#this is inspired by me doing a little bit of math and realizing that there are probably less than 100 people in total who are radqueer

[radinclus-not-radqueer]

Don't cry. Radqueer community is dying, ok?

[rosemarydisaster]

This post inspired me to think about secret identity logistics and I think Cass being so cavalier with her secret identity would actually help. Like, it makes the rest of the family's secret identities better because Cassandra Cain is obviously Blackbat/Batgirl. By contrast they would look even more civilian and if someone is not going to realize their kid is a vigilante is Brucie Wayne.

"But wouldn't they connect the dots to the rest of the family?" Listen, If those were bats they'd simply get out of the kidnappings and hostage situations they get themselves into like Cassandra. The fact that they always need to be saved proves they're, indeed, civilians.

Also, I doubt the math would math unless you knew very specific internal things to connect each vigilante to their civilian identity. Brucie is, for starters, as civilian as can get and thanks to the Mandela effect everyone is convinced that he was caught on camera making out with Batman anyways. So that's a non-starter.

Dick Grayson is trying to be a regular person, so the public would know he exists and comes back to important things but he's mostly out of the public eye. Plus, he's a police officer, why would anyone assume he's in kahoots with his little sister that was adopted after he'd already left Gotham?? And when he came back to Gotham for a while to take care of things for his father, is not like there was a new vigilante. It was still batman and Robin (the Robin was new, but Dick Grayson is an adult so, not likely).

Then we get to the big one: Jason is legally dead. You can't assign him any vigilante because he's mmm super dead. I'm sure there's a true crime podcaster trying to argue that he was the second robin and died doing robin shit, that's why Batman and Bruce broke up. But even if it's compelling, it's also considered in really bad taste. Also, can't be tied to Cassandra because she arrived after his death.

Tim gets a similar reaction to Brucie in the sense that there's no way he is a vigilante. He's the immunocompromised Twink from Forbes "30 under 30". He's literally physically incapable of being a super hero due to both a lack of Muscles and a lack of time. That boy has to run an entire massive money making machine and, for all gothamites know, he may very well be asthmatic as well. Plus, he gets kidnapped like crazy. If he was a hero he would at least now how to avoid being put in those situations. They suspect he's covering for Cass though, since he's smart enough to realize his sister is freaking Batgirl.

This means that even if Cass is Batgirl they can't really trace Batman, Nightwing, Red Robin or Red hood back to the family (not to speak of Batwoman, Catwoman, Huntress, Batgirl a 1 and 2, Oracle or spoiler). So at this point why would you even try to connect the others? Clearly Cass is the exception, not the rule.

Like, sure, Duke did survive the Riddler ruling Gotham and if you put some effort, it wouldn't be impossible to tie him to the We Are Robin movement. But also ...is it because he's black? Is it because he's the only black person from Gotham you know of?? His sister is a vigilante, and he is black, so he must be the black vigilante of course (He would be the one making this comments in social media through his sock puppet accounts and the True Crime/conspiracy communities would be too scared to touch that one with a ten foot pole)

Damian is another one where I think Bruce would do what he can to protect him from the press (partially for his own good and partially because he's the opposite of media trained). Most of the info the tabloids would get is from people tangentially related to him. Like, sure, he does look a bit like the new robin, and his sister is Batgirl. But, unless you're one of the people claiming he's the lovechild of Bruce Wayne and Batman (test tube baby??? Batman trans???) it wouldn't make a lot of sense now, would it?

Like Cass is so fucking weird compared to the rest of her family's civilian identities it makes them look rock solid by comparison.

[asdfghjklmals]

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY✩༶‧˚

GENRE + T/W: sfw, fluff. WORD COUNT: 1.3k words. TAGS: adoptedkiddo!megumi x fem guardian!oc, nothing innappropriate.

SYNOPSIS: oc gojo girlfriend has always been megumi's emergency phone call. AUTHOR'S NOTE: taken and inspired by the manga chapter where the kiddos spill coffee on satoru's shirt. please let me know if my tag makes sense for megumi and reader, i don't want people thinking this is is an inappropriate relationship! REMINDER: if you want to imagine yourself in oc gojo girlfriend's character descriptions instead, please do!

“we are so dead”, megumi thought to himself as he stared at the coffee that was spilled on the white dress shirt in front of him. ijichi had left gojo-sensei’s brand new and freshly dry cleaned button-up shirt with them for a moment and nobara just had to spill coffee all over it.

“you’ve done it now, kugisaki.” megumi chastised her.

“this is gojo-sensei’s, right?” nobara asked her two partners, “okay, who’s really at fault here? ijichi, who entrusted us children to keep a freshly dry cleaned shirt safe… or me, who spilled a little tinsy winsy bit of coffee?”

yuji and megumi shouted in unison, “you are at fault!”

the students started to panic while trying to dab at the stain with napkins. “you gotta dab it like this… this is how my grandpa taught me to treat stains.” yuji told megumi and nobara. his tongue was sticking out, eyes concentrated while dabbing at the shirt. megumi looked defeated. it was like he was working with tweedle dee and tweedle dum.

yuji picked up the shirt and laid it out on the table. the coffee stains almost looked like a design. maybe they would be able to get away with it. gojo-sensei wore some interesting things, he wouldn’t question it.

“it could pass for marimekko.” yuji said. nobara agreed while looking at the shirt, “if you look at it in this light and angle…”

“that’s so insulting to the fashion industry.” megumi stated. he was raised by the satoru gojo and (y/n) (l/n), so he was aware of the fashion trends due to both of his guardians having a shopping problem.

“why don’t we just get him a new shirt? i bet it’s replaceable!” nobara suggested to the two, “fushiguro, look up how much this shirt costs!”

megumi took out his phone and started googling. his eyes widened in shock, gulping as he realized it was a prada shirt, “uh, guys… this shirt is $1800…” he showed yuji and nobara his phone. they looked at the price with disgust and despair.

yuji, asking in fear, “is that before or after tax?”

“does it matter?! we don’t have that kind of money! we’re high schoolers!” megumi shouted at them. he could feel the anger boiling in him.

“well, i’ll put in $900 since i was the one that spilled the coffee and you guys put in $450 each, does that sound good?” nobara suggested as she did the math begrudgingly. she definitely did not want to spend her play money on replacing her rich sensei's shirt.

the kids heard the dining hall screen slide open, eyes full of terror. megumi shoved gojo-sensei’s shirt into his jujutsu high uniform as he greeted his students, “mornin’! ijichi should’ve left you guys with something for me… uh, megumi, you good?”

“oh yeah,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “ijichi said he was going to give it to (y/n) instead!”

the way megumi stuffed the shirt into his uniform made it look like he had boobs. nobara and yuji held in their laughs behind their hands, megumi’s lie was the nail in the coffin for them. he wanted to punch both of them in their faces, he was so annoyed. he stormed out of the room and retreated to a hidden faculty closet to make an emergency phone call.

“so, to what do i owe the pleasure of my adopted son calling me?” you teased megumi. he would've just gone to your office if today wasn't your day off.

“i need a favor…” he mumbled.

“what happened, kiddo? are you in trouble?” you asked him with all teasing aside, concern in your tone.

“not exactly. nobara spilled coffee on one of gojo-sensei’s expensive shirts. can you help me get it dry cleaned before he finds out?” he explained the story to you. mama-(y/n) instincts picked up right away.

“bring it home, i’ll take a look at it. satoru doesn’t come home until 6:30 today.”

you had a very soft spot for megumi and tsumiki. if they needed anything, you were there for them in a heartbeat. realistically, you knew that satoru wouldn’t be upset about his shirt since he could just buy a new one anyway, but it was cute to see megumi all worked up about it. you chuckled to yourself in the kitchen as megumi hung up the phone. he'd be home in a flash.

later that day: the gojo/(l/n) household

“(y/n)-sensei, i’m home!” megumi called out to you from the foyer as he took off his shoes and grabbed his slippers.

the familiar scent of the apartment he grew up in brought him back to his childhood, it was nostalgic for him. it was a mix of your nectarine and honey blossom perfume and gojo-sensei’s spicy and woodsy cologne.

he reminisced about when you and gojo-sensei first got this apartment. he would watch tv with tsumiki after school while you and gojo-sensei hung out in the kitchen making dinner. mainly gojo-sensei would watch and bother you, but to megumi's surprise, both of you were decent cooks at 18. he missed when you would read bedtime stories to him and tsumiki, he liked to think you were the reason why he loved reading so much.

he walked over to the wall next to the bathroom where gojo-sensei measured his and tsumiki’s height every month until he turned 12. a soft smile formed on his face when he thought about how his sensei would include his spikey dark blue hair into his height to make him feel better about not being 6'3" like him. oh what he would do to be 12 again...

after living in the dorms for a year now and only coming home on the weekends, he sure missed you and the blindfolded idiot. he would never admit it, but he actually liked living with you two. he was grateful to have guardians like you and satoru.

“welcome home, kiddo. we missed ya'. and what did i say about not calling me sensei? it makes me sound old.” you smiled and hugged him tightly.

he grumbled as you ruffled his hair, “ugh. you just saw me yesterday...” megumi shook his head and fixed a couple pieces of his hair that your slender fingers displaced. he hated when you and gojo-sensei would do that, but he always let it slide because well… it was you and gojo. and believe it or not, he had a soft spot deep down for you two.

“where’s the shirt?” you asked as megumi took out the soiled shirt from his backpack.

“yikes, not the prada shirt…” you tried to hold back a laugh.

“can it be saved?” he asked eagerly.

“i don’t know, megumi. you might have to do chores for a whole year to pay this one off.” you joked with him.

you sighed, there was definitely no fixing this. you retreated to your bedroom to find your purse, megumi curiously wondering what you were doing. you rummaged through your purse to find your wallet, taking out your black credit card and handing it to megumi. megumi eyes widened, he knew what the black cards meant, he grew up with you and gojo-sensei after all.

“take my card. go buy a new one exactly like this. he’ll never know.” you whispered to him.

“are you sure? this is expensive. nobara suggested we all pitch in to buy a new shir—”

you hit megumi upside the head with a spray of water from your cursed technique, “go now. the idiot comes home soon!” you grabbed his arm and dragged him from the kitchen table to the foyer.

he smiled at you and turned to open the door, but before he left, he stopped.

“(y/n)?” he said quietly.

“yes, megumi?” you watched him as he looked over at you.

his hand left the doorknob as he ran to hug you quickly, “you’re the best.”

his embrace surprised you. you wrapped your arms around your adopted teenaged son and laughed. everyone knew megumi loved you more than he loved satoru. there was only one person that he would call in case of emergency, and it was you.

BASED ON THE MANGA FILLER:

© 2023 ASDFGHJKLMALS — ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PLEASE DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK.

DIVIDERS PROVIDED BY @/ANLIAN-AISHANG

[impyssadobsessions]

I don't have much time but I wanted to share this with you while I can! I can't draw but I can write and this is the only way I can share this imagery with you!

The world is passing by in a flurry of colors.

Which usually isn’t that unusual for Clark…usually though it’s because his flying of his own accord. Now…now it was because he was hurdling who knows how fast in piece of metal that was more of a mobile armory then an actual RV then it supposedly was.

There were no support handles to hold on to for just a bit of comfort, no, that was replaced by a handle that would pull down and release a fog horn sound.

So all he could do was pull his knees up to steady himself against the front console, using his size to squeeze himself into a cannonball form in hopes he didn’t get dislodged on a particular rough bump.

Then again if he did, maybe he could get propelled forward and through the front and take the engine out on his way.

Wishful thinking…at least he was doing better then Bruce.

Who was currently sprawled out on the floor of the RV looking like a disheveled cat hanging on to whatever and however he could. Maybe it would look more natural in his Batman outfit but at the moment both if them were in civilian wear and seeing the ‘Prince of Gotham’ doing an impression of a deranged starfish just added on more to today’s bizarreness.

Jack Fenton was giving him a large smile as he drove through another wall, “Don’t you guys worry! I’ll get us to our boys! No speed limit or any barrier can stop a Fenton!”

Clark could only let out a groan of despair as a response...

AMG THIS IS LOVELY LMAO!!! Bruce just imitating one of his sons to keep himself from being thrashed around.. or worse... throw up. ahhhh imagine they both slump out of the rv when they arrive, shaking and so grateful to touch the ground. Bruce is definitely calling for a private jet after this and Clark might agree to ride with him just to have a slower ride.

Danny gives them pity pats when he learns... Jon and Damian like how bad could it be. Damian thinking his father been in a space ship and Jon like we fly that fast every- Only for them to be overheard by Jack by their curiosity, so they all end up being drove back by him. Which bruce and clark like OH GOD please- which becomes a little relief when it turns out Jack drives safer with children.... still deranged but one they can handle. Damian still doesn't see what got their fathers so twisted up. Danny knows though and then asks dad how long it took them. "Regrettably 3 hours son. I was hoping it would be two." Damian frowned and done the math then asking if there was a flying feature in the... rv? "AHA! Nope, but I've been trying to convince Mads to let me install one. She said it would cost too much in gas though, and take up room for the ghost scanner." Damian does the math.. then realizes why his father and clark are shaking in the rv.. even by the tiniest of amounts. "That's my dad! :D" Danny grinning. "He's cool." Jon says innocently enough, not realizing the horror of that statement until it takes them over five hours to get home. Jack decided to play it safe and follow SOME speed limits and road signs. Jack is never allowed to drive again next time they hang out. Bruce or Clark always gets the keys =w= or has limo. ahh sorry got inspired. I LOVE this snippet ;w; !!!! <3 Thank you for writing this. <3<3<3

Link to prompt

[ladytabletop]

Have you ever read an RPG that completely changed the way you think about RPGs or how you play them? If so, which one(s)?

I've talked a little bit about this in the past, but come with me, anon, on a journey through RPGs.

Imagine, if you will, a teenaged LT being invited to play a "game like dungeons and dragons" only to find out it was some dude's really sexist attempt at 3.5.

And then it's 5 years later and some friends in college finally manage to convince you that the game they're starting (Pathfinder) will be fun, you should play. And that's your first real ttrpg experience, and it's a campaign that lasts years, longer than your relationship at that time, and it becomes the most important part of your life for a while, and then you make the jump to 5e which isn't that different, and meantime you've been playing some side games, some shorter stuff, and the math isn't great and yeah the game is held together with homebrew but that's just part of the fun, isn't it? it's just part of how you like to play, writing stuff for this system, and in fact you like it so much that you end up publishing/kickstarting a whole 5e sci fi game, and isn't that neat?

but then 5e really starts to lose favor, or maybe you branching out into indie games just exposes you to a lot more people who hate it, even some people who talk about people who play and write for it like they're stupid or ignorant or part of the corporate missteps made by WotC or like it's unfathomable that people would come to this hobby from the most popular roleplaying game in the world, and that kind of sucks! but you're seeing the holes in the game more and more and you're realizing there's games you've been playing that are also ttrpgs that you never thought of that way, but it seems so obvious in retrospect!

and you start writing for these other games, and you back some kickstarters and find some really awesome discord communities and games that inspire you to write things on your own for the first time in a long time, and you start trying to fill in the gaps in your knowledge so you can keep up with people having academic conversations about games, using terms you don't understand and referencing creators and games and publishers and controversies you've never heard of, and you almost burn out so many times because it's A LOT even if you love it, and reminding yourself that you're not in competition with anyone for creating or knowledge or anything like that becomes part of the daily routine, and you don't have to know everything to keep creating and keep learning and keep playing - that's right, it's about playing! don't forget that! and then you're here.

you're here, and games are so fun and so cool and they're not all going to stick in your soul but so many do, so many teach you something or refresh you in unexpected ways and it's like that all the time.

anyway, in no particular order, games that made me think about RPGs and play and design: DnD 5e, Fiasco, Dread, Monster of the Week, Dream Askew/Dream Apart, Thirsty Sword Lesbians, Blades in the Dark, Thousand Year Old Vampire, The Wildsea RPG, Grant Howitt's 1-page rpgs, Artefact, Dogs in the Vineyard, Shadowrun 5e, 10 Candles, Wreck This Deck, Balikbayan Returning Home, Clue, Chess 2, CYOA books, and many many more.

[acronym49]

Obey Me! Characters react to mc being a dragon

(trying my hand at writing headcanons, let me know what you think! Other brothers + dateables are a work in progress)

__Lucifer__

He's not optimistic. His brothers are hard enough as it is, but adding in a new large creature? It'd be better to just keep you down with Cerberus. Maybe he'd enjoy the new playmate.The annoyance turns to intrigue when he learns you have the mind of any other demon (or person, if you will). And you can speak? Strange. This wont make him like you by any means, of anything he will be very distrusting. As you live there, though, he starts getting used to you. He even enjoys your odd antics, and especially the way you can rally in any ensuing chaos (despite how often you cause it).On one or two rare occasions, he'd absently try to pet you on the head when he was in that 'dead tired from paperwork' state. Depending on your reaction, he might do it more. When/if he does end up falling for you, expect to be near him a lot (obviously). There's not so many head-pats, but he likes to have you sit next to him while he's working or reading, sometimes absently stroking you neck or asking your opinion on whatever he's working with. There'll definitely be some teasing as to how catlike you are at times, but he means it lovingly. *he might put a collar on you if you ask-*He wouldn't ever be the type to outright ask to ride on your back, but I have the feeling he'd make subtle hints to it.'Ah, darn, the ride canceled last second. How can we get there now?' Ykyk. He'll turn you down the first time when you ask if he wants to fly with you, but that's just the pride talking for him. He'd love nothing more. After all, one of the most powerful lords of hell swooping in upon a dragon? You two would be an awe-inspiring duo, that's for sure.

__Mammon__

Ugh, he's gotta watch the new student? Lame! Humans are so- what the fuck is that?He dosen't know how to react at first. This is the thing he's looking after? It'll be awkward for the first few days, but as we know, he falls for MC fast. Awkward silence changes to him griping about how you always have to follow him. After the pact, though, he realizes you're not so bad. You tease him a little bit, sure, but he notices how you praise him, too. Just simple compliments, like how he looks good in his shades, how he's so good at math, how he's super fun to be around. It makes him feel better, y'know? Other demons also seem to be a bit less inclined to make fun of him when you're around, especially when you growl at them for being so openly mean. After a little bit of time, you two are basically glued at the hip. Depending on the kind of MC you are, you two could be the ultimate partners in crime or the closest confidants (or both!). There'll never be a boring moment with you two.It wont take him too long to ask to fly on you (probably be one of the first things he asks you tbh- it's like a joy-ride squared)He'd be respectful but mopey if you say no, but if you say yes? That's a happy demon on your hands right there. Be sure to set some boundaries, though, he might not wanna go by car anymore (like when you give a hognose snake a toad and they refuse to go back to pinkies lmfao). He'll try and get you to learn some aerial maneuvers, maybe how to spin or go upside-down (it's harder than it looks). When you two aren't flying or causing chaos together, you're both just hanging out. When he's relaxed, he likes to trace his hand over your smooth skin/scales/feathers/fur. He can't help it, the texture's just so soothing. Don't point it out, though, he'll go BRIGHT red. He likes it when you two watch movies together, or when you browse Devilgram with him over his shoulder. Feel free to nuzzle him and cuddle up, this man loves it. Sometimes he returns the favor, using you as his own sort of couch while he talks with you, sometimes giving you a peck here and there.

__Leviathan__

Oh this man is hyped from the start. A whole-ass dragon? LIVING with him and his brothers? What could be cooler? He has an internal war between wanting to get a good look at you and being really nervous to get too close. That nervousnes amps up when he realizes you can talk. You might think he's a hallucination at first with how fast he darts out of sight the moment you try and look at him. Fortunately, Mammon's debt to him is what spurs your first interaction. After, he's a little bit more ok with being percieved. He plays it cool at first, not wanting to seem too pushy, but he can't help but barrage you with questions when he gets the chance. It's actually quite a fun time, especially if you love infodumping as much as he (and I) does. You ask your own share of questions as well, about the Devildom, about him, about the games and figures he loves. As you two get more relaxed with one another, you both love to sit and chat about each other's hyperfixations. You can't exactly game with him due to your talons (not comfortably, anyways), but he lets you watch over his shoulder while he games. It makes his victories that much sweeter, and any losses a tad more bearable. Sometimes he lets you go on the mic to startle or taunt the other players, just for fun. It's hard to tell exactly when the relationship begins and the friendship ends, it's a smooth transition that neither of you really notice until you're literally cuddled up together, watching Assasination Classroom on his phone at 2am. It takes a surprising while for him to ask to fly with you. You may have to be the one to bring it up, actually. Nervous the whole time, 100%. He may decline, but upon numerous reassurances he'll agree. I think it's like... that test drive scene from httyd. It's so unfamiliar at first, being high up, with the wind blowing so fiercely. After a while, though, something clicks with him. He'll gain that confidence, guiding you (with your permission) where he wants to go. Something about that wild, windswept sensation of being a mile up in the air melts his nerves. It's just you two and the sky. The others are def gonna be jealous about how well you fly together.

(Feel free to tag with your dragon ocs! Sorry for any spelling errors lmao my eyes tend to skip over words sometimes)

[espumado]

So, google pointed me this old article (probably because of The Bear😅) and everyone knows Kasama, and Genie Kwon, the chef and one of the owners, who appeared in 3x10, during Ever's funeral dinner. It's about the way they started and operate and for me how this can be an example for The Bear restaurant.

Made me think about how Carmy thought about this restaurant when he and Syd needed inspiration, maybe he wasn't talking just about the food but also about the place itself.

When Syd talked about get a star with her dad she said she wanted one -"it's a personal victory and very good for business...that will keep us consistent, low to the ground, but a little bit above it- sounds realistic! But they never really discussed that, the number of stars they want! Carmy seems to be operating in 3 star mode this season, right? Not what Syd had in mind. And one star means: High quality cooking- something they could achieved with the team they have. And three stars means: Exceptional cuisine- something that maybe only Carmy and maybe Syd are ready for. And that's probably why Carmy is acting like only he can do this and taking all the responsibility for himrself.

What I mean is that the way Kasama operates seems like the ideal model for The Bear to follow....that's how they started:

Just like Nat, Carmy and Syd did during the renovation... And that's how they wanted to start, and their "philosophy" and how they work:

They do not want the trappings of fine dining, they cared about their neighbors and customers and the menu prices, cared about food waste and control cost, and found the balance between daytime sandwiches and fine dining... These are the problems that The Bear is having and need to resolve! Nat and Syd are more aware of it and trying but Carmy is lost (mainly in his own mind but he is also terrible with business and math). A lot of people are saying that they have to go back to how everyone were in the first 2 seasons, the love and care for each other and the community, and I agree. Carmy needs to remember or decide how he wants to operate the restaurant, why he wants a star and of course, he and Syd MUST have that conversation!

***side note: I don't know where the showrunners get the idea for this restaurant model like The Bear -with a window for sandwiches and fine dining and a bar- but i realized that none of the real chefs and their restaurants who inspired the show and are Storer's friends (like Mr Beef and Avec) seem to have this kind of model...So made me think that maybe Kasama really was the inspiration for them???***

I think Kasama is a good example for them to follow, they opened at the beginning of the pandemic and "thanks to a smattering of virtual events, sponsorships, and a long patio season, but most of all, those regulars" has managed to keep working which is not easy in this situation (They'll still need outside help and Uncle Jimmy is going broke so who knows... maybe Donna could be help???) But they have a good model with healthy motivation, with sandwiches by day and dinners by night, and costs under control, and the star was just a consequence. Maybe even Richie, who is not happy with the way they are operating and the search for the star, might relate better with this much more functional and healthy model, right?!

Anyway, the fact that this restaurant is run by a couple is just a detail, of course 🙃🫠 These last seasons Carmy is in search of his dream restaurant but also amusement and enjoyment (because he thinks cooking and run a restaurant isn't fun and he needs to look for it outside of work completely), trying to figure out what really makes him happy, and also have a personal life, which is fair. But honestly, to me, maybe not the business part of it, but it seems like what he loves is cooking, or at least it used to be and he needs to rediscover it (he enjoyed cook with Mikey and working at the other restaurants before Chef David, and he asked Syd if she "still love to cook" under the table, as if that was important to himself too). Maybe he'll find a balance, maybe even with Claire (but they will need to talk about it, and he'll need stop acting like one is stopping the other), but here's what Genie Kwon and Tim Flores say about work and personal life, a little about legacy, the star and the people they cook for that both Syd and Carmy could listen:

Like, it's okay not to love the whole thing, the whole process, it happens. But if you like what you do, it may becomes your personal life too and that doesn't need to be a problem, you just need to find balance. And that was what Genie Kwon said during the funeral dinner: I feel like an impostor because I feel like I don't like cooking as much as everybody else does. Um, I knew that I always wanted to make things for people (that made Carmy stop focus on Fields and look at Syd) And then, growing up, you know, my parents were never in a good place, but I always knew that I could make something so specific that would hmmm... bring them joy, you know? (now we see Luca) And that was the thing that I got addicted to, (and now Syd) and I think that I seek approval out of people every single day.

Ps: Now I want to see why Syd started cooking, what motivated her, why she likes to take care of people, if it's because of her mom or dad, something like that...and also Carmy, we know that cooking was the common ground between him and his brother, but how it started? Mikey invited him to the kitchen? It was an escape from their mother? Maybe flashbacks? Maybe they could have a talk about it?...anyway, just wondering...

@brokenwinebox @whenmemorydies @moodyeucalyptus @currymanganese @thoughtfulchaos773 @ambeauty you might like this article

[hlficlibrary]

✤ Secret Relationship Fics ✤

A series of posts with the top five fics of each category by kudos plus five more hidden gems from that category! Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find our other recs here.

- Top 5 H/L Fics -

1️⃣ Fall Into Your Gravity by @zarah5 (E, 74k)

AU. In which Harry is an overnight pop sensation and Louis steals plants, Zayn pulls Liam's proverbial pigtails and Niall's really just pleased there are more girls for him.

2️⃣ Emperor's New Clothes by sunsetmog / @magicalrocketships (E, 92k)

The fact that Louis’s most precious belonging was a cat with a face like thunder and an uncanny ability to cover every single inch of Louis’s clothing with cat hair was something that Louis chose not to think about too much.

or: Harry’s a pop star and Louis isn’t, and there’s a non-disclosure agreement where there used to be a relationship.

3️⃣ Hands Clasped Tight  by @afirethatcannotdie (E, 44k)

“What am I looking at here?” Harry asks.

“This, my friends, is a ‘proof’ Instagram account, run by your students,” Liam announces.

“It’s got all this stuff about how the two of you are together,” Niall adds.

“I heard about that,” says one of the math teachers. “Confiscated a kid’s phone today when they were looking at it. I have to say, the evidence that you’re dating is pretty damning.”

“Really,” Louis says dryly. “Do you think being married for three years might have something to do with it?”

Or the one where Harry and Louis are high school teachers and their students have been playing matchmaker for over a year. Little do they know, Harry and Louis are already married.

4️⃣ Learning to Breathe by youcomecrash / @drunkharrystyles-blog (E, 110k)

He’s playing football at one of the top universities in England and he should love everything about his life right now, but instead he’s moving backwards. How does your past fit into your present? Louis is still figuring it out.

5️⃣ so keep my candle bright by whisperdlullaby (E, 78k)

louis returns to his hometown after four years to find that the reverend’s son has done some growing up of his own.

HIDDEN GEMS:

💎 Caught In Your Gravity by @lululawrence (NR, 62k)

It felt like the blood froze in Harry’s veins even as he got a bit lightheaded. He hadn’t even made it two practices, only one of which he was remotely in charge of, without giving it all away and now he and Liam were both absolutely fucked.

“Shit,” Harry breathed out. “Who all have you told? Does everyone know? I thought I covered it better than that…”

“No, no,” Louis said quickly. "They’ll figure it out soon enough, though, because they’ll get used to you changing things up, but you’re only going to trip over your so called Americanisms for so long before they realize it’s because you don’t actually know fuck all about football.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I figured. I just need to bullshit for long enough to allow Liam to get the situation figured out from his end.”

“Right, which brings me to my entire point. I think we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement with all of this.” Louis leaned forward. “You need to learn the ins and outs of the sport incredibly fast. I can help you with that.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

Or, an AU inspired by a 30 second trailer of Ted Lasso that doesn't actually have much in common with the show at all.

💎 Old Photographs & Times I'll Remember by @jaerie (E, 54k)

Carefully he set that negative down and lifted the paper to see there was another beneath. This one again was a young man, this time posed against an antique car. He lifted a few more negatives out one by one, each a portrait of the same man with various backdrops. The man in a meadow, in an office, leaning against a doorframe — even one in his underwear grinning at the camera. On the edge of each negative printed in slanted, handwritten characters were the initials and date. H.S. 1924.

He quickly but carefully packed them back into the box and buzzed with excitement. He couldn’t wait to develop them to see exactly what had been captured in the images. It was a find that felt like a puzzle to piece together.

H.S. was likely the man in the photographs as well as the owner of the suitcase. Who was he? Why had his suitcase found its way into Niall’s attic? Was he still alive and well somewhere in the world?

A camera, a suitcase, and a relationship forged through time.

💎 On Thin Ice by @neondiamond (E, 16k)

As the goaltender for one of the best hockey teams in the world, Harry never expected participating in his second winter Olympics would be so eventful. His hidden long-term relationship with the captain of their biggest rival team may have something to do with it.

💎 I Can Build Your Heart A Home by LiveLaughLoveLarry / @loveislarryislove (T, 10k)

“I was just thinking," Niall says. Did you know that Louis came out as gay last year?”

Harry nearly chokes on his drink, just barely managing to swallow. “Hrng,” he manages, trying not to cough. “Um. Yeah, I think I saw it on Facebook. Good for him.”

“Well.” Niall shrugged. “I figured it just made sense."

Harry feels goosebumps rise on his arms. “What do you mean?”

“I just think you and Louis should date,” Niall says. “I think you’d be good together, you know? You were friends in high school, weren’t you?”

“Erm.” Harry swallows. “Friends isn’t exactly the term I’d use.” Niall doesn’t need to know what terms he would use.

Or, Harry and Louis kind of secretly sort of dated in high school. Now it's two years later and they're both back in town for Christmas and it's awkward. Until it isn't.

💎 Battle Of The Balls by bluegreenish / @greenblueish (M, 5k)

“Rim of the hole, Haz, really?” he gazes at the camera again. “This is getting demonetised and honestly, rightfully so. How are we still allowed to make videos? YouTube, why don’t you just do yourself the favour and delete our channels?”

“After everyone sees that I win this game though,” Harry winks, dimples still showing. 

or, the one where YouTubers Harry and Louis play Golf With Friends, go to the pub with Niall and return home six hours after posting the video.

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Grannies - Part 4 (Finale)

Summary: Gordon's committed to the bit. The bit just happens to be an obnoxious amount of granny squares.

A/N- In the finale: warning for a bit of whump. Whole lotta love though. Words for this part come to 2K.

Part 1 here | Part 2 here | Part 3 here | AO3

Thank yous: craftyfam, patient readers, my yarn stash for inspiration, Kat for the read through and assuring me this was post ready. FFXIV I can't thank you because you are a menace and a distraction no matter how much I love you.

*****

Part 4: Finale

Because Gordon never goes half-assed into anything, Virgil is still finding granny squares. 

He has to keep reminding himself that he appreciates Gordon’s dedication. He actually relies on this part of his brother’s character. Frequently, in fact. 

But as he pries a stray granny square out of his sock drawer and tosses it into the project basket housing its companions, Virgil has to roll his eyes. Fondly of course. In the project management world, they call this scope creep - with no real end in sight, the project keeps getting bigger and more involved, and it’s all too easy for it to just keep living on indefinitely. But then, Gordon is one big Scope Creep anyway since he was never one for boundaries in the first place. 

His definition of an appropriate time to stop was very different from Virgil’s. 

At this point, the new square isn’t anything Virgil hasn’t seen before. He knows by now what to expect from Gordon’s work. And, honestly, it’s just like Gordon to somehow manage to desensitize Virgil away from everything he knows about color theory, however briefly. So, neither the presence of the piece of fabric nor the color combination provides any shock value anymore. 

What it does do is remind him that he’s got his own project balancing to do. That of actually… you know… finishing the damn thing. And figuring out what to do with the rest of the squares, he reminds himself as he slides on his socks and laces up his boots for the day. 

The newest acquisition - two rounds of golden yellow followed by two rounds of aubergine purple and a final in white - doesn’t look as visually discordant alongside its peers, the scrambled rainbow they are.  They are all the ones that didn’t make the cut for Gordon’s afghan, the  squares Virgil keeps finding anew, and inevitably the future ones Gordon will continue to make until he receives another lightning strike of an idea.

Right beside it is a second project basket. Gordon likes a big blanket, so enough squares to fit a king sized bed are already packed up and labeled in their sequential order. As he’s had time, Virgil has started sewing them together based on the design Scott helped with. There’s enough space still for him to store the bolt of fabric John helped him find too, once it finally arrives. 

Virgil’s grateful for their help, and their part in the project has made it just that bit more special. He hopes Gordon feels that way too. It took Scott reminding him that it wasn’t his own aesthetic he was trying to please for the design to come together. Otherwise, Virgil has no doubt what he would’ve designed would’ve been lesser for his own misery trying to force order into chaos. 

Somehow, with the power of math, Scott’s perspective on patterns and probability and randomization had been just the ticket. Gordon also probably hadn’t realized just how many squares he’d made that started with the shade of yellow or orange or his typical bright shades. Just that little bit of consistency was all he and Scott needed to figure the rest out as they laid out the squares. It wasn’t a pattern, a fade, or even entirely randomized. But a couple edits later, they had the final layout, the squares numbered, and Virgil had gotten to work joining his own granny stitches into his brother’s work in the only color Gordon considered “neutral” - yellow. 

Unable to resist the smile it brings, Virgil tugs the blanket out of the basket and unfolds the two rows he’s finished, with the third halfway complete. It doesn’t bother him that his connecting yarn is still live - the hook has his last loop stabbed into the working skein, and even if it does come unraveled a little, crochet is not so difficult to start again. 

It had taken a few tries to find the right hook to help him match Gordon’s stitches. Even though Virgil taught him a few years ago, no two makers’ work was exactly alike. And Gordon was as carefree with his gauge as he was in the rest of his life. 

Excitement thrums through him; it’s morning, the birds are chirping, and he’s feeling motivated and productive. The crochet work is soft in his hands, the next square in the sequence visible in the project basket below but hiding the rest of the queue for the third row. It’s the perfect day to grab some coffee, hide away in his studio for a few hours, and let the project surprise him. 

That’s the way a WIP should work: it should inspire along the way. 

Virgil has just thrown a towel over the basket to make it seem like it could be laundry - just in case he runs into a wayward squid - when the alarm in his room sounds and John’s voice comes over comms. 

They have a rescue. 

~*~

Virgil awakes to the smell of antiseptic and the uncomfortable feeling that his mouth tastes like cotton. 

Something about that makes him want to giggle, except he can’t actually do that. 

“Easy, Virg.” Hands, soothing, graze his hairline. “They’ve got you on the good stuff.”

He can tell. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet to know if he’s in a hospital or the infirmary, nor does he know what happened to land him there.

Based on the cotton in his throat and in his head and in his lungs, maybe he ate Gordon’s blanket. 

The giggle turns into a groan. 

“You’re okay now. Rest, Virgil.” 

Since the voice is Scott, he does so.

~*~

The next time he remembers waking, he’s in the infirmary on the island. Again, this he knows not because he’s opened his eyes to figure it out, but because his senses tell him so. Only one brother knows sea shanties enough to be familiar with that one and, if Gordon is here humming it, they’re both definitely not in a hospital.

The words he wants to say trudge through the molasses on their way out.

“Wha’ happ’n?” 

“Virgil!” It’s surprise, and excitement, and relief all rolled into one, but Gordon has the good sense to keep his voice low once the original shock of him waking settles.  

Gordon knows the drill well, his voice barely above a whisper as he closes the blinds and scoops some ice chips into a cup. Virgil’s grateful for the gentle way he moves about the room; he can hear him shuffling around, dictating as he goes. By the time Gordon returns with the cup of blessed relief for the feeling in his esophagus, Virgil has managed to tearily blink his eyes half-open. 

Beneath his brother’s brushed fringe hides a bruise the size of a fist, purpling so harshly at his hairline that Virgil ignores the ice chip Gordon offers him in favor of reaching up to check the injury out for himself. Immediately, his body protests the movement, and Gordon urges him to lower his arm back to the support of the bed.

“Yeah, maybe don’t try that?” Gordon waves him off. “I’m fine. What do you remember?” 

Through the pain in his lower half and the color of Gordon’s face, the memories of the rescue come back clearer. Unfortunately, of all things, they’d been called out to a mudslide. He’d checked Gordon out in the field, he remembers. A panicked civilian with a wayward right hook while Gordon was calming his husband. The man had been incredibly apologetic, and Gordon assured him no harm was done, but Virgil pulled him off duty as a concussion risk and left him in Two with  Grandma talking to him.

Then, when Virgil went after a lifesign in a toppling two-story… 

“A house hit me.” 

“Well, more mud than house. You’re ok though. You were buried from the waist up. Had some compartment syndrome. Everything you’re feeling - or not - is temporary.”  

“You came to get me.” Virgil could argue that grounded meant grounded, that Gordon should never’ve gone after him in such dangerous conditions, that he’s the big brother and Gordon’s the little one and he should keep himself safe when he’s told to do so. But there’s a challenge in his little brother’s warm honey eyes already, and he remembers faintly words spoken in worry and fear, assurances that tighten in a coil around his heart.

“I did. There wasn’t anyone else.”  

He owes Gordon everything.

Virgil hums, “Thank you.”

Between the pain medication and water soothing the grittiness in his throat, he feels more aware by the minute and ready to try sitting up for a time. Gordon helps him settle a few pillows into position and raises the head of the infirmary bed to the appropriate level. He’s got to let Scott know he’s awake - and Grandma -  Gordon tells him. Before either of them decide to have scolded Squid for dinner. 

Virgil doesn’t have the energy to chuckle, but it does as he knows Gordon intended: leave him with a smile for the few moments Gordon needs to step away to communicate Virgil’s situation. 

His heart is music, his soul is color. Where sound is oversaturated with the wisps and hums of machinery tracking his vitals, his heartbeat in rhythm, color becomes his touchstone. Outside the window will be the cerulean of the sky and sea. Green, which he thinks in its most basic form because it’s every combination of the hue throughout the robust plant-life of their Island. Dandelion yellow - the sun and safety and Gordon’s baldric. 

Past the shut blinds, it’s all just a sliver. More prominently, there’s just white and infirmary clean grey.  He has to blink away the dullness, as he tears his gaze away from the window and finally musters the strength to glance at himself and especially at his lower half past the pain where Gordon promised his lack of feeling, muted through painkillers, was temporary. 

Color, so much of it that it’s blinding, greets him with the neon of signage amidst the Las Vegas cityscape and the celebration of the New York Pride parade they attend each year. The blanket draped across his lap is authentic Gordon through and through, in familiar squares assembled in a chaos true to their variety. No rhyme, no reason. 

So much care. 

“Grandma will be in shortly.” Gordon plops into the chair at his side, wiggling in the armchair to reacquire the work he’d placed on the seat cushion. He catches him looking, wide-eyed. “It’s not your project, promise. Though I did bring it in for you to work on when you’re feeling better. It’s over by the holoscreen whenever you want me to bring it over. You’ll be here for a bit healing, so I figured…” He shrugs, trailing off. 

“Gordon?” He slides his fingers between the stitches and curls them gratefully into soft, comforting colors. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m - uh -” Gordon flushes in dim light. “I’m weaving in my ends finally,” he admits, holding up the darning needle. “Sorry if you had another idea for the squares, but once I finished putting yours together, I realized we had enough still to donate some more blankets and those really should be finished.” Gordon weaves a red tail end back and forth between the strands the way Virgil taught him, and the way their mom taught Virgil. “I really did go a little overboard on granny squares didn’t I? I just figured it would be okay for me to help you along. So you could finish what you were working on. Was that ok?”

“More than.” 

It also tells him a significant amount about how serious his injuries were and how long he might have been out of commission, if Gordon’s found the time to finish as much as he has. The concern for what he’s put his family through spikes his heartbeat again, and his younger brother glances up to check on him, the monitors, back at him.

Virgil gives him a weary smile, tugging the blanket further up his chest. “I’m ok,” he assures him. “Thanks to you.” 

“Don’t do it again,” he admonishes, shaking his head.

Neither of them can promise the other, not in their line of work, and they both know it. 

The words go unspoken, but they are woven delicately in the strands of their gifts to each other. Virgil feels the care against his skin, in colors that chase away greys, and soft cotton that sifts fear and worry out through openwork patterning. And when Grandma finally makes her way in to check in on him, his heart is so full with the chance he’s been given, the support he’s always had by the people he cares for, that the love hits him with a wave of exhaustion. 

Into sleep he falls, deeply into dreamless rest by the time Grandma finishes her checks and  Gordon tucks him in with a thankful salute to the stars above.

The End

[escrivoir]

For the send me a fic, can I have "stay all night" pleeeease?

Oh lord, the fic you inspired! Congratulations and thank you for that, @reallylilyreally haha.

My favorite scene

Right after the awful snow/Bastogne-adjacent scene, wherein Nix accidentally kisses both Dick and Tab and then nearly wrecks his car when he realizes what he's done, racing home to call his secretary and tell her that he won't be in because they're all sick - and she's already rescheduled all of his meetings.

My favorite chapter (if it's a multichapter)

Chapter 8: Dick scaring Stanhope, and everything related to planning the wedding, especially because everyone in Easy is so fucking baffled about it. And there's the Easy reunion / real wedding.

Hardest scene to write

This one - it kickstarts so much insanity.

So: while she travels, she’s been bringing along reading material - journals and articles about fertility and birth control, both of which are progressing in the most marvelous way these last few years. In the most unlikely of fashions, it appears that her Stanford education is serving her well. It turns out there are options she’d never thought of, although some of them are … undignified.

“Undignified!?” her brother yelps when she lays it out to the boys that evening. “It’s a farce!” 

Dick and Tab exchange a significant look. Neither of them are rejecting it out of hand, which is encouraging. It’s something that had never even occurred to Dick, she can tell; there’s surprise and a little bit of discomfort at the frankness of the topic, but he’s not disgusted, and he’s certainly not panicking like Lewis.

“It works in animals,” Tab points out reasonably. “With quite a bit of success, and even less dignity.” Of course Bunny would know; agriculture engineering was a lot of math and science, but he’d also spent time at working farms, which has paid off in the immediate success of Ferme Parachute, as she’s now termed it. Blanche doesn’t actually know what their business is, and she’s not sure she cares. It has something to do with… food for cows?

“My sister is not a cow! ” Lewis cries. She rolls her eyes and bites back the urge to look him straight in the eyes and moo. It’s a tough sacrifice, but that’s what good sisters are for.

Favorite character to write in the fic

Blanche! The struggles of being a wealthy heiress sound laughable, but just like Nix, there were so many impossible expectations thrown at her.

Favorite dynamic to write in the fic

Friendly: Blanche & Nix - siblings with a whole lot in common, and similar chips on their shoulders Unfriendly: Stanhope & Tab - very very mildly touched upon. I love that Tab is everything Stanhope despises, and steals his daughter and son from him, more or less.

Why I chose that title

Most folks know Stay All Night, Stay a Little Longer as a song by Willie Nelson, but it was originally recorded in 1945 (released in 1946) by Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys. It's a swingy tune, and the chorus is so good for Blanche and Tab especially: Stay all night, stay a little longer Dance all night, dance a little longer Pull off your coat throw it in the corner Don't see why you don't stay a little longer

A fun fact about the fic

The fic was literally born because I had just started to talk to @reallylilyreally and we were joking about how weird it would be for Blanche to meet Tab, which is when I came up with the opening scene, and the whole fic kind of spiraled into what it is now. Will say I did NOT expect it to go the direction it did at first, and then I was just like, shrug, guess we're doing this!

[anamelessfool]

Headcanon request! How would the Terzo or Copia act with an significant other who is a teacher? 😁

Terzo

He would absolutely love the long stretches of summertime you have together, but then get cranky as it gets closer to September. He tries to help you grade and organize and write lesson plans, but he gets bored very easily and starts to moan about it after only one or two papers.

Things really come to a head when he gets fussy and bratty about you being too tired Monday through Friday to really give him attention or go out because "It's a school night". You basically read him the riot act right then and tell him how exasperated and overwhelmed you feel. Even though Terzo can be a bit bratty, he does take your feelings to heart, apologizing and vowing to support you in any way he can.

And he does, quickly after that. He makes dinners and packs your lunches. When you come home after a particularly long day and just want to lie on the couch he waits on you and gives your aching calves and feet an expert massage. He's not really one to give advice, but he is an understanding ear when you feel like you need to vent. He quickly realizes that with all of this support you feel more comfortable and more energized, you're more likely to jump his bones at 4PM on a Tuesday after work.

Copia

Copia takes academics very seriously, with his background as a CPA before his sudden pivot towards running the church and performing. He was drawn to you originally because of your shared love of learning and feels honored to be with someone that makes such an impact on the world. He knows how hard you work and does everything in his power to help you catch up. He takes you out to dinner whenever you feel like you need a pick me up. He is very good at grading. There are many very cheerful Saturday mornings with you and him at the kitchen table with a pile of math work to grade, matching coffee mugs and a record on the turntable.

One problem though is Copia is just horrible with computers and gets very defensive when you try to explain something new to him. He had never once emptied his Recycle Bin on his desktop that Sister forced him to use to "automate and streamline the Ministry accounts"....until you showed him how to do it (and also to stop saving every fucking thing on the desktop.) He doesn't understand why you need to upload all the grades into the byzantine grading system ("Aren't they going to just change the name again next year, mi amore?") and can very easily calculate averages in his head or on his ancient calculator for you.

He gets so inspired by you and your successes that you share with him that during an extended break from touring he tries his hand at substitute teaching at a local high school. He quits after the second day because the kids intimidated him a little bit. He is in awe of how you do it.

[hardly-an-escape]

fic talk! tagged by @cliophilyra!

How many wips do you have currently?

oh god, please don't ask me. at least two BuckTommy fics (which may end up converging into one because they seem increasingly related). a half dozen or so Dreamling stories. a random Witcher fic and a random Stranger Things fic. a long-neglected Clintasha fic. I refuse to do this math.

Which one are you finding the hardest to finish? Why do you think that is?

it's hard to say. I'm a slow writer to begin with, and I (obviously) have the tendency to start new things without having finished previous projects. I definitely struggle more with longer/multichapter fics, and more complex stories in general. would you go along with someone like me? and The Trenches Have Vanished Under the Plough both fit into those categories, and those are the two that have probably given me the most trouble over the past year.

What does it usually look like when inspiration strikes for you?

it usually starts with a single short scene, or sometimes even a single line, that's basically just a vivid daydream until I get it actually written down and expand on it. often someone's tumblr post or headcanon will spark something for me, or a piece of fanart, or some other show/movie I've watched recently will make me think of an AU idea. but it's like pulling teeth to get whatever it is out of the daydream and into a document.

Do you curate playlists for each fic or is your process different?

I've never really gotten into this, but I think it's such a cool idea. I know folks who have particular playlists to get them into the headspace to write certain stories, and I love that concept. but for whatever reason, my brain doesn't really connect stories I'm writing to music in quite that fashion. I do like to have some kind of background noise while I'm writing, but it has to be instrumental (I'll get distracted by lyrics) and fairly unobtrusive.

Do you go balls to the wall and write as you go or are you more organised?

mostly balls to the wall, but I have found it rewarding recently to outline a little bit more. I do it very simply, basically a series of bullet points describing key events or conversations, or sometimes even just a character's reaction or attitude. I do tend to jump around and write non-chronologically, so it can help me visualize what's still left to write and what order it comes in. sometimes I'll go back and drop in a bullet point because I realize I want to expand on a scene or add in a reference, so I can quickly pencil in that note before I lose my train of thought and then flesh it out later. but yeah, mostly I'm just pantsing it!

no pressure tags: @cuubism @valeriianz @peppermintquartz @tryan-a-bex @beatnikfreakiswriting

[destiny-in-the-universe]

Internverse (RC9GN AU) [Name Subject to Change]

Lovely timezone, my dreamers!

So, I blame the constant brainrot I have somehow developed for a ridiculously dead fandom (but we continue to exist lol). The idea, however, is not entirely my own and I do have to give credit where its due (it simply wouldn't be possible without @7-inches-of-satanic-panic having made a post about it and i simply decided to write something for it!)

Now, to explain this AU- canon divergent storyline- it mostly follows McFist and Viceroy (it was Viceroy pfft) coming up with a new plan on capturing the ninja which leads to them creating an internship program in an attempt to unmask the city's 'vigilante'. By the power of well-placed plot logic, and because well, it'd honestly fit the theme- Randy's accepted as an intern and begins working at McFist Industries as he's using the opportunity to figure out the evil duo's next steps but of course, the question remains: what happens if he gets caught?

Unable to easily back out, Randy is left having to complete the internship and if he happens to be enjoying himself a little, that would be a lie- what are you talking about?

Now everything after this is my own interpretation!

Everything takes a sudden turn because Randy isn't exactly the most qualified, but at the same time- i feel he does have some range of skills that McFist and Viceroy could be interested in. ADHD! Randy taking an interest in math for instance? Absolutely, but now he's literally interning for his archenemies and for the time being, the Sorcerer isn't as major of a villain as he would be in the canon; anyway, moving on-

Randy doesn't really seem to find anything amiss and mostly spends his time interning under Viceroy as McFist is, well, McFist- but things get interesting when he (Randy) ends up in the radar of McFist who's a bit suspicious and comes to the conclusion that Randy might be the Ninja due to the type of slang he uses- (which becomes dismissed by Viceroy because apparently Randy is a bit clumsy, and how could someone like that ever be the Ninja, amirite? /lh)

Though I also like to imagine at least Randy and Viceroy bond because, well, who wouldn't be slightly interested in the new technology Viceroy's developed for video games? Honestly- this might be partially inspired by me having read other AU's where Viceroy sort of adopts Randy and I will get my dues with this pfft, but anyway-

At some point, things get tense because Randy mysteriously vanishes when a robot attacks the city, and now has to come up with a plausible excuse to why he left McFist Industries-

(author's cut: i might either write this as a long one-shot or it's going to be a multi-chaptered work where it explores dynamics a little bit more and may gain more 'lore' behind it so to speak)

Headcanons + Thoughts

~ To fit the theme a little, Randy is something of a math prodigy- though it's not something he made an effort in showing before and it's due to this he's accepted into the internship program

~ Personally the program is only meant to last the course of a single month since it's mostly to unravel the Ninja's identity, but things kind of... derail- because Randy does have his skills and Viceroy's curious

~ Randy is peak ADHD in this; I can cover everything about it in a separate post (but basically- he can't sit still for longer than five minutes and is always fidgeting with something)

~ McFist isn't a total idiot and he suspects something strange about Randy, but it's mostly him realizing that Randy uses the same sort of slang as the Ninja- even attempting to bring this idea to Viceroy, though it's not enough

~ All of the expenses are paid for- including lodging in order to make the internship seem more legitimate (and it is, it's also a ploy to capture the Ninja but no one needs to know that)

~ Bash and Randy? We'll see where this goes, but they'll definitely have interactions with Bash being McFist's stepson and well, Randy's interning so they're bound to see each other repeatedly

~ the Sorcerer isn't an overarching element in this as he would be in canon, but he might get cameos- or it's something introduced in the second half of the series to keep things interesting, genuinely we'll have to see

~ if there is going to be reveal, I honestly want the suddenly dawning realization that the Ninja is a teenager- that it's not something to be taken lightly, and while McFist may honestly ignore it, Viceroy certainly will not (and that's all I'm saying on the matter right now)

~ what lesson am i going to be using for this? i'm honestly on the fence of whether i use a preexisting one, or if this is going to be something entirely new Randy's facing-

~ for the sake of how things are going to run, Randy's family is absent during this- i do think he either lives with another relative (half-credit to @7-inches-of-satanic-panic since it's possible it could be an aunt acting as his surrogate mom? or the hc i've talked about before- that his parents are just constantly working and busy, and tend to neglect Randy a lot)

Under-the-Cut Information (+ Thoughts)

I am definitely treating this as a more lighthearted story, but there's going to be serious elements because there isn't a single way that Randy's completely fine being the Ninja and sure, he does love it, though there's got to be an emotional toll happening he isn't realizing (we've seen this in canon, it isn't out of the realm of possibility)

I do want to say that I am using neurodivergent and LGBTQ+ headcanons and elements in this piece, and if that's going to be a problem- please, find something else to read

I'm going to explore the depth of Randy's personality as he genuinely should've gotten more development and I felt his character had a weird... switch during the second season-? Like, it still felt like him but he also could be a massive jerk for seemingly no reason and then regret his actions as if this isn't the most adhd coded kid i have ever seen in my life, it would explain a lot

might play around with character designs? i'm not sure yet honestly-

currently the au will be titled intern randy au until further notice, so if you want to follow the story- the tag is #internrandyau

That is all I've got for now!

Mod Danny (They/Them)

[fabricated-misslieness]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Viktor x gn reader (arcane)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: It wasn't very often Viktor was denied things, being a very important scientist. It seems he's grown too used to it.

ʀᴇ𝐐: no ~ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 684 ~ crackfic!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: probably ooc

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: i struggled on the math part lol (also inspired by "what difference does that make?" in the bridge scene after vik visits singed)

☾⋆☆⋆☽

"Hey, love?" Viktor calls from the kitchen.

"Yeah?" You reply mindlessly, taking another sip from your coffee.

"Could I have another koláč?" It was has hardly a question that required an answer for him. The only thing the koláče were in danger of was shortage, and the only thing he was in danger of was mild discomfort. The pastry's crumbs would, perhaps, get stuck in the corners of his mouth and the jam's texture might cause him a bit of trouble. All in all, though, it was mighty worth it.

What he doesn't expect is for you to say, "No."

The only thing you can hear is the padding of his little socked feet before he's a the kitchen doorway looking at you as if you've just betrayed him. "What?"

"You've already eaten so many."

"Wha–no, no I haven't." He denies it through his teeth. He could only have eaten like, one or two, at most!

"Okay, darling, let's see, I made a dozen." You begin.

He follows along, "Uh-huh."

"And I've eaten one. There are five left." Now he wasn't following. There were five left? "Do the math for me. You're the scientist!"

Viktor doesn't roll his eyes, even though he would've if the circumstances were different. Okay, twelve minus one minus x equals five. That means he's eaten six. No way he's eaten six. He does the math again in his mind once, then once more. But you were right, he was a scientist, he had to have had the math right the first time.

He doesn't realize it, but he's spent several minutes silently blinking as he registered the answer.

"Vik? You got that result for me?"

"Six." He says, like a good boy. He's eaten six.

"That's right." You reply immediately, tapping your finger in the air. "You've eaten six. Not only is that gluttony–"

"It'd be the last one." He reasons, "I swear."

"No, my love." You shake your head at him disappointedly and the shame begins to set in. "Your teeth are gonna hurt and you're gonna complain about it."

"I wouldn't complain!" He argues quickly, "I'd figure out a solution myself."

"How?"

How. That was the question.

"You're a scientist, Vik, not a dentist. Not to mention you'd continue asking for more." Viktor's lips open and close like a fish, but words do not come out, so you continue. "All I'm saying is that when it comes to this, your promises aren't so valuable."

"What? H–" He chokes on his own spit and has to bite back the feeling of sourness in his throat. "How dare you!"

The tantrum that boils up within his body doesn't help his case, though. He was a scientist, it was only a logical thought, objective. On the subjective side, no that wasn't true! But again, it wouldn't help him. So instead of that approach, he crosses his arms over his chest, the only sign of protest he thinks he is able to afford, and says, "It'll be the last one. I'll hold myself to that promise."

"Really?" You say. He can hear it in your tone that you seriously doubt his promise and tries not to take offense from it.

"Really." He replies, totally serious.

What he didn't know, what he hadn't realized, and what mostly tipped the scales in his favor, was that he was pouting. You could even hear it in his voice. It was awfully cute.

You sigh, "Alright."

"Really?" He blurts, shocked despite putting up such a "good" argument.

"Really." You affirm.

Viktor grins, covering the distance between you with short, quick steps. His excitement spills over the edge in the form of a laugh so angelic and joyous the following complaints might be bearable. Then, most graciously, he cups your cheeks and presses a big yet quick kiss upon your lips. "Thank you!"

"You know, my love, I will always make more." His joy was so contagious you couldn't help but laugh. "I just need you to exercise a bit of control."

If it meant he could keep eating koláče, he'd do it. "Of course."

[sunshine-on-marz]

Here’s my short story “Knowing Ace” (written by me, I don’t consent for it to my translated, reposted, altered, or claimed) (Srry if formatting is bad, this is copied from docs)

I’ve been working on it for a couple weeks now and I’m very proud of it I hope you enjoy it (also this is heavily inspired by outsiders if you couldn’t tell)

Knowing Ace

July 1st, 1964

“So he’s dead?” I didn't like hearing it from my own mouth any more than I would’ve liked it coming from the doctor, but I figured asking would make him cut out all the medical talk. I felt sick. The doctor just nodded, with a small “I'm sorry”. I didn't care much that he was sorry, sorry doesn’t bring people back.

Ace was the best type of person, not perfect, but the best. His real name was Angel, which I always thought was real fitting, but he hated it, so everyone called him Ace (except for his mom. He never had the heart to correct her).

He was my best friend, or is, it’s not like anyone’s replaced him. He died real young, a month before his 15th birthday (and a month after mine). He wasn't sick or anything either. Well, he was sick, but not like cancer or that type of stuff. We thought it was just a bad flu, but the doctor said it was pneumonia. Ace always thought pneumonia was fake, he never did explain why, but Ace thought lots of stuff was fake (like yellow apples, and the White House). He wasn’t dumb though, he was real smart if you showed him stuff, he just wasn't too good at understanding stuff he couldn't see. That's why we got along, me and Ace. He’d do my math homework, and I’d write his English papers. We got along with more than just school work though, we made a good team in everything we did, and we did everything together.

No one ever really expects good people to die. You expect bad people to die because you kind of want it to happen, but when you like someone, you try not to think about it. It’s not so fun when you do have to think about it, because if you have to think about a good person dying, it usually means they're dying (or, in this case, already dead).

I hadn't realized I'd been talking, but I must’ve said something out loud because the doctor asked me if I could repeat myself, I just shook my head and put my hands in my jacket pocket. The jacket used to be Ace’s, a nice denim patchwork, but he outgrew it. That’s how I got most of my nice clothes, because Ace’s dad has a decent job and Ace was bigger than me.

The doctor looked around the room then back to me and asked “Angel’s parents, are they here?”. I shook my head, I wasn't sure I’d be able to make a sentence that made sense, so I didn’t try. The doctor told me to head home, but I didn’t, I couldn’t leave Ace. I sat down on the floor of the hospital room, and I cried.

I still hadn't calmed down when Ace’s parents showed up but I doubt they minded much, they were both crying too. I’d never seen his dad cry before that. I had never seen anyone’s dad cry, now that I'm thinking about it, but I wasn't thinking about it then.

His mom gave me a real tight hug, and the three of us cried for a while. Eventually, his dad asked me what happened (a pretty understandable question considering his sick, dead son is also covered in bruises). That's what I was scared of. I’d told the doctors what happened, no problem, but the doctors took the easy answer.

“A fight” I said, just barely making it audible, hoping he’d leave it at that. “Why was he in a fight?”. His dad had always scared me a bit, but he scared me extra in that moment. “Some guys wanted money” I told him, but he knew what I meant. Me and Ace had been gambling since we were little, started with spades for an extra dime at lunch in 4th grade, and it was poker and pool at the local bar before we even got to high school. We had quite the reputation. I expected his dad to swing at me, to yell that I got his son killed (me and Ace were a team, but everyone liked Ace, so I got in more trouble), but he didn't. He just looked at Ace (Ace’s body? It feels weird to call alive Ace and dead Ace the same thing) and pushed the hair from his forehead.

“Robert, do you want his necklace?” his father asked, I nodded, and so he gave it to me. A gold cross that Ace had worn every day since he got it for Christmas when we were 9. Ace wasn't a religious guy by any means, he thought church was a waste of time, but he’d loved that cross. When someone questioned it he’d say “God ain't what makes it lucky”, and that was all he’d say about it.

Another thing about Ace, he was always talking. If he wasn't talking, it was because someone had stopped him, or he was waiting for his turn to talk again. It’s not that he was a bad listener, he was just better at conversation. I think the quiet is the weirdest part of not having him around. When you do everything with someone, you don’t really need anybody else, so suddenly, there was no one to fill the silence. Even when I was in a big crowd and everything was too loud for my liking, it still felt silent, because noise and conversation are two very different things.

Now, I'm an alright-looking guy, I wish I was a bit less lanky, but that's life. Ace, though, was attractive. No one could deny that (not that they wanted to, like I said, Ace was fairly well-liked). He was tall with bright green eyes and curly brown hair that fell right at his eyebrows in the front. Guys that didn't like him called him “pretty boy”, which he and I never quite understood because being pretty got him out of a lot of trouble.

It never did get him out of a fight though.

June 28th, 1964 - 3 days before

Walking home after a good game is always a high, Ace and I were up 15 bucks. Ace was going on about a comic he’d read, then we got stopped.

“Boys!” Charlie’s voice scared both me and Ace, I almost hit him. Once we caught our breath, the three of us burst out laughing. Charlie is a friend of ours. He’s older, not sure how old but I know he’s in college. He’s a cool enough guy, but he’s more Ace’s friend than mine, all I really know about him is he has a car and a girlfriend (because that’s all he ever talks about). “Blondie, man, I saw you talking to Nancy, she’s a looker” Charlie laughs and claps my shoulder. Blondie is my nickname because I'm the only brunette in my family and people think that's funny. “She gave me 3 bucks to write her English essay, that's all,” I tell him, and I can tell from how Ace is laughing that I'm turning red. “Yea yea, alright man” Charlie rolls his eyes and shoves my shoulder which makes me stumble forward. “Oh leave him be” Ace says, stepping between me and Charlie. Charlie’s a bigger guy and doesn't always realize it, I wouldn't be surprised if he broke my arm one of these days.

Charlie walked with us all the way to Ace’s house, then left to go do whatever people like Charlie do on Wednesday nights. It was just past 6, which means Ace’s mom would just be finishing dinner. We were rarely home for dinner unless it was a Sunday (Mrs. Nicole makes baked chicken on Sundays, so we always tried to show up), but it was cold and we didn't have anything better to do.

I practically live with the Scotts, my mom works nights at the hospital across town, and I’d much prefer being with Ace than alone staring at my bedroom wall, plus his mom always wanted another kid, so she says she likes having me around.

Mrs.Nicole smiles at us as we walk in “Hi boys, you're home early”. Ace nods and shrugs off his jacket, asking her “How was work?”. His mom tells us all about how one of her 1st graders “lost his very first tooth” and a million other things I wouldn't remember in 15 minutes (Ace got his always-talking trait from his mother). Dinner went real well, and by that I mean Ace’s parents didn't ask where the two of us had been, and the food was good. Ace and I went up to his room after clearing the table, a semi-cramped number that’d have a whole lot more space if Ace hadn’t insisted his dad put a mattress on the floor for me. He sat on his bed, and I sat on mine.

“You think you’ll ever split, y’know, get out of this place?” he asked, which shocked me because usually Ace isn't the hypothetical type. I got my bearings pretty quick though and answered “Not sure man. I’d like to live out in the country someday.” I tried to shrug it off like I’d never thought about it before, but I have. I really would like to move to the country, but I don’t know how I’d survive on my own, and I’m not sure Ace would be good with all the quiet. Ace nodded, he hadn't moved from his spot slouching against the wall, “You’d do good out in the country.”

We didn’t talk much for the rest of the night. I wanted to ask him why he’d brought it up, but I was too tired to get into life planning, so I decided on going to sleep instead.

June 29th, 1964 - 2 days before

I woke up at the sound of the shower running in the next room, which is how I woke up most mornings (I’m a morning person, sure, but Ace is an up-before-the-sun type of morning person). Ace has a real strict morning routine, wake up, watch the sunrise, shower, brush his teeth, do his hair, get dressed. The problem is that these things take a different amount of time everyday, and it’s past noon by now.

“How long does it take to shower?” I know good and well my complaining won’t change anything, but what else was I supposed to do?

“Today? 2 hours” Ace says plainly as he pulls a crew neck over his head. I roll my eyes, we don’t even have 2 hours of hot water (Ace would much rather a long shower to a hot shower, which I just can't understand). “I could’ve wanted to shower too, y’know?” I say (even though I never take morning showers), he looks at me with one of those “don’t lie to me” looks he learned from his dad which shuts me up real quick.

Ace and I don’t really fight. We disagree, then we move on. I guess when you care about someone more than you care about everything else, there's no use in fighting.

The rest of the day is about as normal as it can be. We met up with some kids from school, who I honestly didn't like all too much, a bunch of rich kids who spent way too much money trying to look poor (I have no problems with rich kids, if I’m real honest, Ace could be called a rich kid. My problem is that they're air-headed). Ace seemed like he was having a ball, though, so I played along.

We were out walking with them for hours, but eventually we decided to go off and play pool, just the both of us. It was going great, Ace and I were up 10 bucks a piece, then it happened. Some guy, who must’ve been at least 25 (and who’d lost 3 rounds in a row to us), threw a punch at Ace. A nasty one too. Before I could react one of his friends, another drunk, was shoving me backwards. I don't know how much time passed between that first punch and me dragging Ace out of the bar, I only had one thought in my mind. Get Ace.

I had a realization, somewhere between that first punch and collapsing on the cold, damp, concrete a few alleys over from the bar. I am nothing without Ace. I’m Angel Scotts’ best friend before I’m anything else and I like it that way. I had another realization right after, Ace was bleeding. Bad. I hadn’t seen a blade, but blades are an easy thing to miss when you're being hit by a guy twice your size.

“Ace?” I could hardly speak, my lips were busted and my cheek was bruised and it felt like I had a pile of bricks on my chest. I reached over and tried to grab his hand without moving to look at him. I settled for a tight grip on his forearm.

“Blondie- oh god..oh jeez. Blondie somethings wrong with my leg” His voice wasn’t trembling like mine, but it was quiet, and he was scared. I looked over and sure enough, his leg was bent in a way I’d never seen. I also got a real good look at the gash on his side. A weeping red line from the middle of his ribs to the top of his jeans.

“You’re okay, it doesn't look bad” I was lying through my teeth, but I didn't want him to panic the way I was. We needed help. Ace needed help. I need to get up. I need to get up. I need to get up.

And I did, or I tried to at least, I got to my knees before I hit the ground again. I don’t remember anything after that.

June 30th, 1964 - The day before

I woke up to a bright light in my face. I was sore and my head was pounding. My eyes adjusted when the cop turned off his flashlight.

“Where’s Ace?” It was gravely and shaky and desperate, but I didn't care. I just wanted an answer. It was probably only a second between my question and his response, but I swore I was gonna be sick with the way my stomach was turning.

“He’s in the ambulance. We’re taking you both to the hospital.” He sounded far too calm for my liking. I know it’s his job to be calm, but Ace was hurt. How could he be so calm when Ace is in the back of an ambulance?

“Blondie? Kid what happened?” Charlie’s voice echoed through the alley and I’d never been so grateful to see him. He knelt down beside me and ignored the cop telling him to back up.

“Ace is in the ambulance, go to the hospital” I told him. My head was pounding so bad, and talking only made it worse, but someone had to be there for Ace. To my surprise Charlie just nodded and left.

Ace and I had been in plenty of bar fights, it’s just a part of it. You hustle pool and you either go home with 20 bucks, a bruised ego, or a black eye – but this felt different. It was never this bad, and if it was, I wasn't this scared. I was scared last night, and I was scared when I woke up and I’m scared now. I’m used to being scared, Mr. Scotts scares me because he's tall and muscular and expects me to make something of myself someday, and being alone scares me because I’m not used to it, but I’ve never been scared like this. I just want to see Ace.

And I do. A few hours later (just after 10pm, it turns out a cop found us during his evening patrol) the doctor says I’m fine, I’d passed out from stress and shock mostly, but that I also had a minor concussion and to “take it easy for the next few days”. Yea right. He also told me Ace is in the room next door and that his parents and Charlie had just left, so I ran straight there once the doctor left my room.

“Ace!” I was nervous and excited all at once, but the excitement was gone as soon as I saw him. Now, to someone who didnt know him, Ace would look fine. Good, even, considering the situation, but to me? He looked like hell. Ace never let anything get him down, even when he was crying he could crack jokes, but not now. He was staring at the wall with a look I can only describe as empty until he noticed me.

“Blondie, you’re alright?” He asked, he didn’t sound shocked, just like he needed me to tell him I was okay. His voice is weak and nasaley like it always gets when he’s sick, just worse.

“Yeah, I'm alright, are you alright” I ask him, I can tell he isn't, but I ask anyway because what else was I supposed to say.

“I’m fine, just banged up” he shrugged, then winced, so I figured he was a little more than banged up. “You know there’s a ‘nam vet next door? Got my nurse to tell him thanks, doubt she actually did it though” he talks with his usual cadence, which is a bit off putting.

“That's cool” I, if we’re being honest, couldn't care less about a Vietnam veteran in the room next door, there's probably a dozen of them in the hospital and I’ve been trying not to think about how Ace and I are only a few years under the draft. Plus I’m pretty preoccupied trying to figure out just how ‘banged’ Ace got. “That hurt?” I ask him, gesturing to his side.

“Not as bad as it did last night” he hums, “they numbed me up pretty good.” I silently hope that that’s why he's acting so off, that the medicine will wear off and I’ll get regular Ace back. I just nod.

“What’d the doctor say?” I ask him as I sit on the chair at his bedside. I almost hugged him, I desperately wanted to, but I didn't. We’d never been too touchy, always close, but rarely touching beyond a pat on the shoulder or a high five.

“Said I don’t look good, then started goin’ on about how I’m sick and my body isn't healing right, I don't know. I wasn't listenin’ too good” he said with so little care you’d think he was talking about the crossword in the paper.

“What were you doin’ then?” I tried not to sound too upset, it ain’t right to fight with someone in a hospital, but I really wanted to be mad. I don't know why, it’s not like I've been paying too much attention to what the doctor’s been telling me, but I was mad at Ace for not being able to give me every last detail. I just want to know if he’ll be okay, I thought he was going to bleed out in some alley and now he can’t even tell me if he hit his head? I realized pretty fast that I wasn't mad at Ace, I’m scared for him, and I didn’t like that he isn't as worried as I am.

“I was tryin’ to see you, no one would tell me anything but ‘sit back’ and ‘don't talk’” he says, mimicking the nurses, and suddenly I felt bad for ever being angry at him.

“Well I’m alright” I tell him, pulling my knees up to my chest in the chair. He holds out his hand. “Y’need somethin’?” I ask.

“I mean could you get any farther away? C’mere” he moved over on the bed, leaving it half empty. I quickly fill the space, but don't quite touch him (which is quite the feat for 2 guys in a twin bed), he leans his head on my shoulder.

“You’re my best friend, you know that?” his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Yea, I know. You’re mine too” I tell him, I wanted to say more, but I didn't know what else to say after that.

“You should go out to the country” he starts fiddling with his cross.

“Maybe,” I shrug “would you come with me?”

“Man, I dont think im goin’ anywhere” he says, and with that we fall asleep.

`July 1st, 1964 - The Morning Of

He must've known.

I woke up to being yanked out of the bed and a group of doctors and nurses crowding around Ace and yelling. They weren't panicking though, I was, but they weren't.

“What’s happening?” I tried to shout over them but no one answered. So I shouted it again, and again, and 2 more times after that, but it was no use. So I watched, catching quick glimpses between the nurses. I saw them try CPR, and I saw them put an oxygen mask over his face, I saw them stop CPR, and I saw them take the mask off. Then I realized what had really happened, I saw Ace die.

I didn’t move for a long while, just sitting on the ground as the nurses filed out the room. Then a doctor walked over and crouched next to me, but I hated how childish I felt having a doctor leaning down to talk to me, so I stood up and he did the same.

“Robert, I’m very sorry you had to see that” he said, I didn't answer so he kept going, “Angel was sick, you see. We believe he caught pneumonia at some point over the past few days, which resulted in a pulmonary edema that, with the state his body was in, caused him to suffocate.” It took a second for what he’d said to really hit me. Ace had stopped breathing, and now he was dead, and our last conversation would be our last conversation,and I’d never see my best friend again. Ace hated ‘what-ifs’ but it felt like that was all I could think about. What if I hadn’t brought up pool that night? What if that guy had cut me instead? What if I’d been able to get help? The more I thought the worse I felt. I knew what Ace would say, if I could talk to him. He’d give some hippy “it’s my time” answer, but there’s no way thats true. He wanted to do so much more, he would’ve done so much more. He wanted to be a math teacher, and he wanted to fix up his parents house one day, and he wanted a family even if he wouldn't admit it, and now all he has ahead of him is a burial. There are so many things I should've told him and now I’ll have to talk to a headstone? I had so many questions left for Ace, and so few for the doctor standing in front of me, but I asked one anyway.

“So he’s dead?”…

[sabraeal]

Desert & Reward, Chapter 17

[Read on AO3]

“Now, now, Mister, no need for roughness,” Obi laughs as Sir shoves him out the closest door, the night sky unfurling above them. “I promise, I’m quite tame. Look, I haven’t even bit any hands tonight.”

If he leaves off just how many tempting morsels fluttered right in front of him, well— it’s nothing Sir hasn’t already guessed. By the hunted expression clinging to that chiseled jaw, it seems His Highness’s loyal hound has had more than a few temptations of his own.

Air hisses through Sir’s teeth, more a relief of pressure than a warning, the harsh line of his shoulders deflating from forbidding to fatigued. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked. What did you do to get on Kihal’s bad side?”

Truth be told, Obi’s never quite sliced that knot himself. He’d been wallpaper when she’d come that first time, a shadow that clung to Miss’s heels, and she’s been kind enough to tender him a few perfunctory ‘hellos,’ when their paths had crossed. But they’d gone to Yuris— twice, by his count; once to chase down the source of that perfume, and another just after she’d landed her title as countess— and each time she’d gotten her hackles up.

Not by any fault of his own, of course. Sure, he’d poked around a few places that not even Miss’s smiles could grant them entry, and he’d been more than a little popular with some of the local girls who didn’t mind a man with a little mystery and more than his fair share of scars— but that’d all been winks and words that went down as easy as the swill her father’s men had in their stills. No, what really seemed to get her goat was that despite her determination to dislike him, she never quite manage it.

Which is a bit more complicated an answer than Sir’s probably expecting to hear, so instead just he shrugs. “Today, or in general?”

Sir’s mouth thins— shame that Miss Kiki isn’t here to appreciate the way that sternness sharpens the lines of his face— hands hooking on his hips. Obi settles in; whatever lecture annoying the future Lady Laxdo has inspired, it’s sure to be a doozy. "You’re bearing up all right, aren’t you?”

It’s not until his mouth clicks shut that he realizes his jaw dropped at all. “C-come again, Mister?”

Sir grunts, agitated but— miraculously— not at him. “It’s all right if you aren’t, Obi. I know this isn’t what you’re used to when it comes to parties.”

The number of titles on his guest list could fill a library large enough to keep Miss entertained, but that’s hardly new. Between rubbing elbows with the royal family and her newfound position as the North’s darling, they’ve been invited to and ducked out early from all the Clarines’ most exclusive soirées. But that’s not what Sir is driving at.

“It’s a bit bigger than the stag night.” Twice as big at least, but the last thing Obi needs is Mister bringing math into the equation. “And that thing was already huge. Gotta say, sir, your little fireside chat and tipple didn’t set me up with the right sort of expectations.”

A wayward muscle in that impressive jaw twitches. “It wasn’t supposed to.”

“Maybe I should have gone to Miss Kiki’s,” he sighs wistfully. “That might have prepared me for being a lord. You know, since between the two of you, you’re really sort of the lady of the—”

“You could just say ‘I’m fine,’ you know,” Sir manages, strangled. “No need for…”

His hand waves, helpless, somehow managing to encompassing all of Obi at once, while also implying that his personality’s part of the problem.

“I appreciate the thought, Mister.” He digs his finger into the knot that’s been bugging him since they shoved him into this monkey suit, turning his smirk into a grimace. “But this isn’t my first fancy shindig, and something tells me it won’t be the last. I’ll survive.”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t,” he grunts, leaning a hip— well, thigh really— against the balustrade. “It’s just…it’s one thing to be at one of these parties and just be part of the…er…ambiance, I guess. And it’s a whole other thing altogether when what everyone’s looking at is you.”

His fingers clench a little tighter. “It’s not so bad.”

Sir’s gaze hardly wavers as he asks, “Is it?”

“Y-yeah.” The lie drags bile up after it, washing his mouth in its sour taste. “You know me, Mister, I live for attention.”

His arms fold, testing the limits of his coat seams. “That is what you like everyone to think.”

Haah, he should have known better than to try to pull one over on Sir. The men might have called him an honest fool when he’d still been just one of the Royal Circle’s knights— hell, Obi’d called him all that and worse during that whole fiasco after Sereg— but Mister had a way of seeing right to the quick of a man.

“I didn’t like it much either,” Mister admits. “Still don’t, really. But I’m more used to it now than I was back then. It was terrible when we got married— I thought a look might real and truly kill me if they got me at the right angle.”

“Unlike you, I didn’t run off and ruin His Majesty’s engagement party,” Obi drawls, giving his eyebrows a good waggle. “Really, Mister, how’s a man supposed to recover when a knight rides in to rescue a lady right in front of—”

“T-that’s not what I’m talking about,” Sir blusters, the tips of his ears a painful pink. “You’re just trying to change the subject.”

Obi’s mouth thins, an easy thing to twist up in a smile. “I appreciate the concern, I do, but you don’t have to worry about me, Big Guy. I know how to put on a show when I got to.”

“If you say so.” Sir claps him on the shoulder; a few years ago it might have made his teeth rattle, but after almost half a decade walking Wilant’s walls and being fortified by their hearty stews, he barely stumbles. “Just bear it for a little while longer. I’m sure Zen will find a way to get you out of this before…”

Sir’s mouth works, not to find a word but a grimace. Which is fine, really. Obi doesn’t need them, not when he’s been thinking it all this time— before she finds out.

“Right.” Even he can tells his smile doesn’t hang right on his mouth, but that’s not important, not when Mister’s the only one around to see. “Hate to have the young miss exposed to anything so…disagreeable. Not when she’s already having to put up with all this nonsense.”

“Obi.” Sir straightens, brows knitted up with concern. “That’s not what I—”

“Don’t worry, I know what you were trying to say, Mister.” Even if he was too kind to actually say it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I might go—”

“Why, is that—?” Earl Seiran waves from the garden path below, smile as large as Miss Kiki’s isn’t. “It is! My dear son and the man of the hour! Just who I wanted to see.”

“My l— sir,” Mister manages, flustered. “I didn’t see—? I mean, I didn’t know you had left the ballroom. Just a moment, I’ll—”

“No, no, dear boy. Just give me a moment!” His walking stick taps on the marble, casual rather than crucial. “We’ll come up to you.”

“We?” Sir echoes, and that’s when Obi sees it— the messy tangle of black that had faded into the garden’s shadows.

“Oh,” he mutters, mouth already tugging into a sneer. “Just who I wanted to see.”

*

“What a lovely party,” Seiran gushes as he draws near, delight evident in every click of his heels. “Truly, the wedding of the season, for all that it isn’t supposed to have happened. Or, I suppose, should have happened earlier. Ha!”

If a duke does not lower his head to a count, it only follows that a marquis won’t either, but Obi’s far too practiced at keeping his to risk any less than a nod. A deep one, almost deferential. The man who survived raising Miss Kiki doesn’t deserve any less. “You’re too kind, milord.”

“Nonsense!” The earl waves his hand, and for a moment, the similarity staggers him. He’s only met Kiki’s dad a handful of times, but each time it’s like that— brief flashes of a movement so familiar he could draw the angles of it with his eyes closed, but that smile instead of a scowl makes them as different as night and day. “If only we had such an excuse to celebrate more often.”

“Maybe you will soon enough, my lord.” The earl might brighten every balcony onto which he walks, but his companion casts a pall over the company keeps. And by the way Lugis’s mouth twists, wry and annoyed all at once, he knows. “You’ve already gained a son. Maybe he will be kind enough to oblige you with a few grandchildren to name.”

That snake ends the sentence too early, but his flash of teeth finishes it: if he can locate his dick well enough to use it.

Sir stiffens behind him, hand hovering just above his sword’s hilt. “Hisame…”

“An excellent point!” Seiran laughs, one well-manicured hand reaching to clap Big Guy on the shoulder. He withers noticeably. “Though I suppose my good-son would wish us to speak of this where he might not hear.”

Sir’s neck flushes so red Obi could swear he sees steam. “Or not at all.”

“Oh, come now. You may be too modest to suffer us speculating, but surely you cannot protest the process.” There’s times where Obi has wondered how a man as easy-going as the earl had could had a hand in honing a girl more to a dagger than a daughter. But right now, as the Mister’s eyes roll heavenward like losing consciousness might be a mercy, and all the man does is grin— well, he can see the shape of it.

“Just think of it.” That snake looks pretty amused for a guy who framed a man for murder and nearly toppled a whole country just to play fake fiancé. “If His Highness’s courtship proceeds as promised, then perhaps his own joyful occasions will not be much behind yours, Sir Mitsuhide.”

Sir doesn’t get wistful the way he used to— or at least, Obi hasn’t caught him going around hanging himself over balconies and heaving those world weary sighs. But something in him catches on joyful occasions and—

And it’s just Sir and him who know that’s not likely to happen. Seiran’s lord and lady might get up to whatever they like behind closed doors— and if he knows Kiki, she will— but there’s not likely to be any royal issue, not any time soon. Not from Zen, at least. He’ll find some way to put off his wedding, same way he used to put off popping the question, and in a few years and some creative paperwork, they’ll get their happy ending, just the way they were meant to.

Seiran might smile as he puts a hand on Obi’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze that makes this night almost feel real, that he is the man Miss wanted to see at the altar— but one glance at Sir’s grimace is enough to remind him that he’s just here to keep Master’s seat warm. A placeholder, until something better can be arranged.

“You boys should take more care with His Highness’s stag night, however,” Seiran instructs, suddenly stern. “All these little fêtes are fine and good— and I’m sure His Majesty will see to it that his brother has one becoming of his station— but it is all quite…sanitary is it not? For such an occasion, a man wishes to be out with his comrades, celebrating his nuptials with all the happy abandon—”

“I must thank you for traveling all this way, my lord,” Obi blurts out, receiving Sir’s grateful look with all the graciousness a knight taking a rescued maiden’s kiss. For all that he’d love to lord the knowledge of her father’s sowing of wild oats or what not, he doesn’t actually want to hear the details. At least right now, when the Big Guy’s two shades of red away from spontaneous combustion. “Can’t have been easy on such short notice.”

“No niceties for me, my lord?” that snake hums, so smug his forked tongue might well flicker through his lips. “Have I not traveled far enough?”

Obi’s smile bears more teeth than good will when he says, “I wasn’t aware it was that far from His Highness’s coattails to here.”

Sir snorts, loud enough Seiran spares him a curious glance before adding, “Not at all, dear boy. I had plenty of time to settle my business before starting my trek to the palace. Though I suppose were I north enough to get those early autumn squalls, three weeks might have been a far narrower window than I would have liked.”

“T-three?” Obi blinks, fingers numb at his side. “Three weeks?”

Three weeks. He’d known about this for three days. And by the way Sir starts to fidget under his stare, he might be the only one.

“I must say, it was quite the surprise to see Forzeno step up as your guardian.” Seiran laughs, shaking his head. “I was of the impression that man didn’t leave his lab for anything more than an opportunity to fund it. How did you even manage to meet?”

“Ah, well…” His fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder, the familiar flash of pain grounding him. “It’s  not much of a story. Turns out some of his rock collection showed some promise in cracking open a little conundrum they’d all been working on, and Miss convinced” — coerced, really, but who’s counting— “him to come give them a hand.”

The snake huffs out a laugh, one of his narrow eyebrows hitching a ride to his hairline. “And he adopted you for simply standing around?”

Lata probably would have, if it meant dodging a dukedom. Good thing the geezer didn’t think of it sooner. “That’s because His Majesty thought ‘messenger’ wasn’t a good enough title for one of his brother’s buddies. Slapped me with a ‘sir’ and let me loose up in the North. By the time Lata got his hands on me, I was biting the ankles of my betters.”

Seiran’s mouth slides into a sly curve. “I can see why that might have endeared you to a man like him.”

“Don’t know if I’d say endeared so much as enraged.” Or embarrassed, more likely, but that’s not something he’s going to admit to when Hisame Lugis is standing around, grinning like his knighthood is the funniest joke he’s ever told. “I thought I was doing just fine, but apparently I was ‘the Royal Circle’s greatest shame’ and I ‘can’t serve His Highness with that sort of sloppy dress.’ So then he decided he was my knightly mentor, and…”

He lifts a shoulder. That’s that, it says, or maybe, it is what it is.

It doesn’t seem like Earl Seiran hears it, though. “If you had needed for someone to vouch for you name, my boy, you might have told me!” His mouth pinches, the same way his daughter’s does when he calls her name. “I would have been happy to call you son.”

“Oh, er…” Obi coughs, searching for the politest way to say, I don’t think that sentiment would have been unanimous, sir. “That’s a…uh…generous offer, my lord, but, er…”

“You already have an heir,” Kiki deadpans, appearing from just behind her father’s shoulder. “Don’t get greedy.”

“Kiki, my dear,” he laughs, holding out his arm— one she summarily ignores, brushing past him stand next to Sir. “I always thought you would make a wonderful older sister.”

“Hear that, my lady,” Obi hums, leaning close enough for their elbows to nudge. Naturally, of course, not because she’d caught him aiming at her side. “I could have been your little brother.”

“You’re a year older than me,” she reminds him, right before latching onto him with her iron grip. “I hope you can forgive me, Father, for stealing him away.”

“Darling,” he sighs, “must you call me that? Surely ‘Daddy’ would be—?”

“No.”

“Papa?” he tries, undaunted. Kiki only sighs.

“What, no apologies for me, Lady Kiki?” The snake slithers closer, smirking when Sir stiffens— but he doesn’t dare slink a step further. “I was talking to the marquis as well.”

“When it comes to sorry behavior, you are so far in debt that an apology from me could only dig you deeper,” she warns him, not even a hint of humor. “I thought I might save you the inches.”

Had that advice fallen from Obi lips, no doubt they would have heard that snake’s rattle. But from Kiki, it only tilts his smile to a more rueful pitch. “How…considerate of you.”

“Why, I do believe I see your brother, Sir Hisame!” Seiran remarks, just too loud to be casual. “Shall I go pay my respects? I haven’t seen him since…”

Since Sir so publicly scuttled their engagement— and, almost as a side note, revealed that the snake himself had taken part in Touka Bergatt’s attempted coup. That even as he hobnobbed with His Majesty’s guests, he was still in that bastard’s pocket.

Lugis’s mouth widens, smile all teeth. “I’m sure he bears you no ill will, my lord. He knows a thing or two about having willful heirs of his own.”

“Quite,” Seiran chuckles. “Still, you’ll come with me, won’t you? Perhaps ease over this small bump in our relationship.”

Funny. If he committed treason, Obi hardly thinks they’d all wave it over as a small bump.

“Ah…” The snake’s on his back foot now, sly eyes rounding as the earl advances on him, seizing his arm. “I appreciate the invitation, my lord, but I’ve hardly spoken to Lord Obi—”

“As my daughter says, Lord Obi is being stolen away.” Lugis winces under the strength of Seiran’s grip. “Let us leave them to it.”

“But—”

“Come.” The earl doesn’t quite take the snake out for a drag across the veranda, but it’s close. “I am so looking forward to renewing your brother’s acquaintance, after all.”

*

Obi blinks, watching as they disappear into the ballroom, arm-in-arm. Or rather hand-on-arm, by the way Lugis is trying to dig in his heels.

“Huh,” he murmurs, casting a look the long way up to Mister’s stern mug. “I didn’t know your dad was so buddy-buddy with Sir Hiss-a-lot.”

“Earl Seiran is being circumspect,” Sir replies pointedly. “He may not like Sir Hisame, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be nice.”

“Hey, I’m nice to people all day long.” Obi presses a hand to his chest, scandalized. “And I don’t like half of them!”

Kiki snorts. “Doubtful.”

“I am!” Where he came from, being nice meant no one drew blood. A low bar, but after every day he’s stuck in this madhouse having to play lord, he’s starting to see the wisdom in it. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue, Miss Kiki. I guess I’ll just—”

A hand grips his shoulder, as strong as any shackle. It’s not Sir’s. “I wasn’t kidding about you being needed.”

“Me?” He turns to her, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“Of course. It’s dinner time, and you’re the groom.” She glares back at him like he’s stupid. “Don’t tell me you didn’t write a toast.”

His jaw drops. “Ah…”

“You.” She fixes him with a meaningful stare. “Are going to owe me.”