#ugh what to tag this monstrosity

[stars-and-darkness]

the thing about caitlyn fucking kiramman is that i don't even LIKE her, but i also can't stop thinking about her. she could've been SO GREAT. like in s1 i didn't particularly care about her (she was just ... there. there was nothing offensive about her character, she just didn't stand out among all the others in the main cast), but in s2???? so much of what goes on with her in s2 is just so utterly delicious and right up my alley ... in theory. in concept.

but the execution is just so utterly atrocious, and combined with the rest of s2's general idiocy, it makes me so furious, but i still can't not think about the WHAT IF, ya know?

what if we maybe deferred the magical hive mind robots and the wizard cult and the multiverse to the next show (or never ... never's good) and the focus remained on piltover and zaun. what if we had a season or two more, so that the necessity of a redemption within the next six 40 min episodes didn't bog cait down (or ... you know. no redemption arc. i actually prefer that. let her be evil, lmao.)

if they had spent the time and the effort into actually exploring her inner world in order for us to see her slow descent into fascism, it could've been SO GOOD. if they had taken this kind, painfully naive yet so well-intentioned girl who descended down into zaun and saw the suffering inflicted by the system she herself has benefited from her entire life, put her through an event that actually challenges both her ingrained kindness and the newly-formed awareness of the oppressive dynamic that permeates the society she lives in and then asked the question: is caitlyn kiramman the sort of person who can suffer a huge personal loss like her mother due to this exact oppressive dynamic and still come out recognising that it's a symptom of the system her mother, PERSONALLY, propagated?

and if the answer is no, like s2 attempts to do, if, as someone much funnier than i am said somewhere on this webbed site, she takes zaun lives matter out of her instagram bio ... that's okay. hell, for me, a known enjoyer of characters who are terrible people, it's excellent. it takes the s1 character i didn't much care for and makes her into someone i would be extremely intrigued by.

but ... that's not what happens. or rather, an arc that would require a lot of work to do justice is so condensed that she goes from 0 to 100 in one 40 min episode, and i understand why it's so hard to swallow for so many people. and the worst part is that i can SEE the outline of what could've been, and it makes the switch that much more jarring. cait seemed to be going in one direction, until the memorial attack when she did a complete 360. worse than that, when she decided to form her sexy lil copaganda war crimes task force, she immediately pulled out the big guns.

(i have seen ... so much discussion on how much harm unleashing the grey on zaun actually did, and in case my opinion is somehow relevant to this discussion let me just come out and say:

how do you think gas works? we are shown, explicitly on screen, cait and the war crimes gang release it in the streets of an underground city where her family controls the vents. i think any discussion that doesn't conclude with yes, caitlyn did in fact bring unfathomable harm to hundreds if not thousands of people is a waste of time.)

more than that, while cait herself doesn't live in our world, the creators who wrote and animated this, and the viewers who saw it do, and we all have a cultural awareness of chemical warfare and its associations. it's insane to me that people go against common sense to defend her here, both because i don't think it can be defended unless you have a HEAVY case of fave-can-do-no-wrong goggles on, but also for me personally because ... why would we want to? she's finally being interesting.

all that said, and i cannot overemphasise this enough, gassing zaun should've been a moral event horizon for cait. it should've been the point at which even the people around her--most notably, bloody VI--turn on her. it should not have been the very first thing she does.

hell, she establishes the task force specifically BECAUSE she believes that the council attack, in mel's own words, was an act of one deranged individual, and she wants a small force that can extract/kill jinx, rather than a full-scale invasion that is going to harm innocents. so WHY is the first thing she and the task force do EXACTLY THAT?

the war crimes task force should have been shown to struggle in zaun for an extended period of time, during which cait grows more strained, as do her relationships with her loved ones. she should have been shown struggling with ptsd from the dinner party and guilt over not taking that shot at jinx when she had the chance. vi is the one who convinced her not to--what if she finds herself blaming her for that. what if vi (this post isn't about her so i'm struggling so bad not to derail it completely but oh my poor girl what did they do to you) is pulling away from her, more and more conflicted about what they're doing, both on a systematic level as enforcers rampaging through the undercity and on a personal level as an older sister (just give me vi actually struggling with being an enforcer, PLS, give me her feeling cornered and seeing no other way forward, give me SOMETHING). it would bring in an interesting bit of interpersonal conflict for caitvi that isn't predicated on cait fucking punching vi only for it to never come up again.

point is, we should have seen cait struggling under the weight of being the head of her house, the weight of expectations, the weight of her guilt, we should have seen her barely holding together and feeling like everyone in her life is against her (again! vi!), BEFORE she makes the choice to unleash the grey, to do exactly what she formed the task force to prevent, to take something her mother built to actually do some good (pls insert all the arguments why the kiramman vents are fucked up actually here, i'm too tired to bring them up) and turn it against zaunites, in her mother's memory.

moral. event. horizon.

(insert here something about how jinx turning the grey back onto piltover should've been a major moment for HER, and something to actually lock in all those unconnected and thematically insignificant cait-jinx parallels. how we should've seen her struggling just as much with her own rage and hate, which all stems from guilt--because cait isn't the only one who lost a parent that night. how that moment should have been a CHOICE jinx makes, not just a terrorist attack but the moment in which she chooses to fight for zaun--for selfish reasons, of course, because she's not an idealist, she's not a revolutionary--but does her motivation really matter if the result is an actual resistance movement? look, i have even more thoughts on jinx than i do cait, and if i go on i'll never stop so let's just--let's just go back to cait.)

instead, the gassing is the first thing she does, it's shown to us within a single music video, and then she's being hailed as a dictator. and as rushed a job as the first three episodes do in establishing how she got there, what really pisses me off about cait in s2 and what prompted me to furiously type up a post about a stupid cartoon when i should be translating latin texts for class is ... what now?

the timeskip between ep 3 and 4 is the most fascinating bit here! here's where she's at her angriest--her guilt is eating her alive, because she didn't take that shot, because she alienated vi (what a nice way to say she punched her and left her curling up in pain, alone, wow), everything that made her angry is still there, she still sees jinx's face in her nightmares, except now she has the ultimate power. she has avenues opened up to her that she didn't up until now, and she has ambessa whispering in her ear, fuelling her rage for her own purposes.

this should have been caitlyn at her worst. just as angry as before, just as guilty, but with the full power of a city under martial law under her fingertips.

in a world where we have revolutionary!jinx, we could've had the scene where cait lets ambessa put the Cloak of Dictatorship around her shoulders intersped with flashes of jinx digging out silco's old coat and shrugging it on. caitlyn's cloak hangs heavy and just keeps dragging her deeper underwater as she chokes on her own rage, but jinx nuzzles into the collar of her coat. caitlyn's cloak is a shackle; jinx's coat is a comfort as much as a promise.

in a world where we have revolutionary!jinx, we could've had cait have actual war on her hands.

(it doesn't even have to be jinx. i mean, i WANT it to be, but the war could happen without her, too. i just need IT to happen instead of arcane age of ultron.)

and this could do wonders for her character from so many directions--it could fuel her hatred more because zaunites aren't just rolling over as they did when she gassed them, now they're fighting back, and they're fighting dirty. it could push her deeper into ambessa's embrace because she sure as hell doesn't know anything about warfare, so isn't it lucky she has a decorated general as her mentor?

this is where i get to one more thing i'd have loved to see and that's ... no redemption. not every villain needs redemption, and they sure as hell don't need it to be sympathetic.

because arcane only had two seasons to work with, and because we HAD to have cait redeemed by the end, we get to see none of what would realistically have been her worst era. instead, when we meet her again in ep4 she is already tired, already done with all this, already disillusioned with ambessa. the most interesting part of her arc is completely skipped over in favour of a "redemption arc", and i use the that phrase HIGHLY ironically, given that it was less of an arc and more of someone from the writers' room pointing a gun at my forehead and threatening to shoot if i didn't agree with them that she was redeemed now and that it's all roses and daisies from now on.

ultimately ... i don't WANT her redeemed, but if we must, then i wish more thought and time and effort went into it, just as i wish it did with her descent.

and you know what? caitlyn as the main villain of s2 might've fit nicely into the whole theme of monster you created from s1. of how revolutionary ideas are significantly easier to hold onto when someone you love isn't at stake. you know, all the things that would make the big-collar-and-injured-eye visual parallels s2 draws to silco actually make a lick of sense.

s2 cait stumbles through a multi-season arc in nine episodes, and about as gracefully as a broken-legged foal.

[shailion]

Got jumpscared by whatever the fuck this is and forgot what i was about to search

(Hiding the image)

(Its a anime girl with big black eyes in a nun outfit holding a giant bullet)

Usually i like/tolerate royal road ads but like cmon

[alcqraz]

★ summary — after yet another tough loss in the australian open, y/n finds solace within her boyfriend. ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★★ pairing: carlos alcaraz x fem!reader ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★ content warnings. n/a. carlos being a cutie patootie? ˖˙ ꔫ —★★ word count. 3.2k ˖˙ ꔫ —★ genre. fluff. it's carlos. what do you expect? ★ authors note: for the girls! i really need to write some x male!reader for myself... ben drabble coming next and then we go from there. also ugh, he's so cute i love him so much. after 6 decades, 4 redbulls and 25 million complaints, you shalt recieve whatever the hell this monstrosity is... i apologize, this is terrible. ⠀⠀⠀❛⠀⠀ @yungbludz ; @csainzcalcaraz ; idk who else to tag.

Bitterness was an odd sort of sensation. It wrapped around the heart within a warp of seamless, thick fog- the cold tendrils seeping into the crevices of positivity that she deemed to find after such a loss. It whispered to Y/N in moments where she stood in front of the media, rumbling off a number of responses given by her public relations manager. One for which she believed to have almost no effect upon her relationship with the public. It lingered, like some sort of lurking shadow amongst the thoughts that crowded her back of mind as the reality delved deep into her bones. As the media had swooped down as vultures and ripped her performance apart with each piece of mindless critique that, most of the time, could be said to have been terribly wrong.

She’d known the drill. Exchanging hands with the devil within every turn that crossed her path, with every early round exit that haunted her presence as she packed up to head towards the next tournament. One which would lead to the abiding taste of victory or once again; bitterness. It followed her every step, with every ground stroke, with every serve missed. It was only when the umpire would shout out the words- game, set match; followed by a name that was not hers, would she realize. It settled in slowly; similar to the dust that set on the shelves after being unused for far too long, and eventually did she finally feel the truth of it all. 

Australia seemed to disdain her existence as a whole. Y/N had decidedly chosen to believe so after a handful of upsets. Within the premises of a place far too beautiful to be spiteful, does she drown within her sorrows of the match. The Australian Open always rubbed like salt within her wounds, lost matches after lost matches, and she wondered to herself what she could possibly be doing wrong with her career. It was not as if it were common. Undoubtedly, Y/N would lose; just as the greatest to ever have played the game had done so before, but within the years that passed by, it only tended to happen with a good run. Perhaps losing upon the semi-finals or the finals could be regarded as a wider received upset, however the expectation that crawled upon her skin with every waking moment only pressured her further to go for a deeper run.

And yet, as the sun dipped lower upon the evening-lit sky, it sank deep within the horizon as such a carefully crafted and cared for gold coin slipping into the darkened waves of the ocean. Casting hues of colors that in any other situation, Y/N would find extraordinary. What was not to appreciate a good sunset for? But it was not the stunning beauty of the sunset that plastered her thoughts, and to her utter surprise and relief, was also not the stalling weight of the loss. Instead, her mind subconsciously drifted to the Spaniard that she knew would be waiting upon her arrival. 

Carlos was never one short of a support system for Y/N. In a sort of way, she wonders faintly what she would do without his constant encouragement and advocacy. Who would be there for her after such a loss? Who would be the one to woefully wrap their arms around her as she doubted her ability, the one who would whisper sweet nothings into her ears until she truly believed it? Y/N knew that she couldn’t escape it again this time, despite the need to potentially be alone for multiple hours before truly being in a mindset to talk to others without resulting in a bout of tension due to snappy answers. 

She knew that he would’ve watched the match. Sitting atop his hotel room bed in which she had fallen asleep in for many days beforehand, never daring to book a shared room due to the fear of being caught by, not his team, but others. News outlets, reporters- those who would do nothing less than to dwell low for an eye-catching title. Sprawled across the sheets, she could imagine him, his mouth pursed into a tight line; not at the loss, but at the disappointed glances the camera would’ve caught with ease. He never cared for her results, not in that sense, but in the sense of that he would not judge her for an early round exit such as today. The only thing that mattered to him would’ve been what she had felt- frustration, agitated, disappointed, seemed to all be on the table on this fateful night.

And in a certain light, she looked forward to those tender moments. The feeling of a ripple of being loved and appreciated within an ocean of critical and in times, cruel comments that had been made of her. For her tennis, her looks, her image; there always appeared to be something to grumble about albeit it be for the tiniest, most inconspicuous things. Carlos always shook his head, his head of grown hair shaking in such a way that was endearing to Y/N. He’d reach over, gently plucking the phone from his hands although unable to hide his pique of interest in what his girlfriend so… encapsulated. He’d learnt quickly that it was never good in instances as such. 

There would be some form of tension as the Spaniard would look up, an odd frown stretching across his face. It never fit him right- frowning, it just didn’t feel right, like a human in an animal enclosure. Unbelonging. Conceivably, it was because she was used to his bright, joyous and up-lifting grin, that goofy smile that could assault a ray of light upon the darkest of days. Seeing the opposite of it was unfathomable. There would be a mumble of words, half mixed with Spanish as he would set the phone down, an arm slowly easing up to provide a source of comfort. 

Arguably, the drive back to the exquisite hotel in which she had been assigned could be determined to be the longest and shortest drive she’d ever experienced. The driver made no attempt to start a conversation in any variation, instead decidedly for the better, kept his mouth tightly shut. Y/N had assumed that one not so nice glance, which- for the record, she did not mean to give, shut him up real quick as from a viewpoint, he looked fairly friendly. Like the sort of person to make small talk with strangers without making either party feel vastly uncomfortable. She’d never gotten out of a place faster in her life. Mumbling out a soft thank you, because if honesty was policy, it was the least she could do after such a drive.

She was thankful that at least the hotel had a welcoming atmosphere, the constant chatter of guests that could care less of her arrival. Or even better, did not recognize her for who she was. Her team had followed back within another car, not that Y/N had requested so, but it felt more of a moral perception. They knew what to leave things at, and she could come to appreciate having a group of people that understood. Within the dynamic lighting in the building, she could vaguely make out one of the tournament cars pulling into the entrance. 

Hauling the bag that slung across a singular shoulder, and quietly adjusting the hanging strap, Y/N stumbles her way back towards her room. The hallway stood eerily silent, the usual foreigner- or group of foreigners had either disappeared into the night, taken an early exit, or drunk on a dance floor. The latter, she had assumed. Notionally, it would’ve been far better than having to be questioned by the eyes of another guest, making polite small-talk as the elevator shuddered and picked up its pace. They’d wish her luck, not knowing the slaughter that had happened on court not even hours before. 

A part of Y/N wants to immediately head over to Carlos’s room. To drop everything and melt within his strong arms, to go home. But she knew better than to show up at his front door, sweaty, pissed off and with an arm load of bags. And so she resisted, grumbling a number of curses as she punched in the floor that her suite had been on, waiting as the elevator whirred to its heart's content. It feels far too long, the walk back grudging and slow, with every drag of her foot feeling as she were walking through puddles of wet concrete. Perhaps it was the exhaustion after a match dwelling down, or perhaps it’s the mental aspect of everything- Y/N never could truly pinpoint this feeling, despite the half-hearted attempts at understanding.

Her bags are carelessly strewn across the floor, allowing her jacket to fall upon one of the unused chairs of her suite. The room is big; far too big for a single person living in it, and whilst Y/N had admired the spaciousness of the area when she had first arrived, now it had felt more despondent than ever. Even showering felt enervating, too hot for a minute, then too cold for another, and she wonders how such an expansive hotel could reserve for a lavish waterfall in its lobby, yet not have enough for a capable showerhead. She had to admit though, she’d felt better after such a shower, muscles relaxing and the stench being wafted away within a moment's notice. It feels as if she’d done it a million times, coming back after a match, trying to take a relaxing shower before she was to be grilled by her coach for the next. It felt more of a simulation, as if things were repeating itself over and over again, like a clock resetting after every twelve hours. The only time that would differ would be around Carlos, the Spaniard making time feel irrelevant to the universe, until it was only them that mattered. Nothing else, nothing more.

It’s always for that reason she found herself back in this position, new comfortable clothing that hung loosely around her shoulders, hair up for it to dry faster. There would be no makeup involved, she’d known Carlos for long enough that she knew he could not care for what she looked like in these moments. Instead, worrying about further issues. It’s almost embarrassing how many times she found solace within him, as he would finally open that god damn door to his hotel room, that stupid smile that could light up the entire town, the way he never seemed less excited to see Y/N no matter how many times he’d actually seen her. He was so… how could he be so… she never grasped at how or why, never could comprehend. It never changed. 

“Y/N?”

Carlos peers curiously, eyes glinting with a sort of inquisitiveness no one else could replicate. That look, the one that Y/N could never get used to, one that shone like the moon upon a dim evening sky. “Estas bien?”His words cut through the uttered silence, his head cocking to the side like a mackerel. For a moment, she profoundly forgot where she was, taking more than just a second to process the Spaniard’s words.

Her eyelids flutter, open and shut, shut then open, as if trying to clear a haze that had clouded her vision. Deliberately, she let her head sway from one side to another, strands of hair falling from the elastic that held her hair together. “Oh, uh-” She stumbles over her words, as if she were suddenly at a loss, a lump forming cautiously within the midsts of her throat. “Yes, yeah- I’m fine, estoy bien.” The words feel jumbled as it comes out of her mouth, as if she hadn’t spoken in many years before advancing her way towards Carlos.

He looks around, protruding his head from the frame of the wooden door, as if he were searching for something, or perchance, it was looking out for her. When he had decidedly chosen that the coast could be deemed as clear, Carlos gently ushers Y/N in, a hand swiping behind her back and brushing her into the room. It’s far messier than her room, as well, Carlos was Carlos and old habits die hard, but it feels much more of a humble abode. The smell of Carlos wafts airly within the room, like a warm, familiar embrace, dancing lightly throughout the suite. It wraps around like a fuzzy blanket, easing the tension that spooked through her veins, allowing her to sink into a contraption of intimacy. 

Carlos’s mouth opens, as if he were to say something, but he hesitates wearily. Y/N is sure that it’s because he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, that would rub her in the wrong way. The thought stings a little, knowing that Carlos felt as if he couldn’t say what he truly thought to her without the fear of retaliation. “No estuvo mal.” He says the words slowly, dragging across his tongue, syllable by syllable. “Te veías bien.”

There’s a hint of truth that comes with his words, Carlos didn’t enjoy lying, especially to her, Y/N quickly realized soon into their relationship. He knew of the pain of hearing those around him lying of how he played- good or bad. He discerned, to only speak of the truth. Yet he also, deep down, fathomed that she would not believe what he said despite the sincerity. Knew that it was a battle already lost, and there was not much he could do about it other than whisper caring endearments until the discomfort of the loss passed. 

“It didn’t feel good.” She responds, not quite a snap back to Carlos, but more of a defense mechanism to protect herself. 

“Losing does not feel good ever, yes?” His words are coated with an accent, one that she found more endearing than anything else. The attempt was enough to fill a crack of her heart with warmth, and it only grows further as Carlos takes a couple steps in to enfold his arms around Y/N, in a well meant attempt to shield her from any negative critiques or thoughts. “Pero eso no significa que no fuera bueno, ¿verdad?”

She knew what was to come. Knew the little spiel of words he had crafted carefully within his mind. He would remind her of the positives. Of how it could do more good than bad, and that it was just a single tournament in an ocean of others. She would come back, win the next title, and all would be forgotten as the media turned back to the bouts of adoration for her antics and play style. 

Carlos sighs, shaking his head in such a manner of disappointment. “Ven aqui.” He mumbles softly, his words barely breaking the silence that touched the room. He takes a few purposeful steps toward the bed, tugging her alongside him. His touch lingers, a gentle pressure that presses Y/N against the comfortable mattress in a way that feels tender and intimate, exuding a warmth and familiarity that only Carlos could convey to her. It’s a moment cuddled with unspoken connection, where every brush of his hand spoke volumes of the devotion he felt.

There was nothing she would want more, nothing that could comfort her in such a way that it made the whole world feel at peace. He could make her forget in a number of ways, but this- his body pressed up against hers, breath hot against her skin as he tangled them into a spooning position. It feels as if heaven were on Earth, the sensations greater than whatever pleasure tennis could bring to her. “Todo va a estar bien, si?” Carlos whispers, carrying not only a sense of warmth but tinged with secrecy as well. A sacred space that only withled the two of them, with no allowed space for others. A fleeting moment, that has Y/N’s heart thumping within her body.

“Maybe if you’re always here after I lose in straight sets.” 

Her response isn’t biting, it’s not bitter as she would’ve expected it to be. Perhaps it was because he found it nearly impossible to act so rudely towards Carlos. He smiles though, in an answer, his lips stretching lazily into that stupid, stupid grin. “Siempre estaré aquí para ti, amor.” Carlos says, lips just tracing over the lobes of her ears, and for a moment, Y/N shuddered at the touch- so intimate and close, so indescribable. His fingers lay on her delicate skin, one that had been soaked upon sweat just hours ago, and it feels as if the area had been set on fire. His touch warm and fascinating, his lips soft and ginger as he slowly bestows a kiss on her own. 

It’s a feeling Y/N would never be able to shake off no matter how many times it happened. The elusive tingle that tinged up her spine, then throughout her bones, every nerve as if it had been lit on fire. The way his hands slowly caresses her face, not intruding and not pushing for anything further, just to have her in such a way that only the luckiest woman in the world could imagine to have. And when he pulls away, it leaves Y/N yearning for more, eyes trying to convey a message of need and desire. But Carlos is quick to shake his head, and although dismay aligns across his features, he’s firm about it. 

“Descansa un poco” He murmurs, turning so that Y/N would lay on the mattress in a manner that he knew she’d prefer to anything else. Likewise, she was tired. In spite of everything- the match, the weight of the loss, the media that gawked, their smirks playing along their faces as she spoke, every word a better headline for them, in a fashion of twisting her own words and using them to stab her against the back. It was, perhaps, the worst part of tennis, one that Y/N wished she could evaporate with a snap of her fingers. But she could not, she did not have the power to do so, and it was not as if it would be of any use if she had tried. 

With a defiant huff of a breath, she tried to ease the restlessness that lodged between her bones, letting her eyes fall shut, easing into an acquainted darkness. With the pressure of Carlos around her, the soft breathing that snuck in and out, sweeping across her right ear, Y/N mitigates into a calming state of bliss. One in which she only found moments like these, where she did not have to shine as a radiant poster boy, where she could finally just let herself be. And during that interval where she felt not quite asleep, yet not awake either, she smiles to herself, knowing that for one, she could rest easy for the time being. That she was safe, within the consolation of home. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mistle-hoe

Warnings: noncon and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: You take on a job at the holidays to get some extra money, but you get way more than that.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Day Thirty-One of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - how is the mistletoe following you around?

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

‘Hey, where u at?’ 

You sigh at the text message and type a flurried response before you tuck your phone in your back pocket. ‘Work’. Of course, Alicia is so self-involved, she can’t remember the one thing you told her a dozen times.

Sorry, can’t make the New Year’s Eve shindig, I need the money. 

“These shirts are... scratchy,” Paulina distracts you from your irritation, sparking a new agitation just beneath your skin. You look down at the attire and shrug. “But fancy.” 

You look down at the sparkly monstrosity. Silver isn’t really your colour. For a price, it can be. That night, you’ll be making double overtime and a tip. It’s more than worth skipping one of Alicia’s ridiculous drunken spectacles. 

“A little,” you adjust the trap. The rest of your outfit is standard; black pants, black shoes, heeled just as the job description specified. You prefer your flats with the inserts but you can bear a bit of arch pain for the check at the end of the night. Rather, year. 

“Must be quite the event,” you comment as you take a loaded tray; lobster, shrimp, mussels. The typical fair would be macaroni and cheese bites or pigs in a blanket. Tonight, is a fine affair. 

“CEOs,” Krista comes up on your other side. “So I hear. Bunch of rich old men. Just make sure you’re generous with the wine. You’ll get a bigger tip.” 

“Huh, right,” you lift the heavy tray and balance it expertly. “It might even cut short the night.” 

“Looking at some of these guys, you’re probably right,” Paulina snickers. “I’m seeing a lot of silver, not just these things.” She pinches a sequin on her shirt. “Ugh, the liner on this is awful.” 

You agree. You could throw the tray of appetizers and scratch your own skin off. You’ve dealt with worse. It’s part of the job. Banquets, work lunches, even weddings. Serving isn’t as glamourous as those melodramatic reality shows might suggest. 

You carry the tray through the curtain and start your rounds. It is a rather stuffy gathering. Black tie and all. As you silently offer your fare, acting as the perfect conveyor of gluttony, you notice a peculiar detail. Among all the tailored jackets, silk ties, and quaffed haircuts, there are no women. Not aside from you and the other servers. 

It might just be that it’s a boys’ club. That good old glass ceiling is thicker than you expect. Still, these things are rarely very lively without a female element. That’s not really your concern. You’re not the event planner, you’re just a walking table. 

“That shrimp?” A voice calls over. You turn as a man beckons you closer with his glass.  

You approach him as he turns with interest to the tray. He keeps one hand in his jacket pocket as you present the tray with indifference. He sports a rather bristly mustache and tidy haircut. It’s a choice. With money like his, style is expendable. 

“Oh, would you look at this,” he brings his hand out of his pocket and raises it high above the tray, “what do ya know?” 

You lock down a stoic expression and peer up at the cluster in his hand. Seriously? Your uncle used to pull that trick on your aunts. It was always kind of gross. 

“So uh... looks like we got caught, huh,” the man snickers. 

You look at him, horrified. He can’t be serious. Yet, if he’s a rich as they say, you expect that boundaries are nothing but a paywall to him. 

“You know it’s bad luck to break tradition,” he wiggles the mistletoe over you. “Don’t wanna start the new year off on a sour note, toots.” 

You tilt your head. You’re actually speechless. Not just your usual deferential silence, you really don’t know how to response. 

He presses his knuckles against the tray with his other hand, still gripping his glass, and steps closer. Your lashes flick in shock and your turn your head at the last moment as he puckers so he gets your cheek. His lips are wet with alcohol. Smells like gin. 

“Mm, downer,” he pulls back, “I'll get the lips next time.” 

He winks and retracts his arm, tucking away the mistletoe. He scoops up one of the skewers of shrimp and struts off without another word. God, that was slimy. You bend your head and wipe your cheek on your shoulder. 

You should warn the others. Avoid the one with the pornstache. Ugh. Why do men do this? Just think off the money. 

As you turn, Paulina’s tinkling giggle draws your attention. A man offers her a drink from his glass. You’re disappointed to see her accept. That’s a firing offence in most jobs. Not only that, it sets a bad precedence. These men don’t seem to have much restraint as it is. 

You crawl through, putting the tray out to reach hands. The air is cool as it speckles over your bare arms. You sidle around as you carry only scraps and return to curtained off space by the kitchen window. You trade your tray for a smaller one set with pre-mixed martinis. 

Another lap. The time sifts by slowly. You’re definitely earning the double overtime. Two white-haired men ogle you as they accept a martini. One sucks the olives off the toothpick as he leers. You keep a tight-lipped smile and move on. 

“Ah, don’t mind if I do,” that same timbre draws you around to face the mustachioed man. He sets his empty glass on the tray and takes one of the stemmed martinis, “you like gin, baby face?” 

“Sir,” you neither confirm or deny. He slurps noisily and rocks on his feet. 

You don’t have the space to angle around him. He seems to know it as he widens his stance and corners you further. You nearly groan as you sense his arm rising once more. No! 

The mistletoe jingles over your head, a small bell among the leaves. You stare at him with open concern. You’re helpless with your armful of drinks. 

“Ah, come on, don’t be shy,” he shifts closer, leaning in as he turns his cheek to you, “just a little one, right here.” 

You stare at his cheek. You just want this to be over with. Then you’ll be more vigilant and avoid him like the plague. You go to peck his cheekbone and he quickly snaps his head around and presses his lips to yours. You gasp and recoil, struggling not to spill the martinis as they slosh dangerously. 

He cackles and drains the martini. “Cute, I like it,” he wiggles the mistletoe again. “Hard to get, huh?” 

You back up and turn. Humiliated. What the hell? 

You glance around. Paulina’s sitting across to men’s laps as they feed her strawberries, one stroking her hip as the other keeps a hand on your thigh. Holy shit. This is getting strange. 

Krista is against the wall with another man, gray and balding. He whispers in her ear as she giggles and rubs his chest. Are you the only one working around here? 

You hurry behind the curtain and put the tray down. Where is Doris? This is her event. She should be keeping an eye on this. These men are animals. 

You peek through the curtain, scouring the room for her. You turn and go into the kitchen. It’s a frantic nest of chaos but she’s not there. Shit. You really don’t want to walk out, you need the money badly, but this is too much. You’re a server, not... what these men want you to do. 

“Oops,” the drawl makes you shudder as you walk directly into another body. The snicker that follows makes your skin crawl. It’s him. Again. “Think I’m lost, honey bee.” 

You look up at him and purse your lips. This is too much. This man is gross. 

“You can’t be back here--” 

“Baby, just a kiss,” he smirks. 

You stare at him, waiting for him to lift that stupid mistletoe. He doesn’t. You frown. 

“It’s caught,” he looks down and tilts his pelvis. The leaves are clips to his belt buckle, “would you look at that?” 

You take a step back as your nose flares. “Alright, sir, that’s inappropriate--” 

“Shhh,” he hushes you as he gets closer. “Go on, earn it, baby.” 

“Huh?” You grimace. 

“You think we’re paying top dollar for gin and fish. Go on and give it a kiss,” he grabs his belt and jingles the bell. “I’ll put an extra grand on your tip if you put one on mine.” 

You cringe and step back. He grabs your arm and you cry out. You bring your other hand up to shove his chest. 

“Hey, I’m not—I'm not prostitute, you weirdo,” you snarl as you wrestle with him. 

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll go for an under the table favour,” he growls. 

“Get off--” You struggle with him, fighting his strength as he keeps one hand on your wrist and the other snakes around your waist. You raise your voice as you snarl. “Dude, fuck off of me.” 

The door to the kitchen swings open and you look over desperately. Thank god. You push against the man as you send Doris a pleading look. 

“Hey, this guy won’t-- leave me--” 

“Keep it down, sweetheart,” she tuts. “You’re going to ruin the party.” She looks at the man, “Mr. Hansen, have you found everything to your liking?” 

“Oh, sure,” the man replies brightly, “I don’t mind working for it.” 

You hit his chest with your fist and try to stomp his foot, “Doris! You can’t--” 

She struts away, disappearing beyond the curtain. You whine as the man squeezes you to him and you writhe. What the fuck? 

“Don’t worry, baby,” he nuzzles your temple as your squirm, his mustache tickling your hairline, “I’ll give you a special kiss too.” His hand slips down to your ass and he gropes until you squeal. “Feel like you need that kitty eaten good.” 

“You’re.... disgusting,” you sneer as you wriggle in his grasp. 

“Oh, you’re about to find out how right you are,” he snickers and pushes his crotch against you. “One fucking lick at a time.” 

[bisexualiteaa]

would it be alright if you were to write a fluff(maybe smut?) hancock x reader who has adhd who's just overwhelmed with quests and doesn't know which one to do first? Lol please and thank you:)

Of the People, For the People

John Hancock x ADHD!GN Reader (FLUFF!!)

CW: reader struggles with their ADHD, John thinks it’s cute, cursing, guilt, restlessness, slight OOC Hancock, slight suggestive themes towards the end, fluff, possible grammatical/spelling errors, briefly proof read

AN: as someone with ADHD this ask actually really hit home. It was half the reason why I could never start games like Fallout and Skyrim in the first place was because there are so many things you can do, the idea alone was overwhelming to me because I knew it’s start and never finish just about everything pushed my way. Then the TV series came o it and all that changed upon the simple acquirement of a hyperfixation on the ghoul and thus my love for fallout was born! 😂 I am still rather new to Fallout games, lore and such so please be gentle if I have gotten anything wrong, I’m still doing my best at learning everything I can to write these well and properly! But I hope I did your ask some justice with this Anon! Hope you all enjoy some more love for our Mayor Hancock. 🥰

Tag-list: @expirednukacola

“Ugh, there’s just too much to doooo” you whined as you plopped down onto his bed in the state house, exhausted and sore all over from setting up not one, not two, but three whole settlements in one day. Of course it wouldn’t be a day out in the commonwealth if you hadn’t run into monstrosities along the way or people along the way to other settlements who needed other things from you. For instance, there was someone who needed saved from thinking they were a synth and returned to their parents, other people who needed help getting their settlements started, people who needed you to kill some super mutants, people who needed you to eliminate some feral ghouls some place else, and after that you couldn’t even remember if you tried. Thank goodness for your Pip-Boy keeping track of these things or else you feared you’d never remember it all. There was just so much that others, especially Preston, were asking of you to do out here that it was beginning to become just a bit too overwhelming to take on all at once. You loved that you could be help for people, so unfortunately you never really paid your own wellbeing any mind until now that it was at such a detriment you could hardly even think straight, much less accurately hit a target or properly even speak to someone without sounding like intelligence was your dump stat. You wanted ever so badly to be that light for people who had seemed to lose hope because it’s what you would want others to do for you if you were in need. You lived and breathed by that golden rule taught to you so long ago. Come to think of it, the only person who you’d done everything for last that you could remember was Hancock, which was actually how you two ended up together.

“Being commander of the Minutemen will do that to ya, sunshine” Hancock teased, leaning against the door frame as he looked at you, tiredly splayed out on his bed in amusement, finding it funny that the commander of such a large militia could be so…well, you. Anyone else would likely be overwhelmed with power to the point of paranoia, or the opposite and let it go to their head and break them of the person they once were, but you were still yourself through everything. He admired the way you wanted to help people, the way you helped the poor and needy in the ways he wished the rich would do, but he could tell it was taking a clear toll on your wellbeing in doing so. He genuinely couldn’t remember the last time you told someone no, or that you flat out just couldn’t help them because he could see that look in your eyes when someone asked you for help. He saw the sympathy, the pain, saw the way you felt so bad knowing that if you didn’t, they likely wouldn’t make it out in the harsh world of the commonwealth. His heart ached for you in that sense, because he remembers a time when he wanted to help everyone in his town that he could, any way he could, hell it was the whole reason he became the mayor of Goodneighbor in the first place. But just like you, he needed someone to make him realize that you can’t do everything, some things just have to play out and fix themselves on their own. “But I think you need to take a break from it for a day or two, give yourself a chance to recoup. You’re working’ yourself to death and I’m startin’ to get worried” he added, walking into the room to join you and he watched you sit up, looking completely defeated and worried at the idea of not helping others or running things for just a day, let alone two but also at the fact that now he was concerned for you. “But they need me, John. If I don’t help them…what would become of them? What kind of leader would I be to just leave them in shambles? I can’t live with the idea of lives lost because of me…” you said with a guilty tone, clearly torn between the idea of helping yourself or helping others, and the sweet innocence of your good natured personality made him smile softly as he closed the door behind him and sat down next to you on his bed.

“Even heros need a vacation, love. Helping people who won’t make it is wonderful, it’s one of the many things I love about you. But people can just as easily be hurt when they’re guided in the wrong direction because the person directing them isn’t taking care of themselves the way they need to. A good leader needs strength sure, but that strength depletes and needs replenished every now and again, and that’s okay” he said, grabbing your hand in his, squeezing it in the hopes to offer you some level of comfort to assure you his words meant no harm, he simply just wanted you to look out for yourself as much as you looked out for others around you. He knew it got through to you when he heard you exhale an audible deep breath you’d been holding in for so long. “I guess, I just…I don’t know. It feels extra difficult for me because I can never stay focused on just one thing. I get started on one project, then someone comes along and I get so side tracked trying to help them that I forget all about where I started! I probably have twenty of these damn missions at least half started before I dropped them for something else entirely. It’s so frustrating and overwhelming because then they all start to pile up, and then I don’t know where to start!” you explained, making him laugh. Who would have ever guessed his big, fearless commander of the Minutemen, partner was easily sidetracked by their ADHD. But he wouldn’t want you any other way. “Yet you completed everything I asked of you with no issue” he pointed out with a smug grin, making you blush at the realization that he noticed that. “Well…yeah. I did it because I liked you and wanted to get closer to you. I was fixated on it because I wanted it to better my chances of being with you, so to me it wasn’t work. It was just doing something that you, someone I care for, asked me to do, so I did it” you admitted bashfully, making him smile at the wholesome reason you gave him. “That’s so fucking cute” Hancock replied as he put his arm around you, pulling you into his side, making you blush even more before covering your face with your hands. “It’s cute until you realize I killed someone for you” you quipped with a grin once you’d moved your hands away to look at him, making him chuckle at your reply. “Made it even” he joked, referring to when Finn tried to haggle you when you first showed up to Goodneighbor. “Fair enough” you responded as you chuckled, but he could still tell that you hadn’t fully come around to the idea yet, something still had its hold on you but at least you started to open up to the idea.

“C’mon, let’s just take the next couple of days to relax. The settlements will be fine, they run pretty well on their own, I’m sure they can survive a day or two without you. Maybe Nick or Codsworth can run ship while you take the time to yourself” he said, making you lean your head against his shoulder as you contemplated it. “Poor Codsworth, I wouldn’t do that to him. He tended to my house for two hundred years despite the absolute state of decay it was in from the explosions, thinking the family would come back any day and it drove him nearly mad. I could only imagine what running settlements would do to him” you said, making him chuckle. “Okay then how ‘bout Nick? He’s traveled with you long enough, he’s a smart guy, I’m sure he could handle it. I’m sure he’d more than understand that you need some time to yourself to get back that good ol’ fighting spirit” he added. “You think so?” You asked skeptically, making him sling his arm around your waist to hold you close and help ease your nerves the best he could. It was times like these that you wished you had the confidence and aloof attitude Hancock had about just about everything. “I know so. Think about it, you set them up, taught them what they know, they already manage pretty well on their own, they got this! Just lay back and relax for a change!” he said, easing your nerves just a little bit more at the idea. For someone who never wanted a leader to be too comfortable, he really wanted you to be, it was strange yet heart warming to see how much he cared about you and wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself. So you finally gave in, maybe a couple of days to relax and do what you wanted to do didn’t sound bad after all. Maybe you could enjoy a couple of drinks one night, or hell, maybe enjoy just sleeping in a bed two nights in a row for a change, give your body a rest from sleeping on the cold hard ground in a sleeping bag. And not have to worry about all the things floating around in your mind that need done. That sounded like heaven to you once you convinced yourself with Hancock’s help that it could really be useful. “Okay, but if I do, I can’t just lay in bed all day. I literally can’t, I’ll go crazy” you said, making him laugh, knowing the way you can’t sit still for more than a few minutes at a time just on the regular while you’re on the go. “We don’t have to, these couple of days are for what you wanna do sunshine. Though I wouldn’t mind it of course if we spent all of it in bed, but staying in bed all day doesn’t necessarily mean *just* sleeping, ya know” he said, his voice slipping into that characteristic deep, gravelly suggestive tone with a mischievous grin painting his thin, irradiated lips as he pulled you into his side, making you laugh. “John!” You said, seemingly flabbergasted at his reply, but truthfully you hadn’t expected anything less from him. “Oh you know I love it when you yell my name, keep doin’ it sunshine” he said flirtatiously with that ever recognizable smirk painted across his face as he crawled on top of you on the bed, littering your face and neck with kisses through a shared fit of laughter. Maybe a little break wouldn’t be so bad after all.

[seravphs]

confectionery

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — SUNA x MAID! FEM READER; KAICHOU WA MAID SAMA AU

Suna becomes a regular at your maid cafe - a regular thorn in your side, that is. 

wc — 1.4k

tags — fluff, reader works at a maid cafe 

next: omakase | shoujo series masterlist

“Yes, master,” you practically bite out the words.

Suna raises an eyebrow at you. “Aren’t you missing something?”

Ugh. This man is insufferable. With a pained smile, you wince through the last part of your mandatory response to orders. “Nya! One Kitty Kitty Paw Parfait coming right up!” 

In the back room, you drop to your knees, cradling your head in your hands now that you're safely hidden from the eyes of your customers. 

You have to do it. 

You have to kill this man. 

There’s no way you can keep serving him these ridiculous orders. You’re going to die of embarrassment. If it’s him or you, you’re going to choose yourself. 

Working at a maid cafe only started because of your best friend. She convinced you to do it with her, only to quit a few weeks in. You had stayed, against your better judgement. 

“Please,” you remember her begging, tugging on your hand beseechingly. “The pay is so good! Just think about it - 20 dollars an hour?”

To a high schooler, that was a crazy amount of money. Both of you gasped when you saw the flyer, imagining everything you could do with that kind of cash. 

“But if I saw someone I knew, I’d die of embarrassment,” you remind her. Sometimes it feels like it falls to you to be the rational one of the pair of you. She dreams and you keep her grounded. 

“No one will see! Who comes to this part of town anyways?”

Rintarou Suna does, as you find out one day when you’re taking out the trash. 

A heavy hand lands on your shoulder, making you yelp. You spin around, ready to scream for your manager. You can never be too careful as a young girl flouncing around these streets in a maid dress. 

“I thought it was you,” he says, wide-eyed and clearly stunned. 

You drop the trash in the bin and sprint away from him, only to hear the distinct sounds of footsteps after you. You’ve seen Suna play for your school’s volleyball team. There’s no way you’re out running him. 

Luckily, the cafe is just ahead. 

It might be embarrassing for you to be caught in your black and white frilly lace and poufs of tulle, but it’s just as embarrassing for Suna to be caught entering. He’s one of the star athletes on your school’s incredibly strong volleyball team - he can get any girl he wants. Why would he come in here?

Suna crashes through the open door a split second later, interrupting your monologue. 

“Hi,” he says, not even breathing hard. “Table for one, please. Oh, and I want her.”

You should’ve known that thinking rationally would never apply to men who have no social awareness. Suna simply does not care. More than anything, that lack of interest is what makes him such an unmanageable beast.

“What do you want?” You whisper furiously, under your breath. It’s still not low enough for your manager to ignore, though, and she shoots you a reprimanding look over the counter. “Master,” you tack on to the end of your sentence. 

“I think I’ll start with a Kitty Kitty Paw Parfait,” he says with a smile. “With the add on.”

You stare him down. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“If you share my parfait with me, I’ll tell you.” 

“One Kitty Kitty Paw Parfait. That’s all?”

Sharing dessert with Suna in an inappropriately adorable cafe feels much too close to a date for your liking. The parfait is a frothy work of art. It’s a monstrosity of a confectionery, starting with a base of hand crumbled crackers. Each layer alternates between warm biscuit, sweet cream, or fruity jam, all topped with a swirl of whipped frosting and slices of fruit.

To be honest, you didn’t think it would be to Suna’s taste. You hate to judge by appearance, but Suna doesn’t strike you as someone who would like dessert. He’s not a bad boy exactly, not in the conventional sense, but he’s not the target audience for this cafe, either. His nonchalance and blank expression makes him feel unapproachably cool. 

The underclassmen look up to him. You see them crowd outside your classroom during break, waiting for the chance to talk to him. Part of the legend is his style. He rolls into class looking effortlessly tousled, his jacket hanging askew on his shoulders. He only has one piercing in his left ear. You heard a rumor that he let Osamu pierce it for him at an away game, only to get benched by Captain Kita as punishment. 

Suna wears mostly black. He blasts rap on the way to school in his headphones. He likes sneakers and he’ll wait on a queue for hours at a pop-up just to snag his dream pair. When he smiles, one side of his mouth lifts higher than the other. He wears rings that his younger sister makes for him. Sometimes he comes to school with colorful butterfly clips in his hair to hold his bangs back if he hasn’t gotten a haircut in time. You know that’s his sister’s work, too. 

You hadn’t realized you knew so much about Suna. You hadn’t realized you were looking. 

His spoon clinks against yours gently. 

“You can eat, you know.”

Mechanically, your spoon starts to move. As soon as the tartness of the berry hits your tongue, it’s immediately followed by the sweetness of the cream. Your eyes widen. Despite working here for a while now, you’ve never had one of the desserts. It’s surprisingly good. 

“Right?” Suna chuckles. 

Because he’s usually quiet, eating and talking with Suna feels strange at first. You’re not used to having his undivided attention on you. The ice breaks as soon as you notice the way his hair is sticking up in the back, like a duck’s tail. When you point out his messy head, he shrugs and makes no move to fix it. 

“Brushing my hair is a pain,” he says. 

It makes you giggle. It might be lazy, but it’s strangely charming. Before you know it, Suna’s drawn you in with his insouciant smiles and effortless ability to lead a conversation. It’s not that he’s naturally charismatic, but something about the way he listens and responds has you preening under his attention. 

You’re almost upset when he calls for the check. He seems to notice.

“I’ll be back!” He calls as he leaves. 

“Don’t-“ 

He’s already gone. 

You realized he never told you why he came. 

Most teenage boys would be embarrassed to make a maid cafe their normal hang out spot, but Suna comes on the dot every single day. Your coworkers have taken to referring to a table in your section as Suna’s table. He always orders the Kitty Kitty Paw Parfait, and he always makes you draw a little chocolate heart on it. 

You love your coworkers, you really do. You don’t think you would’ve worked here as long as you have if they didn’t feel like family to you, but sometimes older sisters can be annoying. 

Case in point: Shizuka, one of the older maids, just ruined a con you’ve been running on Suna for a long time. 

“You’re not doing it right,” Shizuka scolds you. “You forgot the ‘nya!’”

You flinch. 

Suna’s eyes widen. “Oh? Tell me more.” 

“When you order a Kitty Kitty Paw Parfait, we’re supposed to go ‘Nya! Of course, master!’” 

Suna pins you underneath an uncompromising stare. “Do you know how many of these I’ve ordered? You owe me a lot of ‘Nyas.’”

“Suna,” you say pleadingly, your face burning with mortification. 

He relents, a little. Something about your expression makes him melt, his eyes softening a minuscule amount. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. “Fine,” he smiles. “You can just start now.”

The minute you finish your humiliating speech, you vow revenge on Suna, but he just laughs. It’s too easy to get used to him. If you don’t actively remind yourself that he is your classmate, that you don’t actually know him that well, and that you first spoke to him just this week, it would all be too easy to feel like you’re friends. 

That’s why you have to draw a line in the sand before he can get even closer. You’re scared to find out how this ends. You’d rather cut him out of your life now. This is probably a game for Suna, but for you it’s something else.

It’s hard to remember all of that when he waits until the end of your shift to walk you home. He’s standing by the door, making small talk with your manager, who adores him. 

“Ready to go?” 

When you nod, he grabs your bag from you. The way he acts is so straightforward. You wouldn’t describe Suna as confident, but rather flexible. He takes everything that happens as it comes, and never lets it break his stride. Things are easy for him because he chooses to let them be. When he walks, his hand bumps yours once, twice. 

It’s easy. The hands. The act of being with him. 

It’s not a long walk home, but you wish it was. Fifteen minutes isn’t enough time for you to work up the courage to tell him what you need to say. Thankfully, he breaks the silence first. 

“You’re quieter than usual. What’s up?” 

“You need to stop coming,” you tell him, hating the words even as they come out of your mouth. 

He stops, forcing you to stop with him. “Why? Are you actually mad?” 

You wish you could say yes, but you can’t. You shake your head, praying Suna can just take the hint and leave you alone. 

He blinks at you. “Then no can do, ma’am.” 

“Why do you even come?” You hope his answer can push you to take the step you need, but it only cements him further in your heart. 

He smiles at you in a way you’ve come to associate with Suna, sweet and uncomplicated. “I just like cute things.” 

[dramatiquechipmunk]

Happy fic moment of the year

Thank you @nocryptographer for the tag! This is such a sweet idea!

Share an excerpt from any fic of yours that you wrote this year, depicting a happy / fluffy / cute moment that you're proud of. Let's spread some joy for the last moments of the undeniably fucked-up year that was 2024. My portfolio is still rather new and under construction, but funnily I was able to find a sweet moment in one of my spicy one-shot - read the whole thing here

The kitchen, Astarion decided, was hell.

Not the fiery pits of the Hells with devils, fire, and brimstone. Flour clung to his fingers like a stubborn parasite, and blueberries stained his hands like he'd been caught in a fruit-based massacre. A rolling pin sat on the counter, mocking him, while the dough he was supposed to have "lightly kneaded" clung to it like an overeager lover.

"That bloody wizard made this sound so simple," he muttered, glaring at the recipe propped up against a sugar jar. The paper has Gale's annoyingly precise handwriting, with notes like "gently fold the berries" and "ensure the dough is flaky, not overworked." What did "flaky, not overworked" even mean? It was dough, not a bloody person. He picked up the rolling pin, attempting to coax the rebellious lump into something resembling a circle. Instead, it tore. The vampire groaned, pinching the edges back together with what could only be described as thinning patience. His hair, usually so perfectly styled, was now a mess and slightly sticky from how many times he ran his hand through it. 

Why was he doing this again?

Right. Her. 

Octavia had mentioned her love for blueberry pie so often that it has become part of her personality. Her eyes lit up as she described the warm, buttery crust and the tart sweetness of the filling. And because he was an utterly smitten fool, he had decided to surprise her with one for their tenth wedding anniversary. What was he thinking? He wasn’t a cook. He was a creature of finesse. He woos his lovers with charm and wit, not… pie crusts. But then he imagined the utter joy in her face if he did manage to pull this off. How stupidly excited she will be over a piece of sugary food, and his smile softens slightly.

“Ugh,” he groaned, throwing a handful of flour onto the counter with unnecessary force. “This is a disaster¨

The rogue spread the flour with a frustrated hand, setting the dough down again. This time, he managed to roll it into a passable circle—though it was more oval, really. He ignored that. The blueberries, at least, behaved themselves as he spooned them into the crust, the sugar and lemon mixture oozing slightly. “Fold the edges over… like so,” he muttered, squinting at the recipe. His folds were uneven and jagged. It looked like a crime scene, but it would have to do.

Sliding the monstrosity into the oven, he wiped his hands on a towel and leaned back against the counter, letting out a long breath. “It’s a pie, not a masterpiece,” he said aloud as if the words would calm his nerves. Then, quieter: “But it’s for her. So it has to be perfect.” He folded his arms, staring at the oven with an intensity that could rival a predator stalking prey. If the pie didn’t turn out, he wasn’t sure what he’d do—except maybe blame Gale. Yes, that sounded reasonable.

Passing along no pressure tags to @shandoratheexplorer , @vakariansyndrome and @roguishcat

[gothamslostboy]

TLB Characters Favorite Type Of Blanket

A/N: I have no idea what this is or why I made it but I haven’t posted anything creative in so long. Yall ever love something but the thought of actually doing it makes you stressed? That’s what writing has been for the past couple months ugh :[ I miss it sm but I never like anything I end up making and keep deleting my progress. Oh well, hopefully I stop doing that soon and enjoy this pointless headcanon

ALSO: yes most these characters sleep upside down from the ceiling, but I like to ignore that bc tbh I want to erase the fact they have those weird ass feet. To me those monstrosities don’t exist. If you like the fact they hang from the ceiling then these headcanons are just for sitting on the couch or cuddling. They also don’t really feel temperatures but again I’m ignoring it:]

————————————————————————

DAVID

Duvet

A big fluffy one filled with cotton

He’d never tell anyone, but it makes him feel safer

It’s similar to one his mother gave him in his human life

He rolls it up like a cocoon

He doesn’t even leave a hole for his face bc he doesn’t need to breathe

Paul and Marko use this to their advantage and prank him atleast 2 times a month

Dwayne shoos them away if he notices them trying to bother David when he��s asleep

MARKO

This man is weird ngl

He just sleeps with a sheet

He doesn’t mind using a different blanket when sharing

But if he’s alone it’s a sheet

He doesn’t like feeling any weight on him when he’s asleep

Might as well sleep with nothing

But he also likes to cover his eyes with it

It’s just soothing to him

PAUL

Weighted blanket

He LOVES to cuddle with ppl bc of their weight being on him

So when no one wants to sleep with him he pulls out this blanket

The boys and Star made him a custom blanket bc he wants it to be HEAVY heavy

If he was human this thing would crush him to death

He sleep walks/flys and this stops him

He needs help getting it off of him bc he’s usually still too groggy to put in the effort when he wakes up

STAR

Patchwork Crochet Quilt

She made it herself

Everytime she finishes a new project she added a new square made up of all the colors she used

Whenever David would see her adding a square he said something like “another square? That’s gonna be a big ass blanket”

She stopped the blanket when it reached 80x80 4 inch squares

She realized that that is, infact, a big ass blanket

She can’t even fit the thing on her bed

Most of it is just hanging off the side

She started a new one to give to Michael

But that one is gonna be smaller

After that she’s just gonna make one for each boy

MICHAEL

Normally shares with Star

She doesn’t even notice he’s using it most of the time

Once it gets big enough he uses the one she made specifically for him

Uses David’s blanket when laying with him

But the fluffiness makes him feel trapped sometimes

Just holds on to David for comfort

Can occasionally convince star and David to sleep in the same bed with him and they use Star’s blanket obviously

He and David sleep under the sheets when using Star‘s blanket tho bc it’s a lil itchy

But she doesn’t seems to notice the itch

DWAYNE

I’m just gonna insert a picture bc idk what it’s called

But this kind of blanket^ along with Satin sheets underneath

He’s like Marko where he doesn’t like as much weight

But really likes making fun of Marko’s sheet and doesn’t want to be a hypocrite

If he’s cuddling with someone he puts their head under his chin and wraps them up together tightly

When alone he keeps the blanket lose

Just in case something happens and he needs to get up quickly and protect the pack

————————————————————————

•TAGS•

@crustyboypix @britany1997

if you want to be added to the tag list just let me know

[roosterbox]

October Almost-Drabbles 10/23: Frost and Spice

Pairing: Cherik

Word Count: 619

Additional tags: coffee shop setting, only very mildly fluffy, Emma Frost is the queen of sass

Side note: this one’s alright. Not fully satisfied again, but not bad. I’m playing fast and loose with the ‘Frost’ prompt, lmao. But this is my project, so… my rules. Also, I don’t know anything about coffee or common coffee orders. Never drink the stuff myself. Not even a pumpkin spice.

———

“I still can’t believe you’re actually gonna get that,” Emma said, rolling her eyes.

Charles looked at her, away from the advert announcing the “Long Awaited Return of Our Pumpkin Spice Latte (Only $3.99 with a Membership Card)!” and smiled.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”

She shook her head. “Never took you for such a basic bitch, that’s all.”

“If actually experiencing joy in my life makes me basic,” he shrugged. “Even trade, I suppose.”

“Who’s basic?” Erik had sidled up beside them in line and put his arm around Charles.

“Me, apparently.” Charles leaned into his boyfriend, rising up a little to kiss him. Once they got started, they almost didn’t want to stop, but-

“Ugh, someone call the PDA police.”

Erik pulled back, and turned his head. “And hello to you too, Frost. You the one throwing the word ‘basic’ around?”

“You know me, Lehnsherr - I speak nothing but the truth.”

The line moved forward a couple steps. Still a fair bit to go before they got to the counter.

“Personally,” Charles piped up, “I don’t think a person’s character or personality can be even slightly predicated on their coffee orders.”

“I agree,” Erik said.

“You would.” Emma glanced down at their hands, twined together. “And you’re wrong. It works every time, I promise you.” At Erik’s scoff of disbelief, she narrowed her eyes at him. “… black. With maybe one sugar if you’re feeling especially decadent.”

She felt a certain sense of satisfaction at the surprise he tried to hide.

“Well? Did I get it right?” Erik’s scowl was answer enough. The line moved again.

“Don’t mind her, babe. I like how simple your order is. Easy to remember.” Charles tapped the side of his head. “Neither of you have ever had to get coffee for Raven before.”

Emma looked thoughtful. “Hmm. Now that one sounds like more of a challenge…” The three of them chuckled at that. “One thing’s for sure - I sincerely doubt her standard is anything even slightly basic.”

Charles groaned. “Again with the basic stuff.”

The line shuffled forward.

“Just accept it, Charles. Anyone ordering that pumpkin spice monstrosity is basic as hell.”

Half the line turned towards Emma. They looked annoyed. Some seemed as if they expected her to be embarrassed at the attention, or maybe for her to apologize sheepishly. Unfortunately for them, there was nothing bashful, apologetic or sheepish about Emma Frost.

“What? Can I help you?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. Daring them to actually say anything.

They didn’t, of course. Not to her face at least. Some muttered to themselves or their companions. A few cut out of the line and left. Everyone else moved forward again.

“Seriously, I don’t get it.” Charles said quietly. “What’s even ‘basic’ about it? It’s just a drink.”

“And that, dear Charles, is why you’re such an old man. Aside from your fashion sense, of course.” She plucked at a stray thread on his cardigan.

Now it was his turn to scowl. “Says you. Am I an old man, Erik?”

Erik wisely refused to answer. Which, in itself, was answer enough.

“Told you.” Emma smirked, and moved forward with the line.

“Hello! What can I get started for you today?” The barista smiled, but it was obviously purely perfunctory. With how busy the place was, nobody begrudged her for it.

“A macchiato, please. Double espresso.” Emma stepped aside. She was already mouthing ‘black coffee, one sugar’ to herself as Erik took her place.

“And for you?”

“Two pumpkin spice lattes.”

“What!?” She spun around, not even bothering to hide her shock. Charles, equally surprised, looked on with a smile.

Erik shrugged. “We can be old men together this time.”

[lorainelegacy]

It’s funny that you think it’s one person “obsessed” with you and not people who see your stuff in tags and on their for you page. And yeah, the grandpa dick made it to my home page too. So it’s 100% against my will and not being “obsessed” with you like you think everyone is.

But as anon said, you are so hypocritical. You’ve never once said people can like a version of Sebastian in their head that isn’t 16. You’re just attacking people who like Sebastian all together no matter the circumstances, if they age him up, even if they are the same age as him and for what? To make yourself feel better or something? And when called out on it, you say “no I mean just people who like the game Sebastian!” First, no. You never said that, only backflipped when you got challenged for attacking half the fandom and second, you said yourself, it’s fiction and you can do what you want so why can’t everyone else? It was the 1890s, if they were real, Sebastian would be dead. Just like Grandpa Fig. Would Sebastian be 16 forever?

Fig was once 16, by that logic. Disgusting that you sexualise him because he was once a child too. Ugh.

Do you understand how fucking ridiculous you sound? Just accept you get off on a fucked up ship and own it like you’ve been told instead of moving the earth and the stars to try and make it okay.

Also, throwing slurs around, you must be a lovely person!

What the hell do I care if people like Sebastian!? You're saying things I've never said. I don't care if people like Sebastian, or Ominis, or any of the characters. I have only said that I do not think it is right that an adult person is attracted to a boy who is a minor and who physically also looks underage. That's all I've said. It's just that you have a VERY hard head and you don't understand it. I imagine that all of you (well, now I feel flattered knowing that you are more than one) share the same neuron not to understand something so simple.

I don't care that people like Sebastian, he's a great character like everyone else. And no, I've never backed down, I've always had things very clear and I'm not afraid of some kids from the fandom attacking me, I think you are adorable in fact. You just haven't understood anything. And by the way, the first to disrespect were you (in general) calling my images "monstrosities" etc. You may or may not like them, but you can criticize constructively and without attacking others (or just ignore it). I was taught homeschooling unlike others, but as you can understand I will not continue to be educated with people who do not deserve it.

By the way, if you don't want to see any more penises I suggest you block me and that's it, it's not that complicated honey.

[wordtowords]

Side-Stepping Pedantry to Get Along With New Neighbors

pedantry - noun - excessive concern with minor details and rules

In this current vastness wherein political correctness rules, pedantry has pushed its way into the populace, particularly real estate attorneys. If you have been following this recent short string of blogs, you have probably figured out that I am selling my house to two nouveau yuppies, now labeled Millennials. Although they are wet behind the ears (meaning young in case that idiom escapes you), I like them. It is their legal representation that leaves little to love. Why? One word: PEDANTRY.  Okay, okay, I get it. The lawyer is doing her job, and Goodness knows that in this climate of litigiousness one with the master key to a law office has to be extra careful. But to what avail? 

Case in point: As any lender must have a property surveyed before a mortgage can be offered, on Monday, an industrious set of two uniformed surveyors flagged my property in hot pink plastic price tags sans prices and measured every inch and boundary of my lot with their collection of transit levels, tripod rods, bluetooth laser distance meters, etc. Just when I thought I'd make it to the end of the game (the closing) without any more complications, two days later, I received a call from my attorney, informing me that two of my three neighbors have been encroaching on my land. One unknowingly erected a privacy fence up against my own privacy fence three feet onto my property and the other, a relatively new neighbor, put up behind my fence a children's play set, half of which is taking up four feet of the portion of my backyard that I can't see. Ugh. Getting the one neighbor to remove her fence was easy albeit I had to rely on an ex-boyfriend to do the job; however, convincing the other one that the survey was/is indeed accurate and he would have to move the one side of the swing set that his kids never use anyway, was a herculean feat. I struck out, but my real agent agents seemed to make it to first and second base. Who knows if they will manage to find their way to home plate. After much cajoling on the part of the agents, the disgruntled neighbor promised he'd move the set but was inordinately angry at the buyers, exclaiming, "That's no way to start out, bossing a new neighbor around. I know I won't ever speak to them unless they come over here with a peace offering." Perhaps he made a valid point.

Adverse possession laws aside (because they require thirty years of proven encroachment in New Jersey), I realize that the lawyer is thinking that if some child falls out of the jungle gym portion of the set, it might just be the buyers' responsibility to cover hospital fees. But isn't that what homeowner's insurance is for? If the neighbor's kids don't even use the monstrosity, is it worth starting off on the wrong foot with someone who is probably not going away for at least twenty years? I don't know about you, but I say to heck with pedantry. Messing with minutiae is just aggravating to everyone except for the one doling out the aggravation. "Don't sweat the small stuff" may not be advice that legal eagles embrace, but perhaps their clients should remind the professionals that stepping outside the bounds of pedantry and making concessions to insure domestic tranquility between neighbors may not be such a bad idea. 

[dilatorywriting]

Heroes vs. Villains : The Staff [Part 4]

Platonic GN!Reader x NRC Staff vs. RSA Staff Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: Woe to the Ramshackle Prefect, being caught up in the drama between the Disney Villains and their respective heroes. NRC Staff Version (Part 4)

ie. So the saying goes, 'nothing gold can stay.' Or, the Prefect is facing yet another Overblot and it drags some unpleasant dilemmas to the surface.

A/N: I have been fighting this for a solid hour now, and Tumblr is just being an absolute nightmare and not letting me add any more tags without crashing/refusing to save the post, so if you got kicked off the list, my sincerest apologies

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4]

There was a curt knock on Mozus Trein’s door.

The aging professor fought the inelegant urge to drop his head into his hands. After taking a moment to silently curse every other damned member of faculty at this college, he schooled his expression into a vague attempt at neutrality and cleared his throat.

“Enter.”

Divus Crewel and his ridiculous ensemble strutted into Trein’s office, and the historian barely bit back a sneer. He and the other professor had never gotten on at the best of times. Perhaps they would tolerate one another for the occasional game of chess, but the other man’s opinions on more or less everything (especially dogs. Ugh.) rankled something unpleasant in Trein’s chest. Call him old fashioned, but intentionally sharpening oneself into something miserable, and cold, and alone all in the name of maintaining an appearance of sophistication was something he would never respect.

Lucius growled from his place by the windowsill, and Crewel very noticeably fought to keep himself from raising his hackles in return. The black-and-white monstrosity leant forward and placed a bottle of red whine on Trein’s desk with a clack.

“What is it now?” Mozus frowned.

Divus didn’t bother to sit in the chair opposite him. He never did. He paced along one of the bookcases for a moment, trailing his crimson gloves along the leather spines.

“More of the same, I suspect,” he finally huffed.

Trein sighed and rifled around in his desk drawers to unearth his chest set. Not the good one—the one with hand-carved, stone, pieces that his daughters had given him for his birthday two years ago. This set wasn’t terribly ugly, and it did the job well enough. Plus, the worn colors lining the board always made something in Crewel’s jaw tick.

“Well,” he grumbled, setting the pieces into place and reaching for the wine. Divus Crewel was entirely unpleasant, but at the end of the day, Mozus had never been one to deny a willing student. And oh if there wasn’t so much that this egomaniacal alchemist still needed to learn. “Get on with it then.”

.

.

A part of you was sort of expecting to see one of those ‘WELCOME HOME, CHEATER’ banners nailed to the Rogersons’ front porch.

Which, firstly, come on. It’s not like you maybe vaguely starting to not loathe your time spent with Crewel with every fiber of your being was a crime. And you were still miserable and mad. Stupid, no good, stuck up, no-dad-being, emotionally unavailable—ahem. Excuse you. But you had eaten a few of those fancy cookies. And you were certain that Poe and Perdy would smell Jasper and Badun’s cuddles a mile away. And as much as you rationalized it forwards and backwards that you weren’t wrong, a part of you still felt… traitorous.

Secondly, the Rogersons were genuinely nice people. And you should have known at this point that they of all the adults in your life would hardly judge your for accepting any scraps of kindness being offered to you. (Unlike a certain Old Crow with whom you were well acquainted.)

All that being said, you were still a bit hesitant when you knocked on their front door that evening. Nevertheless, you were met you with a wave of enthusiastic greetings (plus a knitted set of gloves and a hat), as they ushered you back out the door with the promise of new and interesting things.

“We thought it’d be a nice change of pace,” Mister Rogerson explained. He and Annie were holding hands as you all walked down their quaint street, tucked up neatly in one of the roomy pockets of his overcoat. “And you didn’t get to come with us over the Holidays either.”

“There isn’t much else to do on Sage Island for most of year,” Annie said. “But the Winter Festival is always really lovely.”

The Winter Festival was like something out of a story book—all toned in watercolors and lit with a golden warmth that didn’t really seem feasible when the weather was otherwise so frigid. Magic, probably. Everything wonderous here was always magic. The air smelled honey-sweet, and you could feel the rising heat from dozens of outdoor ovens warming your cheeks.

“It’s busiest over the holiday period,” Annie explained merrily, reaching out to adjust the new hat on your head. “But most of the stalls stay open a few weeks later.”

“You missed all the rides unfortunately,” Mister Rogerson continued, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “But if you’re still around next year, we’ll make sure to bring you when everything’s in full swing.”

There was a decent sized crowd filtering sluggishly through the faire, happy to meander about with their Styrofoam mugs of cocoa and browse the displays. There were more people your age milling about than you would have expected (as nice as this all was, it definitely seemed more like an ideal outing for a retirement home than anyone young enough to still have their original hip bones). Mostly you recognized the clean, crisp, white jackets of the RSA uniform, but occasionally there was a splotch of a more familiar black ensemble darting about amongst them.

“Have you ever had a fritter before?” Mister Rogerson called from his place by a stall that smelled like Heaven compressed into a cubic-meter.

“Not since I’ve been here,” you practically drooled, feeling very much like one of those cartoon characters who could merrily float through the air after the tantalizing scent of baked sweets.

“Do you want the sugar sprinkled? The caramel drizzle?” A laugh then, quick and bright, as he caught sight of the lovestruck (and ravenous) look on your face. “Both?” he offered indulgently.  

There was another laugh then—raucous and loud. And a familiar face darted by with a mouth stuffed full of way too many festively frosted donuts.

“Hey! You get back here!” someone shouted, enraged and shaking their fist. “Free samples’ doesn’t mean a free for all! Did you hear me?! I said get back here!”

But Ruggie Bucchi just kept on running, his fluffy ears perked atop his head and his steel-grey eyes thinned with obvious amusement. He rushed past, and you met gazes just quickly enough to catch a smirk and a wink before he was off and around a corner—surely vanished into areas unknown to enjoy his haul.

You laughed into your gloves and turned back to your escorts for the evening with a beam, ready to suggest maybe just buying out the rest of the stall. Ruggie would love it. He’d probably even help you manage Leona’s tantrums without grumbling for at least, like, a week.

But they weren’t smiling.

The grin on your own lips slowly slipped back down into a flat line, and you fought the urge to fidget. Like somehow you’d done something wrong. Annie just sighed and shook her head. Mister Rogerson pinched at the bridge of his nose with a huff—the picture of a properly disappointed teacher.

“Well, can’t say anyone would expect Night Raven students to not be a handful.”

Something curdled a little in your tummy, and you tamped down the urge to immediately and aggressively rise to Ruggie’s defense. They were only free samples! And he loved donuts! And he never really had much money for anything of his own anyways! And they were free! And!—And…

“Ruggie doesn’t have anybody to buy him donuts,” you said at last, when the vendor handed you your own little paper bag overflowing with fritters.

Annie and Mister Rogerson looked at you curiously, clearly a bit lost, and you huffed.

“Ruggie,” you repeated. “The guy from earlier. With—with the samples.”

You could feel your shoulders hunch, defensive. And you didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like—they weren’t going to be mad at you or anything. And Ruggie was your friend. It didn’t seem right to let them just assume the worst of him.

“Oh,” Annie hummed, face softening. “Of course, sweetheart. But maybe he could ask first next time, okay? We’d be happy to treat any of your friends.”

You nodded and nibbled at your fritter. It was warm and crispy, perfectly fried and with a sugar crust that melted on your tongue like the sweetest kiss. It was delicious, really it was. But still somehow not quite as good as you’d thought it’d be.

.

.

When you arrived back to Ramshackle that evening, there was wallpaper on the walls.

You squinted at it suspiciously and tapped one of the glued-down edges with your finger. It didn’t vanish or eat you, so maybe it wasn’t an illusion. But why on Earth would anyone bother to try and give this place a facelift—

The front door burst open and Crowley blew in like a hurricane.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” he boomed. “There’s no one else I trust at this school quite like I trust you, oh wonderful and best of all Prefects! So I’m making you the lead producer for our VDC performance!”

You gaped, too familiarized with this nonsense to be as horrified as you probably ought to be.

“What’s a VDC?” you asked.

“That’s a great question!” Crowley beamed. “But first, let me introduce you to your new roommates!”

When the House Warden of Pomefiore and his entourage walked through your rickety front door, you felt something familiar, and awful, and inky swoop in your stomach.

“This building should be condemned,” Vil Schoenheit sniffed with all the grace of someone who definitely probably had a lot of underlying issues that were about to become your very real problem.

Crowley scuttled forward cheerfully to pin a tag labeled ‘MANAGER’ to your uniform jacket.

“Look how far you’ve come!” he sniffled, wiping dramatically at his gaping, soulless, eyes. “I’M SO PROUD!”

“…You can just put your bags over there,” you mumbled, so far past functioning on autopilot you may as well just ask Idia to turn your brain into an AI and get it over with it.

Epel dropped his suitcase near the living room’s rug and immediately the ancient floorboards opened up like the maw of some ravenous beast to swallow them whole. The group of you watched with varying degrees of distaste as his luggage plummeted to the basement, or… whatever existed below the crumbling wood. You’d never checked.

“I have the upmost faith in you!” Crowley chirped before jetting back out the door as quickly as he’d come.

.

“You did what?!” Crewel snapped.

“What!” Crowley whined. “Isn’t giving your child more responsibilities a sign of trust?! An act of faith between parent and spawn?! DOES THIS NOT SHOW HOW MUCH I VALUE THEIR COMPETENCE?!”

“No,” Trein groaned, burying his head in his hands.

.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Vil said, with all the cheer of someone undergoing a root canal. “I have nothing but well-wishes for Neige Leblanche and his many, worthy, successes.”

Buzz buzz went Ace’s phone as another of Neige’s advertisements lit the screen.

Drip drip went the heavy, black, magic curling around Vil Schoenheit’s soul.  

You fought the urge to put your head through the wall.

.

.

The next evening came, as did another bottle of too-expensive wine.

Trein swirled the crimson liquid miserably in his glass.

“Do you know that I chastised the Prefect once? For calling Crowley incompetent?”

Divus sounded worn in a way that he most likely had no right to be, but progress was progress Trein supposed. The alchemist snorted sardonically into his own glass. Normally the wine was a bribe for the elder professor alone, but tonight it was a truce to be shared in bleak solidarity.

“Time makes fools of us all,” Trein hummed.

“What is he even thinking?” Crewel seethed. “As if the Prefect isn’t under enough stress as it is. What exactly does he think these stunts will accomplish?”

“I don’t think he’s thinking very much at all, to be perfectly honest with you,” Trein grumbled. “But then again, making impulsive decisions in the name of parental affection is far from a novel concept.”

Divus scoffed. “Ah, yes. Because that’s what the runt needs. A mockup of fatherhood bearing down their neck at every turn. It’s like he’s not even bothering to actually try.”

“Someone ought to be,” Mozus said, pointed. (And it certainly wasn’t going to be him. He had two, lovely, wonderful daughters to fill his heart. There wasn’t much room left for anything else.)

Crewel glowered at him miserably and sighed in a drawn-out sort of way that was not dissimilar to someone taking a too-long drag from a cigarette.

“It’s not something that fits with…” he hesitated, as if trying to chew over the words into something palatable. “I have no desire to give up everything that I’ve ever wanted to see in myself, to give up everything I’ve worked for, just to mold myself into some—some glorified babysitter.”  Something stuck unpleasantly in his throat and he had to clear it twice before continuing. “Especially for someone who may very well be leaving this world forever in a few months as it is.”

The clock on the wall ticked obnoxiously through the silence. Each little second fell in a heavy clunk. clunk. clunk. that echoed around the room with all the gentility of a gong. After a long moment, Trein sighed into his glass.

“Being a parent is not about sacrificing your own sense of self in order to cater to your child,” he huffed. “It is about being there to nurture the development of their own.”

Crewel pointedly averted his gaze to one of the ugly, cat-centric, paintings on the wall.

“And perhaps for you a handful of months may not be sufficient,” the older man continued, swirling his wine. “But I’m sure for the Prefect, it would make all the difference in the world.”

.

.

Detention continued, despite your stacking ‘managerial responsibilities.’

Thankfully, it had mostly turned into you sitting in Crewel’s office while you sorted through whatever paperwork you were expected to file and complete. Sometimes a good chunk of the pages would disappear from your ‘in progress’ pile and reappear—perfectly completely and in order—at the end of the evening. You were dead set on never addressing it ever, because if you did he might stop. And he was probably the only reason you were managing to get any of it done on time at all.

Even with Professor Crewel’s help, you were still slow today. And as the night crawled to a close, you found yourself staring at a stack of blank pages without a thought to go with them. The only thing swimming in your head was murky tar and the cloying taste of black magic that came with it.  

“Is there something you want to discuss?” Crewel called from his desk across the room. “You seem distracted.”

“I can’t,” you grumbled, something wobbling in your jaw. “Not to the people I want to talk about it with at least.”

Something shuttered slipped across his expression, and he nodded and went back to his own work. You stared at him for another moment, debating.

“What do you if—” you froze and hurriedly looked back down to the pen in your hands.

“If…?” Crewel pressed.

You sighed. “You know, sometimes you care about people, yeah? And maybe they’re not always perfect, but you still care. But then…” You chewed at your lip. “I don’t know. Can people still be good if they do bad things sometimes? Like, if you’d disagree with them completely, but they see it as right anyways?”

‘They’d be taken away?’

‘I know it sounds scary, kiddo. But that’s what we have to do to keep everyone as safe as we can. Does that make sense?’

You thought of Riddle, and Leona, and Azul, and Jamil. And now Vil. You grit your teeth so hard they started to ache.

Professor Crewel looked a bit startled, and you couldn’t really blame him. It was the most you’d spoken to him in weeks.

“I suppose that would depend on you,” he said after a moment. “And if that ‘disagreement’ was big enough to change how you viewed them entirely.”

“I don’t know…” you frowned. It certainly felt like something big. But...

“Well, what have you done about it?”

You blinked. “What?”

He waved his hand at you, and that pointer of his snapped across his palm. “Have you told this person that what they’ve said bothered you?”

“…well, no,” you mumbled.

“Then that’s what you need to do first,” he said, firm. “You won’t have an answer to anything you’re fretting about until you can face that at least.”

“And then what?”

Professor Crewel hesitated then, his mouth working as if he couldn’t really decide what he wanted to say. Or maybe like he was thinking over his words very, very, carefully.

“Do they know that they’ve done wrong by you?” he asked at last, not quite as sharp as before. “And—more importantly—if they know they’ve upset you, are they trying to make it right?”

You had a sudden feeling that he wasn’t really talking about your question anymore. The words settled heavily in your gut, but not in a way that was entirely unpleasant. More like the comfort after eating a full meal rather than the all-encompassing dread that so often took residence there instead. You thought of fancy cookies, and dogs, and cozy coats that were warmer and softer than the best blankets you’d ever used.

“Right,” you said after a moment, and glanced away with a secretive sort of smile. “I guess that would be the most important bit.”

.

.

TAG LIST [CLOSED]

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[dreamerstreamer]

Like You A Latte

Pairing: barista!Sapnap x gn!reader

Summary: [Coffee Shop!AU] Sapnap usually hates the closing shift, but when one crazy storm sends you barreling into his life, he might just change his mind.

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: this was requested by a sweet anon who wanted something in a real life setting! i took some creative liberty with the au, but i hope you all enjoy nonetheless!

Sapnap grimaced as he stared out at the café window, his lips curling downward into a frown at the sight of the pouring rain. Driving home is gonna suck, he thought.

With a sigh, he turned back to wiping down the table in front of him, trying to ignore the incessant pitter patter on the roof above him. Screw Clay for ditching him with the closing shift. Sure, he might have that presentation tomorrow morning and Sapnap might have let him leave early, but he still sucked. The closing shift sucked.

It didn’t help that it was pouring buckets outside. No wonder the café was empty—there wasn’t a single soul in their right mind who would be outside at this hour and in this weather.

Except for him, apparently.

He sighed, eyeing the clock on the wall. There was an hour left until he had to close up shop, and he was bored out of his mind. He had already scrolled through all of his feeds and was sick of the music they were playing over the speakers. Usually he had at least one or two customers to chat with if they were in the café, but today there was none.

Looks like I’ll be alone for an hour, then, he thought to himself bitterly, leaning his forehead against the wall. Fun.

It was at that moment that the unmistakable sound of the door chimes echoed through the air, and Sapnap’s eyes went wide.

No way.

He lifted his head, turning to see a silhouetted figure standing in the doorway, their clothes sopping wet as they painted. He winced at the sight. Not even an umbrella would have been able to shield yourself from this kind of rain, but it was still painful to see just how soaked to the bone you would get.

Just then, the figure stepped inside, and his mouth went try at the sight.

One thing stuck out about you, and it wasn’t the fact that you were dripping water on the floor he had just mopped.

You were cute.

He just barely remembered to stop gaping as you approached the counter, brushing back some hair that was stuck to the side of your face. You opened your mouth to speak, but what came out of your mouth startled him.

“How many shots of espresso can you fit into an extra large latte?”

He blinked at you, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, what?”

You cleared your throat. “How many shots of espre—?”

“No, no, uh,” he stammered, waving his hand in front of him, “I heard you, it’s just that...” He paused, trying to find the right words. “...why do you want that much caffeine?”

You let out a deep sigh, dragging a hand across your weary face. “Look,” you said, “this paper is due at the crack of dawn, the wifi at my place is out, the library just closed, and I’m either handing it on time or I am going to die trying.”

He raised his eyebrows at you and sucked in a deep breath. “Okay,” he began, “um, an extra large latte, was it?”

You nodded. He turned, grabbing the tallest of the paper cups he had stacked behind him, eyeing it. “Alright,” he mumbled, “that’ll probably fit around... thirty shots of espresso?”

You paused, blinking, and he could practically see the gears turning in your head. “Okay. Okay, cool.” There was a beat of silence, a look of contemplation crossing your features, then you nodded again. “Can you give me like twenty shots, then?”

The words flew from his lips before he could stop them. “What the hell.”

When you only stared at him, he coughed. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to even give someone more than four at once.”

You sighed for what must have been the millionth time as you shoved a hand into your pocket, digging around for a moment before fishing out a wallet. Opening it up, you pulled out a ten dollar bill. “This,” you said, waving the bill in front of him, “will be your tip.”

His jaw dropped, but no sound came out. After a few seconds of tense silence, something desperate shot across your face. “Please,” you said quietly, “for the sake of my paper. I need it.”

Sympathy welled up inside of him at the look on your face. Every college student knew the struggle of handing something in last minute. What kind of person would he be to say no?

“Okay,” he said, grabbing a sharpie from his apron pocket and uncapping it with his thumb, “this is gonna take a bit. Please, take a seat...?” He trailed off, expectantly waiting for your name, his eyes locking onto you.

Your lips curled into a small smile, and he felt something jump in his chest. “[Y/N].” You raised your brows at him. “You do realize I’m the only one in the store, right?”

His cheeks flushed, and he tore his gaze away from yours, fumbling to scribble your name on the cup. “Oh. Um, right. Sorry.” He offered you a sheepish smile. “Force of habit.”

You laughed while you slid your backpack off your shoulder and it sent a tingle up his spine. “Nah, I get it.” As you plopped onto the bar stool seat, your eyes darted to his chest, flashing with recognition. “Thanks, Sapnap.”

He nearly dropped his sharpie, his heart doing a backflip in his rib cage. How did you—? He glanced down, nearly shriveling with relief. Right. I’m wearing a name tag.

Sending one more glance in your direction as you pulled out your laptop, he turned, cracking his knuckles. Twenty shots was going to take more than just a few minutes to brew, and he’d be damned if he didn’t stick to his guns and deliver this absolute monstrosity of an order to you.

A good fifteen minutes later, Sapnap found himself staring down into a pitch black cup. Where the smell of coffee beans was usually even distributed throughout the store, it was now almost entirely concentrated in one cup. With a delicate hand, he oh-so slowly poured in some frothed milk, carefully moving it as a design began to form on the coffee’s surface. A few moments passed in devoted silence, and he pulled away to reveal a perfect milk heart staring back at him.

Indeed, he was holding an extra large latte with twenty shots of espresso. He was half impressed and half horrified by his own creation.

With a small smile, he picked the cup up, sliding it over the counter toward you. “Voilà,” he said, bowing dramatically, “your order is served.”

You looked up from where you were typing on your laptop, blinking blearily at him before recognition set in. A grin tugged at your lips as you picked the cup up. “Oh my god,” you breathed, taking a heavenly sip, “you are such a lifesaver. You have no idea how close I was to passing out just now.”

Sapnap chuckled at your enthusiasm, picking up a rag and walking over to the sink. “I don’t know how you’re going to enjoy drinking that, but I hope you stay conscious.”

You raised your cup up toward him in a silent toast, the mirth in your eyes sending something light and warm dancing across his bones. As you turned back to your paper, he began cleaning up the mess he had made while brewing twenty shots of espresso.

Time passed in a blur as he shifted cups around and wiped down machinery, only sped along by the sound of your frantic typing. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he saw as you raised your now empty coffee cup in your hand and tossed it across the room. In an elegant arc, it landed squarely in the trash can a few feet away.

“Nice throw,” he said, smiling at the satisfied look on your face.

You sent him a thumbs up with a hum, your face looking delightfully warm and much more awake. “Thank you.”

Another moment passed in silence when a realization suddenly hit him. “Wait a second. You finished it? All twenty shots?”

You didn’t even look away from your screen. “Yep.”

His look was one of complete and utter disbelief. “That quickly?”

You deadpanned. “I think the most I’ve slept in the past three days is something like three hours. I’m kind of dying.”

He chuckled. “Understandable.” His lips curled downward as his expression grew serious. “For real though, once this caffeine wears off, I want you to sleep for like, half a day, okay?”

Your fingers faltered in their typing for a moment, and your eyes briefly met his. “You don’t even know me.”

Something in his stomach churned. But I would like to, he wanted to say.

Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest with a teasing look. “Can you really blame me for being concerned? Twenty shots is more than a lot.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but he didn’t miss the way your lips twitched. “Ugh, fine.”

He bit back a laugh. “Fine is good enough for me.”

You returned back to typing, squinting harshly at the glare from your screen as you mouthed some of the words you had written. His eyes darted to the clock once more and blinked in surprise. Was there really only fifteen minutes left until closing? He hoped you could finish in time.

Sapnap turned and bit the inside of his cheek, the cogs in his head churning. I feel like I’m forgetting to do something. An image of the water you had tracked into the café flashed through his mind, and he found himself eyeing the mop and bucket sitting by the corner where he had left it nearly an hour prior.

Do I really want to wipe the floor again? He paused for a long moment. Not really. He thought of the streaky puddle left in your wake one last time, then shook his head. Ah, whatever. George has the opening shift tomorrow—it’s a him problem, now.

A soft yell broke him out of his thoughts. “Hell yeah!”

He lifted his head in time to see you close your laptop screen, a wide grin stretched across your face. “Did you finish?”

You flopped onto the table, letting out a relieved groan. “Yes, finally. I thought I was never going to be done.”

He opened his mouth to respond when your face suddenly scrunched up. Before he could ask if you were okay, you ducked your face into the bend of your elbow, a sneeze escaping your lips. Sapnap’s heart leapt at the sound.

Cute—your sneeze was cute.

His lips quirked up at you as he sent you a worried glance. “You cold?”

You wiped at your nose, shivering a little. “A bit, yeah.” You offered him a lopsided smile. “The rain kind of did a number on me.”

He fiddled with his keys in his pocket, gulping. “I’m, uh, gonna close up in a few minutes. Did you want me to give you a ride back to your place?” He paused for a moment, then quickly added, “I promise I’m not a creep.”

Your laugh made him want to dance. “Oh, yes please.” Suddenly, your smile dimmed, and you curled back a bit. “You—you won’t mind if I get your car a little wet, will you?”

Sapnap stared at you and your dripping clothes, something tugging inside his chest. If it was Clay or George asking, he’d probably kill them if they even attempted to get into his car while soaking wet.

But for some reason, the way you looked at him with your wet hair sticking to your face and a hopeful glimmer in your eyes made his heart skip a beat.

“Not at all.”

“George wanted me to tell you that you suck.”

He turned, feigning an innocent look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Clay sent him an amused look. “Something about a puddle? And that you’re a huge prick for not wiping it up for him.”

Sapnap rolled his eyes. “He’s just being whiny. I was stuck by myself yesterday because you bailed on me.”

Clay gaped at him. “I had a presentation and you literally let me go! That’s a valid reason!”

When Sapnap only gave him a levelled stare in response, he sighed. “I’m here now, okay? I’ll even man cash for you so you can just do the easy clean-up stuff, too.”

Sapnap grumbled but didn’t protest. “C’mon, man.” Clay leaned over to gently prod his shoulder. “I bet you today’s closing shift is better than last night’s!”

He waved a hand dismissively, focusing his attention back on the order he was working on. “Sure, sure.”

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Clay was right about one thing—today’s shift was better already. It wasn’t raining like crazy again, and the café wasn’t completely deserted. Well, you were there yesterday, but he had already accepted that the two of you probably wouldn’t interact again. It’s not like you were a regular or something.

He was vaguely aware of the door opening, the chimes tinkling like bells as it swung open and shut. Footsteps approached the counter as he pushed some stray trash into the garbage can, not particularly paying any attention. That was when a familiar voice spoke up.

“Can I get an extra large latte, please?”

Sapnap froze then whipped around, eyes wide as he took in the sight of you standing in front of the cash register. Before Clay could even confirm your order, he blurted out, “[Y/N]? You’re back?”

You grinned at him from the other side of the counter, your wallet in hand. “I like coffee, okay? And you’re not too shabby of a barista.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “‘Not too shabby’? Rude.”

You giggled, tapping your credit card on the PIN machine. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I did mostly want to say thanks for the other night, since you are pretty great, Sapnap.” Your eyes flashed. “But...”

“...but?” he prompted.

“But,” you said, grinning teasingly, “you might cement yourself as my favourite barista if I maybe got a free snack.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “A free snack, you say?”

Your smile widened. “Yes, sir.”

Sapnap paused, cocking his head. “I’ll... keep that in mind. Go ahead and grab a seat for the time being though, alright?”

You nodded in assent and slid into the bar stool you had sat in the night prior, pulling out your laptop once more. Once you were out of earshot, Clay leaned over to Sapnap. “You know ‘em?” he asked.

Sapnap couldn’t help but smile a little. “Yeah—[Y/N] is kind of the reason why George thinks I’m a prick, right now.”

“Nah,” he said, “George knows you’re a prick. He just thinks you’re being particularly prick-y today.”

Sapnap playfully pushed him away with a shove. “Screw off.”

Clay didn’t even flinch, only wheezing under his breath as he greeted the next person in line. Sapnap rolled his eyes again as he grabbed an extra large cup from the stack, his hands moving like clockwork as he poured in some freshly brewed espresso and frothed milk. Making a regular latte was infinitely faster than making one with twenty shots, to say the least, and practically no time had passed before he was walking over to your seat.

“One extra large latte for [Y/N],” he said, sliding the cup onto the space next to your laptop with ease, one hand tucked behind his back.

Your face lit up. “Thank y—”

“And,” he suddenly added, pulling his other arm out to reveal a pastry, “one chocolate croissant.” He gave you a sly wink as he held it in front of you. “On the house, as requested.”

Your smile fell. “Oh, wait, no. I was joking. You don’t actually have to—”

“Shh,” he whispered, dangling the croissant in front of your face, “just take it. No one else is going to buy it anyway. Consider this thanks for yesterday’s tip.”

You gingerly took the croissant from his hands, your cheeks growing warm. “Okay, fine.” You held the pastry up to your lips, sinking your teeth in and beginning to chew. Your eyes widened in shock as you swallowed. “Oh, wow. This is really good.”

He placed his hands on his hips triumphantly. “Aren’t you glad you took it, now?”

Sticking your tongue out at him, you took another bite. “Thanks, Sapnap. Seriously, what would I do without you?”

He shrugged. “I dunno, actually be well-rested instead of chugging caffeine?”

“For the record,” you pointed out with a slight glare, “I did sleep for like half the day like you asked me to, but now I’m behind on everything.”

He cocked his brows at you. “So, you’re just sticking around to finish some stuff, again?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Yeah—the wifi at my place sucks and my roommate hogs all the bandwidth, plus you guys are open later than the library, soooo.....”

You gestured vaguely, and he nodded in sympathy, crossing his arms over his chest. “Makes sense.”

He could have let the conversation die there, could have just gone back to wiping down the tables and cleaning up after Clay. But instead, he found himself slipping into the seat next to you, curiosity nibbling away at his restraint.

“I don’t think I ever asked,” he said, resting his hand on his chin, “but what are you studying?”

You grinned at him, his ears growing warm as you began telling him about your major. You asked him about his and what he wanted to do after graduation, and it didn’t take long before the two of you slipped into casual conversation, almost as if you were old friends. While he did have to go take some orders every once in a while, he was mostly able to chat with you while the both of you worked. It was nice—spending time with you was nice.

And it seemed like his heart agreed, too.

The ringing of the door chimes made Sapnap raise his head. He opened his mouth to give the official café greeting before closing it, a fond smile overtaking his features. “Hey, cutie.”

You grinned back at him as you strode up to the counter. “Hey, loser.”

He pretended to wince at your words, clutching his chest in mock hurt. “Ouch.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, your lips curling up as you dug a hand into your bag. “Kidding. Can I get a—”

“Extra large latte with a normal number of espresso shots,” he finished expertly, reaching around to push a cup onto the space in front of you. When you didn’t say anything, your wallet balanced delicately in the palm of your hand, he coughed awkwardly. “I know your order.”

You stared at him in utter shock. “You do?”

He pretended that his lungs didn’t feel like they were on fire. “Y-Yeah.”

A smile tugged at your lips, and you opened up your wallet. “I wish I had a memory as good as yours, Sapnap.” You pulled at out a ten dollar bill and slapped it onto the counter, grabbing your coffee with the other. “Thank you so much, and keep the change, okay?” You took a step back, sending him an apologetic look. “I have to get going, but you’re the best.”

He picked up the bill, waggling it in front of his face. “I know.”

You paused, tastefully adding as you turned, “...loser.”

“Hey!”

You laughed at him while you bounded out of the café, and he felt his irritation die in his chest, something blossoming in its stead. “Kidding!”

As the door swung shut behind you, he sighed, a dreamy haze filling his mind. Weeks had passed since you two had first met, and he could feel himself falling harder and harder. He always knew that he wanted to get to know you better, but now that feeling had grown tenfold. There was something so subtle and real about everything you did—about the way you talked and laughed, about the way you pointed and smiled.

He wondered how much more of you he hadn’t seen, and he wondered if you’d show him.

A voice ripped him out of his thoughts. “Are you gonna snap out of it anytime soon?”

He turned, blinking back to reality. “What?”

George stared back at him with paused lips. “Sapnap, you’ve been spaced out for two minutes.”

Clay turned to look at them both. “You look like you just had some big revelation or something. Are you good?”

Sapnap opened his mouth, then closed it, feeling a lump forming in his throat. As much as he ragged on them for being reckless and stupid, Clay and George were his best friends, and they deserved to know what was going on.

Was this going to go poorly? Probably.

But was he going to do it anyways? 

Unfortunately, yes.

“Guys.” He sucked in a deep breath, squeezing his fists by his side as he looked up. “I like [Y/N].”

There was a beat of silence, and Sapnap felt the anxiety well up inside him. They were totally about to flame him, weren’t they?

The two of them shared a look, then Clay turned to him. “We know.”

Sapnap blinked. “You knew?” he said slowly. “Both of you?”

George bobbed his head, cocking a brow at him. “Um, yeah? It’s kind of obvious.”

Sapnap gaped, sputtering. “H-How? In what way?”

George opened his mouth when Clay raised a hand, silencing him as a wide grin stretched across his face. His green eyes brimming with mischief, he sidled up to Sapnap’s side, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, George,” he said, “watch this.”

He leaned close to Sapnap’s ear, and whispered just loud enough for all three of them to hear. “[Y/N].”

Almost instantaneously, Sapnap felt his heartbeat speed up as George’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Look at his ears.”

While Clay pulled away and let out a loud wheeze, clutching at his chest, Sapnap’s hands slammed over his ears, hiding them from view. “Do not look at my ears.”

Gasping for air, Clay managed to choke out between shaky breaths, “He’s blushing!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Are—” Wheeze. “—Are too!”

“No—”

“You totally are.”

“George, shut the fu—”

“Alright, ladies, you’re both pretty,” Clay suddenly cut in, clapping his hands. “If you two would stop bickering, then we can actually address the issue at hand, here.”

“Which is that Sapnap is a hopeless simp?” George prompted.

Clay nodded. “Which is that Sapnap is a hopeless simp.”

Sapnap scowled. “I am not hopeless, and I am also not a simp.”

Clay tucked a hand under his chin. “Well, we’re going to make sure you’re not hopeless.” A devilish glint shined in his gaze. “Not for much longer, that is.”

Sapnap swallowed. This couldn’t be good.

“Wait,” George said, furrowing his brows, “what about the simp part?”

Clay blinked. “Oh, no. He can stay that. We’re just going to make him confess.”

Sapnap, who had been staring in stunned silence up until this point, blinked for a moment, then frowned. “Wait a second, you’re going to what?”

Clay leaned forward, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Trust me, buddy. Everything is going to be just fine.”

With that, Sapnap’s frown only deepened.

Everything was going to be just awful.

Sapnap swallowed anxiously as he slid another cup across the counter toward the pick-up station, George dutifully picking it up as he read out another name. Sapnap had half the mind to realize that they really shouldn’t have let George be the one to read the names, especially when he was so garbage at it, but the other half didn’t particularly care. It was far too preoccupied thinking about one thing and one thing only.

Well, two things actually.

You and his confession.

The plan was simple in theory, at least, but in practice? He had no clue. He’d had it prepared for days now, but he had yet to see you, and he was pretty sure he was slowly going insane.

“Just calm down,” Clay had told him. “Like I said, you’re going to be fine.”

As much as he trusted him, Sapnap didn’t believe him for one second, and he was pretty sure Clay knew it. If he did, he didn’t say anything, but oh boy, could Sapnap see it in his eyes.

Just then, the familiar sound of chimes and footsteps filled the air, and Sapnap felt his anxiety spike.

You were here.

Taking a moment to breathe and calm himself, he casually began to wipe down the counter before him, dragging damp rag across the countertop. At the same time, he felt his heart hopelessly trying not to and failing to skip a beat at the sight of your weary face. “Mornin’, [Y/N],” he greeted.

You didn’t bother to say a greeting back before you flopped into your usual seat, letting out one long groan. “Uuuggghhhh.”

A flicker of fondness filled his heart. “Rough week?” he prompted, his hand slowing down as he wiped away a small stain.

You groaned again in reply, rubbing at your temples. “Oh, you have no idea. My profs have just been unbelievably infuriating, and I feel like I’m constantly on the verge of a mental breakdown.”

He reached over to pat your shoulder, nodding sympathetically. “I get that—sometimes it’s like they forget you have other classes.”

Your head shot up, your face twisted into a pout. “I know right? Like, give me a break!” You slumped forward, your cheek pressed against the table. “I just want to take a nap.”

He smiled fondly at you. God, you are so cute. “Did you want a latte?” he offered. “The usual?”

You paused for a moment, thinking, then shook your head. “Caffeine is only going to make me even more stressed, and I don’t think I can handle anymore.”

He hummed in understanding, then turned. He quickly grabbed something off the shelf behind him before sliding it over the counter to you. “I know it won’t make your week any easier,” he said, “but here. It might make you feel a little better.”

You perked up at that, raising your head to eye the napkin-wrapped item in front of you. Pulling back the soft tissue, your eyes lit up. “A chocolate croissant!”

He turned away with a soft smile. “Your favourite, right?”

You sunk forward, your gaze dazzling in the midday sun. “Because of you.”

He nearly choked on his spit as he whirled, only to see you pulling back the napkin to take a bite. Sometimes, you really spoke without thinking, and it sent his head absolutely spinning.

You sighed as you sunk your teeth into the flaky dough, your eyes fluttering shut. Chewing away as you leisurely swung your legs, you glanced up at him. “Hey,” you murmured, “what time is it, right now?”

“It’s, uh—” His gaze darted to the clock on the other side of the wall. “—ten to eleven.”

Your eyes shot wide open, swallowing the bite you took as your jaw dropped. “Oh, shoot. I’m gonna be late. I have a class at eleven and it’s on the other side of campus.”

Sapnap’s expression mirrored yours. “Oh, shoot,” he parroted.

You nodded as you slid off the seat, scrambling to slid your bag onto your shoulders as you spoke in a hurried frenzy. “Okay I have to get going but thanks so much for the snack Sapnap you’re the best and um I really appreciate it but I, um, I have t—”

“[Y/N],” he said abruptly, and you fell silent, your voice dying in your mouth. His gaze was soft as he gestured to the front of the café. “You’re gonna be late.”

You didn’t waste another second to turn on your heel and scramble to the front. “Thank you!” you called out behind you one last time as you pushed past the entrance and rushed down the busy street.

The moment the door fell shut once more, Sapnap nearly collapsed against the counter, gripping onto the granite for dear life. “Clay,” he said, turning his head to send his best friend a shaky smile full of nothing but anxiety, “I’m gonna die.”

“You are not going to die,” Clay said immediately, walking over to pull Sapnap up from the counter. He clapped him on the shoulder, looking him dead in the eyes. “Like I said, you are going to be just fine. Don’t lose your head over it.”

Sapnap whipped his head up, grabbing his shoulders. “This is probably the worst confession I have ever tried to make in my life,” he said bluntly, his tone clipped with anxiety. “No, wait—this is the worst confession I have ever tried to make in my life.”

Just then, the back room door swung open to reveal a very tired-looking George who sighed with a bag of coffee beans tucked  securely in his arms. “Okay, pack it up, lover boy,” he muttered, tilting his head at Sapnap. “You’re on break, now.”

Sapnap didn’t even bother to come up with a witty retort, simply letting go of Clay’s shoulders with a quiet whine before sliding into the back room, his shoulders slumped over. As he walked past, Clay leaned back against the countertop, a curious grin dancing on his lips. “You think [Y/N] will even see it?”

George grimaced, setting the bag down on the table. “I hope so. Otherwise Sapnap here is going to die of embarrassment, and I am never going hear the end of it.”

From the back, a muffled groan rang out. Clay and George’s eyes met once more as they let out another sigh.

They really, really hoped so.

How you made it to class on time with two whole minutes to spare, you’d never know.

You collapsed into the nearest available seat with a massive sigh, the air rushing out of your lungs all at once. Maybe you should try out for the track team like your roommate keeps telling you to.

With a tired smile, you sat up, pulling out your laptop from your bag and setting your half eaten croissant on the table in front of you. You were just about to open your laptop when a smudge of black on the pristine white of your napkin caught your attention. You narrowed your eyes, lifting up the croissant to see even more of it.

There’s something written on it...?

Curiously, you found yourself unfolding the napkin, gasping at what you saw. A sprawling string of text littered the thin paper, all written in a familiar sharpie ink.

hey, [y/n]—if you’re reading this then thank god that means you actually kept the napkin and didn’t throw it out or something. super long story short, i like hanging out with you and would love to get to know you better, so here’s my number XXX-XXX-XXXX and also i like you a latte and also i like you a lot :)

You snorted, your cheeks burning up with bashful glee. Even though he crossed it out, you could still read the pick-up line he had jotted down. It was so very like him to get embarrassed and scrap it last minute. There was something endearing about it, really.

Cute, you thought to yourself, something warm and hazy wrapping around your heart. You dug your hand into your pocket, slipping out your phone. Very, very cute.

A few minutes later, a notification lit up Sapnap’s phone. Swiping his finger across the screen, he found himself stating at a message from an unknown number. His eyes darted over the words on his screen, widening. A yell suddenly flew from his lips, and George yelped as he nearly poured some espresso on his hand.

“Sapnap,” he hissed, whipping around with a glare, slamming the cup down on the counter, “what the he—”

He fell silent as he saw the wide grin stretched across Sapnap’s face, his eyes practically glowing with joy. Before he could even ask, Sapnap shoved the phone in his face, six words printed across the screen in black text.

i like you a latte, too :)

[lyrebright]

Over the past two work days, I got through the last chunk of TMA S1 episodes I had left, and got through the first two episodes of S2.

Those S2 episodes will get their own post about my thoughts, but here I just want to ramble about how I felt approaching the season finale.

MAG033: I actually posted about starting this episode a few days back; I won't reiterate my thoughts on the opening when they're already there in my liveblog tag.

That said: it's still really funny.

The actual content of the statement actually did manage to live up to the absolute banger of an opening though; in a stunning display of memory that I rarely possess I do in fact remember the Lukas family being mentioned and involved in another statement and it seems they are, indeed, just That Fucked Up.

Rumour come out: Does Institue Sponsors Is Spooky?

How badly did I just age my online presence with that.

MAG034: another live statement!

Finally, I have context to the anatomy students I've had mentioned. I've literally had no context except that there are anatomy students in TMA somewhere and my friends stan them, apparently, so this was a big moment for me. Very exciting.

Idk what the teacher's problem was I support these inhuman monstrosities getting an education.

Could've done without the teeth apple maybe.

ANOTHER FUCKED UP BOOKS EPISODE (minus fucked up book?)

omg baby gerard. little shitty teen gerard.

Knowing things I know now from the season finale I am looking back at it like Hmm because honestly outside of 1) baby gerard and 2) the closing statement it didn't really stand out that much to me?

(A friend informed me that Mr Smirke was like a real dude tho so :0)

Speaking of the closing statement: I see you delivery guys. I see you.

I know we literally get it confirmed that these delivery guys are Those Delivery Guys but I sussed it out immediately!! Prommy!! I am very smart.

I was listening to MAG036 as I was doing a second coat on a door frame I'd painted the day before and a little beetle was very determined to crawl into my fresh paint and that did not help my experience with this episode.

Might have enhanced it in a way, though?

Just a solid spooky Ugh from the statement though Jon in the closing statement bringing up Vampire Guy and saying that his female companion seemed familiar...i was not given enough of a description of her in any way to lay claim to that same familiarity so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

spiders. Hmm.

And that table. God. I'll get more into my thoughts about it later. It'll be more relevant around the actual finale.

MAG037: confirmation about the delivery men! Good to have

Gertrude FR What Was Up With You

(The finale has only given me more questions)

Jon's repeated stating of how tired he is across the past few episodes has me ):

MAG038: this episode was so mean

I can't believe this cursed piece of monster furniture literally stole this man's husband.

if you or a loved one has been victimised by homophobic furniture, you may be entitled to

trauma

I'm gonna be upset about this forever.

This is the npc statement I'm choosing to Stay Mad about

God I was so caught up in homophobic ceramics I forgot: hello third mike.

I've been helpfully informed there's only like, four Mikes I need to keep straight, but that is still honestly entirely too many Michaels.

What Jonny Sims has in writing talent he lacks in the ability to name characters things other than Michael (or some variation of)

The ending to this episode blew my goddamn eardrums out I swear

Time for the fun stuff though!

:D

Actually you know what. The finale episodes get their own post. Hang on.

[sotangledupinit]

A Green Christmas - 12 Days of Promptmas

Day 1 Prompt/notes of the prompt: 

Santa / Elves / Costume

SUMMARY: It should be illegal for someone to look so good in an elf costume. Emma's almost certain there's a law somewhere that says so. And if there's not, she needs to find another reason to arrest Killian Jones so he can get his green tights-clad butt out of her eyeline.

RATING: Teen

WORD COUNT: 4,102 words

TAGS: Captain Swan, Christmas, Holiday fluff

AO3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: well well well, here we are. hahaha at the beginning of November I decided to do 12 Days of Promptmas and then I started all the prompts and then my muse disappeared until like three days ago. anyway I wrote notes on the prompts and forgot to write most of the actual prompts down so... oops. Prompt: Santa / Elves / Costumes

^^ or something like that, oops.

Day 1 of 12 for 12 Days of Promptmas!

*

David stands in the bullpen in front of her and Jones, grin wide on his face. A bright red Santa suit hangs on the door to his office, the accompanying hat sitting on top of his head. Facing them he holds up a bright green bag.

“Come on, I need elves.”

Emma snorts, rolling her eyes and shoving her hands into her back pockets. “Yeah, not going to happen. Mary Margaret already confirmed that I can be the photographer.”

Jones shifts his body, resting his hip against the side of his desk. He uncrosses his arms, eyebrow raised as he frowns, and points at the elf costume in David’s hand. “No way in bloody hell am I wearing that.” He swivels his head to face her. “Why do you get to be the photographer?”

“Because you assigned me to take all the mugshots,” she responds with a smirk. “I’ve got practice.”

A huff leaves his mouth as he turns back to David. Emma grins as she watches her father shake the garment bag at Jones, making a show of slowly unzipping it to reveal the elf-themed monstrosity inside. Her fellow deputy stares at the clothes with a look of utter contempt. His nose scrunches up in disgust and clenching his fists just isn’t cutting it as he resumes crossing his arms tightly against his chest. “Absolutely not, mate.”

“Come on, Killian,” David begins. The smell of coffee finally hits her nose and Emma glances down to see a freshly brewed cup on her desk. Her father must have gotten it for her while she gassed up the cars before their meeting this morning. Grin playing on her face, she grasps the cup in her hand and lifts it to her lips, hiding her smirk as she awaits David’s infamous guilt trips, and ignores the glance Jones sends her way.

“What are all those little boys and girls going to think when it’s not an elf helping out Santa but some guy in a leather jacket? They’ll start questioning if Santa’s even real which could crush their dreams. Then they’ll wonder why their parents lied to them about Santa if the one they met in town isn’t him. Temper tantrums, families fighting, a whole slew of traumatic events snowballing from the fact that since Santa didn’t have an elf to help him, they decided he wasn’t real.”

Instead of paying her father any mind, Jones turns to her instead, that damned eyebrow raised still. “Does that actually work on anyone?”

“Hasn’t for me yet.”

Her father, as brilliant as he is, is too noble for his own good and will try to rally others behind whatever cause he’s working on, to its absolute fullest extent no matter the embarrassment or discomfort. Emma swears that he’d probably follow a kid into the storm drain from It if he believed he could help them.

David sighs. “Guys.” They both return their attention to him and watch as he hangs the green garment bag beside the Santa suit. He pushes his jacket back, resting his hands on his hips, and Emma knows he means business. His hair is almost totally gray and the beard he’s been growing out – ugh, she really did not need to know just how much her mother liked it that way – is more white than blonde now. But he stands like that and Emma imagines him in his 30s and ready to discipline her for sneaking out or breaking curfew or catching her with a boy for the first time. It’s that ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ look that she’s heard about. It makes her heart lurch in her chest.

“Please, I just need you to do this,” he says. “Due to the fire hose incident last year, the mayor won’t let SFD host the charity drive anymore. All of the toys received and money raised goes to the families in need in Storybrooke.” He looks at Emma from the corner of his eye as he mentions that a portion will also be given to the orphanage run by the nuns at the edge of town and Emma’s breath catches. That’s new. “As our first time hosting it, I really want to make sure we do everything we can to make it the best year yet for these kids – even if that means ridiculous costumes.”

Silence falls over the room and Emma catches Jones sighing, dropping his arms and standing up straight. Emma spots a twitch of David’s lips that he tampers down quickly as Jones approaches him. “Alright,” he says, licking his lips. Tossing his hand briefly towards the green bag, Jones admits defeat. “Show me what exactly I’ll be wearing this weekend.”

She can’t be certain but she believes he mutters ‘Do it for the children’ under his breath along with a few choice expletives when David pulls out the green stockings. It’s then that Emma snorts into her coffee and Jones turns to glare at her.

“Laugh all you want now but it’s not too late to get another costume for you, darling,” he shoots at her. Except it is too late and there’s no way to get another costume unless they already had one.

“We both know that’s not happening,” she smirks.

“Actually…” Eyebrows furrowing at David’s remark, she watches in horror as he lifts Jones’ elf costume out of the bag to reveal a second behind it. Her cry of indignation is unheard over the loud cackling coming from her fellow deputy.

*

Growing up, she held a lot of anger at her birth parents. It settled deep in her soul at a young age, some time after her fourth foster placement fell through, and it burned everything it touched. How dare they resort her to a fate like this, where she was deemed unacceptable or unlovable by every family who tried to accept her? So she stopped trying too.

It wasn’t until a few years ago that her birth parents actually came into her life.

David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard are the picturesque American family. The local school teacher and the sheriff living together in a small town in a house situated on the equivalent of a farm. Brilliantly bright smiles and kind hearts for everyone they met, volunteering at the animal shelter on weekends and tutoring children at the library during the week. There are just so pure and good.

When she checked her bail bonds email one day and saw their message, she almost wanted to delete it without reading. The preview – Hi, Emma. We know this is sudden but we believe we’re your birth parents… There is… – was enough to ignite the flames of anger in her heart but she knew she’d regret if she never read it all.

They had gotten pregnant young and had been involved in a car accident. Mary Margaret’s stepmother at the time forged her signature on the paperwork and set Emma up for adoption, a process that had been unknowingly in the works for months beforehand. Her mother was still under sedation – injuries from the crash resulting in an emergency C-section – when Emma was taken from them.

We never even got to hold you, they told her, mouths pressed against her ear as they hugged her for the first time a few weeks later. Emma thought of her own life and how that was almost her, how she almost had to give up Henry and would have if the doctor didn’t ask if she wanted to hold him.

It wasn’t easy for her to cope, having to find a place where her anger wasn’t directed at her parents and to let it go enough to forgive them because they loved her and wanted her and never stopped looking for her.

When that time came a year ago, she spoke with Henry and they decided that Boston wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and perhaps they should give a chance to living by family. They moved to Storybrooke a month later and David hired her onto his payroll within 24 hours.

However, since connecting with her birth parents, Emma has learned a few new rules of life. Most important being that her mother actually can keep a secret. Most of the time, anyway.

The first thing her father told her about her mother was to not trust her with any secrets. He called upon years of experience, with supposed ruined proposals and pregnancy announcements. Other citizens echoed the statement but it was Leroy’s ringing endorsement of the reputation that raised an eyebrow.

It is a fact that Mary Margaret Nolan gets a bad rap in Storybrooke for having loose lips. One incident when she was ten – in her defense, she was manipulated into divulging her stepsister’s secret relationship – and a few surprise monumental occasions slipping from her mouth and it stuck.

However, her mother could keep a secret, of the inconsequential sort. Like when Emma needed help planning Henry’s tenth birthday or what to get her father for Christmas last year. So clearly her mother’s reputation was wrong.

Or so she thought.

The thing is that she told her mother a few months ago over too many rum and cokes at her parents kitchen island that Deputy Killian Jones has a cute butt. And a sinful mouth. And tantalizing chest hair.

Since then, she’s been nudging Emma to invite Killian to one of their game nights or family dinners and she’s held firm with her opposition. That is not a road she will travel down with him, no matter what her mother wants. Or how much she vented about how nice his arms are.

Now she’s pretty sure Mary Margaret is using that information against her, in collaboration with David, and she doesn’t know whether she should be impressed or humiliated.

“Yeah,” Lily says while she stands beside her, Emma’s hands clutching the camera tripod facing Santa’s workshop the day of the charity drive. Their eyes catalog the way Killian tugs at his thighs, an unsuccessful attempt to pull the tights away from where they hug the curve of his butt as he speaks with Philip, the former probie from SFD and the reason the sheriff’s department took up the charity drive. Lily’s hands are tucked into her own fire department issued sweatshirt and a smirk tugs at her lips. “We didn’t have costumes last year.”

*

Two hours into the event and Emma’s not sure how much more she can handle.

It’s not that the work is hard; all she has to do is get the kid’s attention, point, and click. The event itself is so far surpassing expectations as well. The container beside her is nearly full with presents for the children of Storybrooke, their monetary donations are overflowing if her mother’s excited gestures mean anything, and the kids that come to see Santa are grinning from ear to ear with an excited bounce in their step.

No, she decides, none of that is the issue. The issue lies with the fact that she has to watch her fellow deputy be cute and adorable with small children who are also cute and adorable. It’s not even like she can look away, having to be prepared for the split second that some children look at the camera before clambering away to their parents. So she gets a front row seat to every single interaction.

God. She never knew he had dimples.

They become apparent as he bends down to one knee in front of a little girl that can’t be older than three and he tells her all about Santa while she waits her turn. His eyes light up and his grin is wide as he speaks with the girl, nodding his head as she asks for a hug. He tells her about the candy cane he’s giving her mom and then slowly stands, gesturing for her to meet Santa. Emma’s pretty sure she spotted the mom tuck her wedding ring into her first.

“Everything okay?”

Emma jumps, glancing only briefly at her son before focusing back on the scene before her through the camera’s viewfinder. “Of course everything’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?” Henry laughs and she can only imagine the shake of his head.

“Maybe it’s the way you’re super tense or how you were glaring at Mrs. Garner through the camera.”

David waves off the little girl with a bright smile and a boisterous ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ and Emma allows her heartstrings to be pulled by the moment. His gaze finds the empty line and her standing beside it, quickly making his way over.

“You want any coffee?” he asks her quietly.

“Sure.”

“What do you want?”

“The same thing you got me the other day!”

His brow furrows at her comment but before she could ask him why, Jones commandeers his attention. Then she waits for David’s nod to signal a break and Jones to put up their break sign before she turns fully to her son. “Aren’t you supposed to be selling hot chocolate with Belle and the other library volunteers?”

“I may have been drinking more than I was selling…” he admits with a sheepish grin. Affection fills her as she wraps an arm around his neck, pulling him to her side.

“How much do I owe the library?”

“Let’s just say that I shouldn’t get allowance for two weeks.”

“Geez, kid. Is your stomach okay?” Henry just grins up at her and Emma thinks she could live in this moment forever. He’s growing up way too fast for her liking. She has moments, like this one, when she wants to freeze time. Henry is her baby and she doesn’t know what she’ll do when he doesn’t need her anymore. Mom has become such a part of her that she dreads the moment he won’t come to her for help first. On the other hand, she can’t wait to see the kind of man he’ll become; no doubt he’ll be kind, sweet, gentle, and hold the biggest heart around. She’s proud of him and the person he is growing into.

When he tilts his head back down towards the Santa’s Workshop backdrop they have, Emma soaks in the laugh that comes from his throat before moving her own gaze to investigate.

Killian’s walking back to their photo area with a large bag from Granny’s hanging on his wrist and a full cup holder in his hand, gaze darting around for something. Away from their Christmas backdrop, she gets to really see how ridiculous the costume looks. From afar, he looks like an overgrown Peter Pan.

“Hey Killian!” Henry calls from her side. He spots them, nods his head, and begins to head in their direction.

“How do you know Deputy Jones?” she asks.

Henry smiles too smugly for her liking and says, “Gramps introduced us when we got lunch one time. Killian’s even joined us a bunch too!”

Calculations run in her head of the many times Henry’s requested to have lunch with David over the past year and she wonders when anyone was going to tell her that her son was buddy-buddy with her fellow deputy?

Not that it’s a bad thing, per say. But it’s one thing to see a hot guy be sweet with random kids and it’s another to see it with your own. She really could not handle that right now. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she mutters. Studiously ignoring his approach, she dashes away for a reprieve.

When she returns, his gaze is heavy on her shoulders. Henry still stands at her camera, keeping a watchful eye over it, and Killian – when did she start calling him Killian?! – stands beside him, enraptured in conversation despite his straying eye.

“Swan!” he calls when she gets near. She strains to keep her lips pressed together instead of breaking into a smile and desperately wishes the stupid costume had pockets she could dig her fists into. “I got you some sustenance on my trip to Granny’s.” The bag he hands her is heavy and smells of the diner’s delicious bacon and cheese fries. Henry has his own burger hanging out of his mouth, a cup at his feet.

Shock fills her system as she takes the container from the bag and see her favorite – grilled cheese, onion rings, and a small side of cheddar bacon fries. It’s an order her father still gets wrong, to her amusement. Words fail her so all she manages is a measly thanks, eyes glittering as she accepts the coffee he offers as well. It’s perfect too.

“I have to say, Swan,” he begins once she’s halfway through her sandwich and Henry’s run off to group up with some friends. “You make green look good.” Her cheeks flush under the heat of his gaze. As much as the tights are formfitting for him, she knows it’s the same deal for herself. The elf tops they’ve been squeezed into are much of the same material and she feels like she’s wearing a giant, ugly leotard.

His own perusal of her person allows her to sneak a glimpse of him once again, a smirk coming to her lips.

“Thanks. You look…”

“Devilishly handsome?”

“Like Peter Pan.”

She watches in delight as his nose scrunches up in disgust and he shakes his head. “Not that bloody demon. Don’t be so cruel, love.”

“I could have been crueler.”

“I doubt that.”

Her hand reaches of her own accord to gently touch his ears and the slight point at the top. Fingers faltering, shaking against his skin, her voice wobbles as she speaks. “I could have said you don’t even need the costume to be Santa’s elf.”

“Ah, yes,” he says, unbothered by her touch. He tilts his head to the side as he gestures to his other ear, a grin on his face that she can’t decipher. “The pointy ears.”

“They’re cute,” she says, the filter in her mind apparently gone. Both of them freeze at that, eyes wide and caught on each other’s gazes. Her breath catches in her chest and she wants to bolt but her feet are rooted to the spot. His own breathing is ragged and sharp, the blue of his eyes intense.

The pull between them is instinct and Emma feels herself swaying into his space before her father’s loud Santa chuckles breaks through air, the two of them springing apart. She hiccups to get a breath in and awkwardly steps back, almost knocking over the tripod in the process. David clutches at his fake belly, shaking it in his hands as he calls out to all the boys and girls gathered around the workshop that he can’t wait to meet them.

“Duty calls,” she manages to get out through a weak smile, hoping to put that moment behind them. In no uncertain terms can they go there. Not only do they work together, but Emma isn’t a relationship kind of woman anymore. As if he could sense her walls being refortified, Killian mirrors her smile and steps back, nodding his head.

“Aye. Duty calls.”

The event only has another hour and a half to go yet the time drags on. Perhaps it’s because, despite her constant reminders of why nothing can happen between herself and Killian, she still finds her eyes drifting towards his figure.

His hands rest on his hips as he grins at two boys excitedly talking over one another. It’s obvious the two are siblings and Emma knows he’s seeing himself and his own late brother in the kids. A pull in her chest has her wanting to check in with him, make sure he’s only focusing on the good memories, but she holds herself back, unsure if the gesture would even be welcome.

Instead, she reminds herself to focus on the pictures, even if Killian comes into frame every other minute to help children on and off Santa’s lap and she gets the perfect view of his butt in those tights. Her plan goes well for some time, until Ivy comes.

Ivy herself isn’t a bad kid. Emma’s met her before at school events and she seems sweet, if a bit misguided. It’s her mother Victoria that’s an absolute nightmare. There are some people in the world who aren’t meant to be parents and she is one.

Ivy’s seven but the image of a big jolly man with a long beard in a bright red suit is terrifying to her, not that Victoria will listen. Instead she pulls on Ivy’s arm to bring the girl closer. Killian tries to step in and tell her it’s okay if she doesn’t want to go up but Victoria pushes her daughter past him. David’s objections to forcing the girl to do something she doesn’t want to are ignored as Victoria plops the girl down on his lap.

Big tears roll down her cheeks like rainwater and her nose is turning red. Snot begins to puddle on her upper lip and David’s soothing voice only rockets her into more hysterics.

“Just take the damn picture,” Victoria hisses at Emma from where she watches beside the backdrop.

Emma sighs, her heart going out to the little girl. She calls her name but Ivy pays her no mind, choosing to wail instead. Her soft coos and calls of comfort are ignored and the stuffed animal Emma waves seems more offensive than helpful. Killian comes beside her to help, his heat warm at her back. His presence is solidifying and she straightens up behind the camera, her voice stronger as she calls to Ivy.

Her voice only quiets when she feels Killian’s hand on her back. He gives her a raised eyebrow and a wink – really more of a blink as both his eyes close – with one finger up in front of his lips. Then he calls to Ivy before he starts to sing.

And boy, can the man sing.

His voice is low growl, coming from deep in his throat at the start of ‘Jingle Bells’. He rises a few octaves once he’s gathered Ivy’s attention and the dimples make an appearance as he smiles while he sings to her. Tears still track down the girl’s cheeks but the wailing has stopped and her attention is focused on the singing elf.

Emma’s able to snap a few photos, even if Ivy is barely smiling in them. It’s a vast improvement from the start though, which means Victoria Belfrey only leaves in a quiet huff instead of a blazing storm.

“Thanks for that,” she manages to say. Killian is still at her back and his gaze over her shoulder is calculating as he studies her face.

“For you, Swan? Anything.”

There’s another moment – one where their eyes connect and their mouths lift in smiles – and she feels a calm rush over her. She glances at her father from the corner of her eye and sees him quickly look down at the photo table her mother stands at. Mary Margaret doesn’t even bother pretending that she’s not fully invested in what Emma and Killian are talking about in such close proximity.

(She was definitely set up.)

Voice breathless, Emma plasters on a confident grin and looks at Killian. “Anything? Including joining me and my family for Christmas Eve dinner on Friday?”

The man looks like he’s seen a ghost.

His knees buckle and she only knows because he stumbles to right himself. His mouth opens and closes twice like a fish out of water. The blue of his eyes bore into her own and she grins as he takes a moment to recover.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you to dinner?”

“Is that how they do things in the North Pole?” Her hand reaches out to flick at his ear and he chuckles, catching her fingers before she can pull away.

“Aye,” he says, stepping closer. His tongue pokes out to lick his lips and Emma can’t tear her eyes away. “We also do this.”

There’s not a moment to question what he means before his lips descend on hers and she finds herself melting under his touch. His mouth sets her whole body ablaze and she feels like the Heat Miser just granted a green Christmas for Maine.

Her hand rests on his shoulder, the tight fabric twisting in her grasp, and Emma pulls away with a gasp. A teasing remark tugs at her lips but she refrains from saying it, not wanting to ruin the moment. She flattens out the fabric of his elf costume and smiles to herself.

A green Christmas indeed.

[hasquetzorkukudoneanythingwrong]

Forrested fate

Another singularity had to be dealt with, by Rex and Quetzalcoatl. Rex still harbored paranoia over previous events so he brought alongside Berserker class Lancelot. This singularity actually took place in Babylonia again, in the cedar forest. The three found themselves amongst the trees, when a message came about from Da Vinci.

Da Vinci: watch out you three! We're detecting what seems to be another universe's master and servant.

Rex: where?

Da Vinci: they're actually zooming all around the forest, they may be looking for something or someone.

Rex: hmmm...

The three continued on with their mission, but still prepared to meet the other master. After so many encounters with other masters, the control room can actually detect when someone came from another universe, thanks to unique particles left on them from their home universe.

BOOM!

Lancelot: uuurrrrggg...

Quetz: what was that?

Rex: note sure...

A large booming sound was heard. It wasn't too far off, but the group couldn't tell if it was the other master or the threat they needed to contain... or both.

In preparation of a possible attack, they all readied any weapons they had. Lancelot pulled out his sword, Quetz her Macuahuitl, and Rex shape-shifted his symbiotic blades to be ready.

Then bursting through the trees out came someone who seemed to be Ishtar and her master both being launched while on Maana.

The two crash into Rex's group, like a bowling ball into some pins. In the end of the mess, everyone was left on the floor. And in a familiar scenario, Ishtar had crashed her buttocks right onto Rex's face.

Ishtar: uuugh, what happened?

Rex, muffled: get off mah face...

Ishtar flew up from her position, annoyed.

Ishtar: *gasp* how dare you lay your face upo-

But before she could finish the other Venus Goddess had a few words for her

Quetz, in a growly voice: STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM MI ESPOSO, PINCHE PUTA!!!

Ishtar, panicked: aaaahhh!!! Val help!

Then the other master, a woman with silver hair, got up and tried to block the serpent from her servant.

Val: woah woah woah! No need to attack her! It was an accident!

Quetz was still annoyed, but backed up. Rex and Lancelot got back up, and Rex tried to figure out what was happening.

Rex: ugh, ok. Are you... another master's chaldea?

Val: ...I guess so... have you dealt with other universes too?

Rex: a few...

Val: what's your name?

Rex: you can call me Rex.

Val: ah... I've heard about you from Faye.

Rex: wow, another one Faye's met before.

Val: yeah, she said you're married to Quetzalcoatl.

Rex: yyyyup!

Val: first master I've heard about take their relationship that far...

Rex: y'know, you could do me the favor of telling me your name.

Val: right! Call me Val!

Rex: good to meet you Val. Am I correct in assuming Ishtar here is your partner servant?

Val: you would be, but she's one of multiple.

Rex: seriously? Who else?

Val: I've got 5 hands for 5 cuties! Ishtar, Jalter, Musashi, Mash, and Mo.

Rex: hmmm... interesting choices. Wait... what do you mean 5 hands? I see only 2.

Val: it's like that 1 meme, y'know about having two hands?

Rex: ah... right. So it just means 2's not enough huh?

Val: more or less.

Then on the comms, both Da Vincis had an urgent message.

Da Vincis: I hate to mess up the meeting, but the source of the singularity is coming right at you!

Rex: crap!

Val: shit!

Then through the forest, an ever growing rumbling was felt. Then out came what seemed to be a huge mechanical menace!

???: *HORRID SCREAMS*

Rex: what in Xibalba is that!

Ishtar: that's Humbaba! The beast of the Cedar forest!

Quetz: didn't Gilgamesh and Enkidu kill it!?

Val: Well, Tiamat was supposed to be dead too, and we know how that turned out!

Then the beast charged forward, swiping at the group. The three servants jumped out the way, while Rex shape-shifted a shield to protect him and Val.

Val: wait! What the fuck is that!? How are you doing that?!

Rex: later! Focus on the monster!

Ishtar and Lancelot opened fire on the beast from a distance, while Quetzalcoatl tried to hit it with her Macuahuitl, but the beast kept her at arms length, preventing her from using her lucha moves.

Val: any bright Ideas?

Rex: actually.. yeah! Tell Ishtar to annoy it and draw it's attention elsewhere!

Val: ok! Ishtar!

Ishtar: yeah!?

Val: distract the big lug!

Ishtar: on it!

She started to fly around the beast while shooting it like an annoying mosquito.

Val: now what?!

Rex: Lancelot!

Lancelot: urgh!

Rex: pin it down with those trees!

Lancelot: Wooooooh!

The berserker Knight grabbed whole trees and launched them at the beasts limbs, pinning it down to the ground.

Val: oooh! I like where this is going! Lemme guess? Wifey's up next?

Rex: right on the money! Mi corazon!

Quetz: si mi amor?!

Rex: time for the plancha!

Quetz: Si!

Quetzalcoatl grabbed onto the monstrosity and launched it into the air, flying up to it and sending it hurdling into the ground!

SMASH!

Humbaba had been slain, just like in the epic of Gilgamesh.

After things had finished, the group took a break. Lancelot was to keep watch, in case of any new enemies while everyone else talked for a bit.

Rex: so Faye just ended up in your chaldea?

Val: yeah... it was very interesting... her goddess was worried sick.

Rex: I can imagine.

Quetz: eehh, I'd never want to be separated from mi amor like that!

As she said this, she held onto Rex tightly.

Ishtar: wow Quetzalcoatl, never would've pegged you for the clingy type.

Quetz: eehhh... it's just that I love mi amor! He makes me feel happy, and loved.

Ishtar was somewhat surprised to see this wild and bombastic goddess act so lovey dovey and tender towards her master.

Val: ...that's kind of adorable.

Ishtar got a bit jealous after that

Ishtar, a bit blushy: w-w-well I can b-b-be like that f-f-for you V-val...

Val: Ishtar that won't be necessary. I like you for who you are.

Ishtar, still blushy: t-thanks...

After some more conversations, the Madrid incident was brought up...

Val: someone wanted her... spirit origin?

Rex: yeah... we weren't able to find out who... but whoever they are they'll pat!

Val: now you're this... slimy symbiote creature?

Rex: yeah...

Val: well... Hopefully whoever this asshole is, you'll be able to kick his ass straight to Kur!

Rex: thanks Val.

Val: no problem! And if we run into him, we'll kick his ass for you!

Rex: hehehe! Great to hear!

As time passed, it was clear they needed to finally leave.

Val: well, it was nice finally meeting you two- er three.

Rex: yeah! Nice meeting you two too! Let's do this again sometime!

Val: sure! And maybe you'll meet the others!

Rex: sounds good!

Quetz: bye Ishtar! Have a good day! Never touch mi amor again or your dead!

Ishtar: hehehe... yeah... bye.

Lancelot: AAAAAARRRRTTHUUUUUURRRR!!!!

Then the groups separated and went home. Another universe's master was met for the both of them, adding to an ever growing list.

A/N: finally sat down to do the Val/Rex crossover. Sorry it took so long, but I was running a blank on how'd it go. Even now I'm not sure how good it is. I'll try to get to the next one soon enough...

Val and her Ishtar belong to @hasishtardoneanythingwrong

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@hasereshdoneanythingwrong @haspaulbunyandoneanythingwrong @hasabbydoneanythingwrong @hasnightingaledoneanythingwrong @hasspartacusdoneanythingwrong @havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong @has-gilgamesh-doneanythingwrong