#this is a little conspiratorial thinking of me but i kind of think that commentary gaining popularity (at least partially) caused this

[teenagefeeling]

you know youtube has gone seriously downhill when even people like amazingphil and leena norms are posting reddit videos

[eimiette]

minutes

࣪♡ ۪ ݁ 𓈒 ── SPENCER REID

SUMMARY: during a high-stakes stakeout, spencer reid and his partner turn their limited time into a distraction from the case at hand. GENRE: smut with plot, idiots in love CW/TAGS: soft!dom spencer (ofc), quicky, piv sex, fingering, lots of banter, est!fwb relationship, reader is referred to as a girl. this is my first spencer reid smut so b nice pls !! <3

the night had settled into a quiet lull, the kind of silence that stretched on and made time feel endless. you’d been parked outside the suspect’s house for hours, watching the shadows play tricks on your eyes while spencer sat beside you, deeply engrossed in a book he’d brought along—one that had nothing to do with the case.

you glanced over at him, unable to resist a little teasing. “you know, we’re supposed to be watching the house, not reading ‘war and peace’ for the millionth time.”

“it’s ‘the brothers karamazov’,” he corrected without looking up, his tone dry but familiar. “and i’ve only read it four times, not a million. it’s called multitasking.”

you chuckled, shaking your head. “right. because when i think of multitasking, i think of spencer reid reading existential russian literature while catching criminals.”

he looked up then, a small smile tugging at his lips. “well, it’s a good thing i’m here to broaden your definition of multitasking, isn’t it?”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin spreading across your face. “sure, sure. meanwhile, i’m stuck doing all the actual work. keeping an eye out, staying alert… maybe you should take notes.”

he made a show of sighing, marking his place in the book before setting it down. “i hate to break it to you, but i’m perfectly capable of watching and reading at the same time. some of us can do more than one thing.”

“oh, is that so?” you arched a brow, leaning in slightly. “then tell me, genius, what’s happening at the suspect’s house right now?”

spencer paused, his gaze shifting to the darkened windows across the street, then back to you. “the lights in the living room went off about fifteen minutes ago. bedroom lights turned on shortly after, but no one’s left the house since then. there’s a dog barking a few houses down, and someone two blocks over keeps playing the same verse of ‘take on me’ on the piano. badly, i might add.”

you blinked, momentarily stunned. “okay, first of all, how do you even—never mind, i don’t want to know. and second, why would anyone ever play just one verse of ‘take on me’? what kind of psychopath are we dealing with here?”

spencer chuckled, a real laugh that lit up his face in a way that made something warm bloom in your chest. “now that’s the real mystery,” he agreed. “maybe we should call in a second team to handle it.”

you snorted, shaking your head. “only if they’re prepared for a psychological profile of a frustrated piano player. that’s definitely outside my area of expertise.”

“mine too, surprisingly,” he said, his smile softening as his eyes met yours. “though i’m sure we could figure it out together.”

your smile matched his, and for a moment, the banter fell away. it was always like this—easy, comfortable, like you’d known each other forever. bickering was your default, but underneath it, there was something else. something steady. something you never quite acknowledged.

“hey,” you said, breaking the quiet but keeping your voice low, almost conspiratorial. “be honest. are you actually glad we got stuck on this stakeout together, or are you secretly wishing morgan was here instead?”

spencer tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “hmm, well, morgan wouldn’t keep up a running commentary of every single shadow that moves, so that would be a point in his favor.”

you scoffed, nudging his arm with your elbow. “you love my running commentary. admit it.”

he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always made your stomach flutter. “okay, maybe i’d miss it a little,” he conceded. “just don’t let it go to your head.”

“i knew it!” you crowed, leaning closer with a triumphant smile. “you’re not as tough as you pretend to be, dr. reid. deep down, you actually like having me around.”

his smile turned softer, almost fond, as he met your gaze. “maybe more than i let on,” he said quietly, the teasing edge slipping from his voice.

“you know,” you murmured, voice just above a whisper, “for a genius, you can be pretty slow sometimes.” he turned a page slowly, clearly fighting back a smile. “you’re just jealous because you didn’t think to bring a book.”

“why would i bring a book when i could spend my time annoying you?” you shot back, grinning when he finally glanced over at you, his eyes alight with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“mission accomplished, then,” he replied dryly. “you’ve certainly succeeded in distracting me.”

you let out a laugh. “it’s a talent, what can i say?” you leaned in a little closer, your voice dropping to a lower, more playful tone. “admit it—you like it when i distract you.”

he hummed, pretending to consider your words as he closed his book and set it on the dashboard. “i suppose it does have its perks,” he said, turning his body slightly to face you. his knee brushed against yours, a casual touch that sent a familiar thrill through you. there it was—the shift. you’d felt it countless times before, that subtle change in the air between you. it always started with harmless banter, a little back-and-forth that led to lingering touches, heated looks, and eventually, lips pressed together in the dark of the car or the shadows of a motel room. friends with benefits, that’s what you called it, though even that seemed too formal. it was more like an unspoken agreement, a mutual understanding that sometimes, the line between friends and something more blurred when the nights got long and lonely.

you arched an eyebrow at him, leaning in even closer. “and what perks would those be, exactly?”

spencer’s eyes flicked down to your lips, his smile turning a bit more mischievous. “the kind that gets me out of reading the same case notes for the third time.”

you chuckled, your heart picking up its pace as you closed the remaining distance between you. “if that’s what it takes to keep you from quoting tolstoy at me again…”

before you could finish, spencer’s lips were on yours, warm and insistent, like he’d been waiting for this. his hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss. it wasn’t the first time, not by a long shot, but it still sent a shiver down your spine the way it always did. he kissed you like it was something he needed, not just something to pass the time.

you tilted your head, smiling against his lips. “so, is this how you imagined the stakeout going?”

he pulled back just enough to murmur, “it’s a pretty standard ending for us, don’t you think?”

you laughed softly, your breath mingling with his. “i guess we have a type, huh?”

“apparently,” he replied, his voice low and teasing as his thumb brushed along your jaw. “can’t say i’m complaining, though.”

you hummed in agreement, fingers finding their way into his hair as you brought his lips back to yours. “good. because i’d hate for you to get bored out here,” you whispered between kisses, your words half-teasing, half-sincere.

“i can think of worse ways to spend a stakeout,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. his lips trailed down to your neck, and you let your head fall back, a satisfied smile spreading across your face.

you felt spencer’s lips brushing against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. his kisses were warm and deliberate, a welcome distraction from the long hours of the stakeout. you leaned into his touch, but a nagging thought pulled at the edge of your mind, breaking through the haze of pleasure.

“spence,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “should we really be doing this right now? i mean, we’re on a stakeout. there’s a chance the unsub could show up any minute.”

spencer’s eyes flickered with amusement, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips. “oh, come on,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “we’ve been monitoring this place for hours. we’ve got approximately 48 minutes before the unsub’s next predicted move.”

you raised an eyebrow, trying to read his expression. “48 minutes? and how do you know that?”

he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “based on the patterns of his previous crimes, the time between his actions has been pretty consistent. it’s a safe bet we’ve got a little leeway.”

you let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “so, you’re telling me that you’ve calculated the exact amount of time we have before we need to get back to being all business? kinda sexy you’ve calculated the timing on this out i must say..”

spencer’s eyes widened slightly, and he blinked at you, momentarily thrown off. “sexy? you find profiling talk sexy?”

you nodded, your gaze never leaving his. “yeah, it’s like you’re making crime analysis sound intriguing and… well, a little hot.”

he chuckled, a warm, genuine laugh that sent a thrill through you. “i’ll have to remember that. maybe i should include more of that in my briefing sessions.”

you grinned, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. “just don’t let the team catch on. we don’t need them getting ideas.”

spencer’s fingers worked on the buttons of your shirt, his touch lingering with a hint of teasing. “you think they’d actually believe it’s my secret weapon?”

“oh, absolutely,” you replied with a smirk, helping him with his shirt. “morgan would probably have a field day with that.”

spencer’s shirt joined yours on the floor as he flashed a mischievous grin. “if that happens, it’s on you. you’re the one who brought up the idea of sexy profiling.”

“guilty as charged,” you said, pushing his trousers down with a playful nudge. “but you have to admit, you’ve got a way of making it sound pretty compelling.”

he raised an eyebrow, his fingers brushing against your thigh. “compelling, huh? is that the new standard for our stakeouts?” “maybe,” you said, leaning in closer. “or maybe it’s just a nice change of pace.”

spencer’s lips curved into a grin as he pulled you in for another kiss, his hands sliding around your waist. “i can live with that.” you responded with a playful glint in your eye, your fingers brushing against his chest as you shifted closer. with a confident move, you straddled his lap, your body aligning perfectly with his. the shift brought you eye to eye, a spark of heat dancing between you. spencer’s breath hitched slightly, his hands finding their place on your hips as he adjusted to the new closeness. “i see you’re not wasting any time,” he murmured, his voice a low, appreciative rumble.

you chuckled softly, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders. “why wait? we’ve got a limited window here.”

spencer’s breath hitched slightly, his hands finding their place on your hips. as he adjusted to the new closeness, his fingers slowly slid down, grazing the fabric of your skirt. the sensation of his touch against your skin made you shiver with anticipation. his hands wandered gently, exploring the curve of your hips and the edges of your skirt. his touch was light but deliberate, moving with an almost curious intensity as he traced the contours of your body. you could feel his fingers inching upwards, brushing softly against the bare skin of your thighs.

you pouted, a playful frown tugging at your lips as you looked down at him. “you’re really going to tease me like this?”

spencer met your gaze with a mix of amusement and warmth. “need you to use your words pretty girl.”

you raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on your lips. “oh, is that how it’s going to be?”

he nodded, his touch growing more deliberate but still teasingly slow. “absolutely. tell me what you want.”

you bit your lip, the playful challenge clear in your eyes. “i want you to stop teasing and actually—”

before you could finish, spencer leaned in, his lips brushing against yours as his hands continued their exploration. his touch finally met your soaked core over your underwear, sending a jolt of sensation through you. his whisper against your lips was soft but insistent. “use your words. tell me exactly what you want.”

you parted your lips, your breath coming in soft, needy gasps. “touch me… please.”

spencer’s eyes darkened with desire as he heard your plea. his fingers slipped under the edge of your underwear, meeting the dampness of your core. he let out a low curse, his breath hitching. “fuck, you’re so wet. i should really explain the time management of our cases and unsub patterns more often if-” realizing he was losing focus, spencer shifted his attention back to you. he let out a soft curse, his fingers slipping inside you with a deliberate, smooth motion. the sudden, intimate contact made you gasp, the sensation warm and intense. spencer's fingers moved with a focused precision, sliding inside you with a smooth, deliberate motion. the warmth of his touch and the rhythmic pressure made your breath hitch, a soft whine escaping your lips as the sensation intensified.

he pressed his fingers deeper, his hand moving with a steady, measured rhythm. each thrust was controlled and purposeful, designed to maximize the pleasure that rippled through you. his palm rested firmly against your core, the heat from his hand mingling with the warmth of your skin.

as you whimpered softly, your breath coming in short, shuddering gasps, spencer leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “you’re doing so well,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble that sent a thrill down your spine. his thumb brushed lightly against you, adding a delicate pressure that made you whine again, the sound filled with both need and satisfaction.

you bit your lip, struggling to find the words through the haze of pleasure. “spence… i want to feel you. i want—”

he cut you off gently, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “i know. just give me a moment.” his fingers continued their rhythmic dance, his touch a tantalizing blend of warmth and pressure.

but as your need became more urgent, your voice grew more insistent. “please, i need to feel you inside me.”

spencer’s gaze grew more intense, filled with a deep, hungry longing, and he pulled his fingers away slowly, his expression a mix of affection and eagerness. “alright,” he said softly, his voice thick with desire. “i’m here.”

he reached into his wallet, retrieving a condom with a practiced ease. his lips curved into a small, knowing smile as he prepared it, a thought crossing his mind. it was probably because of you that he’d made it a habit to carry them during cases—an adjustment made in response to your playful insistence on being prepared. he tore open the wrapper and readied himself, then guided you gently but firmly into position. his hands were steady on your hips, helping you align perfectly.

as you settled into position, your breath quickening with anticipation, you glanced at him, a playful edge to your voice. “how much time do we have left?”

spencer’s eyes remained locked on yours as he checked the time. “forty minutes and thirty-two seconds—oh fuck.” the expletive slipped out as you slid onto him, the sudden, intense sensation making his breath hitch.

you leaned in closer, your breaths coming in short, heated bursts as you adjusted to the rhythm. the space between you was charged with electricity, each movement synchronized with a growing intensity.

“don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly with pleasure.

spencer’s fingers dug into your hips, his movements becoming more deliberate as he matched your pace. “so pretty like this…” he replied, his voice low and intense. “so fucking pretty.”

as the urgency and desire between you built, spencer’s breath quickened, his hands guiding you with a steady, firm grip. each thrust was met with a soft, satisfied gasp from you, the rhythm between you becoming a fluid, intimate dance.

“doing so good for me baby,” spencer murmured, his voice barely more than a breath as he leaned in to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours with a heated, passionate intensity. his touch was everywhere—his hands on your hips, his fingers trailing along your sides.

your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as you both lost yourselves in the sensation. the car’s confined space only seemed to heighten the intimacy of the moment, making each touch and movement feel more intense, more immediate.

with each passing second, the urgency of the situation only added to the thrill. spencer’s focus was entirely on you, his eyes locked onto yours as he pushed you both towards the edge. “we’re almost there,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire and determination. “just a little longer.”

the combination of his touch, his kisses, and the urgency of the moment drove you both closer to the peak. the pleasure built steadily, every sensation amplified in the charged atmosphere. you could feel yourself unraveling, every nerve ending sensitized and every touch magnified. the sensation of him inside you was electrifying, a wave of intense pleasure crashing over you with each movement. your breaths came in ragged gasps, your body trembling as you felt yourself falling apart.

“spencer,” you gasped, your voice breaking with the intensity of the experience. your grip on his shoulders tightened, your entire body tensing as the pleasure reached its peak.

spencer’s eyes were locked onto yours, a mix of awe and desire reflected in his gaze. “i know, i know, i’m almost there,” he murmured, his voice a low, reverent whisper. his hands moved with careful precision, his touch both guiding and responding to your reactions.

as the climax hit, you felt a powerful release, your body shuddering and trembling with the intensity of the moment. your voice broke into a series of breathless cries, each one a testament to the overwhelming pleasure you were experiencing.

as the intensity of the moment enveloped you, spencer’s grip tightened on your hips, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps. the way you had fallen apart, your body trembling with pleasure, had driven him to the brink.

his movements became more urgent, his focus solely on the sensation of being inside you, feeling your warmth and responsiveness. you could see the struggle in his eyes, the way his expression shifted from focused desire to complete surrender. “god, i’m close,” he gasped, his voice thick with a mix of urgency and satisfaction. his hands moved more fervently, his rhythm driven by the overwhelming sensations coursing through him.

as you clung to him, your body still trembling from your release, spencer’s movements became erratic. the pleasure built within him until he could no longer hold back. with a series of deep, shuddering breaths, he finally came undone, his body shivering with the force of his climax.

he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breaths ragged and hot against your skin. his hands still rested on your hips, holding you close as he rode out the final waves of his release.

as the intensity of the moment gradually faded, spencer’s touch softened. he pulled you close, his hands gently brushing over your skin as he helped you both come down from the high. his breath was still uneven, but his touch was tender and reassuring.

“are you okay?” he asked softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with a mix of concern and tenderness.

you nodded, a contented smile forming. “yeah, i’m fine. you?”

spencer chuckled, slipping on his shirt. “well, we’ve got approximately 22 minutes to spare.”

you raised an eyebrow, pulling on your top. “and what are we going to do with those 22 minutes?”

he smirked, buttoning his jacket. “well, i could use a quick breather. maybe we can discuss how i should properly schedule my case briefings.”

you laughed, adjusting your clothes. “sounds like a plan. just make sure you don’t forget to factor in the importance of effective timing.” spencer’s grin widened as he straightened his collar. “duly noted. next time, i’ll make sure to account for every possible variable.”

-

꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱

[cchapsticck]

The words "mundane bad end" have caught my attention. Tell me about Rapture Chaser, please.

The parts of this AU (otherwise known as Dick & Jane AU - which I have posted a little of already) I've kind of fixated on were pretty small potatoes when @saintmarywinchester and I started spitballing the whole thing.

The Steddie part is, admittedly, a very small part of a much wider epistolic work that's kind of like, a collection of urban legend hunter accounts/conspiratorially minded think pieces/accounts of the vague pop culture impact of the various tellings of what really happened in Hawkins 20-30 years later. There's parts of it that are declassified internal government documents and commentary on forums on the redacted nature of them. Blog posts of urban explorers digging through the sewers under the old Department of Energy building. Tabloid articles and interviews with people who say their children were kidnapped and changed by government programs. Reviews of better and worse movies that claim to be "based on a true story" that are more and less accurate to missing persons and murder cases in the area and their intersection with satanic panic of the time. Stuff like that.

But an element of it that we were digging into was how and how-not present the main cast of ST might be involved in this ongoing narrative surrounding their hometown. In those discussions we ultimately made some choices about Steve; who, for the epistolic iteration of the AU was mostly a resource that some of these posters could seek out to ask questions about The Truth of Hawkins - he is available for confirmation of beliefs held by the interviewers but he never really provides new information. He is uninterested in any consequences of his transparency, perhaps because his health is in decline due to the multiple TBIs suffered at a young age.

In our discussions of Steve it did circle back around to Steddie, because it is a flavor we enjoy, which introduced the witness protection program and further layers of deception to the whole story that kind of shot off into its own deeper narrative that actually doesn't play at all into the original AU in a serious way beyond being interested in exploring Eddie being forced to endure whatever legacy he's retained in the whole Hawkins narrative by proximity to Steve. So it is a bad end in that there's really no closure to the main ST narrative, and Steve's life is largely divorced from those events beyond what he actively invites in with these Truth seekers. His life is in a downward spiral partially of his own making that Eddie does not soothe or dissuade him from. I posted a loose kind of overview of that relationship in the context of this AU because I just wanted to write it and get out of my head, as that kind of elaboration wasn't actually necessary to the main collection of texts we were putting together - but then it turned out I was having fun in that mundanely crappy space.

So this is all to say Rapture Chaser is a more direct examination of character details and interpersonal drama implied by that original sort-of primer in a more specific context while also not referencing the original AU this all spun off from. So, here's a little blurb I suppose!

It’d be an easier pill to swallow if like, Steve’s been rough the last few days or something, she needs the assist or something, just an extra set of eyes or something, but he’s been fine. Great, even. Better than he’s been. Had a couple weird weeks last month where he wasn’t sleeping, kept getting these visual disruptions that they haven’t been able to see the neurologist about, but he’s evened out. So he’s just here just because Steve’s wife likes him enough and he’s enough of a fixture in her and Steve’s life to ask him.  It makes his skin crawl a little. He’s met Jess’ family before, couple times; mom, dad, brother, sister, other sister, couple of the cousins they’ve been around for thanksgivings or christmases at the Jeffries-Harrington homestead. Those instances, at least, he’s got a reason to be there that’s plausibly deniable - even, if the truth is Steve asked him to stick around because Steve just wants him around and Jess wasn’t going to be mad if he did. But if he’s gotta dip he can use the shift’s over excuse and go be an alone for the holidays sack of shit in his basement apartment like 30 minutes out from their place, but this is the first time he’s gone to them. Like the first time he’ll be in their space and it’s not like.  Circumstantial. 

ask me 'bout my wips i'll probably work on them

[mortalityplays]

Respectfully (because I agree with what you are saying here, I think it's great commentary) I think you are misreading my point. Granted part of that is my fault for using an analogy that involves children, I see why you would extrapolate that to think I'm implying people engage with non-normative ideas out of naivety, but that is genuinely not something I believe. It's the confidence of the kid-on-the-wall that I meant to point to, not their childishness. Maybe I could have said a construction worker at the top of an unstable ladder, who knows that it's fine because it's been fine every time they've pulled this risky manoeuvre before. The point is that it's easy to lose perspective on potential danger on the basis that you currently feel secure. It's necessary to have stable external reference points, and not to rely solely on an internal gut check (which, as you pointed out, is easily misled by e.g. workplace culture, patriotism, an overbearing family, any system which instils and reinforces a carefully tailored prejudiced version of reality). I don't think you're all little kids playing with fire while I sit on my lofty throne of wisdom, I think we're all playing with fire all the time, including me, and that makes fire safety important. But the post is out there now, and I can't do much about the wording.

Similarly, I am not trying to argue that normativity and truth value are correlated. I'm arguing the opposite. I'm saying that the more a certain set of ideas becomes normalised in a given social environment, the less intuitive it is to deconstruct and critically examine them. The reason I made this post at all is that I am concerned by trends towards conspiratorial thought in social circles adjacent to my peer groups, which become self-reinforcing as they make their way into the fabric of accepted reality for a given group of people. You are right that social isolation is dangerous, but it's a specific kind of social isolation that I think can be unintuitive to people who aren't primed to look for it - it's not necessarily synonymous with loneliness. It can present itself as the remedy to loneliness, in fact. And just because these aren't new trends or new patterns of exploitation doesn't mean people aren't still encountering them for the first time.

There is a huge scale of behaviour and experience that falls in between 'enjoying a kooky belief' and 'going off the deep end', and that's what I mean to illuminate by bringing all of this up. Being really into UFOs doesn't mean a person is inevitably going to slide into right wing 'space marines on mars' ideas, or anti-semitic conspiracy theories, but it does make awareness of those exploitative thought systems relevant and important. 'Inoculation' is a concept that has been gaining a lot of traction in anti-radicalisation work over the last decade or so. The idea is that when people are shown how cult recruitment, disinformation, false conspiracy narratives etc. work, what they look like, and where they are likely to be encountered, those people actually become more resilient to ideological exploitation. It's not accusatory, any more than getting a measles vaccine implies you would otherwise die of measles. It's precautionary, and it makes it statistically that much more likely that e.g. a forum full of UFO enthusiasts includes a significant number of people who are ready to identify and shoot down veiled anti-semititic tropes. It makes engaging with fun, kooky (and even potentially real and important) fringe ideas that much safer.

Anyway, I think we essentially agree on most of this. My original posts were really just me venting some frustration to my own blog, and weren't written with the idea of laying out my grand nuanced personal thesis of intellectual exploration. I certainly didn't mean to come off patronising, but I guess that's inevitably what happens when you vagueblog about hundreds of strangers in big general terms.

seeing really deeply troubling swings toward esotericism in certain leftist circles over the last couple of years that do not presage anything good. remember, just because thought patterns are aesthetic does not mean they're true, healthy or constructive.

[lifeofkaze]

An Art of Balance #31

Orion Amari x MC

A/N: Azariah Steele belongs to the fabulous @cursebreakerfarrier

Word Count: ~ 2.500

______________________________________

Chapter 31: A Matter of Nerves

The sun was already hanging low in the sky when Lizzie left the castle in search of her friend. She took a moment to enjoy the last warm rays that were painting the landscape around her in hues of orange before the cold of the night would creep up on them. The air was still pleasantly mellow, the heat of the day radiating off the stone walls of the school. If she listened closely, she could hear voices and music drifting over to her from the training grounds where the pre-match party had undoubtedly begun by now.

Ignoring the compelling beat of what sounded suspiciously like The Weird Sisters playing, Lizzie walked past the path leading around the castle to where the party was going down. She nodded to quite a few people walking into the direction she was coming from, all exchanging astounded looks; after all, Lizzie had become somewhat of a staple on every pre-match party, no matter who would be playing the next day.

But now wasn’t the time to enjoy herself in order to take her mind off tomorrow; she had to check whether Skye was alright and there was only one place where she would be hiding from the rest of the world.

Lizzie was glad when the seemingly endless flow of people lessened and the ground became emptier the further she walked away from the castle. It was a peaceful summer evening, one of those Lizzie liked best; she could hear the crickets chirping in the wide meadows stretching between the castle and the Forbidden Forest, which had already begun to sink into the coming darkness. A light breeze shifted Lizzie’s hair, smelling of warm grass and pine trees.

The Quidditch pitch lay very quiet and deserted in the golden light of the sunset. It was a strange thought that it would be flooded with people tomorrow, the sound of the crowd drowning everything else. It made the silence hanging over the stands and its wooden towers that much more poignant, as if the whole stadium was taking a last breath before the impending storm.

Lizzie had never understood why Skye took her refuge here of all places. She found nothing calming about the atmosphere; if anything, the knowledge that she would have to perform in this exact same spot, which was now lying so peacefully in the evening glow, made Lizzie feel even more anxious. But then again, despite all their similarities, Skye and Lizzie just weren’t alike in some ways.

But when she climbed the rickety stairs and emerged on top of the stands, her eyes swept over the scenery again. The sunlight reflecting off the banners hanging from the wooden towers made them look like they were set on fire, a mixture of golden hues and shades of red. The megaphone attached to Murphy’s commentary box was gleaming so brightly Lizzie had to look away after a moment.

Come to think of it, the place had its own kind of beauty after all.

Lizzie continued walking along the stands, trying to shut out the memory of the last time she’d been here outside of a match. She had spotted Skye as soon as she had entered the wooden construction; she was sitting in the first row a little bit ahead of her, her chin resting on her arms that were crossed on the railing in front of her. Lost in her thoughts, she was watching the goalposts quietly, holding a piece of parchment clutched in her fist.

Lizzie recalled the last time she had come to find Skye hiding from Penny up here. So much had happened since then; it felt more like a lifetime than only one school year ago.

Skye tore her gaze away from the glinting hoops for a moment when she heard her approach. Lizzie quietly sat down next to her and Skye smiled melancholically, nodding her head towards the pitch stretching out below them.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Lizzie replied noncommittally, testing the waters for Skye’s mood.

“Believe it or not, this is how I like it best; the pitch, I mean,” Skye continued as if she hadn’t heard Lizzie’s reply. “When you’re flying by the packed stands and the crowd’s going wild for you, that’s a smashing feeling and all, don’t get me wrong; but no one really appreciates the place itself.”

She pushed herself back from the railing and leaned against the wood making up the footrest of the second row behind her. “A Quidditch pitch is something steady, you know? No matter where you’re going, the pitch remains the same; same lawn, same goalposts, same open sky,” she explained. “I’ve seen more Quidditch pitches than I can remember but when you’re sitting up on the stands all on your own, there’s always something peaceful about it.”

“I guess everyone has their personal way of finding a place of peace,” Lizzie agreed. “Orion meditates, I go to the reserve and you come here.”

“It’s the only place I can have a proper think; it gives me exactly what I need. Before a match, there’s already this incredible energy, as if everything is holding its breath in anticipation; and when all is done, it’s calm again but still so full of life, as if you can still hear the cheers on the stands… ” Skye blinked incredulously as she trailed off. “Blimey, I’m starting to sound like Orion, ain’t I?”

Lizzie chuckled. “A little bit, yeah; but I don’t mind.”

“Of course you don’t,” Skye teased, making Lizzie shove her playfully.

“Low blow, Parkin.” A few days ago, Skye’s remark probably would have hurt her and left her feeling down, but now she was able to just let it pass; ever since talking to Orion back in the changing room, somehow, she felt different.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Lizzie now got to the point of why they were actually here.

Skye raised her hand still clutching the parchment, which Lizzie assumed was the letter Penny had spoken about.

“It’s my dad,” Skye sighed, “he’s hurt again.”

Lizzie’s face twisted in sympathy. “Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that. Is it something major?”

“No, just a dislocated shoulder, they fixed him right back up. But he’ll be missing the final matches of the season.” She sighed again. “I’ve been knowing that for ages, though.”

Confused, Lizzie tilted her head to the side. “What’s the problem then? What did his letter say?”

“He told me he’s going to be here tomorrow,” Skye told her quietly. “He didn’t tell me earlier because he wanted it to be a surprise.” She opened the folded letter up and quoted, “He ‘wants to watch his little girl hoist up the cup’.”

Skye sighed deeply and gripped the railing in front of them tightly as she shook her head. “I don’t know if I can do this, Lizzie. What if we don’t win? Don’t want to sound like McNully, but our odds really aren’t the best.”

“Come on now, they’re not that bad. We have as good a shot as Gryffindor at winning.”

“Maybe, but a good shot’s not enough,” Skye replied. She was turning the letter around in her hands over and over again, tapping her foot against the wooden balustrade. “Quidditch is the only way I know to really get through to him. He’s expecting only the best from me; I can’t disappoint him.”

Her distress was palpable as she tugged on the hem of her jacket sleeves. “I just want to hear him tell me that he’s proud of me this one time,” she finished quietly.

Lizzie’s face softened at Skye’s confession. “Oh Skye, of course he’s proud of you! How couldn’t he be? You’re his daughter after all, he loves you. He has a weird way of showing it but he does. If he didn’t, he would never be so invested in how our team’s doing; it’s not because of Quidditch, it’s because of you. You could never disappoint him.”

Skye looked at her doubtfully, but also with a touch of hope; she wanted to believe Lizzie was right. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Not entirely convinced, Skye sighed again. “But what if something goes wrong?”

“Well, with that attitude it certainly will,” Lizzie told her off jokingly. When she saw Skye hanging her head though, she leaned forward to catch her eye.

“Listen up, Parkin, remember what you drilled into me? ‘No heartache, no distractions’. It helped me get a grip again and the same now goes for you.”

“Can’t really call that heartache though,” Skye huffed.

“Maybe not in the traditional way, but it’s definitely distracting you and we don’t need that right now.” Lizzie leaned in and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Apparently, Azariah, the Gryffindor Keeper, has been joking that we won’t get one shot past him tomorrow. Do you think we can let that stand?”

“Absolutely not,” Skye answered immediately, a lopsided grin forming on her face. She was already looking a lot more like her old, fiery self again. “He’ll have no idea what’s coming at him.”

“Exactly,” Lizzie concurred, “And not only will we show Gryffindor how it’s done, but the whole school and your dad are going to see what we’re capable of. We’re going to show your dad something he’s never seen before.”

Skye raised her eyebrows. “What would that be, though? I’m a Parkin after all. Dad’s the one having trained us ever since we were in our nappies. He knows exactly what a Parkin can do on a broomstick.”

“But he won’t be seeing any old Parkin play,” Lizzie corrected her. “What he’ll be seeing is the one and only SkyeParkin; flying ace, Chaser prodigy, nuisance extraordinaire.”

She grinned as Skye started laughing at her over dramatic praises before she continued more seriously, “When you just do what you’re doing best, your dad won’t even know what hit him.”

Wanting to end her pep talk on a lighter note, Lizzie added, “And if that’s still not enough for you, look at it that way: if there ever was an opportunity to show off to Rath, this is it.”

Just like Lizzie had anticipated, Skye guffawed at her last words. “That’s true,” she snickered. “Bet she’s livid they beat us and we’re still playing for the Cup instead of Ravenclaw.”

“Probably,” Lizzie agreed. “I still can’t believe we turned the season around that way,” she contemplated after another moment. “The win against Slytherin was quite the team effort, wasn’t it?”

“That it was; our team’s a smashing bunch.” Skye smiled openly at her. “I know I’m not exactly the most popular one with our mates, but I still couldn’t imagine a life without you lot anymore. Orion has a point somewhere when he calls us his family.”

Lizzie smiled back at her, happy to see her friend’s mood being lifted. “I guess he has.”

Skye’s gaze swept over the stands and down to the pitch, where it lingered on the goalposts once again. With a happy sigh she leaned back and watched the last traces of red fade from the darkening evening sky.

“Remember the first time we’ve been up here, way back in our second year?”

Lizzie chuckled at the memory. “Of course I do; can’t believe how long ago that was. I tried helping you with Charms; I still can’t believe you maimed that poor book like you did. And made me ride a jinxed broomstick,” she couldn’t help but add wryly.

Skye started giggling as well. “And set some Bludgers on you,” she recalled cheerily.

“And set some Bludgers on me.” Lizzie didn’t quite share her amusement, though.

Still laughing, Skye nudged her with her elbow. “But look how far you’ve come since then. I don’t know that many who can hold a candle to you now.”

Blushing at the compliment, Lizzie twisted the ends of her ponytail between her fingers and smirked. “I’ll give you that, it worked. Although your teaching methods definitely weren’t what you’d call conventional.”

Skye only grinned at that. “Maybe, but neither one of us is conventional either.”

“True,” Lizzie laughed lightly. “I’m glad everything went how it did, though.”

“Me too; if anyone had told me back then we’d be mates I’d have called them bonkers, but here we are. You’re certainly one of the best mates I’ve ever had,” Skye continued in a more serious fashion, “cheers for putting up with me all of the time; I know I can be quite the handful.”

Lizzie shook her head. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They were silent for a bit, listening to the wind that had picked up rustling through the House banners below them.

It was Skye who spoke up again after some time. “Can’t believe the year’s almost over now. I’m sorry it wasn’t the best one for you, though; this whole situation is sucking big time. I’m not saying that because of the team, but because of you.”

Her eyes flickered over to Lizzie momentarily before she continued. “Maybe you and Orion will find a way after all. If any of my mates deserve to be happy, it’s you guys.”

Lizzie sighed; she had hoped this topic wouldn’t come up. “I think I made my peace with it, in a way. It’s not like I can change the way things are now anyway. It’s my fault everything blew up in my face, so it’s only fair I have to deal with the consequences now.”

She shifted her weight and made a conscious effort not to fiddle with the birthstone pendant she knew was resting under her jersey. “But let’s not talk about this now, alright? All I want to focus onis the match and getting our hands on that God forsaken Cup. After that, we’ll see what happens; it’s one step after the other.”

Lizzie clapped her hands on her knees, the sharp sound echoing across the silent stands and rose to her feet. “Speaking about it, my personal next step is going to the pre-match party, they’re probably waiting for us by now. Are you coming?”

To her surprise, Skye shook her head. “No, go ahead without me, maybe I’ll catch you later. I want to stay here for a bit now.”

Once again, her green eyes followed the perimeter of the stands facing them. Darkness had begun to settle over the pitch, the commentary box was barely discernible anymore.

“Need to set my mind for tomorrow properly. You’re right, Jameson, it’s full focus on winning now, everything else has to wait until after that bloody Cup is ours; it’s one step after the other.”

[mintchocolatechipnut]

the boys in a haunted house

ft. shinsou hitoshi, todoroki shouto & kirishima eijirou

Note: This came to me in a vision... okay not really but SEVENTEEN’s GoSe episode on the ghost really inspired me to write this. Hope you enjoy!

Tags: fluff, real comedic geniuses here, vague understanding of haunted houses

Word count: 2.3k

SHINSOU HITOSHI

Now Shinsou isn’t really afraid of anything in particular, as in he’s not rattled by jump scares in movies

Instead, he has a penchant for psychological thrillers, because as much as he doesn’t use his quirk for villainous motives, he does like to fuck with people in general

So when you ask to go to a haunted house with him, he’s pretty indifferent, only letting out a non-committal hum as you tell him how this new set has been getting rave reviews from your friends

When you get there, Shinsou’s reminded of the time his class set up a haunted house for the cultural festival, and wonders if he could glean more ideas from this experience should they decide to hold it again this year lmao

As you enter, you’re relieved to know that Shinsou’s interested to at least a certain extent (but for the wrong reasons lol)

When the first jumpscare appears, Shinsou doesn’t so much as flinch, even as he feels your fingernails dig into his arm where you clutch him

He just stares, as if memorising the appearance of the zombie/mummy/ghost and wondering how he could replicate the look with the limited budget his class had for the festival

You didn’t hear this from me, but some of the haunted house actors were creeped out by Shinsou himself

I mean, his purple hair sticking up all ways like that of a mad scientist, coupled with his piercing unnerving stare, while the bags under his eyes carry even more bags and stand out against the pallor of his skin? Boy is setting himself up to look like a real zombie or vampire here

Anyway, if his s/o is more on the timid side, he doesn’t mind letting them hold onto him in any way as they walk through the set

Clutching his arm so tight he wonders if his skin will break under their hold, or the hem of his sleeve being tugged so hard it might tear, Shinsou just likes that you can depend on him and that he makes you feel safe

Though do not put it past him to mess with you even though you’re afraid

He won’t be pushing you toward the ghosts despite your shrieks and wails, or giving you a jumpscare of his own while in the house, but since he likes psychological thrillers so much, he’ll play a prank once the experience is over

‘Gee, Y/N, did you see that guy? He wouldn’t leave you alone at all’

‘... wait what do you mean’

‘You know, the one who followed you around with a knife in his hand? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Oh wait, you didn’t? Could’ve been my imagination then. Just it was so vivid...’

You’re scared shitless when you talk to the owner and there’s no such ghost, while Shinsou stands a ways behind you and winks conspiratorially at the owner

Cue you hanging onto his arm even on the way home, but Shinsou doesn’t mind one bit

Seems like he’s up for a night of suffocation where you’ll be holding onto him like your life depended on it

Maybe then he’ll tell you it was all a joke. Or that the man with the knife seemed to have followed you home...

Whatever he’ll do, he knows he’ll have fun as long as it’s with you (and as long as you don’t get too mad and kick him out of your room)

Now, if his s/o isn’t easily scared and is more of the playful sort, he’d like doing gag commentary with you as the ghosts show up one by one

Whether your laughter is a coping mechanism, or just the result of plain unadulterated fun, Shinsou’s having fun nonetheless

If you’re really playful, and Shinsou’s feeling it too, you two cook up a plan to scare the ghosts together

While it’s only semi-successful (in which you scare one or two of them and actually earn some human-like screams from them), the both of you can’t stop cackling on the way home

Overall, Shinsou has fun, and he isn’t afraid to tell you so

‘Maybe we should do it again next time, and make a record of how many we can scare individually’

You: ‘BET’

TODOROKI SHOUTO

Given his upbringing, it’s no secret that Todoroki has never had the chance to do things normal teenagers do

So naturally his first reaction to you suggesting a visit to a haunted house is pure curiosity

He knows they exist when class 1-C did it for the cultural festival but he didn’t get the chance to visit it the last time, so why not now?

As you tell him about it, Todoroki’s already whipping his phone out to do some research beforehand, but he relented when you tell him it’s better if it’s a surprise

He doesn’t show it on his face but he’s infinitely excited to be there, in a ‘I have no idea what to expect’ kind of way as he watches you buy tickets

Cue him thinking the whole thing is like the simulations in class and actually creates flames in his hands so you can see clearer in the dark

You have to tell him amidst your laughter that he’s not supposed to do that, and he’s bewildered alright, but he complies

Now Todoroki isn’t a big reactor by any means but since you know him so well, you can tell how the haunted house affects him

Like, he’ll pretty much react the same way he did during the test of courage during summer camp last time in that he’ll flinch silently, but you can see in the dim light how his eyes widen a minuscule fraction and how his shoulders tense up during jumpscares

It’s weird, because as a future hero nothing should faze him, but even when he’s expecting to be scared it does nothing to stop him from actually being scared

Halfway through his hand would automatically reach for yours,  and when more jumpscares occur he’ll tighten his grip on it

His grip varies; when he senses a jumpscare his fingers will curl around yours a little more but when he’s actually frightened expect a violent squeeze of your hand, but nothing too painful

If you’re the timid sort, Todoroki’s glad that you feel the same way in some sorts, and feels reassured that it’s the normal way to react to such things as haunted houses (poor baby doesn’t have a clue about social norms, so he’s always questioning whether he’s weird for being the way he is and not being typical in his reactions—the answer is, of course, that he’s loved either way)

If you’re the unfazed sort, Todoroki will admire you as you march through the haunted house hand in hand, his gaze on your small but strong back as you move towards the exit. How you don’t react to anything, and instead even exchange pleasantries with some of the ghosts makes him see you in a whole new light

And then when you’re finally out in the open, where you return to your usual caring self and ask if he’s okay, Todoroki thinks that he couldn’t fall in love with you more than he already has

Spoiler alert: he’s wrong

When you cheekily tell him you’ll protect the next time you visit a haunted house, he buries his face in your shoulders while he hugs you to him tight

‘Thank you.’ You can hear him whisper beside your ear, ‘but let’s not do that again for a while.’

If you’re an absolute horror junkie, you’ll try to convince Todoroki to visit with you again

If he’s still hesitant, you opt to getting him used to jumpscares by watching horror movies together

Sometimes Todoroki can’t help but question what you find so fun about them when you yourself squeal in half-horror and half-delight when you get scared by something on the screen

But if the way you cling to his side is any indication, he likes it anyway

Pretty soon he does get used to jumpscares, in that his heightened senses from all his hero training lead him to predict the right moments where jumpscares occur

Cue him telling you ‘There’s a jumpscare at this part’ and two seconds later a monstrous face appears on screen

At first you’re in awe at his sudden ability only after watching like three films, but pretty soon it gets old and you have to break it to him that it ruins the show for you

Your heart nearly melts when he murmurs in a low voice, ‘I thought I’d just warn you in advance so you wouldn’t be scared.’

In that moment you’re eternally grateful to have someone as awkward and kind as Todoroki as your boyfriend who constantly looks out for your well-being and does his best in making you happy

You kindly explain to him what makes horror movies so good and why jumpscares are supposed to be unpredictable, but not before leaning in to whisper a ‘thank you’ and plant a kiss to his cheek

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU

Now Kirishima’s usually game for anything you want to try, but just so you know, he wouldn’t exactly consider a haunted house as an ideal date spot

What’s so romantic about getting scared by a bunch of ghosts who are also paid actors in a small dark space? But hey, if it’s for fun and you want to, why not

But just because he’s the glue of class 1-A, he’ll ask if he can bring some of his friends along since ‘it’ll be more fun that way’

The thing with Kirishima is if he sees other people enjoying this kind of thing he’d like to invite them, and when he can’t picture something being just between the two of you he’s likely to call other people to join

You might be a little disappointed and exasperated about it, but knowing where he’s coming from you can’t really get mad at him

Though if you’re truly bothered about it, just say the word and he’ll change

Sweetie will do anything for you as long as it’s within reason and he knows where you’re coming from

But anyway, you’re not against the idea of having the rest of the Bakusquad join you, since they’re a fun-loving bunch and having them at a haunted house is bound to be ten times funnier

So there’s Bakugou in his usual black skull shirt and Sero and Kaminari, while Mina’s ready to snap away with her camera so she can get some funny reaction pics out of the boys

While lining up for tickets you’re surprised by Kirishima learning in from behind you and whispering into your ear: ‘Don’t worry babe, I’ll protect you from anything you find scary in there!’

Heat immediately rises to your cheeks when you think about the utter cheeseball he is, and when you turn around to face him Kirishima has his trademark toothy grin on his face as he looks at you

How could you even be disappointed about this not being a date when Kirishima is still being his caring, romantic self?

Mina, who’s behind the both of you in line, immediately scrunches up her face in mock disgust. ‘Ew, you two,’ she says in mock disgust and you know she’d heard Kirishima. ‘Get out of here and get a room.’ The three of you end up laughing it off anyway.

When you step into the haunted house, Kirishima naturally takes your hand in his, and an immediate sense of safety washes over you when you feel his hand encapsulating yours

Going through the haunted house with Kirishima is an absolute hitch, as he knows just how to react and still have fun with you

Kirishima isn’t the kind to be scared easily, but he always acts scared alongside you because he doesn’t want you to feel alone in your fear

Jokes on him because you can tell exactly when he’s scared or not, because laughing is his coping mechanism for these things

The louder he laughs, the more scared he is, and he laughs a fair bit while you’re walking through the haunted house

When he really gets frightened though, he accidentally activates his quirk so you feel his skin harden a little in your hand

Just as quickly he retracts his hand and forgets his fear in favour of worrying over whether he hurt you, the sweetheart that he is

But the highlight of the night is really when Bakugou nearly blasted Kaminari to smithereens when he appeared behind him wrapped in Sero’s tape like a mummy, but not without Mina’s acid melting through the tape so he looked like he’d just escaped from his ancient sarcophagus

The only reason Bakugou stopped himself from yelling ‘die!’ is when he hears a ‘whey~’ escape from the mummy’s mouth, which is when he drags the ‘mummy’ by the collar out through the exit while the rest of you rush after him in hysterical laughter

Whether it’s because Kaminari instantly sobered up when Bakugou threatens to blow him up, or that Kirishima notices that Bakugou’s palms and forehead are tinged with cold sweat, you all have a great time nonetheless

When you confront Kirishima about purposely faking his fear in front of you, an embarrassed blush immediately overtakes his face

‘I just thought it’d cheer you up, so you wouldn’t focus on your own fear too much,’ he says, and his face turns even redder when you laughingly point out his own tells

‘I guess I really can’t hide anything from you,’ he then smiles after looping his arm with yours on the way back, the Bakusquad squabbling a ways in front of you so they can’t hear his next words that make you swoon. ‘But I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

[ex-vengeancedemon]

Averting Disasters and Other Ways to Avoid Your Problems

Chapter 2

Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Mentions of things that occurred in Angel: The Series season 5.

Main Pairing: Buffy x Spike

Characters: Buffy, Spike, Giles, Willow, Xander, Andrew, Faith, Dawn

Summary: Set in 2008, five years after Spike's resurrection at Wolfram & Hart. Buffy is living in Cleveland guarding the hellmouth. Spike has left Angel and company and is hiding out in Chicago. The Scoobies are scattered. When something starts going wrong with the slayers around the world, it's time to get the gang back together.

Masterlist & Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Cleveland, Ohio

Buffy woke up groggy. She was still in her bed. It was still dark outside. Her eyelids felt heavy as she squinted through the dim, struggling to focus. After a disorienting minute, she shook the fog from her head and glanced at her alarm clock resting on the nightstand, its only fixture. She had meant to decorate. She would....eventually.

The segmented, glowing red numbers on her alarm informed her it was four in the morning. That couldn't be right. Could it? Had she really only slept for an hour? Add sleep deprivation to the list. Whatever list that was. List of future problems maybe.

A light patter of rain beat down on the roof and decorated the windows with beads that shimmered with the occasional passing headlights. Buffy couldn't recall forecasting rain that night. It had been still and cloudless all night. Good patrol weather. A distant crack of thunder sounded and the windows vibrated softly. 

Buffy frowned as she swung her legs out of bed. When her bare feet hit the cold wooden floor she was irritated to notice a healthy coating of dirt scattered on the ground and clinging to her soles. She would have to clean it up later. It could wait. No way did she plan on going all vacuum crazy at four a.m. She wasn't that lost to reason.

The house rattled again with a closer shock of thunder as Buffy made her way downstairs. It was kind of nice. The storm. It broke up the quiet. Buffy reached the kitchen and snatched the kettle from the stovetop. She filled it with water without bothering to turn on the lights and switched the burner on. A quick cup of tea and then back to sleep. It was something her mom had done. If she woke up in the middle of the night restless, her mom would somehow know and... what did she say? She would say something. Buffy's hand slipped slightly and the kettle dropped the rest of the way to the burner. She jumped at the sudden noise just as some water that had spilled hissed against the now red hot grills. 

Buffy held a hand to her head and winced as she noticed a fresh bruise she didn't remember getting. She sighed as she rummaged through her cupboards looking for the box of tea bags. She didn't have to look too far. The cupboards were dangerously empty. A grocery run was definitely called for. The joys of living alone.

As she grabbed an old UC Sunnydale mug from the dish rack she noticed the answering machine was flashing green again. Another message. Someone needed to cut back on the caffeine. Then again, maybe it was Giles. Maybe the time was more reasonable in England. Buffy was too tired to think about the exact time difference. 

The tea kettle started whistling and Buffy redirected her attention, pulling the kettle off and fixing her cup of tea. She had never really liked tea. But her mom had drank it and Giles drank it and so it was just something she did now. She let the cup steep while she went to check her messages.

As she reached out her hand she noticed that her sleeve was torn. And it was her favorite shirt. Buffy picked at the ripped seam in the cute white top she had bought for Dawn's graduation. Her brows furrowed. Why had she worn it on patrol? She never wore it on patrol. She didn't wear it last night.

Buffy spun around, suddenly uneasy. But she heard nothing but the light taps of rain. The kitchen was dark and empty without barely even a slinking shadow. Moving quietly and deliberately, she made her way to every door in the house and checked the locks. Everything was locked, bolted, and chained. Just as she had left it. At least, she was pretty sure that was how she had left it. 

What was that thing her mom always said? Something to do with tea. Or had it been coffee? Hot chocolate? Something about tiny marshmallows?

A note a panic started to rise in the back of her mind, but it was impossible to pinpoint why. She made her way back to the answering machine and hit the button.

"Hey B," Faith's voice came through. "Look I-" Her voice cut off, then returned with a waver. "I don't know. There's just- something's wrong. I woke up in the cemetery last night. No idea how I got there. And you never got back to me... it's been a week. I need help. Call me."

Buffy's face paled and she staggered away from the phone. A week? A week since Faith called last. It couldn't be, she- 

She couldn't remember anything.

***

Chicago, Illinois

"Where's Willow?" Spike asked, more than a little irritated. "I'm sorry but your being on the case doesn't exactly strike me as reassuring. Where's the witch?"

Andrew had made himself comfortable on the one chair Spike owned. Bit of a cheeky bastard that one. Barging into someone's home and stealing his chair. Next thing he's gonna start raiding the fridge.

Andrew raised his hands. "Hey now, patience is a virtue."

"Don't have any virtues." Spike pressed off the wall and moved to grab his jacket.

Andrew gave another nervous grin. "Right. Well. She's in Cleveland. You know..." He seemed to struggle for words. "Working on it. It's a bit of a mess right now... well, everywhere."

Spike slung his coat on and began buckling his boots. "Does she know?"

"Willow?"

Spike looked up from what he was doing with a frown. "Buffy."

The name felt strange. He hadn't said it out loud in years. No one to say it to.

"None of them know what's happening," Andrew answered, his face darkening. "We haven't been able to risk informing them. At least, not yet."

Yet. Spike hated that word. Only reason to use it was to put off some horrible thing or another.

"Where's Giles? He have anything in that bookish brain of his that'll... help?" 

Andrew shook his head. "Not yet. But he's-"

"Workin' on it. Right," Spike finished, straightening up. "Guess it's time for a little field trip then."

Andrew's face brightened up. "Oh you're gonna love the car! It's got those special glass windows... you know so you don't turn into powder and all. And," he leaned in conspiratorially, "it's a total chick magnet."

Spike raised an eyebrow at him. "Right. So I guess it's just the burning dash to the car then. Brilliant." 

Spike grabbed Andrew by the collar and tossed him out of the chair towards the door. He stumbled a bit before catching himself on the door and shooting Spike an indignant look.

"Hey! That's Armani!" Andrew protested as he straightened his suit and walked up the stairs.

***

On the drive to Cleveland, Andrew had been able to more or less catch Spike up to speed on what they knew so far. The color commentary on his own life was a bit less than welcome, but Spike had refrained from socking him in the jaw so that was something.

So far, it seemed that slayers all over the world were having strange lapses in memory. It started with small things, forgetting they had called someone, forgetting to meet up for coffee. Small things. But lately, things had been getting significantly worse. Huge blocks of time - days, weeks, for some even months - had been lost. No one was sure why. The girls seemed more or less normal during the blackouts. As far as anyone could tell. But they had been getting more and more reports of the same phenomenon. Slayers were losing time. Andrew seemed cagey to say much more than that on the subject.

Willow was already in Cleveland where both Buffy and Faith were stationed. If something was going wrong with slayers, it seemed only logical that they'd both be feeling the effects. Although no one had been able to reach either of them for days.

Giles was already on a flight from London. Xander was apparently also on his way, not that Spike really gave a damn. Xander was all but useless in most cases. 

"So, anyone told Dawn?" Spike asked, breaking the silence that had fallen after Andrew had suggested a road game.

Andrew shook his head. Spike could almost say there was something like guilt there. 

"Why not?" Spike pressed. "Think she'd want to know if the big sis was in danger."

"Buffy didn't want Dawn involved in any of this stuff," Andrew replied. "We're just respecting her wishes."

"She's already involved," Spike muttered under his breath. "Not like there's an out for any of us now, is there?"

Andrew didn't respond to that last bit. Spike wasn't sure if he was just pretending he hadn't heard or if silence was his answer. Guess it was all the same.

The thought of seeing the gang again was... uncomfortable. He hadn't seen any of them besides Andrew since he had burned to ashes and been buried beneath the rubble of Sunnydale. They didn't know he was alive. She didn't know he was alive.

He had planned on telling her. Eventually. It just... he wasn't sure if fair was the right word. But it just didn't seem fair to barge back into her life. He was dead. They saved the world. He died. End of story. She was free to go off and live a semi-normal life with a normal guy. At least, that was the lie he told himself. The truth was always worse.

[scripts4dreamers]

Not Your Hero. Chapter 2

Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five

AN: Just another day on the train ride to nowhere brings Y/N and Finnick a little closer than they’d expected.

Characters: Finnick Odair, Coriolanus Snow, Mags Flanagan

Pairings: Finnick x reader

Spoiler(s): None

Warning(s): Mentions of blood, death, murder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, psychological manipulation, intimidation Prompt/Inspiration: Dead hearts - Stars

--------------------------

--------------------------

CHAPTER TWO

“And then after that it’s a straight shot to the Capitol,” your escort explained for what felt like the thousandth time, “where the president will welcome us into his home personally. Isn’t that wonderful?”

You kept watching the trees slip past your window, too focused on the comforting rocking of the train to listen to anything Kiki Schofield had to say. The silence stretched on and eventually it was a sharp jab in the ribs from Mags that shocked you back into reality.

“Ow!” you complained, frowning, “What was tha-oh, right, yes Kiki. I can barely stand the wait.”

Your escort sniffed, obviously offended, but quickly regained her composure. The lure of a place of honor at the biggest party of the season clearly outweighed all but the most inexcusable of offenses in her eyes.

“Yes well, Arketia has a lot of work to do with you before you’re ready for that,” she said, “it’s going to be glorious.”

And, with that, she glided out of the cart, muttering to herself about fabrics and lights and all the people she hoped to impress. You sighed and dropped your head back against the couch you were sitting on. At this point, you could think of exactly zero things you wanted to do less than visit the capitol. Just the thought of the candy coloured buildings and bright lights made your skin crawl. You knew what would meet you at the train station too; throngs of screaming crowds filled with grotesquely altered faces all chanting your name, calling out their praises to you like they hadn’t been hoping for you meet some horrible death less than seven months earlier. In fact, many of them had actively betted against you. You weren’t naive, you knew your odds heading into the games had been extremely low. A girl from district five, fifteen years old with no obvious survival skills or weapons proficiency? Hell you didn’t even have Finnick’s outrageously good looks. Yeah...you hadn’t exactly been a low risk investment.

“So, Y/N, what makes you so sure that you can outlive all the other tributes? Do you have any special skills hidden up your sleeve that you can tell us about?” Caesar Flickerman asked, leaning in conspiratorially, his midnight blue suit glinting in the light.

Your heart was pounding like a sledgehammer in your chest, but you fought down your nerves and tried to smile calmly.

“Come now Caesar,” you answered with a light, teasing chuckle, “that would be telling.”

“Oh but just give us a little sneak peak.” He answered, his eyes glinting the way they seemed to whenever a tribute did well, “What is it? Camouflage? Can you hunt? Cleverness? Are you very strong or quick?”

You gasped in mock outrage and slapped Caesar’s arm, “Stop it you, you’ll give away all my secrets.”

“So it was one of those then?”

“Maybe,” you smiled, giving the audience a wink. There was a collective ‘oooooooh’ and you realised, with a start, that you genuinely had their full attention, “all I’ll say is this; don’t count me out just yet. There’s more to me than what meets the eye.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Caesar smiled, kissing the back of your hand as the buzzer rang out signifying the end of your time.

As you walked back to your seat, the roar of the crowd stayed ringing in your ears, filling your chest with the kind of fire you didn’t know you had anymore. It burnt away the icy film of dread that had been clinging to your insides ever since Reaping Day and replaced it a steely sort of hope, a determination that would carry you through the hardest few weeks of your life.

You snorted and pressed the heel of your hand to the center of your forehead. God you’d been naive. Whatever fire you thought you’d had had been stamped out almost instantly. As soon as that first canon had rang out and you’d seen the blood seeping into the grass, reality had hit you like a ton of bricks.

“Hey there,” Mags greeted gently, snapping you back into the present, “you doing alright?”

You shrugged, “As alright as I can be in the circumstances I think.”

Mags sat down beside you, sighing and rubbing her stiff knee, “Well, that’s a start.”

You stared at Mags’ knee. It was an old Hunger Games injury from her days in the arena. She never spoke about it really, but everyone knew regardless. Mags’ games were exceptionally popular in the capitol, so they were broadcasted often, with excited commentary and nostalgic stories from people who revelled in retelling where they were or what they felt when they first saw specific moments. There was never really an escape from it but, somehow she never let it drag her down.

In a way, Mags was a role model for all the younger Victors, a look into what your future held if you made it that far. She was brave and kind and well adjusted, but she was still disposable, still a public spectacle, still a piece in the world’s most dangerous game even fifty-eight years after she spent her last official seconds as a sanctioned tribute. But she was alive. She was surviving it. Even after all these years, she had never given up her fight, she had never given up on herself or on anyone else. It was kind of inspiring.

Mags caught you staring and smiled sadly, “Wounds heal, Y/N, you’ve just got to give them time.”

“The full body polish took care of all my wounds,” you answered, showing her your perfectly smooth arms, “see? All pretty and perfect.”

Mags tapped the side of your head knowingly, but stayed quiet.

“Mags have you seen my-oh-” Finnick said, stopping dead in his tracks.

You looked up and gave him an unsure smile. Finnick Odair was still somewhat of a mystery to you. One day he would be sweet and funny and self deprecating and you could imagine the two of you actually being friends and then the next he would be snarky and cocky and overconfident, jabbing at you at every opportunity. It was confusing, but you knew he was fighting his own battles, just like you were and over the last few days you’d struck up a kind of friendship. There was an unspoken understanding between you that you couldn’t explain, but that you’d come to rely on. Where you were weak, Finnick was strong and where he stumbled, you were steady.

“Hey Finnick,” you greeted.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” he answered.

You shook your head, “No, you’re not. Come sit.”

Finnick smiled gratefully and took a seat across from you, glancing out the window and worrying at his bottom lip. Up close you could see the signs of exhaustion etched onto his perfectly sculpted face. There were dark bags under his eyes and a heaviness to the way he held his shoulders that was becoming all too familiar and something near your heart pinched with concern.

“You doing alright, Fin?” you asked hesitantly.

“Hmm?” Finnick answered, distractedly.

Mags leant forward and snapped her fingers under his eyes, “Earth to Finnick, Y/N asked you a question.”

“Sorry,” he replied, shaking his head to clear it, “yeah, I’m alright.” he fiddled with his hands, “Thanks for-for asking though.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly and leant forward, dropping your voice to a whisper to avoid being overheard, “You look like death Fin, have you slept at all?”

“That depends,” Finnick joked ruefully, looking down at his hands, “what day is it?”

“Fin,” you sighed, leaning back in your seat.

“What Y/N/N?” he smiled, “Who cares if I’ve slept? They’ll make sure I’m all prettied up for the cameras either way.”

“I care,” you retorted, “you do actually need sleep to live, you know?”

Finnick mumbled something vaguely mutinous about not liking to sleep somewhere he didn’t know under his breath but didn’t respond, focussing his attention on the window again.

You studied your friend, noting the way his fingers twisted and fiddled with themselves, as though searching for something, and the constant, ever present flicker of anxiety in his bright green eyes. He was beautiful, of course, after all he was still Finnick Odair, but now he looked worn and afraid, like he was holding himself together by a thread. Something had changed. Each day it got a little worse, and the closer you got to the capitol, the further into himself Finnick retreated.

You sighed again and stood, reaching your hand out impulsively, “Okay, let’s go.”

Finnick’s head snapped up and he met your gaze, staring between your face and your outstretched hand uncomprehendingly.

You rolled your eyes to cover your insecurity but pushed forward, “Come on then, take it.”

“Y/N?”

“Nope, no questions,” you insisted, lacing your fingers with his and pulling him to his feet, “you’re taking a nap right now, whether you like it or not.”

Finnick protested weakly, insisting that he wasn’t tired and that you were being ridiculous, but followed along without too much of a fight as you led him through the train and into your room. As with everything from the capitol, it was absurdly big and luxurious, with soft carpeted floors, tall bookshelves and a fully stocked desk, bathroom, walk in closet and mini kitchen. Your old house could probably have fit in one of these rooms. The usual flicker of disgust rose up in your stomach at the sight of it, but you pushed your anger down and focused on sitting Finnick down, pulling off his fancy capitol shoes and shoving him down onto the pillows.

“Sleep.” you commanded, throwing a blanket over him.

“But what about you?” He argued.

You settled into one of the many cushy armchairs in your reading nook, pulled your feet up onto the seat and pulled out your own, well worn copy of The Chronicles of Narnia, waving it in Finnick’s general direction as a means of explanation.

“Y/N-”

“You said you don’t like sleeping somewhere you don’t know ‘cause you don’t feel safe. Well, I’ll be here the whole time watching your back, so you’ve got no excuse.” You interrupted, meeting his gaze steadily, “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” Finnick asked softly.

You softened, remembering suddenly how younge Finnick actually was. He’d been a victor for four years, but he was still just barely eighteen. A scared kid really.

“Promise.” you answered.

Finnick nodded, probably attempting to be nonchalant, an effect that was ruined by the fact that his eyes were already drifting shut. He was fast asleep moments after his head hit the pillow. You giggled softly to yourself at the sight, placing your book face down on the armrest of your seat and throwing a soft blanket over Finnick’s sleeping body. He looked younger when he was like this, you noted, softer too, and more vulnerable. It made something protective flare to life in your chest, shocking you with its intensity.

You cared about him, you realised, more than you’d thought you would.

You sighed and settled back into your seat, steeling yourself for a long wait, “Sleep well, Fin,” you whispered, “sleep well.”

------------------------

Running, running, heart pounding.

His hands are slick, whether from sweat or blood he can’t tell. The ground squelches under his feet, slowing him down but he can’t stop.

“Come here little boy, you can’t run forever.”

He chokes back a sob and slams his body onto the ground, rolling into a dense thicket of bushes.

Footsteps pass right next to his head. He bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood.

“Finnick,” the older boy croons, from somewhere to his right, “Fiiiinick, come out come out and play.”

His body courses with adrenaline. He wants to fight, to flee, to do something, but he forces himself to stay still. Cassius is twice his size at least, eighteen years old and lethal in hand to hand combat, he could snap Finnick in two without a moment’s hesitation. No, if he fights him now, Finnick has no chance.

But this isn’t right, a voice in his head whispers. Cassius was dead. He’d died from a horrible infection one week into the games, Finnick had seen it happen. So then, who was chasing him?

The branches above his head snap. Finnick has just enough time to look up in horror as the pale, controlled face of president Snow bursts through into his hiding place, snakelike eyes cold and distant as the smell of blood and roses clogs Finnick’s nose, making him choke.

“Finnick my boy, there you are. We need to chat about your future in the capitol.”

“Ah!” Finnick cried out, bolting up like an arrow.

For a second he looked around, bewildered and afraid, sure that he’d catch a glimpse of that white hair, those cold dead eyes. But instead he saw you, curled up in a comfy chair, with a book in your hands and your Y/E/C eyes trained on him with concern. Slowly, he remembered where he was and how he’d gotten there, and a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. Tears welled up in Finnick’s eyes and he leant forward, hiding his face in his hands. Another nightmare, another horrible dream stealing any real chance he had to rest. Would it never end?

Some small part of Finnick’s brain thought he should try and play it off, act like everything was fine with some lighthearted joke or witty comment but, as he felt the bed dip and the weight of your hand settle in between his shoulder blades, he knew he didn’t have the energy.

“Bad dream?” you asked gently.

Finnick nodded but didn’t look up. You made a sympathetic noise in the back of your throat but didn’t pull away.

“I would tell you it gets better but…” you laughed ruefully, “well I wouldn’t really know. I have them every night myself.”

“It does,” he answered, wincing at how hoarse he sounded, clearing his throat before trying again, “it does get better. But they never fully go away.”

“Is that why you aren’t sleeping?” you asked.

Finnick worried at his bottom lip and thought, for the millionth time, of telling you. The capitol was only three days away, he knew you were running out of time. Soon you’d be back in the city, surrounded by strangers with strange clothes, strange voices, strange morals...and then Snow would call you into his office and-Finnick’s heart pinched. No, he couldn’t tell you, Chaff and Mags would have his head on a platter. Better to let you find out later, better to let you have as much time with your innocence as he could help.

“It’s-one of the reasons,” he said, settling for a half truth.

Your eyes met his and, though you pressed your lips into a thin line, there was a determination in your gaze that made something electric tingle down Finnick’s spine.

“I know something’s coming, you know,” you answered, surprising him with the calm in your voice, “I don’t know what, but I know it’s coming, and I know you know it too.”

“I do.”

“But you aren’t going to tell me?”

He shook his head, “No, I’m not.”

You nodded understandingly, the tension slipping from your shoulders as you caught his eye again.

“Well,” you smiled, “that’s alright then.”

Something thin and fragile stretched between you like a spiderweb, making Finnick’s heart stutter and filling him with a sense of deep overwhelming calm. He held your gaze for a moment longer, until he felt heat rising in his cheeks and then cleared his throat.

“How long was I out?”

You shrugged, letting the moment pass, “A few hours, it’s about nine pm right now.”

“Shit,” Finnick said, “shit I’m sorry. I should-I should head back to my room, you must be exhausted.”

“No, it’s fine,” you smiled, “I’m comfy where I am, you rest.”

“But when it gets late-”

“Finnick, this is the capitol we’re talking about, if I press a button in my armchair’s headboard it converts into a bed, I’ll be fine.” you assured, patting his shoulder and getting to your feet.

Impulsively, he reached out and grabbed your arm, stopping you from slipping away. You turned and looked at him curiously, a question dancing at the corners of your mouth. Finnick felt himself blush again.

Stay with me, he wanted to say, stay and keep the nightmares away. But he couldn’t make his mouth move. He barely knew you, you barely knew him, what was he thinking?

“Why’re you being so nice to me?” he eventually asked.

Your eyes softened and you shifted from one foot to another, almost like you were nervous.

“You-uh-you helped me once,” you answered with a small smile, “that dinner,” you clarified when he cocked his head to the side, “you were the only person who knew I hadn’t eaten. I know you told the waiters to send food to my room and-yeah-I guess I never really said thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Y/N,” he said softly, “I was an asshole that night.”

“Yeah well,” you smiled again, “I’m an asshole most nights, so I guess we’re even.”

You detangled your hand from his and ruffled his hair before making your way back to the armchair. Finnick followed you with his eyes, feeling with complete certainty that something important had just happened, but he wasn’t sure what.

“Night Odair,” you said, pulling a blanket over your legs and settling back into your book, “sleep well.”

He nodded, “Night, Y/N.” he said, lying down and turning away from you, “and thank you,” he finished softly, “for doing this.”

For a long moment you didn’t answer but then, just as Finnick’s eyes drooped toward sleep he heard two words spoken so quietly and so sadly that he almost thought he’d dreamed it;

“You’re welcome.”

-------------------- 

Tag list: @i-love-you-green​ , @heatherhollowayst​

[blindrapture]

a union-mandated break post

(okay, let’s see if I can type this all over again after losing the post. gotta remember how it all went.)

Hey there, the few mutuals who Like all of my posts, the lurkers who occasionally make their presence known, the lurkers who I also hope are there, and all you folks who come across this post naturally before scrolling on (that’s fine too, please have a nice day! remember to take a deep breath and unclench!). I wanted to make a post giving a casual update.

Things have been going. You know how it is. Time proceeds onwards at a pace that is a crawl to some and fleeting to others, depending on relative perspective. The average of all these observations may be Objective Truth, a hazy mythical and abstract prospect which to this day no living human has ever known (due to the nature of perspective). We still try to know it for some reason, an endeavour which may be “a good thing” or “a condemnation of our species,” but that’s relative too. See above. Still, it is possible to take an approximation of what we figure this average to be and find ourselves (mis)balanced on a knife-edge in between all perspectives. This narrow path, the knife-edge between fast and slow, between good and bad, between ecstasy and despair, seems precarious at times, yet at other times is like a garden, wide and spacious enough to sit awhile. Our perspectives cover this garden from us with the shrubbery of Can’ts and Shouldn’ts, and the way to the garden is fraught with the misty cloud of Look-Like. And yet, ultimately, these shrubs and mists are but prismatic scenery colouring our time on this Earth, a perspective which is easy to see from within the garden. The Earth is brown and grey and immortal, though wearing an impermanent coat of blue and green. One day, we will slip out of our perspectives and return to the Earth, join her mounding’s mass, and that will be death.

So that’s the weather. Sometimes cold, sometimes mild, sometimes wet, sometimes dry, sometimes bothersome and sometimes the only backdrop I could ever want. I’ve been up to the usual, cycling between interests like a bat between haunts.

- The other day I got around to playing Smile For Me, an experience which took me about three hours to more-or-less complete 100%. Really cute game, I fell in love with all the characters, and the budding horror elements made me excited to see where it’d go.

- Currently I’m playing A Monster’s Expedition Through Puzzling Exhibitions, a game often cited in the same breath as Baba Is You and Stephen’s Sausage Roll. I think those two games are puzzle masterpieces, and A Monster’s Expedition is hitting me in the right spot. It frequently fills me with awe, which is impressive considering the game is just a long series of oblong block-pushing puzzles. It has scope, though, and it has the guts to hide that scope from you until you’re able to discover it for yourself. I’ve played for about 10 hours so far, beaten over 200 islands, and yet I feel I’m only getting further away from the end goal. Hard to describe. It’s a good game.

- When I’m done with that game, next I’ll be checking out Spelunky 2. I’ve wanted to try the original for a long time but never got around to it; I picked up the sequel. I know very little about the games (with a rough idea of what gameplay is like), and I intend to keep it that way for as long as I can. I like games that rely on discovery.

- Book-wise, I’m, y’know, reading Finnegans Wake as I fall asleep, occasionally inching through other books too, but my main reading focus at the moment is The Familiar. I went and picked up a new copy of Volume 5, and I found the Volume 3 I had kinda lost for a while, so now I have the full Season 1 again. And it’s been long enough since I read any of them that it’s finally time to reread them. As a unit this time. I am... so happy to be in their headspace. I’m currently in the second act of Volume 1, taking in a lot more details this time (and I do still remember a sense of where the whole plot goes), really cherishing the commitment to physicality and aesthetic. There’s not many authors out there like Danielewski. House of Leaves kickstarted my book obsession, y’know. And The Familiar is about as grand as a project can be. It’s supposed to be 27 volumes, each one 900 pages long, and the design of these books is goddamn sublime. The publisher only let him do the first 5 volumes, which is sad, but luckily those 5 volumes make up a “Season,” so they’re still a whole thing, a complete story arc for each of the nine protagonists, and plenty of secrets and details that give a good sense of the true scope. And did I mention the series is fucking scary? Profoundly so, each new volume weaving you deeper into its conspiratorial web of eldritch coincidences and patterns. The story is full of cats, immortal cats, God-cats. There’s a scientist who keeps a freaky magic orb and is known as Wizard. There’s an Armenian taxi driver who’s one of my favourite characters. And you can probably get all the volumes Used for fairly cheap on Amazon now. ........please, somebody join me in loving this series.

- Creative-wise, I’m working on music as always, putting notes next to each other until I get a result I can do something with. There is one piece that’s definitely done, a collaboration between Lindsay and I, but it’s going into Nine Is God so you won’t hear it just yet. Speaking of, that’s coming along. I haven’t even started making any codes or cool connections yet; I want to finish the... Core of this update first. Let’s be deceptive and call it the Main Blog. I have proven to myself that I definitely can do this; I keep stumbling on new mechanisms I can add, and I have a pretty vivid idea of what the whole thing will look like. It’s gonna be maybe a decent size for a Blog, all told, but it’s the form of the thing that mandates a lot of care. Luckily I have made Viceking’s Graab, so this isn’t the first time I’ve done something this mechanically ambitious. ...look, just. Of course I’m excited to Actually Talk about this thing, but like with the Graab, its nature requires me to keep it secret until players finally discover it for themselves. I like making that kind of thing, I want the sense of discovery, of climbing up a hill only to reach the summit and see an even bigger mountain looming over you that you hadn’t realized was there. Like Frog Fractions, or its sequel, even if you know there will be more than meets the eye you still get surprised and filled with delight. This concept fits neatly into an ARG format.

- Oh, also, I’m super excited for the Braid remake. It’s gonna have a comically thorough amount of developer commentary, and that’s all I want from this world. It’s even coming to Switch!

Media can be used as a tool to assist with the experience of life, and that is the way I want to approach things. I have spent time adapting myself to feel comfortable in these boring aesthetics (of understated puzzle games, thoughtful pretty books, blogs as art) because this means I am less susceptible to getting burned out during contemplation and self-examination. It may seem like a matter of taste, but taste is relative too; it’s not hard-wired, it can be adjusted, it does adjust all the time under the hood. ...I don’t know where to go with this one, other than that I should be careful not to condescend. I am not above anyone, I am confused too. I just.. like confusion and mazes, and I try to speak these aesthetics in an approximation of how I see others talk about theirs.

Right. I think that’s the bulk of it, that’s what I wanted to say today. I hope you are holding on, reader. It’s a wild and lonely world out there, and it’s our world; it’s yours just as much as it’s anyone else’s. You are important to it.

I leave you, mysteriously, with an old Genesis song. It’s called “Can-Utility and the Coastliners,” which is a silly way of saying it’s a song about the myth of King Canute. Sick of flatterers claiming he was equal to God, he went to the sea shore and said “If I truly am equal to God, then let the waves halt at my feet!” They didn’t. An astute demonstration, but it just prompted his flatterers to praise his ingenuity. “But he forced a smile, even though his hopes lay dashed where offerings fell.” I’m not really sure how the story ends. But it’s a wonderful song, starts off very folks-y but quickly takes a left turn down Mystery and Beauty. And it’s freaking Genesis.

See ya.

[johannas-motivational-insults]

I for one was seething while Ms assh... Weaver basically confirmed to her designed punching bag that she keeps her around because she's a decent emotional support for Adora, so... wanna go even deeper and stab the reader s'more?

Oh I love stabbing the reader. And I love this scene so I’ll do the whole fuckin’ thing. (Commentary is bolded.)

This scene really is heartbreaking. It was easy for me to write, though, because Catra and (Shadow) Weaver have a very particular dynamic that I vibe with. It's such a pivotal scene for Catra too, because it confirms her fears that her success would be met with pushback and that Weaver really doesn’t love her or care about her at all. It makes her feel dehumanized both in the sense of being treated as subhuman and being treated as a tool. Something to be kept around only so long as it’s useful, discarded the second it’s not. This is the moment when she learns for certain just how little she means to Weaver and it’s painful to read.

*Content Warning for abuse*

The sound of keys in the front door makes Catra frown in confusion as she unloads the last of her books. No one is ever home this early. Even when Weaver doesn’t have any sponsored clubs or other teacher bullshit to deal with, 3:15 is the earliest she ever gets home.

But Catra’s always had sensitive ears, and those are definitely Ms. Weaver’s footsteps crossing the floor. When the woman pokes her head into the kitchen, no doubt to investigate the smell, Catra gives her a jerky nod. “Went to work after all?”

“No, I had some errands to run,” Weaver replies flatly. “Lying around all day like a lazy sack of meat doesn’t come naturally to me.”

Me @ Weaver:

Bitch she’s baking cookies, she’s clearly not lying around all day. Why you gotta be like that?

“Yeah, me neither,” mutters Catra, deflecting the obvious implication.

“I have something for you,” says Weaver, and Catra can’t help but look up in surprise. Weaver tosses her something and she instinctively moves to catch it. Just before it hits her hands, she realizes what it is and her stomach drops. Fingering the rough edges of the rolled up newspaper, she tries to breathe steadily as she forces her eyes up to meet Weaver’s. (Oh gotta love that trauma response.) The woman looks more unimpressed than predatory right now, but Catra knows better than anyone how that can change at the drop of a hat.

“Looks like your little ploy paid off,” she remarks.

Sighing, Catra sets the paper down on the table. “I told you, it wasn’t a ploy. Just a play.”

“I see. And I suppose the fact that this article was written by a close friend of yours is a complete coincidence.”

LOL clearly Weaver knows nothing about Entrapta if she thinks she could be bribed into writing something she doesn’t believe.

“I had nothing to do with that,” Catra denies swiftly. When Weaver’s expression doesn’t change, she insists, “Really, I swear.”

Weaver’s head tips the slightest bit, that familiar predatory tinge seeping into her eyes and voice. “And why should I believe you?”

Catra huffs, arms crossing defensively over her chest. “Why would I do something I know would get me in trouble?”

“I don’t know, Catra, you tell me,” says Weaver, slowly closing the gap between them. “It’s not as though you’ve been doing that your entire life.”

Me @ Weaver:

Like okay, it’s kinda true. But still.

Tensing more with every step Weaver takes, Catra raises her hands innocently, trying and failing not to shift her weight to her back foot. Not to give ground or show her fear. (This is making me super uncomfortable so I’m probably just gonna keep memeing at you all. Yes, I am aware that this is my fault. No, I am not sorry.) “Look, Entrapta has really strong opinions, and they’re always backed up with facts. I couldn’t just plant the idea in her head to write something like this.”

“Facts, you say?” muses Weaver. She reaches past Catra in a very deliberate show of invading her space, and Catra can’t help but suck a quick breath in through her teeth. But Weaver doesn’t touch her. All she does is pick up the paper and turn it over in her hands as though she is deep in thought. Then the motion stops, her eyes snapping up sharply. “So you agree with her.”

Weaver @ Catra:

“That’s not what I said,” protests Catra, her exasperation showing through her tenuous attempts at staying calm. “Stats are facts, not who deserves what awards or whatever. It’s not like I even care about that.”

Weaver shakes her head, her chuckle positively dripping with condescension. “Oh, now I know you’re lying.”

She is. She really is. And the fact that Weaver knows how much Catra cares and wants praise and approval and still denies her that makes me want to slap a bitch.

Also I just realized how closely this scene parallels the one in 1x04 and that actually wasn’t intentional but I’ll take it, clearly I’ve got the spirit of their relationship down.

“No, I-”

The newspaper smacks Catra across the cheek and she yelps in shock and pain, hand flying to her mouth.

It shouldn’t be a shock, not after 14 years of this shit. It still is, every time.

Ugh, ow.

“Enough of your lip,” hisses Weaver. “You know better than to contradict me.”

Hate is not a strong enough word for how I feel about this woman. Unfortunately there are too many people just like her. I’ve noticed the audience particularly hates this incarnation of Shadow Weaver and I think it’s because when she’s stripped of her magic the tactics she’s left with are far too familiar. I feel the same way.

Catra’s tongue swipes along her stinging lip, checking for blood. It comes back clean, but the lack of physical damage does nothing to calm the quiet rage boiling up inside of her. Weaver has never treated her with an ounce of respect, and now she has the gall to hit her with a rolled up newspaper like she’s a fucking animal. Subhuman. (I mean this feeling comes straight out of Demons but with Catra being human in this au it’s... not worse, definitely not, but it hits differently.) Catra’s fists clench and her chest puffs out as she straightens up to her full height (even if it’s nothing on Weaver).

“Do not touch me,” growls Catra, her voice low and dangerous in a way few people have ever heard it. “I’m an adult, that’s officially illegal now.”

Oh, you sweet summer child.

“Oh, you want to talk about the law?” counters Weaver, sounding far too calm in comparison. It just makes Catra angrier. And maybe a little scared. Somehow Weaver always makes her feel out of control, which never ceases to remind her who is in control. (Oof.) “I am under no obligation to let you live here, Catra, let alone at a significant discount. I do that out of the kindness of my heart. (LOL the what now?) Would you rather I throw you out in the streets like the stray you are?”

Yay for another insinuation that Catra is an animal. Nice going, Weaver.

Also, that is one of the meanest fucking lines I’ve ever written for Shadow Weaver and that’s saying something.

Those words hit Catra right in the gut, a blow far more painful than any physical one. They trigger a flood of other words that always seem to find her, stick to her no matter how she tries to slough them off, prove them wrong. Stray, nuisance, brat, worthless, unwanted, unloved...

But she was loved once. She was.

Oh boy, get ready for PAIN. So I wasn’t orginally planning to write this flashback but then I got a Very Bad Idea and I love torturing my readers (and myself) so this happened.

Kneeling in front of the open door, Papi opened his arms for a goodbye hug. When Catra stepped into them, she felt his smile against the side of her head. “Te amo, mija.”

“Yo también te amo, Papi,” said Catra, tiny arms tightening around his neck with a proud grin. He hadn’t taught her that one, she’d pieced it together on her own.

Papi chuckled in surprise and approval, ruffling her wild hair. “You’re a genius, little one. You know that?”

“Yep!” she answered, beaming with the completely earnest confidence only a precocious three year-old can muster.

Baby Catra’s behavior may be slightly inspired by my highly intelligent four year-old niece, who is also biracial with a multilingual father.

A couple playful taps of the horn from the driveway interrupted them, making Papi chuckle once again. Pulling away enough to look Catra in the eye, he winked conspiratorially. “Better not keep Mommy waiting. You know how she is.”

Catra shook her head soberly in agreement. Mommy was notoriously impatient, a speed demon on the road. Catra loved driving with her, laughing like a maniac from the backseat whenever she’d swerve and cuss out the idiots in her way. Those cackles never failed to make Mommy shoot Catra a smile in the rearview mirror, her transitory rage melting away in an instant at the sound. Still, it was never good being on the receiving end of that impatience.

(Catra’s mother is not at all inspired by my sister, however. She drives like a fucking granny.)

Papi quickly pecked Catra on the cheek before standing and waving goodbye, giving an appreciative nod to the babysitter as he pulled the door shut behind him.

He didn’t close it loudly or anything, but no sound is louder in Catra’s nightmares. She never saw either of them again.

“Answer me, Catra,” Ms. Weaver demands sternly.

That was what she had. And this is where she ended up.

Yeah, no wonder this version of Catra just assumes anything good in her life will be taken away. In some ways it might be worse than being Adora starting with nothing, because not only does Adora not remember what she lost in infancy (which wasn’t great to begin with), she has been steadily moving up in the world since. Catra’s had the opposite trajectory.

Suddenly noticing the tears rolling down her cheeks, Catra swipes them away with the back of her hand. Her throat hurts too much to swallow, so she doesn’t even bother trying to settle her voice. Her weakness is already on full display, anyway. Shaking her head, she whispers hoarsely, “No, Ms. Weaver.”

“Good,” Weaver says with finality as Catra sniffles, blinking back more tears. “You still live under my roof, and you will abide by my rules or face the consequences, just like anyone else.”

Oh boy, that’s a little too close for comfort. Again with this version of SW feeling especially despicable to the audience because it’s so familiar.

Just like anyone else. Sure.

Yeah you’re right Catra, go off.

As Weaver starts toward her room, Catra half-heartedly tosses a hand with an empty, resigned sigh. “What rules did I break this time?”

Weaver turns back, her expression dangerous, but Catra can’t muster the enthusiasm for fear anymore. Her eyes are still burning, voice tight with emotion as she confesses, “I’ve tried, Ms. Weaver. I-” Her voice cracks and she shakes her head, pinching her brow in shame. “I never wanted you to hate me.”

brb crying in the club

K but honestly the helplessness here is just heartbreaking. And it’s just like in canon. We saw, Catra did try to be a good soldier and make Shadow Weaver like her, but it was a lost cause. I mean I didn’t pull this dialogue directly from 2x06 but it’s a similar flavor for sure.

When Catra dares to look back up she finds that Weaver’s expression has softened slightly, though she still looks annoyed. “I never said I hate you,” she says, the uncharacteristic gentleness catching Catra off guard. “You’re just more trouble than you’re worth most of the time.”

It shouldn’t be a comfort. But it is, anyway. It is. Catra sniffles again, dipping her head to wipe her eyes on her shoulders.

The fact that this is a comforting answer to Catra is so fucked up and tragic but so befitting of their relationship.

“Though I will admit, you do have a way with Adora,” concedes Weaver, her tone very nearly impressed. “Not everyone can handle someone like that and keep them on task. I’ve had plenty come through my classroom.”

Wow, so we’re just being casually ableist now? Nice.

My thoughts exactly, Catra.

...Ableist and pragmatic.

Catra snorts under her breath, shaking her head as her eyes fall to the floor. How did she never put this together before? “That’s why you’re letting me stay.”

This truly is a gut punch moment. She thought maybe Weaver actually had a bit of affection for her or was invested in her future after all (which tracks for Catra because she is mean to the people she likes) and that’s why she let her stay, but no. As usual, it’s all about Adora. That is not going to bode well for the resentment moving forward.

“She does badly with her routine being disrupted, and she’s come to rely on you,” states Weaver, tipping her head in acknowledgement.

“Plus she’d hate you if you kicked me out,” Catra adds pointedly.

Weaver smiles, all teeth. “It is better for everyone this way, wouldn’t you say?”

Better for you, you mean.

“Sure,” mutters Catra. When that response earns her a look, she corrects herself. “Yes, Ms. Weaver.”

Eyes narrowed into slits, Weaver warns her, “Make no mistake, Catra. Adora would manage if you left us. If your behavioral issues begin to outweigh your usefulness, I reserve the right to evict you.” She cocks an expectant eyebrow. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” mumbles Catra.

Poor Catra, I just...

“I care very much about Adora, and I won’t have you dragging her down with you.”

“I remember,” Catra says numbly, picking at her nails and avoiding Weaver’s gaze.

Ooooooooooof. Why do I insist on hurting myself so much with all these canon parallels?

Studying her intently for a moment, Weaver concludes, “Yes, I’m sure you do.” Then she turns and leaves without another word.

Well that was lovely. Anybody else want to reach through the screen and throttle a bitch? ‘Cause I sure do.

This scene doesn’t cause an immediate reaction on Catra’s part but it definitely moves her to a place where she’s very aware of her role and how useless it is to try to change it (at least in this house), and that makes everything a little more volatile. She’s not at a breaking point yet but she’s getting closer, it certainly takes the wind out of her sails a bit. She will recover in the short term because she is Catra and her stubbornness makes her very resilient, but it weighs her down and eventually she is going to snap. Y’all will love that, I’m sure. ;)

[artificialqueens]

Level Up, Chapter Eight (Branjie) - Holtzmanns

read on ao3 | word count: 4082

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m not late, we still have t minus one minute before we’re supposed to leave, so you could say I’m early, hello!” And there Vanessa is, skidding to a stop in front of the group and wasting no time in holding up a fist for Monique to bump.

Brooke doesn’t know why everything becomes so much more fun when Vanessa’s around. Maybe it’s the way she’s always smiling, or how her energy level never really dips. Maybe it’s the commentary. But Brooke does know that she’s never going to be tired of any of it.

AN: Hey, it’s been awhile. Real life has been exhausting both physically and mentally, but a burst of inspiration today has led to a completed chapter, yay! I hate having ages between chapters but life means that for this fic, it has started to happen. Hope you enjoy it nonetheless, and as always, please do tell me what you think! Thank you writ for being the best beta and friend, ily <3

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Cool, right?” Kameron leans against the vehicle, seemingly unbothered by Asia’s aghast expression.

“Cool? It looks like a kidnapper van!”

Asia raises an eyebrow, and Brooke has to admit that she’s kind of right. The van has a good five rows, enough space to fit all of the athletes going to the tournament and then some, but the white paint job and blacked out windows does make the vehicle look a bit suspicious.

“It was the economical choice!” Kameron sniffs, and hoisting her bag over her shoulder. “Get in losers, we’re going road tripping.”

Brooke holds out a hand in front of Kameron, using her other one to shield her eyes from the sunrise casting pink glows against the brick wall of the gym. “Keys? Want me to drive?”

Kameron twists the key ring on her index finger, shaking her head. “You were asleep five minutes ago at your desk. I’m not gonna let you run all of us off the road because you’re drowsy.”

Brooke wrinkles her nose at the phrasing. “Fair. Shall I navigate, then? Actually…”

She trails off when sees Asia walking up to the group, duffle bag slung over her shoulder, and turns back to Kameron, who’s straightened up her posture after spotting Asia. “Maybe I’ll leave that to Asia.”

Kameron frowns. “Huh? What does that mean?”

“Asia! Wanna tell Kameron what to do for three hours straight?” Brooke gestures at Asia to come closer, and Kameron lets out a groan at the sudden realization.

Asia, for her part, looks positively delighted, opening up Google Maps on her phone. “You bet I do. Also, Kameron, if we don’t get to stop at Starbucks I’m personally going to wrangle the wheel from you ‘cause that just isn’t right.”

Brooke presses her lips together when Kameron gives her a long suffering look. “You’ll thank me later. It’ll be fun for both of you.”

She turns away from the two of them as Asia starts to go over routes that they can take, scanning the faces of the athletes who have already arrived for their bright and early drive. Some are still in sweatpants, topknots balancing on their heads while others toss coffee back like they’re taking shots, and Brooke’s not sure who is actually more relatable. However, the person that she’s looking for the most, the one who’s always loud and excited even at such an early hour doesn’t seem to be here just yet-

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m not late, we still have t minus one minute before we’re supposed to leave, so you could say I’m early, hello!” And there Vanessa is, skidding to a stop in front of the group and wasting no time in holding up a fist for Monique to bump.

Brooke doesn’t know why everything becomes so much more fun when Vanessa’s around. Maybe it’s the way she’s always smiling, or how her energy level never really dips. Maybe it’s the commentary. But Brooke does know that she’s never going to be tired of any of it.

Vanessa’s drops her bag onto the floor with a thump and stands on her tippy toes to wave to Asia before she freezes mid movement, and the sudden eye contact makes Brooke’s breath hitch in her throat, too, no matter what a good friend of hers Vanessa is by now.

“You’re coming with us?” The hopeful tone in Vanessa’s voice is unmistakable as she bounds closer, stopping right in front of her and Brooke has to stop herself from reaching out and doing something ridiculous like putting an arm around her or hugging her.

She keeps her grip tight on her bag instead, shrugging a little. “You think I’d leave my student to compete on her own?”

Brooke’s been noncommittal over the last week, volleying her options back and forth in her head about whether she should go with the others. Her immediate instinct had been to say no when Kameron had asked, because why would she even want to go to a competition in the first place, when the atmosphere is one that she’s been trying to avoid for so long, if only to stay away from the memories that are bound to resurface?

But there had been a small voice in her head that had spoken up just a little bit louder than it usually did, reminding her that this tournament won’t be about her. She won’t be going to compete, or to reconcile feelings or trauma and what kind of coach will she be if she leaves Vanessa to get into a competition headspace on her own, especially in one that will be at a higher level than she’s ever competed at before?

Brooke’s going for Vanessa. After every morning practice, every evening training session and lifestyle change that she’s put Vanessa through and the hours and hours that they’ve spent together, Brooke’s going to go.

And from the way Vanessa’s beaming at her, she’s definitely made the right decision.

“In the van guys, we’re gonna be late!” Kameron shouts the words as she throws the driver’s side door open, and it’s the cue that the group needs to pile in.

A tug on Brooke’s arm as she’s squeezing her way through the aisle makes her let out a surprised yelp, and it’s no surprise that Vanessa’s the one behind it, from the way she’s grinning as Brooke falls into the seat beside her.

“Field trip buddies? I got dibs on the window seat.” Vanessa tucks her bag onto the floor before pulling her legs up onto her seat and crossing her legs.

Brooke doesn’t mind the aisle, really, not when her limbs are lanky enough to need the extra space. “How is that position even comfortable on a long bus ride?”

“Some of us aren’t built like Gumby, that’s why. Kidding, kidding!” Vanessa holds up her hands, letting out a screech when Brooke reaches underneath to tickle her sides instead. “I’m being attacked!”

Brooke notices a hand tap Vanessa’s head, and turns around to see a very tired Monique in sunglasses obstructing the majority of her face. “Vanessa, I love you, but it’s not even seven yet and my caffeine isn’t due to kick in for another half hour, and there’s only so much my fragile person can take. Please, for me…shut that trap.”

“Absolutely. Scout’s honour.” Vanessa solemnly lifts her right hand to her forehead in a mock salute and Brooke can’t keep in the laugh that bubbles over, clapping her hand over her mouth when Vanessa breaks into giggles, too.

“She’ll forgive me later. She loves me.” Vanessa whispers once Monique has settled back into her seat, and the conspiratorial look on her face makes it hard for Brooke not to crack up a second time.

“You’re ridiculous.” Brooke turns her body to face Vanessa, resisting the urge to pull her legs up behind her on the seat. “We’ll have to keep quiet, though. Half of the bus is falling asleep.”

It’s true. The bus is mostly silent as they pull onto the freeway, save for the faint bickering emanating from the driver and passenger seats up front from Kameron and Asia. It makes sense, for the early hour - though Brooke’s body doesn’t feel like it can join them, not when she’s reminded of the fact that they’re headed to a competition, where Vanessa’s going to have actual matches and it’s not going to be training anymore-

“Boring. Wanna play Heads Up instead?”

Vanessa’s question cuts through the way Brooke’s thoughts are starting to rev up and it’s a welcome distraction, especially when Vanessa’s expectant face is one that even she can’t resist. And it works, with the first hour of their drive flying by with ridiculous impressions and charades that make Brooke laugh until her sides hurt. When they play through the various categories enough times to know all of the answers, resting back against their seats doesn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore.

“It’s starting to get all light outside now.” Vanessa mumbles the words beside her as she sinks further into her seat, rubbing her eyes. “Just as I’m getting tired.”

“Good thing we still have at least an hour and a half to go. You have enough time for a nap, and you’ll need that energy later today. Sleep.” Brooke shrugs, taking a sip of her coffee. She’s not sure that she’s going to be able to join Vanessa, but it’s not a bad idea.

Vanessa makes a face. “How am I supposed to fall asleep with the sun and all the talking and ruckus on the bus? At home I got one of those white noise machines. Ocean sounds and shit.”

“Ocean sounds, really?” Brooke raises an eyebrow, pressing her lips together. “You somehow strike me as the last person to use one of those.”

“I like sleeping in comfort,” Vanessa sniffs, “and sometimes that means pretending that you’re on a beach.”

But Vanessa closes her eyes, pulls her sleeves over her hands nonetheless, and her breathing begins to even out as Brooke hits the second commercial on the podcast that she’s listening to. Vanessa’s head threatens to slip forward as she dozes, her neck pulling back at the last second as her breathing catches and nearly jerks her from her sleep.

It doesn’t look comfortable, and the last thing that Vanessa needs to wake up with is a neck cramp. So it’s a smart coaching move, really, for Brooke to guide Vanessa’s head towards her shoulder to lean on, a soft surface that she can’t slip from. And the way that Vanessa burrows into her shoulder is natural, too, just second nature as she sleeps, Brooke knows that. But Brooke doesn’t want to move or disrupt Vanessa’s dozing, do anything to wake her because the way her eyelashes are fluttering is almost mesmerizing, as is the way Vanessa’s hands are folding in on their sleeves.

A lock of hair falls in front of Vanessa’s face and Brooke doesn’t even have to think twice before brushing it back, tucking it behind her ear. She rakes her fingers through Vanessa’s hair, smoothing it down and the movement makes Vanessa mumble and snuggle herself more into Brooke’s side and it’s hard not to melt, it really is. Brooke keeps up the movements, forcing her fingers to comb through Vanessa’s hair as slowly as she can, her touch gentle and careful not to tug on the locks or rouse her.

And maybe Brooke’s shoulder is little uncomfortable from their position, but she’s not about to move, not now, not when they’re sitting like this. Because part of Brooke wants to stay like this forever, as the rising sun casts beams of light around the bus and Vanessa’s warmth beside her makes her feel like she’s under a blanket, ready to fall asleep herself.

“Psst. Psst. Wake up.”

“Huh?” Brooke rubs her eyes, trying to ignore the way everything is so bright and the sensation of something incessantly poking at her ribs.

Vanessa’s leg is jiggling as she bounces with entirely too much energy for a morning, and Brooke realizes it’s her hand that’s poking at her side. “We’re here!”

Brooke yawns, turning around to look and it’s true, because outside their window is the convention hall that’s supposed to still be three hours away, and the other girls around them are already picking up their belongings, climbing out of the van.

Huh. So maybe Brooke had fallen asleep too.

“C’mon, get out already! We’re gonna be the last ones off at this rate.” Vanessa looks like she’s about to explode out of her seat and Brooke snorts, standing up to grab her things so that she can put Vanessa out of her misery.

The convention centre reminds Brooke of her early competition days, before she went pro and everything had been big and new and she still had so many ladders to climb, so many goals to strive for. She’d hoist her equipment bag over her shoulder, refusing to let her dad carry it for her and it feels strange now to not have one while surrounded by other athletes and coaches and spectators milling about in the lobby. A part of Brooke has missed this - the athletes getting themselves registered, the sponsor tables with gear on sale, the coaches trying to yell over the noise to get the attention of their athletes. It’s organized chaos, one that hadn’t necessarily been present when she’d gotten into the pro scene. This feels more organic, more novel, even from her lens as a washed up athlete who isn’t competing.

The magic is somehow still there.

“Damn. This is huge.” Vanessa whistles beside her, craning her neck to look around the lobby. “We haven’t been to a tournament this big before.”

“First time for everything. Keep on climbing, right?” Brooke nudges her side, but Vanessa doesn’t return her smile, instead biting her lip.

“And you’re telling me I’m gonna compete at the highest level? Who knows what kinda Olympic level bitches are gonna be here. Jesus.” Vanessa’s fingers tap against her side, the nerves radiating off of her and Brooke grabs her shoulders, turns to face her.

“They’re here, but so are you. Tell me, would you be allowed to sign up and compete at this level if you weren’t qualified for it?”

“No, but-”

“Would I even let you fight if I didn’t think you were at this level, or above it?”

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel less nervous.” Vanessa sighs, and the vulnerability is a rare sight, one that makes Brooke’s heart clench.

“Doesn’t make it less true. You’ve been pushing yourself for months. You’ve competed in many novice tournaments. And guess what? You’re here now. You’ve earned it.”

The words are sincere coming from Brooke’s mouth because she believes them, really believes them. She’s challenged Vanessa and made her work harder and harder and Vanessa’s not only a better athlete now, but a stronger one too. One who has technique but also has the drive to push forward that extra mile.  

“You’re here because you deserve to be here, and you’re competing at a high level because it’s your level. You’re not a beginner anymore, Ness.” Brooke nudges Vanessa’s side, and the way Vanessa’s shoulders are beginning to relax let Brooke know that the words are beginning to sink in.

“No longer the girl popping into the gym in full face and asking you what the place is like, huh?” Vanessa grins, and Brooke can’t help but do so too at the memory.

“And a full set of nails too, don’t forget that.”

“They were press ons, bitch! I still wear ‘em now sometimes!” Vanessa sticks her tongue out, crossing her arms and Brooke doesn’t hesitate in returning the facial expression.

“Next in line, please!”

Though it isn’t until Vanessa traipses off to get ready with the other athletes that the reality of the situation really begins to sink in for Brooke. It’s a competition. A more prestigious competition, with Vanessa competing at a higher level than she’s ever done before. And sure, Vanessa’s trained more, worked her ass off and she’s a better fighter now than she’s ever been, but…

What if something does happen?

Brooke’s brain is used to falling down this cycle of thoughts, agonizing about possibilities and things that could happen even if they’re not in her control, but there’s a voice in her head - albeit a small one - that disrupts the routine. Knocks the cycle onto its side a little.

Sure, this situation is not in Brooke’s control. But it also means she’s done everything she can for the things that are.

Vanessa’s as ready as she’ll ever be. She’s competing at this level because it’s her level. Brooke’s coached her to the best of her ability and now?

All Brooke can do is wait and see what happens.

Sure, she’ll bite her nails due to stress in the meantime, but she’ll survive.

Her and Vanessa both will.

“Okay, so if we were pros and the like-”

“Girl, you ain’t never been a pro-”

“Shut up, let me finish. If we were pro boxers,” Monet crosses her legs on the bench, looking between all of them, “what would you want your names to be?”

“Wouldn’t we just use our real names?” Monique’s expression is skeptical, and Monet rolls her eyes.

“No, bitch, you’d need a cool stage name. A fighting name.”

“What would you call yourself?” Vanessa leans forward, tying her shoes, and Monet pauses as she thinks.

“I’d want something cool like ‘The Hurricane’ or ‘The Assassin,’ y’know? Something that would sound hella dramatic when announced on a microphone.”

Asia rolls her eyes. “Out here calling yourself assassin when you cried last week because there was a beetle in the locker room. Unbelievable.”

Monet scoffs. “Fine then, what would you call yourself?”

“Something like ‘K.O.’ or something because I’d be K.O.ing everyone.” Asia presses her fist into her palm, and Vanessa has to admit, it’s kinda catchy.

Monet rolls her eyes. “You’ve never even K.O’d anyone yet. Poser.”

“Well, that’s why it’s a future name!” Asia huffs, and Vanessa has to hold in a snort.

“What about you, V?” Monet asks, and Vanessa leans back on her palms as she thinks.

“I dunno,” Vanessa shrugs, “never really thought about it before. Maybe something unique? Like connected to an actual nickname.”

“You want to be called Vanjie as your boxing name? But then that’s just your nickname.” Monique doesn’t look convinced.

Vanessa thinks. “Maybe if I just make it sound fancy. Add a ‘miss’ in front of it.”

“Miss Vanjie?” Asia lets out a giggle as she says it, and Vanessa can feel her face redden.

“What! It’s kinda cute.”

“Miss Vaaaaaanjie.” Monet drawls out, and even Vanessa can’t hold in a giggle when she does so. “I kinda like it.”

“Me too. At least you’ll know no one else will ever have your nickname.” Monique points out as she stands up, picking up her equipment. “Miss Vaaaanjie.”

“Are you guys just going to keep saying it for the rest of the day?” Vanessa snorts, but she can’t deny that it’s catchy. The name is definitely beginning to grow on her.

“Maybe so, Miss Vanjie, maybe so,” Asia grins, “and I’m so changing your contact name in my phone to that.”

“Unbelievable.”

Kameron and Brooke are waiting for them outside of the change room as they walk out, and Kameron motions for them to huddle against the wall, out of the way of the doors. She turns the clipboard in her hands to face them, pointing at a scrawled out list that Vanessa has to squint to be able to read.

“Y’all are all in different divisions, which doesn’t make it easier, that’s for sure. But I think I’ll be able to run between your matches in between rounds. I feel like a dance mom with too many kids to support, Jesus.” Kameron taps her clipboard with her pen. “Monique, you have a match in ring four, then Asia’s up in ring two, then…”

It’s hard for Vanessa to focus on what Kameron’s saying, her voice turning to static in Vanessa’s brain because her limbs are itching to move and get started. She hates this part of competitions, the calm before the storm that doesn’t seem to go by any faster no matter how much she tries and wills the clock to do so. Her eyes jump between the athletes behind them, the pink scrunchie in Monique’s hair, the service dog in the hallway that’s sleeping beside its owner, the set of double doors leading to the rings that athletes are already beginning to file into. But then Kameron’s yelling for all of them to pile their hands on top of one another and to shout ‘Hytes’ Boxing on three!’ and Vanessa joins in just a second too late, and they’re starting to walk in towards the boxing rings, too.

“You okay with me being the one with you? Like Kameron said just now?” Brooke materializes beside Vanessa, nearly making her jump. “She’s got too many athletes to follow around.”

Not that Vanessa’s heard what Kameron had said but Brooke doesn’t need to know that, so she nods anyway, the idea making her heart flip in her chest. “Uh huh. Ain’t you my main coach anyway, by now? I train more with you than I do with Kameron.”

“True. Just wanted to check, since this is my first time coming to a tournament of yours.”  Brooke’s eyes are twinkling as Vanessa feels a hand grab hers and squeeze it. “I know you’re more used to her.”

“I’d rather have you.” The words flow easily because it’s true, when Vanessa thinks about it.

Brooke has the ability to read her body language and know what’s going on in her head when she’s boxing to push her more, making her even better. She knows how to calm her down, how to make her laugh when she’s too wound up. It works in the gym, and here in a competition?

Vanessa really needs it.

“I’m glad.” Brooke’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, just for a second, before she uncrumples a sheet of her own. “So, first there’s a knockout round in your division which will be the quarters, then semis. You pass through those, you can make it to the finals. That’s going to be three matches in one day, if you win them.”

“Damn.” Vanessa gulps, because the hall that’s filled with rings in a grid formation suddenly looks bigger than it did five minutes ago, the athletes just a little bit more intimidating. “That’s a whole lotta fighting in one day.”

“Nothing you haven’t done in the gym with me. Why do you think I push you so hard?” Brooke grabs Vanessa’s bag from her, hoisting it over her shoulder.

“Let’s hope it’s enough preparation, sensei.” Vanessa giggles at Brooke’s furrowed eyebrows at the nickname. “Teacher? Ninja master?”

“Really now?”

“How about papa?”

“Carry your own bag.” Brooke snorts, heaving it back towards Vanessa who catches it with a snicker.

“I think the last one really suits you.”

“I think you need to get ready for your first match, that’s what. We’re almost at the ring.”

“Roger that, sensei. Now or never, huh?” Vanessa nudges Brooke’s shoulder before setting her bag down, and the butterflies in her chest begin to flutter and take flight, because she can already see the girl on the other side of the ring pulling on a helmet of her own and shit, she’s really doing this.

With Brooke here this time. Doesn’t exactly help with the adrenaline.

“Call me sensei again and I’m gonna cheer on your opponent.” Brooke taps Vanessa’s nose, a smile on her face, and Vanessa knows she isn’t serious. “Five minutes to warm up. You’ve got this.”

“I better.” Vanessa rolls out her neck, starts to bounce on her toes to get the blood flowing in her body.

“Remember. First and second rounds to dissect her fighting style and her tells. Third and fourth rounds to take advantage of that knowledge and stay one step ahead of her.” Brooke peeks over her shoulder at Vanessa’s opponent, and Vanessa follows her gaze, the girl’s bright yellow shorts making her wrinkle her nose. “You figure out how she fights, you can beat her at her own game.”

It’s what they’ve done in the gym - Brooke sparring her while favouring a certain side over the other, a specific combination, waiting for Vanessa to catch on and be ready to counter her. Vanessa has to force her brain to step back and see the overall picture of the fight while her blood is pumping and her limbs feel like they’re moving faster than her mind but it’s good practice, because now she doesn’t just throw moves that come to her on instinct. She’s learned to plan.

Maybe, it’s going to be enough. Maybe, the morning and evening and weekend practices, and the conditioning, the sparring, the discussions about techniques will now all be worth it. Even though Vanessa’s fighting in the highest division she’s ever fought in before, even if she’s now a small fish in a big pond? Maybe all of the preparation means she won’t be gasping for air while treading water.

And if it’s not enough? She’s got Brooke swimming beside her, too.

Tags: brooke lynn hytes, vanessa vanjie mateo, branjie, lesbian au, boxing au, level up, holtzmanns

[andiandyandee]

We Are Going to Be Friends Pt. 8

Check it out, I finished the stupid chapter, and it’s not even angsty. (Or in other words, the chapter where we establish that Roman and Logan are completely hopeless and also Logan is soft (tm)

Words: 1681

Here’s the Series on a03

Heres the last part

Tag List: @datfearlessfangirl @princemesscharming @illogicalthinking @holliberries

Let me know if you want tagged! Please Reblog this, without reblogs I don’t get feedback and without feedback you can expect fewer chapters because I’m less motivated to write. 

Anyway here’s the fic:

    By the time they actually finished working through Remus’s English work, it was dark outside, and the crowd downstairs had grown considerably. Where there had at one point been only a few, there were now easily twenty teenagers downstairs. When Logan and Remus walked into the living room, the crowd was, in fact, singing broadway songs. Remus adamantly refused to join in, and Logan didn’t know them, so he too just watched them sing, slightly bemused. Once they had ordered pizza, 10 of them, as a matter of fact, the songs died down and the whole group was mostly just laying around, several conversations happening at once. Logan wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, occasionally making a quip or answering a question, but mostly just curled up on the couch, glad to be anywhere but at his parents' house.

    His relaxation was cut short by Kai flopping down on the couch next to him, his head in Logan’s lap.

    “Give me attention.” Kai groaned, shifting uncomfortably. Logan instinctively started playing with his hair, which is what he usually did with Alex when she got like this, but he couldn’t help noticing the way Kai was grimacing as he tried to get comfortable.

    “Are you… In pain?” Logan asked quietly, handing Kai a pillow to help elevate his back a bit.

    “Oh. Wait, give me less attention than that.” Logan raised an eyebrow, “It’s fine, just EDS.” Kai replied, obviously hoping Logan would either be too embarrassed to ask or too proud to admit he didn’t know something.

    “Oh, do you have your braces? Or pain meds you need to take? I would be willing to get them for you.” Kai looked at him, mostly shocked, but also confused.

    “You know what EDS is? How do you know I even wear braces, maybe I don’t.”

   “Yes, I am vaguely familiar with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, as a member of my typical social group also has it, though theirs is the vascular kind, rather than the classic type you appear to have. And based on the constant bruises to your hands, wrists, elbows, which are all in the shape of typical bracing equipment, along with the fact that you regularly wear long sleeves or gloves to hide your braces when you do wear them,” Kai made a face at that, “plus you are, currently, wearing a knee brace, I thought it might be an easy jump to make.” Logan had kept his voice so low, it was unlikely even Remus, the closest to the pair, could hear them.

    “My meds would be great, but I don’t want them to see me in my braces. I’ll put them on before I go to sleep.” Logan pinched his face up, but with the benefit of being exceptionally tall, he also had a far longer reach than most, which meant he easily grabbed Kai’s bag, handing it to him.

     “These people are your friends, you know. They wouldn’t mind you wearing something to make you more comfortable. It’s not embarrassing to show that your strength sometimes needs a little help.”

     “Don’t you mean it’s not embarrassing to show weakness?” Kai grumbled, sitting up.

    “Did I say it’s not embarrassing to show weakness? I don’t think I did. It’s horribly embarrassing to show weakness, I would know.” He grinned conspiratorially at Kai’s confusion, “Remus saw me cry like an infant less than 12 hours after meeting me. This,” Logan gestured at the braces and pills in Kai’s bag, ignoring the way Kai looked at him when he admitted that little tidbit of information, “this is not weakness. It is incredible, but vulnerable, strength. And there is no shame in them knowing that you are strong, even if you need braces to, as my acquaintance October would say, ‘kick someone’s ass’.” Kai turned slightly red, mumbled something about kicking his ass if he didn’t stop with the feelings, and pulled his wrist and hand braces out of his bag.

    Kai had eventually gone back to the floor, now trying and failing to flirt with a girl Logan didn’t know but thought might be named Lauren. Remus had moved closer to Logan, leaning against the couch and was occasionally making subdued quips about something ridiculous. Mostly just random facts or commentary on the things the group was doing.

    “Lo! What music do you listen to?” Roman was holding his phone, clearly looking for something to put on. Logan turned red, realizing that pretty much any song he enjoyed would not work with this crowd as it did with his usual acquaintances.

    “I.. don’t think any songs on my average playlist would be suitable for this particular group of people.”  Roman nodded, as if that made sense.

    “Ah, Logan likes that pg-13 music. Should have guessed that.” Logan rolled his eyes, but Roman put on Fall Out Boy with a smirk, and Logan shrugged.

    “My typical music tastes are a little more.. riot starting than this, but sure.” Roman raised an eyebrow at that comment, and then grinned in a way not unlike Remus’s smile, too wide, a little maniacal.

    “Logan Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is Starr I refuse to believe you have ever, once in your life been involved in a riot. You’re definitely a ‘Use Your Words’ kind of guy.”  Logan replied, without thinking, with the same joke his friend group made every time someone said they ‘seemed like the type to use their words.’

    “Urine Speaks Louder Than Words,” and then, as if they weren’t already the exact opposite of what the group expected, he followed it up with, “Besides, cops, Nazis, bigots, and assholes all respond better to being kicked in the face.” The chunk of the group who was listening all had wide eyes, but Remus was trying to hold back tears. He was laughing so hard he wasn’t making noise, just tiny, wheezing breaths every few seconds. “I uh... Mean... yes, certainly, a debate is the reasonable course of action to achieve our goals.”

    “Remind me to not piss you off.” Roman squeaked,  his cheeks and ears a little red. Logan, who was trying to avoid eye contact, took this as fear, and immediately went to assure Roman that he would not hurt him, but then somebody got the idea to play truth or dare, which Logan politely declined participation in, which mean of course he was now sitting in a circle on the floor playing.

    “Logan! Truth or Dare?” Dahlia asked with the slightly evil grin most of the group had when asking Logan or Roman to do anything. He had a feeling they were trying to accomplish something, though Logan could not for the life of him figure out what it was.

    “Oh, Dare, I suppose.” Logan shrugged. So far they had dared him to demonstrate his “Strength” by lifting Roman bridal style, had him recite Shakespearean sonnets dramatically, and sing “Fall for You” which was a little too emo for Logan, but several of the group seemed to know. The truths were far more awkward, like asking him his favorite eye color, which was brown, his sexuality, which was queer with no more specifics, if he had any crushes, which he had admitted he hadn’t thought about and did not have an answer for.

    “Let me do your makeup!” She demanded, already pulling a makeup bag from behind her.

    “That’s fine, I suppose. Are you planning on using foundation or eyeliner?” She nodded

    “Yeah, probably. I have some lighter foundation I use on Elliot sometimes.” Logan rolled his eyes, Grabbing his own bag.

    “That won't be necessary, we can use mine. I’m far paler than Elliot. And much cooler-toned, at that.” Roman was looking pink and starry-eyed again.

    “You.. you wear makeup?” He asked in a small voice.

    “Yes, I often wear foundation or concealer, and wear eyeliner regularly on weekends.” He gestured at his face, which now that Roman was looking at it closely, he could see that there was makeup there. Logan looked at Dahlia with a neutral expression. “Would you prefer I take mine off before you begin?” She nodded.

    He went into the washroom and removed his foundation, which left his dark circles and light freckles visible. He scrunched up his nose at his appearance before coming back into the living room, where Dahlia had turned the lights on in, and everyone had dismantled the truth or dare circle. “Are.. we no longer doing truth or dare?” Logan asked with a confused look around.

    “No, I think we’re just going to do makeovers now. All the straight boys are offended about it.” Dahlia grinned as Logan sat down. “Jesus, Lo, have you ever slept in your life? You look like Remus with those circles.” Logan rolled his eyes fondly, handing her his make-up, which was really just foundation, concealer, powder, and eyeliner. She got to work, walking him through what she was doing, though he had to admit he wasn’t paying much attention. Roman was getting his makeup done by Elliot, Remus was doing someone's makeup, but Logan hadn’t cared to remember their name. The night was domestic, a few more jokes about Logan’s comment, twenty minutes of laughter when Dahlia revealed Logan’s makeup and Roman choked on his drink, barely getting out an ‘it looks good’ before he left to get a shower and change to clean up after spitting orange soda into his lap. Logan had felt mostly embarrassed at that, not sure why Roman had had such a negative reaction in the first place. He thought the makeup was well done, though perhaps the red lips and dark blue glitter eyeshadow was a little more dramatic than he was used to. They watched movies until it was nearly light outside, which Logan complained about, only a little since he had plans in the morning, and when Logan left at 9 AM, picked up by Micheal, one of the seniors Logan hung out with most often, in the 1986 pick-up that was more rust than it was metal at this point,  he was in a relatively good mood.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Off Day: Nineteen

In the quiet, Bucky watched you sleep. Under ordinary circumstances, keeping up with your current sex drive would have put him to sleep. But he couldn’t. 

The diamond in your engagement ring was winking at him in the moonlight. It wasn’t the best ring. He hadn’t wanted to spend too much on something you might not like. A nagging sense of uncertainty in the back of his mind, something leftover from his time with Char, had made him believe you’d hate it and you’d tell him no. He’d almost just taken you on this little adventure and not asked. He couldn’t bear the thought of you turning him down. 

But you hadn’t. You’d cried. Happy tears, thankfully. You’d told him you loved him about a hundred times and loved him so well he thought he’d probably never get all the feeling back in his toes. There was no hesitation. You reassured him a dozen times that you loved what he picked out. It was a generous and uncomplicated kind of love. The kind he still didn’t believe he deserved. But as he watched you sleep, safe and comfortable next to him, still holding his hand the way you’d fallen asleep, he couldn’t help but marvel at you. 

You’d been torn apart and stitched together more times than he could count. And still. You treated his heart with care. He didn’t want this to end. He wanted to keep you here like this forever. The smell of sweat and sex and soft spring air. The sound of frogs croaking and tall grass rustling.  He’d always loved you. He’d just never realized how much until you were gone. You’d had a piece of his heart for his whole life and he never even knew it. You’d given it back. Filled the void inside him that had gnawed at him relentlessly. You’d taken the pain that squatted in his chest like a toad and casually chucked it out like last week’s bills.

You changed everything. 

Bucky knew that as surely as he knew one more thing. There was no way he could ever go back. 

_________

“You okay?” Bucky asked, yawning as he leaned against the door frame of your studio in the attic.

“Yeah,” you murmur frowning over a column of numbers, “I just couldn’t go back to sleep so I thought I’d get payroll done.”

“You only have three employees,” he groused.

“And they have to be paid, baby.”

“And I need baby cuddles,” he grumbles.

“Bucky,” you laugh softly, “Let me do this and I’ll come back downstairs.”

“Now,” he says, holding his hands out grumpily. He doesn’t like waking up alone to your side of the bed being cold. 

“Daddy,” you sigh.

“I’m not asking, Princess,” he scolds, “I want your ass back in bed. It’s too early for doing things. It’s Sunday. That’s our day.”

You look up at him and sigh, easing yourself out of the chair with a little difficulty.

“This week we’re moving your office part of things downstairs,” he says sternly, “I don’t like you climbing these narrow ass stairs when you can’t see your feet.”

“Bucky-” you protest.

“Please,” he murmured, kissing you quiet and rubbing your belly lovingly, “I know. You’re fine. It’s just less for me to worry about when you’re home alone. I gotta take care of you.”

“Alright fine,” you pout, “But you better make me brownies.”

“All the brownies you want, your majesty,” he teases, “But you gotta get your ass downstairs and let me get my baby cuddle.”

“Only because it’s adorable,” you allow, letting him help you down the stairs.

“And because I said so,” he rumbled, patting your bottom fondly as he kisses your head. 

“That too,” you shiver, smiling a little. 

He helps you down to the master bedroom off the landing and helps you back into bed tenderly. He lets you get settled and lays his head on your belly gently, nuzzling into the swell and murmuring soothing little bits of nonsense. He’d read somewhere that by now, babies could hear. He wanted them to know what his voice sounded like. That he loved them. So much. It was his favorite part of the morning. Sleepy kisses and baby cuddles. Tenderness to ease you into the day and give him time to fuss before you have time to get fiesty. 

“Bucky?” you ask, petting his hair.

“Hmm?” he answers, kissing your stomach softly.

“If we have a girl-” you hesitate for a moment and Bucky doesn’t have to hear the end of the question.

“If we have a girl,” he murmurs, “ I think Kaity would be thrilled if we named them after her.” He smiles a little and reaches up to wipe a tear off your cheek.

“You don’t mind?” you ask.

He tuts softly, “I’d expect nothing else,” he soothes, kissing your belly again. Light soft kisses that make you giggle. “It’s perfect. She gave me you. Both of you.”

You do start crying then and he applies himself to making you laugh, covering you in love and adding color commentary for the baby’s benefit. Asking them if they can believe how cute your laugh is. And that he hopes they look like you for their sake as he kisses your stomach. By the time your giggles turn into needy little moans, Bucky is thrilled to get you out of your pajamas. 

__________

“I now pronounce you man and wife!” Clint said looking especially pleased with himself as Bucky doesn’t even wait for the next part before he’s kissing you. You make a soft surprised noise against his lips and he chuckles.

The heat is sweltering and you’re miserable and you feel gross and not at all pretty, but for the moment it doesn’t matter. Bucky is kissing you and when he pulls away, he’s looking at you like you’re all he ever wanted.

It’s a simple wedding in the back yard of the house. Just family and close friends. Solidifying things before the baby comes in a few more weeks. You pointed out to Bucky that his name would be on the birth certificate regardless but, he wouldn’t hear of waiting. He wanted to be married when they got here. So, you found something to wear. It turned out to be a white dress from a local alternative store. It did nothing to hide how pregnant you were, but, the fabric was light and it was just tailored enough in the right places that you didn’t feel like you were wearing a tent. You can’t wear the shoes you bought. Your feet are too swollen and your wedding band just barely fits and is quickly taken off again in case your hands swell anymore.

After your guests have gone, Bucky carries you into the house and lays you on the sofa gently. “Did you buy anything pretty to wear tonight, Princess?” he asks softly, propping your feet up in his lap.

“Yeah,” you answer sleepily, sighing when he starts rubbing your feet gently.

“We’ll save it for tomorrow, huh? I don't think I’m gonna have to fuck you to sleep tonight, baby girl. You’re half asleep already.”

“But-”

“We’ll have some nice playtime tomorrow. It’s been a long time since I’ve had this long to play with my Princess.”

You fuss at him sleepily but he just smiles. You’re gonna be asleep before he could even get things out to play with. He’ll just put you to sleep down hear and carry you upstairs once the bedroom gets cool enough you can sleep. Naked, he decides. He wants nothing in the way. Just you while he sleeps.

_________

“I really hope they tell me we’re almost there today,” you groan, letting Bucky help you onto the table in the Doctor’s office. Bucky tuts softly and kisses your head, “Don’t you listen,” he murmurs to the baby, “You take your time. Mama is just a little grumpy this morning.”

He rubs your lower back gently when you squirm a little trying to ease your discomfort. You really do look like you can’t possibly get any bigger because there can’t possibly be any more room. 

The doctor encourages the physical activity you’ve been doing, adding that some other things that might help put you into labor. Your due date is coming up fast and Bucky, listening to the doctor is quietly terrified. He doesn’t want you to go into labor early. He’s not ready. Still, as he watches you get steadily more uncomfortable, he has to admit it’s probably best to humor you and let you do whatever makes you feel comfortable. 

As you’re getting ready to leave, your phone rings and you pick it up, putting it on speaker.

“Y/N can we redecorate the front window?” Bucky hears Sarah ask.

“I just did it last week,” you say laughing.

“I know but we’re bored. Please?” she begs.

“Make sure you put everything back where it goes if it’s in the window now. And leave the art piece in the back room alone. Those are commissions. Other than that, knock yourselves out.”

“Thanks!”

The line goes dead and you shake your head fondly, letting Bucky help you into your coat. It’s cold early this year and he wouldn’t let you out without it. Even if you can’t zip it right now.

“You trust them to do that?” Bucky teased.

“There’s nothing they can do I can’t undo,” you say shrugging. 

Bucky tugged playfully on your coat, trying to get it to join together around your belly and smiles a little, “If you get any more adorable I’m just gonna keep you knocked up, princess,” he teases. Your cheeks color and he pounces, leaning down to whisper in your year conspiratorially, “I kinda like everyone knowing who you belong to,” he continues, “watching you get all big with my baby is nice too.” You whimper softly and he chuckles, “Lets get you fed mama,” he says lovingly, “Then I’ll take you back to work.”

“You don’t fight fair,” you pout. 

“Nope,” he says, helping you into his truck, taking a moment to swat your bottom affectionately, “And I don’t plan on stopping today. So I hope you remembered some spare panties.”

You shiver in need and Bucky grins. He has plans. Mostly to send you some mildly racy pictures, just enough to keep you hot for him for the rest of the day. He wanted you a desperate mess by the time he picked you up tonight. He was gonna enjoy that. A lot. Maybe, he reflected, a little too much. But as he thought about you sweating and panting and pleading for more, he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry about it. He figured you'd have a lot more fun having him fuck you senseless than you would taking walks to get some exercise. And you'd probably be a lot less uncomfortable at home, with him being plied with treats and hot chocolate in a nice warm bed than you would being out in the cold. It was just more practical, he reasoned.

Tags: @lancsnerd @etherealwaifgoddess @blameitonthecauseway @wellfucksorrymum

[damienthepious]

ik it was forever ago (before this black hole of a year, anyway) but for the dvd commentary: your favorite part of arum and queen mira’s conversation in when the reckoning arrives ch6?

[Pick a short passage from any fanfic I’ve written and send it to me, and I’ll give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet]

oh thank you for my whole life, don’t worry about timing i am always, low key, still thinking about Reckoning

(and ch 6 was a fun one)

favorites, tho. i’m bad at them. hmmmmmmmm. okay. okay.

[“You were saved by the grace of a Saint, Lord Arum. To kill you after that…”] Kill, not slay. Mira’s slow burn ‘oh fuck he’s a person‘ transition is catching up with her.

[“Couldn’t possibly be a worse heresy than praying for a monster in the first place,” Arum mutters, and the Queen’s breath catches on a small laugh.] I love my worst-case-scenario lizard TwT. He gets miracle’d back to life and he’s already thinking about how torch-and-pitchfork the townsfolk are gonna go about it. Also Mira laughing, fuck. fuck. Arum makes Mira laugh..... a few times throughout this encounter, and i love it every time. hhhhh. accidentally charming loser lizard.

[“Some would agree with you,” she admits. // Arum frowns. “And… you, little Queen?”] The queen is being conspiratorial with a monster, red alert. If the situation were less dire, Mira might actually be enjoying this. Arum isn’t one of her subjects, and with shit like “little Queen” and his general attitude, it’s clear that he’s not gonna be deferential for her sake. It’s refreshing.

[Mira doesn’t answer immediately, breathing slow with her eyes downcast until Arum grows worried again.] She thinks really hard about whether or not she wants to say this. and how she’s going to say this. She’s figuring out how she feels and what she thinks the Right Thing is, as she has this conversation.

[“This slim hope,” she says eventually, and Arum realizes with a jolt that she is repeating the words of Damien’s prayer.] She’s gonna remember this whole thing very distinctly. probably forever. Arum too. [“This proof that the river between Arum's kin and our own has the potential to run placid…”] Damien with the water metaphors. I fucking love him so goddamn much.

[She raises her eyes to meet his own. “He has quite a particular way of putting things, does he not?”] Flattering Damien, gauging Arum’s reaction, understating the whole damn thing. And... Mira is hopeful, in this moment. The way Damien put this whole thing... the idea of an actual, possible end to this war? That is a heady prospect. Mira is a pragmatist, and she wants what’s best for her people. If this war actually ends? If peace is even remotely possible? It’s a thread she has to pull.

[“Professional prattler,” Arum rasps, clenching his fists. “And a naive one, at that.”] Arum is STRESSIN. He still hasn’t seen his humans and this little queen is quoting the last thing he remembers Damien saying at him, and he’s yearning and scared and trying not to let himself believe that any of this can end well.

[“So you do not believe as Sir Damien does, Lord Arum? That some sort of peace could be reached?”] She is much more invested in this question than she lets on.

[“Of course not, the very idea of it is- is…” he grimaces, then sighs.] He has a Moment, here. He realizes how intense a lie this sentence would be. He and his blooms are literal living proof that humans and monsters are capable of getting along. of loving each other, even. Sometimes a lie is too big, even, for him. [“Damien… Damien and Amaryllis and I have found… an understanding.” An understatement, but if he grows any more embarrassed he’s liable to actually damage the scales at his wrists pulling on his bindings.] he is so fucking terrible at expressing himself. regardless, this is still a vulnerable admission, even if it’s downplayed

[“I do not know if that means that monsterkind and your own people are capable of the same.] Arum is naturally pessimistic. It’s much easier for him to believe they are the exception, not just the result of shared time and compassion and compatibility. [Magic is unpredictable, like that.”] Magic. What they have between them... it’s magic. even more so, now that Damien’s love has saved him a second time.

[“Magic,” the Queen repeats, something cold and suspicious in her tone, and Arum blinks, confusion joining the tangle of embarrassment he feels.] Arum doesn’t have any clue that Mira has been running with the theory that Arum had Damien and Rilla under some sort of compulsion or spell, lol. And it’s even more confusing because she has been..... pretty mild up to this point? so a bit of scathing bitterness is kind of odd, at this juncture.

[“Are…” he bares his teeth, glancing aside uncomfortably.] eMoTiOnS!!! the lizard is uncomfortable. whoops. he doesn’t want to unpack his feelings about romance. at ALL. [“Are bonds of romantic affection… not seen as a manifestation of magic by you mammals?”] he’s just been assuming really. He’s pretty sure that Damien has called it magic before too. Rilla doesn’t, but she doesn’t like admitting things are beyond measurement, so she doesn’t count. he’s just. confused. who the fuck else has he been able to talk about love with? Angelo? for like four seconds and he hated it because he’s more embarrassment than monster at any given moment. arghhh.

[She stares at him for a long, wondering moment, and then her cheeks darken noticeably. It’s a human tell that Arum has seen on Damien countless times, but Arum cannot fathom what it could possibly indicate in the Queen.] OH NO.......... HE’S....... CUTE?!?!?!? Poor Mira. [“I…” she coughs, delicately. “I suppose, metaphorically, love is often thought of in that way.”] :3c

[Pick a short passage from any fanfic I’ve written and send it to me, and I’ll give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet]

oh thank you for my whole life, don’t worry about timing i am always, low key, still thinking about Reckoning

(and ch 6 was a fun one)

favorites, tho. i’m bad at them. hmmmmmmmm. okay. okay.

[“You were saved by the grace of a Saint, Lord Arum. To kill you after that…”] Kill, not slay. Mira’s slow burn ‘oh fuck he’s a person‘ transition is catching up with her.

[“Couldn’t possibly be a worse heresy than praying for a monster in the first place,” Arum mutters, and the Queen’s breath catches on a small laugh.] I love my worst-case-scenario lizard TwT. He gets miracle’d back to life and he’s already thinking about how torch-and-pitchfork the townsfolk are gonna go about it. Also Mira laughing, fuck. fuck. Arum makes Mira laugh..... a few times throughout this encounter, and i love it every time. hhhhh. accidentally charming loser lizard.

[“Some would agree with you,” she admits. // Arum frowns. “And… you, little Queen?”] The queen is being conspiratorial with a monster, red alert. If the situation were less dire, Mira might actually be enjoying this. Arum isn’t one of her subjects, and with shit like “little Queen” and his general attitude, it’s clear that he’s not gonna be deferential for her sake. It’s refreshing.

[Mira doesn’t answer immediately, breathing slow with her eyes downcast until Arum grows worried again.] She thinks really hard about whether or not she wants to say this. and how she’s going to say this. She’s figuring out how she feels and what she thinks the Right Thing is, as she has this conversation.

[“This slim hope,” she says eventually, and Arum realizes with a jolt that she is repeating the words of Damien’s prayer.] She’s gonna remember this whole thing very distinctly. probably forever. Arum too. [“This proof that the river between Arum's kin and our own has the potential to run placid…”] Damien with the water metaphors. I fucking love him so goddamn much.

[She raises her eyes to meet his own. “He has quite a particular way of putting things, does he not?”] Flattering Damien, gauging Arum’s reaction, understating the whole damn thing. And... Mira is hopeful, in this moment. The way Damien put this whole thing... the idea of an actual, possible end to this war? That is a heady prospect. Mira is a pragmatist, and she wants what’s best for her people. If this war actually ends? If peace is even remotely possible? It’s a thread she has to pull.

[“Professional prattler,” Arum rasps, clenching his fists. “And a naive one, at that.”] Arum is STRESSIN. He still hasn’t seen his humans and this little queen is quoting the last thing he remembers Damien saying at him, and he’s yearning and scared and trying not to let himself believe that any of this can end well.

[“So you do not believe as Sir Damien does, Lord Arum? That some sort of peace could be reached?”] She is much more invested in this question than she lets on.

[“Of course not, the very idea of it is- is…” he grimaces, then sighs.] He has a Moment, here. He realizes how intense a lie this sentence would be. He and his blooms are literal living proof that humans and monsters are capable of getting along. of loving each other, even. Sometimes a lie is too big, even, for him. [“Damien… Damien and Amaryllis and I have found… an understanding.” An understatement, but if he grows any more embarrassed he’s liable to actually damage the scales at his wrists pulling on his bindings.] he is so fucking terrible at expressing himself. regardless, this is still a vulnerable admission, even if it’s downplayed

[“I do not know if that means that monsterkind and your own people are capable of the same.] Arum is naturally pessimistic. It’s much easier for him to believe they are the exception, not just the result of shared time and compassion and compatibility. [Magic is unpredictable, like that.”] Magic. What they have between them... it’s magic. even more so, now that Damien’s love has saved him a second time.

[“Magic,” the Queen repeats, something cold and suspicious in her tone, and Arum blinks, confusion joining the tangle of embarrassment he feels.] Arum doesn’t have any clue that Mira has been running with the theory that Arum had Damien and Rilla under some sort of compulsion or spell, lol. And it’s even more confusing because she has been..... pretty mild up to this point? so a bit of scathing bitterness is kind of odd, at this juncture.

[“Are…” he bares his teeth, glancing aside uncomfortably.] eMoTiOnS!!! the lizard is uncomfortable. whoops. he doesn’t want to unpack his feelings about romance. at ALL. [“Are bonds of romantic affection… not seen as a manifestation of magic by you mammals?”] he’s just been assuming really. He’s pretty sure that Damien has called it magic before too. Rilla doesn’t, but she doesn’t like admitting things are beyond measurement, so she doesn’t count. he’s just. confused. who the fuck else has he been able to talk about love with? Angelo? for like four seconds and he hated it because he’s more embarrassment than monster at any given moment. arghhh.

[She stares at him for a long, wondering moment, and then her cheeks darken noticeably. It’s a human tell that Arum has seen on Damien countless times, but Arum cannot fathom what it could possibly indicate in the Queen.] OH NO.......... HE’S....... CUTE?!?!?!? Poor Mira. [“I…” she coughs, delicately. “I suppose, metaphorically, love is often thought of in that way.”] :3c

[scabopolis]

pre-series au: logan x veronica - you just sway

This was supposed to be a 5-times fic (5-times Veronica asks Logan to dance and 1-time he asks her) but your girl is wordy and can’t write anything without trying to get too cute, so this turned into a pre-series little ficlet (that has more I’ve written so might get finished and posted to AO3). I’ve never ready a 10,000 word 5-times fic and genre bending moves are not within my capacity at the moment.

Written on my bus commute to work and edited hastily. 

This is a pre-series choose your own adventure type situation. Want it to be canon compliant? Go for it! Want it to spin off into a whole world of imagination? That works, too. 

Be kind. Rewind. Er, reblog?

pre-series au: logan x veronica - you just sway

So, you just sway back and forth?

For the past hour, Veronica’s been watching as the girls and boys in her seventh grade class step into their first slow dancing foray with trepidation. And here she stands, off to the side drinking fruit punch and munching on generic Oreos puzzled by the enterprise. It doesn’t come off as romantic as the movies make it look. Frankly her classmates don’t really seem to be enjoying themselves.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting.

Okay, that’s not true.

She’s been to a few gatherings at Lilly’s house (a term she coined to sell them to her dad who believes she is far too young for parties) and they led Veronica to expect the night to be a veritable bump and grind fest. But instead when Low came on all the girls clumped together, giggling at their poor attempts at dropping it low, and the boys hung off to the side looking bored by it all. Lilly isn’t even here, deciding the fête wasn’t worth her time. Duncan is there as his dad informed him it was his duty as seventh grade vice president to be there for his constituents. (Lilly eye-rolled handily at this and Veronica couldn’t tell if Mr. Kane was joking or not.)

As Veronica contemplates dunking her bargain basement Oreo into the fruit punch (would it be like a crunch chocolate covered strawberry situation?) someone pushes her from behind. She thinks it must be an accident until it happens again and continues until she’s standing in the center of the dance floor. She whips her head around, determined to give the personal space bubble violator a very intense lecture, and is met with the smiling face of Meg Manning. Sweet Meg. Sweet Meg who looks so proud of herself. Sweet Meg who looks, dare it be, a little mischievous?

“What are you –“

“I’ll take those, thank you.” And Meg does. Takes the remaining stack of cookies and the cup of punch away from Veronica. “Your wallflower days are numbered.” 

“I was enjoying those.” She’s not sure if she’s defending the cookies or her decision to be a wallflower. Maybe both.

“No you weren’t. And even if you were consider this an opportunity to enjoy something else.”

“Like what?”

“We’re at a dance, Veronica.”

She walks away with those words, and Veronica watches as Meg munches on one of her cookies. But maybe she has a point. Veronica did take extra time to iron her dress for the party. And spent her weekly allowance on a new lip gloss. Dancing is, when she thinks about it, the most logical thing to do. She doesn’t want to waste good lip gloss. Her resolve fades, however, as she approaches a group of friends from her earth science class and the song changes to something slower. Another slow song. God, what is with this DJ? She did not come here to slow dance.

Except when Veronica turns around she sees Meg looking at her. All big eyes and hopeful. She doesn’t have to say the words “I’m rooting for you” but Veronica knows she is. Fine. She’ll consider it an anthropological exercise. She couldn’t figure out the appeal of the whole slow dancing thing by watching, so maybe doing it herself will provide some heretofore missing insight.

Now the decision on who to dance with.

Veronica’s first choice is Duncan. She’s been hanging with Lilly almost every day after school, and Duncan always smiles at her in this way that makes her insides feel a little warm. But Duncan is currently dancing with Susan Knight, a friend from student council, so there goes that option. Casey Gant is always nice to her but in a way that makes her feel she’s being made fun of. Plus she knows he and Sean have been sipping something from a flask all night and she’s too familiar with the scent of bootleg vodka to find that appealing. Which leaves her with very few options.

There’s a tap on her shoulder and she breathes out a sigh of relief, certain it’s Meg taking pity on her. But of course she is just not that lucky.

Logan. Of course.

She likes Logan. She thinks. Well, he’s kind of dating her best-friend (Lilly laughs at her whenever she asks if the two of them are going out) so she kinda has to like him. It’s just –

Well, it’s just --

It’s just a bunch of little things. Like, he has this habit, usually when she just finished swimming and she’s in the Kanes’ kitchen making a snack, of catching her off guard. It makes him laugh to see her jump and he doesn’t ever flinch when she socks him in the shoulder in response. She also can’t tell if he thinks she’s stupid, or if he just thinks he’s better than her. Her middle school survival tool is sarcasm she cuts with a smile. People don’t understand it usually and she moves through the halls unscathed. But then there’s Logan. For every biting piece of commentary she offers, he has at least two more at the ready. It’s incredibly annoying. Can’t he just let her have the last word for once?

He’s looking down at her with his usual faintly mocking expression and she really wants to knock him down. Comment on the fact that he has way too much hair gel in his hair. But he also looks sort of nice. Most of the other boys are wearing ties and jackets but Logan is only wearing well-fitting navy slacks and a white button down shirt. Somehow he looks more put together than anyone else. Must be really expensive fabric or something. So she ignores the voice telling her to say the first mean thing that comes to mind. She also ignores the second (So, did the bottle of CK One break, or did you bathe in it?) and takes a step back.

“What do you want, Logan?”

“You have a problem.”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Oh, yes you do. Looks to me like the founder and sole member of the spirit committee insists you dance, but here you are with nary a dance partner to your name.”

“Thank you for the synopsis. I would be so lost without you.”

Logan ignores her. No, that’s not true. She used to think that Logan ignored her, but it’s just this thing he does. Where he pretends not to and then, bam, you’re talking to Duncan about why mushrooms should never be in lasagna and Logan throws in a, “it’s a texture thing, right” and you realize he listens to everything. That’s another one of Logan’s annoying things.

So, Logan doesn’t ignore her. But he does put his hands in his pockets, roll back and forth on his heels, and then duck down a little so he can conspiratorially whisper, “I know someone who could help you with that.”

“Really?”

“Mm,” he hums. “It’s just this guy has very low self-esteem. Hollywood brat, you know. Consistently needs validation.”

Veronica snorts at that. Because Logan is so many things but someone with low self-esteem is not one of them.

“What do you suggest, then?” she asks.

“Well, fragile ego that he has, I think he just wants to be wanted, you know?”

“So Hollywood.”

“All it would take, I think, is for someone to ask. A simple, ‘Dear Logan’” – he pauses, an imperious hand waved in her direction – “we’ll call this poor soul Logan for ease, ‘Dear Logan, please help me in my current state of social misery and dance with me? Please?’”

She carefully considers her options. While not usually one to take the path of least resistance, she opts for it this time. “Logan, will you dance with me?” She puts out her hand.

Logan looks like he’s about to take it and then frowns. “You didn’t say please.”

“Oh god,” she groans, taking his hand. “Shut up.”

[afterpinkdiamond]

Keep Beach City Weird S1E31

Ugghhh. Ronaldo. I don’t think any character has been this personally infuriating. Even Peridot is charming after you get used to her. But creating a wacky conspiracy nut and spending an entire episode showing that he’s crazy and making everything up, just to have him spout off actual plot-relevant spoilers at the end.... well let's just focus on the fun stuff for now

Pearl comes bursting out of the beach house as Steven cries for her to save him, only for her to be tagged in a game of Steven Tag. Amethyst, shape-shifted like Steven, explains that Pearl has to shape-shift into Steven as well. Garnet in Steven-form states that’s the rule. Pearl refuses to shapeshift, and I think this was the clue that clicked it into place for me when the shattering of Pink Diamond was revealed. Here she is directly refusing to shift into Steven, who is the current form of Pink/Rose. She’s said she’s capable of it, Garnet practically told her she has to, and yet she outright refuses. Also the image of two different colored Stevens chasing each other points right back to Pink’s war against Rose. Garnet wins the game by spiking Amethyst into the beach, calling back to “Beach Party” and saying “Garnet Wins” Later, Steven is walking down the beach when Ronaldo yells at him that the section of beach is under investigation and only accessible to those with special clearance. Steven simply asks for clearance and Ronaldo grants it to him as they look at the cliffs by the beach that were chewed up by the drill bit gems. Peedee comes looking for Ronaldo and yells at him for missing work, Ronaldo yells at Peedee to cover for him and then takes Steven on a tour of all the evidence left around Beach City of the Gem’s adventures. He gives exponentially incorrect reasons for the strange phenomena leading to him taking Steven to the lighthouse and telling him his Snake People Theory.

On Ronaldo’s conspiracy board are references to more adventures Steven has had including; “Lion 2: The Movie”, “Ocean Gem”, “So Many Birthdays”, “Cat Fingers”, as well as references to the upside down diamond featured on in show currency. Steven becomes frightened of Snake People as Ronaldo explains how they control the government and distract the population with anime internet message boards. Steven runs home and tells the gems about Snake People and they remind him how all the weird things in Beach City are their fault as the result of different battles. Steven decides to go tell Ronaldo the truth and finds him making a cast of the crater Amethyst left in the beach during Steven Tag. Steven explains the weird phenomenon to Ronaldo and Ronaldo counters that “minor facts” shouldn’t distract him from the truth. Ronaldo then tries to prove himself by showing Steven the cast, which looks exactly like Steven. Ronaldo is broken, realizing he’s not in the center of some big conspiracy and starts dragging himself back to the fry shop, the cast breaking when it hits a rock. A fake Steven getting shattered. Like Mother like son.

Steven is dejected, thinking he broke Ronaldo’s heart as the Keep Beach City Weird blog is being discontinued. Pearl tries to cheer him up telling him “Humans just lead short, boring, insignificant lives, so they make up stories to feel like they're a part of something bigger. They want to blame all the world's problems on some single enemy they can fight, instead of a complex network of interrelated forces beyond anyone's control.” Based on Ronaldo’s later spoiler dump, it seems to me that Pearl is voicing author commentary about storytelling and our expectations of the hero being able to defeat the villain in a nicely wrapped up story. We should never expect there to be just one evil influence in Steven Universe, and the continuing trend of making friends out of enemies reflects the complex nature of everyone, including those to whom you’re opposed. Steven gets the idea to convince Ronaldo that the snake people are real and runs off, telling Pearl and Amethyst he’ll be back in an hour. This is especially adorable as he was MIA for almost two weeks in just the last episode and the comment seems to be an attempt to prevent that from happening again.

Steven shows up at the fry shop in costume as a Sneeple and Ronaldo lose it, hitting Steven in the head with a rock and knocking him out. Steven awakes in the lighthouse hours later, chained to a chair with Ronaldo above him menacingly. Ronaldo starts an examination with Peedee filming and obviously terrified. Suddenly the Gems burst through the wall to confront Ronaldo and he accuses them of being Sneeple in false humanoid form. They accuse him of having Steven and Ronaldo challenges them, flashing his golden armor. The Gems easily give him a beating without really trying while Steven wriggles free from his chains. Steven jumps in to stop the fighting and confesses to Ronaldo that he was trying to get him to be weird again. Ronaldo says it can’t be as simple as just Steven. The gems look sheepish and Ronaldo gets depressed again. Peedee jumps in, gathering up Ronaldo’s note and newspaper clippings, trying to convince Ronaldo that Steven’s only part of a deeper puzzle with Level 8 beings behind everything. Ronaldo tells him to get serious- because Level 8 beings are a worker society incapable of organizing. Suddenly he begins rifling through his papers, wondering how he never saw it before and declares that its “polymorphic sentient rocks!” dancing with maniacal joy. Peedee, Steven, and the Gems leave Ronaldo in the lighthouse, at least happy that he’s found a new “conspiracy” to keep him busy. Ronaldo then shouts after them that the rocks have “come to hollow out the Earth, it’s part of the Great Diamond Authority, they’ll take on any form” before the iris winks out. 

 We are barely into the second half of season 1 and the writers have pointed out Pink’s Diamond on the currency, told us about the coming cluster arc, and name-dropped the Diamond Authority, rulers of an almost caste system of society where every gem is a worker playing a specific role that makes it incredibly difficult for anyone other than, say a Diamond to organize any kind of rebellion or Illuminati-like conspiratorial influence on human government and society. I mean... roll credits, right? By making the whole episode about proving how dependent Ronaldo is on conspiracies, they were able to info dump on us without completely spoiling the story. It’s infuriating. Ronaldo says it’s all about Steven, says he knows what the upside down diamond means and starts predicting things that we’ve not had a single hint at to date. I question the method, but it definitely worked as intended. Overall, the episode is frightening between the talks of conspiracy and the close-ups on Ronaldo’s crazed face, but tons of little and big clues about Pink Diamond and Homeworld.