#this feels Spes-coded

[seeking-elsewhither]

@margindoodles2407

*covered in blood* I'm literally fine guys. im still funny. Would you like to hear a joke Im going to tell you a joke

[nereidprinc3ss]

please don't say you love me

in which fwb!spencer reid and fem!reader get into an argument about the nature of their relationship.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: friends with benefits arrangement, it goes bad, reader is so clearly anxious avoidant, reader is so me-coded, self-loathing, difficulties with emotional intimacy, arguing, derek and penelope make an appearance woo, a little dramatic, no happy ending (a nereidprinc3ss first!) a/n: it happened guys I stopped writing for a few days and last night randomly was inspired to finish this fwb piece and it essentially turned into a vent and went a completely different direction than i thought it would but here we are!!! i hope you enjoy, I loved writing, ilysm

“Are you reading it? Did you get to the part yet?” You ask, buzzing as you peer around Spencer’s arm to see where he’s at in the book you’d handed him. Sometimes you think it takes him longer to flip the pages than to read them. 

He doesn’t answer, but you see the flickering quirk of his lip like something is amusing him. It’s been a few minutes and he’s maybe halfway through. He has to have seen it by now. 

You’re clinging to his arm, eyes darting pointlessly between the text and his face, searching for a reaction. It comes in the form of a furrowed brow, a disbelieving smile, and something between a barking laugh and an exclamation of, “what?”

“You read it?”

His eyes narrow and he flips back a page, taking a bit longer to reevaluate. 

“Our moans and grunts drowned out the screams of the dead and dying only a few hundred feet away.”

You giggle furiously, clapping a hand to your mouth when you snort, and you feel Spencer’s focus shifting to you, even with your eyes screwed shut. 

“And you read this whole series?”

At that you sober up some, still hiding the bottom half of your face and brows drawn sorrowfully as mirthful tears well. You’re slow to admit your guilt with a nod, and his expression is somewhere between horror and fascination. 

Your cheeks heat and you cover your face, laughing again and shaking your head shamefully as he ridicules you. 

“Why? Why would you do that to yourself? I don’t even know if I can be seen in public with you, that’s—” he’s haphazardly tossed the book back on its display table and grabbed your wrists, pulling gently and laughing too. “No, show me your face. This is—you need to explain yourself. This is unforgivable.” 

“No! I swear it was a morbid curiosity, I didn’t like it, I’m sorry! I—”

“Reid?”

You both freeze. 

It’s not the most dignified position, admittedly—hidden among the shelves in a bookstore, pressed too close to be friendly, his hands around your wrists. 

So you don’t mind when he drops them like hot potatoes and gives you a few inches of breathing room. 

“Hey! Uh—you’re—”

Spencer is looking between you and two other people at the end of the aisle—a quirky bespectacled blonde in a flouncy polka-dot dress and her taller companion, ripped and head shaved, sporting some impressive eyebrows. Right now they’re conspicuously raised—his eyes are also pinballing between you and Spencer. 

For a moment, everyone is just sort of… looking at each other. 

It’s a little bit… awful?

Finally Spencer clears his throat. 

“Um, what are you guys doing here? Just… looking at books?”

Something is off, and you feel like shrinking or running, but you just stay glued to your spot. 

In sync, they hold up copies of the same book—and it takes you not a second to place the author’s name, in imposing red font at the bottom like it’s important. Rossi. 

The pieces click into place. These must be Spencer’s co-workers—Penelope and Derek, if his descriptions of the team have served you well. Part of you is starstruck. Part of you is embarrassed. They’re clearly shocked to see Spencer with a girl in the wild, so you know he hasn’t told them about you—and why should he, you think, why should he tell his friends about the girl he’s been sleeping with for months now? 

Finally, the blonder half of the duo speaks. 

“You’re—this is a girl. That’s. Who is that? Hi! Who are you?”

She’s literally pointing at you, eyes drifting between you and Spencer like it just doesn’t make any sense. Derek gives her a look and gently pushes her hand down. 

“Hey. That’s enough.” Then he offers you a polite smile, though you sense a bit strained, and his eyes too keep wandering back to the man next to you. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no! You’re not… interrupting…” Spencer trails off and you sense he’s looking at you and gauging a reaction but you’re just smiling idly at his friends and waiting for this to be over. He finally thinks to introduce you by name, and you offer a shy wave and a smile to your new acquaintances. 

Penelope points (that damn finger again) but this time it’s less accusatory, and stays below chin level. 

“Cool shirt. I love that band,” she offers genially. Your brows raise and you look down, trying to remember what shirt you’d tossed on before leaving Spencer’s apartment an hour ago. 

“Oh! Thanks,” you smile, and you’re relieved to mean it this time. 

Another frosty silence begins to descend, but Derek doesn’t let it settle so much this time, to everyone’s satisfaction. 

“Alright, well. It was nice to meet you. Enjoy your date.”

There’s too much weight on the last sentence, and Derek gives Spencer a eyebrows-raised-meaningfully look you don’t understand. You’re just glad Spencer keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t immediately insist that it’s not a date, because it’s not, and that’s fine, but the vehement denial would bum you out. 

The pair walk away in the kind of clenched silence that means they’ll start fervently whispering as soon as they are out of ear shot. You watch their retreating figures and chew your lip, sensing that the carefree and playful energy of five minutes ago will have evaporated by the time you turn back to face your companion. 

“Strange,” you murmur, mostly to yourself, and you’re slightly jarred when Spencer replies from beside you. 

“Which part?”

All of it. 

Turning to face him, you smile, and it doesn’t reach your eyes but it doesn’t need to. 

“Oh—nothing, sorry.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, only stares at a point somewhere above your head and narrows his eyes like he’s thinking unpleasant thoughts. 

“Was I an asshole, to you, just now?”

It’s unexpected. You don’t have an answer prepared, so you say something that feels like a lie because you can’t prove that it’s not the truth. 

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I just… I don’t know. I get weird around them, sometimes. I don’t always know what to say, like, when my personal life and my work life intersect, because for a long time I didn’t really have a personal life. And I think they still think I don’t know how to talk to girls, so…”

“You don’t know how to talk to girls,” you remind him. “Let’s go look at the puzzles.”

Maybe you spend too much time with Spencer Reid. Maybe that’s the problem—too long in his presence and he’s eating away at your neural tissue like you’ve got cysticercosis and he’s the T. solium (a terrible thing he had explained to you a few weeks ago.)

Maybe you need a break from him, to stop breathing his air and sleeping in his bed and wearing his clothing, because you’re forgetting that he’s not the entire world and that is a very bad thing to forget in a situation like yours. The entire world cannot be the size of his apartment. 

But you also just like him so much. As a friend, of course. That goes without saying. You like his strange sense of humor, and the way he lights up when you ask him an obscure question. You like your legs across his lap while you watch his old shows. You also like being kissed by him, and hugged by him. You like being taken care of like no one has ever taken care of you, and you like the way he always touches you, soft and kind and so on purpose. 

You never meant to like him so much. 

This affection—it has grown, insidious and parasitic, and now that it’s been pointed out to you like a lump in your side, it’s impossible to ignore. 

What you and Spencer have works precisely because you’ve kept things platonic and casual. That way, there’s no worrying about emotional baggage or arguing about feelings because there are none to be found and no precedent that any such things should or need to occur. You can’t hurt each other’s feelings if your feelings aren’t on the table. 

So why can’t you stop thinking about earlier?

Why can’t you help caring that he’s been keeping you a secret from the people he loves most?

“So, essentially the book is his first deep dive into meta-fiction. It was pretty revolutionary at the time, and while not his most celebrated novel, I’d argue it was his most relevant and culturally pervasive. I’d actually love to hear your interpretation of the story—it’s truly different for everyone. It’s a little like… like a literary Rorschach test. Do you wanna borrow it?”

You’re a tangle on his bed—arms, legs, sheets—it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins. All you’re sure of is his hand, tracing his fingers in chaste lines, feather-light up and down your inner thigh in the way he knows you like. Usually it’s so soothing you melt and fall asleep within minutes. Right now it’s only stoking some sparking electrical fire in your chest—the buzzes and bursts from which have you on edge. Ready to cave in at any second. You wish you could relax. You’ve been trying.

Spencer is in no hurry for you to respond, and so doesn’t seem to mind when it takes you a long while to find your answer. 

“I think I need to go home.”

It comes out too scratchy, as you haven’t really spoken for several hours. Not as casual as you were going for. He angles his head down toward you and his hand stops and you realize it’s actually worse like that. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah! Everything is fine, I just… I wanna sleep in my own bed tonight, I think.”

It’s late and you shouldn’t be making him drive you across town, but he’s always amenable to what you want. This is the longest you’ve ever stayed at his place, after all—a rare long weekend—and before that a few weeks had passed with no cases to speak of, during which time you’ve been staying with him more and more. Spencer seems to be completely content letting you eat his food and use his shower if it means you don’t leave. 

“I know the feeling well,” he admits, and your heart twinges with the care he takes to not bump or bend you or pull your hair as he shifts. He’s already been out of bed, and so is more dressed than you. Really, most people on the planet are more dressed than you, and you pull his nice sheet higher up your chest as he sits on the edge of the mattress, looking down at you and with a sort of worry in his eyes. He finds your knee through the fabric. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been quiet.”

Stop paying such close attention, you want to tell him. And in the same breath, please don’t ever look away. 

“I’m… good.”

It is easily the least convincing performance of your life. Either you’re self sabotaging or you want him to push you further, and you don’t know which is worse. 

When his brow ramps just the slightest bit, you know you’ve fumbled it. 

“I don’t believe you.”

You shrug. “I don’t need you to.” And then you sit up, still holding the sheet to your chest. “Can you hand me a shirt?”

Enough clothing has accumulated around the room recently that he could pretty much reach out in any direction and find something for you to wear.  He grabs a sweatshirt hanging from the bedpost and holds it out for you, and you pull it over your head, before dropping your feet onto the cool wooden floor and grabbing the first bottoms you see—a pair of floral pajama shorts. How have so many of your clothes ended up at his apartment?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

You scoop your bag up from a chair and flit around the room, haphazardly stuffing away discarded clothing to take back home. It’s true that it’ll be nice to get back to your stuff—your shower products and your closet and your silk pillow cases. You shouldn’t be spending so much time here. It’s not your space and you’ve been sacrificing your own needs to be closer to him, which is something you’d rather not do for any man. 

“You can drive me home. I’ll send you gas money.”

“You don’t need to send me gas money,” he says, tacking your name on to the end of the sentence in a way that raises your hackles instantly. 

“Yeah, I do. You drive me around constantly. I’ll pay you back and start taking the metro, or something.”

“I don’t want your money,” he scoffs. 

“Fine. Then I’ll call a car.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’m happy to drive you.”

“Why?”

Silence hangs. Spencer has by this point stood up, and he’s watching you with a furrowed brow and slightly parted lips like he doesn’t understand where this animosity has come from. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure either. You didn’t realize you were harboring so much of it. 

“Am I supposed to see you as an inconvenience?”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“No. You’re not. We have a relationship and I don’t mind doing things for you.”

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

You didn’t mean to say it, but you sure as hell were thinking it. 

It feels good to say, like stretching a sore muscle beyond its limits or pressing into a bruise until you get past the ache. Sometimes when things hurt, it’s best to feel the pain and move on. 

He looks absolutely perplexed, the lines between his brows only ditching deeper. 

“Is that what this is about?”

“Oh my god, Spencer, no, I don’t care—”

“Because earlier at the bookstore I asked you if I was being an asshole and—”

“I do not give a fuck about earlier at the fucking bookstore!”

It’s too late to be yelling, but he doesn’t scold you. He just sort of looks at you, like you’re something mildly unpleasant. It makes you feel worse. 

A long moment goes by. 

“Fine. I’ll take you home.”

You let him brush past you, nothing more than a breeze on your shoulders as he disappears from the darkened bedroom. For a moment, you can’t follow him. All you can do is stand there and try to contain that sour, stinging, crying feeling in your eyes and nose because there’s no reason for you to be crying right now. 

From the living room, he calls, rather abrasively, “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” you huff, and it is as wavering as it is insolent, so obviously the only word holding back a full-fledged deluge of tears. 

One minute. One minute to sniffle and take deep breaths and wipe abashedly under your eyes because you refuse to be dramatic about this. Refuse to get over-emotional. You will not let it matter this much to you. 

When you decide you can show your face without making a scene, you march out of his bedroom and straight past where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, keys in hand, to the front door. 

He doesn’t move. You burn smoking holes into the dark wood of the door with your eyes, and the two of you are apparently at an impasse. 

“I’m ready,” you eventually snap, always the impatient one between the two of you, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. 

“I’m not.”

“You said you would—”

“I know what I said,” Spencer cuts you off and shuts you up, “and I changed my mind. I’d prefer to talk about it before I take you home.”

By the time he finishes the sentence you’re already wrestling your phone from the depths of your bag in search of a ride sharing app. 

“Okay, well I’m done talking because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, so—”

“No, you’re done talking because this is what you do. You can never admit it when you want something because that would mean acknowledging that you’re a human being with emotions, and that’s too scary for you.”

Surely you misheard him. You turn around, a deep frown contorting your features. 

“Excuse me?”

He only looks at you in that expectant, knowing way of his. 

“It’s too scary so you run away. You’d rather burn your relationships to the ground and rebuild them with a new person every time than actually let someone in.”

“You don’t know me!” You yell.

“Do you actually think that’s true?” Spencer says, pushing off his perch against the counter, voice shrilling and raised slightly as he gets visibly agitated. “You think I’ve spent hours upon hours with you and I don’t know you at all?”

“You have no idea what I’m like in a relationship because this isn’t one. You have no fucking idea what I want, so do not presume to,” you seethe. 

“You want a relationship. You wanted my friends to know you and you didn’t tell me that because you’re fucking terrified of the fact that I do know you. You can’t stand the idea that regardless of how many times you tell yourself it’s just sex, you have been vulnerable with me, and you’ve told me things you’ve never told anyone before, like why your last three relationships really ended, and how you constantly self-sabotage when you’re on the verge of getting what you want because you think you don’t deserve it.”

“Shut up!”

“No. I’m not just going to let you walk away from me like you did everyone else who could’ve ever cared about you because I know once you walk out that door you’ll stop responding to my calls and texts and I’ll never see you again, which is a juvenile pattern and completely unsustainable if you don’t want to keep pushing people away for the rest of your life!”

“God, Spencer, stop!” You sob, staggering back like you’ve been stabbed. 

The urgency, the raw, desperate scratch of your voice, stops him in his tracks. 

Every place an arrow penetrated a chink in your armor aches, and it hurts so much worse because he knew exactly where they were. You don’t know when or how it happened, but he’s right. Despite your most valiant efforts, Spencer Reid knows you. Somehow he crept in and grew over every limb like ivy. It’s crawled over your feet and up your legs and it’s keeping you there, rooted in place in his apartment, sobbing silently into the crook of your arm because you feel utterly paralyzed with fear. 

Just as he’d said. 

It’s silent for a long stretch of time, unquantifiable the same way the distance between the beach and the horizon is unquantifiable. It’s sprawling and infinite and desolate. The only relief from the drowning quiet is the occasional gulp of air or gasp from you which furthers your humiliation. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer finally whispers, soft and unsure like rays of weak sunlight over staggered tides, in the grey morning after a raging storm. It’s an attempt. It’s earnest and afraid. 

The energy radiating off of him is so tangible that you can sense his desire to come near. To hold you. But that would be your worst nightmare come to fruition. This—this warbling and crying in front of him in silence in his dark apartment is god-awful enough. But to be comforted? For him to bear witness up close and personal to your humility and your ugly, jagged pieces—that inspires true catatonia. That is everything he said you were afraid of, and he was right. 

You resent your human nature, and the fact that you care how his friends look at you and that it stung when they did so with little more than apathy. You hate that you care that he hasn’t told them about you. You hate that you feel so unimportant—because more than anything, you want to be fine with being unimportant. 

You want to be fine. Constantly. 

You hate that you feel. You hate that you care. 

But you always have. And so fucking deeply. 

Somehow, Spencer Reid is the only one who has ever noticed. 

Eventually, his self-restraint snaps and he surges forward at the same time as you take a shuddering inhale and step back. 

“Please don’t touch me,” you whisper. Afraid that if he did, his fingers would only sink into your flesh like decaying fruit. That you would disintegrate in his hands, and he’d finally see you’d been rotten the whole time. 

He speaks softly, holding his hands up to show you he’s not a threat. 

“Okay. I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“I need to go home.”

��I’ll—”

“No. I don’t want a ride. I’ll get a car.” You speak quietly. Efficiently. There’s no point in pretending this doesn’t feel catastrophic anymore. 

His brows furrow. Like a moth to flame, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, he draws nearer again. 

“I’m not comfortable with you on the street at this hour.”

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” you insist, pleading, a wounded animal, because he doesn’t seem to understand how every casual notion of kindness is a violence, how he’s ripping into you and making it so you’ll never be able to put yourself back together. He can’t be kind like you’re easy to be kind to. 

If you’re easy to be kind to, you are just as easy to hurt. Accepting that kindness is a sort of vulnerability you feel you can’t afford right now. 

Another moment of silence, of stillness, as if you’re both bolted to the ground where you stand. 

When he speaks it’s a blow to the chest because you’ve made him cry too. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quietly, and a venomous self-hatred drips down your throat. Because you’re doing it again.

Maybe this is all you will ever be. 

You fail to stifle a sob and Spencer steps closer still, saying your name desperately and so quietly like it’s his last rite. 

And you try. You try harder than you ever have to stay in one place, to get a hold of your vibrating and to swallow all those slithery feelings and ignore every alarm telling you to panic when he reaches out to touch your arm because it’s never safe to let people in. But when his hand finally brushes you, it’s like a cow prod. You jolt backward. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” you whisper all in one harrowed breath, and there’s so much you’d like to say—you’re right, about everything, you do know me, you know what I want, I tried, I’m ashamed—but none of it matters. None of it is enough. He’s backed you into a corner of your own making, and the only way out is by pushing him aside even if it hurts you both. 

So you don’t say anything else. You leave him there, in the dark of his own apartment, and you disappear down the hall. 

Maybe this is all you will ever be.

[blazehedgehog]

Okay so you've apologized for choosing the wrong words over the SAGE 2024 showcase trailer, but doesn't that mean that somewhere inside you still think parts of what you said are true? You still came to those conclusions one way or another.

Yes and no.

I would like to open this saying I used to be known as a pretty harsh critic when I started writing about SAGE for TSSZ News. I hurt a lot of feelings but I always had a logic behind what I was saying. Ultimately I figured I was judging people by standards they didn't deserve, and I kind of softened my view.

By that I mean I was judging fangames against more professional standards, and then I realized these were just hobbyists having fun and didn't deserve to be raked over the coals like that. After all, a game you pay for and a game you download for free create two very different expectations.

So I'm going to single someone out here and I'm sorry in advance for doing this, but I saw Sonic Test Labs in the SAGE 2024 showcase video. They've removed Sonic and replaced it with an original character -- a furry wolf wearing jeans, I believe. (It's a rat)

Now, I'm not out here to insult somebody's OC or even their fursona. Something I've been trying to remind people in slamming on the brakes of all of this SAGE hot water over on Twitter is that I think anybody should make anything and be proud of that. I literally just put out a Shadow Generations video 2-3 months ago where I have a long montage of fanart I drew of my Sonic OC, as I talk at length about not running from your past and embracing who you used to be, even if it was cringe. I am not here to tell anyone to stop making things.

But, like, the 90's were full of "mascots with attitude" and really only one or two stuck around, and the most prominent example is Sonic the Hedgehog. Most of these furries were lucky to get a single sequel and then they disappeared off the face of the planet, some only resurfacing ironically.

Sonic the Hedgehog, just as a character design, is kind of a one-in-a-million shot. To be so simple and so iconic and so appealing to so many people... the epitome of lightning in a bottle.

And the indie game space is a very different place than it was when a lot of people were pitching Sabrina to ditch "Lilac the Hedgehog" and make Freedom Planet into an original game she could sell, you know?

So when I see Sonic Test Labs and it's got a new name, it's dropping the Sonic connection and it's starring a fursona it's like, good for you, all the power in the world to you, I hope you succeed, but also, at this point... is this going to be worth the change? I guess I'm not the developer of what is now "Wick3r: Tricks, Keys & Speed", so I can't answer that. They have a lot of talent, though, and Sonic Test Labs was a standout game for me last year, so we'll see.

I am coming at this from my own perspective as a game developer, and I've hit a pretty big streak of bad luck as of late, I feel. I have no more time for the sort of game development I really want to do and I haven't released anything meaningful in years. The last few things I did release, I'm not really proud of anymore.

Let's take OverBite. I genuinely wanted to make OverBite into a real game. I was making steps towards that. Then my whole life got turned upside down, I lost my motivation, and I got caught up in the Youtube game.

The further I get from OverBite, the more I see its flaws. It was a Game Jam game. Most of its levels were constructed in about five hours. I have a fat design document full of too many ideas for the final game that need to be re-thought, paired down and streamlined.

I can't do any of that. I have absolutely no faith that a current version of OverBite would sell anything even remotely meaningfully for me to be worth the time I'd put into expanding (or even outright rewriting) its code, polishing up its visuals, implementing new mechanics, new levels, bosses, etc. That means spending years effectively wasting time I could be spending on my Youtube channel, where my hard work is more directly rewarded.

And it kills me. It makes me want to cry. But there's a cold part of me that says, "Get over it. You can't have your cake and eat it too. You can't do everything. Pick a lane and build that up, you can't be so scattershot anymore."

But I have so many game ideas, and more keep piling up. And even if I tell myself I can't be so scattershot anymore, I still end up working on some of them anyway. Because my heart wants to make video games and my brain says it's not worth it anymore. The market is too crowded, the investment is too large, the gains are too small.

If I put my full weight behind my Youtube channel, I make thousands of dollars a year. Not even five figure numbers, but a non-trivial amount. For Overbite, I made just over a hundred bucks, and most of that was begging for people to help cover the Steam Greenlight fee.

Or, let's say, "Better Bubsy." That Bubsy joke game that stopped being ironic and started being earnest. I work on it for a few weeks every April for the last four or five years. It got to the point where some respected people I know were saying I should pitch it to whoever owned the Bubsy IP. Which at the time was UFO Entertainment. Eventually that changes hands when Atari buys the Bubsy IP from UFO, and the CEO of Atari is out there making an open call for indie devs to submit a Bubsy pitch. This is my chance. Better Bubsy could be a real thing!

I even speak to someone who works directly at Atari! I don't even have to drop it in their pitch inbox! It's getting personally sent up the chain!!!

...

Atari and Limited Run announce a Bubsy remaster pack where they are making their own "select improvements" to the old games. That is effectively confirmation that they did not care about what I was selling. More time wasted.

Forgive me if I'm not very warm to certain ideas right now and I have a cynical, bitter heart towards certain aspects of game development. I am personally in a very conflicted place right now, and it came out in the wrong ways towards people who did not deserve it.

(For those of you who don't know what this is about, this, this, and this twitter thread should clear things up.)

[givemea-dam-break]

hehe so i saw that you were okay with doing multiple

can i have sunflower, iris, and snowdrop please 🫶🏻🫶🏻

ahhhh of course!! so first up, sunflower:

you are so dark academia coded and therefore me coded

for a fictional character, i can’t explain it but you give a wonderful mix of annabeth chase, genya safin, padme amidala, and george karim!! strange combination, i know, but it’s an inexplicable gut feeling i’m telling you!!

as for greek god - you are most definitely hestia, goddess of the home and hearth!! you’re the mum friend so it’s literally just a perfect fit! also a little bit of demeter, too!

for a roman god, you’re definitely spes the goddess of hope! you make everyone around you feel happy and hopeful and i love love LOVE it about you!!!

[slut-f0r-u]

Are we too young for this?

A/N Inspired by 'Softcore' By The Neighbourhood. Clementine is readers code name

Pairings: Tangerine x sibling!reader, lemon x sibling!reader

Summary: The mission went wrong. Now you and Tangerine are being held hostage waiting for Lemon to save you.

Warnings:killing/assassins etc, probably bad spelling/grammar, angst, blood, swearing, kinda ooc

Everything hurt. You never wanted to open your eyes again but you heard tangerine softly calling your name. "Clementine." He said in a pained voice, "Please wake up." Tangerine must have saw you stirring awake. You open your eyes slowly, adjusting to the light and taking in your new surroundings. It was dark and dirty. You assume your stuck in a basement. You try to remeber what had happened but you fell short.

"Tan." You said so quietly he might not have even heard it if he wasn't paying such close attention to you. "What happened?" you finished. You finally looked up to see him covered in blood, he had a few scratches here and there but you couldn't pin point where all the blood was from. "Don't worry, Its not mine." He said seemingly reading your mind, "we got caught, some fucking assholes beat us up and trapped us down here." He said with a scowl.

You Tried to sit up but failed suddenly feeling a sharp pain in your side, you look down and see a large gaping hole in the side of your stomach gushing out blood. "Oh shit." you mumble and start to apply pressure to the wound, you hadn't even noticed it was there to dazed from getting knocked out or maybe it was the amount of blood you were losing. Tangerines eyes followed to where you were looking and they widened in suprise and worry. He quickly stood up, ripping his shirt and attempting to wrap your wound while muttering various curses at your attackers.

"Where's Lem?" You breathed out wincing in pain. "He made it out. But hes gonna come get us. I promise." He said, dismissing your worries that he was lying somewhere dead in a ditch. Suddenly you both heard loud footsteps walking down the stairs. You held your breath and prayed that it was just Lemon.

But it was not. The door swung open and a large man with a gun came down. You and tangerine said nothing just glaring at him with looks that could kill. The large man let out a manic laugh out of no where. This man was definetly insane. "What do you fucking want you twat." Tangerine growled out with a menacing look on his face, But the man just kept laughing. "What do I want? WHAT DO I WANT?" He cried out whilst still hystericaly laughing, "I want revenge." He suddenly stopped laughing and his expression turned dark. You and tangerine knew better than to speak to the very angry man hoping to stall him until lemon arrived.

"Your brother shot my family dead. Now I'm going to do the same to his!" He yelled raising his gun. You closed your eyes tightly and held your breath as you heard a gun shot. You hear a body drop to the ground and realise that it wasn't yours. You open yours eyes to see Lemon knealing in front of you saying something but you couldn't hear him because of th eringing in you ears.

You feel Lemon pick you up and start walking out. You turn your head to see tangerine limping beside you still on high alert. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion and you beginning to feel drowsy once again. You were young, younger than the twins. This should not be happening to you. You should be out living your life, making friends. Not fighting for your life every single day. You manage to look up at Lemon and mumble out a question only just loud enough that he could hear it, "Are we too young for this?"

He and Tangerine look down at you with pity in their eyes. How could they let you do this? You were still only a kid for fucks sake. You were 15 years old. They shouldn't have let you get into the game. They felt guilty. They were the reason you got hurt. They failed to protect you and now you all were paying the price. Just as Lemon was about to speak up you loose conciousness. They both begin to panic and walk faster to the get away car.

They decide its smarter if Lemon drives, and Tangerine sits in the back with you. He vows to never let you get hurt again. He would protect you with his life. Just like you would do for them.

[early20sfailingplenty]

May I request some Bo content? With a female S/O who is usually very chipper and warm suddenly having a very bad day and shutting down and lashing out? Like the S/O is usually all over town helping out with chores and bringing the boys meals while they work, but something throws them through a loop and they end up not doing any if the things they usually do and Bo doesn’t notice at first?

TW; SWEARING, reader’s a bit of an asshole (you’re not responsible for your feelings but you are responsible for how you deal with them and reader is not very mature in this piece - we all have those days, and that’s okay so long as you apologise after and learn from it!) & picks a fight with Bo, Bo gives as good as he gets, Bo’s a bit manipulative,  ARGUING BETWEEN BO AND READER (a wrench is thrown but NOT AT THE READER), CRYING (reader), Bo stepping up when he realises what’s happening (FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF because I’m soft for the Sinclairs and I’m not sorry), ELEMENTS OF AN UNHEALTHY RELATIONSHIP (it’s Bo, duh), there are MENTIONS OF FOOD (not sure if this one needs to be on a trigger list, but I’m putting it on here just in case), one sentence about a dead person being in Hell from a religious/monotheistic perspective (it doesn’t bother me any because I'm a firm atheist, but I realised that it could negatively affect someone else so for that reason I'm putting it on the list), implications of Stockholm Syndrome BUT THAT WASN'T MY INTENTION WHILE WRITING IT!!! It's just an afterthought to put it on here before I post it in case it upsets someone.

As always, GN!reader, no coded language (to the best of my knowledge; please correct me if you see something I haven’t noticed!), “you” and Y/N used.

Word count: 4,101 

It was just one of those days in which nothing was going right and everything that could be going wrong was, and everything was pissing you off. Ambrose and every fucking thing in it was out to get you, it seemed, and just as you usually did when you were having a bad day, you shut off from everyone and just barely restrained yourself from lashing out at anyone who even breathed in the same area as you. You just kept yourself to yourself, not doing anything the way you usually did. You knew that no one would ever let you not maintain your duties and responsibilities, such as they were. Only once had you not followed through on them, and you had discovered quite quickly that Vincent wasn't above using scare tactics, such as looming over you in such a way that you knew you had no choice but to comply if you wanted him to step out of your personal space.

It was a subtle reminder that you would either end up back in Bo’s disgusting chair, or dumped at Vincent’s stairs if you got too comfortable in their town. That had been in the very early days of your initially forced residency in the ghost town of Ambrose (but, oh, how alive was she on the surface until one dared to scratch at the polished and carefully cultivated veneer). Months had passed since then, and scare tactics from the brothers were no longer used. You could be trusted to do the things you usually did, and indeed did you usually enjoy them. You adored helping the brothers, you loved doing things for them, knowing all the while that they cherished you just as much and, in their own ways, they did things for you as well.

Bo had been, of course, the hardest brother to form a connection with. He was brash, rude, abrupt, an absolute asshole and you loved him for that, among a great deal of other things. As your relationship had gone from captor and the captive to a tepid friendship and then further had the two of you warmed up to each other into the intense romantic bond which you now greatly enjoyed, Bo had stopped being quite so rude. Indeed, his displays of love and affection were quiet but copious, as if he was trying to make up for how he had treated you before he had even known your name. Once you had learned to read Bo’s love language (one of which was asking you to spend time with him in the garage; he loved having you around, though he didn’t tell you in as many words), you came to understand that he was as much of an asshole as he was full of love. Aching was he to both give and to receive love in kind; starved of it and of a gentle touch for thirty some years.

Once Vincent had seen you and Bo interact, he, too, had made more of a concerted effort to take care of you and to do things for you. He had sculpted you and Bo, once, and gifted it to you by leaving it on your bedside table. There had been no note, no signature or anything to denote that it came from Vincent, but you knew all the same. You knew every detail of his particular form of craftsmanship. You had thanked him profusely, both in words and by making him his favourite meal the next day for dinner, prepared just as he liked it. Lester had been the easiest to form a friendship with, and indeed was he the one you went to when things with Bo were too much for you, or when you itched to see different sights but you didn’t want to leave Ambrose. On those days did you go with him to work, wanting to spend time with him. It always gave you a sick thrill to leave Ambrose, but you would always choose again and again and again to return. Where else could you go, would you go, when home contained the one you loved the very most?

Ambrose was your home, Bo was your home, and you loved doing your part to help run the town, to help Vincent with his supplies and wax stock, to help Lester with his job, to maintain your own hobbies because you existed as your own person and you were not wholly defined by anyone else. You had thrown yourself into the life Bo had set out for you (and, oh, how you had fought him on it, until one day you had caught yourself excited to face the next day), and you cherished every moment you got to spend with any of the brothers, but especially with Bo. You were warm towards all three of them, and they were equally so with you. It was the way of things, and you didn’t want it, you didn’t want them, any other way. But today, oh... something bad had happened, it had thrown you for such a loop that you could no longer tell what way was up and what way was down, and you were steaming; pissed off, irritated, and emotionally shutting off. The chores would be done, but you wouldn’t be focusing on them. Food would be made, but it would be a heartless chore with little thought beyond making sure you didn’t poison anyone and that it tasted good. Your hobbies would be left unattended in favour of helping Bo in the garage, in favour of helping Vincent with anything he needed, in favour of riding with Lester for a bit to keep him company. You sighed, pissed off that you didn’t have a choice. You just wanted to hole up in your bedroom and lay there, left to rot as you stared up at the ceiling. But you couldn’t. There were things to do, people to see, and a life to live despite the fact that you were not having a good time of it.

The world could fucking burn for all you cared today.

To begin with, Bo didn’t notice that anything was amiss. How could he, when he was elbows deep in the hood of his truck, swearing under his breath about who knew what? You had done very little of what was on your to-do list for the day; you had made meals for everyone including yourself and made the relevant ‘deliveries’; taking Vincent’s down to him first because he was the closest (he hadn’t let you go until you had promised him that you had your own food, too; his form of affection towards you was a tough kind of love which you knew he used on Bo as well, which was partly why you adored it so much), then Lester’s, and then you had taken yours and Bo’s down to the garage so that you could have a lunch date together. You had packed a clean towel with soap and a flask of hot water because you knew Bo wasn’t going to wash his hands. It never failed to turn your stomach when he ate with dirty hands, grease stains left behind on the bread he had yet to eat. His constitution was one of iron and you almost envied how strong his immune system must have been after a lifetime of exposure to various things which would make the average person sick. Almost. The only other thing you had really done this day was to clean up the kitchen after you had made the food and delivered Vincent’s and Lester’s. Everything else hadn’t even been thought about. You wanted, more than anything, to not do a damned thing.

It was only when you made more noise than was strictly necessary when delivering his lunch that Bo straightened up, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. His baseball cap physically shielded his eyes from you but you could sense his gaze and your mind’s eye supplied the look you knew you would be seeing if he wasn’t wearing his hat. “Lunch.” Your tone was flat, and Bo’s entire stance changed. He stiffened, and you began to see the side of Bo you only saw when there were tourists in town. Quickly were you walking on thin fucking ice, and, help you, but it thrilled you as much as it made you want to run away. But, you were looking for a fight... if you carried on this way, you would get one, too. One of the things you loved about Bo was that he always gave as good as he got and then some, no matter what it was.

He fixed you with a level gaze and then, “Wanna try that in a different tone, darlin’?” A warning - your first and your only. Bo would never give you an out twice in a row. With Bo, once was more than enough. He always took things and ran with ‘em... his cruel, brutal upbringing and later life had taught him to never question anything, to just take them as they came from one moment to the next. Bo craved that which he had lacked in his life before you, and security was one of them. Seeing you like this had thrown Bo off edge, just as something had clearly done the same to you, and Bo didn’t know what to do when you were like this. Vincent was good at calming people down after a lifetime of living with Bo, but Vincent was presumably holed up in the basement, so asking his twin to do some de-escalation was out of the question. A warning, first, had been suitable... He would have to follow your lead on the rest of it. What could Bo do to help you the way you always helped him? He had to figure it out, quickly, because his sunshine was behind some clouds and he didn’t know how to make it rain, so that the sun would come back out. Wait... As quickly as Bo had lost his footing, he found it again, a predator was he. You wanted a fight? He’d give you one. And then he would bring you back home to him. It was sly, manipulative of him, but an outlet was what you needed, and Bo was great at that. He threw tantrums every fuckin’ day. You were entitled to one too, he figured, especially if something bad had happened. But what?

“No,” You shrugged, settling down to get your own food. “Eat if you want. I brought some hot water, soap and a clean towel for you to wash your hands.” The inflection in your voice on this last three words brought a sneer to Bo’s face but he turned away from you, recognising all the signs in you that he saw in himself every damn day. You were angry and Bo wondered what the fuck had happened to you. He hadn’t seen you much this day, so busy had he been, but now that you were with him, it was clear that something was up. He hadn’t seen you like this often, usually so happy and warm with him that it made his heart ache were you, and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle the situation. If you wanted a fuckin’ fight, though, he’d give you one. Anythin’ for his darlin’, even when they were being rude. Idly, Bo wondered if this was how you felt when he was being an ass, but he shook that thought off. It didn’t fuckin’ matter, anyway. He had already tried pushing you away, but you had stuck to him like glue. Bo loved it as much as he hated it, which created such a passion within him that it left the both of you breathless even during the best of days together.

“Okay,” Bo shrugged you off, acting like he wasn’t getting as pissed off as he was also growing concerned, “I’ll eat wit’ ya’ in a minute. Let me clean myself first. I’m too dirty to have lunch wit’ ya, is that it?“ He grabbed the flask, soap and towel from the counter where you had set them next to his lunch, and the look he gave you told you everything on his mind. When he came back from washing his hands, leaving everything on the sink for you to clean up later, he made his way back to his truck, “Hey, uh, pass me that wrench, would’ya?” and got busy again, fiddling with... whatever he was doing. He looked up at you around the hood, watching you. Analysing you. He was getting mighty pissed off with you, but he was trying to hold his temper down. He knew he had a nasty one... it was turning out that you did, as well. We’re a match made in Hell, momma. Maybe we’ll see you down there some day. I know you ain’t gone up.

You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself, which made Bo’s jaw tick in irritation. You did as he asked, again, almost slapping the tool into the outstretched palm of his hand before you went back to what you were doing. God, but today you really hated the way you did what he asked of you, even and especially when you didn’t want to. You just loved him so much and it came through in everything. Christ, you were even pissing yourself off. You waited for the thank you that you knew wasn’t going to come - Bo had always said such things with his actions, but today it just fucked you off even more instead of making you smile - so you sarcastically said, “Thanks, Y/N. You’re welcome.” The first two words were spoken in a lower octave, mocking Bo’s own voice. Your poor imitation made you smirk as you found it funny in some sick way, but for all of his careful planning, Bo exploded as his temper flared up in an instant; the wrench hitting the wall farthest from you as he launched the tool. It made a thunderous noise, so much so that you almost wanted to put your hands over your ears. A part of you enjoyed the audible chaos. You wanted more, even as you recognised that Bo, in his rage, would still never hurt you. It calmed you down as much as it pissed you off.

“What is the matter wit’ you?” Bo yelled, finally losing his already short patience with you and this entire fucking ridiculous situation. You were usually so warm and happy, the only real fucking light in Ambrose. Anger was a secondary emotion which usually disguised pain and or fear, and Bo was feeling the latter. Did you want to leave Ambrose, leave him? So when faced with an uncomfortable emotion, Bo, too, lashed out, and you realised even in the haze of irritation and sadness that if this carried on, you and Bo were going to devolve into a screaming match. Good. That was what you wanted. Wasn’t much else to do around Ambrose.

“Fuck if I know. I don’t want to do any of this shit.” You threw the to do list at Bo, as if to make a point that it was too much of a demand on you this day, but even with your sharp aim did the paper only flutter pathetically to the floor. If this had been any other situation, you would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. You were fighting off laughter as it was - a panic response. You’d finally managed to piss Bo off, and in a sick way, that had been what you had wanted. Bo gave as good as he got, and it never failed to send a cold chill of anticipation up your back. You loved riling him up; it was the hottest fucking thing and the most dangerous, but it was too late now.

“So this bullshit attitude of yours is all because ya’ don’t wanna pull ya’ weight ‘round here, that it? S’not like ya’ fuckin’ do that anyway.” Bo’s tone was biting, his baby blues like ice, his tongue cutting into you like a blade. You thought you would have preferred an actual knife... it would have hurt you much less than the venom radiating off of Bo.

You scoffed, “Fuck off, Bo! You know as well as I do that I always do things around the town, helping you out and making sure everyone eats and every fucking other thing. I pull my own weight just fine. That’s not even the fucking issue here, I just - “ You felt stinging behind your eyes and nose, and your hands flew to your face, hiding yourself from Bo and distancing yourself from the situation. You wanted to leave, to let yourself and Bo simmer in the tense situation you had created just by letting yourself lash out (and, oh, how you knew better than that), but more than that, oh, more than that, you wanted to stay. You wanted Bo to see you in your rage and in your upset, and you wanted him to help you. Fuck knew if you knew how to help you. You were beyond yourself and you needed Bo. You needed him. It was this realisation which brought your hands away from your face, catching a look of fondness,slight amusement (he did love a good fight, especially when he was in the thick of it) and concern on Bo’s face which vanished as quickly as you had seen it. It was something he hadn’t meant for you to see. It was almost funny in its own way, how much the two of you danced around each other, even in a committed relationship. All the fight left you in a single moment as you had finally, finally burned yourself out. You didn’t have any more energy to give to your emotions this day. You sighed, and the sound was so weighted in all that was unsaid that it only upset you more, and tears fell hot and fast down your face as you broke right in front of Bo. The one you loved the very most.

"I'm sorry, I - " Your voice was barely audible even with the great acoustics which the garage afforded. You dropped to your knees, everything you were feeling from what had happened to cause this in the first place as well as your lack of sleep from the night before was just too much to take. Your body couldn't hold you up anymore and you sunk to the floor, sobbing without a care for the way you had deliberately wound Bo up just to vent your emotions, for the way you had neglected your duties this day, for the way you had just broken in front of the man who loved you, it was true, but he was not the best one when it came to handling emotions. You cried, your tears hot, fast, heavy as they crashed around you. Oh, but it hurt and as a part of you enjoyed it - the sweet release of emotions - a part of you was only more upset and it created a cycle from which you could not escape by yourself. When you hit the very bottom, the only way to go was up, but what if there was more underneath? Even in your rapidly worsening state, you were wise enough to know that you couldn't handle yourself anymore.

You. Needed. Bo.

He had always been able to do for you things which no one else could.

"I'm sorry, I just - "

Boots slowly, carefully, came into your view, and Bo ducked down so that he could look at you fully. He balanced on the balls of his feet, his cap dangling lightly from a finger on his right hand as he watched you. His blue eyes had melted from the ice you had just seen into a warm pool of blue which only made you cry harder. You watched his eyes widen in surprise, worry, and then Bo cleared his throat, "Ya' gotta breathe, darlin'. Take a deep breath now, you're all right. Ain't gonna' hurt'cha." His left hand reached out for your shoulder but then he hesitated, as if he didn't know if you wanted to be touched or not. He wasn't wary of you but of the situation. Either way, it broke your heart to realise that you had done this. Whatever this was.

"Bo, please." More tears slipped down your cheeks as Bo's hand continued to hover in the air between you, but something in your voice made Bo snap. Somehow, somehow, he managed to grab you and pull you into his lap, sitting with his legs outstretched in front of him with you plopped right in the middle. His arms and legs alike locked around you, the safest cage you had ever been in, and he rocked you back and forth slowly.

"Shush, darlin', you're all right. Bo's got'cha. You're all right." Bo pressed kisses all over the side of your face, his lips trembling and his shoulder shaking with worry, concern, adrenaline, rage. He continued to whisper sweet nothings and feather kisses all over the side of your face which he could reach, doing everything he could to soothe you. He knew not what the matter was, he knew not what had happened to you, but he recognised all the signs of a break in you - he felt them in himself every single day - and he didn't want for you to go through it alone.

At some point, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled yourself into Bo, wanting to sink into him. Today could just get fucked. You had Bo now, and he was all you wanted. "I'm sorry, Bo. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Bo listened in a solemn silence to your repetitive apologies. He recognised that perhaps you were going to relapse into tears again, and he didn't want to have to deal with that. Not because he didn't love you, because he did, but because you had only just begun to calm down and he didn't want to tip you over the edge again. Especially if you were the one throwing yourself over. "Hey, hey. No more tears, darlin'. No more. Y're all right." Arms tightened around you, lips pursed against the curve of your cheek. "Now, you wanna tell me sumthin'?"

The literal floodgates had opened, and so too did the verbal ones as you told Bo everything. Everything that had happened to upset you so, everything you had been feeling, everything you had been thinking... You told Bo everything. His trembling grew as did his rage, but he took slow, measured breaths, doing his best to hold his temper in place as he listened to you. If it killed him, Bo would solve your problems. If it was something to actively work on, he would support you. If it was a person, he would enlist his brothers' help to lure them to Ambrose so he could kill 'em and chuck 'em in the roadkill pit; they didn't deserve to be immortalised because they had done this to you. His brothers would both agree. Whatever it was, Bo would do whatever it took to help you, consequences be damned.

"Shit, darlin'," Bo sounded breathless when you were finished, and you burrowed into him, wanting to disappear from the world and into Bo. He would protect you, keep you safe and secure. It was all you wanted. "I wondered why ya' started actin' all crazy like that. Figured you wanted a fight for the helluv'it, but - " Bo shook his head. He'd never been good at words. That was more Vincent's forte, which was ironic given how he was mute.

"I'm sorry, I - "

Bo's arms flexed around you and he shook his head again, one hand moving so that he could cup one of your cheeks. "No more o'that, Y/N. It's done, forgotten. Don't matter no more. I ain't mad. I was," Bo chuckled wryly, "I was pissed as all hell, but I can't be knowin' what I know now." His other hand came up so that the calloused pads of his thumbs could wipe all of your tears away, and he pressed a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead to signify that he was there, that he loved you, that you would be okay.

Bo would make sure of it.

[lesbiheon]

Hi, sorry to bother you! I was just wondering how you got started making gifs? I really love your gifs, and I've been kinda wanting to try to make some, too!! I just don't know where to start...

hello! it’s not a bother at all!!! :-) bc this is such a complex sort of question and it’s kinda hard (for me) to describe things I’ll give a rundown of what questions I asked myself in the beginning and I’ll also link you to some resources!

how do I download the videos that I want to gif?

performance

vimeo

vlive (sometimes works for youtube, twitter, vimeo, tiktok, does not work for vlive+ content!)

youtube

what program do I want to use?

photoshop cc 2020 - the program I use and am most familiar w (this is a crack ver and I’m not sure if it still works! I know that there’s a monthly payment option that gives you access to ALL adobe programs including after effects, premiere pro, audition etc. the whole shebang!)

photoscape (2) - I used to use this program about 10 years when the gif limit was 500kb so I’m not too familiar w it now but I do remember that it was really easy to get the hang of and it’s free

how do I want to import video frames to photoshop?

now assuming photoshop is your program of choice you will need to find the method you prefer for importing frames! there are 3 ways I am familiar w! included are links on how to download and use

file > import > import video frames to layers - this combination within photoshop will pop up a window and you will need to use the slider to select the scene(s) you want

avisynth - works w windows

vapoursynth (2) - typically for mac but also works w windows (this is the method I use and unfortunately I don’t have any links for downloading on windows)

how do I want to crop and size my gif(s)?

crop tool then image > image size - first you need to decide what size you want your gifs to be! here are some sizes frequently used: 268 x 350, 300 x 300, 540 x 250 / image > image size... this combination within photoshop will pop up a window where you can choose what size you want your gifs to be you usually just want to change it to the size of your gif because if you don’t you’ll go past the 10mb limit

avisynth - using the resizer plug in (this will crop your gif to your liking and isn’t as limiting as the method above)

vapoursyth - the same process as the video linked above ^w^

how do I want to sharpen my gif(s)?

smart sharpen - within photoshop

topaz labs - video enhancer software that once downloaded can be found under the filter options within photoshop / denoise and clean are the 2 most used / here is where you can download and here are codes that might work (I’m not sure if they do I haven’t actually used this in years sorry ;;) and here is how to sharpen ***note*** topaz is incredibly finicky and must be done and saved in a specific order or else photoshop will crash and you will tragically lose all your hard work my advice would be to save as you go to avoid a heartbreak...

vapoursyth - coolest thing about this program is that it comes w topaz installed! no need to download it! you will just want to come up w settings you feel comfortable w

how do I color?

this question is a bit hard bc... it’s all about experimenting! there’s a lot of awesome ppl that do post their psds and you are always welcome to use them but you can also just play around yourself! some adjustment layers I recommend to use are selective color, color balance, curves, levels, and hue and saturation!

here are blogs dedicated to just posting psds! kpop-colorings, kaypoppsds, kcolourings, jjangpsd

here is a tutorial on how to add psds to gifs

how do I save for web?

here is a really nice in-depth post about all of its settings!

that’s really all I can think about atm I hope this helps some ;; and pls feel free to msg me directly if you ever need help w something or if you have questions about certain things, etc.! I’d be more than happy to help!!! (I’m also always down to make a video tutorial of how I make gifs/address any specific question you have or anything you’re struggling w!) something I always say to anyone who asks me for advice is to make some sets w the intention of not posting them as in just a random set for yourself! play w cropping play w sharpening methods play w adjustment layers just have fun and experiment on your own time bc just practicing can become really really fun! I wish you lots of luck and the best w gif making!!! and thank you so much ;w; 💓

[merelyplxyers]

If any other man on planet Earth would have made such a crude comment, she probably would have got up and left, no comment, no looking back. Hell, Morrison had dropped something along those lines a couple of weeks back, and it had made her skin crawl and bile rise in her throat.  But Ezra found a way to make it sound normal, even hot, and a shiver ran down her spine, and if he was as observant as she thought he was, he'd see the goosebumps rising on her arms that weren't covered by the blue sundress she wore. On any regular day, she was a jeans and t-shirt kinda gal. Keep it simple was her motto, and even though most people at the bank were expected to wear suits and all, her boss had given up on trying to force her into a dress code. She was too good at what she was doing to risk her leaving. Not to mention that she hadn't asked for a pay raise in years. She just never needed it. His lips were soft against her palm, and it made her pause. Seeing such an intimate and affectionate gesture from him made her wonder if he was always this charming, or if it was more of a show for the people around them.  "Promises, Promises", she joked, seeing Cora from HR standing at the sidelines as if she was waiting to swoop in again and offer Ezra a refill. Her mission for the party seemed to be to find out as much about Lucy's mystery man as she could, having offered to get him the first glass not even five minutes after they entered the venue. Cora probably wanted to loosen his tongue, to get to the nitty-gritty secrets of why he had been a stranger to any party before if he was by Lucy's side as long as she claimed. And, of course, to know if there was a wedding in their future, followed by kids, a dog, and a house with a white picket fence. It made Lucy roll her eyes.  As good as it was to have someone in HR who couldn't shut up to get information occasionally, it was a nuisance once you became the centre of her interest. 'If you are dealing with a raging alcoholic who only didn't get fired from his last job for alcoholism and sexual misconduct because he resigned first, it would be stupid not to', she thought to herself. She turned a little, trying to be as ordinary with the way her eyes wandered around the room to see where he was as she possibly could.  There he stood. Right next to him was the head of accounting and the head of investment, chatting idly, while Morrison picked up and emptied glass number three in one swift move. When their gaze met, she quickly turned back to focus on Ezra, heart beating faster in her chest at the thought that maybe she could have provoked him with that look. Only when she found warm, brown eyes, the concern on her features slowly replacing with a soft smile.

"I am observant, that's all", she said quickly to diffuse the situation and calm her own nerves, leaning closer into Ezra to feel that familiar feeling of calm wash over her, heart slowing down and no longer hammering in her chest. "You, on the other hand, didn't even finish glass one", she said, raising a hand to push back one of his unruly brown locks, and then her fingers glided through the soft curls, nails gently scratching his scalp. "This is as boring as it can get, so I wouldn't blame you if you decided to settle for just free food and drinks", she replied, his sincerity hitting her differently. She knew teasing and flirty Ezra, having conversations full of banter and innuendos with him, but honest and sincere was something she rarely saw with him, if ever. "Or for the reward, once this night is over…", her voice was barely above a whisper when she added it, not wanting to hurt his feelings but unable to hold that thought in for longer. There was this part of her that had believed from the start that Ezra had just accepted her invitation because he didn't know how to refuse. She was begging, after all, practically on her knees when she offered whatever he wanted in return. And she knew his taste. She had spent far too many nights with her hand in her panties as she listened to him on the other side of the wall, groaning and panting, whispering dirty things into someone's ear. She wholeheartedly believed that this was what he would pick, seeing little to no other use of her for a man like him. And if she was totally honest, she didn't just not mind the idea. She was looking forward to it.

"because," his tone was casual as ezra set down his drink before reaching for lucy's hand, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss at her palm, "you'd be able to feel it."

she could think of that as a dick joke if she wanted to, which would be fair enough considering her position on his lap, but if she was really his girl, there would be a decent chance that even with all these people around, he'd be trying to work his way into having her cockwarm him. but even ezra had some sense of propriety and he didn't think that lucy had drank enough for him to drop that kind of comment without her getting uncomfortable.

as lucy twisted in his lap, ezra's hand dropped from her neck to her hip, rubbing up and down her side and feeling the smooth material of her outfit with each brush of his palm. "you've been keeping track of how much he's drinking? maybe i should be jealous." he teased, but he was also somewhat surprised. to pay that much attention that she knew how much he'd drank meant that she had to truly be on edge around the man, worried in a way that not even ezra's presence could calm.

did she perhaps think that, with ezra's behavior, he wasn't going to live up to what he promised her? "of course i did. that's what i'm here for, isn't it?" for the first time in the conversation, he lost his teasing tone and sounded serious instead. he was there to make sure the guy didn't mess with her and that was exactly what he'd do.

[countessofbiscuit]

If you're taking potential prompts...Fox and Riyo discuss tattoos in their respective cultures? Maybe while one gets a new design or a touch-up?

Fox didn’t set the Republic military standards, but he sure as heck has to exemplify them. So it’s my headcanon that he doesn’t have any tats until Riyo’s affection works on him and/or the shittiness of the rest of his life strips his uptight grain. But I like to think this still fits the bill! Thanks for the prompt : )

- - - - - 

Inked

2k. Teen. Also on Ao3.

- - - - - 

The Senate concourse never slept, but most of the Dome’s regulars had long since made for their beds when Fox spotted Senator Riyo Chuchi waiting for the Annex hovertram. She stood alone on the platform, arms wrapped snugly around herself and engrossed in the floor's marbling. The hour was far from social, but Fox had both an apology to make and thanks to offer. And there was no time like the present.

“Good evening, Senator Chuchi,” he greeted from a polite distance. Natborns, especially politicians haloed round by ego, took personal space seriously; brothers wouldn’t give both ears unless someone were right on top of them and they still might not pay any heed.

She straightened up, almost startled. But then — a diplomatic smile. “Commander Fox. Is everything alright?”

Species and biographic profiles popped across his display. Fox blinked them away.

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry for the disturbance. I wanted to apologize for not addressing you properly the other day, when you kindly held the lift for me.” For him, the discomfited idiot, who couldn’t bring himself to enter the public turbolift he'd subversively called when faced with a mere Senate guard and a pretty woman. “And to thank you — for that, and for not giving me away to Senator Robb.”

They’d only just been formally introduced yesterday by the Security Committee Chair — and Senator Chuchi had not let on that Fox had recently broken a Dome directive. Ignorance or indulgence, it mattered little. The effect on the fresh-off-the-transport commander was the same: he was very grateful.

“Oh! Of course. You’re most welcome,” Senator Chuchi answered mechanically. Diplomatically. Stalling for understanding with a squint behind her smile.

“My database wasn’t synced to my input feeds yet,” Fox clarified. He’d been plagued by a deep need to reassure her that he took professionalism seriously. That he wasn’t chronically cavalier with protocol. “I didn’t know who you were, at first. But I’ve modded the software, so I —”

The tram approached. But it was Senator Chuchi’s blue hand on Fox's gauntlet that really stopped his thoughts short at the brainstem. She was very petite and looked about as warm as a silk petal in a breeze; but Fox’s skin prickled strangely under the plastoid.

And she wasn’t cutting him off: she was holding him in place. When the tram doors parted, she did not let go. Senator Chuchi meant to keep him with her. Closely. As no one else was around — especially as no one else was around, Fox had no argument against overstepping another rule if the Senator condoned it.

The tram was reserved for senators whatever time of day; when Dome-bound platforms were busy, and certainly when a vote was called, no mere aide, intern, attaché or privileged tourist could expect passage. The tram droid would spot you at fifty paces, bleat and wail with flashing lights, shame you into the permacrete. Clones were just supposed to walk — or, in Fox’s case, bike.

“Truly, you’re very considerate,” Senator Chuchi replied once they were onboard. “But I didn’t notice. I forget that my face doesn’t always give me away.”

It certainly gave her away as being very beautiful. Fox killed his display entirely. He even indulged the idea of removing his helmet, the better to appreciate her. But that would be quite forward: she hadn’t asked and the Guard had a lids-on policy handed down by the executive office.

Fox cocked his helmet in silent encouragement.

“Chuchi tattoos.” She touched two fingers to her cheek. “Obvious to Pantorans.”

Fox cast his mind back to cultural modules. He remembered certain trivia and understood that this was a situation which called for small talk. “I've read about Pantoran ink. Is there really aurodium in yours?” he asked in a carefully modulated voice, though there was no one to overhear.

“Yes. It’s still common practice for — among certain families. Impossible for the layman to tell, however.”

Fox mentally calculated about twenty seconds until arrival. The time begged another question. “Did it hurt?”

“The first time. But everything is unbearable to a child. They were filled out when I came of age and it wasn’t so bad.”

“Who did yours?” Fox found his questions coming as naturally as her answers. This wasn't so bad. Not at all.

“Someone my Grandmama knew. They decide these things. And they keep the rakes.”

“Rakes?”

“The tattooing tool. Usually the bone — well, it’s … it’s customary to keep an ulna and radius of one’s mother to be fashioned into rakes, and then into button hooks or hair pins once they’re worn down.”

Wasn’t the oddest natborn tradition he’d ever heard. And just the other day Stone reported that a detachment of MPs had cut their teeth over Ohma-D’un breaking up a brawl about some cursed finger of Jango’s. A few units claimed to possess one. Everyone deferred to Geonosis vets, and really, what was the harm? Well, until they came to blows over it. “Huh.”

“Do you have any?” she asked.

“Ma’am?”

“Tattoos?”

Thankfully, the hovertram was slowing into the station. It allowed Fox a transitory moment to consider why she’d care and to gather his conflicted thoughts on the subject as they disembarked.

Strictly speaking, tattoos were against regs, at least for clones. The RCMJ prohibited any bodily ornamentation that might bring discredit upon the galaxy’s preeminent military, but culturally significant tattoos and jewellery were permissible for natborns — the unspoken being that clones didn’t have a culture to claim.

“No, I don’t have any. It’s, uhh … not allowed in the Guard.” Not that Fox hadn’t seen some. Even before deployment — back before it was his problem to punish — the occasional itch to differentiate, to distinguish, had defied the longnecks’ surveillance, at least until the next quality control inspection.

Some experiments with filched hypos and med-markers had lasted longer than others. Stars and heavens help the bastards who’d inked themselves and paid for it in sweat and blood and punishment tours, only for the artistry to fade. Or for the shine to quickly wear off their youthful love of Coruscanti opera or the Galactic Senate. Or for the limb get plain blown off.

“Oh. On what grounds?” she asked.

In the main, Fox liked the RMCJ: it accorded a comforting set of guardrails, standards, and norms in a new and overwhelming operating environment. But he sensed a rebuke of the hard facts of life forming in the good Senator’s mind.

No point clouding the issue for her sensibilities; the regs only referenced what the Military Creation Act made plain in Section 3: all of clonedom, from marshal commanders to the lowest and last trooper on the production line, belonged to her federal government. Down to the dermis.

“Defacement of Republic property,” Fox offered as he followed her onto the Annex slideramp, since she hadn’t dismissed him yet.

Senator Chuchi did indeed frown up at him. “Does it really say that?”

“Yes. In the uniform code.” In a number of articles, actually — like the ones about mistreatment of service property and punishments for desertion. “There’s a certain leniency out in the field, I gather,” Fox added lightly, though privately he marvelled how any officer could sufficiently shake that feeling of a cold finger hovering behind their ear and get inked; would he even recognize himself without observational stress? “But it’d be nice to have it codified — or, err, uncodified.”

While he’d made it widely and painfully understood that facial tattoos would be burned off before they could be flagged as culturally insensitive, Fox wasn’t wholly a rule-bound, stuffed suit of armor. He was slightly more practical than purist. The Guard’s plates needed to be uniform and finer than dinnerware, sure; but so long as you were fit to fight, what happened under your blacks was between you, your sergeant, and your capacity to endure barracking.

Fox chose not to see a lot of things and liked to figure what natborns couldn’t see couldn’t hurt them.

Problem was, natborns liked to see fucking everything, especially politicians curious about how fully organic their new army was. Inspect, his shebs — bother, interrupt, and gawp at, more like. Guard Central off the Executive Thoroughfare was hardly incognito and not necessarily off-limits if you could nab some natborn logistics lieutenant with the most basic clearance.

It was only a matter of time before a guardsman got his favorite dancing girl slapped across his back in glorious color and some peeping bureaucrat kicked up a stink about a gross lack of standards in the locker room. Fox could do nothing about General Tiaan or other top brass, but at least they trumpeted a few hours before their arrival to ensure the proper pomp and ceremony — and they didn’t care about the showers.

Senator Chuchi had gone quiet as they reached the main Annex lobby. Fox’s neck dampened to think he’d lowered her spirits or given her cause to regret his company.

He also believed guilt helped no one. She didn’t seem pompous or presumptuous, just unfailingly polite. Maybe he had a chance to make a real ally. “If I may request a favor, ma’am,” he ventured, steepling his hands at his navel like he’d seen the Chancellor do when putting forth a sensitive proposition. “For my own ... err, family.”

This time Senator Chuchi arrested Fox with both hands on his gauntlets. He couldn’t have moved if Corrie’s axis pitched. “Certainly,” she said. “I like to think I’m a public servant. And not only for Pantorans.”

Fox had been primed to make a short speech about clone personhood and the need for senatorial sympathy. He was damn tired, though. And moonstruck. Enough to make him chuckle and ask instead, “If you could maybe … I don’t know, discreetly put it round that it’s gauche for politicians to drop into the barracks unexpected? The men don’t get a lot of privacy and the shower block’s the closest thing to a spiritual retreat they’ve got.”

Senator Chuchi’s bright eyes widened, his display registering a sharp increase in her pulse and temperature. “Of course. You have my word. I’ll see if can carefully address this matter of … discretion. And I’m sorry you had to ask.” Her knuckles paled as she squeezed his armor; he felt nothing but her sincerity.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Fox was so flustered, he nearly invited her to drop by his block anytime, which would’ve been the height, depth, and breadth of stupidity. Instead he said something else that was only marginally short on sense. “It’s very late. May I escort you home?”

“That’s kind of you, Commander. But my driver will be here now.” Her driver — of course: she was as rich as Koros, she possessed a smile literally finer than gold, and she wasn’t touching him anymore. Fox bowed his head low — a head that had almost outgrown his helmet in a moment of unprofessional conceit.

He had to walk back down the Thoroughfare to fetch his bike. As he did, Fox wondered what might bring him to patronize that closet in the barracks he wasn’t supposed to know about. What he’d ask for, if he ever forgot his station enough to ask. What could ever stir his heart so much, that he’d wish to mark the spot.

Hypos and hypotheticals: Fox, senior commander and paragon of the Guard, didn’t have time or liberty for either. He tried to forget all about it.

[gabriel-agreste-has-no-rights]

Rating: T

Chapter Summary:  Carapace helps Ladybug and Chat Noir build a bathroom.

Word Count:  2491 | Chapter 3/?

XXX

Carapace leaned over the back of the couch.  That made his hood-like mask slipped down over his eyes; she’d need to take his measurements and make adjustments.  Just one more thing to put on her list.  

“So. Bathrooms, huh?”

“Bathrooms.”  Marinette sighed, slumping back on the couch.  She had a notebook in her lap, but all of her ideas so far had been scratched out.  

She couldn’t Lucky Charm a toilet.  (She’d tried.)  She refused to dig a hole and just let Chat Noir Cataclysm the waste periodically.  (Ew.)  She’d even spitballed ideas with some of the kwamis, but like Plagg, none of them really understood the need for a bathroom.  Instead they just floated in front of the TV, playing Mario Kart on Chat’s Switch.

Carapace settled down on the couch next to her, sipping his Carpi Sun and watching the race. Kaalki was winning as Princess Peach, with Wayzz driving Bowser close behind.  Orikko seemed content to let Yoshi trail near the bottom of the rankings.  Xuppu as Donkey Kong was in last place, on account of him refusing to hold the remote right-side up.

“Do you have any ideas?”  She handed her notebook to Carapace.

“You don’t have to build a bathroom, y’know.  I thought it would be cool, especially if we all have a sleepover sometime, but you’ve already done a ton for us. We can deal.”  

She knew they could, but it would make her feel better to have a bathroom, too.  

(Plus, she’d aced her Physics exam last week.  It would be nice to repay Chat Noir somehow.)

“We’ve come this far.  I’m not going to give up now,” she said.

Carapace squinted down at the paper.  Flipped to the next blank page.  Flipped it back.

“Uhhhh… so what do you have ‘this far’?”

“...Pretty much nothing.  But I’m sure there’s a solution!  If I can figure out how to use a Lucky Charm every fight, I’m pretty sure I can come up with something as simple as indoor plumbing.”

“Maybe you’re thinking about it wrong.”  Carapace shut the notebook.  “You don’t write things down when you’re figuring out a Lucky Charm, right?  You just… I don’t know, it always looks like magic to me.”  He smiled sheepishly.

It wasn’t part of the miraculous magic.  It was just the way her brain worked.  But he had a point—it might help to look at this from a different angle.

“You’re right.”  

She stood, smiling at Wayzz’s laughter as the kwami crossed the finish line.  It was good for him to spend time with his friends again, which was why she’d met Carapace here this evening.  She hadn’t yet passed on the code for anyone else to open the Miracle Box.

“I’m going to need to borrow Kaalki,” she told the kwamis.

“Me?”  Kaalki frowned, pointing a hoof to her chest.  “What for?”

“I’m… not exactly sure yet,” she admitted.  Kaalki’s Voyage was definitely part of her plan, but she was still missing a few pieces.  

She scanned the room, gathering objects that caught her eye: a colander from the kitchen, the dragon choker in the open Miracle Box, the sewer map tucked behind that.  Then her yo-yo and the turtle bracelet on Nino’s wrist.  So close, but it still didn’t quite add up.

At least she had an idea of what she might need the yo-yo for.  She flipped it open and clicked on one of her few contacts.

“Bugaboo?”  Chat picked up on the first ring.  “Miss me already?”

“It sounds like you missed me, if you’re out and transformed.”  She smirked.  “Meet me at the base.  We’re putting in the bathroom.”

XXX

“I know your plans are usually pretty complicated, but are they always so…”

“Clever?  Amazing?  Inconceivable?”  Chat Noir asked while brushing off his hands.

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” Nino  said automatically, then shook his head.  “I was gonna say messy.”

“Not always.  It’s about fifty-fifty.”  Ladybug—well, Dragonbug, technically—used a broom to sweep out the black dust left over from Chat Noir’s Cataclysm.  It wasn’t enough dust to account for the huge chunk of rock that had been there.  His power must do more than just break things; it actually destroyed them.

Miraculous of destruction.  Duh.  Still, it was super cool to watch the magic up close and personal.

He could hardly believe Ladybug and Chat Noir had picked him out to hold his miraculous full-time.  Alya would’ve killed for a chance like this, and he couldn’t even tell her about it.  He kept worrying he’d accidentally let something slip, and then she’d use her nosy reporter skills to get the whole truth out of him.  

So far he’d been lucky.  Even if he almost cackled when she called “Carapace” a ninja-turtle wannabe.

“Carapace?  Are you ready?”  Dragonbug faced him.

“Huh?  Oh, yeah, of course!”

He stepped into the small room Dragonbug and Chat Noir had finished carving out.  The only thing that stood out was the cylindrical hole in the wall, just a little bit above his head.

His job was to use Shellter in the back of the indention, leaving just a fist-sized gap in the front of the spherical shield.  Luckily he’d practiced different barrier formations since Chat Noir had broken the news about his Miracle Box shield.  He still hadn’t found a useful way to protect the box, but he could make a shield with a hole in it now.

“Shellter!”  He called while plunging his fist into the hole.  Green light exploded inside, pushing the dirt and stone outwards.  The wall trembled slightly, but held.

“How’s that?”  He asked with a grin.  Dragonbug’s plan didn’t make sense to him yet, but he was sure it would be awesome.

“Perfect.”  She clapped him on the shoulder before they swapped places, her own hands inside the hole.  “Now—water dragon!”

He and Chat Noir peeked over her shoulders, trying to see what was happening.  

“You’re making a water tank,” Chat Noir realized with a grin.  “See?  What did I tell you, Cara?  Inconceivable.”

Nino just laughed.  At times like this, he felt like he wasn’t an outsider on the team.  As crazy cool as Chat Noir and Ladybug were, they weren’t larger-than-life.  They were just… dudes, like him.  There was no need to get starstruck like Rena.

Dragonbug capped the hole with the end of a plunger, her latest Lucky Charm.  Nino was just glad that hadn’t been for a toilet. 

“If I get you some measurements, Chat, can you do some math for me?  I want to know how much water this actually holds, and how many showers it should supply before we need to refill it.”

“Depends on how long your showers take, but sure.  I’ve had some physics problems like that before.”

Dragonbug used her sword to puncture a few smaller holes in the wall, then secured the colander over the top of the plunger.

“So it’s like a shower head.”  Nino nodded.  “Smart.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Carapace.”  She smiled at him.  “You were right.  I was thinking too hard, when we had everything we needed all along.”

His face warmed a bit under her praise.  “I didn’t do much.”

“It’s not always about what you do, turtle dude.”  Chat Noir slung an arm around his shoulders.  “We’re a team now.  And even though LB’s usually the brains, we all support each other.”

“Chat’s right.  Wayzz picked you for a reason, and so did we.”

It was cool that they the heroes wanted to include him, but it was hard to take them seriously when they’d all just jerry-rigged a shower together.

“Because I’d help you build a bathroom?”  He joked.  

“Come on, we were having a moment!”  Chat pulled back and playfully punched him in the arm.  “You’re supposed to be thinking wow, the amazing Chat Noir picked me!”

He cracked a grin.  “Ladybug’s right.  You’re a real drama queen, bro.”

Chat Noir gaped at his partner.  “When did you say that?”

“Most recently?  About an hour ago.  But if you meant how many times I’ve said it, I’ve already lost count.”

“You wound me, my Lady.”  He clutched his hands to his heart.  

“See?  My point exactly.”  She waved her sword at him with a smirk.

He sighed.  “Walked right into that one, didn’t I.”

“Yeah.”  Nino patted his shoulder consolingly.

“Maybe one day she’ll be the king to my drama queen,” Chat sighed again, but this time in a more lovesick sort of way.  The same way Marinette always sighed over his bro Adrien.  If Alya hadn’t expressly forbidden him from interfering in any way—and if Chat and Marinette weren’t both so hopelessly in love with their own crushes—he might’ve tried to set the two of them up on a blind date.  At least then they could both be dramatic together.

“Good luck with that, dude.”  

“Are you going to stand there sighing, or actually help me?”  Ladybug had her hands on her hips.  She’d already dismissed Longg, who flew to hover by Kaalki.

“You know I’m always at your command, my Lady.”  Chat swept his arm in a dramatic bow.  

“Show Carapace how to combine miraculouses.  He’s never done it before.”

“Me?”  Nino pointed to himself and blinked.  “I can do that too?”

“I said this base was for training purposes, didn’t I?”  Ladybug handed him the dark glasses.  “Well, consider this training.”

“What? I thought I was to transform the glorious and famous Chat Noir.”  Kaalki crossed her arms.

Chat’s eyes widened for a second before he grinned.  “You heard her.  Ready to admit how glorious I am yet?”

“In your dreams, kitty.”  Ladybug laughed before turning and crouching before the kwami.  “Please, Kaalki?  I may not know Carapace that well yet, but I know he has a good heart, and he’s always willing to protect others first.  I think that’s the most glorious thing of all, don’t you?”

Did she really think that?  He found his face warming again, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

“She’s right, you know.”  Chat Noir nudged Nino with his elbow.  “You’re always running in to take hits.  You’re almost as bad as me.”

“I’ve actually got a shield, though.”  He patted the shield on his back, and Chat laughed.

“Good point.  I’ll let Ladybug throw you at the akumas next time.”

By then, Ladybug had finally convinced Kaalki to transform him.

“It’s really not hard,” the kwami said.  “All you need to do is speak my name and Wayzz’s, then say unify.  Just like Ladybug did to become Dragonbug.”

Nino had watched her combine the miraculouses before they started constructing the room. It had looked that simple, but he’d still assumed there was a trick to it.

“That’s it?  I don’t have to, I dunno, feel something in my heart?”

Chat laughed before thumping him on the back.  “You’re a funny dude, Cara.  Oh, but there is one thing she forgot to tell you—you’ve got to neigh like a horse while you transform for this one.”

“Chat!”  Ladybug smacked his arm, but he just laughed again.  “No, you don’t.  You will need to bring your hands together, though.  It allows the magic to flow through you better, so the powers mix evenly.  That’s what the Master always said, anyway.”

He nodded.  “Alright.  Wayzz, Kaalki, unify!”

He punched his fists together, and teal light crackled over him.  It tingled in a different way from the first transformation.  His turtle suit always felt warm, like putting on a comfortable blanket.  This was more like walking outside during a heat wave.  A moment of dizziness passed before he could breathe again.

“Does it always feel like that?”

“Oh.  Right.”  Ladybug smiled apologetically.  “I should’ve warned you about the heat.  It should pass in a moment.”

Sure enough, the heat faded like the dizziness had.  He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together.  The gloves of his suit were brown now instead of green; he wished he had a mirror to check out the rest of his costume.  They’d have get one for the bathroom eventually.

“Cool, cool.  Anything else I should know?”  He asked.

She went over how to use Voyage, then directed him to the spot she’d drawn out in chalk.  

Sweat beaded under his mask.  Getting the exact coordinates of a magic portal sounded a lot more complicated than throwing up a shield.  Whoever Pegasus was, he must be a real genius.

But right now they didn’t have Pegasus, and Ladybug seemed to think he could do this.  He didn’t want to disappoint her and Chat Noir.

He fixed the portal’s destination in his mind.

“You sure I can’t make this go to, I don’t know, Gabriel Agreste’s office?”  He asked with a grin.  “Y’know, as a random, nonspecific example.”

Chat Noir’s eyes widened for half a second before he doubled over laughing.  Ladybug looked mortified.

“What do you have against Gabriel Agreste?”  She asked.

“Other than that his designs are bland and unoriginal?”

“Or that he looks like he’s swallowed an onion in every photo?”  Nino added.

“Or his sour cream dollop toupée?”

“Heh, you mean tou-pee.”  

Chat Noir cackled at that, and they hi-fived.

“I’m sorry, bugaboo.  I think I’m going to have to replace you with the turtle.”

Ladybug rubbed her temples.  “I need Rena here.  This is too much idiot boy energy for me to handle.”

“You know you love us.”  Chat grinned.

Nino still couldn’t help wondering what beef Chat actually had with Adrien’s dad, but of course he couldn’t ask.  Just like he couldn’t admit that his own grudge against the candy-cane man came from how he treated Nino’s best bro.

“Alright, stand back.”  He finally shoed them away.  “I gotta get in the zone for this.”

He pictured the sewer—a real sewage plant, not the storm drain their base was connected to.  Then he punched his fist towards the floor.

“Voyage!”

A glowing portal opened up in the stone.  And it reeked.

“Smells like it worked.”  Ladybug pinched her nose.  “I’ll get the hardware set up later.  In the meantime…”

She dragged over a manhole cover that Chat had fetched for them on his way over.  It was wide enough to cover the small portal and stop the fumes from leaking out.

“I think that’s all we can do for now,” she said before holding out her fist.  “Pound it?”

Nino had shared Ladybug and Chat Noir’s post-battle tradition plenty of times before, but for some reason, this one felt as special as his first.  Maybe because it was over something so crazy.  Maybe he was getting sappy, but it felt like the heroes trusted him for more than just watching their backs in battle.

They were more than heroes, and they were more than just dudes.  They were his friends. 

He smiled at them.

“Pound it!”

[cardentist]

the transmisandry “debate” and the attitude towards trans men is so transparently a retreading of literally every exclusionary movement of the last few decades and Yet it’s being perpetrated and tolerated by what otherwise should be inclusionist spaces because it’s once again being pointed at a more “acceptable” target

like, on some level I understand the gut reaction, the term itself is associated with a lot of negativity and “mens rights activists” and the like have made the idea of men specifically facing oppression for being men at best laughable and at worst a red flag for violent misogyny. it’s one of those things that a lot of people in left leaning spaces take for granted as being true across the board, something they don’t need to think about or examine. and to be clear “they” included me for quite some time, I do understand where the feeling comes from

but it’s not about oppression for being men, it’s oppression for being trans men, it’s transmisandry for the same reason that transmisogyny is transmisogyny. it’s a term specifically meant to cast a net over the broad array of experiences that people have specifically as trans men to give them an outlet to both examine their experiences in relation to the wider community of trans men and to specifically seek and give reassurance and solidarity to each other. 

the bigger problem with this argument is that many people will resort to denying what I’ve just said in order to reject the proposed term, whether it’s something they’d actually believe once they examined the situation in earnest or not. because people act as though acknowledging that trans men face oppression for being trans men will open up the floodgates leading to cis straight white men convincing people that they’re oppressed for being men. so trans men Can’t be oppressed for being trans men because trans men are men and men aren’t oppressed.

so leading from this line of thought what you’ll generally see is the argument that what trans men experience is “just” transphobia, and if you press the issue or bring up a personal example you’ll almost as commonly get that anything else is “just” “misdirected” misogyny. and just, there’s so So much to unpack there that I’m almost tempted to just leave it where it is, but ignoring the issue won’t make it go away and I wouldn’t be writing this post if I didn’t want the issue to change.

the point with, I think, the least baggage is one that I’ve already touched upon, that being that the experiences of trans men and trans women are just naturally going to be different from each other and it’s useful for both parties to have language to talk specifically about their experiences, in the same way that it’s useful to examine the differences between the experiences of binary and nonbinary trans people. it doesn’t matter who you think has it “worse” because this isn’t a competition to see who’s oppressed enough to Deserve having their experiences heard. the urge for trans men to make a term to describe their experiences isn’t some way to try to argue that they’re more oppressed, it’s born from the inherent need to be understood and to see that other people exist in the way that you have. it’s the solidarity that brought the trans community together in the first place

a point leading off of that with probably significantly more baggage is the idea that queer and lgbt+ spaces are a contest to measure your oppression in the first place. don’t get me wrong, it Is useful to recognize different axis’ of oppression, to recognize larger patterns of violence faced by specific groups of people at a disproportionate rate. it helps us, as an entire community, identify the most vulnerable groups of people so we can lean into helping them on both a systemic and individual level, so we can see whose voices need to be boosted so they can be heard both in and out of the community. and moreover having these numbers and experiences together can help people outside of the community see that it’s is a problem as well. 

however, the issue comes in when perceived theoretical oppression is used as a social capital to decide who is and is not allowed to be heard. I’m sure I’ve already lost the ace exclusionists ages ago by now, so that’s a perfect example. at it’s most extreme ace exclusionism is blatant bigotry and hatred justified with the excuse that they’re protecting the queer and lgbt+ community from privileged invaders, and even when in it’s milder form ace exclusionism is powered by the idea that asexual people don’t face oppression. marginalized people are denied resources, solidarity, safe spaces, and voices because they’re painted as not being oppressed or not being oppressed Enough. this wouldn’t be able to happen if your worth as a member of the lgbt+ community wasn’t measured by how oppressed your particular minority group is, if it didn’t have the sway that it has. creating a power structure in any way at all leaves people with the ability to exploit that structure, and the specific one that’s emerged within the queer community and leftist spaces in general allows people to exploit it while hiding it as moral, while hiding that they’re causing any pain at all. it’s the same frame of mind that’s made bullying cool in activist spaces 

another reason why this hierarchy tends to fail on an individual level is, of course, that the level of oppression that an entire group faces does not dictate someone’s lived experiences, which is an idea that goes both ways. the argument over whether or not asexuals are oppressed is ultimately a meaningless distraction from the lived experiences of asexual people. it is a Fact that asexuals face higher levels of rape and sexual assault than straight people, you can deny that what they’re facing counts as oppression specifically but what does that matter? there are people who are suffering and that suffering can be lessened by allowing those people into our community, shouldn’t that be enough? likewise, comparing the suffering of individual people as if they were the same as the suffering of their respective groups combined is absolutely absurd. someone who is murdered for being a trans man isn’t less dead than someone who was murdered for being a trans woman. a trans woman isn’t Guaranteed to have lived a harder life than any and every other trans man just because of a difference in statistics, and the same can be said for literally every other member of the lgbt+ and queer communities. other community members aren’t concepts, they aren’t numbers, they’re people with unique lives and sorrows and joy. neither you or I or anyone else is the culmination of our respective or joint communities and some people need to learn how to act like it.

again, there is Meaning in seeing how our oppression is different, it’s not inherently wrong, but creating a framework where it can be used to paint a group of people as both lesser within the community and less deserving of help is creating a framework that can more than readily be abused. and because it positions the abused as privileged it creates a situation where the abuser can justify it to themselves. you use another minority as an outlet for the pain you feel under the weight of the same system that hurts them while denying their pain.

but to pull the conversation back to trans men specifically, lets examine lived experiences for a while longer. “misdirected misogyny” and “just misogyny” are both employed commonly in exclusionist spaces to deny that either someone’s oppression happened to them for the reason they say it did or to deny that their oppression is their own, and often times it’s both. for instance, the claim that ‘asexual people may face higher rates of sexual assault but That’s just because of misogyny (and/or misdirected homophobia)’ is used to deny that what asexual people face is oppression for being asexual. if you can’t deny that an assault victim was assaulted without either violating your own moral code or the moral code of the community you’ve surrounded yourself with then denying the cause of their assault is a more socially acceptable way of depriving them of the resources they need to address that assault. their pain wasn’t their own, it belongs to someone else, someone who’s Really oppressed.

in the context of trans men the argument is, of course, that they’re men. if they just so happen to face misogyny then it’s because they were mistakenly perceived as women. this works a convenient socially acceptable way to deny the lived experiences of a group you want to silence both in the ways that I’ve already illustrated And with the added bonus woke points of doing so while affirming someone’s gender identity in the process.

again, I want to reiterate, even if it were objectively true that all trans men face transphobia and misogyny totally separately, like a picky toddler that doesn’t want their peas anywhere near their mashed potatoes, that is ultimately an insufficient framework when talking about individual lives. there’s literally nothing wrong with trans men wanting to talk about their lived experiences with other trans men in the context of them Being trans men. being black isn’t inherently a part of the trans experience but being black Does ultimately affect your experiences as a trans person and how they impact you and it’s meaningful to discuss the intersection of those two experiences on an individual level. 

but it just, Isn’t true. this shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone, but trans men were born in bodies that are perceived as being women, misogyny is a Feature to the experiences of trans men inherently. even trans men who are fully transitioned, have full surgery, have all their papers worked out, completely pass, move to a new state and changed their name, and have zero contact with anyone who ever knew them before or during their transition still lived a significant portion of their lives under a system that was misogynistic against them. of course there’s still a spectrum of personal experiences with it, just like there are with cis women and trans women, but to present the misogyny that trans men face as “accidental” is just absurd.  and moreover, most trans men Aren’t the hypothetical Perfect Passing Pete. I’ve identified as trans for seven years now and I frankly don’t have the resources to even begin thinking about transitioning and won’t for what’s looking to be indefinitely, I don’t even begin to come within the ballpark of passing and it Sure Does Show. misogyny is just as present in my life as it would be for a cis woman but the difference is that I’m not supposed to talk about it.  and even barring That there are transitioned trans men who face misogyny specifically because they are trans men, before during and after transition. you could argue that that’s “just” transphobia but you could do the same for transmisogyny. if we can acknowledge that trans women have experiences that specifically come from their status as women who can be wrongly perceived as men then we should all be able to acknowledge that trans men have experiences that specifically come from their status as men who can be wrongly perceived as women and that both the similarities and differences between these experiences are worth talking about. 

another issue with painting it as “just” misogyny that ties pretty heavily into what I was just talking about is the fact that men don’t have the same access to spaces meant to talk about misogyny that women do.  again, this is something that makes sense on a gut level, it’s not like cis men are being catcalled while walking to 7/11. but like, a lot of trans men are. misogyny is a normal facet in the lives of trans men but male voices are perceived as being invaders in spaces meant to talk about misogyny, both in and out of trans specific spaces and conversations

trans men lose a solidarity with women that they do not gain with men. there’s a certain pain and othering that comes with intimately identifying with the experiences of a group of people while being denied that those experiences are yours, of being treated the same way for the same reason but at once being aware that the comfort and understanding being extended isn’t For you and feeling like you’re cheating some part of your sense of self by identifying with it.

part of that is just the growing pains of getting used to existing as a trans person, but that in and of itself doesn’t mean that we aren’t allowed to find a solution. if trans men can’t, aren’t allowed, or don’t want to speak about their experiences in women’s spaces then why not allow them to talk about their experiences together? the fact that we even have to argue over whether or not trans men Deserve to talk about their experiences is sad enough in it’s own right, but even sadder is inclusionists, people who should frankly know better at this point, refusing to stand up for trans men because someone managed to word blatant bigotry in an acceptable way Once Again.

[thearoacespace]

Okay, so people have said that they don't like iodic/euporic/callistic because it's "associating certain actions with romance". I've had a long time to think about this so here's my response

1) the idea line between "romance-like" and "not romance-like" is very blurry, and i intentionally tried to word the definitions to be as vague as possible. The definition is entire based on what you personally consider to be traits of romantic relationships.

2) Yes, in an ideal world we would not have "romance-coded" actions. People could do anything they want together and there would be no assumptions made about the nature of their relationship. However, we do not live in an ideal world. As much as we wish for this to be reality, we are all affected by society and we all have subconscious associations. Just look at how many aro-spec people dislike the idea of kissing. In an ideal world you would be able to kiss your friends and have it be no big deal, because kissing isn't an inherently romantic activity. So does that means all aro-spec people who are repulsed by kissing are bad because they're reenforcing the idea that actions can be romance-coded? Of course not, different people will have didn't comfort levels with everything. However, it fair to say that, for many of these people at least, kissing is a romantic-coded activity, which is why they, as an aro-spe person might feel uncomfortable with it.

So yes, the idea of inherently romance-coded activities don't exist. However, everyone has their own ideas of romance-coded activities that simple come from the fact that we live in a society.

Until we actually live in that ideal world, where no one has any preconceived notions of romantic activities, I think it can be useful to draw a distinction between aro-spec people who are comfortable with preforming actions that are commonly preserved as romantic and aro-spec people who aren't.

3) Obviously, no has to use this system if they don't want to. I created the system because I personally found it useful to describe my experience. If the terms don't fit your experience of aromanticism then don't use them.

[lieutenant-thaliagrace]

Feast of Spes

All good news folks! We survived the evening, no deadly prophecies or the like, I think that means good fortunes for the year to come. Something we are all greatly looking forward to.

As was expected, Annie was very pleased about being made responsible for Jercy and controlling their poor life decisions...

Luckily the boys were on their best behaviour... well, almost.

Leo swung by too of course, just to add to the destruction. For the record, alcohol and those three is a very, very bad mix.

Piper spent most of the evening making sure everyone was getting appropriately dressed up for the feast - apparently it was hard work, took a couple hours or so. Can’t say I’m surprised. 

Hazel did manage to rope Will into coming, which meant that Nico was in fact forced to tag along in a suit and everything (we couldn’t get him to lose the jacket tho).

Rey, however, was conviced to fully dress up (not that she really had a choice, she chose the dress code) and well I’m pretty sure her aim was to kill me, and she did that... like honestly just... damn.

But hey, I can bring my A game too sometimes. I mean I feel like it took a lot more effort and a considerable amount more help than it did for my stunning other half... but we got there eventually. Black tie event, officially complete. Roll on a year of what will hopefully be more good fortunes.

p.s. quick little thanks to our two favourite Praetors for organising this thing (I know it was a stress) and a thanks to our go to stylist @ Pipes too bc we all know we kicked up a bit of a fuss.

CHB hosting the next one... good luck guys ;)

[tybalt-tisk]

//.focus, princess

{Shallura // Protect Au} Allura is bored in a meeting but luckily she has Shiro.  This is for @synergetic-prose who wanted more from the Protect Au. //

Allura had a headache. She’s had one for the past two days now. She had multiple meetings back to back that was only interrupted by luncheons and banquets - which didn’t help because a luncheon was just a meeting that involved food, and a banquet was just a fancy meeting that involved food that also required her to dress up. As the princess of Altea, she was expected to be in attendance to each and every single one with a smile.

She held back a groan as she finally finished reading over the extensive list of materials that she had to vote on at the end of the evening. This meeting was a complete waste of her time. After the hectic week she had, she wanted nothing more than to go back home, take a long, hot shower and have a glass of wine. Maybe three.

She refrained from rubbing her temples when the man talking repeated himself for the 4th time. At this point, she was starting to wonder if he just liked the sound of his own voice just a little too much, seeing that he’s been the only speaker since this meeting started close to half an hour ago. She mentally checked out the second he opened his mouth.

Discreetly, to be respectful of the speaker, she held her phone in her lap as she scrolled through emails. Most didn’t need her immediate attention, but the ones that did, she replied with a short, but concise response. She glanced up when the speaker brought up a new point, and quickly returned her gaze to her phone once she realized that he was quickly going on another wordy allocution about himself. She had already read through the materials and made her decision how to vote long ago, now all she had to do was pretend that she was paying attention.

Her phone buzzed, she rolled at her eyes at the thought of another problem that needed her attention, but her annoyance quickly edged away when she saw the name on the screen.

[ Focus, Princess. 

For a moment, her headache dwindled away, and her lips curled up into a ghost of a smile at the familiar words. Her bodyguard never missed an opportunity to tease her at these boring meetings. He hated them almost as much as she did, but at least he had the entertainment of watching her patience wear thin. She didn’t have to look around to find him and her eyes immediately met his from across the room. He sat next to the personal assistant of the wordy man currently speaking. The small woman was rapidly typing away on her laptop, taking notes at an impressive speed.

His eyes didn’t leave hers as he sent her another text:

{ She’s writing down his monologue.

Allura felt her lips twitch before she quickly feigned a serious face complete with an understanding nod when the speaker made a point as he looked her way briefly. Under the table, she texted him back:

{ i bet it's about 9 pages long

[ Close. It’s 8. She also included reactions from everyone along with each point he made.

{ she write anything about me?

Allura almost laughed at Shiro’s attempt at being nonchalant as he read over the woman’s notes by stretching out his arms to get a good look. It wasn’t long before she got a reply. 

[It says that you’re the most engaged. Which is total bullshit.

Allura wasn’t surprised by the response. She constantly had the eyes of the public on her, but he was always the only one who could read her like this. He’s far from an expert, but he could read her better than most people could.

{ most engaged? hard to believe since i would rather be literally anywhere else but here

[ I can tell, but according to little miss rapid fire beside me, you’re the only one paying attention.

She turned her attention to the speaker when he suddenly asked her question. She quickly hid her phone and straightened her back before she spoke. “I suppose it is rather...redundant to have the annual Balmera Gala the same day as the Syncline Luncheon; both guest lists are composed of the same people and orchestrated by the same caterer. It would be too strenuous for everyone.” Everyone nodded in agreement, happy to hear the voice of someone else for a change.

Allura’s phone buzzed.

[ Smooth recovery.

She pretended to flip her hair in an attempt at looking vain. {i’m the master of smooth recoveries

[ Remember when you fell down the stairs last week because you missed a step and you just laid there for a solid five minutes? I do. Wasn’t so smooth then, were you? ;-)

Allura’s eyes shot to him, and she narrowed her eyes at the look of amusement that graced his face. She held in a laugh at the now repressed memory before she replied back: {first off, that was rude as hell to bring that back up. second, it was dark. and third, that is the ugliest smiley face i have ever seen in my entire millennial life

Shiro bit his lip to keep from laughing, and couldn’t help but do the same. He always made these meetings just a tad more bearable. She didn’t know what she would do without him. Her phone buzzed with his response.

[ It was only dark because you wanted to sneak out after midnight, but you fell like an ironing board and woke the entire manor up. Also, rude?? How dare you? He’s handsome. :-)

{ I’m sure the security guards watch it on replay every day. and also smiley faces don’t have noses

[ They do. If you want a copy of the footage, I got you. Smiley faces can have noses because mine does. It gives him character. He’s distinguished. Charming ole chap. :-)

The room laughed at a joke made by the speaker and the timing couldn’t be more perfect because the genuine laugh that left her lips couldn’t be stopped and she was happy she was able to blend it in with everyone else. Over the laugh of the other congressmen, she could differentiate his deep, rich cuddle from the rest. He doesn’t laugh often, but whenever he does, she was prompted reminded again that it’s her favorite sound.

When the laughter died down, the speaker pulled up a powerpoint: 52 Steps For Understanding the Tax Code. Immediately, the table vibrated with repressed groans from all in attendance. Looked like he wasn’t even remotely finished with his presentation. When he put on a video with bright graphics and loud music, Allura closed her eyes in discomfort when the loud cues brought back her headache.

She barely felt her phone buzz.

[ Your headache is back

Even with no punctuation, she could tell that it wasn’t a question. He’s gotten better at seeing through her. She turned down the brightness on her phone before she could bring herself to respond. { yes unfortunately

[ Want me to get you out of here?

Allura smiled. They’ve used that tactic more than once in the past to subtly get her out of a situation she didn’t want to be in. As much as she wanted to leave, this meeting couldn’t be skipped even if she wanted so badly to.

{no its alright. I think I can handle it, but i would kill for some coffee

[I’ll take you out for some afterwards.

{ Oooh, is this a date, Mr. Shirogane? She heard him choke on air in the back of the room, and she pretended that she wasn’t the cause of it with a smirk.

He straightened quickly with a rapid text: [ Could be if you wanted it to.

{ Smooth Recovery ;)

Shiro responded with silent surveillance footage of her tripping down the stairs, and it was her turn to choke on air, drawing in the attention of others around her. She waved them off delicately with a smile.

{ this is a blatant act of disrespect

[ :-)

Just when she was about to respond, another wave of pain shot through her head, and she winced at the feeling. Her phone buzzed.

[ Just say the word, and we’re out of here.

{ will do

He didn’t respond. Allura was sure it was being he was watching her like a hawk. The rest of the meeting was a blur to her. The speaker went on and on, completely monopolizing the entire meeting, and by the time he finished speaking, no one else wanted to take the stand because they were all mentally drained. Quickly, before the long-winded speaker from earlier decided that he needed to reiterate his opinions on the matter, the council set out a vote. All against him. Out of disinterest or sheer pettiness, no one was quite sure. All that mattered was that they were finally free of this pointless meeting.

Shiro waited for Allura to approach him before he stood. “We’re all set?” he asked with a stretch. His legs and arms were stiff and he now he knew way too much about tax codes than he wanted to admit.

She nodded tensely. “Finally.” Her mouth was in a tight line, clearly irritated that she spent the last few hours in a meeting listening to a man talk about himself.

He opened the door for her before he followed her out. It was late by the time they reached the parking lot. She headed towards the car, but he gently grabbed her by her arm. “You still game for coffee?” he asked, pointing to the lone coffee shop across the street. It was one of the only shops still open this late.

She smiled and hooked her arm around his.

When they get to the café, he prompted her to take a seat while he ordered their drinks. He doesn’t need to confirm with her to know exactly what she wanted: a double cappuccino with 3 pumps of hazelnut, and three spoons of sugar. Her staple regardless of where she went. He ordered a simple black coffee before he returned to her. 

She took her cup, giving him his well deserved appreciation. She eyed his cup with a suspicious look. “I honestly don’t understand how you can drink that.”

Shiro laughed, taking a sip. “I think the same thing about your cup of sugar, Princess.”

“Its the absolute best cup of sugar,” she countered. 

They fell into an easy silence, with only the cafe’s music filling the space of unsaid words. She laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and cherished the moment she had with him. It was a well-needed break from the office and the meetings, and the general boredom that came with it. She was finally free to do as she pleased, and she wanted to do was spend time with him.

[slightly-gay-pogohammer]

Now, i haven't seen to much of your version of Mr. Dark yet, but from what i've seen, i kinda feel like he's something like this: "Mr. Dark/Spes: Introducing a new alignment: "Chaotic Lawful"! I have a strict moral code but nobody can figure out what the hell it is!".

FDGFMDG YES TBH

“am i evil? am i a misunderstood good guy? am i a victim? do i feel pity for kids or muder them??? nobody knows”

[takemedancingmaine]

No Quartets Here

Louis was fidgeting.

His feet were tapping, his knees bouncing, his fingers moving against his knees, and his head bobbing a bit. It was tempting me to either throw him out or throw myself out of the moving train we were sat on.

Instead of such drastic measures I just listened to the voice of the CTA announcing we’d arrived at Belmont. One more stop to go. I could make it.

Or perhaps I couldn’t.

“Louis, I swear if you don’t stop fidgeting I’ll… I’ll- I don’t know, but please stop!” I ground out as the doors closed and we were almost free.

Friday’s had a sense of surrealism about them. They seemed limitless as if the weekend that stretched out before it was a wormhole of never-ending possibilities. It was a thrill, to be sure.

I always loved Friday’s.

I don’t look at Friday’s like a lot of people do: I’m never one who is constantly waiting for the weekend, waiting to live. I’m someone who tries hard to live during the week as well. If I ever get to a point in my life where I live for days off, that means I’m not doing what I should be doing.

Still, Friday’s have that quality about them. They open a door to self-care time or friend-time or just binge-watching a show on a streaming service time. There’s so much to do, so many places to go and see, so many people to enjoy company with during the weekends and on a Friday night the possibilities of things to do as well as the amount of time, seems to stretch on forever and just that feeling, that Friday feeling, was intoxicating.

I know Louis loved the feeling too. He and I had talked before about how much we enjoy our daily lives while still indulging in the weekends to their fullest. Sometimes his Friday was actually a Saturday, but he made it work however he could.

“Sorry,” he mumbled now, beside me. “M’just nervous about Niall.”

“Why?”

“I know I haven’t talked about him much,” Louis shrugged as we stood up together when the train pulled into the Addison stop. “I think it felt weird because I genuinely didn’t know if he’d ever move back, but he really was my best friend, Ruby. I lived with him for four years. If our other friends don’t like him…” he trailed off, as if he was afraid to say what he was thinking, afraid to give his concerns a voice.

“I like him just fine,” I reassured him as we jogged down the stairs together. I’ll never tell him this, but I love that Louis only takes stairs--in either direction--at a jog. It was something I’d always done and before him had never met someone that did the same. “I think you’re just building it all up in your head.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right,” he sighed while pushing through the turnstile. I followed right behind him. “I’m glad you met him the other day,” he said, buttoning his denim jacket once we got to the street. “Niall’s not one to say when he’s nervous, and I know he’s a bit nervous to meet everyone. It’ll help that you’re on his side as well.”

“I’m glad we told him to meet us at mine then before we head over to Ana and Harry’s,” I say buttoning my own jacket up. We’re still in false fall and as the sun sinks down the air nips at my skin. If the weather reports are to be believed, next week will be sunny and back in the seventies. Perfect time to head to the beach with a book.

“We’re leaving yours at seven, right?” he asked and pulled his phone out, checking the time. It was quarter to six. I’d gotten him to leave the bakery at a reasonable time today. Practically dragged him at first, but now there was a pep in his step. He was taking tomorrow off and that meant he could get drunk. He was living the high life at the moment.

“Yes,” I nodded. “They’re setting up a taco bar and I’m shamelessly going to watch Cleo drink Ana’s entire pitcher worth of margaritas.”

Louis laughed loudly at that. The sound filling my ears and echoing down the street we were walking down.

“Sugar or salt?” he asked now, his giggles still escaping as he glanced at me.

I hesitated, but only for a moment. “Salt,” I nodded. Louis nodded in agreement.

“She can have all she wants. I think I’m going to stick with beer,” Louis said. “Either way I’ll have a hangover tomorrow, but I’m not sure I’m feeling a tequila hangover.”

“Smart choice,” I bumped his shoulder with mine.

“What about you?” he asked.

“I think I’ll stick to water tonight.”

“God, you’re so boring,” Louis groaned and grumbled as he unhooked my front gate and gestured for me to go ahead through first.

“You know it,” I winked at him over my shoulder.

“Did you get a new front lock?” he asked as we climbed the stairs and arrived in front of my door. I was glad my hair was still down because I was pretty sure my eye twitched at the memory of just why I had a new lock.

“The old one wasn’t working,” I explained as I punched in the code. “So my landlord, Dan, just decided for forgo a traditional key and put in an access code lock. Took him a whole day to set it up with the lock company.”

The numbers flashed green and when I turned the extended deadbolt, the door opened we were let into the foyer and entrance to the stairs.

I was ecstatic for the new lock. I could use a key if I wanted, or I could just use the code and turn the lock. There wasn’t even a door handle anymore, which was odd but I was getting used to it. I actually kind of liked it now.

Dan had spent all day Wednesday installing it and making sure it was working. He also put in a door chain on the inside of my front door upstairs as an extra precaution.

He felt miserable about what had happened. He knew, of course, because the police contacted him as the owner of the property. He apologized profusely and offered to knock off an entire month’s rent as a result. I refused to accept his offer, unwilling to accept apology money or compensation money, but the notion was appreciated.

After we kicked off our shoes outside my door I let myself and Louis inside where we shed our coats and threw our backpacks down on a nearby chair. We’ve done this more than a few times before, and the routine of it all is welcomed like a warm blanket of comfort.

Louis followed me into the kitchen where I pulled out two glasses and my bottle of whiskey, the expensive Irish kind, and pour us each one glass.

I jumped up to sit on the counter while he leaned his back against the corner adjacent to me as he picked up his glass. We cheers-ed mid-air, neither of us a fan of clinking glasses together, and then each took a slow sip.

The warmth of the alcohol spread down my throat and into my belly. It was a good feeling, that.

It was then that I turned to look at Louis.

“Hey, Lou?”

“Mm?”

“Do you really want to open a fourth location or were you just saying that to get me to look into the numbers?”

He sighed and closed his eyes before tilting his head forward so that his chin was just a small gap of space from his chest.

“Sorry,” I made to backtrack. “It's Friday and I shouldn't have brought it up, I just was curious.” I leaned back a bit so that my shoulders hit the cabinets. I tilted my head up toward the ceiling.

“No,” Louis was saying. “It's fine. I just… You know I feel weird about any moderate success I have. I always thought I’d be living paycheck to paycheck, selling pastry and bread from my own oven at home to anyone who’d buy it. I never thought I’d have three bakeries that do pretty well. Running my own business was horrifying until you showed up and could help me out.”

I closed my eyes as I looked up my shoulders releasing some tension.

“I don’t think I want to open a fourth location, no,” he said after a moment. I heard him swallow, so he’d taken another sip. “I’ve looked into it managerial wise. It would spread me too thin unless I make Louis’ Bakery into a real company and run it like a president. I don’t want that. M’happy with how well I’m doing, and as it is I might start shifting to five days a week for myself. I’ve got baker contacts I could look into hiring so that I can save my sanity.”

“I think that would be a good idea,” I lowered my head to take a sip of my drink and peaked at him from the corner of my eye. He didn’t look tense, which was a good sign when talking about business.

“My mom does too,” he smiled ruefully. Louis and his mom were close and she thought he was running himself ragged.

“So you wanted to see if you had the stability to open a fourth?” I opened my eyes fully and looked out in front of myself at my oven, just staring off.

“Yeah,” he said now. “It was an exercise. I know how much I’d have to invest to open a fourth and I was using it as a gauge. As it is, I’m using it to hire another baker, knowing I’ve got the ability to be flexible.”

“You could’ve just said that,” I moved my hand gently in a circle, swirling the amber liquid around and around in the glass as I watched, mystified by the sight.

He laughed and tilted his head with a contemplative look on his face.

“When had I ever made things easy for you, Ruby?” he asked.

“Fucking never,” I shook my head and chuckled a bit, our laughter commingling in the air around us.

“Thank you for understanding,” he said after our laughter died down and silence had surrounded us for a minute or so. “I really appreciate having someone who just knows without me having to say something.”

“Saying something helps,” I gave him a pointed look but there was no malice in it or my tone. “But of course I understand you, Louis. We’re friends and m’always here for you, even when you don’t tell me why. I’m always here.”

“Have I given you a raise recently?” he asked, his smile ill-disguised as he attempted to keep it off his face.

I laughed and reached out my free hand to shove him a bit. He laughed with me, taking another slow sip of whiskey as I ran a hand through my hair, effectively mussing it up.

A silence fell over us again and together we just sat a moment and unwinded from our week. Louis had visited the bakery in Bucktown yesterday and was going out to West Loop to see the third on Monday. He liked to visit each one personally at least twice a month.

Louis would spend the day catching up with the bakers in person and even manning the till if he felt like interacting with customers, the locals and the regulars. Louis was so personable that he made everyone feel just how special he was, just being around him was like being high on life.

He’d always ask the question, ‘Whose life can I make better today?’ And as often as he could, Louis would follow through and make someone’s life better in whatever way he could.

It was never just that Louis and I had an easy friendship because we do, but it’s also about how he makes me want to be better. He has bad days, says stupid things, has bad habits, is a normal flawed human being. He never lets the bad things define him though and that’s what I love about being his friend.

He’s constantly reminding me, not purposely rather just by being himself, to always try to be the best in regards to others and to make myself happy first and foremost. It’s why we get on so well. I build him up because he deserves it, and he builds me and everyone else up.

I rolled my shoulders back and took a deep breath.

“I’m going to go change. Please don’t start a fire in my kitchen,” I said as I jumped off the counter and headed towards my room at the opposite end of the apartment.

“Will try not to,” he gave me a mock two-finger salute before he drained the rest of his glass in one swallow.

In my room, I quickly pulled off my black skinny jeans and slipped myself into my softest, most worn pair of blue jeans. They would probably only last a few more washes if I was lucky, and that would be a tragedy, but I’d savour them until I absolutely had to let them go.

Once I’d fastened the button on the jeans I traded my light cardigan and blouse for a soft Eagles concert t-shirt I’d gotten in an online sale and pulled a chunky cable knit sweater on over top. I was going for comfort tonight, in company and in clothing.

When I returned to my kitchen, Louis was lowering his phone from his face as he clicked it locked.

“That was Niall,” he told me and I nodded in understanding. “I’ll go let him in,” he slid his phone into his back pocket before heading over to my door.

I glanced at the clock on my wall that told me it was just about seven. I jumped back onto my counter and retook my spot before grabbing my glass and bringing it up to my lips.

I heard my front door below and then heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs.

“-didn't know if I needed to bring anything so I decided I should,” Niall’s deep Irish lilt travelled across my apartment as he and Louis stepped in.

I noticed Niall was absent shoes but was with a bottle of red wine. Louis must've told him about my rule and made him kick his shoes off at the door. I needed to remember to thank him for that.

“I hope that's not for me,” I said as Niall and Louis made their way into my kitchen. Louis went back to his spot while Niall stood across from us, still holding the bottle of wine.

“Erm, no,” Niall gave a shy smile and shook his head. “Louis told me you wouldn't drink it anyway. It's for Ana and Harry for having me over to theirs.”

I tilted my glass at Louis for his knowledge of me and he shrugged with a raise of his hands.

“Ana will love you for that,” I told Niall now and his smile grew as I spoke. “Harry will love you even more.”

Harry would probably drink the whole thing before Ana even had the chance to go open the bottle. Harry was a bit of a wine-o. He especially went for red wine.

“Oh good,” Niall said. “Maybe I can bribe my way into the crew.”

Louis snorted. I laughed.

“Niall, I'm telling you,” Louis said seriously, which was hard considering he clearly was on the verge of laughter, “You don't need to bribe your way in. They'll love you.”

I looked at Louis and smiled. He was nervous before, but he would never let Niall know that. He'd never clue him into the doubts and worries that flooded him for days. He'd only ever give his friend pep talks and build him up. Always doing for others.

“What is that you're drinking?” Niall gave Louis a sceptical look before glancing over at me as I took my final sip.

“Whiskey.”

“Irish?”

“Of course,” I said, almost offended he questioned it.

“Jameson?”

“Bushmills,” I placed the glass down on the counter and then hopped off of it to joint the boys on the floor.

“Damn,” Niall let out. “You've got good taste.” His blue eyes were lit up as he looked me up and down, as if in a new light.

“I know,” I smirked, not at all humble. Quickly I rinsed both glasses and placed them on the drying rack.

“Shall we get a move on then?” Louis asked, spirits high despite the underlying nerves.

“We shall,” I clapped him on the back before the three of us made out way over to my door where we grabbed our coats, slipped our shoes back on, and headed out.

It wasn’t that it was cold, not really. The wind, however, was murder tonight and as we sat inside Harry and Ana’s apartment we could hear it whipping by, bitter and unforgiving.

“Wait, you’re actually a blonde?” Ana was looking at Niall with a critical gaze, her face scrunched and eyes narrowed. She was sitting on the floor in front of her television with Cleo’s legs laying over her legs. “But your eyebrows are dark! Do you dye those too?”

“He was blonde,” Louis called from the table where he was helping Liam and Harry set out all the food. “He bleached it like every six weeks in college.”

“Seriously?” Cleo raised her eyebrows as she lifted her torso off of the floor, propped up on her elbows. She had what was her third margarita of the night sitting beside her on the floor. I looked from Cleo to Louis and we shared a smile.

“It was cool!” Niall defended himself, but I could see his cheeks colouring pink as we all looked over at him. He looked like he desperately wanted to keep talking in order to defend himself but thought better of it.

“Are there pictures of this hair?” Liam called over while putting out a bowl of shredded cheese. I glanced over quickly and noticed that Harry has indeed uncorked the wine Niall had brought and was sipping from his glass with the most content look on his face while watching all of us.

“Loads of pictures,” Louis smirked as he pulled a Mexican beer from the fridge and undid the cap with his hand.

“I still like it,” Niall mumbled as he pulled out his phone and began scrolling through his photos. “I only stopped bleaching it about a year ago because I started to get really lazy about it. I moved from full bleach to just the top bit to no longer bleaching it at all.”

He found a photo and started passing his phone around the group. It went to Ana on his left first and then she passed it to Cleo. It was intercepted by Liam and Harry before it got to me. Each of them telling Niall in turn that it actually looked quite good and that he might have to go back to it at some point in the future.

He made a face about that.

When the phone was handed to me I wasn’t sure what I was going to see, but when Harry eventually passed me the phone I immediately felt my face break out in a smile.

Not only was he incredibly blonde, which brought out his bluer than blue eyes even more, but his face was cleanly shaven. He looked so young, but he was definitely still handsome with his dyed hair.

My eyes inspected the picture silently and I realised as I did this that I was the only one who didn’t just say something in passing and hand the phone away. I was still gazing at it silently with a smile on my face. I willed my mind to quickly come up with something to say as I looked up from the phone screen.

“I think it looks good. The blonde definitely made you look younger though.”

I handed Niall his phone back as Harry called everyone over to start making their plates. Niall locked eyes with me and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he pocketed his phone and gestured for me to stand as well so that we could get food.

I tried not to think about the way his hand felt against mine when I handed him his phone back. I certainly tried not to think about the way his eyes made me feel whenever I noticed them looking at me.

Instead, I focused on eating an exorbitant amount of tacos and rice and laughing with my friends as we put on a college basketball game and started playing cards.

“I don't get it,” Niall said as he looked around at us all. We were trying to explain Anomia to him and he just stared at us like we were nuts.

To be fair, we were.

“How about you just watch the first round or so and then when you get the hang of it you can join in?” Ana asked. Sometimes I'd forget that Louis and I were surrounded by teachers and then one of them would come up with a simple solution like this explained in a very placating tone and I'd remember.

Niall nodded. “Alright.”

So we went through a round, and from the corner of my eye, I could see Niall watching us with his brow crinkled as he studied both us and the cards. When we finished and Harry looked up at him to hand him a card to start, he nodded.

I liked to think of myself as being pretty smart. Economics is not an easy topic, not really. And I went to a pretty good college. But I wasn't just book smart.

I knew a few current events: I read the news every morning on the way to work and checked the markets and all that. I knew some pop culture trivia because of the music I listened to or the shows I'd binge on a rainy Saturday. I could usually hold my own at this game.

After a few rounds of Anomia with Niall playing, I was beginning to feel inadequate. It helped that Cleo and Harry were both a bit drunk and therefore slower at calling out words.

Even with that advantage, Niall and Louis, who were both pretty well and drunk too, we're not slowing down, and if anything, were quicker to the draw. Ana and Liam were always just bad at this game no matter what. It was adorable watching them sputter in frustration when the words were on the tips of their tongues and not coming out.

I looked down at my own card pile and made a face. I had five cards but it looked like Louis and Niall each had at least ten. I groaned as Louis snatched a card from me.

“You've had five beers,” I complained. “How are you still beating me?”

“I'm just that good,” he winked. I shoved his shoulder and he shoved me back.

“You're such a butt,” I shoved him again and he rested his head on my shoulder before giving me puppy dog eyes.

I gave in immediately. I still pushed him off though.

I could feel eyes on us and when I looked up to remind Harry that it was his turn I saw Niall beside him watching Louis and me. It was almost like he was studying us, trying, hoping to find his place amongst us.

The best part was that he didn't even feel new. He felt like he'd been with us all along. He kept pace with Louis and Cleo, was charismatic and had an infectious laugh. He was polite and not one of us seemed to feel weird with him being here.

I spent most of the night watching as the tension drained from his and Louis’ face at the thought of him getting along with us. They had no reason to worry at all. I'd been right.

I hadn't realized how right I was until a few minutes later when we took a break for Ana and Cleo to take turns using the restroom and for Louis, Niall, and Harry to refresh their drinks. I was filling my glass with water when Niall bumped me just slightly while trying to squeeze past Harry.

Louis was sitting back down with his new beer and Harry had his back to us as he poured himself a new glass of the wine Niall had brought. And Niall was beside me reaching into the fridge to grab a bottle.

Niall turned to give me a smile.

I hadn't felt secure or safe in quite a while. I hadn't been able to feel settled completely since I'd been attacked.

It's not that I felt unsafe, really. It was just that I couldn't quite relax. Even my home, my normal restorer of my sense of calm, where I would go to recharge, felt violated. I would sometimes find myself getting out of bed to triple check both the front and back door locks of not only my apartment but the house itself.

I would tell myself everything was fine, that I was safe, but that couldn't stop me from getting up and checking, couldn't restore my sense of security I was so desperately grasping for.

And yet there I was, stood with an almost stranger and not for a moment did I feel anxious or flighty or insecure.

Niall's energy had this influence over my nerves, could make them return to a state they had until now permanently vacated. It felt as if I'd spent two weeks as a live electrical wire and now I was finally able to let go and breathe without any tension filling me.

I smiled back at him and then the two of us headed into the living room and the game resumed in full force.

“Forgive me if I'm overstepping,” Niall said now as we made our way to the train station. It was nearing one in the morning, I was more than glad Niall was with me.

Cleo had passed out on Ana and Harry’s sofa, Liam had taken a Lyft with Louis, but I had shrugged off their offer. They lived far enough away that sharing a Lyft would've been ridiculous. Plus, I actually like the train. Even this late at night I don't mind it.

That didn't mean I wasn't grateful for Niall’s company. He was shorter, but he was broad, looked like he could hold his own pretty well.

I was also very aware I'd been mugged recently. The incident was doing weird things to me. I was terrified to think about what happened or what could occur should something happen again to me. Still, I did things like this, like taking the train after midnight.

When you think about it though, it might be better than a Lyft driver knowing where I live. There's always going to be a negative.

I shook my head and gestured for Niall to go ahead, ask away.

“D’you like Louis?”

I nodded. “He was my first friend here. Aside from Cleo, but I knew her in college-”

“I meant as more than a friend,” Niall interrupted.

“As in romantically?” I asked, my pitch raising up an octave and my eyebrows raising as well.

Niall nodded.

I sputtered a bit before I outright laughed. “No,” I shook my head quickly. “No, no. Ew.”

“So no?” He asked with an amused look on his face.

“Absolutely not,” I told him as I buried deeper into my sweater as the wind picked back up. “I love Louis as a friend, but no, I have never been in love with him.”

Niall shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His cheeks were pink and I couldn't tell if it was because of the wind or if he was embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he looked over at me. “I felt like I had to ask. After seeing you guys together at the bakery and then again tonight… you just seem so comfortable together.”

I nodded as we passed under an overpass, shadows falling across our faces.

“I was raised in a culture where couples don't hold hands or even date in a traditional sense. But friends were always very close, very showing of affection, so even though Louis is a guy and it was weird for me at first, just like it was weird for me with Liam and Harry,” I shrugged again, “becoming affectionate with them was second nature after I got over the initial weirdness.”

“That makes a fair bit of sense,” he smiled. “I noticed in uni here that being Irish, or I guess being from Europe, means I'm much more affectionate than most of my mates. Except for Louis. He kind of just allowed it, adopted it himself after a bit of time.”

“Plus you lived together,” I pointed out. “That adjusts the boundaries of friendship quite drastically.”

“You and Cleo lived together right?” He asked.

“Three years in college and a couple of months when I first moved here,” I nodded. He held the door open for me into the station and together we swiped Ventra cards and walked down the stairs.

“She and I are very close,” I told him. “And honestly I'm lucky to have her. She's the person that builds me up, makes me laugh, understands what I need before I need it… I used to come home from my evening class and she'd force her leftover dinner on me while she chose which episode of Parenthood we needed to rewatch based on my mood.”

“Not long after Louis and I started living together he made me try a Chelsea bun recipe and I mentioned that they reminded me of home. My dad would pick them up for us on special occasions,” Niall shrugged as we came to a stop on the platform to wait.

“Whenever I felt homesick over the next few years he'd not say a word but I'd wake up in the morning or from a nap and there would be a batch, still warm on our counter waiting for me.”

I smiled thinking about Louis and Niall’s friendship. I smiled thinking about mine and Cleo's. When you find a good friend, you just have an understanding that the universe gave you a gift.

“He's a big softie.”

“He really is,” Niall agreed. “After a bad week for either of us, I'd wake up to mountains of crepes with a topping buffet. Chocolate sauce, cream, fruit, whatever worked on a crepe he'd put it out and we’d just eat until our stomachs were bursting. Then we’d spend the day avoiding all our work by going over to the beach and playing footie or volleyball. Even if it was freezing out.”

“Wow,” I laughed, “all Cleo and I ever did when we were upset was down sleeves of Oreos together and make giant bowls of popcorn and watch comedy specials… or Moana on repeat”

“S’pretty much the same thing,” Niall smiled.

“Basically,” I nodded.

“So is Ana always that mothering?” He asked now.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I told him. “She and Harry are also good if you ever need to talk through a big decision or if you just want to watch romcoms and weep through them with someone so you're not alone in your room crying into a tub of vegan cookie dough ice cream thinking about the vastness of the universe and sending a handful of vague existential tweets.”

“Oddly specific,” Niall smirked as he looked sideways at me.

“The tweets were later deleted,” I waved it away. “It was fine.”

His smirk turned into a full smile.

“Liam is a little finicky,” I admitted. “He's incredibly charismatic but you sometimes don't know if you can connect with him depending on circumstances… He’s always cracking silly jokes and making us laugh, but he's also unafraid to tell it like it is. One time he insulted someone Cleo was seeing to her face but he did it so subtly that only we picked up on it and the poor girl had no idea.

“He's got a big heart though, so it's easy to forgive him for being a little brash. He means well. I honestly just think it's because he doesn't see himself as having the time to deal with anything that isn't real or worth his effort.”

“He seems like he's good crack,” Niall said as the red line came into the station.

“Crack?” I asked as we stepped on and took two seats side-by-side near the door away from the two other people in the carriage.

“Fun,” he explained. “It's a term for fun.”

I nodded.

“I really like them all,” he said after the train had begun moving. “You were right about Harry drinking the wine,” he added with a smile. “And it's been a while since I've just gone and spent with people my own age. I really enjoy them all.”

“You didn't go out in Ireland while you were back?”

He shook his head, his mouth turning down for a moment before fluctuating back to a neutral expression.

“I lived in a tiny village outside of Dublin and the only people there my age were lads from school I'd been more than happy to be done with when I moved here for uni.”

“No bonding then?” I asked.

“Eh,” he shrugged. “A bit like Liam I guess in that I didn't really think it worthwhile to try and make friends with people I knew weren't genuine or weren't going to last.”

“I think that's perfectly fair,” I allowed. “Still, two years of not really seeing friends or enjoying company must've been hard.”

“It wasn't the worst,” he shook his head. “It wasn't always easy though when I just wanted to get out and have a pint or two and just talk football or music or whatever. Let's just say I'm glad to be back here. Tonight was fun.”

“And we’ve got that marathon tomorrow.”

“We’re watching what, again?”

“Stranger Things,” I told him as I watched two college students come into the carriage. They were all over each other. Hands always in contact with the other person. Their giggles could be heard across the carriage.

“Harry is too scared to watch it by himself. So we agreed to make it easier for him. Trouble is,” I smirked at Niall, “with Cleo and Louis around it'll probably be worse for him.”

Niall laughed at that.

“Can I tell you something and trust you not to tell Cleo and Louis?” Niall asked. I gave him an amused glance but made no such promise. He continued anyway. “I'm a bit scared to watch as well.”

I bit my lip to keep my smile from coming out fully but Niall could tell I wanted to laugh. He groaned and leaned his head back so that it his against the window behind him before he leaned forward again and looked at me.

“You're never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“I won't tell,” I reassured him. “However, I will not let you live this down. No.”

“This is Fullerton. Transfer to Purple and Brown line trains at Fullerton.” The CTA voice boomed overhead. Some trains you could barely hear the announcements and some trains it felt like the announcement was in your head it was so loud. This was the latter for sure.

“This is me,” Niall said standing up.

“Please tell me you know the song.”

“What song?” He asked, confused. The doors opened.

“I'll explain tomorrow. See you, Niall,” I waved as he stepped off, confusion still clouding his features as he looked over his shoulder once before making his way toward the station exit.