping it. Her body stiffened. Fire and agony grew around her neck, her back pressing against the soft body of Prue. She reached up to grab the iron wire she was being choked with, burning her fingers as she tried to find relief. But there was none, and the wire tightened. It was only by the memory of torture she had endured, and the thought of Morgan, that she was able to fall forward and swing her elbow into Prue’s nose. She stumbled free and snapped around, hand clasped over her throat as she willed her vision to steady. By the time the barn was no longer a pit of fuzzy dark brown shapes, Prue was gone. Deirdre groaned and plucked the saddle off the floor, limping her way to Morgan and the horse.

Prue hadn’t done anything that would last, but she had done just enough to make talking a chore, and between her stomach and her neck, screaming was a task Deirdre knew she wouldn’t wake from. She set about fastening the saddle, climbing on first and offering her hand to Morgan. “Sit in front, I need you to hold steady on the horse.” The saddle was for Morgan, after all, keeping balance on a galloping horse was hard enough for the experienced. “It’ll be okay,” she croaked. She felt like she was dying, which wasn’t true yet, but she felt like it anyway. “We’re not dying here. We’ll just ride out. It’ll be fine.” Through blurred vision, she could see actors grabbing pitchforks and shovels, calculating their plans. She swallowed, hissing in pain. “W-when you’re ready to go, j-just squeeze your legs on the horse and it’ll move. And then just lift up off the horse and squeeze again and it’ll go into a…” Her sentence trailed away, her body slumped, and the rest of it would just have to be Morgan.    

Morgan was starting to suspect that nothing good ever happened when she and Deirdre split up. All of their two-second breakups had been agony, and when Constance had attacked the house, Deirdre had been hurt, and in the minutes it had taken Morgan to get the old  deaf horse going, Deirdre was stumbling out with burns on her neck and hands. “What--what happened, what are you doing? Stop, you’re hurt! Your fingers!” She tugged on Deirdre to stop messing with the saddle, to let her at least try to climb on first, but she was afraid to hurt her even more. The front of her dress was soaked through, and the more she scanned her for iron burns, the more she found. Morgan whimpered, swallowing down tears. They didn’t have time for comfort, they needed to make it out of this alive. “I fucking hate this,” she whispered. She picked up Ben’s scythe from the ground and took Deirdre’s hand, placing herself behind her girlfriend on the saddle. “Like I would ever let you be a meat shield for hunters,” she hissed. She pressed a kiss to Deirdre’s cheek and took up the reins, wriggling in the saddle to get comfortable as best as she could. Karen’s ninth birthday party had been horseback riding, and then Michelle had copied her with the same idea when she turned ten. Morgan’s legs had been even shorter, her anxiety even more out of control, so this should be a breeze, right? Her girlfriend was bleeding out, she had a scythe in one hand, a barely reattached arm, and they were riding for their lives, but not so different from little kid’s birthday parties!

The hunters seemed to be making up their minds and taking a slow approach, fanning out and readying weapons tucked into their belts and slung on their backs. No time to get to picky about this or wait for certainty to smack her on the head. People did this in the movies all the time, and so could she.

“Just hang on, babe, okay? I’m gonna take care of us, but I need you to hang on.” She squeezed Horsey just as Deirdre told her to, and off they galloped.

Going back the way they came would put them into contact with too many opportunities to be struck or blocked off, so Morgan made for the orchards. The other patrons made way for them. Cell reception was so bad here, there wasn’t anyone to call, which should have been a big fucking clue, in retrospect. “Are you still with me, babe?” She whispered. “You said I get a head’s up when you’re gonna die, so I’m thinking, this is just gonna be a weird and wacky story for us to tell our friends in a couple of days. What about you, huh?” She tried to put pressure on Deirdre’s wound, but her hands were too full. But they were close. Maybe if she could get Horsey to ride faster, she could lose them in the trees or-- “Fuck!” Or they could shoot her in the back with arrows. They could do that too. Morgan grimaced and squeezed Horsey with all her strength, flicked the reins for all the good it would do them, and continued--right into the path of Prue.

Morgan would have been happy to trample her down, but Horsey only screamed, rearing up and almost knocking them over. Another arrow into her back. So this was the plan. Morgan shoulted wordlessly and held tight to the reins, steering Horsey around, but he would only pace and circle and pant, growing more and more anxious.

“Thou must not leave this place, I fear,” Prue said smugly.

“Shut up.” Morgan swung her scythe, just barely missing the mark.

Prue stepped closer, daring her to try. “Thou art a devil against nature and divinity, and thou must--”

Morgan swung again. And this time, she did not miss. Or she would have if Prue hadn’t given up and thrown herself to the ground. Fine.

An arrow landed by Horsey’s feet, frightening him to life again. They were flying into the trees, trampling over the neat rows of apples and berries. Arrows whistled like rain around them and horse hooves followed like thunder. It was all Morgan could do to hang on to Deirdre and Horsey at once. She did her best to steer them towards the parking lot without being and easy target, but Horsey was running on his own fear, darting and panting with nothing but burning intuition to guide him. Morgan put her hand out to the trees and caught the first apple that sank into her palm, hurling in backwards blindly. Then another.

The trees thinned and Morgan had begun to hope, when Prue stepped into view once more, cutting into one of Morgan’s thrown apples with her bloody iron knife.

“You evil bitch,” Morgan whispered.

She didn’t put out the scythe until she was right on her. The blade came down, cleaving a deep gash that went from her face to her neck. Prue staggered behind them, moaning a deep, rattling cry as she flailed for a way to staunch the wound. But her blood was spraying over the honey yellow and green tints to the apples and rivering down her dress.spilled down her dress and rained onto the grass. At this point, Horsey gave up and bucked hard enough that Morgan went flying, taking Deirdre down with her. She landed on her back, knocking into an apple tree hard enough to crack the trunk. She didn’t remember dropping her scythe, but it had to be, well...somewhere. “Hey,” she whispered, wincing as her spine worked slowly to right itself. “You still with me? Babe…?”

Deirdre didn’t have an awareness of much anymore. From beyond the great expanse of fuzz and fatigue, she could hear Morgan’s voice, and something that sounded like a storm. But she was on the world’s bumpiest bed, and sleep was hard to find between each jump and turn. Vaguely, she remembered something about a horse, but memories bleed into each other, and the only horses she knew were the pale kind that marked generations on her family’s farm. All of them were deaf. Her bed jerked again, and she jumped against her upright pillow that reeked of blood and Morgan. Her eyes fluttered open to find Morgan’s arm dangling as if tethered by only a singular thread. “Your...arm…” she croaked. That seemed serious. That seemed like something they needed to fix now. And Deirdre ached to; she wanted to rub away all the black blood and pain and fix it all. She tried to reach up, but her arm refused. When she tried again, the world returned to its darkness. There, the bed continued to jostle, visions of her farm continued to plague her, drawing fever to her. Her sense of the world dimmed until all she knew was Morgan, and the strage, terrible, jumpy bed she was in. “I’m so tired…” she tried to explain, then tried the next thought that occurred to her. “I love you,” she said, “I love you so much. Everything is better with you, I’m better with you. And I’m tired, Morgan. I’m so, so tired.” And this bed was terrible. Thankfully, she found her new bed to be better. After, of course, the strange bit where she felt like she was flying, and then the other bit where it was like her body was cracking. But once both sensations settled, she welcomed the new, soft, steady bed.

Face in the dirt, Deirdre didn’t respond to Morgan because she didn’t hear her. She was still, finally, and that was all she’d wanted. In her head, there were horses and meadows and Morgan, her love, and apples and-- Prue. Deirdre stirred. She pressed her palms to the mud, trying to lift herself only to slip and welcome the ground again. “Where--” She tried to speak, but her throat was tight, and her voice sounded wrong even to her own confused ears. She just needed a moment, and then she’d be fine. Just one moment without the jostling bed, or Prue trying to kill them. Just a moment with her head down in the dirt, trying to regain herself. That was it. She was so tired it felt like she was dying. She wasn’t. But it felt like she was. Unfortunately, communicating that was a harder task between not knowing where the bottom half of her body was and the ghost of iron wire burning around her neck. “Alive.” She groaned, lifting a hand to point at Prue, who was swaying like wheat in the wind. Like there was music. Deirdre could have sworn she heard it too. “Sleep.” She pointed at herself. “Dead.” Her hand fell. “Love you.” Just a moment.  

Morgan crawled up to her knees. The fall had knocked the arrows further into her back, and she was finding it difficult to breathe. She coughed, wiping away the dark stain from her lips. She felt for the knife Deirdre had given her, lodged at least part of the way through her thigh. Morgan pulled it out and approached Deirdre, feeling along her body for broken bones. “This isn’t how we die, babe,” she whispered. “That would be such a shitty story, okay? But maybe--” She reached behind her and pulled an arrow from her shoulder, then another from the small of her back. The worst ones would wait, but maybe her healing could get more of a move on already. “Maybe we can think about it when we get back to the car.”

But Prue was in fact, inexplicably, alive. One bright eye stared out from the red ruin of her face, and she still had that iron little knife. Step by staggering step she walked towards them, blade raised. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” She hurled the overripe apples on the ground her way, which burst and splattered her body with rot. Prue may as well have not felt them at all for how much she flinched. Morgan tucked her half severed arm closer to her shoulder. It didn’t feel as loose anymore, but if she could swing with more than one hand…

“Thou. Art. A Devil,” Prue hissed, gritting her blood stained teeth with every word.

“Careful,” she called. “I bite.” The next apple burst on her head, which did give Prue a second of pause. She had to wipe the browning meat of the apple from her eyes in order to keep going, which bought Morgan a little more time to stay close to the ground while her body connected her joints.

The trees were quiet. It was only them here, now. The others were reassuring the humans, or tending to their dead, or trusted this monster of a woman to finish them off. Considering how close she was getting to them, with how much blood was coming down her body, it was no wonder. Morgan crawled forwards, still coughing as her body struggled to fix itself. When Prue was right on her, arm poised to stab, Morgan reached out with both hands and pulled her leg out from under her. Prue didn’t hit her head, but her kicks fell on numb, zombie limbs. Morgan pinned them down with all her strength and let her flail and slash at her until she felt the right kind of relief in her arm that meant it was whole again. The next time her blade came, Morgan snapped her wrist. She caught the next arm and brought it to her lips, going so far as to pinch the soft flesh of her arm between her teeth. For the first time, Prue screamed with fear.

“You’re right,” she rasped,  “That is way too good for you.” In went the knife, straight into her heart until Morgan press it no further.

Morgan didn’t stop to see the light come out of her eyes. She picked herself up and stumbled back toward Deirdre and their fallen things. Picking everything up upset all the arrow-tips still in her body, but there was no stopping now. People would hear Prue’s screams, maybe even recognize them. If they hadn’t, they would know something was wrong when she didn’t come back, eventually. Morgan had to get them away from this place before all that came crashing down. She clutched Deirdre tight to her chest and started walking.

[elliemarchetti]

Would write a short story about gisa meeting her girlfriend

Here it is, hope you like it!

Challenges and New Beginnings

Words: 1059

Gisa was satisfied with every detail of that project: since she had arrived in Montfort and the war was over, or at least it seemed, an unimaginable number of events had followed one another in a vicious circle of forced smiles and outfits full of secret meanings. In the beginning, she had dressed only her family, and considering how many they were, it wasn’t an indifferent amount of work, but soon Carmadon, President Davidson’s husband, had spotted her talent, and when you dress the most elegant man in the country, it's only a matter of time before everyone wants to own at least one of your creations, thus, in addition to her list of regular customers, she had opened the requests, and since then, not a day had passed without test sketches, measurements or long hours spent bent on the sewing machine. Some might’ve said that even if she was now in a place where Reds and Silvers were equals it was like as if she had returned to the Stilts, to be the apprentice who, once she finished her training, would’ve been used to the breaking point to earn a misery, just enough to help her family, but it wasn’t like that: it was true, she was a hard worker, but in Montfort not only what she did was well paid but she also had the recognition she deserved. In that regard, that place was a bit like a dream coming true, even if around the corner there were often pitfalls that reminded her of what she had lost, like the facts she was now much slower than before they broke her hand, or that despite the best healers care, sometimes she still felt the tendons pull on the bones sealed in the wrong way. At other times they were more subtle, and when Mare woke up screaming because of her nightmares, she cried the sister Maven had broken, or, as it had happened a few days before, something stupid reminded her of how she had lost Shade. Elane Haven had come to her door when outside it was already very dark, hidden by a hood like a thief, and for a moment, Gisa had been tempted to smash the wood on her face, but her kind eyes, very different from that of the perfidious girl Mare had told her about, had prevented her from doing so. She knew she would regret it, that she was going to feel guilty later, but she asked her anyway, albeit abruptly, what she wanted from her, as if it wasn’t obvious, and despite she tried to be as rough as possible, Elane acted like a real lady, and they ended up drinking herbal tea in the dying light of the fireplace. If anyone in the house had woken up and found her there, they would’ve been very angry, but Gisa was tired of carrying on the hatred that risked corroding her soul like it had done with Maven and pretending that she didn’t just wanted to forget, keep the happy memory she had of her brother and go on, and basically it was what her interlocutor wanted too.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," he had said, when silence had fallen between them and it seemed like there was nothing left to say. "But the horrors we’ve all gone through can’t affect our lives here too.”

Although it might not seem, even if she never would’ve thought it, Gisa felt pity: that girl was so absorbed in the dramas of the people she had chosen to call family that she hadn't even had time to mourn the parents who had abandoned her and the siblings who had died in that war that had only taken and taken and whose outcome could only be something new. How certain people couldn't see it, was out of her reach. So, as she closed the door behind her, she decided she would make her shine. Elane Haven always took her breath away during those formal events, but this time it would’ve been different: with her ability, that she used nearly constantly, and Gisa's tailoring skill, she would’ve seemed like a goddess. The drawing ended up being more detailed than she expected, and when she looked up from the paper, her hands were dirty with graphite and dawn was beginning to color the dark night sky pink. After a short sleep, and a huge breakfast, something she decided not to give up anymore, she had gone to buy paper for the pattern, and when the boy at the counter had seen the plan he stared at her in disbelief.

“Are you sure you can finish it in a week?” he asked, and a half smile opened on Gisa’s face. Before it bothered her, but now when people underestimated her, she enjoyed it, especially when they had to see that they were wrong.

“Very sure, now give me the paper I asked for.”

It wasn’t something that happened often, but this time her mother had to help her, but she had to admit she was happy to spend some time alone with her, even if she was afraid she might ask for whom she was making that immense effort. She knew that they were going to see Elane at the party anyway, but she preferred it to be an unpleasant surprise rather than an unpleasant discussion what would last for days. So she decided not to spend too much time at home and to go to buy the fabric, despite the fact that it was now nearly closing time. It didn’t take her long to fall in love with a semi-rigid, very shiny, slate fabric. The next day she went for the last, and most important, part: the gems. She was ready to have one of her bizarre chats with the old jeweler when she saw a pretty young lady, nearly her age, behind the counter. She was looking at her curiously too, and the thing amused Gisa.

“And would you be?” she asked.

“The new apprentice, but I can help you as well as the owner,” replied the other.

“I sure hope so, because I have a pretty long work for you.”

“Then we should start calling each other by name, don’t you think?” flirted the apprentice, and a Gisa smiled, knowing she finally found her match.

[gerbiloftriumph]

So you wanna be a king

Or perhaps just cosplay one.

By request, here’s how I, at least, put together my King Graham outfit.

Part 1: Cloak and Cowl

Disclaimer: I’m totally novice at cosplay and only do it for like one event per year if that, so take what you will or throw it all away.

Also I made this like three years ago, so the details get sorta hazy.

Step one: Research. The best part. Take lots of screencaps of Graham from every angle. Hoard the pictures in your phone like a dragon. Stare at them. They’re lovely. He’s lovely. 

Ready to commit to this? It’s mildly expensive and Mostly Time Consuming. But that outfit looks so neat...and I love him...okay. Still good?

Let’s do this.

Let’s start with the cloak and the cowl. The bit that everyone notices first, the dramatic part that snaps behind you when you walk and makes 2015 Graham stand apart from his 1980s days (...other than also not wearing pink anymore).

The best part other than the hat, really.

By the game’s own proof, the cowl and cloak are separate pieces. Which makes your life easier.

I chose a springy red fabric from Joann’s called bengaline. It stretches one way, not both, and it’s delightfully weighted so it snaps and catches the wind in pleasing ways--the effect when walking is almost as bouncy as the video game version. Should you choose the same, know that bengaline is primarily plastic and cannot be ironed (seriously, don’t)--steam it or get it wet and let it air dry to remove wrinkles. Check it out here: https://www.joann.com/sew-classics-bengaline-suiting/xprd757777.html

Bengaline does not feel heavy when you pick it up in the store. It becomes heavy as you wear it. Your shoulders might revolt. Feel free to pick something lighter, cheaper, or whatever is available in the shade of red you love most, but remember that the lighter the fabric weight, the happier you’ll be. Please do not pick velvet. A day at con reveals all truths. Be aware of what you’re putting your shoulders through.

For your reference, according to the receipt I found I apparently bought 6 yards of it (with a half off coupon). This is overkill. You probably don’t need 6 yards. I think I have a ton of it left over and smooshed into deep storage. But then again, it’s red and red is always useful in cosplay, so it doesn’t hurt to have leftovers.

Why reinvent the wheel? I used this tutorial here for the base cloak: https://dangerous-ladies.tumblr.com/post/41564161303/so-you-wanna-wear-a-cape-god-this-new

yes you want a circle cape, not a square cape. circle capes catch the wind better. you’ll be able to tell the difference, i promise.

Side note: you might think you want your cloak to touch your ankles. It looks like Graham’s does. You do not want this. When it scrapes the ground at comic con or renfest, it will get filthy, it will shred, and people (especially you) will step on the back of it. It might even get eaten by an escalator at con. Go up an inch or two--a little goes a long way. It’ll still look great, and you won’t choke.

plus depending on how you stand no one can tell anyway.

Now, for my numbers:

I am 5′6″. I chose 56.5″ (that includes my hem allowance) so that the cloak itself actually ‘swings’ at 55.5″. I copied the tutorial’s neck hole exactly (6″ ‘swing’).

Follow the tutorial’s instructions for the rolled hem. Pin everything. You will hate pins. You may bleed. Doesn’t matter. The cosplay gods are cruel. Keep pinning. If you picked bengaline like I did do not iron it just suffer in silence. Go slowly and carefully, and fight the curve to be as flat as you can.

Time to sew! Put on Game Grump’s King’s Quest 5 LP because it’s the best, and go slowly around your circle at the default sewing machine stitch.

I don’t recommend hand stitching. There is too much fabric and you want to have some sort of life at the end of this. Check with your local public library or that weird relative you forgot about if you don’t have a machine yourself.

Cool, that’s a cloak! Admire it, it’s lovely. I mean, you don’t have a way to wear it yet, but you’re maybe 68% done here so, that’s great!

Cowl time!

I don’t have reference images for what I did three years ago, and there are probably better ways to do this. Feel free to experiment, but here’s how I (probably?) did it:

Measure around your arms and upper chest approximately where the cowl will lay, and make sure you give yourself extra inches so you can still move comfortably. For me, that’s around 48-50″ around. I don’t remember what motivated my number selection for the neck part--it must be wide enough to go around your head, plus room to play with it to make it lie in fun ways like Graham’s. Apparently I picked 28″.

Play with scrap fabric, or if you have lots of extra red feel free to make extra sizes. My cowl looks like this:

That’s 14″ along the neck, 24″ along the body, and a length of 18″--but with a secret 6.5″ tucked inside the cowl itself, so the fabric really is 24.5″ long.

Why would I do that?

To tuck the cowl into the jerkin/undershirt collar and make it look seamless, like a video game character.

Ain’t no sight of tunic around that neck.

Also, the extra fabric gives it more stability and strength, allowing you to play with the collar and get that high edge he has rather than flat fabric. I’d even considered stringing a wire through it in early days, but if you use bengaline the fabric is sturdy enough on its own. Your fabric selection may act differently.

So, I’ve “hidden” 6.5″ worth of fabric in the collar. What would that look like as a pattern? I don’t remember for certain since I didn’t write it down but it probably looked like this:

okay maybe like half an inch seam allowance. an inch is probably overkill. don’t be me.

Since I didn’t want the thickness of a real hem, I did, like, a herringbone stitch (looks like zigzaging triangles) along the part that gets tucked in to the shirt to prevent any fraying, and then I folded it at the dotted line and sewed it in place to get a permanent line.

Unfolded, it looks like this:

In practice, it looks like this:

From the back, it ends up looking a little something like-a this:

Cool, cloak and cowl! You still don’t have a way to wear it, but the pieces are nice. Maybe unfinished and kinda boring, though, since Graham’s King Cloak is Such Luxury.

I mean, it’s fine that way. But it feels unfinished if you’re doing Prologue or Ch2 Graham.

Trimming time~.

I bought one 1″ wide red satin trim roll, and two 2 ¼” red satin trim rolls. Pin the wider trim all along the INNER bottom hem of your cloak (the side with the rolled hem on it), sew slowly. Get your second fresh roll so you don’t run out midway, and do the same on the EXTERIOR. This way, any wonky uneven lines are hidden on the inside and less noticeable.

Nice rule of thumb for cosplay I’ve learned: if you can’t see a mistake from 5 feet away, no one can. Don’t panic.

Do not sew both sides at the same time. It’s tempting, but hard enough to sew around a curve already without trying to keep both sides remotely even. To finish, I folded the long ends over, matched the hem with the cloak, and went for it.

And do the same to the bottom of the cowl with your thinner trim--you only have to do the exterior since no one can see the interior of that piece, so it’s much easier.

Cool! You’re done! You’ve got a cloak and cowl, trimmed and gorgeous.

“But Gerbil,” I hear you complain, “I still can’t wear it! It doesn’t have any attachment to me, even though I have lots of attachment to it since I just dumped like a hundred hours and at least $50 into it.”

Fair enough.

If you used bengaline like me, you’ll discover very quickly that it’s heavy heavy heavy. It’s gorgeous and thick and looks great, but the weight. Sure, it didn’t feel heavy when you bought it, when you sewed with it, when you first put it on. But it’s hour six of wearing it, and your shoulders hate you. If it hangs off your neck like you would assume a cloak should, you will choke. It hurts. The weight must sit on your shoulders.

Luckily, this costume has two separate pieces, and the cowl is going to hide where it hooks to you.

You’re going to buy two snap clips. The big ones. Like, at least an inch. You’re going to pick out an anchor t-shirt from Goodwill. It literally doesn’t matter what it looks like, but it’s going to be one size too small and will go up to your neck. You need it to be totally comfortable to wear (the more breathable the better--this is a hot cosplay), but tight enough that it will not shift under the weight of your cloak movement, thus the smaller size. Sew the snaps to the inside of the cloak and just above your collar bone on the shirt.

(apparently Superman wears it like this too, go figure)

(you might want to wait to sew the snaps on until your jerkin/tunic is finished before you sew the snaps to your anchor shirt, so you can be sure the collars match up--you need to have room for the snaps to sit on the anchor shirt, but still sit under your tunic)

(if you think of a better solution, have at, but please, do not tie it around your neck regardless of the type of material you bought. If anyone steps on the back, yourself included, and it’s attached by your neck, you’re out for the day. Do not.)

(also, one more pitch for the snaps--say your cloak does get caught on something. a wandering dragon, a passing knight’s sword, or ye olde con escalator. if it’s attached by snaps, not ties, it’ll pop right off with enough force, leaving you unharmed, but the snaps are heavy duty enough to stay put all weekend or multiple years without trouble)

And you’re done. That’s a cloak and cowl fine enough for a king, friend. Or at least fine enough for comic con.

A note on the out and about: you’re probably going to feel worn out after a few hours at con. Take frequent sitting breaks. After a few times wearing it you’ll get used to it and can fly around in it all weekend without trouble, but the first few times add unexpected strain to your neck and shoulders so take it a little easier.

Also, high key recommend handwashing the cloak (yes, the whole thing, it smooshes down well in water, I promise, it’s doable, just difficult) in your (clean!) bathroom sink with handwashing detergent, and laying it out to dry on towels. I wouldn’t trust the satin trim to hold up to a machine, but it withstands sink washing just fine.

(Was that useful? Was that atrocious? Do you want more pieces how-to’d? Do you want a full How-To-Graham Tutorial? Let me know, happy to ramble more!)

[chimpukampu]

Bonheur

Happy Valentines day @galaxyofconstellations! I’m so happy when I got your name, and more when I read your prompts! You have no idea how I love Marichat and Adrinette, and I hope this oneshot met your expectations

Huge thanks to @tog84 for beta-ing this!

Summary: It was a night before her wedding when a certain cat dropped by not only to say hi but also to ask about her future. 

It’s been years since Marinette slept in her old bedroom.

She was surprised that her parents didn’t replace the pink wallpapers, or even dared to remove the old Jagged Stone poster that was plastered near her old study table. Her outdated desktop computer was still there covered in a thick, white cloth, as well as her sewing machine that had pricked her fingers multiple times.

It was worth the pain, she thought fondly as she rubbed her calloused fingers, bumping the silver band of her engagement ring with a nostalgic sigh.

Aside from her old items like her mannequins, self-made teenage clothes, and textbooks that were boxed and stacked neatly to the corner, she also found some baking equipment and matching ceramic wares from China, which prompted her that her room has been transformed as some sort of storage. Yet despite it, her room was comfy and dust-free.

Glancing around, she noticed the faded squares that marred the walls. It reminded her of the photographs and drawings she used to tack there when she was in collège, and even though she removed all of it as soon as she moved out for université, the discolorations caused by the lack of light exposures were barely muted.

She might be in the mood of reminiscing the past, but she didn’t have the energy to take out her old belongings and poke on them one by one. Her Maman might scold her if she cluttered up the floor, and besides, she has an early appointment with the Mayor in the morning, and a garden wedding in the afternoon, so she couldn’t pull out an all-nighter and be a living zombie afterward.

After all, tomorrow is her big day.

But sleep was rather difficult for the young designer. It might be from the nerves, or the fact that she was sleeping on her bed alone, she wasn’t sure anymore. She didn’t want to disturb Tikki, her adorable kwami who was sleeping soundly on her pillow, for a midnight stroll, and the herbal tea that she was coddling wasn’t effective enough to lure her to bed.

After giving her blanket a second look, Marinette decided to climb to her balcony for some air.

The summer wind immediately kissed her exposed skin as she opened her skylight, then smiled adoringly how her flowery plants and ornamentals thrived under her father’s care. She also spotted her foldable chair under the still-functioning fairy lights, and her wooden centerpiece table minus the teapot set she often uses after a tiresome patrol.

It was a new moon, and the stars twinkling behind the cloudy Parisian sky were blending well with the bustling city lights from afar. She could barely see the bricked walls and the flying buttresses of Notre Dame from her spot, same with the ever-serene Seine and the empty alleyways near Rue Gotlib.

Such peaceful scenery wasn’t new to her, but the sight gave her a jab of memories that made her wonder the things she must’ve done in her past life to end up so lucky.

“Bonsoir, ma Purr-incesse.”

Marinette almost spilled her hot drink and hurled the cup towards the intruder’s face when a pair of strong hands caught her on time. Her bluebell eyes immediately trailed off from the curves of a familiar dark catsuit to the emerald hues of a blond man that were twinkling with mischief and euphoria.

“C - Chat!” she sputtered with a blush. “Y-You scared me, you idiot!”

“A-paw-logies fur that,” the superhero responded unabashed “But this cat was simply curious why a pretty lady like you was so lonesome tonight.”

She rolled her eyes indignantly “Still flirty as ever.”

“Just fur mew.”

“I’m taken, you know?” she raised her left hand to show him the ring “You can’t flirt with a promised woman anymore, Chaton.”

“Woe is me!” the superhero gasped, clutching his heart theatrically while balancing himself to the rails “And to think that you confessed your undying love to me!”

She couldn’t help but snort at that “You rejected me, remember?”

“But still!”

“Dream on, mon Minou,” she chuckled much to his chagrin. “To what do I owe this surprise visit?”

“Says the person who hasn’t been here for years.”

“What can I say,” the dark-haired woman shrugged, leaning her back to the balcony rails “I’m an independent girl who wants to live her life to the fullest.”

“Oh really,” he drawled with a narrowed look. “Then pray do tell why an independent girl like you is back to her parent’s house?”

“Because,” she scowled, mustering all of her strength not to push the blond and let him plummet to the ground. “We want to stick to the tradition that the groom must not see the bride a day before their wedding.”

“By kicking you out of your house?”

“Okay, first of all, this is also my house. My home,” she emphasized without giving him the pleasure of seeing her irritated face. “And my future husband has to stay there and maybe, I dunno, enjoying his bachelor’s party - which I believe, his best man is now plotting his murder - or having a beauty sleep?”

“Hmm. Your future husband sounds like a handful.”

“You have no idea.”

“So tell me, Purr-incess,” he asked with his back touching hers. “What made you decide to accept his proposal and spend the rest of your life with him?”

“That’s a very tough question, Chaton,” she admitted. “Aside from being a handful, he has a very bad sense of humor.”

“Ouch.”

“He puns a lot too, and there’s this pick-up line he always uses to piss me off. Oh, and he didn’t know some adulting stuff like cooking and doing the laundry. I even had to teach him how to use the microwave!” she chuckled as she narrated the disasters that happened in her relationship. “He has a horrible sweet tooth and cries like a baby at stupid rom-com movies. He’s a neat freak. He spends too much time in the shower, and he hoards the blankets during winter. He’s literally a child in an adult body.”

“Yet despite his imperfections,” she went on, tilting her head towards the sky with a smile. “He makes me happy.”

“I’m sure you make him happy too,” the feline hero muttered, and even though Marinette couldn’t see his expression, she could sense the endearment on his tone.

The two remained in companionable silence as they looked at the night sky until Marinette yawned.

“Your bed is calling you now, Purr-incess,” Chat Noir chuckled, nudging her shoulders gently as he walked her to the trap door. “Why don’t you get your beauty sleep so you can sweep your Prince off his feet tomorrow?”

“You’re leaving now?”

“Oh my, is that an invitation, Marinette?” he wiggled his brows suggestively much to her annoyance. “As much as the offer is tempting - “

“Chat!”

“But I can’t risk my status and tarnish my name by such scandalous act. Don’t get me wrong - you’re an amazing girl, and I’m an awesome man. I mean, you know, I would marry myself if I could.”

The designer flashed him a deadpan look “We’re not talking about that shit.”

He pouted “You’re no fun, Purr-incess.”

After downing her almost cold tea, Marinette slipped inside the room as Chat Noir took the cup and opened the trap door for her.

“Make sure to check your bedding for a pea.” the feline hero reminded her cheekily.

“Yeah, yeah…” she grumbled, then patted her bed sheets with a scowl when the superhero shot her a look. “Happy now?”

“Very.” he flashed her a toothy grin, and with a saucy wink, he lowered the door. “Bonne Nuit, ma minette.”

Before he could shut it closed, she called out to him “Chaton?”

He poked his head inside “What is it, Purr-incess?”

“Thank you,” she smiled earnestly. “Thank you for being there with me all the time. For the hardships and trials. For joy and devotion.”

His green eyes were unreadable as she continued “Thank you for the patience and understanding, and I know that sometimes - no, most of the time - my stubbornness drives you crazy, but you still remained by my side. Through thick or thin, I must say, even though I don’t deserve it at all.”

“You are worth fighting for,” he assured her. “You deserve everything, you deserve the world.”

“You deserve everything, too.” she said as she yawned again. “I think that’s it for tonight. Bonne Nuit, Chat Noir.”

“Erm, Marinette?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re the best thing that ever happened in my life,” he confessed in a somber tone. “My first for everything - in love, in relationship...and now that we’ll be facing a new chapter in our life, I would like you to know that...that I am blessed that you chose me to be your partner.”

She bit her lips to control her emotions. “Sounds like your vows, you’re supposed to say those to your soon-to-be wife.”

“Well,” he rubbed his neck cutely with flustered cheeks. “I’m afraid I might stutter and blank out during the ceremony, and I don’t think flash cards are allowed at the altar, so I’d rather recite my wedding vows before I forget everything.”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“You mean ‘your ridiculous’?”

Chat Noir barked out a laugh when he dodged a pillow thrown to his way. “Hey, that’s domestic violence!”

“I hate you, Adrien!”

“Love you too, My Lady!”

Their teasing banter went on until dawn, and by the time Sabine walked upstairs to wake her daughter up, she screamed bloody murder at the sight of the two love birds cuddling in each other’s arms, and soon the two would realize how late they were for their civil wedding, and how absurd they would look on their photos as they sported a matching eyebags and dopey smiles.

[imaginecoderealize]

Hi everyone 😊 have you any headcanons or stories about boy's childhood?(with Hansel and Nemo )

We hope you enjoy this small glimpse into the kids’ lives before they became the heroes we love!

- Mod Apostle and Mod Nautilus

LUPIN:

- Lupin started out smaller and weaker than most of the otherstreet kids, but he proved to also be the cleverest. The other kids began tolook up to him and treat him as a leader, despite his youth and small size.They were so skilled at their work using Lupin’s methods that people began toavoid the popular markets they haunted. The police took notice and the kidsonly grew more talented at playing hide and seek with the police and makingthem look like fools. 

- Lupin’s first brush with being a ‘thief with a heart ofjustice’ was when he saw a frail old woman robbed and thrown down into analley. He always picked the pockets of the rich and considered it poor form topick on ‘easy targets’. He stole back the woman’s purse, only to find it veryheavy with gold. He was tempted to keep it, but recalling the woman’s frailty,he dutifully brought the purse back to its owner. The old woman exulted overhow honorable he was and gave him his first ‘finders fee.’ Which turned out tobe more money than he could steal in a month.

- Lupin was intelligent, but he preferred practical studies tobook learning. (His teacher did make sure he knew how to read and write, etc.Even though he balked about it being boring.)

- He and his fellow urchins often made up their own gameswhich helped them with their thieving.

- Lupin usually had to sleep outdoors, so thefirst time he had a bed of his own he was so happy that he didn’t even want tomess the sheets up. … Of course, about twenty seconds later he jumped right onin and rolled the sheets around himself like a cocoon.

- Lupin was surprisingly nervous the first time he left France, though he would never admit it. He loved the adventure, of course, but there was something a little anxiety-inducing about taking those first steps.

VAN:

- Van was always a dutiful brother and son. His father passedaway when he was still quite young, so he felt it was his duty to care for hismother and little brother. They didn’t have a lot of money, so he learned tomake the things they needed and repair clothing and other things to extend their life. He became quite skilledat woodworking and made his mother a beautiful vase that she kept on herdresser that held three flowers, one for each of his family.

- Van and his brother always went berry picking in the summer.It was the brothers’s favorite time of year when their mothers would make themmagnificent pies. One time Van decided to make a pie for his family… withpredictable results. The mess in the kitchen was extraordinary, but his mothercouldn’t scold him because he tried so hard, and pretended to enjoy hiscreation. It may have been better for his future friends if she had told himthe truth.

-  Van was a smart, serious student. His favorite subject inschool was mathematics. He taught his little brother to read. 

- Vanwas always athletic and participated in many different sports.

- Would always help his mother with the sewing andclothing repair. He learned how to knit when he was eight years old, and becamequite skilled. His family could never leave the house in winter without ascarf. And gloves. And a hat. 

- He was always very open about how he doted over his family. He once had his heart on his sleeve….

FRAN:

- Fran grew up surrounded by beautiful natural wonders. Of ascientific bent since childhood, he found it soothing to walk in the woods andstudy nature. He could often be found reading in the shadow of his favoriterock, or collecting various specimens to study in his little attic laboratoryunder the eaves of his home. 

- Fran had a cute spaniel that always stayed at his side whenhe was a kid. They went on many adventures together. Fran even taught her tosniff out certain plants or other things to use in his experiments.

- Fran helped keep his parents’ gardens. He had his own littlepatch where he grew his own medicinal herbs. 

- Fran’s favorite subject was obviously science, especiallyalchemy and biology. He was equally good at all subjects and was recommended togo to college in the U.K.

- Knew he wanted to be a doctor for as long as hecould remember. He was the greatest teddy bear doctor in all of Switzerland,always performing regular check-ups. Of course, if someone came to him with adoll that needed repairs, he’d have to go to his mother… but he would alwayssupervise the procedure!

IMPEY:

- Impey was alone much of the time as a young child. He neverreally fit in with his peers and always dreamed of leaving his little villageand seeing what the world beyond held. Many vampires hated the cities, but Impeyknew that his future would lie in the cities beyond his claustrophobic littletown even before he saw the train. 

- Impey was an eager student once his imagination was ignited.The Old Man was delighted with how smart he was. He read voraciously once hehad the opportunity, though he found history boring. He hated stories about waror weapons, but he loved the romances. (He cried easily over tragedies.) 

- Impey’s first device was a telescope to look at the moon,made from a cardboard tube, a piece of glass and a broken mirror. He was veryexcited and proud of his creation. 

- Impey never had any sense of a bedtime, and often tinkeredand experimented with machines all night. The old man would often find himslumped over his work bench fast asleep. In that way, not much has changed.

- Impey didn’t change too much from when he was akid, so he would always be running on fumes. All too often, his old man wouldfind him passed out with a wrench in hand and grease stains on his cheeks. Heonly put a stop to it one time after Impey caught a bad cold. “That’ll teachyou to not get proper rest, now you have no choice.” (I think it’s cute we both had the same idea about Impey sleeping on his work bench - Mod Nautilus)

(Because there is so little information about Saint’s youth,this is longer and more… dramatized… than the others… – Mod Apostle)

SAINT:

- Saint doesn’t remember his childhood before he was a slave,erroneously believing he was born into slavery. The trauma of the sack of hisvillage made him block it from his memory. He was born in an ancient isolatedvillage in the eastern foothills of Mesopotamia. Its isolation meant that theever-changing political situations and the rise and fall of cultures passedthem by harmlessly, until an avalanche caused the king’s military to divertcourse and they raided the peaceful village. 

- Saint was a priestess’ son. He was a gentle, fragile child.His task was to read and memorize the holy books, study their rituals, andlearn from his mother how to lead their people. He was a dreamer who loved thestars, the quiet hills at night, and the sound of his mother’s voice singingthe sacred songs. 

- Despite being two years younger, his brother always lookedafter him. They played games, told stories, read every book in the village,especially the tales about a time when they lived in a city overlooking thesea. Neither of them had ever seen a body of water larger than small lakes andrivers. They had never even seen the great Euphrates or Tigris. They promisedeach other to go to the sea someday. To sail away and find their lost city andbecome kings. Saint said he would be the high priest and talk to the gods,while his brother could be king and govern the people. The village elder’sfortune said Saint would suffer much and travel far before he found hisdestiny, but then such things seemed incomprehensible to the children who builtstone forts for castles and tended their goats. 

- Later, after he forgot his past, he still sought out tabletsand and stories of the gods and sacred texts, never wondering how a slavelearned to read. Despite the differences in language, he was able to teachhimself the new alphabets and lettering. He kept a horde of discarded tabletsand broken styluses buried in a hole with his few belongings, including a stonenecklace given him by his only friend, the boy who he no longer recognized ashis brother. 

- Saint sang to himself at night sometimes when he could getaway with it. They soothed him and helped him to sleep. He still remembers thesongs, though the source is lost to him.

- In a life usually filled with misery, Sainttreasured every bit of ‘ordinary happiness’ he could find. Usually, this was inthe form of watching the sun rise. It was such a little thing, but he lovedwatching the light slowly paint the sky different colors. The sun looked like abig bright ball that he wanted to play with, but he was content just to feelits warmth.- Out of all his duties, Saint enjoyed fishing themost. He wasn’t able to do it often, but being near the water always made himfeel at peace. He enjoyed the fact that what he was doing allowed people to befed. He wanted to be a gracious host for many people from a very young age.

HANSEL (AND GRETEL):

- Hansel’s favorite memories are of the summers before the warstarted. His mother would bake cookies and make a picnic lunch and Hansel wouldtake Gretel on forest adventures. Hansel would gather wildflowers and makeflower crowns for Gretel and the siblings would splash around in the brook andlaugh and play until nightfall. 

- Gretel occasionally had trouble sleeping and would visit herbrother’s room. He would let her cuddle with him and told her fairytales untilshe fell asleep. 

- Hansel made friends with the deer of the forest and lovedtaking Gretel out to feed them sometimes.

- Hansel became Omnibus’ precious son, and she knew that treating him as such would tie himfurther to her. She taught him personally about the duties of Idea, somethingthat was usually reserved for a fellow Apostle. Saint would often joke withOmnibus about how he was being spoiled. 

- Omnibus would teach him in the garden, and he wouldoften occupy his hands by tending to her garden. It shone even brighterafter receiving attention from him, and afterwards Omnibus would reward hisobedience with a cookie shaped like a daisy. Those were always his favorites…

NEMO…?:

(FUN TRIVIA! According to Jules Verne, Captain Nemo’s birthname was Dakkar. Mod Nautilus has adopted this into her Code: Realizeheadcanons, so if you see the name “Dakkar” floating around—it’s pre-RevolutionNemo.)

- Dakkarwas a polyglot from a very young age. Languages always came easily to him,among them English, German, and French. (And back then he actually spoke… um…he didn’t sound like… HE DIIIIIDN’T TAAAAAAAAAALK LIKE THIIIIIIIIIIIIS.)

- Dakkar had two little sisters that meant theabsolute world to him. Oftentimes, late at night, he would sneak out of hisquarters to spend time with them. Once he started getting caught, he would slippast by dressing up as a beautiful woman. As long as he kept his mouth shut,nobody noticed.

- … He was always very, very proud of being called “brotherdearest”.

- Dakkar was an accomplished pianist, but he much preferred playing the pipe organ, saying that it stimulated his mind more.

-  He was sixteen years old when he became a lead strategist in the uprising against Britain, though he participated in any way he could long before then. He has always been passionate about the things important to him, and the freedom of his country was the most important thing to him growing up.

*BONUS* SHOLMES:

- Herlock —er, Sherlock as he was known backthen—has an elder brother named Mycroft. Though Mycroft is just as much of agenius as his little brother, the two of them often clashed on a moreclandestine subject: housework. See, much like Sherlock, Mycroft was also arather deplorable housekeeper and they would often compete to see who could getout of the most chores. It became a game for them, one which Sherlockultimately won by devoting his time to a new hobby: the violin.