#they're all very delicate and can be stacked

[wornkindness]

one of these days i'll post detailing specific ones, but know amelia is wearing no less than 4 rings at any given time. tho most of the she's wearing more than that

[strawberrystepmom]

dante x f!reader. established...something. reader is a magic anthropologist and they're both in their thirties. this is full of cringe banter and innuendo i'm so sawryyyyyyy | wc 1.6k, reading time: 7 minutes.

“What are you doing here?”

You’ve been aware of Dante’s slow creep down the aisle of the largest archive of metaphysical knowledge this godforsaken place has to offer for some time. You finally call out to him across messy stacks of books.

Foolishly, you hoped he wouldn’t make a game out of this. He strides up to you confidently, clearly thrilled to finally have forced you to be the first to break. This is familiar territory for you and him both, where all of your “career” related activities are conducted and where he comes to find you when he’s looked everywhere else without a trace.

Leaning against the shelf, he folds his arms over his chest and tilts his head to the side.

“I’m researching obviously.”

You look up from the shelf in front of you with a raised brow only to be met with a pair of familiar eyes trained directly at the curve of your chest and whatever peak of skin is pushed up over your neckline. 

“Yeah, researching how far you can look down my shirt from that grand height you stand at.”

Caught, the gunslinger’s eyes drift toward your face without an ounce of shame in them. 

“And what about it?”

Your stance shifts from flat footed to standing on your tiptoes, arm extended high above your head with your thumb and forefinger reaching toward the tip of his nose to flick it. As sharply reflexed as he has ever been, he dodges the attack and captures your hand in his, spreading your fingers and pressing the heel of your hand against his lips.

Allowing him a moment to sniff your wrist and shoot his best half lidded glance downward, you end it quickly by snatching your arm from his grasp and placing it down at your side. A flaming face that belongs to you turns back toward the shelves to hide your thrill at his public flirtation, insisting upon keeping things polite while you’re working billable hours.

“What do you need, Dante?”

He wishes he could press another kiss at the delicate bend of your wrist.

“A break. A drink. Lots and lots and lots of money. Right now though? Information.”

Sighing, he leans against the bookshelf and holds out his forearms for you to place the ever growing stack you’re working with upon. Wrinkling your nose, you look between him and the books and he holds out his arms and shakes his head leaving you optionless. 

“What about?” You stack a book and then another, looking up at him to find him already staring down at you. “God don’t look at me like that, just tell me what you want.”

Chuckling, he shakes his head.

“Well, you, of course.” 

It takes all of your strength not to turn and walk away if only to be left alone from his tormenting. You’re good at holding your own, especially against the gruff figures who come to you in search of knowledge of demonology or the magical arts you’ve so raptly committed your life to seeking and holding yet it’s different with Dante.

The two of you have been very good friends since the spring of your early twenties. You’ve, at the very least, slept together for almost that entire time too - entering your thirties in each other’s arms. Constantly picking each other’s brains, running from each other when things got rough and back toward each other when they’ve improved or the lonely nights wouldn’t abate on their own. He’s almost sort of a…companion despite your distaste for defining characteristics.

A boyfriend who lives a life too dangerous for attachment, his very clear one to you cast aside. A man you think about when you wake and sleep both, hoping he’ll visit your dreams on the off chance he isn’t by your side. 

Enough of that. You clear your throat to feign impatience and force him to answer.

“I need to borrow that brain and how good you are at figuring out where to find shit in here.”

Laughing, you raise both of your brows.

“It’s alphabetical. Did you forget your letters or what?”

He leans downward, a larger frame closing in and you sidestep him slightly, pretending preoccupation with the books on the portion of the shelf in front of you.

“I forget everything when you’re around.”

Scoffing, you yank a book off of the shelf. “Okay now you’re laying it on a little too thick.”

Looking around the library, you know it’s futile to refuse him. There hasn’t been a moment in the past ten years you’ve told him no in any meaningful way and surely you won’t start today.

“I’m working—” he raises his eyebrows and gasps at the words, feigning shock and you shake your head to dissuade him from continuing with his show. Working is all you’ve seemed to be doing these days, spending days and nights alike with books spread across the small expanse of your apartment leaving little time for extracurricular fun. “But I can make time to help out if you promise you’ll let me handle the research I’m being paid for first.”

“I could pay you too, y’know. My methods may be a little unconventional compared to whatever this mysterious patron is paying you with,” he raises a brow and you roll your eyes. “You’d be rewarded very, very well if you’d only put the books down for one night.”

The innuendo is dripping from his every word. If you knew less about how much he meant what he’s saying perhaps you could play it off better yet your cheeks flame. You know how his rough hands feel at the base of your spine and the dip of your waist, swearing you can feel them drag across you. 

“Oh by the way, what’s the name of that demon you needed me to research?”

Attempting to gain a little bit of control over yourself and the situation, you change the subject and pretend you can’t taste him as clear as day in your mouth, memories doing more than you need them to right now.

“It’s, uh, H…” he trails off, giving up the effort of continuing his tall tale. Another sigh, another beat passes and he furrows his brows. 

You always manage to expertly cut him down to size, a curse and a blessing all at the same time. 

“I’ve been trying to see you for weeks, honey.”

You shake your head. “Days. It has been days since the last time we saw each other and you spent the night despite saying you were leaving before I passed out.”

No chance of wiggling out of this one.

“In my defense, they’ve felt like weeks. Months.”

Shoulders sagging, you lean forward and press yourself against the bookshelf and a pitiful excuse for a frown, the upturned corners of your mouth you can’t seem to put down any time he’s around giving you away. “Sorry for neglecting you. Unfortunately, a girl’s gotta eat and pay rent.”

Of course, there’s no offer made to assist you with either of those things considering he has to work pretty hard for both of them himself. 

“And while we’re discussing it, you don’t have to pay me with that.” 

If you weren’t in public you’d say what you mean - fucking - but it’s easier to simply allude to the late nights spent taking out your mutual grief and frustration with physical release when company you don’t know may be lurking around. Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the shelves and stack another book atop the rest. 

“In fact, if we both had more of it to spare, just spending time with you would be payment enough.”

If he’s taken aback he does his best to hide it, shifting slightly and covering his face partially by turning it in the direction of the darkened other end of the aisle. 

“See, all this time I thought you only liked me for my body,” he lets slip.

Softly giggling, you pause all other movement besides the rise and fall of your chest and the focus of your gaze upon the man beside you though his gaze remains averted.

“Nah, I hate to say it but I enjoy your company most of all.”

Now he’s drawn back, looking at you with a bit of doubt clouding those steel blue eyes to which you notice and shrug at. “We have the best conversations. You make me laugh; you never make me feel like it’s inconvenient to liste–”

Your words are swallowed by Dante’s mouth before you can get them out. Those quick reflexes worked to bring him close to you before you could even notice, soft lips pressed against a slightly drier, rougher pair. 

“Well when you put it that way,” he mutters against your lips. You laugh against his mouth, lips curving perfectly into his. 

It’s all almost too sweet to bear. Strangely boyfriend-y for a man you’re so apprehensive to refer to as such. 

A stranger breezes past the two of you in the aisle and pretends not to gawk. Despite the hairs standing up on the back of your neck, you let the natural scrap of shame you have remaining go the way everything else does when Dante’s around.

It disappears, evaporates. Leaves only the two of you behind. 

“You can stick around if you don’t have anything better to do,” you tell him, finally breaking away.

Groaning, he redistributes the weight of the books across his arms and stands up so he’s no longer slouching.

“Can’t we take them back to your place?”

Shaking your head, you rap your knuckles against the heaviest metal spine bound book at the bottom of the pile.

“Nope, the rules dictate that this one stays here and I need it the most.”

Smirking, he leans in closer to you. “Then we’ll just have to have some fun here.”

Tossing another book atop the now chin height stack he’s carrying, you shoot him a look that says everything he needs to know. The private booth in the back the two of you occupied the last time he decided to bother you at work is available today.

[hai7ani]

Haitani Rindou is known to not be a very serious person.

There is nothing serious about him at all. He liaises with a bored look on his face, doesn't really attend executive meetings unless Mikey is there, and spends the rest of his days at his own club drowning in the girls, the music or the alcohol, and maybe letting off some steam by snatching away Sanzu's job.

But he is serious today. Angry, even.

The air is tense and it reeks of expensive European cologne when he steps one foot into the room. Briefcases filled with illegal substances welcomes his sight on the coffee table and tall stacks of cold, hard cash residing on his desk.

A man sits with one dirty shoe on his favourite British-imported sofa smoking a cigar, and Kokonoi Hajime on the opposite couch calm and collected.

There is also a girl crawling on all fours with a hot pink leash on her neck, tighter than a dog's collar.

Her skin glimmers under the dim lighting 一 with hints of blood that he could still recognise across her arms, but mostly with sweat. Her lips are pale, wobbly, and tears are pouring out of her sockets. Hurt and fear evident in her eyes.

She is you.

The dress that he got you 一 handpicked for you delicately 一 all ripped and torn and it barely clings onto your body anymore like it did all the time. You look like you're about to pass out anytime soon.

Haitani Rindou is filled with rage.

"Ah, Haitani! Just the man that I was looking for. Come, have a seat." The man invites with a huge menacing grin on his face, as he puts out the cigar on his expensive sofa.

It's my fucking office, you motherfucker.

Mario Ricci 一 he thinks it was, pauses counting the stacks of cash in his hands when Rindou does not move as he says. "Hmm?" He follows along his gaze which turns out to be stuck at you on the floor. His Italian accent is thick and heavy when he speaks, almost sounding like an ancient bard.

"I was passing through your halls and I saw this wonderful beauty standing right there, and I thought," he pauses, bending down slow to look at you.

"She'd be a perfect little mutt."

He tugs on the leash looped around his left hand, hard. His cologne fills up your nostrils from the distance and it is the only thing you can breathe in. More tears pool around your eyes as you cough 一 your throat is sore and the skin around it hurts. The buckle pushes hard against the side of your neck and he tugs another time.

"You wouldn't mind if I took this one home with me, yeah? You have plenty of sluts in your establishment already." There is a teasing glint in his eyes when he finally lets go, only to reach down and drag on your disheveled locks of hair.

He guides you like that 一 impatient and harsh 一 while you struggle with movement because you cannot look down at your hands, as you carefully crawl against the carpeted floor with your scalp red and painful.

You start sobbing again when he pulls away, and you lock eyes with the man that owns you, standing by the door.

There is fire in his eyes when he finally sees the picture that Mario painted for him. You're kneeling between his legs with two palms flat on the floor, catching your breath with uncontrollable drool dripping off your tongue.

Like a damn dog.

"God, she'd make a damn good slut. But I'm sure you already are during your time here, yeah, baby?" He taps on your cheek and swipes the drool away.

Your gaze is cloudy when you stare into Rindou's eyes. You're broken and battered. Your eyes no longer bright and shiny as when they used to admire him in the night, in his bed, when you'd draw your fingers along the lines and curves of his tattoos 一 they're filled with fear and you are so tired. You're shaking all around and you're so cold. You're a lot colder than what he's used to letting you feel. His fists tighten any more, deep in his pockets.

But he can still read you like an open book.

"This is a five million dollar deal." Kokonoi cuts in. "Can we be fucking serious? Just take the slut for free, Ricci. She's yours. We have more important things to talk about."

A quiet mewl escapes your throat when Mario grins, very satisfied with Kokonoi's words. You start to cry, begging, when he wraps a hand around your chin and bends down to give your cheek a wet kiss, disgustingly. You don't look away from Rindou the whole time.

Please don't give me away.

The sound of a gun clicking catches everyone's attention. You look him dead in the eye and he can hear you loud and clear.

"Fucking let her go."

Haitani Rindou isn't serious about a lot of things.

"Or I'll put a bullet through your throat and it'll be no deal for all of us."

But he is serious about you.

His own slut.

His favourite girl.

Sequel ⚕ Main masterlist

[phoenixyfriend]

Was chatting about good alternate Cody&Obi-Wan dynamics with @threebea, and one of them we just had a lot of fun with.

Bea:

Cody: We are doing a good job at war. Are you proud general. Obi-Wan: [grump in CW '03] Cody being in a lacky position is very funny to me, if that makes sense. Cody: The boss will surely promote me. Obi-Wan: You're diligent and thorough but we cannot save supplies by powering this with my lightsaber that is not happening. I have always considered that of the two of them, Cody is the reckless hot-blooded one and Rex is the level-headed one. (Obi-Wan's view skewed however having raised one Anakin Skywalker making Cody kicking droids seem very reasonable and thought out.)

Here were my options for Cody and Obi dynamics:

Obi-Wan treating Cody the way he treats Anakin, early on in their working relationship, tentative but working on that angle because those two are the same age and rank so like. Cody might really be as much of a Dumb Young Man as most young men are, yes?

Obi-Wan treating Cody with a hands-off approach because the guy can manage the army while Obi-Wan runs off to stab the Count, right?

Obi-Wan treating Cody kinda coldly because his instinct is to be very delicate and nice to these traumatized young men, but they don't like it when he does that, so he has to be standoffish because otherwise he'll start babying them because they're barely any older than Anakin was when he got his boy.

Obi-Wan treating Cody as a Research Assistant because he's a nerd and sometimes padawans would be assigned to him in the archives, and Cody hovers behind his shoulder the way those students did so he just got distracted and started giving Research Guy orders instead of High General orders.

Aaaaaanyway we got in on that last one.

Obi-Wan definitely had to call him Padawan at least once Cody: ... [Looks around nope just him]

Cody: I expected to be mistaken for my brothers due to our faces. I did not expect to be mistaken for... Anakin Skywalker? Did I get that right?

Rex: My general called me mom once. I think he was joking? but I'm not sure.

One day, Cody has to come into the Temple for some professional reason, is told that Obi-Wan is in the archives, and walks into the sight of Obi-Wan wandering the stacks with several teenagers following him like ducklings, giving instructions with just "Padawan, could you grab that one?"

When Cody asks how they know which one he means, they tell him they don't. They just go with whoever's nearest the given task.

Cody: But he doesn't do this to any other clone [he does] Rex: You stand just behind his shoulder handing him files all day.

You Are Doing The Padawan Thing

Cody initially worried because implied Obi-Wan thinks of him as a student/not fully ready for the responsibility of being a commander or whatever. Obi-Wan: ? No I just… You're Padawan shaped. I can't explain it any better than that Cody gets it the most because he happens to stand exactly where Anakin used to stand the most often. Ironically, Obi-Wan tries hard to call Anakin by his name as a respect to his no longer being a student thing. Cody is firm about military discipline calling Obi-Wan sir and General because if he called him Master Kenobi or Obi-Wan the 'mistaken for Padawan' thing would happen three times as often. Cody: [grumbles] Alpha-17 didn't have this problem. Rex: Alpha-17 drew a line between himself and the Padawan day one to avoid it I think.

Alpha also has been acting like a middle-aged man since he was five. The disdain. Dripping.

Which actually didn't save him he was just more openly insulted when it happened once so Obi-Wan made sure never to do it again. Alpha: I was trained by Jango Fett himself and have proven myself a full fledged captain. I am not a Padawan :/ Obi-Wan: [listening to the speech] noted Cody: [far too polite to ever correct Obi-Wan] What did you need, General? Probably reinforced Alpha acting like an old man. I think he even calls Anakin kid? Anakin: I'm older than you you're the kid 😦 Obi-Wan: Padawan don't argue with the captain. I need a five times Obi-Wan called Cody Padawan (and one time when it was Alpha-17) fic now lol

Anakin: Why does he get away with-- Obi-Wan: Because I feel that if I call him Padawan by accident again, he may break something. And we don't have the funds for that.

Anakin: [in the room once but realizes Obi-Wan was taking to Cody] Anakin: Am I jealous by rival son/Padawan or am I amused that Obi-Wan is going senile?

"my baby boy" vs "generic younger person whom I feel some fondness for"

It's like. Old southern men who refer to anyone younger than them as "son" or "miss."

Obi-Wan: It's even gender neutral I don't have to remember names at all. Obi-Wan also probably called Ahsoka 'Anakin' a number of times, but that's due more to the A name combined with her jumping off something a Padawan should not be jumping off of. He mostly defaults to Padawan but a scolding 'Anakin! No!' Comes out every now and then for her. Obi-Wan: Anakin! No! Anakin, beside him: What? Obi-Wan: ...Sorry, force of habit. Ahsoka! No!

[another-lost-mc]

candy prompts: barbatos + sweet

before the angels take you on a little vacation to the celestial realm, barbatos has a gift for you.

pairing: barbatos x gn!reader

content: sfw. fluff. domestic bliss, mutual pining, a teensy bit of angst (he just loves you so much and he's gonna miss you~). oh, and kissing.

word count: 1.4k these are supposed to be short wtffff

The castle kitchen is bustling with activity when you push the door open and step inside. Luke and Barbatos both turn their heads and welcome you as they finish their little pet project. The young angel is especially excited to see you and he gestures towards the counter where all his hard work is displayed. "Look at how much we made! The other angels are going to be thrilled, don't you think?"

Luke has told you countless stories about Michael and the other angels he admires in the Celestial Realm, and most of them love sweets. However, you're not sure that explains why there's nearly a dozen pastry boxes stacked high on the countertop in front of you. You have no doubt they’re all filled to the brim with cookies and cupcakes and other sugary treats Luke wants to bring on this trip to visit his home realm.

It's possible Luke went overboard just a little bit, but you share an amused look with Barbatos over the angel's shoulder. Luke’s excitement is contagious and you can't help but return his giddy smile with one of your own.

"You know what? I'm sure all of your friends are going to be very excited when they see what you've made for them." You ruffle his hair and bite your lip to stifle a laugh when a poof of flour floats in the air around him and settles like a dusting of white snow on his shoulders.

Thinking practically, there's no way Luke can safely carry all these packages on his own; the tower of boxes is taller than he is! This many boxes would be a struggle even if you helped him, but it seems Barbatos has already solved the dilemma for you. He glances at something—someone—behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you recognize Number Two who pops up out of nowhere. He hovers over your shoulder and nuzzles your cheek in greeting.

(The Little Ds know by now that if they visit the kitchen when their boss and the young angel are baking together, they'll probably get to help taste-test their creations once they're finished. Barbatos warns Luke not to indulge them too much, but the angel can't resist slipping them cookies or bits of cake when the butler's back is turned.)

Barbatos watches fondly for a moment before he clears his throat to get the lesser demon's attention. "Please help Luke take these to the foyer, and do remember to be careful with them. The contents are quite delicate.”

Number Two gives his boss cheeky salute and a wide, toothy smile. With a surprising burst of speed, he rushes forward and takes the first few boxes from the top of the stack. The other lesser demons that were helping with the kitchen clean-up take the opportunity to abandon their chores and help carry the other boxes instead. They all cackle delightfully as the packages teeter precariously in their claw-like grips. Luke yelps nervously and bids you a hasty see you soon! before he rushes after them in a cloud of powdered sugar.

The kitchen is quiet once the others are gone, and something dark on the now-bare counter catches your attention. "Oh, it looks like they forgot one." The box is smaller than the others and decorated differently too. While the others were standard white boxes tied with gold ribbon, this one is black and tied with a bow of emerald-green.

Barbatos brushes your side when he steps up the counter and he looks pleased that he managed to surprise you. "Actually, this is a gift for you, dearest. I hope you'll enjoy it while you're gone." He tips his head towards the box and encourages you to open it. It looks too pretty to open, but you do as he asks and tug carefully on the ends of the bow before lifting the lid and peering inside.

It takes a moment for you to realize what you're looking at. There's a large tin of loose leaf tea, his personal custom blend. There's a row of individually-wrapped scones that smell faintly of cinnamon and vanilla bean. Nestled inside a layer of tissue paper is a small jar of midnight-berry jam; you already know it's made from fruit he picked himself in the castle gardens.

His presents for you have always been thoughtful, his sense of practicality perfectly blended with his own selfish desire to impress you somehow. You already cherish this gift as much as any other, despite its apparent simplicity.

To anyone else, this would be nothing more than a small selection of Devildom breakfast fare for your week-long excursion to the Celestial Realm.

To you, it's Barbatos's way of providing you with something comforting to drink if you feel homesick while you're gone. It's his regret that he can't be there with you and his hope that you'll eat well despite his absence. It's also a promise: like all mornings you've woken up in his bed to find warm tea and scones prepared on a tray nearby, it's because he's thinking of you, the other master he serves willingly with bated breath on bended knee.

For some reason your eyes are watery all of a sudden. The laugh that warbles from you fails to hide the way you sniffle and try to wipe your eyes without him noticing.

"Come here, love." Familiar hands settle lightly on your waist and draw you closer to him, and suddenly you regret agreeing to go on this stupid trip.

"Barbatos, I—" But whatever you're about to say seizes in your throat when someone knocks softly on the kitchen door.

"Sorry to interrupt," Simeon apologizes when he steps inside. He looks between you two guiltily. Barbatos's eyes snap up at the intrusion, and Simeon makes a wise choice to step back at the menacing growl reverberating in the demon's chest. "I wanted to let you know we're ready to leave when you are." He mouths sorry one more time before making a quick retreat. Even though he closes the door behind him, it's pointless—you're out of time for farewells.

A warm puff of air tickles your ear when Barbatos sighs quietly. Goodbyes aren't any easier for him, or at least they aren't when it comes to you.

"It's not often you travel somewhere I cannot follow." As he murmurs his vulnerable confession, his hands dip under the hem of your shirt, seeking the warm comfort of your bare skin. "I'll miss you more than you can imagine," he whispers, and he pauses with indecision.

To hell with it.

He steals a few more moments with you while he can. His warm breath fans lightly across your face when he leans towards you, followed by a soft brush of his lips against the corner of your mouth. The forked tips of his tail tickle your leg when he closes the distance and kisses you properly. It's unhurried and sweet at first, but then his tongue teases the seam of your lips and he answers your muffled sound with needy groans of his own.

Like his gift to you, kissing him feels like a promise that no one in the three realms could love you as fiercely as he does.

When he finally steps back so very reluctantly, your lips are glossy and plump. It soothes the instinctive urge to claim you somehow, and he takes a moment to admire how lovely you are. When he's satisfied, he laces his fingers with yours and leads you from the kitchen.

Simeon and Luke are waiting for you in the foyer when you arrive. The angels are eager to leave, but they don't dare complain about the delay. Even Barbatos knows he needs to see you off safely before he does something reckless.

(It's far too tempting to tuck you away in his room and keep you to himself. None of the others, except perhaps his Young Master, would dare barge into his space to find you.)

He offers insincere apologies to the others for delaying your departure while you pack his gift carefully with the rest of your belongings. You hum as you swipe your tongue across your lips, savoring the taste of him that lingers there. You don't notice that he mirrors the action himself, or that he stares at you with molten, greedy eyes as you step through the portal he conjures for you.

He carries on with his tasks as best he can after you're gone, and it's a surprisingly easy feat. Time passes so quickly when he gets lost in thought imagining all the ways he plans to cherish you when you return.

read more: halloween 2023 masterlist || obey me masterlist

[rarepairdumpster]

Modern Artist AU

Pairing: Viktor/Silco (Arcane) Rating: M C/W: Artist Silco, Drawing Viktor, The Power of Love, We actually finished something for once!

Writer/Illustrator Silco and animated Viktor climbing out of the page to drive him crazy.

Viktor on Silco's lap, trying to seduce him.

Silco, thinking he's drank too much caffeine or something and is now hallucinating, gripping those elegant wrists he had sketched/described so many times. Stopping those hands from sliding under his shirt.

"You have a job to do, boy."

"I'd much prefer to be out here, with you."

Viktor brushes his fingers against Silcos' cheek and he can smell the graphite and feel the trace left there. 

"You're far more interesting."

"No" Silco insists, scowling, "the book I'm working on is interesting. That's why I'm working on you.  It."

Viktor pouts and Silco curses himself for making Viktor's lips so plush and tempting. 

"I don't like the others," Viktor sighs, laying his head on Silco's shoulder and toying with the top button on Silco's shirt. "They're so...derivative."

Silco twitches as he feels a warm breath gust against his neck.

A similar twitch happens in his groin.

Clearly a sign that its been too long since he went to a bar and got laid. 

Silco tries to cover his reaction with an annoyed huff.

His work isn't derivative, after all

Viktor chuckles. "Isn't being with me a little masturbatory anyway?" 

Viktor's long, delicate fingers trail down to Silco's belt buckle and he turns his face to Silco's ear. "You did create me."

Viktor starts to nose along Silco's ear as he feels the man getting harder beneath him.

"And think about it. The sooner the book is finished, the sooner I'll be sitting on other peoples' shelves. I'll belong to them then. Don't you want to keep me to yourself for a while longer?"

Silco can't help but groan when Viktor slips his hand into his loosened trousers. 

"Viktor..."

"I don't hear any more protests," Viktor hums, leaving a soft kiss behind Silco's ear. 

"Let me take care of you... you've been working so hard."

Silco is definitely losing his mind, he decides, as the hand that is a figment of his imagination feels so very real as it begins to tease his cock.

"I feel it every time you draw me," Viktor continues, winding his other arm around Silco's neck, pressing closer.

"Like every emotion coming through onto the paper. Into me"

Silco's breath hitches.

Viktor starts to trail kisses along his jaw.

"I felt it....when you lingered on my lips....my hands....on the curve of my back when you let Talis bend me over. When you let him take me in missionary, I could feel your attention follow the spread of my thighs."

Viktor squeezes his cock just a little.

"I could feel how much you wanted me. How much you loved me."

"I do," Silco breathes, finally allowing himself to wrap his hand around Viktor's waist, knowing it would fit perfectly. "I never meant..."

Viktor cuts him off by finally kissing him, and Silco is amazed by how real he feels. The taste is metallic but not unpleasant and Silco knows he'll never forget it. 

Viktor was right. He did love the boy. Far more than his other characters and to the point of devotion. Viktor was perfect. Not just created by him but, unintentionally, for him.

Viktor moans into the kiss, soft and low, and it sounds just how Silco had imagined it would.

Silco doesn't know when he stands, but he recognises the moment he sets Viktor on his desk with more force that he probably should have and sends the stack of finished sheets scattering

Viktor gasps please when Silco grinds against him, then reclaims his lips, passionate and needy.

Silco can't make sense of this and doesn't really want to. Not when the man he'd given a piece of his soul to was naked and desperate on his desk. 

Viktor pushes Silco's slacks down and grips his ass with both hands, pulls him closer, closer, closer.

The next thing Silco knows, Viktor's thighs are hiked high around his sides, and he's pressing balls deep.

Everything about Viktor feels sublime, inside and out, as Silco grips Viktor's waist and fucks him deep and slow. 

Silco wants to drag this out as long as he can. He wants to savor every soft moan and whisper of his name that falls out of Viktor's mouth. 

In this moment, Viktor was his and his alone.

"I knew," Viktor gasps, nails digging into Silco's skin along his strong back. "I knew this would feel so...so good."

Silco touches and traces his fingers along every inch of Viktor he can reach, addicted to the soft skin beneath him. 

Viktor starts to move against him and Silco picks up his rhythm, growing closer to his climax. 

"Oh, my darling boy," Silco mummers into Viktor's ear, holding Viktor close as he pounded into him.

Viktor winds his fingers into Silco's hair and grips just on the right side of tight.

Uses his good leg to encourage the pounding Silco is giving him.

Silco knows he's close, but Viktor is clamped onto him like a vice and he couldn't pull away if he wanted to. 

"Stay in me," Viktor whispers like a secret, a spell, and a pact all in one that Silco can't disobey.

It's only a few more thrusts before Silco is cumming deep in Viktor, pressed close against him with his entire body

Viktor let's out this long, satisfied sigh -- as if he's been waiting to feel that rush of heat for the longest time. 

His hands grow gentle, petting Silco.

Silco holds Viktor tightly, afraid of what will happen to him if he lets go.

"My sweet muse," Silco sighs, kissing Viktor's face and lips. "Oh, my love, my Viktor." 

He hates that he can already start to feel tears sting at his eyes. Silco knows Viktor isn't real and he knows he can't have this forever.

Viktor is in no rush to leave. Lets Silco hold him so tightly, like he might break into pieces, if the man lets go.

"Silco," Viktor breathes as the man soon presses his face into his neck. "I'm here. I'm yours."

Silco isn't aware of the time passing, but he feels when the temperature drops.

Feels the goosebumps rise on his bare legs, slacks and boxers still in a pool around his ankles. 

"I need to dress," Silco sighs.

"I know." Viktor cups his cheek for a moment and smiles a little wryly. "Don't want you catching pneumonia and perishing on me."

"Please don't..." Silco isn't even sure he wants to say it. "How do I see you again?"

"How did you see me the first time?" Viktor kisses Silco's cheek and he can already feel the tangibility of Viktor's touch waning. 

"I'm always with you, love. In your heart and on every scrap of paper you mark up."

The next time Silco sees Viktor, its months later, towards the end of the release party, when Silco is bone-tired from socialising with people he half-tolerates and is looking for an excuse to leave.

Silco happens to be looking out the window, at the street below, when he sees Viktor looking around like he might be lost.

Silco's hand tightens around his nth champagne flute and then he's making excuses, claiming he needs some rest if he wants the sequel to be of decent quality. 

Viktor beams when Silco emerges onto the streets, eyes lighting up.

And Silco thinks, if he's losing his mind, at least it'll be to something, someone, that makes him happy

Silco rushes to Viktor and hoists him up into a half spin as the boy laughs above him. Once Viktor's back on the ground, Silco raises a hand to cup Viktor's face. 

It's warmer than he remembers but Silco cares more about the golden eyes he's finally able to stare into again.

"You're here."

"Of course," Viktor answers softly, expression tender as he smoothes his hands over the lapels of Silco's coat. "Couldn't miss the big day, could I?"

Silco flashes a rare smile, then pulls Viktor into a kiss and oh

The metallic taste he expected was gone. It tasted like...

Silco pulled back suddenly, causing Viktor to chuckle a bit. 

"Are you...?"

"Here." 

There's a gleam in Viktor's eyes when he pulls Silco back down into another kiss.

Silco indulges the kiss for several intense beats, heart thundering in his chest. And gods, he wants to keep indulging, but ---

Silco pulls back, hands cupping Viktor's face like he's the most precious, most fragile thing. Silco feels like he might shatter himself. Feels the ache of longing pull at his face, knowing he probably looks pathetic. 

"How? How are you here? How are you....real?"

Viktor looks at him, eyes so soft.

"Does it matter?"

"A little," Silco replies. "It would solidify whether I actually need to check myself into the psych ward or not."

Viktor laughs and it's the most beautiful thing Silco has ever seen or heard. 

"In the end, you finished the book," Viktor explains. "Your love for me is why you finished and maybe the pages couldn't contain my love for you either." Viktor closes his eyes and leans into one of Silco's hands.

"When I woke up here I had to see you. That's all I know."

Silco feels a crush of emotion at hearing those words and he surges forward to kiss Viktor again.

At the end of it all, Silco doesn't know and doesn't really care why Viktor's here. Just that he is and he'll never ever let go.

Arch + Woods

[heygerald]

Falling Without a Harness - Chapter 11

AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic one. Tom Ryder is rich. Everyone knows that. When Tom decides to do something out of character, Parker has to decide what is just the habits of someone careless with their fortune, and what can be considered acts of service from someone that cares about her.

Read the story here: prev / ...

The studio set after hours was a strange place to find oneself. It was beautiful in that glamorous way that everything mundane in Hollywood was; twinkling lights strung between ugly studio buildings, extras dressed in 1800s regalia tapping on their phones as they awaited whatever scene they were in, the black blanket of the endless LA sky an empty backdrop to the megaphones and spotlights being lugged around.

It was exciting, and it was also not; there was a lot of movement but not a whole lot of doing that translated to a mute static hanging in the air.

"Is it always like this?" Parker asked from her spot in the back end of Dan's pick-up truck. It had been packed with all sorts of bits and bobs that she had never seen before, and as Jody exchanged the batteries in a flashlight, Parker prodded curiously at a baseball sized dent in one of the various helmets stacked behind her. "Not stunt work, I mean. The set in general. I figure Dan probably goes through three helmets a week."

Jody hummed, flicking the flashlight on then off before setting it aside as a warbled voice crackled across the radio on her belt. She tilted her head to listen for a brief moment before turning back to Parker.

"Studio sets are always busy. Haven't you been here before?"

"Sure, but... during normal hours," Parker noted with a glance towards the sky. "But it's almost midnight, and the parking lot was pretty full when I got here at ten."

Jody hummed flippantly, shrugging as she switched her radio to a different channel. More warbled conversation flowed for a few minutes before she decided that there was nothing important enough to require her attention.

Snapping it back onto her belt, the camerawoman kicked her feet back and forth with a delicate smile curving her lips. "Well, I suppose there's always something to be filmed. It's not just us filming on the lot, you know. We share space with a dozen other directors at any given moment. Sometimes, you're filming night scenes. Sometimes you just want to get work in when less people are around. It's just how it is."

Parker supposed that made sense. Afterall, she preferred to go grocery shopping late at night for the very purpose of having less people to avoid in the aisles.

Still.

It was odd to see a set full of life in the middle of the night. Odder still when a pair of actors drifted by on a golf cart; the pair were dressed in ragged clothes, with fake bruises painted along their cheeks, and red cuts oozing fake blood down their forearms. No one but Parker even seemed to register their presence before they disappeared down a nearby alley.

"I think this is way more fun than coming during the day," she decided a moment later. "And I'm not just saying that because I didn't have to argue with the security guards to get in."

Jody snickered. "They're actually very nice."

"To everyone but me, apparently."

"You never have a good reason to be on set, though, do you?" the Brit teased with a wiggle of her eyebrows. Parker faked offense, and Jody's hair came loose from behind her ears as she laughed. "Kidding. I'm very glad to have someone keep me company tonight while Colt's training. Although I am surprised you had time to come by at all. Colt says you've been busy lately."

"Busy-er than before. But ten times zero is still zero, you know?"

"Oh, please," Jody rolled her eyes, flashlight toggle flickering mindlessly in her hands as she tried to stave off boredom. Honestly, Parker didn't know how she managed not to fall asleep with so little to do this late at night. She was yawning and she hadn't been here since the early morning like Jody had. "Your store is splendid. You've always had clients. Now, apparently, you just have more. Busy is still busy."

"Splendid?" Parker echoed, teasing the word in a mock British accent. She quite liked it; both the sound and the funky way she had to work her tongue. "No one has ever called my store splendid before, but you're right. It is a splendid store. Andy R from Angie's List can suck it."

"He left a bad review?"

Parker waved a hand at Jody. "He comes in once a month to ask if I have any new Tolstoy books in, and when I remind him that Tolstoy died a couple hundred years back, he thinks I'm being emotional and sassy. Asshole."

"Prick," Jody said in her very real British accent.

Parker liked that too. "Andy R is a total prick. Maybe that's the tagline that I'll put on my t-shirts. Or, a few, anyways. I'd bet Melissa would be happy to wear one with me. She does not like that dude."

"You're finally getting shirts?"

"Finally."

"See?" Jody gestured to her. "You are busy."

Parker rolled her eyes with a smile. It was endearing how much Jody cared about the success of her store—always inquiring about how sales are going, and dropping by when she has some time to pick up a new book—but they were surface level compliments at best. Her store wasn't going to beat out Barnes & Nobles for awards anytime soon.

She'd be lucky to finally have her shop registering on Google Maps as a business and not as just a big question mark like it currently was.

"Not for customers to buy, anyway. I just think it's about time I got my store name on a t-shirt. Everybody has t-shirts. I mean, literally everybody. Have you ever been to a thrift store? I have found some weird stuff in the dollar bin."

Jody tipped her head back in laughter. "I have seen some odd shirts. Mostly, though, they're shirts that you are wearing."

She shrugged. "What can I say? I love a good thrift store bargain. And a gimmick. And—well, anything to do with my store. All the more reason to start printing my own shirts. I can finally rep the place, you know? Plus, I am busier now. I might even be able to print a dozen tees without going bankrupt by the end of the calendar year."

Jody peered at Parker sideways, soda bottle in hand as she swished the lash few sips around in circles. "So, things are going well, then."

Parker tilted her head left and right. Things certainly were going better, but that didn't mean she wasn't still drowning in bills and ridiculous requests from customers that were absolutely not 'always right'. Even with the increase in revenue and constant presence of teenage girls from the local high school, she was stuck spending most of her day putting out fires. She could feel herself stretching thin lately with all the extra hours her and Melissa were putting in, and at some point over the last year she had gone completely nose blind to the musty smell of her store. Not to mention the fact that she was also fairly sure that the Bath and Body Works' plug-ins spread around her store were going to give her cancer one day (if the crusty moms were to be believed). But it wasn't the time nor the place to drop all of those fears onto Jody's lap; not to mention way too late to use the braincells needed to verbalize those thoughts.

So, Parker elected to ignore all of that. Instead, she waggled her brows with a grin. "Does that mean you'll buy a shirt?"

Jody shook her head, snorting. "You really are Colt's sister."

"Well, I'd hope so," she sniffed. "The orphan-in-a-box story always seemed a little too stupid to be true. As if someone would ever give this up," she tacked on, gesturing to herself with an impish smile.

The look was betrayed by her over-sized sweatshirt and messy braids. Not to mention the tattered jeans and filthy sneakers on her feet. But if Jody was laughing at her, she didn't say, and so the two women giggled at their inside joke whilst the set continued to spur to life around them.

An actress dressed in a delicate silk dress and high heels strutted past as they laughed; her hair was done up in perfect Hollywood glamor, sparkly highlighter on her cheekbones and a delicate pink eyeshadow painting her lids. With the fur slung over her shoulders, she looked like she had just hopped out of a Marilyn Monroe biopic, and when she tossed her hair, it looked like—well—a movie. It took Parker a moment to calm down from her laughter to recognize the actress from a popular CW tv show, and as she strolled past, she couldn't help but crack her neck to get a better look.

When she turned back to Jody, the camerawoman hadn't even seemed to notice.

"This is crazy," she said, tucking her legs up underneath her as she fiddled with the straps on Dan's busted helmet. The actress was gone now, and Parker tried to shake the bizarre feeling of being stuck in The Twilight Zone from her mind. "I know you work in the film industry, but, honestly... It must be so much fun doing this sort of thing all the time."

Jody snorted. "Sure," she echoed. "Fun."

"Isn't it?"

"I mean... alright, yes, of course it is fun. It's amazing to be behind the scenes, to see how movies are made, to know how much work goes into a three minute scene without any dialogue. I mean—I'm always learning new things, so it's certainly not boring," she said. But Parker felt like there was going to be more to her answer, and so she tilted her head in interest, prompting Jody to continue. "But... a typical nine to five certainly wouldn't hurt sometimes. Times like these, when we're stuck here until god knows when just so the director can perfect a shadow in one of the scenes or something else as miniscule... well, it can certainly test your patience."

Parker glanced in the director's direction, taking note of the two assistants that trailed after him with thick binders full of colorful notes, pens tucked haphazardly about their persons. "It's not always like this though. Right?"

Jody shook her head. "No, no. Of course not. Usually our shifts are much more normal. Even if the hours vary, they usually schedule morning scenes together, evening scenes together—you know. So it's not so tedious. And we're almost never here this late just for blocking. Sadowitz is on a tighter schedule for a few things since the New York scenes have to be shot by the first of the month. He's just getting in as many last minute rehearsals as possible so when they go to New York everything is set to go right away. Understandable, of course... I just wish he wasn't such a perfectionist sometimes."

Jacob Sadowitz was the up-and-coming director leading this sci-fi film, and though he wasn't that much older than Parker, he had already earned himself a fair share of accolades for his daring action films. Particularly, the box office had been impressed with his intricate fight scenes and stunt work in his latest movies. Just last year some veteran journalist had printed an in-depth essay commending Sadowitz' dedication to the craft, touching on how much research he put into his work to make sure everything was as accurate as possible. Based on his credentials alone it was no surprise that he would be working his stunt crew till the middle of the night until they were well-oiled machines.

Still, Parker wrinkled her nose tiredly. "Isn't there a quote about that? Perfectionism being the downfall of yada, yada, yada. Want me to tell him that? Threaten to call the union if you don't get to go home soon?"

The truck shook as Jody kicked her leg at Parker with a reprimanding tut. But, she was smiling as she did it, giggling under her breath in that way of hers. "He's not that bad. This is not that bad. I mean, sometimes, the schedule is so mind-bendingly awful that it's a wonder anything gets done... but it's hardly the worst I've dealt with. At least he treats everyone well. Well, he doesn't scream at anyone, I mean."

Parker blew a raspberry. "I can't even imagine. I think I'd get arrested for my behavior if a director ever screamed at me. No idea how you don't lose your shit on the daily."

"Oh, I've come close a few times," she chuckled.

The comment surprised Parker. Not because Jody Moreno was a woman that could take care of herself—obviously, she didn't put up with bullshit, and she didn't rely on anyone to get things done. Moreso because Jody had to put up with so much that Parker couldn't quite imagine a scenario that would have to be bad enough to cause the camerawoman to lose her cool. And if being yelled at wasn't enough, what was? Leaning closer, she needled. "You're serious?"

"Of course I am."

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure I can even remember why anymore."

"So it's happened more than once?"

"Are you kidding?" Jody scoffed with a shake of her head. "The type of behavior you see on set is not something you'd ever get away with anywhere else. It happens every movie. Directors are just so..."

"Insane?"

"Hollywood," she corrected, gaze darting around to see if anyone was in hearing range of her complaints. No one was, though, and even if they were, Parker had a sneaking suspicion that the other set crew would be more likely to join in on the bitch fest than snitch about it. "I mean you wouldn't believe some of the stuff we have to put up with. The egos some of these directors have is absurd. Bad directors! Ones that shouldn't even be directing that act like they're Tarantino or Nolan. Throwing things and crying and blubbering like babies—"

"Oh, fuck off!" Parker cried, leaning even closer. "You're joking!"

Jody Moreno was not, in fact, joking. She looked scandalized just by having to recall the things she had seen. Something haunted in her eyes, but there was still a smile tugging at her mouth. Obviously, she saw the humor in it; even if it was fucked up. "I wish. I mean—grown men crying because something wasn't going their way or screaming because the sun is too bright." She made air quotes with her hands, showing that she was not joking in the slightest about this before inching towards Parker. Something twinkled in her eyes as she said, "I kid you not during my first gig ever, I had a director break down in tears because the lead actress wasn't pronouncing the word butter how he wanted her to."

"Butter?" Parker echoed incredulously. "Is there even a wrong way to say it?"

"Oh," she said, giggling. "You'd be surprised. Not to say that he was right in his little hissy fit, but her accent was so wrong. Awful, Parker. I'm telling you. The whole film—a disaster."

"Huh. Butter," she said with a giggle.

Jody giggled back. "No, it was more like boo-ter."

"Boo-ter?" she cried. "That's—no way. Butter. Butt-her. How do you even—bu-t-ter?"

The two women keeled forward in laughter at the ridiculous conversation. It was such a stupid thing for someone to cry over, but the longer they tossed the word back in forth in the most ridiculous accents they could imagine, Parker was beginning to forget how it was properly pronounced in the first place.

Was it—?

There was a scuffle of shoes, then a thump as Dan dropped his elbows onto the side of the truck bed with a wary glance towards the two women. He almost looked like he didn't want to get involved in the first place, but when the silent stare-off seemed even funnier than their previous conversation causing them to tip against the other in laughter, his curiosity seemed to outweigh his hesitation.

"Do I even want to know?" he asked.

"That depends," Parker wiped tears out of the corner of her eyes. "How do you say butter?"

Dan blinked at her. Then, slowly, he shook his head at them with a long sigh. "So, no, I don't want to know. I told your brother that leaving you two hens together would only lead to trouble. He doesn't ever listen to me, though, does he?"

"Oi!" Parker smacked him on the arm, scoffing. "Who are you calling hens?"

Dan waved a hand at her, before snatching the helmet off of her lap, and plopping it atop her head to say, "always clucking, you two. Colt's going to end up in trouble and he's not even going to know why. I'd feel sorry for him if he didn't still owe me fifty bucks. You aren't here to pay his debts, are you?"

Parker, helmet now hanging low over her eyes, adjusted it towards the back of her head with a scoff. "It's sins of the father, not sins of the little sister. What's he doing that he's going to get in trouble for, anyway?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no," Dan laughed, wagging a finger at her in as much of a patronizing manner as someone could manage after a twelve hour shift. She would have scowled if it wasn't so endearing; she always liked Dan. Mostly because he had a head on his shoulders when her brother was constantly looking for where he left his, but also because he was just as good at teasing as he was being teased. "I'm not falling for that one, Park. If you don't know, then you're not going to find out from me. Snitches get stiches, you know?"

"Whatever. He's awful at secrets, so if he is doing something stupid, I'll find out. I always do."

Dan mimicked talking with his hand. "What'd I say? Clucking hens."

"I don't cluck, I just point out all the ways he's spectacularly stupid in," she corrected with a waggle of the head. The movement seemed to jostle the oversized helmet too much, however, and it rapped her nose as it slid down her face. Parker adjusted it a second time with a huff, ignoring how Jody was snickering into her hand. "Speaking of doing spectacularly stupid things, Numbnuts doesn't need this helmet for this stunt does he? I think it's broken."

"They have straps for a reason," Dan pointed out.

The comment sounded far too much like a threat for her liking though and Parker just managed to bend out of his grasp before he could cinch the straps under her chin. She bumped into Jody, who only shook her head at the pair's antics, as her radio warbled with nonsensical chatter.

Parker side-eyed Dan. "Isn't there something you should be doing right now? Like—I don't know—working? Tying safety knots or blowing up an inflatable mat or whatever it is you do? I'm sure there's a building you could hurl yourself off of nearby if you'd rather leave the hens alone."

Dan rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "That's your brother's job, though, isn't it?"

And—oh, yeah.

Remembering the reason that she was sitting in this pick-up truck in the first place Parker planted a hand on the helmet so she could tip her head back far enough to see said brother standing about thirty feet up on a platform of sorts. It was the skeleton of a building, open staircases with haphazardly drilled in railings surrounding each new floor. It almost looked like something you would find on a construction site in lieu of a working elevator, but Colt didn't seem to mind the shoddy building from his spot at the tip-top of it where he was in deep conversation with the stunt coordinator. Jody had explained that this was the frame of whatever building he would actually be performing the stunt from; just a temporary set he could work with here before shooting the real thing, but from this point of view it just looked like a whole lot of OSHA violations to Parker.

As expected, he didn't seem to notice.

In fact, Colt seemed to be smiling an awful lot for someone about to be thrown off a building, and even though he was wearing a harness, Parker had to look away before the nervous feeling in her stomach ran off with her dinner.

"I still don't understand why he's doing this at midnight," she mumbled to no one in particular. The darkness seemed to creep in every corner, and Parker wrapped her arms around herself to stave off the chill. "Couldn't the stunt coordinator have booked this death trap during the day?"

"It's cheaper at night," Jody said. "Less people around, less unnecessary crew getting in the way."

"Plus, you know, if he does fall and crack his head open on the pavement it's a whole lot easier for an ambulance to get here without rush-hour traffic," Dan joked.

The truck physically rocked from how quickly the two women jerked their heads in his direction, and as if suddenly aware of how flat his joke had fallen with this particular audience, he threw up his palms before they could say anything.

"Shit. Sorry. I was just kidding, yeah? Stunt humor tends to be... bleak."

"Stunt humor is never funny," Jody said.

"Honestly, Dan," Parker added with the shake of her head. The helmet slid down her forehead once more, and she tossed the entire helmet behind her with a patronizing tut. "Read the room."

He sucked his teeth, grimacing at the ground. "Sorry."

"If he ends up in the hospital now it's all going to be your fault," Parker continued, digging her teeth in. She could have bleak humor too when she wanted, and Dan grimaced a second time as if he was just remembering that. "Don't stuntmen believe in jinx's? We need salt, now. You have any salt? Or, like, a rabbit's foot or—is it one crow's feather or two?"

This time, he rolled his eyes at her, looking a whole lot less apologetic about the situation. "I said sorry."

"Oh, well, I'll make sure Colt knows that when he's on a ventilator and having a machine do all his breathing for him. He'll be so touched, I'm sure."

"I said I was sorry!"

"Sorry! He's sorry! Jody, give me your radio, we need to cancel—"

Parker reached for Jody's radio at the same time that she got tired of their antics, and with a glare, Jody swatted Parker's hand away from her hip. "Honestly, you two," she tsked at them like a teacher scolding schoolchildren. And, like two schoolchildren being scolded, Parker and Dan avoided one another's gaze so they didn't bust out in laughter. "Now you have me worried!"

"Oh, he's going to be fine," Dan assured her.

"Fine," Parker echoed.

"Well," Dan hedged after a moment, and Parker was already snickering before she heard what he had to say. "Physically he'll be okay. It's all safe, he's harnessed in, the mat is made for this sort of thing. But, mentally, you know..." Dan trailed off as he glanced up towards Colt. "He'll be the same he always has been."

"Oh, stop it!" Jody chucked her empty soda bottle at him.

It bounced off his chest with a dull thud, and Parker had just tilted forward in laughter when there was a bullhorn somewhere on the far side of the set. The three tilted their heads back just in time to watch Colt lurched off the platform, arms swinging wildly as if he was falling to his death. And just when Parker's stomach clenched in concern because—what if?—he hit the mat with his own dull thud. Air started hissing out of the inflatable in seconds, and as it pooled around him, Colt's first response was to give everyone on set a thumbs-up.

"Well, there's definitely something wrong with him," Parker said after a long moment of silence, letting out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Dan was already walking away from whatever she was about to say, and needing an audience, she turned to Jody knowing the woman would sympathize. With a jerk of her thumb, she sighed. "I mean, why else would he do this for money? Honestly?"

Jody hemmed and hawed for a moment before giving in. "Because... he's an idiot?"

"Because," Parker agreed, finishing her own soda with an eyeroll as her brother traded high-fives with one of the other stuntmen, "he's an idiot."

---

...

...

...

Parker rolled her eyes, watching the little green message bubble filled with "..." blink yet again on the phone screen before her. It had been repeating this message for the last hour of her life; an hour that she was now never going to get back thanks to the idiot on the other end of the messenger app, and as her neck twitched with a painful crick from the angle she had been staring at her phone, something even more painful burned behind her eyes.

She should probably stop staring at it; could definitely do with some dinner, a nice glass of water, and maybe some Ibuprofen. Wine wouldn't hurt either. Nor would a cigarette, a nice warm shower, and a few hours lying vertical in her bed. Somewhere unplugged, where she didn't give into the temptation to glance at her phone; the very phone in her hand, that she could ever so easily tilt her wrist to see if maybe, in her spiral of misery, he had—

...

"Son of a bitch," she muttered, head thumping none-too-gently against the table.

It hurt a lot more than it should have, but it was cool, too. The scratched up wood smooth against her cheeks as she worked on evening out her breathing. Her neck felt better like this; shoulders too. Hell, it just felt good to lay her head down after the week that she had. Felt nice to let her eyes flutter shut, to let all thoughts turn off, to just breathe in, breathe out, and—

Her phone buzzed, and Parker ripped her head up off the table so quickly the room spun before her.

But whatever hope had caught in her chest fizzled out like a popped balloon upon seeing Colt's name on her screen.

The message read, "I thought we were gonna be sombrero buddies :(" with an attached picture of her brother wearing a sombrero and sunglasses, holding a heavily packed taco, a still smoking grill in the background. She recognized it immediately as the one at Dan's, before remembering that she had been invited over with some of the other boys for tacos and margaritas earlier that week. No wonder her brother looked so put out.

"Son of a bitch," she said a second time.

She meant it, too. Parker was pretty sure that tacos and spicy margaritas was the cure for every ailment in life. Or, you know, the spiritual kind anyway. They certainly didn't help when she broke her arm a few years ago; but they did lift her spirits immensely.

"What the hell is going on over there?" Tom's voice echoed from the other end of the room, and suddenly Parker was reminded that she was not alone in her misery.

She glanced up to find him staring at her with furrowed brows, a hand on the hip of his leather NASA flight suit as Betty and Sasha fiddled with the material. It was his final character testing today, along with the creation of the highly coveted look book, and while her brother wasn't needed for this sort of thing, Parker had jumped at the chance to spend some time with Tom specifically so she wouldn't spend all day thinking about work.

Son of a bitch!

She winced, waving her phone at him. "Oh, just Colt. He invited me for dinner tonight over at Dan's and I totally forgot. He's going to be pissed. He's all alone wearing his sombrero."

"Colt is going to be pissed because he doesn't have anyone to wear a sombrero with?" Tom asked in a scathing tone. She would have corrected him if it wasn't... well, accurate. She loved her brother, but sometimes he got upset over the littlest of things. Particularly when he felt like she was doing something without him. "He does know that he's an adult, doesn't he?"

"Oi, be nice. That's my brother you're talking about."

"You shit on him all the time."

"Well—" she waved a hand around flippantly, flabbergasted at even having to defend against such an accusation. "Duh! He's my brother. But you don't have that right, Ryder, so pack it in before I report you to, like, HR or whatever."

Tom rolled his eyes as Sasha tugged on the length of his right pant leg. It all looked good; professionally made, snug in all the right places, and the perfect backdrop for his bright eyes and shiny teeth. In fact, he looked even better than she thought he had looked before, and Parker was just about to ogle him as he was turned left and right by the seamstresses when her phone buzzed a second time.

She plucked it up, disappointed yet again to see that it was from her brother and not from the eBay seller.

"And what on Earth is with that?" Tom's cloying voice echoed a second time.

She pulled her attention away from her phone long enough to notice the cross furrow of his brows and the tightness of his shoulders.

"With what?" she asked, not sure where this was coming from.

He gestured to her phone, sniffing when his hairstylist teased a few strands of hair off his forehead with a comb. "You've had your nose in that thing since you got here. You have a hot date that I don't know about or something?" he snarked.

And—well.

Parker had to physically bite down on her bottom lip to stop from laughing. Not only would that further piss him off, but with the people in the room, it likely wouldn't be great for his image either. But the idea that Tom—Tom Ryder, the same man whose face was plastered all over town—would be upset that he wasn't given her undivided attention was fucking hilarious to Parker.

Honestly, men. They really were just children.

Smothering out her smile, Parker turned her phone face down against the table. "Okay, alright, I'm sorry. There's this guy over in Wrightwood that has a print shop, or inherited one or his Dad just demolished one or—I don't know," she paused to wave a hand around, earning an eyeroll from Tom. "Whatever. I'm trying to convince him to sell me a box of mystery novels from his collection. He's being unnecessarily difficult about it, though."

"Who is this guy?"

"Melissa's dad's second cousin or something. She showed me his eBay profile last week and he's been dragging me over the coals for the past couple of days about whether he'll sell to me or not. He wants an absurd up-front price that, even if I could pay, I would never pay, but he also hasn't sold anything on eBay before so I think he's getting kind of desperate."

Tom, still cross, but now slightly more interested, arched an eyebrow at her. "Why are you buying stuff off eBay?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you think I have a print shop hiding in my apartment? I know you haven't been there yet, but it's not that big. I think it has an occupancy limit of five."

"Five?" he echoed dumbly. To that, she did laugh, but then she glanced back at her phone and realized that she likely wasn't going to get anything good from this idiot even if he did sell to her. As was her lot in life, nothing seemed to work out her way. Knowing this, Parker let her head fall onto the table with a hollow thump, something miserable prickling in the back of her eyes. Maybe that's why he let that particular comment go without any further mocking. There was the shutter of a polaroid camera snapping before he spoke again. "Well, why are you worrying about this now?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's Sunday." She tilted her head sideways on the table to peer over at him. He wasn't mocking her, but given the team of people quite literally fixing his air and clothes for him at the moment, she doubted he understood what she was going through either. "Can't you deal with it later?"

"Like... when I'm busy working at the store?"

"You're always working at the store."

She tutted; half in humor, half about how miserable that statement about her life just was. "Well, duh. That happens when you own a teeny tiny little shop that, for some reason, seems to be actively trying to bankrupt you. I think there's a malevolent spirit the real estate agent didn't tell me about. Or, like, it's built on haunted burial grounds or something. I've broken three lightbulbs this month, and fell off a ladder yesterday just trying to fix the stockroom fan. Which, by the way, I still don't know how it broke, but something is not right with that thing. I don't think they should squeak so much. It sounds like a pig. Or... like a dying cat. It's unsettling."

Tom must have sensed something in her lackluster tone because he almost seemed concerned when he asked, "don't you have employees to do that stuff for you?"

"Uh, employee, singular. And you've met her. And, half the time, I wonder if she isn't the malevolent spirit that's out to make my life miserable," she said. Meant it, too. Just that week Melissa had insulted her style in three different slang terms that Parker had to look up on Urban Dictionary to understand. Honestly, she could handle being "old", what she couldn't handle was having to put work in just to know she was being insulted. That crossed some sort of imaginary line. "Besides, she only works a couple shifts a week, and she's more for cleaning and stocking than real, managerial stuff. Or anything that might require her getting more than two feet off the ground. I'm not paying liability insurance."

He frowned at her oddly. "Don't you have to—?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, Melissa is great. But she can't do everything, and I can't expect her to do more than she already has as a part-time employee."

"Why don't you hire a manager then?" he asked as if that was a conclusion she hadn't drawn herself.

She might have told him to fuck off for mansplaining right then and there if Tom's question hadn't been spoken in such a earnest manner. Or, as earnest as someone like him could be. Most A-listers like him wouldn't even be giving her the time of day, let alone listening to her problems, and at the very least Parker took some comfort in the thought.

"Good idea, but I think there's about a thousand other things I need to do before I can budget for a manager. Like, I should probably pay off my car at some point. Then get liability insurance. Then get car insurance," she counted off.

Sasha and Betty laughed into their hands, both women just as amused by Parker as the first time, and with another snap of the polaroid camera, the group shifted to making sure the right picture had the right information in the tag book for future reference.

Tom took the reprieve to snag two bottles of water from the mini-fridge before he was sitting down next to her. He wasn't slumping—she didn't think Tom Ryder could slump—but from the weight of his shoulders it was obvious he had been having a long day too.

"You can't afford anyone else?" he asked in spite of that.

Parker uncapped her bottle with a sigh. She didn't even have the energy to be disgruntled by how different their lives were. What he had, he had because he earned it, and Parker made sure to remember that rather than resent that as she took a long dreg of water. "One day I can. Just... not today. I need to have a more steady revenue stream before I can start thinking about anything like that, and to get a more steady revenue stream I have to be willing to work all hours of the day. Even if it's just to haggle with some prick still living in his parent's basement for a box of Hardy Boys books. Turtles on turtles and all that."

"I have no fucking idea what that means," he said, blinking at her, and this time he was so earnest that she couldn't have doubted him even if she tried.

She shook her head with a laugh, already feeling better. "Do you feel like Mexican food after this?"

"Dan's?"

"I have an open invitation," she said. They'll be cool with it if I bring you, she meant. And from the way he pursed his lips, it was obvious that he understood that too. But, he also seemed tired sitting next to her, and Parker could feel that same sort of weariness in her own bones too. "Or... we could get pizza?"

"Pizza is all carbs."

"Mhm, you're right. We should definitely get pizza," she nodded as if he had made a really good point.

"Can you afford that?"

"Are you kidding?" Parker clutched a hand to her chest. "There's always money for pizza. That's like budgeting one-oh-one, Ryder."

He didn't make a comment about how that was probably a stupid way to spend what little money she had, and Parker didn't bring up the fact that she knew he would pay for it later anyway. He always did, even when she made a big deal about wanting to pick up the tab, Tom had yet to let her pay for anything when they were together. She supposed it was easy for him; just muscle memory at this point in his life.

But to her it meant a lot, and she always did her best to make sure he knew that.

Just at the crest of his elbow sat the photographer's polaroid camera, and while the ladies were busy taping everything down and scribbling notes in a variety of pen colors, Parker reached past Tom to grab it.

"I've never had a polaroid camera before."

"Never?"

She picked up the camera, aiming it at Tom, and without hesitating he tilted his head up, eyes down, mouth curving open just a centimeter in that way that looked so effortlessly good that she almost forgot to snap a photo.

"Son of a bitch," she said when it printed, the photo glossy and warm in her hands. "How do you do that? Is that what mewling is?"

"Don't—don't say that," he laughed at her, grabbing the camera from her hands to point it at her. Parker's response was the opposite of his, however, and when the picture printed, it revealed an awkward looking Parker, mouth half open in argument, eyes a little too squinty, hair all sorts of a mess.

"Oh my god!" she shrieked. "Give me that!"

But Tom was faster than she was, and when he tucked the picture into the pocket of his jumpsuit, laughing so heartily that the ladies glanced over at the pair with their own curious smiles, Parker could only catch her face in her hands with a furious blush.

"Tom!" she hissed, smacking him. "It's not funny!"

"You just—it's not—come on, here," he said, shaking his head at her. She was still scowling when Tom grabbed her chair and tugged it by the leg until their thighs were pressed against one another. His body radiated heat as he tossed his free arm over her shoulder, cheek against cheek, and she felt the rumble of his voice more than heard it as he directed her. "Just smile, Park, Jesus. Don't look so stiff."

She tried to shove him off her, only to fail, and as Tom laughed at her, Parker couldn't help but laugh herself.

The photos were crooked, one slightly blurry, and in neither photo were they looking at the camera. And though she still didn't look great, nowhere near as good as him, Tom looked happy in the photos as he laughed.

Parker decided right then that she could live looking like this if he looked like that.

---

Crave Cafe was just as quaint during the off season as it was during the busy summer months, and though it was surprisingly vacant for a Saturday afternoon, the cafe never actually felt empty to Parker. All the tables were dotted with cute decorations, the chairs all stuffed with hand-stitched pillows and dollar-bin cushions that added an eclectic nature to the darkly painted walls, and the jukebox in the corner never failing to fill the lapses of silence with something soothing. For so many reasons this spot had always been one of her favorite places for coffee in LA, and after a long week at work, Parker couldn't help but take a deep whiff of the cinnamon and coffee bean scent that lingered in the air.

"There you are," Harry greeted from behind the counter. He looked a little out of sorts with how empty the place was, the counter spotless and clean from wiping it down too much, and as he grinned at her arrival, Parker was more than happy to be of service to her favorite barista on this side of town. "I was wondering if you'd make it over today."

Parker ambled closer with a tut. "That's almost insulting, Harry, of course I would. It's Saturday, isn't it? What sort of person would I be if I broke tradition with no good reason?"

Harry swung a pink towel over his shoulder, grinning as he started tapping away on his kiosk screen. "The usual, then?"

"Plus, a cookie, please."

"Really living big theses days, huh, Parker?" he teased.

She bent her hip at the counter, watching as she always did as Harry started fiddling with the expensive machines lined behind the counter. She never understood which thing did what, but she did know that anything made by Harry was about to be phenomenal. As steam rushed from one of the metal prongs, she promised herself that one day she would buy a top of the line espresso and latte machine for her kitchen.

Of course, she'd had to learn how to use it, but... well, dreams were dreams for a reason.

"Yeah, well, I always had a weak will when it came to your baked goods. Is this the same recipe as last year, or did you change it up?"

Harry poured her coffee into a to-go cup, twisting the foam at the end to create the image of a leaf, before carefully sliding it towards her. Right before she could grab it, however, Harry pulled the cup back, warning, "I know I say this every time, but it is literally boiling right now, Parker. Don't drink it yet."

She laughed as if that hadn't been exactly what she was about to do. "I know," she said, smiling a little too keenly for his liking. "I won't. Promise."

He didn't seem to trust her, but eventually he gave up and slid the cup towards her side of the counter. The second he moved away she grabbed the cup, finger dipping into the foam—which, of course, was also scalding hot—and to hide the fact that she had just burnt herself, Parker licked some foam off her finger with a bland smile. "I was just... taste testing."

Harry suppressed a sigh to toss her a cold rag, and as Parker cleaned off her finger, he started making Melissa's pumpkin spice latte. "The cookie is a different recipe this time. Marin wanted to try something new, so make sure you tell her what you think. It has nutmeg and hazelnut in it. I think it's a little too much, but Sarah really likes it."

"Nutty," she joked.

"And hopefully good."

Parker waved a hand at him, testing the temperature of the cup once more, before catching Harry's stern look. She tucked her hands before her back with a glittering smile. "I'm sure it'll be amazing. If I get to eat any of it, anyway."

Parker didn't mention the fact that Melissa had a nasty habit of eating any and all pastries she brought into the store without so much as leaving a crumb for her boss to taste. She figured Harry didn't need to know all that information. Besides, on the off chance that Melissa was actually a Gremlin like Colt had theorized, she was still trying to figure out what the rules were for feeding her, and the last thing she wanted was to have Harry cut off their main source of lunch.

As if he understood all that without her having to explain, Harry shook his head at her with a laugh. "Yeah, well, you may as well scarf it down now before you head back over. I know we joke that you're my number one customer, Park, but I would have understood if you didn't have time to stop over today."

Nothing he said had any bearing on the Melissa being a Gremlin vs not debate, and Parker tilted her head at him oddly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm flattered that you would want to stop in here, but I don't know how you found time to with that whole mess going on. I couldn't even park in my own parking lot this morning, you know that? Kudos to you for finally stealing my customers, but... sheesh. I'll never understand how you pulled this one off."

Huh.

Well, that made even less sense than before and she had quite literally been debating whether her employee was a creature from an 80's fantasy horror series. Sensing that she was missing something important, Parker peered out the front window with a frown. She had noticed a lot of people milling around outside, but she had walked from the post office so she didn't have to deal with traffic, no parking involved. "I'm not—what do you mean?"

It was then that Harry seemed to sense her confusion, and suddenly the pair were sharing matching looks of confusion. "Um... didn't you come here from your shop?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. And while it wasn't unusual for Melissa to take morning shift on Saturdays lately, suddenly, there were a thousand possible scenarios flickering through her mind of all the things that could have gone wrong since Melissa opened that morning. Panic welled in her chest, and Parker tried to laugh through it, struggling to explain herself. "I crashed at Colt's place last night without my phone charger. I dropped it off to charge while I ran some errands, but I came right here to get lunch, so I didn't grab it yet. Melissa was working this morning."

Oh god.

Melissa was working this morning.

"Oh my god," Parker slapped a hand onto the counter, suddenly worried that either her shop was on fire or that her only employee had died. "She's alright, isn't she? Oh my god! I haven't checked my messages yet—!"

"Jesus, no, Parker, it's okay!" he interrupted her before she could have a full blown panic attack in his cafe. He lifted his hands to placate her, and while Parker took a deep breath, she noticed how busy the outside street seemed to be. Awkwardly laughing, he rubbed his forehead. "Nothing's wrong. Definitely not wrong."

"Oh," she said, blood slowly rushing from her head. "Good."

He blinked at her, and Parker blinked right back.

"But then why—?"

There was a ding from the far end of the counter, and Harry gestured at her to wait as he grabbed her to-go bag. She could smell their freshly toasted sandwiches across the counter, and when Harry plucked a cookie out of the display, her stomach twisted in nervous knots.

"No phone," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at her. "Wow. That's... So, you haven't checked social media or anything today? Or talked to Melissa."

Her reply was a hesitant, "...no?"

Harry stared at her for a long moment, before shaking his head with another, surprised laugh. Like it had been startled out of him. Feeling even more confused, Parker frowned at him helplessly from her side of the counter. "Maybe you should just head over, then. Melissa could probably use the help right about now."

"Help?"

"And, uh, listen if you ever want to do some sort of deal with Crave, I'd love to talk to you about it," he added on as she numbly scrabbled for her credit card. The machine beeped as he continued, "you know, a punchcard sort of thing; buy two books gets fifty percent off coffee here, or something like that. Lots of stuff we could do, really. But we can talk about it later."

"Um... okay?" she nodded, so bewildered that she almost forgot to grab her coffees off the counter. Harry waved at her as she went, and Parker nearly smacked into the glass door as she waved back. "See you later, I guess."

The moment she stepped outside she bumped into a throng of girls standing on their phones, snapping photos. They reminded her a lot of Melissa; dressed in cute outfits, hair done up for the occasion, makeup a tad smeared beneath the eyes from grinning too much.

"Um, excuse me," she called, angling past one of the girl before running into two more identical ones. In fact, when Parker actually picked her head up to look around, she realized that the block was crawling with people. Mostly girls. Teen girls.

Mostly teen girls that seemed to be waiting in a line for—

Parker's coffee hit the sidewalk with a splat.

"Hey!" one of said girls cried at her, angrily shaking coffee stains off of her white sneakers. But Parker didn't notice much of anything she hurried down the block, bag smacking into every third person as she tried to weave through the thread of people. "At least say excuse me!"

The crowd of people got more tightly packed as the line curved, and Parker stopped square in the middle of the street to gape at the sight in front of her.

Every square inch of her store was packed with people. Girls, boys, thirty-year old blondes snapping photos of every angle and squealing delightfully when the picture came out right while their boyfriends hung out front with matching looks of boredom. People were even spilling outside from how crowded it was, and she had to physically push through to step inside.

"What in the f—?"

Parker was just about to owe a ten dollar bill to the swear jar when a familiar head of hair snapped up from the other side of the front counter.

Melissa didn't look much like Melissa. Her curls had fallen over the course of the morning, wayward tufts of frizzy hair tucked behind her ears as she worked on bagging an order. There were flecks of mascara smudged along her cheeks, her lips were lacking their normal peach glossy glaze, and as they made eye contact, she looked half dazed.

"Parker!" she hissed, trying not to sound shrill but definitely not sounding calm. "Where have you been?"

Not knowing what to say, Parker lifted her sandwich bag and latte into the air, helplessly fumbling for words. "I—I was getting us lunch. What is going on here?" she cried, angling behind the counter before someone else was the victim of her wayward coffee. "Is everyone on crack or something? What did you do?"

"What did I do?" Melissa echoed with a scandalized glare, a broken manicure jabbing in Parker's direction as the next person in line awkwardly set their books on the counter. "What did you do? Why haven't you been answering your phone? I've been calling you all morning!"

"It's been like this all morning?"

"Uh, duh!" Melissa shrieked. The noise caught the attention of some nearby customers who looked concerned by the high-pitched noise. In unison, Parker and Melissa smiled at the customers, offering one-handed waves until their attention drifted elsewhere. Stiffly, they started on the next customer's order why talking out of the side of their mouths at one another. "You need to check your phone. Like, right now, Park."

"I can't," she hissed back, still speaking through a smile. Her store had never had this many people in it before, and suddenly she was wondering if she should move liability insurance higher on her list of things. "I left it at home."

"Oh my—" Melissa grunted under her breath, still smiling, and when she finished ringing up her customer, she quickly snatched her phone from her back pocket. The next customer in line seemed annoyed that her attention was taken away, however, and as she fiddled with it, Parker worked through the girl's pile of books. "Honestly. Of all the days that you don't have your phone on you... I mean, it's the twenty-first century, Park! Always have your phone on you!"

"Okay, maybe save the lecture for later," she chirped back as she finished ringing up the order. The girl paid with a credit card, and on she went, receipt waving in hand just as someone else took her place. "Just catch me up with what the hell is going on right now, please."

Melissa's response was an exasperated sigh before she was shoving her phone into Parker's hand, and retaking her spot at the register.

At first, Parker had no idea what she was looking at.

It was a picture on Instagram. A picture of her storefront, taken from across the street, framed to look aesthetically pleasing, and with some sort of boho filter on it that actually made the place look prettier than it really was. A nice picture, definitely, but not a good explanation as to what the hell was going on.

"Why are you showing me a picture of my store? I know what it looks like. I bought it."

Another customer went out the door as two more potential customers stepped inside, and Melissa sighed so heavily Parker was pretty sure they could feel the gust of wind on the other side of her double paned front windows.

"It's not the picture that matter, dummy!" she chirped, still smiling, before she was nudging Parker with her elbow. "Just—look at it!"

Parker was about to give a very childish retort about how she was looking at it, when she actually looked at it. It had received hundreds of thousands of likes since it had been posted last night, and while she clicked on the caption, a flood of new comments were being added by the second.

"Biggest question anyone asks if how do I prepare for an audition," the caption started. "Sometimes, it's easy. Sometimes you got to get your hands dirty and do some reading to get in the mindset of the character. In honor of filming starting this week, here's a s/o to my favorite hole in the wall bookstore in LA."

There was a flurry of hashtags—all ridiculous and stupid and so innately self-centered—that before she even checked the profile, Parker had a very strong feeling about who the original poster was.

Who else had this kind of social media following? Who else could do this?

The profile pic was just as pretty as he was: tomryder

Parker scanned the post a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. Then, when she still felt like she wasn't processing it right, she glanced up at Melissa.

"Is this...?"

"Yup," the girl said.

"It's—this is his account?"

"Uh-huh," she said again.

Parker slumped against the counter, gaze raking over the horde of customers prodding around her store like it was a damn Barnes & Nobles. No, better. Because this was officially the bookstore that inspired the Tom Ryder for his latest role. NO Barnes & Nobles had ever done that. "This is all because he—"

"It had three hundred thousands likes this morning," Melissa added, not even waiting for Parker to get around to asking about that. And while the teenager seemed like it was no big deal, when she glanced up at her boss, her eyes were sparkling and her mouth was curled at the side. Obviously, her fascination for Tom Ryder had not disappeared. "Yeah. I know."

"This means..."

"That you're officially cool now?" Melissa chirped; somehow scathing and ecstatic at the same time. "Trust me, I know. Our lives just got a whole lot better, Park. I mean—look at this! We're so the coolest people here. I can't wait until school on Monday."

Parker nodded, feeling like her entire body was buzzing, and not quite hearing anything else that Melissa was saying. She just kept seeing the post over and over in her head. She had tried so hard not to need things from Tom, and he had proven time and time again that he was more than happy to give them.

For a long while, she had suspected that doing things for others—throwing parties, picking up the tab, paying for the alcohol—was just natural to him in his life now, a way that he had adapted to Hollywood stardom.

Yeah, you're welcome. I usually get paid twenty grand for doing something like this.

But that didn't quite fit the narrative anymore, did it?

"Excuse me?" a voice called out, interrupting her thinking. Parker blinked to find a twenty-something year old girl staring at her, hands timidly picking at one another. "Um, sorry. Do you have any Frank Herbert books? I looked, but didn't see any."

"Uh... yeah," she hedged, shaking any thoughts she had away. Right now, she would work. Later, she could deal with the rest of it. "Yeah. Right this way and I can show you what we have, and if you don't see any you like, I try to get sci-fi as much as possible so I can try to have new stuff this week. I might even have some extras in the back..."

The din of noise threatened to drown Parker out as she worked with her customer, but no matter how frazzled her tired she was, every time the bell tinkled with someone new coming inside, Parker found herself smiling a little bit brighter.

[shoezuki]

Theresbeen many a drunk headcanon and they be fun and funky but it got me thinking bout clumsiness outside of bein drunk.

Gepard seems very sure-footed. He's the captain of the guard, always leading, never showing hesitation lest it brings nerves upon his troops. I don't think he's some sorta balance god but I do think he's a steady guy that isn't really bumping into anything.

Sampo gives off cat vibes to me, I can imagine him scuttling up a wall jus to tiptoe across its top as if it was nothing. He's doin lil hops and skips just to show off a little. Whilst Geppie is strong in his stance and motion, Sampo is graceful but not really in a delicate way? He's got the smugness of a cat but his grace is more akin to an elk. It's got weight behind it but you can tell he's not fallin anytime soon.

But I like to think he's extremely used to having everything mapped out. He has places for everything and whilst it doesn't at all look neat, he knows exactly where everything is.

His coffee table is always crooked but he simply bends out of the way as he walks past, head in a stack of documents. There's stuff all over the floor but he's tiptoeing between them without hesitation. He has cabinets full of anything and everything, look in them and god knows what his file sorting system is but you ask for something specific and he makes a beeline for the bottom left drawer, stuffs his hand to the back and pulls it out instantly.

With Gep, he's also orderly. He knows where everything is but because it's neat. Even his pens are organised by colour and use. He's not a neat-freak, he's just grown up to always put things back where he found it when he's done and having shared sleepin spaces for so long with fellow soldiers, knows that keeping everything in its place makes things less stressful.

He knows better than to mess with Sampo's files or move any of his 'work' stuff but he's defo moving tidbits off the floor and pushing furniture back against the wall. Like, why is the sofa in the middle of the room??? How does someone do that in the first place???

So now Sampo, as aware and confident as he is, is now tripping over everything. He's knocked his shin on the coffee table 3 times in one day. He's stubbed his toe on the sofa and fully fallen to the ground, he's gone to grab something off the floor (where it usually is) only to realise it's no longer there and just stand in the middle of the room, looking lost, staring into space for 5 minutes.

He feels like he's been invaded. Never had to shrug off Natasha's questioning so often when she comments on a new bruise or scrape. He's not even getting them on the field!!!! That stool was perfectly fine in front of the cupboard. That's where he liked it.

But like hell is he gonna tell Gepard that. He's tried to some extent but it's only led to long circle talk. After all, it's unsurprisingly hard to explain that you like your furniture layout to look like someone's lost a fight in your home and having things not in the way is mildly disturbing.

This was meant to be about clumsiness. They're gettin away from me again XD

~ 🥃

YesyesyesYES SBGDV god they both have like. Theyre own sense of order. Like gepard's is the most blatant. Hes got a Schedule ok he has an order to how he does things and when he does things and where stuff goes.

But sampo seems Chaotic. Like his things seem to be a mess and all disjointed and over the place but To Him he has like. A System. He has no fucking clue what that system is and can Not explain it whatsoever but hes got it. Sure its a mess and no one knows how he can possible operate like this and especially concerning his bomb making its crazy he hasnt blown himself up yet but it Works.

Them living together is Hilarious cuz if this. Like gepard needs things where theyre 'supposed' to be, while sampo shifts his things n environment according to Him. Mfers in a silent war cuz they keep moving shit back to where They think its sposed to be. Like sampo keeps shifting the coffee table to the left and at a bit of an angle so that he can rest his feet on it from the sofa but gep keeps moving it back cuz its Supposed To Be Exactly 2 feet from the sofa and Right in the middle of the fucking rug, sampo. Every late night sampo moves the dishes around seemingly randomly so that his favourite bowls and mugs are easily reachable while he cooks and every morning gepard gets up and reorganizes the cupboards by size and type of dish while he makes coffee.

Theyre engaging in domestic psychological warfare

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

18 with naomi deno/wagon toqger? let the train girls kiss

Anon. This is an incredible idea. (Although when I first read it I thought you'd said "let the trans girls kiss," which is also something I'm very in support of and can also absolutely be true here. In fact, it should be and it is. They're both trans. Tama Daimyojin and Hermes, god of travelers, appeared to me in a vision and told me so.)

18. a kiss while laughing

The Den-Liner pulls up at the station, and Ryuutaros, looking out the window, says, "Hey, what's that train, it looks pretty cool," and Naomi's head jerks up from her romance novel as she says, "There's another train here?"

"Yeah, it's all bright colors, it's way more interesting than ours."

"Owner! I'm going on my break!"

Owner looks up from his own newspaper in surprise. "You're--ah, is that the Rainbow Line I see?"

Five minutes later, Owner and the Conductor of the Rainbow Line and his weird little puppet are having some kind of incomprehensible conversation, like they always do when they run into each other, and Naomi hurries across the dusty platform and bursts into the dining car of the Rainbow Line with a shout of, "Wagon!"

Wagon's in the middle of taking a selfie, obviously, but upon Naomi's entrance she hops up from her seat with a little coo, and a moment after that Naomi's feet are several inches off the ground as Wagon picks her up and hugs her. "Aiyahhh, Naomi-chan! It's been ages! Have you read any good books lately?"

"Tons, you?"

"Oh, yes, so many, would you like to trade?"

"Absolutely, please. Come over and have a coffee, I want to show you something."

Urataros stands up from his seat when they get back onto the Den-Liner, and Naomi makes a jerky little hands-off gesture and hisses at him, which startles him so badly that he nearly falls over trying to sit down again. Wagon doesn't even notice, just looks around the interior of the car. "It always looks so nice in here."

"You think so? Honestly I think it's sort of boring, but then, I guess I'm used to it. Check it out, though, I finally got Owner to buy me a new espresso machine and a milk steamer, you want a latte?"

"Oh, but that's so exciting, you know I never have good coffee around since almost all of our passengers are children. I'd love a latte."

Naomi immediately starts fussing with the machine, making Wagon a double shot of the nicest espresso and steaming and frothing the milk. "Ok, so, come over here and watch this."

Wagon leans up on the counter, watching as Naomi pours and pauses and pours and pauses and fusses with a coffee stirrer and--

"There you go! Latte art!"

There's a beat, and then two pink spots glow in the heart of Wagon's face. "It's me!"

"Yeah!" Naomi grins at her. "I even gave it your little bow tie. Here, try it!"

"Oh, but I don't want to ruin the little--it smells so good, though." After a pause, Wagon delicately picks up the cup and takes a sip. "It's delicious!"

Then, of course, she wants to learn how to do it, so she comes around behind the counter and Naomi demonstrates. Wagon's first attempt at frothing goes very badly, she lifts the wand out too early and the milk sort of explodes. The second time works out fine, and then there's the careful pouring, and then Wagon picks up a stirring stick and her hand blurs.

When it stills, Naomi looks down into the cup and says, "Oh my god it's me, you got my little hair flip and everything! How did you get my nose that perfect?"

Wagon shrugs. "I had to get it right, your nose is so cute. Oh, but you have a little bit of--" and she leans forward and kisses a dot of milk froth off the tip of Naomi's nose as Naomi giggles and tries incoherently to protest.

They spend the next forty-five minutes making increasingly ridiculous lattes for everyone (including a very small one for Ticket which Naomi refuses to watch him drink), and they swap stacks of romance novels and kiss a few more times, and then Conductor starts making noises about schedules and Naomi rolls her eyes. "I really can't imagine working somewhere with such a strict timetable."

"Well, your train does make its own tracks, Naomi-chan, we have to share with lots of other trains and some of them are so inconsiderate if you're even a little bit late."

"Right, I guess that's true." Naomi makes a face and then rises up on her toes to kiss the side of Wagon's heart-shaped faceplate one more time. "I'd say call me, but half the time we're in places that don't even have signal."

"I'll text you, then you can get them all at once when you do have signal. Here," and Wagon's arm wraps around Naomi's waist, "let's take one selfie, for the line."

--and then, of course, they lose five more minutes playing with filters and stickers and picture effects, until Conductor has to cough very loudly to get Wagon's attention so that they can get to the next station on time.

Naomi's phone pings right after the Rainbow Line pulls out of the station, and she opens it, saves the selfie, and makes it her phone background.

"So. Ah."

She whirls on Urataros with a dangerous squint. "Yes, Ura?"

Urataros rears back very slightly. "Could I possibly borrow one of your new novels to read?"

"Oh! Yeah, sure, absolutely, Wagon always picks up really fun ones, you want yuri or a BL or something straight?"

[shelandsorcery]

Astronomics Game Art : Designing Mining Equipment!

Gonna talk this week about designing mining equipment for the sci-fi game Astronomics - demo on steam right now! - And I thought I'd start with a little conversation about research and process (...that doesn't really have on a much art in it but just stay with me) and maybe get to tap in a little bit into how someone like me who doesn't do a lot of technical design learned a lot about how to get excited about that whole field through the research stage of this game.

So when I say research I really do mean fairly old-school research — and this is probably gonna be a theme with a lot of the posts about this game in particular, because I don't think you can build sci-fi without some understanding of engineering systems and current scientific realities to then play with, you know?

As you may gather from the trailer, Astronomics is a game about asteroid mining, among other things. Which meant that we had a lot of need for legit industrial feeling props and tools for the player to use, things that felt functional and believable without feeling complicated or delicate. I really enjoy the challenge of adding appeal to something that maybe people don't always think about being appealing or fun or cute (this is never an absolute statement — there's always somebody already able to see more appeal in any given subject and I could ever imagine) so part of the research stage is going and looking for that appeal. So above you can see a sheet of loose rough sketches I did in clip studio paint from reference that I gathered with the rest of the team and by myself that seemed relevant to some of the designs we were pursuing.

If you've had the chance to play the demo, you'll know that it's not just surface mining but we are going to be letting you mind gases and liquids and underground mineral veins as well — these are all things that people do in the real world of course, so process one was taking a quick look at those actual industries and then figuring out how I could condense that activity down into a pretty simple and easy to understand machine.

So turned out what we needed was something that drilled and dug, something that pumped liquids, something that sucked air, and all of these things needed to then produce some sort of container to hold what they had collected.

In a videogame you really need to communicate to the player why each act they do is significant and different from the others, and as the art director it was my job to figure how to do that through visual design of the tools they're going to be using. So that meant that even though you could certainly store liquid and gas and solid resources in the same kind of box, I wanted to try and find ways to keep each thing feeling different. Best case scenario is that you're able to look at a prop we've designed and know in a split second which of these three states of matter it will be containing; in the research stage one of the things I'm looking for is any existing visual language that we have (in this Western English-speaking North American videogame audience culture) that already solves this problem.

The great thing about industrial design is that they indeed have very intentionally tackled this problem. Part of it is purely physics optimization that the field of engineering has been working towards for human history. For example, when you're storing liquid and you want to remove all of it from a container you probably don't want something with corners — that's how you end up with cylindrical liquid storage. When you're storing a gas you're likely keeping it under pressure, which means you need a shape that will withstand pressure evenly, which means you're looking for something with literally no corners or edges ideally — and that's how you end up with bubble-shaped gas storage like a propane canister. And then when you're storing something solid and you want to use the space most efficiently and be able to stack whatever it is that you have packed it into, you have a box.

Real good news is, a box and a cylinder and a sphere are all wonderfully visually distinct shapes in a fantastically strong place to start when it comes to solving the question of storage. So then we get into the challenge of the machines themselves — what distinguishes a drill from a pump from a vacuum?

So that's the beginning of some of the questions that you have to answer when you're designing props for a game — in the research stage is only one of bunch of different ways you start figuring out these answers. But I want to talk for just a second a little bit about how I personally wrangle my research, because I am definitely not telling you this is the only way to do it. It seems like it may be worth explaining what I get out of this process and see if anything here make sense for you!

One of the reasons that I have this huge page of sketches, big and detailed or tiny and loose, all laid out in one place for me to look at, is because I personally learn and remember things more strongly by taking notes. With my hand holding a pencil ideally. And when they're abstract concepts or verbal or numerical then I'll use writing and I won't have a problem with it, but my job at this stage was not to figure out abstract concepts or to find themes — my job was to solve visual problems. So my first order of business was visual research specifically. Now for me, that involves lots of things — I have a Pinterest board for any sort of subcategory of stuff I'm researching to just do enormous broad research with; then I probably bring most of those images into a huge working .PSD file and move them around to create groupings. And then I start drawing.

I really think that drawing is integral for me at this stage. I don't think I could do this without drawing as part of my research. There's so much that I just don't bother noticing if I'm not going to be drawing the thing that I'm looking at; even the worst, fastest, sketchy as drawing makes me pay infinitely more attention to something then I do when I am simply collecting information mentally. I'm phrasing this in a somewhat exaggerated, self-deprecating way, but I really can't exaggerate how much more I get out of things when I sit down and draw them. They talk about drawing is a way of seeing, and for me that's a practice I've intentionally pushed and explored in my life.

The other thing, though, is that visual problem that I need to solve. Sometimes solutions to the problem aren't obvious until they are visualized — it can be very easy to get distracted by things like surface details and miss the silhouette language, or vice versa, but when you are doing the drawing you have to wrestle with the silhouette and the details and make decisions about them. Visual trends appear way more clear when you are drawing something for the 10th time as opposed to simply seeing it for the 10th time. And all of the layers of cultural meaning and context that clutter up a photograph can be simply ignored as you transfer only what you need to a drawing, where you might discover something that everything else hid until then. Beyond that, one of the things you may notice about the sketches is that they are somewhat cartoony — I'm certainly trying to capture important details and be representational to a degree, but much like gesture drawing the human figure, researching this way lets me start finding out what the gestures are of these different sorts of subject matter. This is something that I knew about creature design, and about flora design, and one of the real joys of this game in particular was proving to myself that this gesture approach applied to industrial machines and technology as well.

I mean, I knew that there were cute trucks out there, but gosh.

I think if you are in need of something to reinvigorate a particular piece of subject matter for you — if you're designing something that you are just not that excited about, or if you don't feel challenged by the work in front of you — I really think sitting and sketching from reference can open up the complexities and help push you and your work farther. It certainly works for me and I know that the learning I did on this game is something I carry with me to future projects as well.

That seems like a pretty strong place to leave this post in particular, but I'll be back later this week with more breakdowns and screen caps of the actual design process of all of our adorable mining equipment!

I would really love to hear from folks if you also engage in similar research processes before going into full design mode — or if you have a completely different way to get your mind revved up and ready to go, I would really enjoy reading about it!

In the meantime, if you're curious about mining asteroids but it's cute please feel free to check out the Astronomics demo on steam, I made an awful lot of visdev art for this and handed it off to some incredible game creators who have done some really impressive stuff taking their ideas and my ideas and running to honestly some pretty new and exciting places with them.

[fastcardotmp3]

you are the only person in this fandom i trust to talk about nancy so i just need you to know that during my rewatch i noticed nancy says “bullshit” SEVERAL times in season one, then obviously calls steve/their relationships bullshit at the halloween party in season two, then murray refers to the evidence nancy and jonathan bring him as bullshit (to the general public) and i just feel like that is so delicious to me. like i’m over fics where steve has ptsd related to the word bullshit and i need nancy to reclaim it lmfao

me, trying to proofread my fic all night: I have lost all grasp of the english language I can no longer Read

me, seeing an ask about nancy: OKAY SO-

anyways first of all I'm honored you trust me with nancy but I promise there are plenty of us out here who get her! nancy haters are So Loud about telling on themselves (even when they think they're being subtle) but we are here in our little corner of the fandom where we use our critical thinking skills <3

second of all!! AGREED!!!

steve is out here having been assaulted, tortured, drugged, weighed down by the responsibility over children being threatened by a violent white supremacist etc etc that's not even getting into the MONSTER stuff but people are still making up triggers for him so he can be soothed by (insert man of choice here)

you don't need to do that! you don't need to color Nancy in a light that even Steve "go with Jonathan" Harrington would absolutely not just to see him hurting, I PROMISE. I do it ALL THE TIME. Steve can even be actively heartbroken without him seeing Nancy as some unfeeling bitch of a villain like that is. literally canonically true PLEASE.

I might be wrong but the very first thing I remember Nancy calling bullshit was the fact that no one was hearing her when she said something happened to Barb. THAT'S the canonical origin of her using that word, THAT is Nancy's first moment of looking at the world around her and saying "this isn't right, I can't stand for it, and I'm going to do whatever I have to in order to tear down the facade distracting everyone from what actually matters- that my friend is missing."

Nancy calls bullshit when she and Jonathan are trying to infiltrate the Lab; the evidence that Barb isn't just a runaway is deemed bullshit; the relationship between her parents which makes her feel forced into a box is bullshit; these things that hurt Nancy are bullshit.

Let's look at it from that perspective, huh? Because you know what Nancy was feeling the night she called her relationship with Steve bullshit?

She was feeling hurt. She was lashing out at the thing that was hurting her in that moment and that was the fact that Steve was asking her to try and be normal for a night when she didn't know how.

Only yesterday she was visiting her dead best friend's parents and watching them still trying to find her and she just didn't know how.

Bullshit really isn't a lasting trauma in Steve's story, but have we ever thought that maybe it's a tell in Nancy's? A sign of crumbling walls in the girl who keeps trying to stack them all high enough to read as unaffected when all she's ever doing is trying to survive her own grief and responsibility and fear?

Nancy calls bullshit and her vulnerability slips, her search for justice heightens, her reasonable levels of paranoia intensify.

Nancy calls bullshit because at the end of the day she's still just a teenage girl who will never fit into the boxes anyone wants to put her in whether they be small and delicate or tough and badass.

Nancy calls bullshit because they didn't listen to her about Barb, but one of these days she'll make them.

so yeah, anon, we should definitely let her reclaim it. that's her fucking word, babey 💜

[vodika-vibes]

The sexual tension between Fox and PA is delicious~ 🥵 drag it on for as loooong as you want vod’ika 😘

Every time I get a reblog cursing the slow burn, ten years are added to my life, lol.

Also, the PA needs a nickname, so when people are talking about them, they're just Yuu. I think I'm clever

Fox looks up from a stack of reports when his office opens, and you walk in, a shiny hot on your heels. Literally, in this case, since he's pretty sure the shiny can smell your shampoo with as close as he's tailing you.

Fox hates him immediately.

"Commander, sir, Personal Assistant Yuu needs to speak with you." The Shiny announces.

You roll your eyes dramatically, and Fox smothers a grin.

"Yes, the Guard does report to them." He says lightly, "Thank you." You sit in your chair and cross your leg at the knee, drawing his attention to your legs.

They really are the most amazing legs-

Fox suddenly realizes that the shiny is still in his office, "What?"

"Policy says that none if the vod'e are allowed to be allow with...um...natborn politicians." The shiny replies.

Fox exhales slowly through his nose, "That rule applies to every who isn't me. Get out."

"But...sir-"

Yeah, Fox hates him.

"Get. Out."

The shiny scurries from his office like a spooked tooka, and Fox focuses his attention on you.

As soon as the door shuts, you're walked around his desk and sitting on the edge, an alluring smile on your lips.

"That wasn't nice," You tease, and there's a flash of pink as your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

He'd sell his damned soul to be able to taste your lips, to have your tongue sliding against his-

"I'm not a nice man." Fox replies as he leans back in his chair. He watches your gaze drop to his chest, and he's suddenly very pleased that he hasn't gotten around to putting the top parts of his armor back on.

You smile at him, all soft and delicate and pretty, and he can't stand it anymore-

He stands suddenly and sets his hands on either side of you, and your legs spread for him, and Fox is able to press fully against you.

You're as soft as he remembers from that night dancing in your apartment, and he's unable to stop himself from sliding a scarred, calloused hand down the column of your neck.

"I really like this top," Fox says, his voice low, and he's rewarded with a shiver. "It looks like if you were to tug on a piece it'd fall apart."

You tilt your head back to meet his gaze evenly, "maybe it will, you should give it a tug."

"Maybe I should." Fox agrees breathlessly, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as he leans in. His lips are hovering just over yours when there's a knock on the door.

And you both stop, but neither of you seem inclined to move away from the other.

"Commander?" The Shiny is back. Fox is going to assign him latrine duty for a year.

"Ignore him," your voice is soft, and your breath is warm, and Fox is so very tempted.

"Commander? I know you're busy, but there's someone here for you."

Slowly, Fox pulls away, but the look of sheer disappointment on your face has him rethinking his decision immediately.

A third knock on the door snaps him out of his thoughts, and he stalks across the room to throw open the door. "This had better be important. As in, the Senate's on fire, the end is nigh important."

The Shiny wordlessly points to the side, where Comander Wolffe is standing, "That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

Fox stares flatly at his twin, "Leave. I'm busy."

"To busy to spend time with your own twin?'

Fox glowers at him, and opens his mouth to say something only to pause when you duck under his arm, "Wait, you're leaving?"

You smile apologetically, "Sorry, I was only able to carve out a little time for this meeting. I have to get back to it."

Fox's heart sinks, "but-"

"I'll see you later, Commander." You reassure with a fond smile, "if not today, then definitely tomorrow." You favor him with one more soft look, and then you turn towards the elevator.

...he was so close to actually kissing them this time-

Fox exhales slowly, and presses his hands together in front of his mouth. "Wolffe."

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to beat you so bad that you're going to wish I was 17." Fox says, very calmly.

"...I didn't know I was interrupting a date." Wolffe mutters, "But I'd also like to see you try."

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

There have been a couple of good ComComPod episodes that have come out recently. Huge Davies finally did one, I'd been hoping for a while that he'd be on. It reminded me of how much I hope he's going to film his current tour, because it sounds great. And he had some interesting stuff to say on the podcast.

There was also a Damien Power episode out recently, which I only got around to listening to this week. It was also a good one, with some good insights about the comedy industry. I like Damien Power.

I say that to preface the rest of this post because I'm now going to complain about something he said, but that's more "Damien Power mentioned this thing and that reminded me of how a similar thing annoys me", than "Damien Power mentioned this thing and therefore I don't like him." This isn't really about him.

On the podcast, he mentioned a routine he has about Nike, which I recognized from one of his stand-up specials. Here's a video of him performing the routine:

I like the routine. I found it funny when I first saw it on his stand-up special. I also liked hearing him explain the backstory to it on the podcast, as he said he'd worked hard when writing that routine to try to make sure the targets were clear. That he's saying it's bad for Nike to do fake performative social justice, and not that it's bad to care about social justice in general. I think that comes though, though it's a bit of a delicate line to try to avoid leaving open the other interpretation, and I found it interesting when he explained how much thought goes into that sort of thing.

Anyway. I'm not complaining about Damien Power specifically, but I do want to complain about the type of thing he's doing there. The thing where people list an increasingly large numbers of marginalized identities that one person could have, as though having that many identities stacked on top of each other is increasingly ludicrous. That strawman that conservatives make up about "the future liberals want", where everyone is some sort of Brown-skinned lesbian transgender disabled working-class non-binary woman. This hilariously implausible idea that someone can check so many different diversity boxes.

I've heard those jokes recently coming from a less likely source, as I recently watched approximately fifteen hours worth of documentaries about the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (yes I did catalogue them, that'll be a separate post). Those docs frequently described the festival as some wild offbeat thing where you'll see all this weird stuff that you couldn't find anywhere else because it's too weird. And then they give joke examples of the weird stuff by saying there's a "Polish clown" or a "transgender pan-African circus troupe" or something like that. Which slightly annoyed me because there definitely is a lot of weird shit at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, but I don't think just being from a certain country is what makes any group weird. Sometimes clowns live in Poland, it's not that wild.

I think this has come to annoy me more this year because I've been working in a school where the vast majority of the student population is Muslim, and nearly all of them are immigrants. Most of the staff are also immigrants. The classroom where I work is a kindergarten classroom, which has 18 kids, 16 of whom are Muslim, then there's one Hindu girl and one token white boy.

But within that class, there's a whole lot of diversity. Kids who speak different languages, who've been in Canada for different amounts of time, who come from different countries, different family situations, who celebrate different traditions. Kids with disabilities and neurodivergencies. Because it turns out that even in a room full of people who nearly all tick one diversity box (as compared to most of society in our country, at least), they're all different from each other, and some will tick other boxes too! (I hope it's very clear that I don't mean working at this school was what made me learn this for the first time. I promise I was aware long before last year that intersectionality exists. It's just that these days I spend most of my weekday waking hours in a place that's a constant reminder of how many layers of diversity many people experience, which makes me quicker to get annoyed at the idea that multiple layers of marginalization are inherently a joke.)

"Black autistic Muslim immigrant ESL little girl" sounds like a type of person that people would dismiss as a woke carciature, but I pulled two of those in sleds around the playground last week when there was a sudden big April snowfall. If you take out the word "black", then I pulled three girls who fit that description on that day (the third is a non-black Arab girl). Lots of people like that do exist, and representing people who actually exist isn't pandering (I mean, obviously it is pandering when Nike does it, Damien Power is right about that and that's why I said I'm not complaining about him specifically here, I'm just saying that in general, representation for people like that shouldn't be considered unrealistic).

Sure, sometimes you see a poster that advertises something and it's slightly funny how clearly the people making the poster carefully picked out an array of people from different races just to make sure their poster's diverse enough. But also, last week, the little girl from Djbouti I work with dropped her apples during snack time, they got picked up and given back by a girl from Afghanistan, they were given to the substitute classroom supervisor who grew up in Iraq, she was substituting for the woman who normally does that job and grew up in Guatemala, and she gave them to the lunch monitor to wash off, and the lunch monitor grew up in Bangladesh, and while she did that she explained the rules around food cleanliness to the co-op student who grew up in Tanzania. If I saw that on a poster somewhere, I'd assume the diversity had been cynically curated by some advertising company. But it turns out that in real life, sometimes you do get a whole lot of diverse people in one place, and therefore, it is reasonable to portray that in media sometimes.

I don't really know what my point is here. I promise my point isn't that I think it's a revelation to announce that racially marginalized people exist, or that it was a revelation to me upon starting this job (the wrestling team I coached for many years was mostly Muslim for most of those years, so, you know, I definitely already knew that). Just that when I spend every day in a real-life diversity poster, it seems a bit silly to complain about so-called "forced diversity" in media. Even though obviously sometimes people do in fact make "forced diversity" for performative woke points, ie. Nike, so maybe I have no point at all.

[sin-cognito]

Rarepair New Year 2024 ch14: Red/Ink, Mafia AU

SFW

Wordcount: 2044

As head of the Gaster family, Red should be sitting at the back of the car and letting his chauffeur drive him around. The issue is that he handpicked this very car years ago and loves her so much that he can't bear the thought of letting anyone else (but his dear brother) put their stinky hands on her delicate wheel. He's the only one allowed to drive her.

READ ON AO3

As head of the Gaster family, Red should be sitting at the back of the car and letting his chauffeur drive him around. The issue is that he handpicked this very car years ago and loves her so much that he can't bear the thought of letting anyone else (but his dear brother) put their stinky hands on her delicate wheel. He's the only one allowed to drive her.

As such, he's presently happily swerving around town with his chauffeur in the back, silent and scared to hell by his Don's driving style.

"BROTHER, YOU SHOULD MAYBE SLOW DOWN A LITTLE," Papyrus points out from next to him, unperturbed as he polishes a gun. "I THINK YOUR POOR CHAUFFEUR IS GOING TO HAVE A STROKE IF YOU KEEP UP WITH THIS SPEED."

Red guffaws. "nah, he gotta get used to it since i'm gonna do all the driving around." He briefly readjusts the rearview mirror and catches the chauffeur's terrified gaze. "you okay back there? want me to stop and let you get off?"

The chauffeur can only shake his head wildly, knowing that outside will be worse. They're currently driving very close to enemy territory, and it would be suicide for someone in the family, especially one who's so close to the Don, to walk around in there without some higher-up's protection. Unfortunately for the chauffeur, Red is busy today and doesn't have time to play baby-sitter.

A snarky grin makes its way onto Red's teeth just thinking about his plans for the afternoon. As of on cue, his favorite shop comes into view. He turns right and parks in front of it. He's been spending all his time there for the past three months or so. He instructs his brother to get the car back home safe and sound, as he doesn't trust the chauffeur to have regained his composure quite enough yet to drive his beloved car.

Edge asks him when he should send someone to pick him up, and Red shrugs.

"i'll figure it out," he waves his brother away as he makes his way into the little bookshop.

As always, the place is crowded with books and dust, and devoid of clients. The only other living being besides the Don is a small skeleton with bright eyelights and an addictive, pastel rainbow blush.

Ink.

Red's little darling turns around when he hears the doorbell ring and his eyelights light up.

"Red, my favorite client! How nice to see you today! Come in, please!" The small skeleton hurries to put the stack of books he was carrying onto the shelves in no particular order, before he makes his way to Red. He does so with great difficulty though, considering most paths between the shelves are covered in books and old newspapers that Ink insists on not throwing away for archiving purposes. "Would you like a cup of tea? What are the news around town? Tell me all the gossip!"

Red chuckles as he lets himself be pulled by the sleeve toward the checkout counter, which is also covered in books.

He gives an update on the status of the city to his small friend, omitting some details about his family's personal affairs. It wouldn't do for a mafia boss to reveal all his secrets so easily. Especially to someone like Ink.

"I heard that a building was burned to the ground in the neighborhood north of the river. It must be the Dreemurr family. Even for such an old and well established family, they have no class," Ink rants as he pours tea into two cups.

"yeah, that's what happens when their tenants don't pay their taxes," Red comments, bent over the counter, chin in the palm of his hand, his half-hooded eyesockets trained on Ink's every movement. "kind of a shitty way to solve things if you want my opinion. all they gained from burning down that building is a pile of ashes, and still no tax money from the tenants."

Ink chuckles as he sips his tea.

"This city is rotten to the bone, heh, but there are families out there that'll treat their tenants right and who won't ask for unpayable protection taxes."

"oh, and who might these families be, i wonder?" Red hums. "certainly they need to be well-established ones rather than newcomers who just barged in with no foreplay, don't you think?"

Ink shoots Red a joyful smile that's more than easy to decypher for the Don: touché.

"Anyway, as flattered as I am to receive such a prestigious guest in my humble little shop, what might bring me the pleasure of your visit?" Ink asks, taking the now empty cups and setting them aside to wash later.

Red rolls his shoulders as he removes his fedora hat. "my apologies, i should've started with that. i'm always happy to pay my dear friend an impromptu visit, but i'm here today to ask if perhaps you could find a specific book for me."

Ink looks intrigued. "A book? What sort of book?"

Ah. Red realizes he didn't think far enough about his excuse to come visit his little darling, and he looks around the shop, scrambling to find an idea. Next to him, Ink has a hard time keeping his giggles in check at seeing the mafia Don struggle to find a believable title for the imaginary book.

"I received new books about astrology and old scientific papers the other day," Ink whispers to help Red.

"oh, right, thanks," Red whispers back before adding in a louder voice, dramatically accentuating his intonations. "well you see, i've been quite interested in astronomy lately-"

"Astrology."

"-in astrology lately, and so i was wondering if maybe you had some books about that."

Ink rolls his eyelights and shakes his skull as he smiles fondly at Red before gesturing to the door that leads toward the back of the shop.

"Yes I do! They're all in the back so if you would please follow me."

Ink quickly shuts the front door and puts up the 'closed' sign, then the two skeletons make their way to the back. It's quiet back there, they can't hear the cars in the streets nor any mafia induced violence out there.

As they pass by a couple of cabinets, Red's impressive shoulder width doesn't seem to agree with the narrow passage and he knocks one of the cabinets open. A couple guns fall down from a drawer, which he's quick to pick up.

"oopsie daisy, my bad," he places them back into the drawer, or at least tries to. The cabinets are as tidy as the bookshop, which is to say not at all, and whenever he manages to put one gun back, another falls down. "say, you really should organize your shit better, you know? how the hell do you manage to keep track of your stock in these conditions?"

Ink chuckles awkwardly while the Don shakes his skull disapprovingly.

"I need my guns to be easily accessible in case one of my boys comes here to get one for an emergency. Did you know that my guys are frequently attacked by a certain someone's minions?"

Red shrugs nonchalantly, pushing Ink toward the couch that Ink keeps in the backroom for special guests.

"well maybe your guys should stop trying to get their filthy hands on my family's territory. i ain't giving the order to leave your clan alone when all you've been doing is being a pain in my ass and stealing my tax money."

"Oh, like you need the money. This city already belongs to you, Don Gaster," Ink nags him all the while grabbing Red by the tie and pulling him down so that he's pinning Ink down on the couch. "But maybe we should switch positions, and you can become a pain in my ass," he teases as he wraps his arms around Red's shoulders and thrusts his hips up, rubbing his crotch against Red's. His intent is clear.

"maybe i'll do just that," Red purrs back before bending down and capturing Ink's mouth in a rough kiss.

The two fool around for a while, keeping most of their clothes on just in case someone from Ink's family pays the bookshop an impromptu visit. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened, so now Ink makes sure to keep his pants on, albeit down to the ankles while Red pushes into him from behind.

They've been seeing each other regularly for the past three months, and to say they're smitten over each other would be the understatement of the year. Unfortunately for them however, they're not free to openly express their affection in public.

For one, Red is the biggest Don in the city, and as such he's regularly the target of many gruesome murder attempts on his person. He's never really felt scared for his life though, not with his little brother by his side, who's shooting prowess has earned him quite a reputation. Red himself isn't half bad when it comes to handling a gun, though he prefers to negociate first. His father used to rule over the whole city and while he's lost some territory since Wingdings passed away a couple years ago, Red is still feared by most other families.

The only one that's proving to be a thorn in his, heh, flesh, is a new family that arrived half a year ago. They call themselves the Prism family, and while they're obviously not very experienced when it comes to the mafia etiquette, not to mention that they're awful at shooting straight with their cheap guns, they make up for it with their unpredictability.

The Prism family immediately caught Red's attention, and he began tracking them down, thinking that once he'd find the head of the family, things would get back to normal. The problem is that he didn't expect to not only find the head of the family, but he didn't anticipate he'd be finding him to be so cute and charming and lovely.

Ink.

The little skeleton who has been plaguing his days and his dreams for several months now, ever since he first stepped foot in that little fake bookshop that serves the head of the Prism family as a front for all his mafia activities. Red was shocked to learn the truth about the cutiepie, and that's saying something from someone who's whole job usually consists of piercing through the hardest poker face during intense negociations.

So despite the fact that their families are technically enemies, Red and Ink can't help but see each other secretly whenever they can. Red is getting tired of these stolen moments, but it's not like he can just announce that the Prism family will fuse with his all nilly willy. Such an announcement is bound to create nasty ripples, especially considering the Prism family members have decided that bothering and attacking the Gaster relatives is the best way to conquer as much territory in the city as they can, and fast. And Ink can't decently tell them to leave the Gasters alone without a good excuse either.

So Red makes do with what he can get from Ink here and there. He learns to appreciate the other's body for as long as their lovemaking is allowed to last, he kisses Ink's face and his mouth and whispers terribly mushy things into the other's neck. Ink doesn't do much better honestly, sighing his pleasure into the silence of the back room while their families go at war with each other outside.

Maybe one day Red will come up with a plan to have their families merge into one. Or maybe one day one will destroy the other, and Red can only hope he'll survive that war just to be able to take Ink's hand and run away with him to a far away land. Or maybe yet another powerful family will show up, or the Dreemurrs will finally get their shit together and become actually strong enough to pose a threat to both the Gasters and the Prisms, and Red and his little darling will call a temporary truce that will turn real in time.

Whatever happens, Red knows that he's not letting Ink go so easily.

[dotchi18]

Deciding to take them up on their offer, you take a step outside of the group to head to the crates.

Glancing back, you saw Leader and the Followers move to a section of the clearing, emptying out their bags and sorting things as Psy stepped beside you.

Turning to them, you found yourself facing the brim of their hat, admiring the texture of it as you ran a hand against it.

It gave a slightly sleek feeling with a bit of a stick to it like a real mushroom, which made you think of it being water resistant when you heard a chuckle before they turned their head up to you.

" Curious?" They grinned to you while you stared at their bangs before they tapped a hand gently on your lower back, leading you to step up to the crates, starting with the one on the far left.

The tops were pried off, and in short order, you found all of them filled to the brim with something or another.

From left to right, there was a crate full of rich fabrics of multiple colors in multiple textures as you skimmed between the softest silk and the fluffiest velvet.

Then one that was full of jewelry- rings, bracelets, earrings and necklaces in all kinds of colors, inlaid in all kinds of metals.

The third was a box just full of weapons, as was the fourth, though the third one was even more full with bladed objects, the fourth filled with crossbows, bolts and maces.

You think it's not very practical to have everything thrown in there like that, but considering they've been there longer than you have, Psy would already know if it was an impractical system for themselves or not.

The fifth is filled with Books, this time stacked neatly with their spines facing upwards in order to read their labels.

In the last and Sixth one is the heady smell of herbs, vials of potions and medicines sitting in there.

You ask Psy how they come to obtain all of this stuff, especially when it seems obvious with quick glances that every single crate had at least one item that people would pay a pretty penny to have.

" The Deep Forest comes into a lot of things it doesn't need, one way or another."

With that cryptic note, that brings you to ask about The Trinket.

The one that would bring you to your Soulmate.

" Oh? Why would someone like you need a thing like that?" Psy grins as they circle the herbal crate you stood at to the other side, propping their head on their hands as they seemed to survey you, " I think you're just delightful, like a Mycena interrupta, a Marasmius haematocephalus, or even a Panellus stipticus."

You didn't know exactly what those looked like, but you can feel their attention rake over you before settling on the rose.

" Just delightful."

After they say that, they lift their head a little more to show they were fully paying attention to your face, " I know where the Trinket you seek is.

But I will make a trade of it for you."

You ask what trade they could possibly want when you had gold to pay for it.

They simply grin as the laughter of Leader and their Followers float over as they finished their sorting and ambled around the mushrooms, " As you are a Friend, I do not require money.

You may have the location of the Trinket, anything from these crates, and a gift from me in the form of one of the mushrooms I described you as."

They simply said the words and Leader and the Followers immediately scrambled to get what was mentioned, bringing it to you, surprising you as you had not thought they had been listening.

" Friend, this is the Mycena Interrupta." Leader stated as they presented you a beautiful blue mushroom, that seemed lovely and delicate with a deep blue center and white edges, " They're also known as the Pixie's Parasol."

" And this one, Friend," A Follower spoke as they presented very thin mushroom with a beautiful purple color to it, turning it over to show a beautifully eyecatching white underside to it you wouldn't have noticed before without closer inspection, " Is Marasmius haematocephalus, The Purple Pinwheel."

" And last but certainly not least," Psy held up the last one handed to him, a mushroom in a fan that you recognized had bloomed around you the previous night, glowing a bright green in the dark of the carved in half circle, in dozens of little fans with gills to them, much more sturdy than the other two, " is Panellus stipticus, the Bitter Oyster. Not as elegant of a name, but it obviously has it's charms, don't you think?"

They grinned, " All I ask of you-"

They pointed to the Yellow Rose tucked safely in your bag strap, " Is to give me that. Doesn't that seem like a fair enough trade?"

Tags: @abrokecupoftea, @one-really-annoying-tree-rat

[duhdumb89]

A Forbidden Happiness | Chapter 47

Prince Han ran his finger across the delicate stitches of his scent pouch as he stared out into the night through the open window. The peaceful sound of the chirping crickets did nothing to soothe his nerves. Truthfully, being idle in the Forbidden City always set his teeth on edge. Usually, it was because Prince Han longed to prove his usefulness to His Majesty. The more battles won and the more criminals caught, the closer His Majesty kept him and The Empress in his heart. Tonight, however, he was restless for a different reason.

"Please relax, my lord," Sang'er said as he fanned his master, "Lingxiu gege is returning as fast as he can,"

"Gege?" Prince Han said with a snort, "Are you best friends now?"

"My lord, Lingxiu gege has been serving you for some time now, and you still don't like him? I feel like he's done his job well,"

Prince Han rolled his eyes and turned his gaze to the scent pouch. Chang Lingxiu was a good enough guard, but he was too friendly. It would only take one word for things to become troublesome.

A eunuch stepped inside to announce Chang Lingxiu's return.

"Speak of Cao Cao*..." Prince Han muttered as the guard stepped inside.

"The books you've asked for, My Lord," Chang Lingxiu said, presenting the neatly wrapped stack.

"Finally," Prince Han said before standing up, "I was near falling asleep waiting for you,"

"Apologies, my lord," Chang Lingxiu replied, "Next time, I'll be sure to commandeer a horse,"

"No need. Just spend less time chatting with Molan on your way back next time,"

Chang Lingxiu's cheek grew ruddy red under his beard before he quickly excused himself.

Chuckling, Sang'er said to Prince Han, "Heading to bed, my lord?"

Prince Han nodded and withdrew into the bedroom. He untied the scent pouch from his waist and placed it under his pillow before letting Sang'er undress him for bed. 

"Shall I call for something light, my lord? It's still early in the evening," said Sang'er as he pulled back the bedsheets.

"No," Prince Han replied, carrying the books to the mattress and sitting down, "You can withdraw,"

Sang'er nodded and did as he was told.

Prince Han loosened the ropes binding the aging books together. One by one, he flipped through each one in search of a folded piece of parchment stuck between the pages.

Jiayi wasn't particularly fond of this method of communication, but Prince Han was fraying at the seams waiting for a moment to see her in person. Their luck seemed to have run out, and their pockets of snatched time behind corridors and empty courtyards had come to an end. Prince Han couldn't sustain himself with the glances he stole when Jiayi was with Yiqiang. He had, unfortunately, become quite spoiled.

The books were a mixed collection of topics. If someone came across Jiayi holding them, it would look like she was bringing Xiang pin something to read. In the hands of Chang Lingxiu or Sang'er, a stack of military literature for their lord. The books were arranged for the proper attendant when the stack was picked up from its hiding place and ferried away.

Today, there were four crisply folded pieces of parchment. Prince Han unfolded them all and settled into bed to read.

'Thunder destroyed Sixth Prince's tiger kite. They're no longer on speaking terms,'

'I asked the hothouse to prepare a bouquet of asters for Xiang pin. She thought they were so beautiful she wants a fresh vase delivered every day,'

Below was a simple, but still beautiful sketch of the flowers. He wouldn't admit it, but he was blushing fiercely at the thought of Jiayi filling Chengqiangong with a symbol of their lo–

Affection.

He went back to reading.

'My lord, have you heard of a Li daren? He patrols near the ice house. He's got all the maids nearby very flustered...'

Prince Han sunk into his pillow, letting himself be pulled into the petty squabbles that never seemed to cease in the back palace. Most of Jiayi's letters were like this. Filled with small observations or interesting happenings. The sort of silly things you would chat about before crawling into bed.

He slammed his eyes shut. What was the point of letting his mind wander into such dangerous territory? He tried to reign himself in, but it was too late. Prince Han opened his eyes and a gossamer thin vision of Jiayi was sat at the vanity, running a comb through her hair.

No, that wasn't right. If they married, she'd have a maid.

The vision corrected itself.

A faceless maid appeared at Jiayi's back and took over the task as she turned her head to look at him.

'...so now they're taking shifts to see if they can catch his eye. It's very civilized,'

Jiayi's specter hummed softly as the maid braided her hair and pinned it away. She dipped a cloth into the copper basin by her side and patted her neck and face. It would be rose water and ginger. Jiayi mentioned how much she loved making it for Xiang pin once.

'Did you know that Chang Lingxiu sent Molan another gift? She's been doing nothing but powdering herself with the perfume since it was delivered! When Xiang pin helps De gui fei with Second Princess's wedding planning, Molan gets so distracted by the wedding gifts. How long do you think Chang Lingxiu will wait before asking his parents about her?'

The bowl and the maid vanished before Jiayi's visage padded over to the vacant space at his bedside. She stared down at him, and Prince Han waited for her to continue before realizing that there was nothing left to read. He put the page to the side before unfolding the second.

'I miss you,'

In a blink, Jiayi was lying on her side, head pillowed on her hands, peering up at him.

Jiayi's vision put a hand on his arm.

'I miss your voice. I thought the letters would help but they've only made things worse,'

Prince Han stared at the words, his breath catching as Jiayi's specter came into sharper focus beside him. Her soft, phantom touch on his arm felt almost real, nearly overwhelming the room's lonely quiet.

"I miss you, too," he whispered as if she could truly hear him.

The vision of Jiayi smiled softly, and there was a sorrowful warmth in her eyes as if she understood his longing. Knowing their newfound distance wasn't any easier on Jiayi was a bittersweet comfort.

Jiayi's figure leaned in closer, resting her head on the pillow beside his. Prince Han closed his eyes, allowing himself to indulge in the fantasy for a moment longer. If they were still in the capital, this could be real. Jiayi could be next to him, rosy and sweet with sleep. They would drift away and wake in each other's arms.

He opened his eyes, and the vision shimmered, fading as the reality of the empty room pressed in on him once again. The warmth of her hand vanished, replaced by the cool, crisp silks beneath his fingers.

He folded the letter with care, placing it atop the others. Prince Han sighed and leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. He had planned to write back immediately, not wanting to forget a word, but now he was in no mood for it.

✺

A step behind. Shen huang gui fei always had to be a step behind the Empress in all things, even waiting at the Meridian Gate for Huabao's return. This was her daughter–her triumph, finally returning to her rightful place in her mother and father's arms, and Shen huang gui fei couldn't even stand next to The Emperor to do it. Honestly, it didn't matter. The Empress could have this small win. Shen huang gui fei had proved victorious in the end. The entirety of the Forbidden City was put on hold to welcome Huabao. The concubines and servants wore their best clothes and stood in the blazing hot sun to give Hubao the reception that a princess of the Great Qing deserved.

And not just any princess.

A first-rank princess.

When Shen huang gui fei wasn't caring for Yizhong and Yiru or preparing for Huabao's wedding, she was campaigning for Huabao's newest title. It was only right. The girl was to be married soon. How could she enter her husband's manor and hold her head high without a title? It was absurd. Under the guise of chatting and congratulations, Shen huang gui fei had gathered the wives of chief ministers in court. With a generous gift, she suggested that their husbands bring up the topic of Huabao's title to the Emperor. Shen huang gui fei would have done it herself, but His Majesty was unavailable to her these days.

Shen huang gui fei, glanced behind her at the crowd of concubines as they fanned themselves. Xiang pin stood in her rightful place behind the Noble Consorts, surrounded by her gaggle of first and second-class attendants. When she and Xiang pin locked eyes, the harlot's pink lips curled into a smile. Shen huang gui fei huffed and turned back around.

Xiang pin had practically tethered His Majesty to her bed. It was disgusting. Even worse, when she wasn't seducing him, a giggling fool was always willing to entertain him on her behalf. Shen huang gui fei didn't know why she was so shocked. It could only be natural that Xiang pin treated the Forbidden City like a brothel. It was all she knew.

"Your Highness!' A'Fang said, pointing into the distance, "I see her! I see First Princess's carriage!"

Shen huang gui fei heard Jingse scolding A'Fang for shouting but barely paid attention. A'Fang was right; Shen huang gui fei could see Huabao's litter coming closer and closer! When Huabao's carriage stopped in front of The Emperor and The Empress, Shen huang gui fei was vibrating out of her skin.

The carriage door opened and Shen huang gui fei froze. The girl, no, the woman who emerged, looked like she was wearing Huabao's face. Her face was sharp-cheeked and tan, the tilt of her brow weighed down by her heavy Mongolian garb. She was taller than Huabao ever was, as well. Shen huang gui fei was startled by the knowledge that her daughter had become almost unrecognizable after nearly a year apart.

"Your Highness, are you alright?" Jingse whispered as Huabao and the litter who transported her kneeled to greet The Emperor and The Empress.

Shen huang gui fei said nothing, continuing to stare as anger filled her belly. The Empress had taken so much from her.

"Royal father," Huabao said, rising to her feet, "I've returned,"

Shen huang gui fei looked at The Emperor. There were tears in his eyes. Shen huang gui fei suddenly realized how selfish she had been. When The Empress forced her daughter to stay behind in Mongolia, she was also stolen from His Majesty. He only had two living princesses left, and only Huabao was as precious to him as this. Huahuan was fine but could never compare.

"Let me look at you," he said, cradling Huabao's shoulders in his hands, "You've grown,"

"Yes," said The Empress as she placed a hand on Huabao's arm, "Our little pearl has blossomed into a fine flower,"

"Huabao," Shen huang gui fei burst out at last, her skin crawling at the sight of The Empress touching her daughter.

"A-niang!" Huabao cried, running towards her, "A-niang!"

Shen huang gui fei let her daughter nearly bowl her over from the force of her hug.

"Huabao! Huabao!" She kept saying, "You're back!"

"I'm back!"

"My goodness, you're taller now!" said Shen huang gui fei, holding Huabao's face close to hers, "What have they been feeding you?!"

"I almost couldn't recognize her. Huabao looks like such a proper woman now!" said Lian fei.

Lian fei's compliment opened the floodgates, and soon Huabao was surrounded by well-wishers and branch climbers, all clamoring to make sure their voice was heard in front of The Emperor. They buzzed around Huabao like annoying little gnats.

"Huabao's had a long journey," The Empress said, "Let's not keep her standing out here in the hot sun. I'm sure she wants to meet Yizhong and Yiru,"

"Yes, Your Highness," the women chorused.

Shen huang gui fei stopped The Empress before she turned away.

"Your Highness, I know that it's the 15th and His Majesty is meant to spend the night with you, but as Huabao's just come home, would it be possible for him to visit Zhongcuigong instead?"

The Empress smiled, "His Majesty has a prior arrangement with Xiang meimei this evening. Perhaps she'll be willing to reschedule for you,"

The Empress truly never let up, did she? She was desperate never to let Shen huang gui fei have even a moment of happiness that she was willing to sacrifice her rightful night with The Emperor just so Shen huang gui fei had to lower herself and beg Xiang pin to share.

Shen huang gui fei lobbed a winning smile right back at the Empress, "It's no matter; Huabao should rest this evening anyways,"

"Rest well then,"

✺

Jiayi got off the ground, twisting her sore waist from side to side. No matter how long she looked, once again, the stack of books didn't appear. Jiayi tried not to feel upset. It had only been a week since their last letters. He was a prince; of course, he was busy.

Jiayi glanced around the hiding spot one more time before shrugging. She'd come back and check tomorrow. She picked up her decoy embroidery basket and began her trek back to Chengqiangong.

A tall eunuch turned the corner, startling her, his chin tucked deep into his chest.

"Are you alright, guniang?"

"Just fine,"

"If you're looking for something, I can help you,"

"No, thank you," Jiayi said, inching away, clutching the basket close to her chest.

The back of her neck was beginning to itch with unease. She was a palace maid now; surely there wouldn't be a repeat of Su gonggong? Right.

"Jiayi," the eunuch said, "It's me!"

The eunuch raised his head, and suddenly, it was no longer a eunuch. It was Prince Han. Jiayi grimaced.

"Ew," she said, the words spilling out before she could stop herself.

Prince Han huffed, "Ew? I go through all this trouble to talk to you, and all you can say is 'ew'?"

Blushing, Jiayi grimaced, "I'm sorry, my lord, it's just...this outfit..."

"What about it?" Said Prince Han, looking down at himself, "I think Sang'er got the proper size,"

"You are a Prince of the Great Qing, my lord," Jiayi said, "This look doesn't suit you,"

The sight of Prince Han in the eunuch's clothes made Jiayi's skin crawl. It was just...Jiayi wasn't particularly prejudiced towards eunuchs because of Su gonggong, but the sight of her Prince Han in the getup looked too wrong.

"You really don't like it?" He asked.

Jiayi shook her head.

"Fine, then," he said before calling for Chang daren.

Chang daren popped out from around the corner, "Your servant is here,"

"Give me your clothes,"

"W-what?" Chang daren asked, mouth agape.

Jiayi felt his reaction was perfectly appropriate. What in the world?

Prince Han clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the guard, "Are you suddenly hard of hearing? Give me your clothes,"

Chang daren's lips flapped like a fish, his cheeks pinking, "My lord, I cannot. We're out in the open. Jiayi is right there!"

"Jiayi says these clothes don't suit me, so I don't want to wear them anymore. Stop whining, go over there and change,"

"My lord, Jiayi is muddled and blinded by your great beauty. Every bolt of fabric that touches your body is blessed beyond belief. Nothing would dare be unsuitable for you! Right, Jiayi?"

Perhaps Jiayi had grown cruel and unfeeling because the sight of Chang daren's fretful plea had her pressing her lips to stifle her laughter.

"Why are you crying?" Prince Han asked with a roll of his eyes, "You can wear these eunuch's clothes. Don't tell me you've never been naked in public before. Haven't you been on a campaign or two at your age? Hurry up!"

"B-but-!"

"What? You want me to strip you?"

Chang daren locked eyes with her, his eyes pleading once more for help. She'd have to help him. Prince Han looked serious enough to strip the poor man bare!

Jiayi stepped before Chang daren, who happily cowered at her back, "I misspoke, my lord. This outfit looks very dashing on you,"

"You're sure?" Prince Han asked, "It's no matter to me to wear Chang Lingxiu's clothes,"

"Perhaps," Jiayi began, stepping closer to him, "Lose the hat?"

She reached up, slid it off, and pressed it into his hands.

"I'll take my leave, my lord," Chang daren announced,

"Coward," Prince Han said with a shake of his head.

He sat down under a shady tree and beckoned her to his side.

"Do you need to go back quickly?" He asked.

Jiayi shook her head, "It's her afternoon rest, right now, and I told Molan I was dropping by the storage department to pick up some things to embroider,"

"So I have you all to myself?"

"Only for an hour more," she replied, fighting a blush, "What about you? Sixth Prince has been complaining that you've abandoned him and Lightning,"

"It's not my fault," he replied, his voice sounding suspiciously close to a whine, "Now that Huabao's returned..."

Jiayi tried to focus on the words coming out of Prince Han's mouth, but her guilt muffled in her ears. As the months passed, Jiayi shamelessly put what she did to First Princess to the back of her mind. Now that she was back, Jiayi tried to comfort herself. No one was talking about the rumors anymore, and First Princess would have a grand wedding to a man of great standing. Not only that, but Second Princess said that First Princess had nothing but good things to say about her time in Mongolia. It had all turned out alright in the end, but Jiayi couldn't shake the sadness that overcame her at the mention of First Princess.

A gentle touch to her hand brought her out of her thoughts.

"Jiayi. Is something wrong?"

"No," Jiayi said, "I just–ah, even Xiang pin is getting caught up with the wedding plans. It's why she's been taking so many naps lately! She and De gui fei are so busy now,"

"I still can't believe Huabao and Huahuan are getting married. I feel like it was just yesterday that I got to light the firecrackers at their 100th-day celebration. Ah. I'm getting old,"

"You're only 19!"

"Not for long. I'll be turning 20 soon. Officially an old man," he said with a sigh, "I can already feel my bones aching,"

"Perhaps you should ask Her Highness The Empress for a personal physician to help with your old bones for your birthday," Jiayi said with a laugh.

"Perhaps," Prince Han agreed, "What about you? What do you plan on getting me for my birthday?"

Jiayi began to fiddle with the smooth glass hanging from her ears. She knew Prince Han's birthday was on the horizon, but the thought of giving him a gift hadn't crossed her mind. Even if it did, what would've been the conclusion? Prince Han was, well, a prince. If there was anything he wanted, he could get it. If he couldn't, The Empress or The Emperor could. Besides a painting or another scent pouch, pathetically, Jiayi had nothing much to offer.

Other than, maybe, a kiss.

"I don't know," she burst out, furiously trying to escape the thought, "Is there anything you would like, my lord?"

Prince Han shrugged. He picked up his scent pouch and grabbed the coordinating one by Jiayi's waist, "Maybe another matching set? Or maybe a pair of boots? Or, you could paint me something with this,"

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a slim velvet box, and held it out to her.

Jiayi's stomach fluttered as she opened the gift. A paintbrush with a gleaming white handle and a mottled tapered tip was nestled in the silk lining.

"It's a Hubi,**" Prince Han said.

Jiayi gasped, "I never thought I would see one in real life,"

"The craftsmanship is grand. The bristles are goat and weasel hair, and the handle's ivory. What do you think?"

She turned to reply and was struck dumb by how close Prince Han suddenly was to her. He had moved in so close that Jiayi could feel his breath tickling her face. She gazed into his dark brown eyes as her heart began to race. Her eyes fell to his lips, and her pulse rushed through her ears.

"It's lovely," she whispered.

If she leaned in just a bit closer...

"My lord,"

Jiayi pulled her head back, Sang'er's soft voice bringing her back to her senses.

Prince Han's face grew ruddy before he cleared his throat and turned to Sang'er, "What is it?"

Sang'er grimaced, looking as if he wished to be anybody but himself at the moment, "Her Highness The Empress will be taking lunch soon and–"

"And I agreed to join her," Prince Han finished.

"Yes, my lord," Sang'er quietly agreed.

"I won't keep you," said Jiayi, tucking the paintbrush into the embroidery basket she had forgotten she had.

"Of course," he said.

He stood and dusted himself off, before offering Jiayi his hand, which she gladly took. His touch no longer threw her into a tizzy that made her want to run. Now, an incredible warmth drew her to him like a moth to a flame when they touched. She never wanted to let go.

"Thank you for the brush, my lord,"

Prince Han nodded his head and smiled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, "I look forward to seeing what you do with it,"

Jiayi pulled her hand away and bowed.

"Sending you off with respect,"

When she was alone again, Jiayi let out a gusty sigh. If Sang'er hadn't barged in, they would have–

They could have–

No!

She couldn't keep thinking about that. The day was getting late. Jiayi didn't have to look in the mirror to know her face was burning red. Hopefully, the walk back to Chengqiangong would cool her down.  

–––––––– *Full proverb: Speak of Cao Cao and Cao Cao will come. Essentially the Chinese version of Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Cao Cao was a warlord and the great chancellor of the Eastern Han dynasty who rose to great power during the time. He often portrayed as a cruel and merciless tyrant, and he also has been praised as a brilliant ruler and military genius character in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms.

**A type of famous ink brush that's been made in Huzhou, China since the Qin dynasty.