#so my tinted lenses might be a little thick

[mechorrhizae]

I need a word to describe the living nature of the soil. Describing the bacteria and worms and fungi and everything else that eats a corpse that did not let itself go, but instead just went.

Describing something that is alive but not as one entity. As alive, but its constituent pieces do not all have the same goal in mind. It's something that shouldn’t need to have uniform goals but is still expected by some to be perfectly congruent.

I need a word that describes what (I was told) I should expect disgust about, but brings a deep solace instead. I think it might be decomposition but the pieces of that word feel too sterile to build what it’s describing.

#thinking out loud #the same worms that eat me #been journal writing too much tbh #this is not just rhetorical i am trying to find good descriptors that are not a paragraph long #language is hard #im sure this could be reflected into many different topics but i made a hobby out of spinning symbolism in any given human articulation #so my tinted lenses might be a little thick

[siriannatan]

I can't draw, but I do love the vigilante sheriff au by @rhapsoddity

I'm also quite fond of the very entertaining combination of Scott, Jimmy and fWhip so I wrote a little short story :}

(it's a Tumblr exclusive :})

Scott was not too thrilled about having been saved by some rookie villain he's never heard about. He could handle the Sheriff and Stratos on his own, thank you very much. Not to mention how much his arm hurt now - not the newbie's fault but no less annoying. And there was a nasty bruise from when he tried to remove his mask. Even if he looked like a string bean under his leather jacket Tinkerer was quite strong. And knew how to avoid his hypnosis. Dangerous.

There were upsides to the situation. No, it was not Xornoth cackling at him whenever the news mentioned the new villain and a picture of Scott, in his full Spectrum outfit, in Tinkerer's arms. The good thing was that he was carried off like a princess by a potentially handsome man. Tinkerer's whole face was covered with some sort of gas mask and biking helmet fusion. And the damned googles with tinting lenses. And even though the voice manipulator he sounded nice. If a bit staticky and mechanic.

All things considered, he'd not mind meeting Tinkerer again. Mostly because unlike with other villains he doubted their goals would conflict too often. And the smoke bombs were cool. He wondered, briefly as he walked to a coffee shop near his house, what else he could make. And if maybe he could watch him one day. Watching a handsome man tinker… He never thought he'd be into the idea of being ignored but lately, he's been discovering a lot about himself.

Like that he hated crowds even more than he thought. The coffee place was packed but not so much there was nowhere to sit. He'd just have to sit with a stranger. Still beat his brother making fun of him. Everyone talking about Tinkerer was a bit of a downer but he was great at ignoring unwelcomed noises.

So, with a coffee in one hand and a plate with a couple waffles covered in whipped cream and fruits and marshmallows and sprinkles he looked for a seat. In a corner, he found an acceptable spot, with a busy maybe college student grumbling at his laptop. "This seat free?" he asked, offering the stranger a sheepish smile when he looked up. He was quite cute, a bit of a nerd type with an oversized red sweater and thick-rimmed glasses. And the prettiest bright blue eyes Scott saw in a while. And very soft, slightly curly, prettiest shade of ginger hair.

"Yeah," he nodded and refocused on whatever he was working on. He sounded tired. But when are college students ever not tired?

"Hard night?" Scott asked, sitting down and hissing when he moved his arm wrong. Damn Stratos for hurling him into a damn wall.

"More like a whole week…" the guy sighed. "Maybe it'll get better once I'm done with this cursed project… Is your arm okay? Seems like it hurts?"

Scott was slightly tempted to hypnotise the cutie to forget it but there were too many people around. "It's not that bad but I'm considering modifying some door frames, they're hard if you stumble and fall into them at midnight," he joked instead. The guy flinched a bit but his lips curled up a bit. "What's the project?" Scott carried on the conversation. He liked ginger's voice, even if it was a bit coarse from lack of sleep.

The guy sighed heavily. "Originally I had three more in my group but they dropped the subject just after the project was assigned so now I've been working alone a whole month on a thirty-minute long game because apparently, I'm masochist…"

"Couldn't you join a different group?" Scott asked sipping his caramel, coconut latte.

"No one else quit, and I prefer it this way, even if it is hard, I would be done if… I said enough…" he suddenly stopped, looking very cute as he looked down at his laptop.

"No. No it's fine, sometimes saying stuff makes if feel better," Scott smiled, he was a curious man by nature and who knew, it might be useful. You never know.

As it turns out cutie's boyfriend broke up with him for no reason last night so he stayed up all night packing his stuff and driving to his sister's apartment, pretty much on the other side of town from his ex's. Instead of finishing the project that was due midnight today… What a jerk of a boyfriend.

"And worst of all, he's not even that pretty," cuties, or fWhip as he introduced himself with one of the cutest, nerdiest smiles ever. "You're a lot cuter, though I do miss the boob window," smirked a smirk Scott saw all morning on TV… He was casually chatting with Tinkerer. And the guy instantly figured him out despite the disguise. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," Tinker chuckled at Scott's shocked face.

"How did you even…"

"That's a secret," fWhip grinned closing his laptop. "But I'm done with that and have an apartment to find, I hope we can see each other again soon," he smiled and left Scott with nothing better but nibbling his waffle and glaring at fWhip, Tinkerer, on TV. He really was pretty under that helmet…

#vigilante sheriff au #spectrum #fWhip #scott #my stories #my stuff #fanfic #empires smp #empiresshipping

[sinditia]

StarkerFestivals AUpril Fill - Model AU

(suggested by @vaguekiwi )

(it's still April somewhere in the world right? lol)

-

Through Your Eyes

Peter’s agent didn’t tell him much about this new project the photographer is working on. She just said that Tony’s working on his first book, something that’s been highly anticipated in the industry, and agencies everywhere are offering up their models to be featured in it. It’s no surprise, really. Tony has been known to catapult more than one aspiring model into stardom with just one well-composed photograph.

It should be right up Peter’s alley. He’s got tons of experience doing boudoir stuff, though never with a photographer as acclaimed as Tony Stark. A lot of them were just sleazeballs with a camera looking for excuses to take pictures of naked models and maybe sleep with them after. Peter’s always turned down such propositions which is why he often finds himself excluded from the final selection of photographs that make it to the galleries.

Peter’s greeted at the apartment building’s lobby by a beautiful slim woman with neatly-tied auburn hair and a septum piercing.

“Peter, right?” she says, shaking his hand. “I’m Friday. Come on up.”

Peter follows her to the elevator where she presses the button for the penthouse. It’s a long ride up and Peter drums his fingers on his thighs as he watches the numbers go up.

“Nervous?” Friday asks. At Peter’s bashful nod, she continues, “don’t be. He doesn’t bite. Unless you want him to.” She smirks at that.

Upon entry, she leads him straight to the dining room which has been transformed into something like a staging area. There are bright lights all over the place, various makeup tools strewn all over the table, racks of clothing and boards of polaroids along the walls.

“Talent’s here,” Friday calls out as she directs Peter to sit in front of the large mirror with the vanity lights.

If Peter’s heart was racing before because of his nerves, it completely stuttered to a stop now at the sight of Tony Stark walking in. The photographer could be a model himself with how devastatingly handsome he is. He’s dressed casually, in dark jeans and a t-shirt sporting the logo of a band Peter doesn’t recognize, but he fills them beautifully, the thin fabric draping snugly over his solid body. He’s got his signature thick-framed glasses, lenses slightly tinted red. He lifts them until they’re perched on his dark hair and he approaches Peter to scrutinize him. He’s got dark, soulful eyes under strong brows, and a sharp jawline carved with a neat bit of stubble.

Peter’s heart shudders back to life with a painful thud at the sight of Tony’s bright, brown eyes up close. “H-hi, I’m Peter,” he stammers.

The older man smirks. “Tony,” he says. He takes Peter’s chin to lift his face up gently, tilting it ever so slightly to the side.

Peter feels his face warm at the attention. He looks away, feeling like he might actually catch fire if he keeps eye contact with the other man.

Tony hums. “Pretty. Don’t bother with pigments, I wanna see that blush. Just give him some strobe cream, a little highlight. Brush out those lashes and brows. Leave his hair as is.”

“You got it, boss,” Friday says, and Peter realizes Tony was talking to her.

As suddenly as Tony walked in the room and took all the air out of it, he breezes right out, leaving Peter breathless and star-struck.

“Well, that makes my job a lot easier,” Friday says, smiling at him. “I love the cute ones.”

Friday does as she’s instructed and it doesn’t take long at all until she’s done and directing him to the rack of delicate looking lingerie in a myriad of styles and colours.

Peter stares at them blankly. “Um, which one am I supposed to wear?”

“Hm?” Friday looks up from tidying up her kit. “Oh, you can just pick which one or two you like best.” Peter must look as perplexed as he feels because she continues, “it’s a thing he’s doing. He wants the subjects’ preferences to shine through the photographs. Something about the true self being revealed through the freedom of choice or whatever, I don’t know, you can ask him if you want. But he’d prefer if you pick one yourself.”

Peter looks back at the options, running his fingers through the fine lace and soft satins. They’re all so beautiful and expensive looking, but Peter finds himself drawn to the powdery white ones, sheer delicate things like finely spun gossamer.

Friday helps him step into the finicky straps and adjust the tiny slips of fabric around his body. Peter turns slowly in front of the mirror, surveying his reflection. The pure white of the material brings out the colour in his complexion and makes his skin look extra soft and smooth under the see-through fabric. There’s something chaste and bridal about all that lace and white, but it’s still ridiculously sexy, leaving nothing to the imagination, just adding an extra bit of sensual whimsy to his appearance.

“You ready?” Friday asks.

Peter nods and lets her lead him to the living room where Tony is waiting.

The older man looks up from adjusting the standing lights he’s got strewn around the room. He smiles when he sees them walk in and Peter blushes again. It’s ridiculous. Peter’s done so many of these kinds of shoots before, often wearing nothing at all. But there’s something about the way Tony looks at him. It’s not the gross sort of hunger he’s used to getting. There’s something soft in Tony’s gaze. He makes Peter feel… beautiful.

“How’s the temperature? Comfortable enough?” Tony asks after Friday takes her leave.

“It’s fine,” Peter replies, fidgeting with the hem of his babydoll. “Um, where should I go?”

Tony picks up his camera. “Let’s just do a bit of warm-ups first. Make yourself at home. Walk around, whatever’s comfortable for you. I’ll let you know if I want you somewhere specific.”

Peter nods like he understands, even though he doesn’t. Not really. Most photographers are very particular about how they want him. Lie down like that, legs open, arch your back, ass out, there you go, look this way.

Peter steps further into the room tentatively, wondering how to look sexy just by walking. He looks around, trying to find a nice piece of furniture he can attractively drape himself over. But then his eyes fall onto the ornament on the centre of the coffee table. It’s a set of polished quartz spheres in various vibrant colours, placed in an indented pattern on a round wooden tray. It’s a peg solitaire board, but a really fancy, expensive-looking one.

Peter walks over to it to get a closer look, crouching slightly to pick up one of the spherical quartz pieces. He sees Tony out of the corner of his eye and the sounds of the camera shutter going off as Peter studies ornament. It’s smooth and hefty, each exquisitely crafted piece like a little round galaxy. It’s more of a work of art than a puzzle game.

As Peter sets the quartz piece back onto its place, he spots the framed picture next to the solitaire board. It’s a photograph of a group of friends with their arms around each other, smiling and laughing. Tony is one of them.

“Is this your apartment?” Peter asks, turning to look at the other man.

Tony looks up from behind his camera.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, looking down.

“No, we can chat if you want. Just pretend the camera’s not here.” Tony lifts up the camera and starts taking pictures again, even though Peter’s just standing there. “Yeah, this is my place. The book I’m working on is basically just subjects in this one setting. It’s partly an exercise on my part, seeing how much I can pull from a limited space. But it’s also capturing how subjects interact with it, how different people respond when given the same set of stimuli.”

Peter chances a sly smile. “All while wearing lingerie?”

Tony returns it with a smirk. “Bare in the body, bare in the soul, is what I always say.”

“And this setting is how youbare yourself, right?” Peter guesses. “We take off our clothes to invite you to look at our bodies while you invite us to your home to look into you. It’s almost like an indirect self-portrait in a way.”

Tony’s smile widens, looking equal parts pleased and impressed. “See, you get it! Maybe you can talk to my editor and convince her this is a good idea. Beauty and brains. I’m in love with you already.” He lifts up his camera and quickly captures Peter’s blush at the remark. “Must be why you were drawn to the puzzle, huh? Wanna play? Show me what you can do.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Sit down and I’ll just adjust the lights.” Tony directs Peter to sit in front of the coffee table and moves some of the standing lights around.

Peter feels the heat of the lights on him as he studies the puzzle. “You’re not gonna time me, right? It’s been so long since I played this.” He takes out the centre piece to begin the game and looks up at the other man who’s got his camera up and ready. “Should I play for a pattern or just the usual one left over?”

Tony looks amused. “Whatever tickles your fancy, sweetheart. I’m just here to take photos.”

Peter flushes. “Heh, right. Sorry. Um, okay.”

He starts moving the quartz pieces, jumping over adjacent ones and removing each jumped pieces as he goes. It’s easy at first, but as he moves away from the centre of the puzzle, his movements require more thought. As he thinks about his next steps, Peter hears the shutter of Tony’s camera continuing to click in the background. So engrossed he was in the game, Peter almost forgot that he was sitting there practically naked, being photographed.

Unable to resist, Peter looks up at the camera and Tony quickly captures the moment he locks eyes with the lens. Peter can’t help but smile at that and Tony takes a picture of that too.

As Peter returns his attention to the game, he vaguely registers Tony moving around, snapping photos of him at various angles. He doesn’t give Peter much direction other than to move his shoulders back out of the light, or his arm ever so slightly to the side. For the most part, he lets Peter work on his puzzle. It’s probably one of the most comfortable and most fun shoots Peter has ever done.

“Ha-hah!” Peter exclaims, removing the last piece with a flourish and setting it down with the others on the rim of the tray. “I did it! It’s not at the centre, but there’s just the one left!”

“Well done,” Tony praises.

Peter does a cheesy little victory pose next to his empty puzzle tray, making a peace sign and sticking his tongue out playfully with a wink. Tony obliges him with snap of his camera, laughing as he looks at the result on the monitor.

“That was fun,” Peter sighs, stretching out to lean back on the legs of the sofa behind him. He smiles lazily as Tony continues to take pictures of him. The game may be over but it doesn’t seem like the session is.

"Are you comfortable? Tony asks, face still hidden behind the camera. "You can get up on the couch if you want."

Peter lifts himself up off the floor as gracefully as he can to recline on the sofa's soft cushions with his head resting on the arm rest, one leg bent and leaning on the back pillows, sheer babydoll rucked up to reveal his panties. He watches Tony adjust the angles of the standing lights, then swap out the lens on his camera's body. The older man has large but dexterous hands, his movements deft and quick as he tinkers with his equipment.

Tony climbs onto the sofa to kneel in front of Peter, eyeing him for a few analytical seconds before lifting his camera up and begins snapping pictures.

As fun as it was to get to play the puzzle, this is what's familiar to Peter, spread out underneath the gaping maw of a photographer's 50mm lens, looking up at them with wide, inviting eyes. He falls into the motions easily, giving Tony all his best angles and poses.

"You have such beautiful skin," Tony comments. He rests on his haunches and considers Peter with his brown, thoughtful eyes. "May I?" he asks, one hand hovering over the babydoll on Peter's stomach.

Peter nods. He watches as Tony gently lifts the material up, arranging them artfully so it billows up beside him. He can feel the warmth of Tony's hand, the ghost-touch of it like a light kiss of a breeze, and he tries to hold himself back from arching up to it.

"Don't wanna hide those lovely freckles," Tony says, referring to the light speckles around Peter's bellybutton. He goes back behind his camera and starts taking photos from a lower angle. "Why did you choose this particular piece to wear?"

Peter shrugs. "I don't know. I like the colour. And it's soft. I like that."

Tony chuckles. "You have a good eye. You know how to play to your strengths. Soft." He shuffles closer and Peter spreads his legs a little wider to accommodate him. "Innocent." He leans forward, drops a bit lower so that the picture he's taking must look like what someone would see if they're situated between Peter's legs, eating him out. "Pretty." The sounds of the camera's shutter coincides with the beating of Peter's quickening heart.

"I'm sure you've had a lot of pretty models," Peter says, squirming a little. Having Tony so close to his crotch is starting to make him a little hard.

Tony smirks from behind his camera. "Had them to photograph? Sure."

"Have you had them anywhere else?"

"You mean in my bed?" Tony continues to take pictures of him, seemingly unbothered by this line of questioning. "No. Never."

"You've never wanted to?"

Tony pauses to look up at him. "No. Not until now."

"Oh," Peter breathes.

"Does that bother you?" Tony's expression is open and genuine, like if Peter were to get up and leave, he would simply let him go. Tony's not the first photographer who's admitted that they wanted to sleep with him, but he's the first one to ever make Peter feel safe, to not make him feel dirty for it.

"No," Peter replies honestly.

Tony continues to take photos of him like nothing happened and Peter continues to watch him do so, a little perplexed at this enigma of a photographer.

Peter trails a finger down his chest, picking lightly at the sheer fabric that barely covers his nipples. He sees Tony twisting the lens to zoom in on the movement, shutter going off rapidly.

"Is it because I made such good time on that puzzle?" Peter asks teasingly.

"Hmm?" Tony hums absently, still engrossed behind his camera.

Peter lifts one foot and trails it up Tony's thigh. "You've never wanted to sleep with your models before. What changed? Did I beat everyone's record on the solitaire board?"

Tony finally puts down his camera, but he's smiling, hand curling up to cup Peter's calf, thumb rubbing at the smooth skin. "You're the first one to even know what that thing was, let alone play and solve it."

Peter grins, pleased. He grows bolder, foot trailing further up until it reaches Tony's jeans-clad crotch. He grins wider in delight, feeling the older man's hardness through the fabric. He presses his toes into it, massaging the erection. "I'm good at other things too."

Tony groans softly, grabbing at Peter’s ankle but not pushing him away. “I’m sure you are, sweetheart.” His hand caresses slowly up Peter’s leg, up over his slender thighs to reach the sheer fabric of his panties, skimming feather light over his lace-wrapped cock. "Pretty all over too. You're very good at making people want you. I don't know if I can hold back much longer."

"Then why are you?" Peter murmurs, shifting his hips, pushing up to Tony's touch.

Tony looks him in the eyes, his expression strangely vulnerable even as he's rubbing Peter gently through his panties. "Peter, the moment I saw you I already decided that I was going to put you on the cover of my book. You already got it. You don't have to-"

Peter leans up on his elbows, slightly incredulous. "I know I don't have to. I want to. Tony, I wasn't even thinking about that. Did you think I was just trying to get favours out of you or something?"

Tony lifts up the camera and takes pictures of Peter in this new position.

Peter sits up until he's kneeling in front of Tony, hand covering the lens of the camera and pushing it away gently. "You're hiding," he says.

"That's why I'm behind the camera, not in front of it," Tony says. Gosh, his eyes. Peter doesn't think he's ever seen eyes like that. Peter's the one who's barely wearing anything but Tony's eyes look more open and naked than he is. It's the kind of eyes that can see the beauty in things and capture them, but it's also the kind of eyes that hide nothing behind them.

Peter leans up and kisses him, soft and slow. "I want you."

Tony sets the camera aside and kisses him back.

--

Peter wakes in a king bed under a fluff of blankets, the morning light streaming in through the windows of the penthouse. The other side of the bed is empty but still warm to the touch.

“Tony?” he calls.

“Out here, baby,” Tony’s voice rings out through the open bedroom door.

Peter swings his legs out of the bed and grabs what looks to be Tony’s shirt, discarded on the floor. He pulls it on, smiling at the picture on Tony’s bedside. It’s the photo of Peter being silly after solving that puzzle game during the photo shoot where they first met nine months ago. It didn’t make the book but Tony loved it so much he had it printed and framed.

Peter walks out to the dining room, the hem of Tony’s shirt swaying over the tops of his thighs. He spots Tony opening a large cardboard box that’s been set on the dining table, taking out a hardcover book from inside it.

“It’s here?” Peter asks, approaching his boyfriend, sliding an arm around his waist and kissing his scruffy cheek.

“Yep.” Tony grins, turning the book to show him the cover. It’s Peter, sitting on the carpet in their living room, leaning over the solitaire board puzzle, looking up at the camera with a playful grin. He’s wearing lingerie but that’s not the focus of the image, it’s the look on his face, the twinkle in his eyes as he watched Tony watching him.

Peter picks up one of the books and skims through the contents. It’s a collection of people photographed in Tony’s living room in various states of undress but it’s intimate in a way that’s not overtly erotic. There’s some models Peter recognizes from other agencies, beautiful young men and women whose boudoir work he’s seen before. But here, while they’re scantily clad in racy lingerie, they look like they’re just hanging out with a friend, sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, or laughing at something Tony must have said during the shoot. It’s a testament to Tony’s skill as a photographer that he’s created an environment so casual and comfortable to capture these moments in just this one room with an artistic eye.

And then there’s Peter’s spread. Tony’s included the shots of him playing the peg solitaire puzzle, but there’s also the shots of him spread out on the sofa looking up at him. Peter’s always been a little vain, he’s a model after all. But he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so beautiful as to when it’s Tony’s camera taking his picture. Maybe because it’s Tony behind the camera that Peter even looks like that. It seems like Tony’s the only one who could pull something so raw yet so soft from him, to bring out a part of himself he was never comfortable enough to show anyone else.

“Do you like it?” Tony asks, a little nervously.

“It’s amazing,” Peter says truthfully, smiling up at him. “You’re amazing.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re on the cover,” Tony says playfully.

“Well, yes,” Peter laughs. “But seriously. This truly is amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

Tony takes the book Peter’s holding and opens it to the dedication page.

For Peter,

my muse, my angel, my love

“Couldn’t have done it without you, sweetheart,” Tony says softly.

A warmth spreads over Peter’s body as he smiles up at him. “You could. But I’m so glad you took me on this ride anyway.”

Tony pulls him close and kisses him. “I love you.”

--

@starkerfestivals

#starker #starkerfestivals #marsha writes

[alldayangst]

gold rush (Tom Holland)

All of my fics are LGBT and PoC friendly. Inspired by gold rush by Taylor Swift. Everybody wants Tom, but you don’t like a gold rush. WC: 2.7K words. 

“Y/N, I just wanted to say again, thank you for coming in today and doing this for us.” Tom’s dad, Dominic, said as he displaced papers across desks, earl grey swaying like an angry lake in his mug. Approaching footsteps hinted that the star of the show was soon to be hold. In other words, Tom was running behind.

The door creaked and light from the corridor crept through like Sun peeping through curtains of the Night. It refusing to shut after Tom budged and pushed was maybe divine punishment for him being so late, and maybe provided the bit of laughter you needed after rolling out of bed at 6am for this, for him. When the door eventually did close, Tom turned around and saw you in all your glory; much taller than he remembered, more assured than he’d imagined, and more gorgeous than drowned out and half forgotten memories of you could ever fabricate.

You and Tom ran in the same social circles, but hadn’t seen each other since Tom’s career imploded when you were both nineteen. As much as Tom felt he owed his heart and soul to the UK, he maintained an almost permanent fixture on the States. It started to feel like his trips back to England were in fact actual holiday. At one point, you were in love with Tom, but meeting became a constant battle of ‘here, not there’ and your heart grew tired of the duck and goose chase. The gravity of the situation was too much for you, whom hadn’t even tasted their twenties yet. 

“Y/N!” Tom launched at you and held you in tight embrace. You let go of the hug, but he didn’t. And his dad watched on in momentary awe as you wrapped your arms around Tom once again, who breathed in every part of you with unwavering adoration.

“Tom!” You rubbed along his back as he hummed. “When I was told we were gonna have a ghost writer, I had no idea it was gonna be you.”

Tom and his dad (being an author) were collaborating on a book, a million dollar idea that’d been years in the making. Tom had stalled it, his dad told you out of simple insecurity. Now that the world was a stage, he was worried people would criticise his dyslexia with every line he wrote, that every stroke of his pen would reveal him as a rare type of monster that lacked intellect, he pondered that he wasn’t insightful enough in some way. His dad may have written a book about Tom outfaming him, but Tom felt like he’d always live in Dom’s shadow in this respect. Fresh from Oxford with an English Bachelor’s degree, Dom employed you to get grease on the gears to commence writing. Tom had always come out of his shell when you were around.

Your writing session lasted from 8 til noon, when Tom had promo with LadBible or Entertainment Weekly or whoever had bid the highest from his presence that day.

The door swung open and three men in all black and mics saddled around their waists called for and led Tom out of the room.

“Tom, session’s over. We need to get you to your BBC promo in 30 and we’re already running behind schedule.’ One cloaked Tom in a jacket you were sure was more expensive than your own home and another whispered something into a walkie talkie: “Holland is on the move. Check the back entrance is clear.” With that, Tom rose to his feet and left completely opposite of the way you came in. Without a word, no goodbye.

You and Dom left the building together around ten minutes later, where ten men with large cameras stood, lenses focused on you, glaring at you, not sure what to make of you. One of the men screams “Hey! You dating Tom Holland” and after that all you hear is clicks and all you see is bright flashing lights and Dom clenches your hand and leads you to your taxi cab.

The next time you see Tom is sooner than expected. The Hollands were hosting a last minute dinner party and you found yourself sitting opposite Tom, feeling his hard, hot and heavy gaze on you. The tension in the room was so thick not even a chainsaw cut through.

“Next topic,” You picked up a card from the deck and read it aloud. “Politics!” You said devilishly as you sip on what was left of the white wine in your cup, and now that your thought process is blurred; Tom’s longing gaze puts you at dismay.

“Fuck!” Harry exploded, and you hear their mother hiss. “Fuck I hate politics, there’s no making it out alive!” he remarked as he drummed on the table cloth, drunken excitement brewing a new energy in the room.

You go on like this for hours until dinner party is dinner party no more. And while Dom, Nikki and all of Tom’s siblings have chosen to exit stage left, it’s 1am and you and Tom have yet to leave the scene.

Tom sets down your deck of debate cards in favour of a genuine moment.

“What are you doing these days, Y/N?” Tom’s not looking at you, he’s looking at your knee as he rubs circles on it. You want to look down there too, see what he finds so intriguing; but you decide against it in fear you might spontaneously combust. You don’t know if this moment’s supposed to be intimate or innocent and you’re not sure if you want to find out.

So you put up a wall.

“I should be asking you the same thing, Holland.” You say sarcastically. “What have you been doing these days? I haven’t seen you around.” Your eyebrows scrunched up together but you’ve got a big, idiot grin on your face that’s more than telling. Tom giggles at your facetiousness.

Tom scratches his head in mock thought. He never clocks out, always putting on a show. “I don’t know - uh.” You’re laughing before Tom has even told the punchline, ‘cause I guess anything’s funny when it’s said by the one you love.”I’m kind of -” He snatches an old Spiderman comic off the floor. “I’m kinda doing this acting thing at the moment. Playing, y’know, this guy.”

“Well I wish you better luck in the future.” Tom has stopped rubbing circles but instead places his two hands on your knees as you rock back in laughter.

“I’m serious, Y/N. What do you do now?”

“Um.” You suddenly forgot your entire career as Tom, with no shade of subtlety, stares right into your soul. “I got my degree. I write like little stories, y’know? Have you ever heard of folklore?”

Tom shook his head.

“They’re like these little, old beautiful myths. And I write them for a living. And if I’m lucky, they get published in The Times. If I’m even luckier, I get to work with my old best friend - ” You feel your world stop temporarily as you call Tom your ‘best friend’ and you pause for all of 0.3 seconds to register Tom’s reaction but his face doesn’t flinch. “-Writing a book with him and his dad.” And that makes Tom smile. So he doesn’t have to tell you he missed you, you just know.

‘Undivided appearance’ and ‘undivided attention’ don’t necessarily mean the same thing in Hollywood as they do in real life, and you learn that the hard way in your writing session.

Tom may have been sat right next to you, but he was miles away. He was doing press with Cosmo, who hadn’t stopped tagging him with blue hearts on his Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat stories, causing his phone to go off every two seconds. You looked at the phone and then at him who then got the hint and put it on silent. Then there was a knock on the door. Tom rushed to open it, expecting that Dom had sent down a food delivery to egg you on finishing this chapter. You rehashed his childhood like a million times - in fact, you were part of it - so when it came to writing the parts that hurt, where you took a more supporting role in his life, you needed his help. The fact is, the knock at the door had come from one of Tom’s men (Tom liked to call him Man In Black no. 3) who hadn’t said as much as a ‘hi’ before he made his announcement. “Tom, you’re on the line with Cosmo in 10.” The man stepped back and pulled out his walkie talkie, “Holland knows he’s on the line with Cosmo at 10.” And then continued to pace around the hallway.

Cosmo called as he said they would and you almost felt for. second like tom might enjoy an entertainment magazine’s company more than yours. The interviewer made glaring comments and passive flirts at Tom who just blushed and chuckled and sipped his water like the woman on the phone calling him ‘hot’ was just too much to handle. At one point, she says: “What must it be like to grow up that beautiful, Tom? With your hair falling into place like dominoes.” You’re not expecting it when Tom tilts the phone so you’re in view. “Well I’m with the most beautiful being on Earth right now so..” Tom looks at you as if to ask ‘is this okay?” and you know it’s too late for these kind of questions, because that moment is headline fodder, so you smile not to make him feel bad for opening Pandora’s box. But Tom is merciless and likes to rub salt in the wound. “This is Y/N! Y/N’s helping me write the book with my Dad! We go way back.” He covers his mouth as soon as he says it. “Shit! They’re not supposed to know about the book yet.”

This is the moment, you think, where you believe when they say your first love is the one you never let go.

And you can’t think of anything purer than the love you have for him.

Tom thinks being on land is boring. He likes being strung from chords 30 feet in the air, and drowning in despair through scenes of emotional turmoil. You want to tell him you’re an arrow from Cupid’s bow about to reach him, but you couldn’t recover from the splinters if Tom shut you down. After all, Tom was a gold rush. A treasure that everyone had discovered but nobody owned. How precious is a jewel that anybody could take home with them?

Tom had invited you to a visit to Brighton with him, a city near the coast, for some inspiration on writing his section of the book. 

You accepted. And because you did, you found yourself at the beginning of the end, on Tom’s boat in Brighton. “We don’t have to talk about the book right now.” Tom throws a stack of blue tinted paper on the floor. His dyslexia meant that spelling and reading was so much easier when done on blue pages, and you could only guess that was the reason the body of water around you brought him so much peace. So when you saw that something might compromise your best boy’s happiness, you point it out. To give Tom a little bit of time to exit before things got ugly.

“Tom, I see someone in the bushes.”

“Yeah. It’s a pap.” Tom mumbled nonchalantly. 

“They’re here to get pictures of me,” He turned to face you. “and you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, the fans ship us. Think we’d be a good couple after that Cosmo stunt. We would have been a good couple when we were like, 18.” He laughs.

“Huh, yeah.” You look down.

“The best one around.” And you can’t tell if he’s serious.

You rip off one of his blue sheets. “I’m coming. I got hit with inspo.” And you trail to a different section of the boat. A very obvious click of the camera from a shrub nearby coaxes your pen to write without a second thought, How is he so accustomed to this? Fake private moments, protected by sheer glass curtains?

You scrunched your paper, well his paper, into a ball. 

Your mind had turned his life into folklore. You weren’t sure if that was crossing a line, so you just put the ball into your bag and hide it until he hits you with the spark again.

“Let me see it.” Tom says.

“No.”

“You ran off to write it and won’t let me see it?” 

You held your bag at your hip in defence. “No, Tom. Drop it.” 

Tom’s face drops a little bit, but then he reaches into his own bag and reveals a deck of your debate cards. “I know what will cheer you up, good ol’ Y/N.” He sets a card on the wooden table between you two. 

“Do you believe in a higher power?”

You toyed with the pendant around your neck which revealed your faith. “Do you?”

“I don’t. But I believe in soulmates.”

You look to the left to really ponder on what Tom is saying, and a paparazzis captures another photo of you in the corner of your eye.

“And you don’t think there’s a higher power that manufactures our souls to make our soulmates?”

Tom feigns a scowl. “That’s ridiculous.”

You scoffed. “How very contrarian of you.”

“What the fuck does that mean.”

“It means you contradict yourself, Thomas.” You laugh as he holds his chest in fake hurt.

“Are you implying I’m anything less than perfect?”

“Never.”

Never. Because you didn’t believe that to be true. 

“Good. Cause you’d have to be punished.” Tom picks you up and throws you in the water below before jumping in with you.

On your way home you stop at the yours and Tom’s writing booth, scavenging through your bag to drop off Tom’s notepad, some scrunched up blue and white papers you and Tom thought could still help you write his book. You’d made an addition to your love-hazed scribblings about Tom and reckon you’d die if he found it. You managed to throw the other in the water, excusing yourself with “It’s utterly awful.”, to which you and Tom agreed you wouldn’t throw any more paper in the ocean cause the poor fish already had it hard enough.

You and Tom had a session the next day. Tom was excited for the day, and you could tell because he’d given his phone to one of his big babysitters for the time he had you.

“I think that’s all of yours.” You and Tom made a business out of unscrunching your paper balls to see if they had any useful ideas. You were certain you reached the end of Tom’s. All of his notes had ‘T.H’ written on the back in big and were scribed on blue paper. When it came to your little ‘secret admirer’ notes you weren’t worried - you had an English degree and were quick to think on your feet and was ready to make something up when it came to opening it. 

“No, this one’s mine.” He’s confident, so you let him have it. He goes to pick up your tea and then realises it’s nowhere near warm, and was the one you made for yourself when you crept in yesterday evening. Tom has a smile on his face, and then he doesn’t. Before he goes to read it aloud, his eyes tell you he’s reading it again and again and again. “At dinner parties, I’ll call you out on your contrarian shit, and the coastal towns we wondered round will never see a love as pure as it.”

The look on Tom’s face gives you the splinters. He tries to look at you but you know he can’t. You don’t blame him. You can’t look at him either. “I really thought this was a good friendship.”

You hum and nod your head in agreement, pull your lips into a thin straight line as streaks of tears abandon your eyes. This was worse than Tom rubbing salt in your wounds. He’s rubbing dirt in your painful fucking gashes and you are reminded of why this didn’t work before, why it will never be.

And you wouldn’t dare to dream about him anymore.

Masterlist

Upcoming Works

#tom holland imagines #tom holland fanfiction #peter parker tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland fluff #tom holland fanfic #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland blurb #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland angst #peter parker angst #peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker smut #peter parker imagine #t: i'm not crying #t: angst and fluff pie #t: alldayangst

[x0401x]

Jeweler Richard Fanbook Short Story #5

Feel free to message me about possible corrections, and please consider supporting the creators by purchasing digital copies of the official releases: Novel || Manga || Fanbook. In case anyone is feeling generous: Ko-fi | PayPal. ( ╹◡╹)っ’･*

← Previous || Index || Next →

Iolite of Cloudy Skies

Iolite. Its Japanese name was “blue flower stone”. The gem was blue with a purple tint stronger than that of a sapphire and had a unique viscosity that made it seem as if it was coated with a bit of dew. The level of hardness was seven. It was called iolite when treated as a gemstone, but when treated as a type of mineral, it was also called cordierite. It was an eccentric stone, which also appeared to have a grayish brown color instead of blue depending on the angle that one looked at it. Etc., etc.

“What happened, Seigi? Your eyes are dead.”

“How can I put it...? Surfeit, I guess.”

“Haah?”

I couldn’t memorize the stones’ names. They were too many.

The client who left just now had come because they wanted to see many sorts of blue stones, so Richard’s treasure box was packed with a great variety of blues. There were sapphires, of course, and also tanzanites, lapis lazuli, blue chalcedonies and this iolite.

Half a year before I had started working part-time in Etranger, the image I had of gemstones was limited to things such as diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds, I believed. Now I knew about the existence of a stone named zircon, which shone in the same way as a diamond, and also knew about the spinel, which was red like a ruby, as well as that the color of sapphires was not just blue, having a wide range from purple to yellow, and I had seen transparent jades that were impossible to tell apart from emeralds.

If I had as much knowledge of minerals as Tanimoto-san, I would’ve managed to sort stones inside my head by the differences the in chemical composition of each, but unfortunately, I was unfamiliar with such things, and I currently didn’t have enough enthusiasm or willpower to study them. If I were to explain figuratively, it felt like going out to hunt for clams at a beach, and when you innocently dove into the lake, you’d see the Mariana Trench spreading out below. It was a beautiful world, thus also too wide and too deep. And endless. To a terrifying extent.

When I told him roughly this, Richard laughed, the depths of his throat trembling with giggles. “It is not as if you are aiming to obtain a GIA or FGA qualification or anything, right? Isn’t it all right for you to observe as much as you like?”

“That might be the case, but...”

I found myself thinking that it was a waste.

After all, I’d be on my knees listening as Richard went, in earnest, through the trouble of introducing all kinds of stones to me one by one. I often heard from my senpais that “job hunting is a connection for people”, so I felt sorry that my connection with stones remained scoreless. Regardless, it wasn’t like I was suddenly going to get any smarter.

As I said this, Richard laughed again and beckoned me with a hand gesture. He then took something out of his suit’s pocket. One of those subdivision vinyl bags that I’d often see when he was handling jewels in the back room. It seemed there was an iolite inside. There was a label stuck to the bag packed with absorbent cotton, and something was written on it in horizontal letters. “Viking sunstone,” it read. Vikings? Like the ones that you’d imagine wearing horned helmets, carrying axes and coming from the sea on a ship? As I asked for confirmation, the jeweler nodded with a “precisely”.

“The words written on this label are associated with the former ‘purpose’ of the iolite. In the past, people used iolites as sun stones.”

“‘Used’ them as ‘sun stones’...?”

I didn’t understand anything from A to Z. What did that mean? For starters, why was gem of such a cold-looking color made into a stone of the sun?

Before I even had a breach to ask, the beautiful shopkeeper began talking, a smile ghosting his lips, “You might already know this, but a portion of the people residing in the current Britain are descendants of those who went through the Norman Conquest that began around the ninth century - in other words, of the Vikings. They were famous for having the skills to travel long distances, which was unusual at the time, so Seigi. If you were someone who travels the sea for long periods, how would you know your way?” Richard asked me.

A means to know the cardinal directions in the open sea. So it was a situation where there’d be no piece of land to act as a mark. The only thing I could use in such a case was a magnet. No, wait. Richard had said earlier that it was the ninth century. The compass would be invented only much later. I recalled memorizing that this was the invention that triggered the Age of Discovery back in high school for history class. If so, I recalled the words on the label. “Sunstone”. Yeah, it connected.

“They knew the directions by using the stone of the sun?”

“Good for you. Exactly. Isn’t it clear?”

“K-Kinda!”

“Then, what about under cloudy skies, when the sun is not visible, Mr. Enlightened Part-Timer?”

Speaking of which, the weather changed easily at sea. I had also heard that England was a country where the skies tended to be overcast. Bad weather must be frequent in those coastal waters. If the sky stayed cloudy for three or four days, what should I do? Was there nothing more that could be done at sea?

When I made a puzzled face, Richard smiled as though he had hit the nail on the head, his white hands displaying the iolite under a fluorescent light. “For instance, let’s try to put a mark on any of this iolite’s faceted sides with ink. Another one on a different side. On sunny days, we would record in which direction we can see the sun from one of these two points at given times, and on cloudy days, we would look for parts where the two points overlap. When doing so, since this stone can detect even the faintest light, we would be able to tell the sun’s position,” he said.

“So we can know the position of light with that stone...? Then couldn’t it be any other stone?”

“Light refracts. If it were passing through thick clouds, the human eye would find its shine in a different direction from the sun’s actual position. Iolites acted as polarized lenses, so to speak. By using this stone, the sailors could tell the correct position of the sun. Yet the most famous sunstone is not iolite, but a type of refraction stone called ‘Iceland spar’.”

A polarized lens. Now he was talking about physics? But I did remember the stuff about light refraction. Got it; so that was why it was a “stone of the sun”.

“I don’t get it very well, but I feel the gemstone romance from it. I like that kinda thing,” I said enthusiastically, Richard giving me a calm smile.

“You do get it. Just as you said, you ‘don’t understand stones very well but like them either way’. That is exactly why your eyes were open, so you thought only about how far your destination was and felt your teeth set on edge at it. You mustn’t expect to be able to understand everything overnight. Go steady, without rushing. Do not waver at the impatience stuck back-to-back to your ambitions. That is different from having no one to depend on due to not knowing where you are headed. The hardest times are probably the ones when you have no idea where you should go, but you know the exact position of the sun.”

So, in short, I knew exactly where I wanted to be?

While I remained quiet, Richard shrugged and added, “Of course, this is a metaphor. Even if little by little, the stones should definitely be leaving a trace inside you. Aren’t you supposed to be treasuring this instead of chasing after what goes away?”

Lastly, Richard threw in the trivia that, in the world of power stones, the iolite was said to be a stone that showed people the “right direction”. Taking the backbone of it into consideration, that was indeed a convincing talk. But more than that...

“It’d be great if you were by my side forever.”

“Hah?”

“You’re an expert at noticing what’s troubling other people, aren’t you? I really think you’re a handy guy, like a compass. Aah, ‘the world’s most beautiful compass’, huh?”

“Those are quite irrational words, on top of being illogical. You were born in Japan, raised in Japan and aspire to become a public servant of Japan, so why are you calling an English jeweler a ‘compass’?”

“Well, I don’t plan to ask you about how to prepare for the public servant exams, but I can rely on you when I run into bigger problems, right?”

Richard sighed with a face of thorough dismay. I could understand how he felt. This was like a child in nursery school saying, “It’d be great if my teacher could always be there to help me out.” Long story short, I was acting spoiled. Even though he was my superior at work.

“That’s right; about the custard pie that today’s costumer brought, it looks like it’s quick to expire. Wanna eat it? I’ll make some tea.”

“If you would. Aah, the sugar...”

“Holding back on it this month, right? I know.”

“Help me with half of it. The amount of sugar in it concerns me.”

“Leave it to me.”

This guy was truly good at leading the mood around, and the same applied for the not-too-straightforward way that he phrased himself when recommending gemstones to the customers. Apparently, he thought I was feeling down.

I cut the crunchy pie in half while the tea leaves boiled, then shared it with Richard in the reception room and we both ate it. Covered with powdered sugar, the pie was a dangerous white little thing, as the colorless powder could scatter around from the pie’s surface just by us breathing on it a tiny bit, so the snack time turned into a moment of silence. I felt like laughing at the much too surreal sight several times, but if I happened to cause a big damage to the beautiful shopkeeper’s high-grade suit by doing that, my pay would be reduced. In the end, I ate the pie entirely while looking at the wall.

On the way back home that day, as I looked up at the night sky, I thought about the Vikings of over a thousand years ago. It was said that they were after new lands. What about me? Where was I headed? Would there ever be a day when I would fall into a philosophical concern, like, “I have no idea where I’m trying to go”? Perhaps Richard too? I insolently prayed that the stones may help us out at least in times like those.

Stars were beginning to twinkle in the purplish-blue night sky. There was no doubt that the stars appearing in the sky had not changed ever since the Vikings’ era. Thinking about that as I walked, I mistook one of the streets I should have turned. I had the feeling that I heard Richard’s voice, telling me to mind at least my own steps. I get it, geez.

I decided to wait patiently for the benefits of the stone. It was best for something like that not to happen, but there was no guarantee that both of us wouldn’t lose our ways at the same time one day.

#the case files of jeweler richard #jeweler richard #housekishou richard #housekishou richard shi no nazo kantei #nakata seigi #richard ranashinghe de vulpian #richard #jr short story collection #tsujimura nanako #novel #my translation

[shadow-otousan]

Deciphering the years in which Shadowsan grew up in

 Alternative title: Debunking the supposed fact that Shadowsan is 40+ (I’m looking at you, cs wiki)

Since Shadowsan’s flashback in s02e03, this has been on my mind. After some intense image searching, I can finally share the fruits of my research. 

Let’s cut to the chase. 

This is Shadowsan as a child, then known as Suhara. (Also pictured are most likely his playmates.) The style of clothing they wear, which you can see mostly on the other kids, were fashionable as everyday wear for children during the 60s (and possibly earlier during the late 50s). This nostalgic blog in Japanese in which the author talks about their childhood and details the timeline of the decade, also describes the fashion worn by himself and his peers.

The caption (fortunately in English) as follows:

Children of everyday wear of 1965 is this is it !!

The boy on the far right and the two boys on the far left are wearing the style most similar to what we see in the flashback--sweaters worn over their shirts, and shorts that barely stop at the thighs or, if longer, above the knees. We can safely say that Shadowsan spent his childhood at least somewhere in the mid-60s.

Now on to the second decade and this time, we’ll be looking at Shadowsan and his brother. But first, we’ll be focusing on the most conspicuous example for what was considered the style of that decade.

This is Hideo as a young adult. Now the decade in which this took place was easier to figure. It might help that I had a 70s phase in college lol. The type of glasses he wore originated in the late 60s as a reaction to the unattractive and sometimes even downright butt-ugly spectacles of the past decades (except cat eye glasses but even that was a mixed bag). However, this style of eyewear really peaked in popularity during the 70s and it endured somewhat into the 80s.

Glasses became seen as fashionable with their large, thick, and colorful frames as seen in these ads. Tinted lenses, if we’re talking about sunglasses. Now what only stumps me is that I cannot find the exact example for Hideo’s glasses, as I see only one bridge on his frames instead of the more common two (those are the type of glasses Shadowsan buys for himself during the Fashionista Caper showing us that fashion is cyclical, but I digress). Regardless, the shapes are there.

As for his hair, you can simply find it by typing “70年代 アイドル 男性” in google image search. But for the sake of one example:

The only slight difference is that apparently, most of them parted their hair to the right instead of slightly to the left like Hideo does (and Masashi Sada as you can see above. Bonus points for being the few famous people in Japan who wears glasses so now I’m given the theory that the character designers lowkey based Hideo off of him. Highly unlikely, but it’s a nice thought. While we’re here, check out one of his songs like this one). His hairstyle also lasted until the 80s (because any start of the decade will always have holdovers from the previous one) until perms and hairspray made them even crazier. Hideo’s hairstyle can be describe as ‘feathered.’ Hideo’s clothes lack the then ubiquitous bell-bottom pants and wide lapels of the 70s though I’m chalking that up to even Hideo thinking those were silly (bell-bottoms could actually sweep up the dirt if you don’t wear platform shoes..I also tripped on them twice while walking ;w;).

Next, Shadowsan--este, Suhara as a teen.

Because he’s a rebel, it’s a given that his style does NOT reflect the popular fashion of his youth unless you’re in a gang (or trying to look like you’re a part of one). They seem to have one thing in common though: a buzzcut.

This was a photo of what seems to be gang members, taken by Katsumi Watanabe in 1972. The man on the middle right is the closest we have to Suhara’s style, befitting a misfit of Japanese society. On the contrary to medium-length feathered hair and colorful clothes, such rebels would go out of their way to stick out from the norm. Worth noting that the bosozoku fashion--in which elements of American choppers and 50s greasers are combined with Japanese elements (i.e. gakuran--high school uniform for males, hachimaki, sarashi, tokkou-fuku--”special fighting jacket”, etc.)--did not become quite popular until the 80s, so what Suhara wears is more or less a prototype of what will become the stereotypical look of Japanese delinquents (although those styles have actually coexisted too).

Now with all that out of the way. We can estimate as to how old they really are.

If Shadowsan was a 60s kid, that would place his birth years somewhere during the end of the 50s or the very beginning of the 60s, making him 50 plus or early 60s at the time of the show’s setting (2019).

Hideo, meanwhile, I’m just gonna take a wild guess and say he’s 5 to 7 years older (or even 10 considering how much older he looks compared to his brother in the current show), which would place his birth years squarely in the 50s, beggining, mid, or late. In the show’s setting, that would make him either 60 plus or pushing 70 years old. If 10, mid 70s or plus.

Until a concise number is given to us by the CS crew, I will strictly hold on to these conclusions as their more or less true ages. Of course, everyone is free to disagree because, after all, these are only theories and if they were to be debunked in the future, I won’t be surprised. Just a little heartbroken lol Because I’m not a historian of any sort nor am I Japanese, feel free to add on this or correct me on some mistakes I might have made.

And that concludes this post. Class dismissed ;P

(Last minute addendum: I would also like to point out that though it seems that most VILE operatives recruited are young as some argue that any VILE operative student had to be 20, nowhere in the show does it require only a certain group of young people can join. It might be entirely possible that as long as one is an adult (20 or older), one can join VILE. And Shadowsan, from the looks of it, seems to be in his late 30s or early 40s when he was a student going by his facial features. He just used to look really young bc Asian aging is a paradox. You can be older than you look, vice versa, and suddenly look like your age. But hey, like I said, only theories)

Ok, now I’m done~

#carmen sandiego 2019 #shadowsan #suhara #cs suhara #hideo #cs hideo #analysis #headcanons #cs headcanons #1970s #1960s #learning #theories

[starkeristheendgame]

Hii I'm the anon that was looking for fics where Peter gets overwhelmed by his senses during sex, I would absolutely LOVE for you to write something if you want to!!

Oof, this gave me feels! I’m so honoured that you’d like me to write something! I hope I did this justice and I hope that I fulfilled your Starker needs! This is pretty vague in terms of age and canon as I didn’t know your preferences ❤️

TW: BDSM Dynamics | Emotional over-load | Sensory over-load | Ambiguous ages | Daddy kink

Peter had always been sensitive. At least in terms of physically. He had a thick metaphorical skin; giving as good as Flash or any other bully could give. But he’d always preferred the softer fabrics, the dimmer lights, that one spot on his bed where it was ‘sinkier’ than the rest.

Sounds always seemed louder, scents were always stronger, and the outside world was a plethora of experiences that Peter learned to grow accustomed to. It was annoying at times; painful at others, but generally something that became his normal.

So, naturally, when he was old enough to develop coping mechanisms and to understand his senses, he got bitten by a genetically modified, radioactive spider and his senses took a jump from a rough 7 to a hearty eleven.

Noises went from irritating but tolerable to deafening. Scents overwhelmed him and choked his throat and god. Lights. He could see every fucking headlight in New York. Tony Stark could laugh all he wanted at the $10 tinted goggled Peter had velcroed onto his suit, but for Peter they were the $800 Gucci shades that hid Tony’s hangover.

Being touched; though. Peter wouldn’t have expected that to be affected by the bite, but he both yearned for it and shied away. Aunt May’s acrylic nails catching on his arm was like a pin being dragged. Tony’s broad palm on his back sent rocket-speed signals to his dick.

Peter could cloak himself in all the gold-titanium alloy and $615,000 lenses he wanted. There was no escaping that particular problem. Not when 12 hour stints in the workshop ended with takeout on the couch, not when being driven home by Happy became being driven home by Tony. Not when the odd shoulder-check or pat on the back became lingering strokes, squeezes, Tony’s body against his as they grinned down at their latest project like proud parents.

The first time Tony kissed him, Peter actually came in his pants like a thirteen year old just hitting puberty. Gasped and mewled into Tony’s mouth, whole body locking up and mind going entirely blank but for TonyTonyTony in a sharp, white flash. Tony had caught him as he fell, startled and amused both, a witty quip on the tip of his tongue.

It had been shortly after that in which peter had been forced to admit he only jerked off once a month on average, because it was so incredibly intense that it usually took him out for a good hour or two afterwards. And that was to say nothing of the dildo under his bed.

And Tony…Tony had crowded him up against the wall, still supporting his weight, eyes dark and lips turned up into a lethal smirk. Fuck, kid. That’s so hot. Look at you, still shaking like a newborn colt. So intense, baby. Bet I could make you cry just from my mouth.

Peter’s (pleasure) pain was Tony’s favourite game. Laying on their stomachs on the fur rug, Tony’s arms wrapped around his hips and holding him down, listening to Peter’s screams get higher in pitch as dark pink stubble burn spread over his ass and thighs. Crowding him against a wall, squeezing firm between his legs, timing the space between Peter’s surprised yelp and his body dropping as he came.

Peter had blacked out the first time Tony fingered him, two thick, long digits spreading him open, rubbing relentlessly against that little pit of pleasure until he’d arched off the bed, eyes rolling, gasping even as he flopped limp into Tony’s arms. He’d woken up to Tony cooing at him, body wiped clean and tucked under the sheets in his arms.

Sex stopped there. And fingering was infrequent, at best. Though Tony’s favourite way to torture him; the older man took pity on how thoroughly it wiped him out and left it for ‘special occasions’ like Peter winning first place at the Regional Science Expo. Eating out, handjobs, blowjobs, grinding and a variety of other play was still fair game, however.

And as much as Peter dreaded finding out just how fucked over (heh) he’d be when he got fucked…He wanted.

Wrapping his fingers around Tony’s thick, long cock he wanted it buried up to his teeth. Suckling around it and listening to Tony’s moans, he wanted to feel it dragging along his insides. Grinding against it, feelings its weight on his hip, he wanted to ride it until they were both shaking.

So like any good strategist, he came up with a plan. Operation Fucked By Tony came into play the night that Stark Industries celebrated its 18th consecutive year of Business of The Year, Engineering Business of The Year and several other titles that rolled across a massive hologram screen in slow succession.

The moment they were alone in the penthouse, the party having moved to a local bar, Peter shoved Tony up against the elevator door with a soft whine and a slow grin. “Mmph, look at you. My big boss Daddy. Dominating the world” he hummed proudly, fingers already dipping to the button on Tony’s Tom Ford, hips rolling slowly forwards to ride the soft curve of Tony’s cock, which twitched against his hip in interest as the billionaire reached down, grasping his hips with an easy, confident smile.

“Only thing I wanna dominate is you, baby. You looked so good tonight, your little Industries badge and your suit” Tony purred back at him, fingers digging against his hipbones the way he knew would make Peter’s eyelashes flutter, pulling him closer until they were rocking together lazily, encouraging their partner into full hardness.

Peter pushed to his tip-toes, wasted no time in distracting Tony with his tongue. The older man gave a pleased sound against his mouth as Peter licked into him, teeth catching on his lower lip, the corners of his mouth already stinging with stubble marks. “Want you” Peter breathed against Tony’s teeth as the older man bared them on a pleasured snarl, hitching Peter higher up his body.

“Mm’kay, sweetheart. Anything for you. What do you want, hm? Want me to blow you, baby? Let you fuck my throat? Or do you want me to fuck you with my tongue, baby? See how quick I can make you cry?” Tony breathed against his ear, nuzzled into the soft curve of his jaw as he reached down, dragging his nails over Peter’s clothed thighs in a way that made the boy shudder and whine, fingers digging into Tony’s side as he fought the sparks of pleasure that threatened to short his senses completely.

“No. Want you. Wanna feel you; properly. Want you stuffed up inside me, filling me up. Want you to breed me with your cum and-” that was as far as Peter got, words cutting off with a sharp whelp as Tony practically threw him upwards into his arms, pushing at Peter’s legs to get them wrapped low on his hips as he squeezed him, sinking his teeth into the junction of Peter’s neck with an almost feral growl.

“Sweetheart” the older man rasped, clearly struggling to contain himself. Tony breathed out shakily over the indent of his teeth, soothing it apologetically with his tongue. “You can’t - Baby. You know it’ll be too much. And for once; that isn’t even my ego talking” Tony hushed, though it didn’t stop him from weighing Peter hips down, riding the plump curve of his ass with a quaking groan.

“Daddy” Peter whined petulantly, scrabbling at Tony’s shoulders, peppering desperate kisses along his jaw, grinding in a sloppy rhythm as little fireworks went off inside his brain. “Want it. Waited too long. You looked so fucking good out there. My Daddy; ruling the world” Peter panted, dragging one hand down between their stomachs, wiggling it between their hips until he could grope the thick bulge beneath him, relishing in the way Tony’s hips stuttered against his hand, eyes dark as coal when Tony tipped his head to look up at him.

Tony took several moments pause to decide, clearly battling between his concerns and the way Peter curled his fingers around his cock, stroking in bare fractions, teasing little rubs that had Tony pushing carefully away from the wall and towards the bedroom.

They undressed in a startling contrast to how they had begun; slow and lazy. Tony kissed and licked every inch of skin he revealed; swatting at Peter’s hands whenever the impatient boy tried to speed him up, or whenever the little sucks were sharpened with a gentle nip of his teeth. By the time Peter was naked he was squirming and flushed, hard as rock and already on the verge of cumming.

“I might not make it if you don’t fuck me within the next ten minutes” Peter panted, fingers curling hard in the silk sheets. Tony chuckled above him, braced on his palms as he looked down at Peter with a lustful gaze. Peter was around to prompt him again when Tony ducked down, kissing him so deeply that it stole his breath and left his lips wet when they parted.

“Sweetheart, if you make it at all, I’m gonna be proudly surprised” Tony huffed back at him, fond and teasing even as he leaned over Peter’s body and made for the healthy stash of lube that took up the middle drawer. Peter tried not to anticipate it, but it was hard (pun intended) not to as he spread his legs, felt Tony’s hands sliding slowly up his thighs, sticky fingers kept away from his skin.

He was trembling by the time Tony ran a fingertip lightly over his hole, sucking in a sharp breath, stomach muscles contracting. Tony cooed at him soothingly as he shifted, begun to push his finger inside on a slow, steady motion. Peter threw his head back, lips parting soundlessly even though it was nothing more than an index finger.

Tony crawled up his body, still knuckle-deep and kissed at his collarbones gently, trying to distract him as he pumped his finger, a bare fraction at first, but speeding up when it became clear Peter wasn’t gonna pass our or blow his load. The boy forced himself to breathe evenly, petting intently at Tony’s hair as he tried to keep his focus. It was nice; the steady drag, the slight resistance of his own velvet heat.

The gentle pressure of a second had him hitching his body up the bedding, held in place only by Tony sinking his teeth gently into his collarbone with a soft hum. His body held firm, and then gave all at once, swallowing Tony’s second finger greedily, sucking it into the tighthotwet softness of his body. Peter’s whine was smothered by Tony’s mouth as the older man kissed him, free hand petting at his hip. “Daddy’s got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you”.

Tony scissored him open slowly, careful and educated curls and spreads of his fingers that had Peter’s hips hitching up, rutting against Tony’s flank and chewing on his tongue in desperation. He felt like a live-wire, strung out and ready to explode. He could hear in ultra-definition the sharp little pants Tony breathed, the stutter of his heart, the thrum of electricity all around them, like a living being.

His senses were hitting that just-before-white-noise level, but he ignored it in favour of crying out as a third finger spread him wide, more than he’d ever taken. For a moment there’s nothing but white noise and the way he felt obscenely spread wide, gaping. And then there was Tony and his low voice and the slight ache of his ass being stuffed full and stretched open.

“Oh, baby” Tony rasped, and fuck. They’d barely done anything but Tony sounded fucked out already, free hand moving from his hips to cradle his head like he was fragile glass, pausing his movements until Peter’s heart no longer threatened to tear his ribcage apart. The encompassing blanket of soundtouchheatskinstretchscentlights became something a little easier to differentiate, Tony’s body an anchor he scrabbled at breathlessly, before he nodded.

“I’m good. Please. Wanna -” He cut off on a stressed out hiccup, nails dragging down Tony’s spine in a way that made the older man arch and hiss, eyes going molten as he carefully eased his fingers out of Peter’s writhing body, reaching for the lube again. “Please, Daddy. Need you. Daddy, please” Peter whined, fighting off the way his nose begun to sting with the scents, the headache that begun dull and heavy at the sounds and the intense physical sensations.

“Okay, sweetheart. Okay. Breathe for me, darling, okay? Breathe for Daddy. Iiiiiin, and oouuuut. Good. So perfect, sweetheart”. Tony coached him as he lubed up his cock, voice hitching and lashes dipping as he curled his fist around himself, stroking in slow but firm jerks. He was painfully hard and Peter felt guilty for needing so much time to prepare.

They didn’t need a condom. Tony and Peter had been exclusive for almost a year now, and Tony had been clean the day they’d first made it a ‘thing’. The bite also meant that Peter couldn’t carry diseases of most types, including sexual. He’d been tested; just the make sure, but it had come up as a neat blank for everything.

Tony positioned himself carefully between Peter’s thighs, doing nothing for the longest time but hovering over him and kissing him slowly, sweetly. It helped to somewhat dull the building avalanche of sensations, allowed Peter to focus solely on the scrape of Tony’s stubble, the wet taste of his mouth, the space between them filled with rapidly cooling air.

He’d almost, almost forgotten where they were until Tony shifted, sunk down into the space between their bodies, until his hips forced Peter’s thighs apart and the blunt, thick head of his cock just lay at Peter’s slick, red hole. Peter gave a whole-body jolt at that, teeth sinking into Tony’s lip none too gently, fingers squeezing around Tony’s biceps with only enough conscious thought not to break them.

Tony paused, but Peter shook his head, then nodded, unsure of what signal would engage keep going and not stop. Thankfully Tony seemed to get it, a sightless presence behind Peter’s tightly shut eyes as he begun to nudge forwards, seemingly millimetre by millimetre.

After what seemed like an age, he could feel when his body couldn’t bend any further, and begun to spread. Opening in an agonisingly slow movement around Tony’s thick cock, opening and aching and thick pressure that had him half-screaming, muffling his mewls into Tony’s shoulder as he gripped at him, knees digging into Tony’s ribs where his legs had wrapped around him of their own accord.

It clearly pained Tony, the boy aware enough to notice his wince, but Peter couldn’t find the brain capacity to loosen his hold, couldn’t do or think anything beyond openstretchingachingwantinghurtingtoomuchnotenoughtony.

“Peter” Tony gasped, breath forced from his lungs as he buried himself inside the boy with a jolt, eyes lanced with pain as Peter clung to him, eyes rolling and entire body curved and tense, arching up against Tony and trembling violently with the force of it. Distantly, Peter was aware Tony had spoken. But he couldn’t focus on anything except the crippling array of noises around him, the scent of the washing powder mixed with the chemicals in the lube and the tint of Tony’s sweat. The burning hotness that pulsed through his body, the rattle of his own breath in his lungs.

White. Dark.

Hot. Too hot. Too numb to be hot.

Gaping open. Split in half. Impaled.

The vague awareness of sound. Desperate sound. Wet sound.

Blank.

The first thing that came back to him was the rasped sound of his inhale, the drag of air over his tongue and between his teeth. Shuddered and greedy, because the next awareness was how tight and sore his chest felt, like he’d been holding his breath. Everything ached and hurt like it did after a battle, but there was also something floating in that murky darkness, something familiar and comforting.

Piece by piece, things came back. Intense but not as crippling as before. The salt of tears. The tackiness of drying water on his skin. Skin on skin. The softness of the sheets, unmarred by their activities. The low, thrumming background noise became a voice, low and rumbled in his ear, senseless words that soothed him nonetheless.

It felt like surfacing from being buried alive. Crawling up that last foot of mountain. Breathing after drowning. He lay there for a while, nothing but a breathing body in a state of semi-consciousness, before the first word fought through the haze of his mind, followed by each one after like a progression of soldiers.

“Peter, sweetheart. You did so well. I’m so sorry, can you breathe in again for me? That’s it, darling. So good. My precious baby. Daddy’s here for you. Not letting you go. In and out, baby. You’re so good, darling. And again. That’s it, Peter”.

Tony.

Opening his eyes hurt, left him squinty and shrinking away from the dim room, but it lent him a sense of orientation. He was on the bed, under a thin silk sheet, and curled against Tony’s body, cradled carefully like a doll. Tony was still talking, and when Peter found the brain function to tilt his head, Tony was gazing at him intensely, caught between concern and love.

“Hey, darling. Welcome back. You kinda did a little power down, but that’s okay. You did so well, so good for your first time” Tony greeted him softly, passing a cold cloth over his brow.

A power down?

He pieced it together, from the fragments his muddled brain could shove forwards. He remembered the building crescendo, the blinding force of TonyTonyTony and then…Nothing. The power down. He’d blacked out.

“You were shaking and crying, darling. Kept shouting my name and moving like a cat that didn’t wanna be held. You said it was too bright and too loud. I tried to pull out without hurting you, sweetheart, but I still put some cream on you, just in case” Tony soothed, petting at his hair, brushing it from his eyes.

Peter couldn’t even feel embarrassed, too tangled up and exhausted to do anything but let his head fall back to Tony’s shoulder, eyes falling shut on a heaved, jagged breath.

“That’s okay, darling. If you want to nap, you take a nap. I’ll be right here, sweetheart. Not gonna go anywhere. Take a deep breath, baby. That’s it. So good for me, Peter. Such a good boy for Daddy. Get some rest now. I won’t leave you” Tony continued, petting at him in feather-light touches, his own chest rising and falling against Peter in a series of slow, even movements. Exaggerated until Peter’s body fell into rank.

He would be embarrassed later, when he woke up from a six hour ‘nap’ to Tony still curled around him, glasses on and nose-deep in a Stark Industries document. But Tony would hear none of it, pulling his hands from his face and peppering him with a litany of soft, sweet kisses, cuddling him close and refusing to relent until Peter was breathless and giggling, still raw and sensitive but calm, contained.

Two months and a lot of practice and training later, Peter would lay under Tony on his birthday, eyes rolling and Tony’s name a broken prayer on his tongue, hips jolting as he came between their stomachs with the force of an avalanche, conscious and aware throughout it all, jerking with every white-hot spark of pleasure, every low, guttural moan in his ear.

It was worth every incident thereafter of Tony boasting about ‘dick so good it knocks them out’.

#fanfic #starker #starker fic #starker fanfic #starker fanfiction #starker smut #starker stuff #starker nff #ironspider #ironspider fic #ironspider fanfic #ironspider fanfiction #ironspider smut #ironspider nff #tony stark/peter parker #tony starker x peter parker #peter parker/tony stark #peter parker x tony stark #starker first time #starker prompt #starker prompts #starker ask #ironspider prompt #ironspider prompts #ironspider ask #sie fics

[une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir]

random thoughts while i’m re-reading sansa ii and sansa iii.

but i haven’t yet written down properly for the project sansa thing

Sansa II

Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold.

Sansa II is about Sansa’s naive outlook in life. In here, she literally sees the world through gold tinted lenses.

The splendor of it all took Sansa's breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind . . . and the knights themselves, the knights most of all.

"It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies.

The knights, most of all. This chapter should give us Sansa’s true knight, amongst all the false knights.It may even not be a knight, a she begins with this chapter quite idealistic but ends it knowing true knights are cruel (Gregor Clegane), and who wins the Tourney of the Hand is Sandor Clegane, who’s not a knight.

They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last. 

Most likely, metaphoric for all of Sansa’s “true knight” candidates, or knights she finds through her journey. The Tourney of the Hand features in narrative order:

The seven knights of the Kingsguard took the field, all but Jaime Lannister in scaled armor the color of milk, their cloaks as white as freshfallen snow. > Sansa’s tenure in King’s Landing. These knights follow Joffrey’s orders in abusing Sansa.

Ser Jaime wore the white cloak as well, but beneath it he was shining gold from head to foot, with a lion's-head helm and a golden sword. > Jaime Lannister stands apart from the other kingsguard, as he ignores Cersei’s orders to find Sansa and instructs Brienne to find her, giving her a lion’s head golden sword. He’s actually portrayed as a fool in this chapter, could be Dontos Hollard.

Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, thundered past them like an avalanche. > Petyr Baelish is narrativelly connected to giants.

Sansa remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who had guested at Winterfell two years before. > Sansa’s tenure at the Vale.

Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm. > A winged knight, still at the Vale.

The girls giggled over the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, with his flapping red robes and shaven head, until the septa told them that he had once scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in hand. > A priest of R’hllor and the wall, along with a flaming sword in hand. We can think of Jon at the Wall, but we can also think of Brienne and Thoros of Myr proper as well considering the end of ADWD.

END PARAGRAPH. Chronologically, this fits the narrative. It may suggest these knights are the ones that shape Sansa’s journey. I’m not convinced of this because of how many other knights are mentioned after this.

The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. (...) His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one. (...) It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it.

As many have theorised, this may foreshadow Harry Hardying’s death. Indeed this guy dresses exactly like him, pretentiously with the Arryn coat-of-arms. Interestingly, Sansa says that she’d care if he meant something to her. Around the time Harry is likely to die, Jon is dead at the Wall. Sansa won’t care about Harry, but she’ll care about Jon.

Ser Loras (...) was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. Sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful. His plate was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Ser Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd.

The ideal knight, dressed in blue, with the rose thematic. Interestingly, he fights against a Royce and wins. There have been many essays about Loras paralleling Jon here.

However, Brienne also dresses in blue, she wears a blue armour, and whose childhood features a bad memory about a Ser Ronnet offering her roses but was actually mocking her behind her backs. Jon is also thematically linked with blue and roses through his mother, who loved blue winter roses.

It is my conviction Sansa’s true knight is Brienne, not Jon.

    To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. "Sweet lady," he said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you." (...) She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off.     When Sansa finally looked up, a man was standing over her, staring. (...) "You must be one of her daughters," he said to her. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. "You have the Tully look."      "I'm Sansa Stark," she said, ill at ease. (...)     "Your mother was my queen of beauty once," the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. "You have her hair." His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away.      By then, the moon was well up and the crowd was tired, so the king decreed that the last three matches would be fought the next morning, before the melee.

If we take this all in a chronological order, we have all the knights listed, then Loras Tyrell (Brienne, who started looking for Sansa in ACOK / ASOS), then we have Littlefinger seeing someone else in Sansa but she’s sure of whom she is (Petyr taking Sansa to the Vale, as Alyane Stone), the night comes (winter).

Sansa and Septa Mordane were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where the king himself sat beside his queen. (...) She could not hate Joffrey tonight. He was too beautiful to hate. He wore a deep blue doublet studded with a double row of golden lion's heads(...). Sansa looked at him and trembled, afraid that he might ignore her or, worse, turn hateful again and send her weeping from the table.

A raised dias over everyone else (Wall), Joffrey in blue (Jon as a “Stark”), Sansa is afraid he’ll turn hateful and send her away. This is actually legitimate fear, as Sansa would go to the Wall, yet still afraid Jon would send her away. Jon actually thinks doing this to Arya somewhere in ADWD, the Wall is no place for a woman. It’s also in chronological order with the previous paragraph’s interpretation.

Instead, Joffrey’s perfectly civil, but we must remember he’s Jon’s anti-parallel so whatever’s written about the former reflects in the latter either as a parallel or an anti-parallel and that’s kind of though to figure out.

     He raised his hand to summon a servant with a flagon of iced summerwine, and poured her a cup. (...) The servants kept the cups filled all night, yet afterward Sansa could not recall ever tasting the wine. She needed no wine. She was drunk on the magic of the night, giddy with glamour, swept away by beauties she had dreamt of all her life and never dared hope to know. (...) And Joffrey was the soul of courtesy.      (....) A thick soup of barley and venison. Salads of sweetgrass and spinach and plums, sprinkled with crushed nuts. Snails in honey and garlic. Sansa had never eaten snails before; Joffrey showed her how to get the snail out of the shell, and fed her the first sweet morsel himself. Then came trout fresh from the river, baked in clay; her prince helped her crack open the hard casing to expose the flaky white flesh within. And when the meat course was brought out, he served her himself, slicing a queen's portion from the joint, smiling as he laid it on her plate. She could see from the way he moved that his right arm was still troubling him, yet he uttered not a word of complaint. Later came sweetbreads and pigeon pie and baked apples fragrant with cinnamon and lemon cakes frosted in sugar, but by then Sansa was so stuffed that she could not manage more than two little lemon cakes, as much as she loved them. She was wondering whether she might attempt a third when the king began to shout.

This is similar narrative to Sansa I, especially becomes it features the “return of the trout” and the queen imagery. I proposed in my post on Sansa I that its subtext was about Sansa becoming queen and that Joffrey was a stand-in for Jon, and that their day together foreshadowed the northern campaign. I also mentioned Joffrey’s behaviour could be seen under two different ways, either parallel or anti-parallel, especially when Joffrey is a little shit.

Entrées: no fucking idea, but apparently it involves Jon offering a “snail in honey” to Sansa. I’m... I don’t know.

Fish Course: To remember from Sansa I: “ It was a day for adventures. They explored the caves by the riverbank, and tracked a shadowcat to its lair, and when they grew hungry, Joffrey found a holdfast by its smoke and told them to fetch food and wine for their prince and his lady. They dined on trout fresh from the river, and Sansa drank more wine than she had ever drunk before. "My father only lets us have one cup, and only at feasts," she confessed to her prince.”

I proposed it was interesting because it included conquering the riverlands (exploring the caves by the riverbank would be checking out riverlords for their cause, tracking a shadowcat to its lair would be chasing the lannisters back west, and dining on trout meant taking Riverrun). This time, “her prince helped her crack open the hard casing to expose the flaky white flesh within.” can be seen as foreshadowing a siege of Riverrun that goes well

Meat Course: To remember from Sansa I, Joffrey is humilliated and consequently never forgivies Sansa, so she’d never be a successfull queen married to her (if he was planning on that at all, since he jumped so easily to Margaery). I proposed that Jon as Joffrey’s anti-parallel would be humilliated in battle but he’d move past it (this is basically what happened in the Battle of Winterfell, he got humilliated and he saved her arse, and even expected him to be angry with her but he went all targ sibling on her forehead instead).

In here, we see what I proposed for Jon to go past it reflected, as Joffrey serves Sansa the queen’s portion, smiling as if all is forgiven despite the source of humilliation being present as “She could see from the way he moved that his right arm was still troubling him, yet he uttered not a word of complaint.” Nice guy Snow, thank you very much.

Dessert: No idea, but a few infamous ones are featured. The pigeon pie  present in the purple wedding, cinnamon apples in one of Bran’s banquets (the one he’s given the king’s portion as well), and lemoncakes (three of them), magic number.

Sansa started as Joffrey laid his hand on her arm. "It grows late," the prince said. He had a queer look on his face, as if he were not seeing her at all. "Do you need an escort back to the castle?"

The nice atmosphere is broken because Robert is a dick and fights with Cersei. Joffrey then decides to be a dick as well. This also featured in Sansa I, a boy and a girl fighting, then Joffrey makes a dick of himself.

"You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed at Queen Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"

Hopefully, that’s a metaphor for Aegon telling Daniella to go fuck herself, he’s the king of westeros and she does not tell him what to do. I did those dragon posts where Rhaegal (representative of Jon) seems to take take offence of Viserion (Aegon) getting trolled repeatedly.

Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. "Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?" He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. "Small chance of that." He pulled her unresisting to her feet. "Come, you're not the only one needs sleep. I've drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow." He laughed again.

Joffrey didn’t take Sansa back to Winterfell, but Jon did.

Sansa III

This chapter is completely “useless” at first glance, except for Sansa and Arya’s second squabble, which is when Ned has the ephiphany that Joffrey isn’t Robert’s kid. Other than that, it features a recap of the chapter before, two Sansa and Arya squabbles, and Ned’s "favoritism” (not really, just guilt over his sister) over Arya. So what is this chapter’s for outside of that? The subtext of course.

     "Father, I only just now remembered, I can't go away, I'm to marry Prince Joffrey." She tried to smile bravely for him. "I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies."     "Sweet one," her father said gently, "listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me." (...)

"Stop that weeping, child," Septa Mordane said sternly. "I am certain your lord father knows what is best for you."

Urgh. lmao.

Ned promises Sansa a high-lord, who’s brave, gentle and strong, that he is no aemon the dragonknight. The latter is the “easier” one, because Jon will remembers much later that he used to say he was Aemon the dragonknight in childplay. Just one out of all that, doesn’t seem promising, eh?

After this, there’s Sansa and Arya cluing in Ned over Joffrey being a bastard aprading as the heir to the Iron Throne, which is the anta-parallel to Jon. As I said in Sansa I post, this could be foreshadowed in the sisters squabbling over Rhaegar’s rubies. It comes in chronologically order, the motifs of the fight at the Trident are similar to what’s used all over GOT, etc etc. So Jon is here again (he was present in  that segment in Sansa I as one of Rhaegar’s ruby), for some reason.

Going back to the beginning of this chapter... the conversation is kind of odd, it goes all over the place. They talk of what happens in there, then Sansa randomly remembers a dream for no reason, and wanders in her mind over this and that. It’s kind of schizophrenic writing... unless it’s kind of awkward because it’s meant to say something else in the subtext... So...

“He wouldn't send Ser Loras," Sansa told Jeyne Poole that night as they shared a cold supper by lamplight. (...) Her father's decision still bewildered her. When the Knight of Flowers had spoken up, she'd been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan's stories come to life. (...) And then Father had refused him! It had upset her more than she could tell. She had said as much to Septa Mordane as they descended the stairs from the gallery, but the septa had only told her it was not her place to question her lord father's decisions.

There have been plenty of essays comparing Jon to Loras Tyrell. This is especially important in Sansa II / Sansa III because Loras is wearing blue (odd choice, as his house colours are green) and roses, thematically connected to Jon’s mother. Ned thinks the kid is too young to be a hero, which is an interesting paralell to him refusing Jon to go to the Wall at first because he was also too young. We can also look at Ned taking Jon as his bsatard son, as taking away the chance to be the song hero. He went from a prince of roses (urgh) to a bastard.

That was when Lord Baelish had said, "Oh, I don't know, Septa. Some of her lord father's decisions could do with a bit of questioning. (...)" (...) He had touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the line of a cheekbone. "Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow."

Ned’s decision of taking Jon as his bastard will be questioned of course and the truth will come out. Life’s not a song and Lyanna made Ned promise to protect Jon, because Robert would have killed him if he had found out. But Jon has a song, the song of ice and fire. Shut up Littlefinger.

    "Ser Ilyn's the King's Justice, not Ser Loras," Jcyne said. "Lord Eddard should have sent him."     Sansa shuddered. Every time she looked at Ser Ilyn Payne, she shivered. He made her feel as though something dead were slithering over her naked skin. "Ser Ilyn's almost like a second monster. I'm glad Father didn't pick him."      "Lord Beric is as much a hero as Ser Loras. He's ever so brave and gallant." "I suppose," Sansa said doubtfully. Beric Dondarrion was handsome enough, but he was awfully old, almost twenty-two; the Knight of Flowers would have been much better. Of course, Jeyne had been in love with Lord Beric ever since she had first glimpsed him in the lists. Sansa thought she was being silly; Jeyne was only a steward's daughter, after all, and no matter how much she mooned after him, Lord Beric would never look at someone so far beneath him, even if she hadn't been half his age.

(...) "I saw your sister this afternoon," Jeyne blurted out, as if she'd been reading Sansa's thoughts. "She was walking through the stables on her hands. Why would she do a thing like that?"

Instead, Ned chose Beric Dondarrion. There have been plenty of essays that compared Ilyn Payne to Ramsay Bolton (dead eyes and taking over the Stark legacy, etc), and Beric Dondarrion to Jon Snow (dresses in house targ clothes and was ressurrected by a priest of r’hllor, etc). The fact that Ilyn Payne is brought up by Jeyne Poole of all people and after an intermission with the white hart dream, she also mentions Arya, therefore it could be a heartbreaking nod to fake!Arya plotline.

As we also know, Ramsay and Jon have been locked into a bizarre war of wills up north, precisely over fake!Arya. Likewise Beric dying in the middle of his “mission” for the Starks and then ressurrected by a priest of R’hllor, Jon also died while he was going to retake Winterfell and save fake”Arya and its likely he’ll be ressudrected by a priest of R’hllor. In the show, Sansa took over fake!Arya storyline.

It’s interesting to note Beric is awfully old at “twenty-two”, because that’s Jon’s age give it or take it at ADWD if the timeskip between ASOS and AFFC / ADWD  have happened (he’s seventeen or so then). It’s worth noting that Beric is said to be “brave”.

“I had a dream that Joffrey would be the one to take the white hart," she said. It had been more of a wish, actually, but it sounded better to call it a dream. Everyone knew that dreams were prophetic. (...) "He shot it with a golden arrow and brought it back for me." In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm, but she knew Joffrey liked hunting, especially the killing part. Only animals, though.

This one is interesting, because it’s sandwiched between the Ilyn Payne and Arya Stark, which could be a mention to the northern tug of war between Ramsay and Jon mentioned above. As we know though, Jon is one that would fit Sansa’s dream, because not only he protected the direwolves who are magical beasts, he took the white direwolf for himself. “Only touch them and not harm them”, dare I say... gentle? Not only that, the anti-parallel btween Joffrey and Jon is fuelled further since Jon took Lady (and later, he’ll be brigning the white wolf Ghost) back to Sansa while Joffrey took her away.

     "There was a black brother," Sansa said, "begging men for the Wall, only he was kind of old and smelly." She hadn't liked that at all. She had always imagined the Night's Watch to be men like Uncle Benjen. In the songs, they were called the black knights of the Wall. But this man had been crookbacked and hideous, and he looked as though he might have lice. If this was what the Night's Watch was truly like, she felt sorry for her bastard half brother, Jon.

Yoren of the Night’s Watch and it’s self-explanatory, since Jon as a member of the Night’s Watch is even mentioned in this segment. It’s also worth noting that Sansa fantasises the Night’s Watch to be men like Benjen Stark, the black knights of the Wall... dare I say... strong?

It’s also worth noting Sansa’s disilusion with the Night’s Watch comes after a segment that may foreshadow Ramsay and Jon “fighting” over fake!Arya, then Jon being murdered and ressurrected. Which fits eprfectly with Jon’s own disillusion with the Night’s Watch that he felt in the beginning of AGOT but also in the show when he got ressurrected. Not a happy panda.

“And later these two brothers came before him, freeriders from the Dornish Marches, and pledged their swords to the service of the king. Father accepted their oaths . . . “

The Dornish Marches are slightly north of where Jon was born, at the Tower of Joy. Bascially, the next town towards the north is located at the Dornish Marches. In the show, Jon basically pledged his sword to Sansa (Ned’s narrative heir) as well, there’s even a close-in on his sword before they re-meet at Castle Black. Strangely, Sansa IV features Sansa believing Ned’s plans to take her back to Winterfell and the promised match is a hedge knight which is a freerider without a knighthood.

So, in summary, Sansa reports on three men “auditing” Ned. Loras Tyrell, the true hero, which Ned refused and could correspond to Jon as Lyanna Stark’s son due to the narrative uses of blue and roses and refusal. Beric Dondarrion, Ned’s chosen hero, and could correspond to Jon and Ramsay’s tug-of-war with Arya. Finally, Yoren, and could correspond to Jon defecting the Night’s Watch for being disillusioned after being killed by them, something that was rpesent in the show’s foreshadowing all the way back in season 3. Not only is the story presented chronological, after Beric being “brave”, Sansa randomly recalls the white hart dream (”gentle”) and Jon as a black kngith of the wall (”strong”).

So, Jon could actually be lurking in the subtext of that bizarre conversation between Sansa and Jeyne Poole.

The kitchen yielded no lemon cakes, but they did find half of a cold strawberry pie, and that was almost as good. They ate it on the tower steps, giggling and gossiping and sharing secrets, and Sansa went to bed that night feeling almost as wicked as Arya.

The dessert again.

The next morning she woke before first light and crept sleepily to her window to watch Lord Beric form up his men.

The men preparing to war. Still goes on well chronologically with the conversation before. It had stopped at Jon quitting the Night’s Watch and pledging to Sansa.

     "Liar," Arya said. Her hand clenched the blood orange so hard that red juice oozed between her fingers.      "Go ahead, call me all the names you want," Sansa said airily. "You won't dare when I'm married to Joffrey. You'll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace." She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap.      "You have juice on your face, Your Grace," Arya said.

So from the subtext from Sansa I and Sansa II, I’m convinced Sansa will become queen MUCH sooner than in the show. This squabble over here is interesting, because Arya calls her “your grace” as if she was already queen. So in the subtext that may correlate to that.

This of course, comes with a very strong imagery of wedding consummation. Sansa is wearing a white dress, that gets stained by blood orange juice (red in colour) at the lap (crotch area). Are they related?

The blood orange had left a blotchy red stain on the silk. "I hate her!" she screamed. She balled up the dress and flung it into the cold hearth, on top of the ashes of last night's fire. When she saw that the stain had bled through onto her underskirt, she began to sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.

In addition, this white dress has red blood, but it also has black fire when it’s thrown into the ashes of the hearth. The words of House Targaryen are fire and blood, the colours are red and black.They’re all there, in this white dress. So it's a Targaryen (virgin, ehem) wedding dress... for Sansa. There are only two male left for that to happen and only one of them has been lurking in the background.

And after this, comes Ned’s covnersation about Sansa’s true match. So Jon’s all over the subtext, of a chapter with wedding consummation imagery and Ned Stark’s promise of the “true one”. Why, if not to marry his arse to Sansa? I do not know.

#return of the trout #this is important because i care about the riverlands #jonsa heavy

[ren1327]

Sweet Survivor Ch.6

Kenji looked at the gift he got, wrapped messily with white tape and brochures in a quick panic. Then at the food he had warmed and placed on a food cart. He pressed his fingertips together and pressed them against his mouth, taking a deep breath as he rolled it down the hall to the big smooth wooden door with two brachiosaurs, necks entwined, carved on the door.

Ben would be there any minute.

He opened the door and sighed in relief. No heart shaped bed, no mirrors everywhere, just a few white heart shaped pillows and some wilting roses.

He set up the table with three covered plates, water bottles and pomegranate juice. He then set up three thick white candles in case the power went out. He checked outside to see the sun about to set, giving enough light for him to open the doors to the balcony.

There was a knock and he smoothed out the suit he had stolen from the left over garment bags in the laundry closet. It was a dark blue and fit a little tight in the shoulders, but he would survive. He wanted to look his best for Ben. He checked his hair in the mirror, pausing a moment to notice how, without the facial hair, he looked so much like his father. He bowed his head and went to the door.

When he opened it, he was shocked to see Ben had dressed up a little himself. He was in a thin blue sweater with a brown checkered vest over it and brown slacks a little too long on him.

Ben looked at Kenji in surprise, blinking as he held an item wrapped in a something made of leather. Kenji snorted and they both laughed.

“Raided the laundry services too?” He asked and Ben nodded.

“I wanted to dress nice.” He said. “And I really like the vest.”

“You look nice.” Kenji said with a soft smile.

“You too.” Ben said, looking up through his lashes.

“I…O-of course I do!” Kenji said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you look…”

He trailed off as Ben blushed and smiled.

“So pretty.”

Ben looked away. “So uh, can I come in?”

“Yeah! Yeah!” Kenji said, moving aside as Ben saw the spread.

“Wow…” He looked at the window. “Is that safe?”

“I saw some of them going north. Darius said it was probably for them to get some shelter from the storm.” Kenji said. “So I thought we could at least enjoy the view before the rain hits.”

Ben smiled. “Yeah. I like that.”

Kenji held out the package.

“I got you something. I thought you might like it.”

Ben took it and carefully unwrapped it. He gasped and grinned.

“A book on South American herbal remedies and first aid?!” He asked, squeezing the thick book to his chest.

“Yeah.” Kenji said, looking away. “You were really cool with Yaz’s ankle.”

“I know I was.” Ben said with a playful smirk. Kenji’s mouth hung open.

“Uh…yeah.” He said and smiled at him. “So…I thought you might want to expand your knowledge.”

Ben swayed a bit and Kenji wanted to swoon at how cute he looked. He held up the leather.

“I found you something too. I had gathered some stuff for you when I thought you guys got out.” He said.

Kenji took it, eyes sad as he unrolled the leather to find rose-gold aviator sunglasses, the bluish tinted lenses reflecting the light. Kenji huffed a laugh before laughing when he unrolled the leather into a vest with chest and front pouches and zippered pockets.

“Whoa!”

“I got my pack back, so it’s only fair you have something too right?” He asked. “And the shade matches mine.”

Kenji smiled and leaned close to him. Ben didn’t move away, so he took the opportunity to kiss his cheek, pulling away to see his big blue eyes wide and cheeks pink.

He wished he could keep this image forever.

“Come on, dinner will get cold.” He said.

He pulled out Ben’s chair, the shorter boy rolling his eyes before sitting down.

Kenji lifted the lids off their plates, showing two pieces of lasagna and fresh salad with feta cheese.

“Wow, you made this?”

“I baked it and Brooklynn helped me with the salad. I didn’t know you could put steak in salad!” He said, serving Ben a plate. “Maybe for our next date.”

Ben watched him a moment before asking “Why do you like me?”

“What?” Kenji asked.

“Please be honest.” Ben said.

Kenji sat and looked at him. “You’re really cute. You care about everyone and have a knack for safety.”

“It’s called paranoia, but continue.” Ben said with a huff.

“Why do you do that?” Kenji asked. “Why do you dump on yourself?”

“Why not?”

“Ben.” Kenji said softly. “You’re caring, brave and a good friend.”

“But I still run and freak out.”

“There are killer dinosaurs, Babe.”

“Stop that.”

“No. I like the Ben who came to island and picked out the obvious strongest. I like the Ben who thinks of other’s safety. I like the Ben who, with a busted tailbone by the way, made his way to a hotel, shut it down and made a message for us to find, by himself.” Kenji said. “And I want to stay with you because I like you, not because I’m guilty or feel sorry for you. So…there!”

Ben huffed and went to stand out on the balcony, looking over the park.

Kenji followed him as rain began to fall in heavy warm droplets, Ben paying no mind.

“I don’t know,” He started. “If I can keep being this Ben. What about when we get off the island? What then Kenji?”

“I’ll steal one of my Dad’s cars. Or his jet. I want…I want this.” He said, wet hair flopping into his face. He brushed it away and took off his suit jacket, draping it over Ben’s small frame.

“I don’t know if I can believe that. But…” He looked up at Kenji. “I believe your feelings. I like you too, Kenji.”

He took his hand and led him back inside, closing the doors.

 *

 They had dressed in the fluffy robes, hanging their clothes to dry as they ate.

Kenji told Ben stories about his adventures around the park and Ben had listed off herbs and foods he thought could be used for different health practices.

“Candy would love you.” Kenji said with a smile.

“I think my parents would like you too.” He said. “Like the son they never had.”

“Little early to be talking about in-laws.” Kenji joked and Ben snickered.

“Ready for dessert? I made this one myself.” He said. “And I warn you, this is my third attempt.”

He lifted off the cover of the third plate.

It was a dark rich brown loaf cake with powdered sugar and chopped walnuts on it. Kenji cut into the moist cake and place a thick slice out for Ben. He looked worried when Ben took a spoonful of the soft cake and tasted it.

“Is this?!” Ben took another bite, eyes shut in bliss.

“I found some carob powder and a recipe for a banana loaf and just substituted it-”

“I love it.” Ben sighed. “I can’t believe you baked me a carob banana loaf.”

“Stop it man.” Kenji said, blushing deeply.

“Kenji?” Ben asked with a smile. “Why are you all shy now?”

“I’ve never baked.” He admitted.

“Good thing you’re good at everything.” Ben said.

Kenji smiled and held up a stack of DVD boxes. “Movie?”

“Sure.”

 *

 They were laying on the bed, side by side, pillows moved to the foot so they could watch the movie better. Kenji had given up, watching Ben look in wonder at the movie. They had lit the candles and moved them next to the TV and nightstands.

Kenji slowly moved his hand to Ben’s, smiling when Ben entwined their fingers.

Ben looked at him and Kenji leaned forward. Ben stayed still, but his lashes fluttered close.

When their lips met, they held there, just resting against each other before Ben pushed forward and Kenji returned in kind. The taller placed a hand on Ben’s waist, pulling him closer as Ben’s hands cradled his neck.

Ben’s thumbs stroked over his cheeks and he felt himself get goosebumps, hearing only their mingled breaths. He pulled away and pressed his forehead against Ben’s. Ben hummed happily and cupped Kenji’s cheeks.

“Did the electricity go out?” He asked, looking around to see the TV and DVD player off.

“Didn’t notice.” Kenji said and pulled him into another kiss, Ben giggling.

They laid together, Ben on Kenji’s chest, fingers stroking over the robe. Kenji had settled for playing with Ben’s still damp hair.

Silent and warm, they fell asleep like that, ignoring the thunder and lightning outside.

#jurassic world camp cretaceous #kenji kon #ben pincus #camp cretaceous #jw fanfic #i cant be stopped #jwcc #jw benji #camp cretaceous fanfic #camp cretaceous sweet survivor

[urghost-andurboo]

accessibility products i’m in love with

eye buy direct in general - just ordered pink tinted lenses to see if they help with light/screen time migraine triggers

triple bristle tooth brush

shower chair

large rolly cart for groceries and laundry

comfy shoes

ninja blender

costco pre packaged snacks (especially clif kids bars, guacamole cups, yogurt and yogurt drinks. trying to like trail mix and cheese sticks but it’s def forced at this point)

salt lamp, string lights, nightlights, lamps

lower brightness feature on roku tv display

weighted blanket

comfort objects, very in love with small stuffed animals right now

multiple journals and many pens

tarot deck and book

tent

coloring books

really just. books. i love books so much

organizing my house to be adhd and spoonie friendly (this is a work in progress but basically putting things as close as possible to where i actually use them)

simplifying my wardrobe and relying on a specific set of clothing that fits different sensory needs while still matching my style enough (also a work in progress)

social media in general. tumblr for memes and silly expressions of my thoughts. messenger, signal, snapchat, text for pictures or just talking or making plans. zoom and teleparty and facetime and phone calls for hanging out. reddit for disability and queer’s very vague sense of solidarity. i hate instagram but i might start using it again for sharing artwork.

ipad

youtube, academic journals, google, books for learning health information

procreate and notability

different thicknesses of socks, lots of different kinds of shoes to slip on

a pop socket with lip balm - that way i always have chapstick bc i always have my phone

heat wrap and ice packs

yoga mat, blocks, yoga wheel

these aren’t products really but just things that help:

cats

rats

a cuddly partner and a lovely introvert roommate friend who understand + accommodate my access needs

physical touch in general

financial stability, stability in general — generous grad student financial aid and good insurance from my parents

being part time in school

acupuncture

therapy (individual and group)

psychiatry, neurology, endocrinology

general self knowledge, empathy, compassion

knowing what makes my pain worse and better. knowing that chronic illness is an illness that i can’t control. i can make it easier but i can’t make it go away. accepting and appreciating that life is worth living always, despite the rough times.

being forced to stay at home because of pandemic

i made a little box of low spoon activities to do (a crossword book, coloring books, tarot deck, kids book)

i made another smaller box with a little journal, a pen, one comfort object and one stim toy, and two pill bottles — one for holding positive affirmations and another for putting away dark thoughts (i feel like dried herbs could amplify this actually. i’m thinking rosemary and chamomile, for remembering kind words and soothing energy for first pill bottle, and garlic for banishing bad thoughts for the other.) ((side note: i think it would be such a fun project to apply herbalism/kitchen witchcraft to dnd magic items and spells))

special interests, media in general

hobbies

creativity

school is something i care about and want to learn about and like learning about. and it’s directly applicable to a career i’m interested in. and it is online which is so helpful

living outside of the city - it is so quiet and we have so much space

things i want:

to find my headphone charger so i can use my favorite headphones again 🥺

extras of everything. but especially pens and another glucose monitor

more chapstick

continuous glucose monitor !!!!!

headphones i can sleep in

a cushion that somehow makes sitting on the floor comfortable (is that a thing?)

more organizational space. maybe just shelves that fit in the hall closet!!! or just intentionally organizing things using the storage things we already have

easier access to migraine meds

to not have the looming anxiety of losing insurance and therefore access to meds and treatment that have allowed me to make my life so comfortable

#disability #bipolar #autistic #adhd #migraines #actually bipolar #actually autistic #spoonies #low spoons #privilege

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot “Where the Ice Grows” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Now that Kurt is free from his self-imposed prison, he wants to move on with his life, try to go back to the future he had dreamed of all throughout high school. But he's known only fear for so long, he doesn't know how to move forward.

He doesn't know how to grow. (1875 words)

Notes: So just to recap, in Special Delivery, we're seeing Kurt and Sebastian travel the country, retracing the footsteps of Sebastian's childhood, the trips his mother took him and his brother on, while Kurt tries to come to grips with the future. This is from their trip to Vail.

Read on AO3.

Kurt eyed the gray mare suspiciously, then his boyfriend, who stroked the horse's nose, murmuring soothing sentiments.

“You really expect me to get on this animal?” Kurt asked. And Sebastian chuckled, delighted at how perfect a snob his boyfriend sounded.

“Yup. The place we’re going is too far to walk, especially in the snow.”

Kurt climbed the pair of wooden steps a portly stablehand brought him, the cheerful man helping Kurt get his balance before instructing him how to mount the mare. “Is the goal of this trip to make me suffer?”

“Nope.” Sebastian watched Kurt hoist himself onto the horse’s back with the grace of a seasoned rider. He shot Kurt an accusatory look. “You say you’ve never ridden a horse before?”

“N-not once.” Kurt's voice shook, looking leery as the mare shuffled forward and back, getting used to the weight of her new rider. "But I've mounted other things ..." 

Kurt meant to follow up with a story about how a good friend from high school, Brittany, had taken him and Finn to motocross once. She'd said he was a natural after he climbed on his bike. That was, of course, before his epically embarrassing crash seconds later. But Kurt didn't, stuttering to a halt, his mouth hanging open as his comment registered. The stablehand sputtered, and Sebastian shook his head, grinning so hard, it looked painful.

"I'm not touching that one," Sebastian said, mounting his Arabian – a sleek black stallion that looked as if it had been born to run. And Sebastian definitely had the seat of a natural-born rider. His parents probably made him take lessons when he was younger, Kurt thought. Wasn't that what the uber-wealthy did? Kurt wondered if there were horses on the Smythe estate. The subject didn't come up when he was there, but he wouldn't be surprised. 

Sebastian seemed so at ease on his stallion. Kurt didn't know for sure, but he didn't think his mare liked him too much, the way she snuffled when he tried to speak to her, tossed her head and shook her mane when he attempted to pet her. He was certain that she would have preferred Sebastian as a rider, what with the rapport they'd been building, and felt cheated getting stuck with Kurt.

Sebastian looked at his boyfriend, rigidly seated in his saddle, trying so hard for Sebastian’s sake. Kurt had been such a good sport during their trip, patiently following Sebastian on his every whim, to every bizarre, touristy, or even hidden locale Sebastian dragged him to.

Little did Kurt know (because Sebastian had yet to tell him) this ride through the hills on their rented horses was less about recapturing Sebastian’s childhood and more about Kurt.

About the spark that had started to extinguish in his eyes.

For weeks, Sebastian sat and watched Kurt in bed, at his desk, on the couch, with his sketch pad opened to an empty page, pencil pinched between his fingertips - sitting, staring, but not drawing. Kurt had wanted a stab at going back, retracing his steps, living the life he felt he was meant to have. But roadblocks had thrown themselves in his path. Unexpected ones. Obstacles of self-doubt.

It hurt Sebastian to watch the frustration, the pain, the disappointment on Kurt’s face every night as he packed up his sketch pad and surrendered to sleep.

“Remember to have them back here before the sun sets. That's in two hours,” the caretaker, Mabel - a husky woman dressed in denim overalls, a quilted coat, and thick, rubber boots - commanded. “Once the sun goes behind the mountains, the temperature will plummet.”

“That’s more time than we need,” Sebastian assured her. With a click of his tongue, Kurt and Sebastian left the stable, making their way up the hillside towards a spot Sebastian found years ago with his mom, and quite by accident. 

Kurt’s mare followed Sebastian’s stallion - a good thing since Kurt had no interest in controlling his horse whatsoever. Nor could he, his hands gripping the reins so tightly, they were digging through his gloves. He did his best to relax, watch the scenery pass, as the beast trodded along. 

He would love to come back during the summer. During this time of year, everything was basically white on white with more white. The snow and ice-covered landscape surrounding them was so overwhelmingly white, Kurt thought he might go blind. Everything looked identical covered in its blanket of snow. Depth perception didn’t exist here. A tree fifty yards away looked like it was growing right next to him. 

It was disorienting. 

Sebastian stopped his horse, waiting as Kurt caught up. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a black glasses case, and handed it to Kurt.

“Here. These will help.”

"Thank you." Kurt popped the case open. The glasses were Gucci because of course they were. Kurt chuckled. He wasn't complaining about Sebastian's incredible wealth. Not by a long shot. But it struck him as funny considering the financial state Sebastian was in when the two of them met: his cruddy apartment with the broken heater and his shower that drooled water; his burner phone; how he rode the bus everywhere. Now he was pulling five-hundred-dollar sunglasses out of his pocket like they were Kleenex.

Kurt slid the frames onto his nose. He felt ridiculous wearing sunglasses while riding a horse like a way-too-chic-for-words drunk cowboy. But once he saw the world through the tinted lenses, he didn’t care how he looked. They lessened the glare, changed his aspect, and he could see correctly again. He could finally appreciate the snow-covered wilderness for its desolate beauty.

Desolate.

That’s how everything looked.

Just like so many other places they had visited.

Kurt was beginning to sense a pattern.

Sebastian brought his horse to a stop beside a small cluster of trees, tying the reins to a sturdy branch before helping Kurt do the same. Sebastian took a moment to hold Kurt in his arms, missing the press of their bodies together during the long ride. He'd originally wanted them to ride double, but with the cold and the climb, he worried about the horse’s back. So he opted for singles instead. He had rented the mare for Kurt because the stablehand told him she was the calmest animal they had.

It also didn’t hurt that her name happened to be Elizabeth.

“Do you have some obsession with these desolate landscapes?” Kurt asked. “Because we seem to visit a lot of them.”

“Desolate?” Sebastian chuckled, his warm breath burning the frozen tips of Kurt’s ears. “Is that all you see?”

"Well ... kind of. Yeah," Kurt said guiltily, suddenly feeling like he was missing something obvious. But obvious to Sebastian didn't mean obvious to Kurt.

Sebastian took Kurt’s gloved hand and led him the rest of the way up the hillside, stopping at a ledge overlooking a large lake. They stopped as close to the edge as Sebastian dared go. He held Kurt in front of him, arms wrapped securely around Kurt’s waist. The land below them seemed to stretch out for miles, but the lake looked close enough to touch. Icicles covered everything. They decorated the branches of the trees, glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

The sun, too, seemed close enough for Kurt to reach up and grab in both hands, but he couldn’t feel its warmth on his face. It was a strange combination of intense beauty and intense sadness.

“Oh God,” Kurt breathed. “It’s beautiful! Like some fairy tale wonderland! But why are we here?”

Sebastian sighed. He could feel the sadness seeping out of Kurt, even as he gazed around him in awe. He had locked himself behind an iron gate for so long. Now that he had his freedom, he didn’t know how to handle it.

“You’re so frightened, gorgeous,” Sebastian said, mouth hovering close to Kurt’s ear. ”Of life. Of failing. You think you’re broken, that that's all you are. So you’re stuck in a place where you can’t look back, and you can’t move forward. That’s why you can’t create.”

Kurt froze. He didn't think Sebastian was paying that close attention.

He wondered how long ago he'd noticed.

“You’ve sort of become your own desolate landscape,” Sebastian continued. “So beautiful, so full of potential, but …”

“So, you’re trying to get me to see the beauty in desolate landscapes." Kurt sniffled. "But you pretty much proved my point.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Salton Sea, Death Valley, here … there’s tons of beauty, but nothing new grows. Animals survive in those places; they don’t live. Plants maintain, but nothing worthwhile blooms.”

“Are you sure about that? Or could it be that your scope of what type of growth is worthy of notice is a little narrow?”

Kurt turned his head to look at Sebastian, confusion clouding his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“I think I’ll let our landscape here do the explaining for me.” 

"What on earth does ...?"

"Shhh." Sebastian raised a finger to his lips. “Listen …” 

The two men stood quietly, listening to the sounds of nature around them. But as far as Kurt could tell, there were none. The wind didn’t blow. No animals scurried among the bushes and trees, nor crunched in the snow. Not a single bird flew. The only sound Kurt could hear was a faint crackling and popping coming from the direction of the lake.

“I'm sorry. I don’t get it,” Kurt said finally.

“What do you hear?” Sebastian asked.

“I don’t know. I hear … uh … Rice Krispies Cereal?”

Sebastian kissed the back of Kurt’s head. “That’s it!” he said as if Kurt had just told him the secret of the universe.

Kurt shrugged. “I still …”

“Kurt, I tell you to look for growth, and you automatically think of trees, flowers, grass …”

Kurt nodded. "Duh."

“But there is none of that here. Not right now. It’s all hidden under the snow. But one thing here does grow, is growing as we speak. And that’s the noise you heard.”

“Then do you mind cluing me in? Because I’m at a loss.”

“The ice.” Sebastian leaned a cheek against Kurt’s hair. Kurt shivered, moved back closer to him. “Up here where the snow covers everything, the ice is growing.”

"What?" Kurt gasped, peeking out over the ledge from the safety of Sebastian’s embrace. 

“Didn’t expect that, did you, gorgeous?”

Kurt shook his head, staring down at the ice-covered water, at a loss for words.

“You can still create, Kurt,” Sebastian whispered. “It’s in you. You just have to learn to do it in unexpected ways.”

Kurt thought about what Sebastian said as they rode the rest of the way down the hillside, straining to hear the snapping of the ice on the water over the crunching of snow beneath the horses’ hooves. He sat in quiet contemplation the whole way back to the hotel. That evening, after a long, hot shower and dinner in their room, Kurt took out his sketch pad and began to draw. Sebastian fell asleep that night to the sound of Kurt’s charcoal pencil scratching feverishly over the heavy paper, at peace, with a smile on his face.

#kurtbastian #sebkurt #sekurt #sebastian smythe #kurt hummel #glee

[komaeda-roleplay]

The weekend was coming to a close on this lazy Sunday afternoon, it was nice to have a day where there were no expectations and no responsibilities. Chiaki for example was happily laying on the couch upside down while playing her Nintendo Switch, she had installed Splatoon a few days ago and was already top of the ranks in competitive.

She was happily playing when a knock came from the front door, she was far to engrossed in the game to notice until the 6th or 7th time the knock occurred. "Huh?" The gamer paused her game and sat up, heading to the door and opening it up.

Standing there was a girl, hair in messy black pigtails with small streaks of red and blue down a few pieces, a gas mask on her face with dark tinted lenses, her outfit was a goth aesthetic long sleeved shirt rolled up to her elbows accompanied by black leather gloves. A fairly plain black skirt with a utility belt across the hips, ripped black tights and thick goth boots. However the whole look was Splattered with a variety of paints across her skin and clothing.

"Oh, hey Yuna. What are you doing here?" Chiaki greeted casually.

Yuna proceed to type on her phone before the gamer received a message.

[Yuna]: 🎮 = 🤔? 🎮, 🏠 📖! (Chiaki, do you not remember? You invited me to live here since I'm starting at Hope's Peak Academy!)

Yuna pointed behind her to a car with a couple boxes in the back seat.

Chiaki read over the emojis for a moment before she let out an "Oooohh.." She looked a little embarrassed. "Yeah, I must have forgotten. We haven't cleared out the spare room yet." She put her phone away and welcomed her inside. "Come in, let me get my housemates." She said, walking over to the bottom of the stairs.

"Hajime? Nagito? Can you come down please?" She called from the bottom of the stairs. "I forgot to tell you, I invited a friend to live with us. She's just started at Hope's Peak Academy, first day is tomorrow. This is Yuna Iwamine, Ultimate Graffiti Artist." She introduced the girl standing in their hallway.

Nagito headed down the stairs, dragging a slightly unwilling Hajime behind him by the hand.

"Nagito, c'mon... I'm not even dressed properly-" He hissed under his breath, but he immediately shut up when he noticed the girl standing in the hallway.

Nagito let go of Hajime's hand and walked down the stairs, a friendly smile on his face. "The Ultimate Graffiti Artist, huh? That's pretty impressive. Nice to meet you. Since Chiaki invited you to live here with us, I hope we can make your time here at least satisfactory."

"If you want, me and Chiaki can show you around the school when we go, since you're new. It's a pretty big school so it might be overwhelming, but you'll get used to it quickly." He tried to sound reassuring.

Slowly, Hajime was coming down too, wringing his hands together nervously. "Hey. Uh, nice to meet you." Hajime stuck out his hand to offer a handshake.

He ruffled his hair. "Sorry, I'm not used to talking to new people and I didn't expect all of this since Chiaki didn't tell us." He gave her a light hearted glare.

"Sorry." She said, not sounding or looking all that sorry as she momentarily looked up from the game she was playing before immediately going back to it while she waited for everyone to finish talking.

"Since school doesn't start until tomorrow, I guess we could clear out a room for Yuna."

Chiaki yawned before stretching. "Mm, not me though... You two, Hajime and Nagito, can do it, right?"

Nagito nodded. "Of course. Anything to make her feel as comfortable as possible here. I wouldn't want to make a bad impression on the first day."

"Oh, or maybe I already did, haha... Anyways... Let's get to cleaning out that room?"

#nagito komaeda #nagito #komaeda nagito #danganronpa #danganronpa 2 #sdr2 #chiaki nanami #hajime hinata #roleplay

[thebeauregardbros]

“The Ultimate Character Questionnaire”: Alus Beauregard

a fuckton of random questions abt alus ramblingly answered

questions stolen from [here]. i cut out ones that ask the same questions i accidentally answered prior, or just didn’t interest me enough to answer, so if you wanna do this for your own OC I recommend copy+pasting it from the source!

Basic Character Questions

First name? Alus (pronounced ‘Ah-Loose’)

Surname? Beauregard (taken from adoptive father)

Nicknames? Alus wants to be called “Al” but it doesn’t stick because his name is already short. Lots of people unfortunately call him Alice. he does not like that

Date of birth? unknown but he celebrates his birthday on All Saint’s Wake (aka Halloween)

Age? Funfact: Alus and Arc’s age is the age between the RPers’ real-world ages (I’m 24, Arc’s player is 25, but for a brief period Arc’s player becomes 26 while I’m still 24.) So they’re going to be 25 this year (2020)... what the fuck. stop growing. dont do that.

Physical / Appearance

Height? I... he’s tall. Despite Alus being the max height for Miqo’te characters (5′8″/173cm), other male Miqo’te RPers say their characters are taller than that anyway, so I’m like.. not sure what to answer. I don’t want to break reasonable canon of what’s possible for Miqo’te but I also don’t want him to be short or average sized in comparison to other average Miqo’te. I’m just gonna say, definitively, “Alus is tall for a Miqo’te”. If you have a tall Miqo, Alus is just as tall. Or half an inch taller. Take that as whatever you want. I’m tired.

Weight? I... don’t know? This question really doesn’t clarify anything to me; people can be the same height and weight and look totally different in body type. If you absolutely had to get an answer from me, my best guess is maybe somewhere between 170lbs-180lbs? (assuming he is 5′8″)

Build? Wide shoulders, slender hips, long legs, big wide chest and a nice strong core. He is muscular; burly and brawny; his body type feels intimidating and large. He has a healthy amount of fat over his muscles, but still has much clearly visible muscle especially while flexing.

Hair colour? Golden blonde; it’s got a subtle yellow-ish tone that reminds you of sunshine.

Hair style? Alus’ hair is naturally thick and wavy. His hair is grown out long; about armpit length. His hair is choppy, even somewhat feathered. It’s a bit badly damaged from years on the road, but the split ends and fly-aways sparkle brilliantly in the sunlight like a messy halo around his head. His hair naturally very poofy, like damaged 80s hair. Long bangs that were once pushed back fall gracefully over his face like a wild child running about in spring. Whilst resting away from work, he braids it loosely.

Eye colour? Heterochromia; A raspberry red in one pupil, and a sun-shiny yellow-orange in the other.

Eye Shape? Thin and serious, and slightly down-turned. Small double-lid.

Glasses or contact lenses? His eyes are overall pretty healthy, but he’s slightly far-sighted. He uses glasses once in awhile to read, but they’re not super necessary.

Distinguishing facial features? Heterochromia and his adult male Miqo’te markings. He tends to wear purple eyeshadow around his eyes and a subtle purple lip tint.

Which facial feature is most prominent? The facial structure of Alus more resembles an Elezen than a typical Miqo’te; he has a long slender nose, a oval face shape and noticeably high cheekbones.

Which bodily feature is most prominent? Alus’ lion-like tail is somewhat unique among other typical Miqo’te.

Other distinguishing features? His style of dress tends to stand out in a crowd; he favors pure white and soft pastels over more popular color tones among adventurers like blacks and greys. Also unlike the typical adventurer, he is more want to wear fabrics of the fancy and soft nobleman, decked out in frills and lace like a prince locked far away in a chamber more than any man on a dusty and bloody battlefield.

Skin? Uh... a... “medium tan” skintone? (again I have no idea how tf I’m supposed to figure out labels for skin tones when there’s no widely used phrases for specific tones fghdjkgh) with a “warm gold undertone”. The small amount of skin that’s ever exposed upon him is surprisingly soft, as if he never did much hard work in his life. [SPOILER]Underneath his clothes, however...The countless scars upon his torso, back, legs and upper-arms are rough and hard, like treated leather.[/SPOILER]

Birthmarks? Not that he knows of. He has lots of scars from messing around in his childhood but he can’t remember the origin of them all. Any of them could be birth marks as far as he can tell.

Tattoos? None! And he never plans to get one. He has yet to see any tattoos that match his personal aesthetics of what he’d put on his body yet and even if he did, he can’t imagine liking them enough to want to get one.

Physical handicaps? [SPOILER]Numbness in various small patches of skin throughout his body.[SPOILER]

Type of clothes? I already answered this somewhat but if you’re curious about specifics, I made [this pinterest] of stuff I’d imagine he’d wear. Pretty much just take the “aristocrat” Japanese street fashion genre and turn it white, and give it a bit of a gold trim. Lots of frills and lace; heavily inspired by fantastical shoujo manga glorified depictions of what a Prince Charming looks like in medieval setting fairy tales.

How do they wear their clothes? Some (not all) of the specific guidelines I have in my head of what his wardrobe’s like; Colors are only pastels, white, or gold - once in a blue moon he might wear a rich dark raspberry red color or bright orange or yellow. He will NEVER wear grey or black. Pants have to be long enough to reach the ankles. He prefers wearing his shirts tucked-in. Clothes MUST fully cover everything on his body excluding head, neck, and hands at all times - low neckline acceptable in off-duty time. Under special occasions only (ie beachware); lower arms, top of feet or shins can be uncovered. He wears a lot of jabot ties.

What are their feet like? (type of shoes, state of shoes, socks, feet, pristine, dirty, worn, etc) Alus takes his quality of fashion seriously. He’s the type of guy who wears expensive fancy soft white socks trimmed with gold nobody will ever see with the little suspenders on his legs to keep the socks from sagging down. He adores wearing white pointed dress shoes, especially if they have a bit of a high heel. Gold jewelry or buckles are lovely, and any shoe with lace, bows, ribbons, fancy beadwork or faux flowers are supreme. (Google image search ‘Bridal Boots’ if you wanna see his shoes. He’d seriously wear any of them.)

Race / Ethnicity? hhhhhhhhh it’s 5am man I dont have the energy to google faces until i find a reasonable faceclaim and try to figure out that person’s ethnicity... they’re Fantasy Characters... alus is a miqo’te.. maybe had some elezen or hyur in his lineage? idk

Mannerisms? Alus is like a living embodiment of a cartoon Disney prince. I don’t know how to better describe it; He’s elegant and gentle for the most part but can also so comically stiff you could mistake him for an automaton or a piece of background cardboard - then when the moment hits, he can spring into an unrealistic slapstick looney toon nightmare. He always seems to be in a constant state of floating between elegance, stiffness, and slapstick. There is never a break. There is never an in-between.

Are they in good health? For their active life circumstances of constant physical hardship, they are in amazingly good health.

Do they have any disabilities? I don’t think of ADHD as a disability (and I’m saying that as someone who has autism and most likely ADD or ADHD myself) but it’s classified by a lot of people as a disability. So yeah, uh, Alus absolutely has ADHD.

Personality

Are they more optimistic or pessimistic? Definitely more optimistic, sometimes to a fault. I think there’s a degree of choice in there but he’s kinda lost the boundary between blind trust and trying to believe in people and situations because he morally wants to. He is still a worry wart, and that is what causes him to fight so hard as he does for making things around him better as well as making himself better - but I think he makes a very active effort of not letting anyone see that part of him, maybe in an effort to convince himself as well that everything is and will be okay.

Are they introverted or extroverted? Extroverted in a lot of ways and introverted in others. Alus loves and thrives around people, and I think he’s a bit more drained than the average person when he’s alone vs. being in a crowd, but he’s still living more as an introvert - one-on-one deep talks can make him extremely anxious. He’s great at the surface niceties but can often find himself too devoted to strangers, which leads him into trouble sometimes. He’s like a really great social co-worker and a extremely awkward off-duty member of society that doesn’t really know how to function or navigate normal relationships.

Do they ever put on airs? A b s o l u t e l y. Alus’ entire persona is carefully hand-crafted over a lifetime. It’s not to say “This isn’t who he really is, he’s a liar”, but moreso “He’s not quite the person he wishes he was yet.” He makes a really large effort to put on airs of this confident and beautiful Princely type of heroic figure straight out of a fairy tale where he simultaneously knows that such a goal is impossible, since this isn’t a story book - this is real life, he is flawed and complicated, and nothing is as perfect as you wish it was. But he keeps trying no matter what.

What bad habits do they have? Low-key bullying his brother, for sure. Arc is the only person Alus just can’t really put on airs with so his perfect image just breaks down around him. While Alus appears to be a very gentle and kind individual around other people, he’ll comically slap and roast his brother without mercy. (Don’t worry; it’s mutual between them.)

What makes them laugh out loud? Almost anything. Alus is definitely a big giggler, and an even bigger loud spontaneous laugher.

How do they display affection? There’s two major levels of it. First, it’s showering you with little gifts - sweets, flowers, even money if you’re in need, with nothing asked in return. If you’re very close to him, it’s skinship; he loves spontaneously hugging others and holding hands and all that kinda platonic stuff. He’ll pretty much not let go of your arm if you’re around him. He also loves dancing with people, you bet he’ll do the whole nine yards of weaving you around him, lifting you above his head and dipping you.

Mental handicaps? Hates being touched. He has some really bad memories of being manhandled and despises any type of physical restriction on himself, especially from people he doesn’t find VERY close to him. He hates even more to be seen in casual clothes, especially clothes that expose his skin. He’s really not a fan of his exposed body and it’s gonna take a lot for him to get over it. He’s slowly getting better but it’s a long journey.  

How do they want to be seen by others? Someone to look up to; someone to rely on. He wants to be the hope for humanity, essentially. He wants to inspire others to heroism and kindness just by seeing him, and he wants to make the world a better place just by existing in it.

How do they see themselves? Someone who’s just not good enough; Someone who needs to keep working to be better; someone who’s chosen destiny is to be the hero of humanity.

How are they seen by others? Probably as a weirdo. He definitely comes off as eccentric; his strange comedic ramblings and sudden dancing mid-conversation, as well as his random gifts and bag full of pranks, magic tricks and fireworks just really feel off-the-wall. His immediate devotion to others may also come off as exceedingly suspicious. I think how he dresses and his cafe also indicate he’s kind of the ‘rich unhinged guy’ stereotype. People who know him well though know that he’s an extremely good person who would give you the clothes off his back if you needed them more. He loves humanity and would do anything for it.

Strongest character trait? His stubborn devotion to his ideals, for sure. If he wants something, he’ll work his hardest to make sure it happens.

Weakest character trait? Far too trusting of strangers; he gets taken advantage of very easily, and he’s almost always happy to come back for more. He’ll even give the biggest villain a 2nd and 3rd and 4th chance. His inability to condemn anyone as truly evil may cause far more hardship for everyone in the long run than if he just chose to kill the person or lock them up indefinitely and be done with it.

How competitive are they? Alus thrives in competitive environments due to an absolute love and adoration for sportsmanship. He does a fantastic job making his competitors have fun and feels that a competition that is too one-sided doesn’t have any fun or worth. He loves difficult competition because he feels that it helps better himself and his rival.

Do they make snap judgements or take time to consider? Oh, he’s absolutely a “strike now while the iron’s hot” type of a guy. He knows that even a second of a wait can change things for the worse. He’s also definitely a philosophical type that thinks over every possible scenario in his mind in his off-time, but ultimately, he’ll always be the one running off to get things done as soon as they’re brought to his attention. He’s the opposite of his brother, who wants to slow things down before making rash decisions. Alus just knows those decisions need to be made, so it might as well be now, so he just gets it done and worries about the outcome later.

How do they react to praise? He’s actually probably never used to it. I think he has a bit of a low self-esteem problem in how he sees himself as never quite as good as he wants himself to be, so praise can catch him off-guard pretty easily. He’ll cover that up by clumsily stating something comically over-the-top like “Of course, I am incredible! I am the best! Mwahahaha!” but not before gasping for air and stuttering like a shy schoolgirl first.

How do they react to criticism? He has a great ability to deflect toxicity into positivity; he asks what people mean and tries to understand them. I think if the criticism can be taken as constructive, he’s always happy to take it. If the criticism is just plain mean, I think he’ll ask if there’s anything he can do to help the person he’s talking to - he knows nobody would say such mean things to another unless they were having a pretty bad day.

What is their greatest fear? Oh, y’know. Losing his brother. Slugs and slimy things. If you wanna get painful and philosophical about it, I think he’s terrified of the future. He tries to live in the moment and just do the best he can at all times, but when he sees that what he does doesn’t help a lot of the world to stay safe, it freaks him out. In his mind, he’s doing a lot, but in reality - it’s not much at the grand scheme of things. He tries not to think about it too much. He tries not to think much of the past either - of all the mistakes, of what he could and couldn’t have done. It frustrates him. I guess you could say his greatest fear is his own limits. It never feels like he’s doing enough, or even if he ever could do enough.

What are their biggest secrets? [SPOILERS, OBVIOUSLY] Alus is absolutely disgusted with the military powers of the world, and the politicians. He tries to stay optimistic and bright on the outside - he stays useful and does what he can without complaint, he tries to lie to himself and say it isn’t too bad, tries to focus on the good these systems do, to be placated and trust his brother that things will work out alright in this setup - but he sincerely wishes that somehow they could be abolished entirely. He’s frustrated with the idea of any one person or power having control over the lives of others - people those single powers may never meet - will inevitably cause a lack of humanity and understanding of others. Nobody should have this power, not even him, not even the gods. As Alus’ writer, I don’t think he knows a good alternative, he just knows he’s seen enough immoral and inconsiderate shitfuckery in these systems that he can barely stand it anymore. I think many soldiers probably feel like this eventually. [/SPOILER]

What is their philosophy of life? literally just look at the [quote insp tag]

When was the last time they cried? I FEEL LIKE ALUS IS THE TYPE TO TEAR UP AT EXTREMELY COMMON SHIT TBH?? EVERYTHING IS SO BEAUTIFUL I STARTED CRYING TYPE??

What haunts them? [SPOILER]Literally just... becoming a soldier or a fighter to begin with. He wishes it never happened, he wishes the world didn’t need fighting to begin with. But he knows he can never go back now, and even if he did, he’d probably still become a soldier all over again. It’s all he can do in this violent, terrible world.[/SPOILER]

What are their political views? Notable traits would supporting equality rights for Beastmen, more funding towards helping refugees, more funding to adoption agencies and orphanages, more transparency about tax profit and spending, creating opportunities for different countries to share their culture.. etc. (Note: I like to believe that larger glaring IRL political issues like lack of LGBTQ+ rights, gender inequality, ableism, skin-color-based racism and other large current inhumane social problems aren’t problems in FFXIV’s universe. If your RP character uses bigotry in accurate line of these IRL social issues as a character trait, you are not welcome in my RP circle. Period.)

What will they stand up for? He hates violence in general, so he’ll do whatever he can to stop it. Anyone who seems to be controlling or keeping other people against their will is something he loathes. No means no!

Who do they quote? Urianger. like a lot. Probably mostly accidentally; he picks up a lot of vocal mannerisms from the guy.

Are they indoorsy or outdoorsy? Outdoorsy, for sure. He grew up under the stars and being forced indoors for a long time will probably give him feelings of anxiousness and claustrophobia, especially if the space is small. He has had some bad experiences being unable to go outside so he takes his freedom to roam outdoors very seriously.

What is their sinful little habit? He loves sweets. This guy is all about boasting a healthy diet, but his weakness shows the exact opposite. More serious answer: He tends to procrastinate bad, especially when it comes to his passive military duties.

How do they treat people better than them? If they breathe, they’re royalty. Utmost respect and courtesy. Treats them as if he’s the royal butler to their fancy ass selves, even if they’re the lowest of the low in poverty.

How do they treat people worse than them? Honestly? Pretty much the same answer as above. If he gets truly angry at someone, he’ll tell them how and why straight-up, but he’ll never stop giving them the respect and courtesy he believes every human being deserves.

What quality do they most value in a friend? Someone who is as ridiculously open-hearted and ready to confess love to the nearest person along with anything else in the world as Alus tends to do, but also someone who pays close enough attention to him that they can tell when he’s in distress. Alus has a hard time speaking up about when he feels uncomfortable, so someone who has a talent for empathy - detecting other peoples’ emotions - would be incredibly invaluable. That’s the fastest way to his heart.

What do they consider an overrated virtue? None, and all. He thinks that if anyone gets carried away with any traditional virtue to the point that they’re causing evil in the world, they’re just misguided. He understands that - or at least actively wants to understand that - so he can forgive.

If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be? He... honestly thinks of himself as more of an Elezen than a Miqo’te. So anything that ‘gives away’ that he’s a Miqo’te, he could probably do without. He likes his ears and his tail though! But maybe if he was taller? lmao. (I don’t intend to ever Fantasia Alus FYI, MAYBE if male viera comes out and my partner agrees to it AND I have absolutely no active RP going on, but it’s very unlikely, and if it does happen it will be considered a retcon, not a character development)

What is their obsession? Definitely his aesthetics. He spends an incredibly large amount of time, effort, and money on making himself look and properly act like a “fairy tale prince charming”. It’s not only a philosophical mindset of being moral and heroic, but also being charming and supportive to everyone around himself. He honestly hopes and believes that if he succeeds in creating and upholding this image that every person who rests their eyes upon him will be filled with determination and hope that heroism and safety is real.

What are their pet peeves? He disapproves of the glorification of alcohol, smoking, or any other vices that are bad for the average person’s health. He won’t turn away the people with these vices as potential friends, but he’ll certainly be tempted to lecture them on it. He is also really not a fan of casual skinship between strangers, nor is he a fan of an aggressively pessimistic attitude, nor will he ever really be used to people who wear very little clothing (He isn’t disapproving of the sex industry or sex workers per say, he just doesn’t ‘get it’; he could never imagine himself in their shoes), nor is he a fan of other people trying to change him to be more chill about his aesthetic code (how he dresses, how he positively interacts with others, etc.) - but he tends to be more quiet about his dislike of these things. He tries to stay open minded and patient, but yeah, maybe it’ll take a bit longer to get to ‘close friend’ status with these things.

What are their idiosyncrasies? (special mannerisms?) His posture tends to be stiff as a board: too perfect, like some sort of breathing statue or mechanic humanoid, while at other times it’s as if a switch is flipped to make him become a crazy slapstick ragdoll. He tends to speak in a constant fluctuation of ‘ye olde English’ and common casual speech, and he keeps a few feet distance from people he isn’t especially close with at all times. He’s generous with money and far too trusting of strangers to the point it feels like an overblown parody of these traits. He’s painfully optimistic and takes compliments first with a moment of surprise before he adjusts his reaction with over-the-top narcissistic vigor. He’s a constantly faltering image of himself. He’s a walking symbolism of good-hearted chaos.

Friends and Family

Is their family big or small? Who does it consist of? The only people Alus regards as true family is his twin brother, Arc, and his late adoptive father, Gwenneg. There are other Beauregards in the world, and other great “found family”-esque friends yet to make, but Alus cannot imagine them ever meeting the kind of friendship and connection he has with his brother and had with his father. Perhaps he’s tried in the past, but it just never feels the same. He’s at the point he’s given up on the idea of it happening casually.

What is their perception of family? A close-knit group that is always there for eachother, practically living at eachother’s hips. The type of people you can just glance at and they can read your mind, and even if they disagree with you, they’ll go along with you and fix it later. They’re always up for improving eachother. They are essentially extensions of oneself, and like limbs, even if such is cut - it is carefully looked after and healed, the rest of the body worries and tries to better it, never blaming it’s limb for not being good enough. All part of one system.

Describe their best friend. Arc is undeniably Alus’ best friend. I feel a bit weird talking about my friend’s OC for them, but I will say this; Arc’s strengths are in his slow and strategic approach to things; his love of politics and ability to glide through them, the way he finds the best routes and setups in battle, the timing, everything down to the little tiniest details to turn a battle of either wits or blood - he thinks over all of it, something Alus lacks. And despite being much less prone to trust than the willingly naive Alus, he can find the good in just about anybody when it really comes down to it. Arc knows the dark side of this world and is constantly aware and remembering of it, but understands it’s still worth fighting for. He’s also got a pretty good fashion sense! He seems extremely shady when it comes to his bar business though... It seems to be played up as a joke, but you’re never quite sure as you’re talking to him about it.

Ideal best friend? In assumption this means ‘a best friend besides Arc’, I think Alus’ standards are low. Of course, he’d love to have someone who shares his basic interests of aesthetics and his moral philosophy that centralizes on a love for humanity, and the honor and strength of action to act on it, but he also wants to know someone who can teach him a lot. I think that type of person could be absolutely anyone, especially someone that is nothing like him. Alus doesn’t want to necessarily completely change himself through the journey of knowing anothers’ life, nor change someone else entirely either, even if it’s for the better. He just wants mutual understanding with others. He finds a joy that can be found nowhere else when he feels two people, who don’t have anything in common, can find a common ground. This kind of thing excites him. I think something in-between -- someone who is a lot like him in a lot of ways, but has a few traits he lacks completely -- is ideal for him. 

Describe their other friends / Describe their acquaintances. (combo’d) Alus doesn’t really have other people he regards true friends, I think. He kinda regards every person he meets as his friends. That’s really all there is to it for him.

Do they have any pets? No pets, just a lot of animals that follow him around for food scraps and snacks. He always has an open window for birds and butterflies, and an open door to dodos and chickens and stray cats. He enjoys the company of birds the most, though he’s a fan of the loyal doggy too. In terms of his mounts - He mainly only claims ownership over his military-issued chocobo for paperwork purposes, but regards her as a friend without a voice more than an animal under his ownership.  

Who are their natural allies? Anyone who agrees for humanitarian rights, I think. Alus just exists to be a hero, really.

Who are their surprising allies? People he once fought. He always reaches out a hand for people who’ve made mistakes and tells them that he’ll be their friend if they agree to stop their mean-spirited behavior.

Past and Future

What was your character like as a baby? As a child? Equal combination “good kid” and “absolute little shit”; On the surface, he’d always be loyal to his father and polite to strangers, but the second he and his brother got some time to themselves they’d get into all kinds of shenanigans - especially if they manage to find some way to conceal their identity. Most of those shenanigans were pranks trying to scare people with All Saint’s Wake-esque props. They were also a time they were absolutely not above purposely trying to confuse people on which brother was which whenever it was convenient or just funny.

Did they grow up rich or poor? Poor, but I think he still thought himself as lucky. He might not have had a big room to himself or a lot of possessions, but he got to travel the world and meet so many interesting people and see so many interesting things in his father’s caravan.

Did they grow up nurtured or neglected? Nurtured for sure. His family were joined at the hip.

What is the most offensive thing they ever said? I’m sure Alus used to have a potty mouth when he was a kid and young teen. He picked it up from being exposed to so many different individuals growing up. If he’s been around a lot of sailors in Lima Lominsa, I think it’s a safe bet that he probably swore like one too. After his father died that changed almost immediately though in order to honor his dad’s memory.

What is their greatest achievement? I’m sure there’s much more impressive individual achievements he has accomplished - monsters he’s fought, hostage situations he’s negotiated, villains he’s managed to persuade to become heroes, but if you asked him, he’d tell you that simply being lucky enough to be chosen to become one of the Warriors of Light or opening his cafe are the achievements he’s most proud of.

What was their first kiss like? [spoiler]Still haven’t had it![/spoiler]

What is the worst thing they did to someone they loved? I feel like even though Alus adored his father, he probably did a lot of things to make him worried or stressed out, maybe even ran away once or twice just for the fun of it. It was a lot more innocent time for Alus and I don’t think he’d do anything like that in adulthood.

What are their ambitions? Alus just wants to end all war. Full stop. It’s not that complicated. He doesn’t really know the most effective way how to, though. He just keeps doing whatever he can when people request his help - which usually ends up taking advantage of his physical combat skills.

What advice would they give their younger self? Cherish this time. Hug your father and tell him you love him more often. And maybe focus on being a medic or someone who helps the world peacefully more than someone who uses violence to solve the world’s problems. Maybe care a little more about politics.

What smells remind them of their childhood? Chamomile, road dust, seasalt,  and old fancy dusty antiques. 

What was their childhood ambition? To grow up to be a glamorous warrior that saves the world again and again and to rescue a pretty princess.

What is their best childhood memory? Dancing on the streets of Ul’dah with his brother for a little extra pocket money and becoming unexpectedly popular.

What is their worst childhood memory? Losing his father to the calamity and being passed between temporary foster homes again and again, then finally losing his brother in that mess, too.

Did they have an imaginary childhood friend? Alus left out honeyed milk for faeries all the time as a child. Post-calamity, he started to quietly make-believe that faeries and little unicorns visited him when he was particularly lonely or bored, or just wanted to escape his own mind for awhile.

When was the last time they were crushed with disappointment? [FFXIV POST-STORMBLOOD SPOILER]Hearing about Zenos’ body being revived against Zenos’ wishes for a perfect death.[/SPOILER]

What past act are they most ashamed of? Any time Alus can’t save someone from death. Sometimes, Alus must be the one to kill them himself. This is an unbearable sin to bear for him.

What past act are they most proud of? Any time he can save someone. Any time he can help the suffering of someone by giving a little coin. Every time he has made someone smile. It is all the most cherishable, wonderful memories to him. None better than the others.

Has anyone ever saved their life? His twin brother Arc probably on at least a weekly basis. I think saving eachothers’ lives is a regular thing on a battlefield, even if your ally is basically a stranger.

Strongest childhood memory? Just sitting underneath the stars, curled up under a blanket with his brother while they rest their head on their father’s lap as he reads them bedtime stories.

Love

Do they believe in love at first sight? Absolutely. Guy will trust anyone at the drop of a hat, why not fall in love, too?

Are they in a relationship? Not officially, no. I think he casually flirts a lot and has gone out on sporadic dates with many people, but he hasn’t become anyone’s “steady”.

How do they behave in a relationship? Alus is extremely inexperienced. I think he’ll end up trying so hard to show off to whoever he’s dating that he’ll become exhausted. He wants to treat his future spouse like royalty.

When did you character last have sex? [SPOILER]Never![/SPOILER]

What sort of sex do they have? Nothing kinky or out there, he’s a shy confused mess to begin with when it comes to sex - he’s probably very reserved and traditional about it. I should note that Alus is canonically asexual, even if he doesn’t fully realize it yet. He doesn’t really understand the appeal of sex but he’d want his significant other to be happy. [NSFW/18+] He’d definitely insist on being a top, though. [/SAFE!]

Has your character ever been in love? As an greyromantic writer, I have no fucking solid idea what romantic love is supposed to be defined as. If you define it as ‘fantasizing about having a certain person in mind as a future spouse’ then, yes, Alus has been in love loads of times.

Have they ever had their heart broken? Many times, but it rarely gets him down for too long - he’ll fall in love with the next person he sees, then the cycle restarts.

Conflict

How do they respond to a threat? A fake, forced smile. Explaining calmly to the enemy that what they’re doing is wrong. Explaining calmly to the enemy to drop it and go drink tea with him instead. If being calm doesn’t work, yelling at them about their hypocritical morality like some sort of shounen superhero making a speech.

Are they most likely to fight with their fists or their tongue? Tongue, for sure. Alus will be so painfully reasonable with his enemies that the only way he’s drawing his sword to fight is someone else draws first.

What is your character’s kryptonite? Like any hero, he’s a sucker for hostages. Also, math completely turns him fucking stupid. [SPOILER]Also... having his morality questioned, especially being accused of being a hypocrite.[/SPOILER]

If your character could only save one thing from their burning house, what would it be? A faerie tale storybook from his childhood his father read to him often when he was alive.

How do they perceive strangers? “A friend he doesn’t know yet.”

What do they love to hate? I don’t really imagine Alus truly ‘hates’ anything or anyone, just greatly dislikes or disapproves of them. And even then I think he doesn’t particularly enjoy disliking them. I don’t think he views negative feelings as something to be prideful over.

What are their phobias? Slugs and other slimy creatures, as well as mild situational claustrophobia.

What is their choice of weapon? His fists, for sure; there’s some sort of philosophy inside his mind that fighting with his bare hands or body without tools or weapons to aid him is the ultimate form of respect towards other human beings’ pain and livelihood - he wants them to know he shall feel pain right back if he strikes someone else, and he’s allowing himself the possibility to be hurt in return.

What living person do they most despise? I think anyone who justifies war or pain as a glorious and wonderful thing instead of a tragedy is someone he dislikes. Especially if said person has no respect for human life or the bodies of the fallen.

Have they ever been bullied or teased? Plenty. Unfortunately mostly his given name is particularly targetted. He’s also been called too soft plenty of times.

Where do they go when they’re angry? Home - his house is well soundproofed and cozy. He may go on an off-trail walk alone in the middle of Thanalan or the like.

Who are their enemies and why? The Garlean army, the Ascians.. do you really need to ask why? They wish to create death and chaos, that’s plenty of a reason enough.

Work, Education and Hobbies

What is their current job? Maelstrom military field medic, café proprietor, free paladin

What do they think about their current job? The café is seemingly always empty, but he doesn’t mind continuing to pour money into it. It’s a safe haven to him and a symbol of his independence from the violent life of military duty. Being a field medic is endlessly horrifying, but he’s glad he can help people. His status of Free Paladin makes him obligated to carry out duties to help Eorzea, which is something he’s proud of - but he is always not all that great at drawing his sword at the sign of trouble.

What are some of their past jobs? The only other “jobs” Alus has had in the past were mostly just side jobs for a little extra pocket money, mostly dancing on the street.

What are their hobbies? Dancing, capoeira martial arts, piano, tea brewing, baking, reading, writing, sketching, watercolor art, goldsmithing, fashion, bird keeping.

Educational background? Went to a school for accounting for a few years. He retained absolutely no information about accounting.

Intelligence level? Literate; can read older more complex texts easily. Good with maps. More of a “physical education” kinda guy.

Do they have any specialist training? Paladin training. Nothing else formal.

Do they have a natural talent for something? Weirdly incredibly good at parkour - stuff like navigating tightropes and climbing up buildings without any hesitation or struggle.

What is their socioeconomic status? At the moment, Alus is pretty well-off. He and his brother own their own business in the Lavender Beds, and Alus can afford high class clothes, hobbies, furniture and the like. He’s also prone to donate to charity near constantly.

Favourites

What is their favourite animal? whatever birds are ROUND

Which animal to they dislike the most? S L U G S

What place would they most like to visit? His cafe, honestly. It’s a safe haven.

What is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen? People.

What is their favourite song? Simply Satie

Music, art, reading preferred? Alus loves playing piano, drawing sketches and reading storybooks. I don’t think he could trade one for the other! (He’s awful at singing though.)

What is their favourite colour? Pale blue, white, yellow-gold, and pastel pink.

What is their password? “Password”. Nobody will ever get it!

Favourite food: La Noscean toast! (AKA French toast!) with lots of berries and whipped cream!

Who is their favourite artist? ??? ((OOC: if Alphonse Mucha was in FFXIV it’d be him idk))

What is their favourite day of the week? E V E R Y D A Y (but probably mostly Sunday)

Possessions

What is in their fridge: Fresh salad, fruits, fresh berries, vegetables, tofu, jackfruit, orange juice, leftover strawberry shortcake, protein shakes, leftover rice, eggs, butter, yogurt, frozen berries... and even fresh flowers?

What is on their bedside table? A dozen lighthearted fairytale and academic books on aether he recycles through reading every night as he goes to bed, a pitcher & glass of water, a vase with a flower in it, reading glasses, 3 inch tall lil stuffed dodo.

What is in their bin? Compost bin for old fruits/vegetables/egg shells/bread and a recycling bin full of paper and packaging garbage.

What is in their bag? A lot of coin, a hairbrush, a box of ice chilled flowers, travel-size beauty products, lots of fireworks and other fun little spectacle toys, a pocket-sized book of poetry, a basic armor polishing set, a miniature sewing kit, bandages, healing potions.

What is their most treasured possession? A very old and damaged book of fairy tales from his childhood.

Spirituality

Who or what is your character’s guardian angel? His adoptive father - at least, that’s what he wants to believe.

Do they believe in the afterlife? Yes! Very much so.

What are their religious views? [SPOILER]Alus has a complicated relationship with religion. For the most part of his life, he’s believed in The Twelve like every other Eorzean, but as he’s grown older he’s found himself more and more impatient and even disgusted of the cruelties that the gods allow to happen, and the ways followers of Nald’thal and Halone use their religion as a means to prey on the weak for the sake of money, classism, and racial disparity. Hearing the words of Garlean soldiers point out that proof that The Twelve exist is seemingly nonexistent has further disrupted Alus’ belief in them. Alus does, however, firmly believe in Hydaelyn.[/SPOILER]

What do they think heaven is? Alus has no true confident belief in what exactly the seven heavens are, but he likes to think heaven is a place where flowers bloom all the time, the weather is always warm and sunny, bugs don’t bother you and war and violence never happen, and relaxing tea parties are hosted all day long, clothes are comfortable and pretty and never soiled by dirt and mud no matter how much you play in the grass.

What do they think hell is? Like many Eorzeans, Alus believes in the seven hells. The seven hells are a place that one must climb out of to eventually make it to heaven, and depending on how bad of a person you were in life, the deeper in hell you start out in after you die, and the more you have to climb before you get upward into heaven. Alus finds great comfort in this ideology because it means that no matter how bad a person was in life, they may still find forgiveness and redemption in death.

Are they superstitious? I think he’s open-minded. He seems to discover so many legends of being real every day that it’s difficult for him not to believe in anything and everything he hears. He tries to be respectful of the unknown and follow their rules, but when push comes to shove it’s all about the grandest happiness for everyone - he will challenge whatever fae or ghostly apparition that wants to mess with him if he thinks what they’re doing is immoral or unfair. 

What would they like to be reincarnated as? A stream. A rosebush. A rainbow. Something that others can look at and feel at peace, something for others to enjoy. A way to give love without living a life that inevitably creates suffering through heroism. To just exist as part of the beauty in the world.

How would they like to die? He doesn’t know. Death scares him. He does not want to die in battle. He does not want to die sleeping in a bed. But he wishes he’ll be old. He wishes he’ll have lots of friends. And he wishes he did everything he could while he was alive to make the world a better place as much as he possibly could.

What animal is most like your character, spiritually speaking? .... A golden retriever. Eager to please, extremely loving and loyal, a strong body, picky about weird things, and incredibly goofy.

Values

What do they think is the worst thing that can be done to a person? Betrayal?? torture?? bullying?? rape?? what do you want from me. He hates all forms of toxic and violent behavior!!

What is their view of ‘freedom’? The ability to form your own path; the ability to be whatever you want, even if the dream seems impossible to everyone else. The ability to go anywhere you want, walk and run anywhere you want, travel anywhere you want. The ability to say no when you want. The ability to be respected as independent.

How often do they lie? NEVER!!!!!!! He might bend the truth a little bit or side-step an answer but even white lies he’s not into. He rarely needs to white lie about anything anyway; he tends to see the best in everything.

What’s their view of lying? BAD AND UNNESSESARY

How often do they make promises? Constantly.

How often do they keep or break their promises? He 100% keeps his promises unless he’s literally physically incapacitated and in which case he will apologize and try to make it up to you so much

Daily life

What are their eating habits? Vegetarian. He eats really healthy and he eats a lot. Big fan of asian food I think. Has no problems eating stuff that’s bland as hell; I feel like it’s part of his determination to better himself. Has a terrible weakness for sweets, though. Secretly hates stuff that’s slimy, like mushrooms, but he will never complain if it’s given to him.

Do they have any allergies? Nope, he’s lucky. If he does, he hasn’t discovered it yet.

Describe their home. Very white, tons of gold nouveau trim on everything, and tons of flowers everywhere. Looks like the home of royalty. [Here’s his housing aesthetic.]

Are they minimalist or a clutter hoarder? Neither, I think. Maybe leaning closer to minimalist over clutter-lover; he likes everything being clean and easy to access in his house. His design aesthetic of nouveau isn’t necessarily minimalist in inherent style though imo.

What do they do first thing on a weekday morning? Wakes up extra early, takes a quick cool shower to wake himself up, eats a quick and simple breakfast full of protein; most likely something with a lot of nuts and eggs as it’s ingredients + big salad. packs a simple lunchbox and starts his day: Every morning, he walks to the statues of Nald and Thal, viewing the warm pink sunrise in the process. he pays his respects to each; cleans and dusts with a simple cleaning kit he’s left there prior. Leaves some simple offerings. Finds somewhere nice and empty in Thanalan to do some excercises and martial arts training for the day. sits down and eats lunch afterwards. lazily walks home, takes another quick shower to get the sweat and dust off. while his hair is drying, he puts on makeup and decides a proper outfit to wear for the day. meets up with arc, goes on their obliged military-issued mission for the day.

What do they do on a Sunday afternoon? Makes an effort to drag Arc over to his place for a big fancy dinner. Tea and crumpets as an early evening appetizer. Alus cooks everything while Arc hangs out and talks, lending a bit of help when Alus demands asks for him. Arc sneaks in alcohol. Alus yells at him. repeat next week.

What do they do on a Friday night? this but like, outside, alone, in the middle of thanalan somewhere

What is the soft drink of choice? If soft drinks existed in Eorzea I can’t help but feel like Alus is one of those freaks who don’t like any of them.

What is their alcoholic drink of choice? NO

Miscellaneous

What is their character archetype? This question originally linked to some basic archetypes, but I already have TVtropes collected and they’re far more interesting as an answer imo SO: [All-Loving Hero], [Reluctant Warrior], [Cloudcuckoolander], [Warrior Poet], [Stepford Smiler], [Motor Mouth], [Large Ham], [Stupid Good], [In Touch With His Feminine Side], [The Fashionista], [Light Is Good], [Flower Motifs], [Declaration of Protection].

Who is their hero? I don’t think Alus has a specific person in mind that isn’t fictional - fact is, nobody is as perfect as the type of person he strives to be. I think he finds traits of admirable heroism everywhere in people, though. Everything from his friends who fight for the good of the world no matter what, from the villain who unexpectedly saves someone while nobody else is watching, to the single mother who works hard to raise her children, to the homeless people who just continue to fight on to live even when everything feels so hopeless around them. I think he sees traits in others he wishes he had all the time. He wants to embody all the good traits of everyone. And I should mention, if one is to have a ‘hero’, it is expected that person to be better than one, yes? I don’t think Alus believes he’s particularly better than anyone else, especially in their positive traits.

What or who would your character dress up as for Halloween? Alus goes HARD on All Saint’s Wake. He and Arc’s signature best costume always ends up being these hyper-realistic ghost costumes that they trick out with special glamours, magic, and tech to surprise the passerby. If it doesn’t genuinely scare someone, it isn’t enough!

Are they comfortable with technology? I think he’s absolutely got the boomer brain when it comes to allagan technology. He can get by fixing old mechanical clocks and the like but when it comes to allagan stuff, he’s just absolutely out of his element. He’ll certainly listen if someone wants to try explaining it to him, but it’ll take considerable time before he fully “gets it” and usually when he does, it’s more on blind faith and an ability to follow basic directions more than true understanding. I think in general it just doesn’t really interest him and if he’s going to spend the time and energy to learn about it, he’d rather use that energy on his other interests - books, physical training, baking and the like. (Modern AU: He’s absolutely the guy still using an ancient flip phone because “It still works!” Also, he capitalizes and uses perfect grammar in all his extremely-hard-to-type number code texts.)

If they could save one person, who would it be? It’s a difficult question, because of course - the first person to come to mind is Arc. But the thing is, Arc can take care of himself. And Alus knows this. Alus trusts this. So when it comes down to choosing between Arc and someone less capable.. Alus will most likely help the less capable person. If Arc is hurt, Alus knows he’ll forgive him. But if Arc were to die? And it be Alus’ fault? It would utterly crush him.

If they could call one person for help, who would it be? Arc, of course. There’s nobody Alus would rather have by his side while dealing with problems.

What is their favourite proverb? “Since it is likely that children will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and courage.” – C.S. Lewis (Personally my fav proverb in thinkin about Alus is “Because the world is so full of death and horror, I try again and again to console my heart and pick the flowers that grow in the midst of hell.” – Hermann Hesse)

What is their greatest extravagance? This is kind of a depressing and even controversial answer, but it’s honestly any time he has ducked out from military duty with or without permission when all of it has just gotten to him too much. He knows that him not being there will be more of a problem than a solution - he knows that - but any moment he can just pretend, for a moment, that he’s just a normal man running a normal little girlish cafe during a time without war.. That’s his greatest extravagance.  

What is their greatest regret? The amount of enemies he has been forced to down when talk wasn’t enough is piling higher and higher every moon cycle. It’s an absolute horror. He tries so hard to be nonlethal as possible. He’s studied so much how to avoid vital organs, how to down someone without hurting them badly, but no matter what there is always the chance of there being a prior injury he didn’t know about, or a undiagnosed medical problem that was just activated by the smallest knock.. That isn’t even to mention the people who have been hurt because the people he talked down didn’t keep their word or stood back up when he thought they’d stay asleep. No matter what, he just isn’t enough to save everyone. Why is it that no matter how hard he works to have this ideal of pacifism, it never works completely? Why is it never enough?

What is their perception of redemption? That the unwavering truth of this world is that people are fundamentally capable of change. He refuses to believe otherwise, no matter what. Perhaps it is an active choice instead of an instinctual one, nobody is certain for Alus’ mindful case. He believes the expectation for lifelong punishment for a past crime is petty and cruel, and in itself deters people from switching sides for the better. He believes anyone and everyone deserves the right to have the choice to right their wrongs at any time. Don’t misunderstand though - He understands sometimes people are far too gone for simply dropping everything they’ve done and that’s enough to erase their mistakes - he knows that some people can only find rightful redemption in the afterlife after execution, even if execution is not an ideal solution to stopping them in his eyes. But he prays for them. He’ll never give up on anyone.

What would they do if they won the lottery? Back into investments or savings to get an even bigger profit later. Alus knows how to play the smart long game. But uh... If the fates play a trick and he sees a beautiful fashion piece in a shop window, maybe that won’t last too long. He’s also notoriously overly generous with money to the needy, he spends money on service tips like pouring water out of a glass. Money is always moving, and if he starts to run low, he just works a little harder to get back to the comfort zone. He’s in a pretty good place in his life monetarily wise atm already.

What is their favourite fairytale? It’s difficult to answer this because I don’t know what sorts of stories exist in Eorzean canon! But I can say that the real-world 1986 manga “The Sword of Paros” is a huge inspiration to Alus’ character. It’s about a person born with the title of ‘Princess’ who believes to have been born the wrong gender, and does everything in their power to prove themselves worthy of the title of ‘Prince’ despite immeasurable odds against them from their family and their country. The hero also falls in love with a commoner woman who wishes nothing more to be loved by the idyllic image of a charming knight in shining armor that comes and rescues her, and their love is ultimately tragic as it’s also not recognized as valid.. but the prince never stops fighting for his title and the right of his love, and the ability for them both to be happy. Though the story ends without the ideal conclusion, the very concept of these characters fighting against all odds for something genuinely better for the whole world is something Alus is really all about. (Also, seriously, read this manga. It’s groundbreaking. It’s Utena done right.)

What fairytale do they hate? Any faerietales that have unhappy endings, or seem to focus strongly on tragedy or pessimistic ideas of realism in the world. That tends to fall into the category of ‘cautionary tales’ most the time. He’s also really not a fan of stories with body horror or gore.

Do they believe in happy endings? I think he believes that happy endings should always be the goal, but I don’t think he truly accepts that they actually exist. He understands that happiness and safety is always temporary, and this is why he should always strive to make the world a better place. If he helps someone get to a point that they’re happy, healthy, and safe - he’ll just move on to the next person who needs his help. A happy ending for himself though? I think he’s not confident in it, but he wants to live every day to the fullest as he can before he dies. He accepts this as part of his duty - he knows he’s living on ultimately borrowed time.

What is their idea of perfect happiness? Being in love, being surrounded by people you love, having the support of others you trust and having the ability to spoil the people you care about. Having a home you’ll never be kicked out of.. And no war that you have to leave to. No people you have to harm. Just the peace to drink tea with your former enemies as you gaze out onto flowers on a warm day... That’s all he ever wants.

What would they ask a fortune teller? I think he’s concerned if he’ll ever someone to truly share his life with besides his brother. He just really wants a good friend.. Ideally, someone attractive he can hold the hand of!

If your character could travel through time, where would they go? Before the Calamity. He’d just want to listen to his father tell him a few more stories again. He misses the peacefulness of his childhood, the certainty that someone out there stronger than him loved him and wanted to keep him safe, the ability to ignore his own call to war... He wouldn’t so selfish to want to try and bend fate enough to save his father, though he would if he had the chance.. But he knows it’s impossible.

What sport do they excel at? (Modern AU) He was definitely a cheerleader in highschool and/or college, I feel like. Probably into dancing! And ofc a dedicated martial artist. I feel like he’d be pretty good at football and wrestling too - games that require a bulky build to be great at - but he just doesn’t have a particular interest in either of those.

What sport do they suck at? (Modern AU) Probably stuff like archery and tennis -  not only would he’d thrive better in big team sports, he’s just not much for long-range dexterity. He’d also be absolutely incompetent as an esports competitor lmfao.

If they could have a superpower, what would they choose? Anything that was especially effective at saving peoples’ lives. Time travel to stop mistakes before they happen or say the right thing before a war breaks out, super effective healing powers... anything. Just to stop suffering and death.

#meme #alus beauregard #ffxiv rp #this literally took me like 4 months to complete fuck

[androgynoussublimeangel]

The Price of Freedom (Chpt.1)

AO3

Summary: 

Alastor isn't sure what's gotten into their resident drug-addicted pornstar but something is different about the determined set of his shoulders and a vengeful glint in his eyes. And just where does he keep slipping off to each day returning with more money than any prostitute could make in a single day.

Alastor is beginning to realize Angel Dust might not be the demon Alastor assumed him to be. And has he always had a trio of strange imps following him around?

But Alastor isn't one to miss out on what could prove to be some very promising entertainment.

*

Angel wanted his freedom. The freedom that Valentino had stolen before Angel even knew what freedom was. He’d spent his whole lifetime being trapped under someone else's control, first his father’s, then his drug dealers, then his clients. Now that he was dead he’d only traded one pair of shackles for another.

As long as Valentino had power, Angel knew he’d never have more than a gilded cage. And Angel was fucking tired of cages. But the overlord wasn’t going to just give up his throne willingly.

But Angel wasn't going to give up without a fight.

With a final horse scream, Angel toppled to the floor, pained tremors wracking his limp body. Flinching as Vox roughly tore his cords from the base of his skull. The TV demon carelessly kicking the prostitutes' prone form as he stepped over him. Angel could only moan softly in pain, his long limbs curling inwards cradling his still trembling body. Barely aware of the sound of the door opening behind him.

“Sorry for the wait Angel Cakes,” Valentino’s smoky voice prickled unpleasantly over Angel’s still pain addled consciousness. Angel blinked blurrily up at the looming figure of his pimp. “Just took Vox a lot longer to find what we were looking for in that empty fucking brain of yours. Don’t know how you find anything in there babe.” The other demons voice dripping with cruel amusement. Digging the toe of his shoe into Angel’s sore ribs. His sharp smile twisting as the pornstar whimpered, trying to wiggle away uselessly.

“Must be all that shit you’re always snorting, might wanna lay off the angel dust, sweetheart.”

Valentino laughed sadistically, sidestepping his employee’s crumpled body, striding towards his desk with Vox following close behind. The overlord settling into his overly luxurious chair, carved from ebony wood with gold inlays and lined with crimson velvet, auspicious enough to be called a throne.

Angel had always thought it looked less like a symbol of the overlord's power and more like he was overcompensating. Not that he ever dared share that with Valentino.

The pimp steepled his fingers together, propping his feet atop his enormous desk. The TV demon standing to Valentino left, screen flickering as a cruel grin warped his face. The lights leaking through the enormous penthouse windows haloing the overlords in neon colors.

“But Vox is the best at what he does,” Valentino smirked at his fellow overlord, the smirk growing wider as the other demon cackled in response. Angel tried to lift his head, weakly glaring at his boss, eyes still unfocused and vision blurring at the edges. Still fuzzy from Vox’s invasion of his mind.

“Come on Angie, baby, don’t be that way. You forced my hand sweetheart, I couldn’t trust you to remember to tell me everything.” The pimp scolded, voice thick with false sweetness. “Just like I’m sure it slipped your mind to mention your whole little “going-clean” schtick.” His smile dropping suddenly, eyes steely. “I don’t appreciate learning about my employee's apparent plans to quit from those fucking pigs running the news.”

Angel shuddering under the force of the overlord's anger, the air practically pulsating from the power exuding from the pimp. Forcing his aching body upright, legs still too weak to hold his weight. His lower set of arms wrapped protectively around his throbbing torso. Valentino’s enraged expression becoming pleased at the sight of Angel’s pained grimace. His face twisting into a pseudo-sweet smile.

“But you’re ain’t gonna quit are you, Angel?” The pimp crooned. Legs falling from his desk as he leaned forward in his chair. Propping his elbows on the desktop and hooking his chin on his intertwined fingers. Glowing red eyes watching the prostitute expectantly, dark promises flickering behind the tinted lenses of heart-shaped glasses. Angel swallowed back the disgust curling in his throat.

“No daddy.” He replied obediently. Eyes downcast and posture demure, the perfect picture of compliance.

“Good, good, we wouldn’t want to have to punish you again now would we.” Angel shook his head vehemently, ignoring the splitting headache pounding behind his eyes. Valentino hummed in satisfaction as he leaned back into the plush velvet lining his chair.

“Now,” The overlord purred, the tapping of his nails against the armrest of his chair deafening in the quiet room. “You wanna explain to me what all this ‘redemption’ bullshit is about?”

Angel didn’t reply. Refusing to look at the overlord.

Valentino sighed, rising smoothly to his feet, sauntering over to Angel’s kneeling form. Angel gazed up at the other man, fighting to not flinch away from the hand that began petting his hair. “How ‘bout I make this easier,”

The clawed hand that had been carding through his hair suddenly gripping a fistful of white locks. Angel winced as his head was yanked back, Valentino’s sharp teeth suddenly inches from his face. “What makes you think you’re even worthy of redemption?” The pimp growled, ignoring Angel uselessly clawing at the hand tangled in his hair.

“A stupid, worthless, whore like yourself, whose only redeeming quality is your cock-hungry holes.”

Angel averted his eyes, unable to hold Valentino’s hateful gaze as verbal poison spilled from the pimps lips. A sudden sharp grip on his chin wrenched his face forward, Valentino’s claws digging harshly into the soft flesh of Angel’s cheeks. The overlord forcibly lifting Angel’s body upwards with his tight grip. The pornstar whimpering but knowing better than to retaliate.

“You look me in the fucking eye when I’m talking to you!” Valentino snarled, eyes flashing before his expression relaxed, melting back into a saccharine sweet smile.

“You just can’t do anything right can you dollface?” A drop of blood sliding down Angel's cheek where Valentino’s claw pricked his cheek. “So fucking useless huh, that dumb royal bitch didn’t know what she was doing picking your pathetic ass to be a part of her stupid pet project.”

The bitter taste of copper filling Angel’s mouth as he bit harshly into his lip to stop himself from spitting in the overlord's face. Surprised by the force of his own anger as Valentino mocked Charlie’s dream. Girl was as naive as they came but she genuinely wanted to see the best in everyone, she truly believed demons could be redeemed. She believed Angel could be redeemed.

The overlord noticed the defiant spark in the pornstar's eyes, his grin growing sharper until he was baring his teeth more than he was smiling.

“Oh this is rich,” The pimp laughed through his teeth, still gripping Angel Dust’s hair. Valentino smirked over his shoulder at Vox, shaking Angel roughly by his hair. “This little bitch actually believes in this redemption shit.” Vox’s snickering joined Valentino’s own cruel chuckling.

“Let me make one thing clear, Angel.” Valentino’s voice dropped to a hiss, his face inches from Angel’s. Close enough that Angel could taste the other man’s alcohol tainted breath. “Even if redemption wasn’t a load of horseshit, you’d never have a chance in hell. You wanna know why angel cakes?”

The overlord drew back to his full height, sneering down his nose at Angel. “Cuz your nothing. You ain’t worth nothing to nobody. Even your own family down here doesn’t want you. The only reason you’re not dead in a fucking ditch is because of me.”

Angel winced as the nails pricking his cheeks dug deeper into the soft flesh. “Who do you belong to Angel cakes?”

“You.” Angel’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“That’s right, and I’ve got your contract to prove it.” Valentino releasing his intense grip on both Angel’s face and hair sending the pornstar toppling to the floor again.

“Now get out, I’m sick of looking at your face.” The pimp spun on his heel, returning to his seat without a backward glance at the trembling demon struggling to stand. Angel tottered dangerously but managed to get his legs underneath himself, one arm still cradling his slowly mending ribs. Angel was half-way out the door hand hovering on the door handle when the sound of Valentino’s voice caused him to pause. “Oh, and Angel?”

Angel Dust glanced warily over his shoulder. “Next time, you answer me when I call, got it, babe?”

“Yes, boss.”

The door closed with a click.

Angel kept his head held high, marching to the elevator. The moment the doors slid closed behind him, Angel all but collapsed against them. Exhaling deeply, wincing as a sharp jab of pain from his protesting ribs, Angel groaned. Valentino had really put him through the wringer this time. Angel knew he’d be sore for weeks but the pimp always made sure he’d still be able to work. Never leaving an injury that couldn’t regenerate in a few hour's time. Didn’t want to damage the merchandise after all.

Mutilation wasn’t Val’s style anyway, the sadistic roach preferred to aim for where the skin was thinnest. He always knew which bruises to dig his fingers into. Valentino was equally as fond of emotional abuse as he was of inflicting physical pain. The pimp overlord was able to ascertain someone's most emotionally vulnerable cracks and once he did, he’d ruthlessly pry those cracks open until whatever was left was practically unrecognizable.

Angel moaned softly as the elevator jolted, his sore body complaining at the rough treatment. He silently willed it to descend faster, he was itching to get the hell out of there before he suffocated under the weight of Val's overwhelming presence.

This wasn’t his first time getting on his boss’s bad side. He’d seen the back of Valentino's hand more than once. It was rare if he was without a bruise or two, either from his clients or his pimp. It was one of the unfortunate side effects of being covered entirely in velvety fur. A lot easier to hide bruises, which Val seemed to take as a challenge.

Angel could handle pain, he even enjoyed it in the right scenarios. Even as Valentino’s punishments grew more and more brutal. Angel could handle him.

Vox was a different story.

Vox was the kind of demon Angel hated the most, though Valentino was a close second. He even preferred Alastor and his creepy smile over the TV demon. Despite Angel’s previous unawareness about the radio demon, Vaggie’s very vivid and detailed story of other demons ventures painted a clear picture.

Alastor was direct, merciless and efficient. Alastor slaughtered demons but his bloodlust was simple and honest. The radio demon even seemed to have some weird moral code about who he killed. Despite his terrifying abilities and rumored cannibalism, he wasn’t a mindless killer.

Unlike Vox and Valentino who enjoyed causing pain just for the sake of pain. Heedless of who they hurt as they made an overblown show of power through senseless and gratuitous killing.

Angel had always found Vox’s unique brand of torture was invasive, cowardly, and unrefined. The TV demon wielded the numerous cords connected to his body and at the slightest inclination could bury them deep in his victims' flesh. Vox’s powers granted him the ability to forcibly search someone's mind, which was painful in it itself. But he could also forcibly create a recurring nightmare of traumatic memories that played on a loop.

Angel had one of Vox’ victims who’d been plugged in for over a week, reliving their darkest moments again and again. They’d been barely more than an empty husk of a demon, eyes empty and blank, completely unresponsive. It had scared Angel badly enough at the time he’d behaved for an entire year.

This wasn’t even the first time Valentino had felt Angel’s disobedience merited Vox’s intervention, but it wasn’t usually as unbearable. Normally Angel was so strung out on whatever cocktail of drugs he was offered it was barely more than a, particularly bad nightmare. A bad dream that would be forgotten easily enough as soon as Angel Dust got his hands on more of his namesake.

But this time Angel had been completely stone-cold sober.

Each excruciating second had been in agonizing clarity. The feeling of Vox forcibly entering his mind had felt like his head was being split open from the inside and left his brain feeling like it’d been scraped raw with sandpaper. Painful memories lingering too close to the surface after being buried underneath the haze of drugs and sex for so long.

Angel shuddered, moments of his past life that he’d tried his best to forget flashing behind his eyelids. Shaking his head, trying to rid himself from the lingering horrors Vox dredged up from his own mind. He only succeeds in further agitating his throbbing headache.

The elevator dinged and Angel stumbled backward as the doors slid open. Catching himself on the wall with a groan, Angel whined unhappily as he clambered back to his feet. Brushing off imaginary dust from his jacket and smoothing back his hair, only for it to bounce forward again.

Beginning his trek down the hall, eyes brushing over familiar faces of other demons trapped underneath Valentino’s thumb. Some offered him sympathetic looks but otherwise didn’t approach. Angel couldn’t bring himself to be offended. After all, they all knew Valentino would only use it as an excuse to punish him again.

Angel took in the tired faces of all the demons that passed him, everyone looking a little worse for wear since he’d been here last. It had been a few days since he was released from house arrest, or would it be hotel arrest Angel wonders, after his little territorial genocide stint with Cherri. Charlie (only after Vaggie’s very loud protest) had insisted there be some kind of punishment for his actions. If it could be called that, Angel would take a few days of lazing around with his pig over Valentino’s punishment anytime.

Angel sure as hell didn’t believe in redemption or any of that “being a good person” bullshit Charlie was always trying to sell him. But looking at the haggard faces of the demons around him he felt a twinge of concern for them. They weren’t good people that was for damn sure but a lot of them weren’t exactly bad people either.

Angel huffed, cursing Charlie for infecting him with her mushy feelings and empathy. He shuddered just thinking the word. This would be so much easier drugged out of his mind and completely unaware of anything besides his own high.

Drawing closer to the rear exit of the studio Angel straightened his hunched posture, the ache in his ribs finally having subsided somewhat as the bones mended. It would ache like a bitch for a few days at least but nothing Angel wasn’t used too. He’d just have to avoid his left side when he was on the pole.

He exited the studio quickly, striding down the alleyway, eager to get as far away from the building as possible. He wanted to get back to the hotel, where he at least had a room that wasn’t monitored 24/7 and he didn’t have to worry about anyone trying to sell Fat Nuggets for drug money while he was gone.

He paused mid-step, eyes catching on a garishly colored image splashed across the alleyway wall. Angel glared up at, what was no doubt the work of one of Valentino’s, admittedly talented, goons. An enormous portrait of Valentino’s sleazy face splashed across the alley wall. It practically dwarfed him, nearly twice Angel’s height and wider than his arm span.

Standing there, glaring up at the pimps painted likeness. Skin tacky from the cold sweat drying on his skin, breathing slowly growing more ragged with each breath. Angel felt a powerful tidal wave of emotion well up inside him. All four of his hands curling tightly into fists, his claws digging painfully into his palms.

A sudden familiar, grating voice boomed over the loudspeaker causing Angel to jump in surprise. Grimacing in disgust as one of Valentino’s many degrading “reminders” that played on an hourly loop echoed through the studio, leaking into the alleyway.

“Remember to serve your customers with a smile, a happy customer is a paying customer. Now go out and make daddy his money you worthless whores.”

Valentino’s voice wrapping tightly around Angel, slowly constricting around him, squeezing the air from his lungs. Just another reminder of who he belonged to.

The thin thread of Angel’s temper finally snapped.

A loud crack reverberated through the alley. Angel’s fist burying itself in the brick wall, directly in the center of Valentino’s smarmy painted smile. Long, jagged cracks spidering across the surface obscuring the image of Valentino’s grinning face entirely.

Angel’s entire form trembled with rage, the fury burning inside him climbing higher and higher. A small flame of indignity that had spent centuries growing into a blazing inferno of hatred and savage determination.

Angel wanted his freedom. The freedom that Valentino had stolen before Angel even knew what freedom was. He’d spent his whole lifetime being trapped under someone else's control, first his father’s, then his drug dealers, then his clients. Now that he was dead he’d only traded one pair of shackles for another.

As long as Valentino had power, Angel knew he’d never have more than a gilded cage. And Angel was fucking tired of cages. But the overlord wasn’t going to just give up his throne willingly.

Angel tugged his fist free from the brick and mortar wall, unflinching despite his now bloodied and broken knuckles. They would heal quickly enough anyway. Angel wanted his freedom, but there was only one way to get it. It wasn’t going to be easy, and Angel knew he might die trying, but he’d already made up his mind. A sharp, determined grin spread across Angel Dust’s lips.

He was going to kill Valentino.

#radiodust #radio dust #hazbin angel dust #angel dust #angeldust #alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor x angel dust #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel angel dust #hazbin #hazbin radio demon #hazbin fanfic

[cetaceans-pls]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Bane (DCU) Additional Tags: Reconciliation, Developing Relationship, Dom/Sub Undertones, Bruce Wayne Is Trying His Best, The rest of the family play a very small role, Slow Burn Summary:

Change is a hard thing for people to grasp, even when they’re billionaire vigilantes and reanimated pseudo-criminals.

Going from parent and child to zombie-son-left-unavenged and shitty-father-figure was rough, and trying to find even ground after Bruce and Jason had been so fundamentally changed by Jason’s death had been almost impossible.

But after a year of improved communication, rooftop tacos, and the foiling of a terrorist attack, they find a new normal for taking care of each other.

I have written over 30k words for this gd fandom since the day @setsailslash got me hooked and every day the mania just grows deeper.

Or,

That time I scrapped smut 300 words in because I thought if I did that how would you know they love the hell out of each other and haha here’s 10k of the concept of Third Thursdays instead: An Odyssey

Read on Tumblr:

Change is a hard thing for people to grasp, even when they’re billionaire vigilantes and reanimated pseudo-criminals.

Going from parent and child to zombie-son-left-unavenged and shitty-father-figure was rough, and trying to find even ground after they had both been so fundamentally changed by Jason’s death had been almost unovercomeable.

Acknowledging the differences is key, though. Where it had been obvious to Jason that Bruce’s problem was that he couldn’t accept that Jason’s different from before, it had taken him a lot longer to figure out that he was still holding Bruce to the standards he’d held when Batman was more like a god than a distressed man desperately doing his best.

In retrospect, he reckons that death’s actually an infectious disease. Jason got the blunt end of a crowbar and his rose-tinted glasses ripped right off his face, and Bruce came away only slightly more lightly with yet another heaping of trauma, and a chronic condition wherein every day he wishes he could kill the Joker while absolutely knowing that he won’t. It’s self-enforced suffering; the Bat is ruled not by absolutes but by ‘should’s and ‘shouldn’t’s, because ‘can’ and ‘can’t’s are too thin a line for him.

It’s been a fistful of years since Jason’s gone full-time on this Red Hood the crime lord thing, and Gotham’s calmer than she’s ever been; if he wants to have the streets crime-freeish, he just tells his underlings to work less.

Heading a criminal empire provides a much better work-life balance than being Robin, and don’t that hit like a bullet to the head?

(Hahaha.)

It’s been a fistful of years since he woke up, and Jason thinks it’s about time that he have a sit-down with Bruce, because they really fuckin’ need to talk about change and loss.

So he orchestrates a casual heist on a quiet night, and sits at the rooftop of the Natural History Museum with a hunk of meteorite that’s ever-so-lightly laced with Kryptonite, and waits.

It’s frigid as fuck for late April, but to be a Gothamite you sure do have to earn it, and ‘it’ sometimes means sleet down the back of your neck in the middle of the night while you’re trying to meet a man. The helmet’s keeping his head dry and muggy as always, but Lord god he might need to come up with an on-brand scarf design to protect the gap between nape and jacket if the weather keeps being Like This.

Jason’s halfway through troubleshooting the concept of a leather scarf when heavy boots land dramatically on the top of the building, the quiet hiss of a grapple line disengaging in the background.

That’s a thing, too. Bruce generally errs on the side of being Creepy and Looming and a shadow creature of eldritch horror to get people to fear the Batman, but he’s all big loud moves when he’s with Jason, all shout-y and hand gesture-y and frowny. The mystique of him in full-on Bat mode disappears when Bruce strides towards him briskly like an agitated goose coming in for an attack, while his cape just drags on the floor instead of obscuring his fundamental humanity.

Bruce had made more of an effort to keep up the persona back before, tried harder to seem significantly less mortal with the cowl on. Now he’s just all human all the time around him, and Jason sees that Bruce is always bleeding out, only sometimes literally.

“Hey, B,” he calls out, though his helmet probably glows like a beacon to where he’s sat on the water tank.

“Red Hood,” Bruce growls out, too professional to use real names, but too worked-up to not be angry. “Why are you stealing Kryptonite? If this is a plot against Superman, I have no choice but to-”

Ain’t that a joke and a half. “No choice but to do what, B? For the guy calling all the shots all the time, you’re talking some pretty amazing shit.”

At that Bruce doesn’t snap back, turning this way and that instead to do a sweep of the roof before he seems satisfied. “Hood, if this is a plea for attention-”

“Ding ding ding,” Jason says as he unlocks his helmet and takes it off, groaning a little when the light drizzle hits his overheated scalp. “Got half of it in one. I’m not pleading for your attention, B, but I am going to get it. We’re going to talk.”

It’s a new technique, just for today. Usually, any interaction between them turns into a clash; somebody lashes out and the other hits back, and fifteen minutes later either somebody’s bloody or they’ve stormed dramatically off the side of a building.

Today, Jason’s going to pull a Batman ( Thou shalt not steal (the tyres off the Batmobile), Thou shalt not kill (the Joker) ) and put down lines in the sand, make this a lawful argument instead of a raging one.

Getting pissed on by freezing April showers, Jason’s feeling unusually benevolent. It makes him want to laugh, a little, that Bruce has the time and the luxury to be angry with him on a rooftop right now because that’s what Jason wanted to do tonight.

It seems to work, though. Bruce is quiet for the longest time, before he comes closer, clearly wary. “So talk.”

“Much as though I love looking down on you, old man, calm yourself down and just come sit with me. You know as well as me that this place’s in a blindspot, so get up here already.”

Another line, another non-request. Jason expects that he’s going to have to wear Bruce down with this, but instead there’s the quiet boom! of the grapple going off, and in six and a half seconds flat, he’s got a seatmate.

Facing the same way, they have as good of a view as you can get of Gotham; the museum’s on a hill close to the bay, and from here you can make out the city lights and the barest outlines of buildings through the mist and rain. Even the looming hills that cocoon the city and contribute hugely to the awful weather and spectacular air pollution are visible, if you squint.

Absently, Jason notes that this is the longest they’ve gone in a while without either of them shouting, even if Bruce is radiating enough tension to heat up a house.

“So,” Jason starts them off, because he should expect no help from the dumbass next to him, “you know that I, like, died, right, B?”

The sharp intake of breath is like a reflex at this point; if Jason ever wants to get a punch in all he needs to do is look Bruce in the eye and remind him of Jason’s death and bam ! An opening right there.

That’s not the point tonight, though. Not quite.

He keeps going before Bruce can interrupt. “I know you know I did, B. I know you blame yourself for it, and you blame me for being angry you didn’t kill Joker, and then you go back to blaming yourself for not actually killing the fucker anyways. You’re all twisted up inside, and you probably always have been, and I guess the thing is I kinda only noticed that recently.”

So recently, he realised it mid-conversation. Wow.

“If you only wanted me to come so that you can berate me, Hood, I have better things to do,” Bruce says, terse and hideously impersonal.

Jesus, he’s bleeding out right now.

Jason nudges him in the side, but mostly just bruises his elbow on kevlar and leather. “It’s not about that. If I was berating you, I would be real fucking clear about it. I just need you to get through your thick skull, that the boy you took in and did your best to kinda take care of, he died and you mourned him and you’re still mourning him, and that’s fine .” It isn’t, not really, because Jason wants Bruce to mourn him , but that’s just a whole ‘nother kettle of fucking fish, really. “He died, and I came ‘round in his place, and we’re not the same people. Death really changes a man, you know, and I’m not your son anymore. I made my peace with that.” Sort of. -ish. Enough to function, enough to know they need this conversation.

He turns to look at Bruce, right at the eery white lenses. “The question is,” he says with a heaviness he doesn’t usually like to show, “have you?”

Lenses can’t blink, obviously, but Jason’s looked at and thought about this man long enough and often enough that he knows what’s going on even when Bruce’s face is obscured.

It’s a stare-off that Bruce somehow loses. He looks away, jaw still clenched tight. Jason can see the muscles twitching there, can almost hear the grinding. If he closes his eyes he can even imagine the little purple case and the clear night guard that Bruce has on the counter in his bathroom.

He wonders if the case is still covered in the stickers that first Dick, and then he himself had covered it in. He wonders if the tradition continued with the newer Robins, and if the guard and the case is still there, or if Bruce in his unwinding madness had just, god, laser-cut his teeth so that they wouldn’t touch or something.

Bruce’s answer is a long time coming, but it does come, eventually. “No,” Bruce tells him like it’s truth taken through torture. “No, I haven’t.”

(It is, truth taken through torture).

Any admission of weakness was well beyond anything Jason expected, and while his first inclination is to take that given inch and make it a vicious mile, to mock the absolute hell out of Bruce, he doesn’t.

Instead, he finds himself scooting over closer, close enough that their shoulders are touching. Bruce flinches, and Jason ignores the tell of discomfort.

“That’s all right,” Jason tells him, mostly meaning it. “He died for me too, you know. So at least this time, B, you got a mourning buddy.”

They sit in silence for a long, long time, until Batman’s communicator goes off and the spell’s broken. Bruce doesn’t say anything after the transmission’s fed right into his ear, just leaps off the water tank and lands on cat-quiet feet on the roof.

It’s as clear a sign as anything that their potential bonding’s come to an end, and Jason’s resigned to going back to his ratty apartment and rage-eating some cold pizza.

Instead of leaping right into action, though, Bruce turns and looks up at him. He holds up his hand, and it’s the stupid chunk of greenish rock. Jason rolls his eyes, but can’t help breaking into a grin. How a man so big and imposing got around to having such sticky fingers is pretty impressive.

“Thank you, Jason.”

It’s the first time tonight Bruce has actually called him by his name, and it’s such a wholesale fucking miracle that Jason is actually left speechless as Batman smirks, turns on his heel so that his cape snaps out dramatically, and disappears.

-

They meet up semi-often, after that. Jason sent out a company-wide memo; every third Thursday, everybody just stay the fuck at home. Anybody found breaking the order gets to have some personal one-on-one time with Jason and his favourite toy for the week, and about two months after that first meeting, Gotham’s taken to scheduling their outdoor celebrations and festivities to take advantage of the periodic significant decrease in shit like gun violence and kidnappings.

Jason’s got no complaints; it means that whatever rooftop they end up on, they get a view of lanterns and glossy food-trucks, loud music booming up to the rafters even though it’s the middle of the workweek. There’s a taquería-on-wheels that usually sets up shop on the corner of King and 18th, and Jason’s made it his mission in life to make a pilgrimage to it every haloed Thursday to get half a dozen pulled pork tacos. He does it partly because they literally are the best tacos he’s ever had in his life, and also partly because if it’s the matriarch María José at the cashier she will inevitably pinch his cheeks, call him handsome, and give him a glass of rice milk on the house so’s that he can grow some more.

Three months into this, whatever the hell this is, and a whole two tacos regularly go to Bruce, despite the fact that Bruce always comes by with food from whichever truck he buys out that night, a takeaway bag for them and the rest sent to the charitable organisation du jour .

Jason feels a weird sense of satisfaction in providing , though, so he always says he’ll bring home whatever Bruce’s brought to eat later, and instead has them share his tacos and drink and whatever corner store trash takes his fancy on the day. Trying to get Bruce to just go with the damned flow is a lot like trying to socialise the world’s most paranoid cat, and the first time that comparison occurred to him Jason had laughed to himself because he thought it was hilarious.

It came in a little later that cats that are paranoid and wary of people usually have a damn good reason for being so, and if that ain’t just the world’s most relatable shit….

The meeting after that realisation Jason had splurged on two horchatas as well as some churros, and when María José had asked if it was for a date, he had said of course not, ma’am, I’ve still got my eye on you , but in his head he thought Jesus, maybe .

By the fifth time they meet for what amounts to late-night snacks and aching chats, Jason notices and works very hard not to mention that Bruce has foregone the heavily-armoured suit that he usually wears on patrol, and is instead in the Batsuit Lite™, the version he would keep in his office for quick costume changes but couldn’t take a bullet half so well.

The actual Gotham Bat is literally lowering his guard around him, and Jason feels so goddamned all-powerful that he almost wants to send out another memo to say that all crime is all cancelled now, thanks, just so that dinner and drinks with a Bruce who is slowly but surely coming to terms with Jason being his own man can happen more often.

It never sat quite right with him to be provided for, he learns over the course of these dinners. Call it the result of a rough upbringing, call it a trick of the mind, but Jason’s never felt so settled in his skin as when Bruce is sat with him on a night that Jason finagled to be calm enough for the Bat to get time off, eating food that Jason bought for him, dressed as casually as the Bat can because Jason was there to guarantee his safety.

He never really knew what to do with the lavish life Bruce gave to him, before.

He’s beginning to think he has an idea about what he wants to give to Bruce, now.

-

There’s nothing unusually worldly about Jason’s porn preferences. It’s a secret he’ll take to his second grave, but he has a paid subscription to one of those tasteful for-women pornsites because some nights he and his right hand just want to watch people be kinda sweet to one another, you know? He’s surveyed the length and breadth of what the Internet can offer, doesn’t have any use for the ones where people aren’t having a good time, likes actual orgasms both behind and in front of the screen, and has a good grasp of the kinks that make him tick.

It’s not even sexual, this thing with Bruce. Sortof. It’s literally not sexual to sometimes go as backup with Bruce on cases so wretched they would make even Dick blanch and get queasy, or to share intel he got through nefarious means, or to avoid a kill shot when he can go around after and put the fear of the Red Hood into a perp and a bullet into their kneecap instead. It’s intimacy, yeah, to pick up a phone that rings at 4 o’clock in the morning whenever the usual cocktail of screaming horrors in Bruce’s head becomes literally unbearable and he just needs to hear that Jason’s alive still, tonight.

It’s a sign that he can be there to support Bruce, when he went with the man to his grave next to the Waynes, to just say hello and thank you and goodbye.

It’s not sexual, but close to a year into this, they’re both better off and better people. It started small and it grew big, and Jason just wants to give Bruce even more, make him take it, and more importantly, make him enjoy it.

They’re perched on some gargoyles for old times’ sake tonight, and far, far beneath their feet thousands of Gothamites are out on the streets. Jason’s lost track of the number of new celebrations that have cropped up, timed to meet the regular lull in crime, but tonight’s thing has lots of live bands, and lots of people dancing in the streets, swigging beer from plastic cups as they loosen their ties and kick off their heels and gently groove their way to train stations.

Loud block parties in the city centre on a Thursday are so on-brand for Gotham; it inconveniences absolutely everyone, but also if anyone tried to make them stop they would be mobbed. On any given day there’s no telling if Jason loves the people here or wants to beat them into the ground.

The same can be said about Bruce, as though there’s anything more through-and-through Gotham than the Bat and the man. The night’s been pretty chill, a little on the quiet side, but Jason thinks he’s about to change that. He’s going to draw another line between them tonight, but this one he wants Bruce to actually cross.

Plus, who would’ve known? Unwind the Bat enough and Bruce ends up being pretty decent company. He had a deep well of deeply entertaining bitchiness that was usually smothered under the facade of superheroism, he listened to hostage demands and a casual recap of the latest episode of Love Is Blind with the same amount of near-angry focus, and had a powerful implicit bias for anyone he cared about. Jason’s still in that category, somehow, and that was another group lesson; Jason’s a different man but actually, at the same time, maybe not.

God, identity politics are a riot when you throw adoption and death into the mix.

Nevertheless, Jason’s at the end of his tether. Getting laid’s not got the same kick to it, and sometimes mid-fuck he’s thinking about checking to see if tangerines are in season because if he scores a tempting enough bag of fruit the gauntlets come the fuck off to facilitate the peeling of the skin.

It’s the surest sign possible that this madness has sunk right down into his literal bones; Jason’s speaking from experience, and Bruce drives people all sorts of crazy even at the best of times, so he’s probably been screwed since that day on the water tank when Bruce said “Thank you, Jason”.

And now he’s really just going to say to his former-father-figure some version of not only do I seriously want to fuck you, I want to hold you by the neck to make you be good for me, and then I’ll praise you for just how damn good you can be . Lately it’s starting to feel like the highest calling he’s ever gotten, to make Bruce submit and then aggressively reward him for it.

He waits until they’ve worked their way to the bottom of the tray of nachos, after he’s handed a pack of wet wipes over so Bruce can fastidiously clean his gloves off of neon-orange cheese sauce. Not only is he now the kind of man to go around with wet wipes in his pocket, they’re even the fancy biodegradable ones because B had tutted at him the last time he suggested just tossing a regular one on some shitty roof somewhere.

They’ve probably got a maximum of ten minutes or so before Bruce will get up and go perch on a stoop somewhere he can keep an eye on crime and Gothamites having a genuinely good night out, and Jason knows that that isn’t time he can or wants to intrude on, so if he wants to confess, he’s going to need to do it soon.

“B, you know how we’ve been getting along well, lately?” Innocuous, a softball, good start, Jay.

Bruce tenses a little, but he’s not ramrod straight and his lenses are still down as he turns to look at Jason with a piercing look. “What’s this about?”

“You know how months and months ago, I said we needed to talk ‘bout me, and I was right? Well. I’m bringing it up because I think we need to talk about me again.”

Instantly Bruce is on red alert, feet curled under him till he’s wound up like a fight on spring-loaded legs, and he’s looking around with the night-vision lenses up. “What’s wrong, Red Hood?” he asks, ready to leap into the middle of whatever it is that’s got Jason all agitated.

That’s not what he was aiming for, having Bruce get his back up, even if it’s in a show of needless sweet overprotectiveness. Actively winging it at this point, Jason reaches over and holds the approximate nape of Bruce’s neck, even if all his hand meets is vacu-formed reinforced kevlar. It’s what Bruce used to do when he was trying to calm one of them down, and the theory is that the thought of it transmits even if it’s not skin to skin. “Calm down, B, it’s alright. I’m alright. I just want to lay out some things on the table, okay, and I need to know what you think about them.”

Bruce doesn’t smack his hand off, even though he’s clearly disgruntled as he settles down a little, loosening his fists. “When have you ever wanted my opinion on anything?” It comes off harsh, but there’s no point getting angry over a statement of fact, is there?

It’s a fair question, after all. “All the time, B,” Jason says, honest as he can manage. “Sometimes, sure, it’s so that I know exactly what not to do. But c’mon, give me some credit. This whole reconciliation thing is working because I needed you to know what goes on under the Red Hood, and along the way I figured, hey, why not try and understand you under all those layers of trauma and self-loathing and machismo too, you know?”

The sound Bruce makes sounds like a growl, but everything does with a modulator. Jason knows enough to know a snort of amusement when he hears one. “Yes, that is me, an extremely manly man. Spit it out already, Hood. What do you need me to hear?”

“Hey, c’mon, you’re telling me you didn’t used to make us run around in sequined shorts and pixie boots ‘cos you wanted to look scary and macho by comparison?”

The lenses disappear, because Bruce is so dramatic sometimes, and he wanted to properly convey his aghast. “Robin chose the entire outfit by himself. My initial designs were based on my suit, and he refused all of them. He didn’t even want full-length sequined pants. When you came along, I just went with his choices. It’s beyond the scope of my abilities to understand the fashion preferences of youths.” Bruce glares at him. “And you didn’t complain about it once.”

Jason rolls his eyes, and tries not to feel giddy about Bruce relaxing into his touch, how close together they’ve gotten as they talk absolute shit. “One, you should have known by then that his fashion choices literally only make sense to him. Two, I wasn’t gonna turn down free clothes. Three, on God, please tell me that you still have sparkly leggings kicking around in the Cave, because Nightwing’s really due a makeover.”

If they had glossy green beads that clattered loudly with movement, Jason could die happy for the first time.

“Stop getting distracted,” Bruce says mildly. “Nightwing is always welcome to my facilities if he wants to update his costume, and PennyOne dreams of one day being asked for input. Jaybird,” Bruce grabs hold of Jason’s arm, squeezes gently. “Do you need help?”

God, he can’t stop the slightly manic laughter from bursting right through him. “It’s more of a B thing than a Bat thing, okay? And you can tell me yes, and you can tell me no, and they’re both okay. Third Thursday Tacos are gonna keep happening, bimonthly visits home are gonna keep happening, but there’s this thing that, uh.” Fuck, words are hard. He should have just texted instead, but Jason can already see his unbearable desire to drop an eggplant into a DM to make light of a weird, heavy situation, so.

Just shut up and say it already. “There’s something that I want from and for you. You’re probably going to take it badly, which is fine, but I need you to take it seriously. Okay?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, just nods, rubbing his thumb against Jason’s arm.

“I love you,” Jason just goes for it, starts with the most fundamental of truths. “I want to smash you to pieces sometimes but I also literally, actually love you, in a whole bunch of really, really confusing ways. The thing is that one of those ways has me wanting to take you to bed, B, make you submit so you can be good for me and I can be good to you. So what I’m asking is, do I have your permission to try and get you to where I want you to be, B?”

The initial reaction will probably go one of two ways; complete stillness as Bruce digests the information and tries to parse his way through it, or a burst of action, probably a dramatic escape into the dark like Dracula’s the maiden who’s feeling a bit shy.

What Jason gets is neither; what he gets is Bruce’s mouth moving before his brain has come fully online, defensive and reactionary. “Jason! You can’t be serious-”

He’s not having any of that. With the hand on the back of Bruce’s neck he shakes the man a little, breaking him off. “I am, B.” He takes a breath, takes a chance, presses their foreheads together, human(?) skin to lead-lined cowl. “You can say yes and you can say no, hell, you can even say fuck off, but you cannot tell me what I do and don’t want. Christ, if you learned anything about me this past year, please let it be that I’m not a child, and you don’t get to dictate shit to me.”

They stay locked in a staring contest for what felt like ages, even as the boisterous sounds of a brass section going absolutely ham for 9 PM on a Thursday floats up on drafts to them. When the break happens, it’s not with Bruce forcibly jerking away and screaming at him, as Jason mostly expected.

Bruce pulls away lightly, like he’s testing the hold Jason has on him, like he’s testing Jason.

Jason lets him go immediately, of fucking course. He doesn’t even register that Bruce might be looking for a reaction; barring crime or injury, he’s not going to keep anyone where they don't want to be. Hell, part of being an Outlaw was the absolute unwillingness to be held down.

Plus, Bruce’s consent was the most important thing here. Jason figures that between the trauma and the jumble of unhealthy coping mechanisms that make up the man who’s thrown himself at the cancer of Gotham for decades, Bruce probably doesn’t get to make decisions just out of easy, selfish desires very often.

That’s why lunches and dinners would continue no matter Bruce’s answer, that’s why Third Thursdays were going to keep being a thing. Jason doesn’t want this to be a noose around Bruce’s neck, an obligation, a duty he needs to step up to for Jason.

He lets go, because he wants Bruce to want him more than he wants Bruce to listen to him.

They’re at a standoff, but not really. Jason keeps his hands up and visible, leans out of Bruce’s space, doesn’t talk or plead or cajole, just sits on his spiky gargoyle and stares at Bruce.

(God, even the concept of giving Bruce the option to say no satisfies that odd little kink inside of him.)

“I’m going to go,” Bruce says at long last, getting to his feet with a bit of a wobble, like he’s drunk, or like he recently got propositioned by a former-son at the end of an ambiguous dinner date. “On patrol. I’m sure you have things to do, Red Hood.”

Ah, back to full-on codenames it is, huh. This has still gone about a thousand times better than Jason’s most feverish and optimistic projections, though, so he doesn’t take it to heart. He doesn’t get up, gives Bruce the high ground as he smiles lazily up at him. “Oh, you know me. Ain’t no party like a Red Hood party. You gonna be okay on patrol?”

Bruce nods, head jerking like a marionette handled by a very bad intern. “Take care of yourself,” he says, then pauses. Grits his teeth, takes a breath. And then, with barely-there hesitation, “I’ll see you next Third Thursday.”

It’s not phrased like a question, but it definitely is. Jason just salutes sloppily instead of needling Bruce further on the meaning behind the hesitation. “‘Course, old man. Whatever you want.” And just to hammer his point further, “Whatever you choose.”

He sees it land like a body blow, and sees Bruce recover from it twice as quick. A brusque nod, and Bruce disappears into the streets below, a slab of black blocking the citizens from view.

Now left without an audience, Jason topples onto his back, and lets out an explosive sigh.

So.

That wasn’t a no, was it?

He screams at the sky, and a flock of roosting pigeons take off in a startled hurry.

God fucking bless Third Thursdays, holy shit.

-

Their next couple of Third Thursdays are stilted, but Jason’s willing to put in the effort because while it absolutely sucks to keep going like his confession never happened, he knows how Bruce’s jumbled-up brain works. If they haven’t sat down to have a wholly shitty conversation on how they’re father-and-son, Jason’s just confused, it’s some sort of transference of affection, and he should be finding a nice young someone his own age, then it means that Bruce is still processing. Bruce, after all, prefers to have clear lines drawn between himself and others, for maximum ease in warding off distraction and danger.

If Bruce was completely disinterested, the talk would have come in hard and swift, and there probably would’ve been a lot of screaming. Instead Bruce keeps showing up to TT., if in slightly heavier armour than usual, and Jason can see that he’s more aware of Jason, in full-on observation mode even as he talks about his latest case or any breakthroughs in figuring out who in the hell keeps stealing the good coffee beans from the Watchtower.

It’s progress that’s likely only possible because of how hard they’ve both tried to be better to each other over the past year, and Jason’s pretty sure at this point that when the rejection comes, as long as B’s happy to keep accepting stuff from Jason, they’re going to be alright.

It’s a pretty nice dream.

Things feel rough and uncertain but good on the whole, until it all goes to shit when it’s another Third Thursday and Bruce doesn’t show up on the rooftop of the Opera House. Crime never sleeps, even if it tends to take a nap at Jason’s demand, but B’s conscientious enough to usually text if something came up and he couldn’t come. Once while abducted by Harley and Pam for their weird bi-annual bitchfest, hopped up on Ivy pollen that she swore was a fantastic muscle relaxant and giving Harley his fifteenth bi-annual lecture on how she was far, far too good for Joker, he had even sent a selfie of them all sprawled on a banquette in an abandoned building somewhere with a sad emoji in explanation.

Today, there’s nothing to mark his absence except for his actual absence. Jason sits on edge of the roof and ignores the prickle of unease on the back of his neck. B is a whole adult who’s been roaming these streets doing what he can for literal decades; yes, it’s entirely unlike him to leave someone hanging, yes, it’s the first time he’s gone missing without sending word, yes, something about this stinks, but he could just be running a little late.

God, it’s amazing how optimism can get you at the most inopportune times.

Jason finally cracks, gets his helmet back on to ring the Manor to check in just in case , when the emergency alert trill nearly bursts his eardrum. It’s ingrained into every single person who’s ever worked with the Bat; Jason remembers as a kid seeing Commissioner Gordon startle so hard he dropped coffee on himself when somebody’s phone had gone off with a vaguely similar pitch.

It incites a Pavlovian response; Jason’s already up and running to gain altitude for a better sightline before the alert winds down, and he’s pulling himself up by an angel’s wings by the time Alfred’s voice comes on.

“Good evening, all,” Alfred says, polite even as he sounds incredibly strained. “We have a mass casualty situation. Bane appears to have taken advantage of Third Thursdays, and is in the process of blocking off Cathedral Square; we have reason to believe he intends to set all the revelers there on fire, so I would appreciate any support in evacuating people. Batman has gone after Bane himself, and I have lost contact.” He then rattles off the roads that have been blocked and how best to maneuver around them to get people out, but Jason’s already off and running.

Red alerts aren’t a fun time to be a crimefighter, but there’s a sense of solidarity in knowing that he’s not the only one leaping across rooftops to get to it. For all that Bruce tends to irritatingly emphasise how much he prefers working alone, the network he’s inadvertently set up of people who both love him and would go too far for him is a solid one. He can almost imagine the convergence; Dick coming up from the south, Damian probably rushing in from the Manor to the north, Tim legging it from the east because it stylistically fits with Jason bolting towards the square from the west.

That’s not even counting the girls. Christ, nights like these you couldn’t look up without seeing a terrifying phantasm flying across the sky.

Jason comes up to the main thoroughfare leading to the square first; it’s barely a ten-minute parkour sprint from the Opera House, after all, and he’s still falling when he shoots down a handful of Bane’s goons who have set up a barricade blocking people from leaving.

His timing’s gorgeous; they haven’t lit anyone on fire yet, and while a lot of the civilians are screaming at him and the downed men, that core of Gotham steel shines on through as women in neat dresses and men in business slacks slosh through a bit of blood to help him tear down concrete blocks to make enough space for them to wriggle through. Some sort of concert had been planned for Cathedral Square, and there’s enough panicked people that a few dozen climbing out quietly wouldn’t rouse much attention.

Urgh, a massive shiny red full-face helmet is pretty eye-catching for this, but with this many people around Jason can’t exactly take it off and hope to blend into the crowd as he goes hunting. He snags an absolutely loathsome fedora off the top of a loathsome-looking man, and rams it onto his helmet. Jason hopes no one will be around to take a picture of this indignity, but as long as he slouches, he’s not an obvious target from afar, and this is as good as it’s going to get for now.

A wave of whispers emanate from his makeshift exit, everyone letting the person next to them know before they disappear away, and it’s deeply inefficient as a manner of escape but Jason’s got to hold back from large-scale destruction until he can figure out how Bane planned to set all these people on fire. No point saving everyone close to this exit and having everyone else die because he tripped a trigger.

Look at him, he’s so goddamn tactical.

As he stoops and slouches and slinks in the shadows to get to the next inlet that he can crack open enough to let people escape, people seem to understand what he’s there for, and some even seem eager to contribute to his disguise.

He drew the line at a young woman whispering to him that she had some foundation in her bag and it could stick to anything, honest to God, do you want me to make your disguise more flesh-toned, Mister Red Hood?

He did accept her very pretty scarf that is much nicer than a douchey fedora. Some incomprehensible out-of-towner handed him earmuffs, even though the last time it snowed in Gotham was last week and the locals were already starting to move into summerwear, but it’s the thought that counts. He takes out three more goons close to a tiny side-alley that would lead out to a main street, has someone donate a wig right off of their heads, and when he takes out the mini-squadron protecting the back of the Gotham Central Library and its massive double-doors, he gets an oversized wooly cardigan and what looks like a faux-fur stole draped over him without his permission.

Jason can’t look at himself, of course, but he suspects at this point he probably wouldn’t be mistaken for the Red Hood until somebody was literally maybe four inches away from him. Through it all, though, he still doesn’t see where Bane’s secreted the equipment for mass murder. Hell, even the barricades weren’t difficult to disassemble enough to let people sneak out. He can imagine batty figures high up on the roofs of all the august buildings that butt up to the square running life-saving errands, but Alfred’s regular updates make it clear that everyone’s drawing a blank as to where the weapons actually are. Priority is on getting everyone out without causing enough of a stir that the bulk of Bane’s men up by the stage notice something and start opening fire, but everything feels a couple of inches off centre, and Jason can’t help the feeling of wrongness.

“Hey, PennyOne. What’s the update on B?”

Here Alfred’s smooth delivery of information stutters a little. “Still no contact from him, I’m afraid. Does anyone have eyes on Batman?”

Nobody does, and nobody can see Bane either. Given that Bane on his best day is a spine-snapping motherfucker, Jason’s not exactly happy with current events. Holding the wig tightly to his head, Jason abandons the plan of liberating the next passageway along, and heads straight towards the stage. Staging a large-scale attack is the best way to get Batman to come after you quickly, and if you’re dramatic enough, he’ll get there before he waits for back-up, because not even years of suffering have taught Bruce that he’s not solely responsible for every miserable thing that happens in Gotham.

Do it on a Third Thursday, and if you’ve been watching closely you might know that the Bat’ll come for you with less kit than usual. You might not catch him unawares because a soft British voice is always in his head, but you might find him significantly more vulnerable than literally any other night.

Jason tries not to scream, because he’s already dressed like a walking sartorial nightmare who’s a solid 5’11 even hunched over, and he doesn’t need to contribute further to anybody’s trauma. That’s one of the things that B always used to harp on; don’t get into a routine, don’t become predictable, never allow yourself to get comfortable while on duty.

All Jason had wanted was to make things a little easier, a little more pleasant for Bruce, and this is how karma decides to show him up. After all these years, how is he still surprised that fate is a whole-ass bitch? God literal damn.

All wrapped up in 8 different people’s outfits and a strong sense of self-loathing, Jason draws to a halt close to the stagefront, and surveys the henchmen there. A litle over a dozen or so, armed to the teeth because Bane has an aesthetic that he keeps close to, and all wearing that bored-and-disengaged haze in their eyes. It’s not a definite thing, but it sure would imply that Bane’s not asked them to do anything more intense than appear menacing and keep people in the square. That’s another strike against the big-time arson theory, but Jason takes note of how more than half of them are clustered around the backstage tent. Something important is clearly being kept there, and Bane’s got a less clear cut MO than most of the rogues’ gallery. Jason’s first thought is that it must be munitions, because Bane sure does love him some straight-up physical violence, but when Alfred’s voice starts to stutter and fade in and out, things connect together like the final jigsaw piece finally saw the light.

There’s a signal jammer, it’s got to be some sort of powerful signal jammer, and if Alfred can’t trace Bruce’s location or get in touch with him, then Bruce must be close by. Jason surreptitiously looks around for a Bat or a Bird that could double up with him to storm the tents, but maybe they’re too civic-minded to abandon the cause of evacuating civilians, because Jason’s reading the pattern and whirls of people movement and can’t spot anyone sneaking towards the front.

It makes sense to get people out of the way first before lunging into the heart of a battle: less collateral, it’ll just be bad men versus bat men (and women). Jason’s really only here because he believes in the average Gothamite’s ability to worm their way out of trouble given a little helping hand, and something about Bruce’s absence sits so badly with him that it’s unbearable.

The thought, when it finally hits, smashes into him like a bat to the back of the head. No clear signs of weapons to be used on a huge number of people, elite guards that don’t look too interested in guarding, no alarm being raised that dozens of henchmen have been felled at various checkpoints, comms jammer.

Jesus. Bane wants them to wear themselves out spiriting away innocents, be unable to communicate and coordinate, and have all of them herd themselves closer to whatever the hell else he’s got stored in the white tent. Minimum civilian casualty, but it’s a surefire way to take a sizable chunk of the vigilante community out in one night.

In a high panic, it’s not a terrible plan; all of their training always, always puts priority on saving the vulnerable, and with all hands on deck a full-frontal assault would favour the team that has more experience working together in creative and terrifying ways. It’s also enormously flawed, because while Dick might be the type to vault off a cornice and tuck-and-roll into a perfect landing on stage to demand a fair fight, there are also enough sufficiently suspicious bastards in their little pack that someone will inexplicably go off on their own and inadvertently execute a pincer attack.

No, if you want everyone to come together quickly and mindlessly, you’d need more motivation than a dozen gunmen. Hostages are a good idea, but even Red Robin can disarm someone with breathtaking accuracy given one batarang and about a hundred paces, so that’s also not guaranteed.

No, no, if you really want all of them to converge at the speed of instinct, you take a hostage, and the hostage just has to be B-

Oh, man. Oh man, oh man, he’s going to need to put down Bane, he swears he will, after this.

Jason’s first thought is to do away with the subterfuge and just go in all guns a-blazing, tear the tent to pieces to find Bruce and whatever Bane’s plan is all in one go. Jason’s read on the situation isn’t 100% guaranteed to be right, but the pieces all fit, and among the things you pick up during an apprenticeship with the world’s greatest detective is the skill to believe your hindbrain when it makes connections too smart for the rest of you.

He could take out 4 men easily from where he is; he probably wouldn’t be found out until he breaks cover to take out the other two patrolling on stage, and then it’ll be open-season with the rest of the men hovering by the white tent. He could take them, Jason’s pretty sure. He wants to take them, is the thing.

A thought is the only thing that stays his hand; it’s the memory of Bruce’s gentle grip on his arm, the night of his confession. It’s the serious face and the serious voice asking him, “Do you need help?”

Right now, Jason wants to say no, he doesn’t, he’s more than able to tackle this alone. It’s even the Batman-y thing to do, to take everything on by himself, but….

Ah, fuck. It’s the Batman thing to do, but Jason’s going to end up being a hypocritical son of a bitch if he’s angling to get Bruce to open up and accept that he should listen to other people sometimes when he refuses to do it himself. Jason feels a headache coming on; Bruce had taken on a heavy, weird confession about feelings and desires that even Jason hasn’t figured out the extent of.

Jason can at least take his head out of his ass, back down from a one-man Rambo show, and do this right.

It takes an effort of will to pivot on his heel and sneak back further afield until he’s free of the jammer and can communicate what he’s found out and what he’s inferred; Jason spends the entirety of their planning phase feeling a little irritated that Bruce has somehow made Jason actually cooperative and team-spirited without ever saying a word about it.

The bastard better appreciate the lengths Jason is willing to go to just to keep him safe, fuck.

-

It comes to a head with a flaccid little whump . Under the combined forces of the assembled and very angry Bat family, Bane’s operation is taken out at the knees. Tim and Babs jam the jammer, Cass and Damian handle the armed guards near the front, Steph and Dick demolish the biggest barricades to let the remaining crowd of thousands leg it to safety, and Jason bumrushes the tent because they’d all come to a quick consensus that if Bane’s pulled any sort of back-breaking bullshit, the definition of ‘unnecessary force’ is going to get a bit hazy for everyone involved so long as 1. Bruce never finds out, and 2. Jason tries to stop before actual death. The rest of the group will be along as soon as they’ve done their part, but Jason gets to lead the charge.

He rolls in with most of his costume still intact, because Tim and Dick have already taken a combined 300 pictures of him in his full Gotham Look and he has become unable to feel shame. Instead of a bitter fight to the almost-death, though, he finds Bruce lying on an operating table, and Bane crumpled in a heap on the floor, desiccated and unconscious.

“Uhm.” This isn’t exactly what he’d signed up for.

The sound of his confusion rouses a response from Bruce, a slight clench and unclenching of his fists. Jason’s by his side in seconds, feet slipping and sliding a little in the leaking Venom. He nudges Bane a little further away from the metal table with his foot, and feels proud of himself for not breaking a nose under his heel instead.

Priorities, priorities. He looks down at Bruce’s prone form, and breathes a little easier to see the cowl still intact. Bruce’s eyes are open, but they’re hazy and unfocused. Jason checks his pulse, and ignores the little signs of numerous brutalities that Bruce has endured just from tonight in the Batsuit Lite ™, fuck, it isn’t even the Batsuit Mild ™ that has been the go-to armour the past few Third Thursdays.

“You with us, big guy? The rest of the gang’s going to roll in in a sec,” Jason tells B with forced levity, even as his hands start assessing the damage and addressing the myriad tiny cuts and bruises before he moves on to the more serious hurts.

Bruce blinks like it takes all his energy, and then smiles. “Glad. Came with….. gang,” he forces out through a bruised throat.

“All your harping about togetherness finally got through to me, I guess.” Jason pulls off his scarf and breaks a donated pair of sunglasses to fashion mini-splints for two fingers on Bruce’s left hand. He can’t do anything about the wrist right now except for basic compression, and he is not going to think about how the actual patrol suit could have prevented a lot of this damage. “Mind telling me how you took down Mister Big Bad over here? To be honest, I was looking forward to mounting a hell of a cool rescue.”

“Cool enough.” The noise Bruce makes is half a laugh and half a wheeze from injured ribs. “Bane wanted to lure…. All of you. Kill in front of me.” A deep, shaky breath. “Nicked pipe with batarang….. Mid-gloat.” A derisive snort. “Not even…..titanium-plated.”

It’s beneath Bruce to say dumbass, but the implication is pretty damn clear. Jason just laughs. “Don’t give him any ideas, B.” He’s stabilised Bruce to the best of his abilities, and decides that he’d rather Bruce get some medical attention as quickly as he can manage it. He pulls Bruce to sit up, and gives him time for the motion blur to settle. “I know you’re drugged up, but is it anything to be worried about?”

He’s greeted with the littlest shake of the head. “Just standard HS-342. Excuse me.” With surprising speed for a man so thoroughly out of it, Bruce leans over the other side of the table and throws up. When he sits back up, he seems more present. “It isn’t Bane’s usual style to try poisons, and this suit’s filter isn’t the best, so he took me by surprise when I cornered him here.” Bruce rubs at his mouth with a bloodied hand, and he makes everything look about 200 times worse.

Jason’s offering a wet wipe before his brain even digests the sight; Bruce just accepts it without comment, now looking down at the unconscious Bane. “Lucky he was in the mood for a long and slow torture session; think he was too excited at the prospect of catching all of you and gloating about it to kill me when he had he chance. Had more aerosolised paralytics prepped for all of you, too.” Bruce nods his head at massive gas canisters tucked into the corner of the tent, all with skulls and crossbones on them. They’re pretty hard to see, on account of being hidden behind crates that held enough firepower to down the average sovereign nation, wow.

“Taking you hostage was pretty bright, but it’s kinda amazing how no one’s figured out that it’s always a crapshoot for me, the demon spawn, and Black Bat with all this drug stuff.” Even if they had just barged in, even if Bruce hadn’t worked his way out of this mostly himself, it might not have gone totally tits-up then, which is good to know.

They don’t talk about the concept of how torture counts as good luck, because Bruce isn’t exactly wrong, is he? “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

More from force of will than any actual motor control, Bruce heaves himself onto his feet and stays standing. “The weapons and gas-”

“Clean-up team’s on the way in. PennyOne was very explicit about getting you back to base ASAP, B, and it’s way more than I’m paid to question our highest power.” Jason tucks an arm around Bruce’s waist, and pulls Bruce’s arm over his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ve got you.”

“Yes,” Bruce says, sounding a little awed. “Yes, I think you do.”

-

Jason sees neither hide nor hair of Bruce until the next Third Thursday, but word on the street is that Alfred’s wrath and Dick pulling double-shifts meant that Bruce got some enforced time-off; a whole two weeks of downtime, wonder of wonders. He had texted to say that he had some business going on and would need to take a rain check on dinner, but it’s mostly to stop Bruce from showing up all battered and bruised.

Jason has actually been busy, though. Having an assault mounted on a Third Thursday’s a pretty grievous insult, and goes against the entire point of having it, so Jason’s been doing some housekeeping. A better shift rotation of patrolling criminals that keep a cap on how much evil can manifest on this off day, a shakedown of a couple of crime families that had helped Bane smuggle his weapons and his mercs in, a bit of a rampage in Crime Alley that reminded the people that the Red Hood’s not the sort to be ignored. He intensely injures a large number of people who really deserve it, but he keeps everyone alive because it’s supposed to be recovery time for Batman.

He does still come by the Opera House with his usual order from the taquería, because his circadian cycle is three weeks long and he had subconsciously worked to have the night free the way he’s done consciously for well over a year now. Besides, missing this would have María José worry, and she’s had plenty to worry about after the brush with Bane’s terrorism the last TT. Jason’s sat on the lip of the massive, ostentatious golden dome, enjoying the breeze in his hair when a shadow alights in his periphery.

It’s a strange thing, but all of them have a different texture to the darkness they shroud themselves in. It’s all to do with costume material and gait and build and posture, some indeterminable mixture of all these things, but with enough time of figuring out who’s who just from a patch of not-quite-pitch-black, it becomes as bright and loud a signature as them just shouting their names.

Bruce’s shadows fall around him like a hedge growing over a statue; a mix of organic and not, and the quick terror that manifests when they fall away and all of a sudden it’s just a not-quite-man that’s all sharp edges and shades of darkness.

Jeeze. B gets roughed around a little bit, and Jason’s gone all dramatic in his head. He doesn’t betray his thoughts, just leans back to scowl as dramatically as he can muster. “Could’ve sworn I said not to come, B. Bane’s magic gas did a number on your reading comprehension too?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything in response, just plods over with a paper bag in hand. “Here,” he says, dropping it on Jason’s lap before taking a seat next to him, posture still tense. “I was on my way to pick up Korean fried chicken from a truck close by the library when we caught wind of Bane’s plans, and I ended up missing our prior engagement.”

The bag smells like it’s filled with something divine, and Jason’s diving in and already breaking into a sweat from the expectation of tongue-turning spiciness. He loves fried chicken in all their incarnations, but KFC hits something different, oh. Jason’s downed two wings and half a drumstick before situational awareness comes back in. “On the list of things you’ve done wrong by me, B, not getting me food because you were too busy thwarting a terrorist attack’s pretty low down.”

Bruce just shrugs. “It’s a pretty long list.”

“It’s gotten shorter.”

That gains him a look of curiosity, tinged with doubt. Jason licks his fingers, and realises this is the first time he’s actually eaten something Bruce’s brought for him. There’s probably something there to unpack, but that can wait until after he’s had his fill. He doesn’t say anything else, just waits for the inevitable question.

“How?”

Jason just shrugs, and pushes his tacos over. “I got to know you as an actual person, I guess. You make enough mistakes all by yourself, and I figured that I didn’t need to be angry with you about things that I know you didn’t mean.” Like missing a dinner date to save a city, like coming when he’s supposed to stay away, like looking ready for a fight with Jason over an absence of snacks.

Like Bruce letting the Joker live didn’t mean that he didn’t love Jason in his wholehearted, visceral way. The justice system isn’t built to handle people like Joker; Jason’s come to accept that neither is Bruce, and that’s a fact that he can either take in and accept, or not.

When push comes to shove, it’s no harder than accepting a bag of chicken.

They subside into silence; Bruce is the only human being Jason has ever met who could eat a hard-shell taco while making almost zero sound, and it’s easily the most unacceptable thing about him.

The music coming from down below is a little muted; it’ll probably take another couple of weeks before the stress of Bane’s hot nonsense cools down enough for Gothamites to go back to their wild ways, so tonight all they get is the tinny screech of some fiddles that are occasionally drowned out by one determined elderly woman on an accordion.

“Jason,” Bruce says, and that means it’s time to be serious because they’re still in their suits. Jason has a premonition of what this talk’s going to be about, and settles himself into a state of casual resignation.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, emphasising God knows what. “The…. thing, you previously brought up. Regarding your feelings.”

“Yep, I remember, thanks for bringing it up in the most awkward way possible.”

There’s a squeak of leather as Bruce clenches his fist, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the squidge of a sauce-laden bit of lettuce squishing out. “I’m doing my best.” He sounds calm, even if he doesn’t look it. “Taking you to bed is out of the question, right now. But if there’s a, a better dynamic we could have because parent and child isn’t quite right, well.”

Bruce is clearly biting the inside of his cheek, and it’s a new tic, holy shit.

Determination sets in, and he turns to look Jason full in the face because neither the Bat nor the man have ever been cowards. “You have been so good to me, Jason,” he says with aching softness. “I think I want to try to be good for you.”

Jesus Lord Christ. Jason drops a chicken bone onto his lap in his haste to grapple for Bruce, to get a sticky handhold on the back of the cowl, to press their foreheads together. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, he must’ve died again without noticing and this time instead of seeing an al-Ghul on the other side, it’s just hopeless, unbearable Bruce.

He doesn’t let his thought process come out his mouth, doesn’t press in for a kiss that’s unasked for, but he does close his eyes and take in a deep, shuddering breath.

“We’ll figure it out, B.”

Bruce’s lips tip into a lopsided smile. “Thank you, Jason,” he murmurs right back, and.

Jason’s a goddamned goner.

-

A/N: Tumblr always swallows up italics which I viciously over use but I do NOT have the emotional capacity to trawl through this fic once again bc I’m more dead than I am alive atm. GOD I think I’ve found my one true calling: domsub stuff but with 4x more faffing about and 0% sex is my writing sweetspot quarantine rlly be out here making you Real Eyes

#brujay #bruce wayne #jason todd #batman #red hood #i've been up since 4 trying to meet a deadline #and this was after staying up till 2 to post this monstrosity #i'm so on e #whale writing

[spookyold-saintjm]

Snow Storm

*throws handkerchief across the room* fucking HELL I miss Eric so much because it’s around that time of year when we first met him and I want to know if he’s okay. Anyways here’s a little holiday-themed fluffy something I wrote based on a shitpost brain dump I had a few days ago. This one’s dedicated to @aheistwithyaboi

Eric Derekson x reader

Warnings: None other than Eric being too good for this world (fluff)

Word Count: 1,875

--

“Uh…oh, no.” 

You were in your kitchen, finishing putting away the dishes you’d used from dinner with your boyfriend. He had stepped away into your living room to check the time on his phone when you heard him utter an exclamation of concern. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked, stepping into the room as you finished drying off the last of the dinner plates. 

Eric’s back was to you as he looked out the window that faced the street outside your third floor apartment. 

“I-I opened the blinds to look at the snow…” he started, his voice getting quieter as you neared him, “and, well…” 

“Oh, wow.” You were staring out at the scene that had Eric so worried.  

The snow that had been falling slowly and steadily throughout the day had transformed into a full-blown snowstorm, so much so that it was difficult to see out the window at all. The sidewalks and road were buried, and the trees and rooftops of the buildings across the street were covered in a thick blanket of white.  

“It wasn’t supposed to get this bad, was it?” Eric asked, quickly pulling up the weather app on his phone and scanning the info on the screen. You peeked over his shoulder on your tip-toes to follow along, surprised to find that the forecast called for the snow to not let up for a good portion of the night. 

“It must have changed when we started making dinner,” you offered, thinking back to how much more calm the skies were when Eric had arrived just a few hours before.  

“Yeah…” he replied slowly, sheepishly turning to face you. You could sense him getting anxious—the stiffening in his posture and his hands suddenly shoving into his black pants pockets a dead giveaway. 

“I’m not letting you try to get home in this weather,” you assured him. “You can just stay here for the night.” 

His eyes nearly popped out of his head, and you couldn’t help but grin at his stunned reaction. “R-really? Are you sure? It’s only a few blocks… 

You leaned in to lightly kiss his cheek, unable to contain the giggle that had built in your chest. “You’re ridiculous. Of course it’s okay. We can watch one of those movies we were talking about last week!" 

He let out a light sigh, nodding at you with a small smile and a tint of pink in his cheeks. “O-okay…that sounds nice.” 

Shortly after the two of you were on your couch, sharing a heavy plush blanket Eric had gifted you for your birthday. The glow of candles throughout the room took the place of any of the other lights in the apartment, just in case the power went out in the midst of the storm coming down outside. The chocolate chip cookies you’d put in the oven to bake after dinner were now ready and sitting on the coffee table across from you, and you’d both been happily enjoying them as you watched an old Christmas cartoon that Eric had never seen before. 

You were much more interested in Eric’s reactions to the movie than you were in watching the movie itself; he was fully invested in the animated characters that danced along the screen. Your heart had never felt warmer at the sight of his eyes attached to the screen with his knees tucked into his chest underneath the blanket. He turned to you with a wide grin when the movie was over. 

“That was GREAT!” he exclaimed as you took a cookie from the plate, then offered him the last one. He gladly took it as you settled back onto the couch. 

“I can’t believe you’d never seen it before, it’s still one of my favorites,” you said, leaning in slightly more towards him. 

“Yeah, well, my dad never really let us watch that stuff…” he replied between bites. A small shrug lifted from his shoulders and he didn’t quite meet your eyes when he added, “But I’m...I’m glad I got to watch it with you.”  

You softly rested your head on his shoulder with a smile. “Me, too.”  

You both finished your cookies, and the huge yawn that escaped from you shortly after was all the signal you needed to know that it was time to get ready for bed. 

“I’ll be back in a couple minutes,” you told Eric, before walking into the bathroom down the hallway, after grabbing a comfy sweater and pair of shorts from your bedroom right across the hall. You washed your face and changed into the new, more comfortable clothes, then strolled back out into the living room, where Eric sat still wrapped up in the blanket.  

Shit. Now you had to figure out where he was going to sleep. Although you’d taken short naps on your couch before, it most definitely wasn’t comfortable for a full night’s sleep.

“You can sleep in my bed tonight,” you offered, not bothering to dance around the topic. Eric jumped a little at your sudden entrance into the room, and when he processed the words he shook his head. 

“No, no it’s okay! Really! I’m just fine right here!” he started to pick up the couch pillows you’d put in the floor while you were both sitting there, and tucked them into the opposite end of the couch he was sitting on. “See?” 

“Eric, you would be so uncomfortable! Really, I mean it. I don’t mind.”  

“I—I couldn’t take your own bed from you!” he replied, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. You considered this for a moment. 

“Well…would it make it better if you just joined me?” You asked, but immediately regretted the word choice when the color drained from Eric’s face as froze in place and stared back at you from across the room like a deer caught in head lights. 

You shook you head. “I mean, not like that—“ You alternatively felt heat rush to your cheeks as you waved your hand dismissively. “I mean, that way it’s a win-win. I’m not put out, and you can actually rest a bit...I know you’re tired.” 

“O-oh……” he replied quietly, his eyes sliding away from your gaze and to the floor. “I, uhh, I guess—I, yeah, yeah. That sounds, ah, good.” 

“Good,” you nodded. “Well, whenever you’re ready.” 

You turned and walked back into your bedroom. You pulled back the covers in your king-size bed and grabbed an extra blanket to lay on top, since it was getting colder by the minute. You had a battery-operated light on your desk that you chose to use to illuminate the room. You climbed underneath the covers at sat leaning against the headboard, scrolling through messages on your phone for a bit until Eric eventually entered the room.  

He’d only been in your room a couple times before, and definitely not to stay for an extended period of time. He stood just a step inside, unsure of what to do next. He had switched out his button-up shirt for a baggy white t-shirt that you’d offered to him, and he was already wearing a pair of black sweatpants. He’d taken off his shoes and held his glasses in his hands, cleaning the lenses to give himself something to do. 

“All ready for you!” you stated, patting the spot on the mattress next to you. 

“G-great!” He walked around to the opposite side of the bed from you, and gently placed his glasses on the table next to it before settling himself under the covers, at the very edge of the bed. You lightly smiled at him, and he timidly returned your expression with a slight smile of his own. His hair was slightly messy, a couple dark curls standing up off the side of his head, and his eyes were at a slight squint to look at you clearly without his round glasses. You held back the urge to kiss him; you didn’t want to make this any more uncomfortable than it might have already been. 

“I, ah, I blew the candles out,” he stated as you turned to place your phone on the nightstand on your side of the bed, a final, large yawn escaping your chest. 

“Thank you,” you replied, glancing over at him a final time before scooting down to lie on the mattress. “Need anything before I pass out?”  

“I’m good!” he answered quickly, shaking his head.  

“Alright. Don’t be afraid to wake me up if you need something,” you offered. You tucked the covers up high on your shoulders like you always did, and turned yourself away from him to face the bedroom door, like always. “Well, goodnight!” 

“G-goodnight, y/n,” he answered quietly. Your eyes were closed, the room hardly lit, but after a moment of stillness you heard Eric carefully shift under the covers so that he was lying down. He’d hardly moved at all, oddly enough. And you never felt him get any closer to you. 

After a few minutes that felt more like hours, you couldn’t take it. You lifted up on one arm and turned your head just enough to look over at him; he was lying with the blankets hardly even up to his waist, flat on his back, his hands resting on his stomach, making himself as small as possible.  

You sometimes forgot that this was Eric's first true, serious relationship with someone, and there were some things that he was still learning to be comfortable with. But you really, really, liked him. You’d never spent time with someone so genuinely themselves, so kind and caring of everyone around them, someone who knew so much about the most random things and could entertain you with his knowledge for hours. 

An idea occurred to you. You were just being practical, right? 

“Eric,” you muttered, barely over a whisper.  

“Hm?” he asked, and now your eyes had adjusted enough to see that he hadn’t even closed his yet. Oh, honey. 

“You’re gonna get cold.” 

“I’m okay,” he answered quickly, but you could already hear the slight shiver in his voice. You were glad he couldn’t see the warm smile that his damn adorableness forced on you. 

You considered your next idea for a moment, but decided to just go for it. You scooted yourself closer to Eric’s statue-still form and gently rested your head on his chest. You draped one of your arms over him, pulling him away from the edge of the bed ever so slightly. Your palm rested on the opposite side of his chest from your head.

“Is this okay?” you asked quietly, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. You could practically hear his heart trying to burst at the sudden and very close contact, but you felt him nod. 

“Yeah…this is...nice,” Eric replied. “Thank you, y/n.” 

You didn’t say anything, feeling no need for more words. You closed your eyes as you rested against him. His heartbeat descended into its normal pace, and eventually into only a slow, gentle thump in your ear as you both drifted into a warm, peaceful slumber. 

#so much fluff #eric derekson #why do i do this to myself #markiplier egos #eric derekson x reader #eric derekson imagine