#and I wrote a very polite ‘’it was stupid and you did a terrible job’’

[enhyupn]

enhypen as characters inspired by animes ᯤ 

tagging @youreverydayzebra @ncityy04 @rheyom

ot7!enhypen x gn!reader, fluff, warnings: mentions of (jokingly) dying, swear words, reader’s in a maid outfit in jay’s one but no mentions of a certain gender, word count: 3.3k

a/n most of these aren’t the same as the animes mentioned but instead just inspired or loosely inspired by the plot! also some of these aren’t the same in word count and i apologise for that ]:

∷ heeseung — orange

heeseung as the new kid at school and he’s so pretty that everyone just. Stops in place and just stares at him as he introduces himself

funnily enough you already saw this coming, realising this was the same heeseung the letter you received that morning told you about

what was funnier was the fact that letter was coming from the future you

you didn’t believe it Then because like... it kinda sounds too stupid to be true

but then BOOM there heeseung is

your teacher makes him sit beside you and you’re just trying to wrap your head around how crazy all of this is

your letter even told you that he was going to sit beside you, why was all of this coming true????

you didn’t read on because you were in a rush to get to school but maybe if that letter warned you about how pretty he was, you wouldn’t of been that flustered when he started talking to you

“hey i’m heeseung!” “ummm yeah, i’m y/n... yeah”

when school ends you RACE home to get to that letter again

rest of heeseung + of the members under the cut!

your future self was gonna have a lot of explaining to do...

turns out the future you Let this same heeseung walk out of your life so now you have to fix this

“dear past me, i can’t believe i was this stupid to let him leave my life like this— how stupid am i??”

now you make it your mission to keep your barely started relationship not go rocky

and oh boy would that be a challenge for the years to come

not because heeseung’s a terrible bf, future you just gave terrible tips

everyday after that you and heeseung (like the letter said) turned into great friends

great friends as in friends that people think that are dating

soon that friendship became a relationship... and a very strong one to be honest

your letters were weirdly very accurate

a firework festival... how he confessed to you... all of it was in those letters

honestly you should scold them for letting heeseung get away!!

you secretly wanna tease them that YOU have heeseung by your side and they don’t but... you can’t really do that

you tell heeseung about the letters one day and he just. Stares at you in astonishment

because he also received letters on the same day you got them from future him too

turns out future you and heeseung both regret their decision

poor them but at least present you gets to kiss heeseung whenever you want 😇

not to spoil anything but heeseung didn’t end up walking out of your life <3 instead you two are now sickly in love

∷ jay — maid-sama

you work at a maid café mainly because you needed the money and honestly... it wasn’t even that bad of a job

i mean compared to your school president life — trying to keep teenage boys out of trouble — happily serving polite and friendly (most of the time) customers was definitely a steal

one boy in particular gave you a bit more trouble than the rest of them however

he wasn’t bad or anything, just... a serial heart breaker

jay park was always on your radar due to the fact so many people would go up to you asking you to tell him to be nicer with his rejections

he wasn’t complied to be nicer but 😍 what can you do

safe to say that you didn’t think you had the best relationship with him

you couldn’t understand him even more when you saw him prettily sitting at the tables at your work

may i add, with you in your very own maid outfit as well as a twitching eye

“y/n! looking great” “thanks m-ma-mas—” “your customer service is terrible”

and the fact he came every day after that day made you feel Terrified

and also a little excited to go to work but you’d never admit that!!!

having him stare at you while you cheerily wrote with ketchup on omelettes was... definitely not how you thought your relationship would be like

he would also make small talk too

and visit you after your shift!!! walking you home

now... his daily visits turned into genuine great conversations on the way home

you realised he wasn’t as bad as you made him out to be

he just had strong beliefs that he should only accept a confession if it’s from someone he loves

you didn’t know how... but now You Have Feelings For him.

and seeing him when smile at you every time you serve him at that little maid café... ARGGGG it drove you absolutely mad

the way he oozed out confidence... was sweet and quite literally the prettiest person you’ve ever seen... how could you not

and what other way to confess to him than at the very place your relationship blossomed at!

you wrote “i like you” with ketchup on fried rice for him... yeah

thankfully he was over the moon and Had to hold back kissing you in front of the customers

now you two were dating <3 with the help of a maid café

and that really only left you with one more question

“why did you start visiting this maid café in the first place?”

∷ jake — kimi no todoke

being the quiet student is never. a good thing

especially when you’re ostracised by your class because you never participate

you actually want to but you can’t build any confidence to do so

you never caught the attention of anyone

well... besides a certain popular boy by the name of jake sim

oh boy was this gonna be a culture shock to the girls that have a crush on him

he noticed you on the first day of school when you asked him for directions to your classroom

he won’t ever forget it, the way you had a huge excited smile on his face as the cherry blossoms fell softly around you

he quotes, it looked like you came straight out of heaven because it looked like you had wings on you

he didn’t know how to get your attention though.

every time he tried to do so you wouldn’t even look at him and would just look down at your desk

it hurt him to see you so isolated

that’s when he had the bright idea to ask you if you wanted to walk with him home

bad idea (kinda), because you did accept but you didn’t know what to do the whole time because you’ve never walked home with someone before

it was bad enough that jake was absolutely Stunning. like blindingly attractive

you didn’t know what to say at all

well until you came across a small puppy making it’s way up to the two of you

they were so cute that you just squealed out of excitement

jake was so surprised to hear Something from you that he just instantly put on this huge genuine grin

“there’s no tag on them!” your upsetting tone sent jake into haywire

he literally watched you pet that dog with literal heart eyes he wasn’t even being sutble

he takes a picture of you and he Stupidly leaves the ringer on so you hear him and everything

he was so embarrassed about it

“did you just take a picture of me?” “y-yeah” “oh... is that what people do?”

you literally had no idea how to interact with people so you thought what he did was Normal

somehow this caused jake’s crush on you to develop Quick

especially when you grabbed his hand to pull you closer to the dog

his heart was beating so fast he didn’t know what to do

he is self proclaimed the biggest dog lover but for some reason... he wasn’t even looking at the dog, not even trying to play with it

he was just staring at you with his doting eyes as you smiled and giggled while playing with the dog

he wasn’t gonna confess yet though because he still has to develop your relationship

in true shoujo romance anime fashion, he was gonna confess twelve episodes (probably a year) later <3

∷ sunghoon — ao haru ride

no i definitely did not put sunghoon for ao haru ride because i have a huge crush on kou and sunghoon... /s

you and sunghoon were in the same elementary class because... fate

you had the biggest crush on him and even your mom knew him because he was a well known figure skater

but who didn’t have a crush on him was the real question

being the young confident elementary student you were, you always talked to him

forever talking to him to the point where you two were Actually really good friends

you thought you were on cloud9

but. turns out figure skating takes a lot more training than you had thought so

you literally cried Buckets and Buckets when you found out he had to train in like russia for an unsure amount of time

there was no way on contacting him too since you had no phone, no nothing

so he left. and you didn’t know what to do with yourself

ok flash forward noises

now you’re in high school! still... gripping onto that crush you have on sunghoon

but you think it’s fine since you are Functioning without him i guess

well until you bump into someone with a very familiar voice...

“watch where you’re going” talk about passive Aggressive 🤨

and when you look up because obviously you were gonna start yelling at him

well. You just froze in shock when you were faced with sunghoon’s raised eyebrow smirking at you

and what was the logical thing to do apparently?

cry. right in front of him.

he just froze as he watched you sob while everyone stared at him

he was trying to explain himself while at the same time Dragging you Away because he couldn’t let you just cry in the middle of the hallway

now you two were at the top of some stairway as you sniffled recovering from your endless crying

“why were you crying? “how could i not when you’re here?”

turns out that sunghoon Knew you were at the same school as him but wanted you to figure it out yourself

it took you almost six months. to figure out sunghoon was in your grade.

but what next? do you rekindle your friendship or...

“i’ve changed” okay maybe that answered your question

and before he could even explain himself he just... Got up and left????? for no reason

and that’s when tsundere sunghoon started to come into play.

you constantly tried talking to him but it would end up with the two of you bickering

you walked home the same way too

weirdly enough He was very nice to you sometimes

letting you place your head on his shoulder, lovingly smiling at you, being very Oddly romantic

he was giving you mixed signals.

and there came that old elementary school crush... gearing back up for a second round

“what are we?” now you decided being bold was the right thing to do

he just stared at you and shrugged.

now here comes the water works

you started crying uncontrollably Again but this time sunghoon looked really guilty and comforted you

he even hugged you. (Wow... Development)

he then explained to you that he Likes you (omg) but he’s scared that he might have to pack up and leave you again and he doesn’t want you to get too attached

and you’re like “we have each other’s numbers this time though?”

sunghoon’s just like Ohhhh

that’s how you started dating

and rekindled that elementary crush (successfully)

∷ sunoo — toilet-bound hanako-kun

being the bold and adventurous person you are. You decided to call onto your school’s very own ghost

because you had the biggest crush on this upperclassman you needed the support of a Spirit to help you

“ummmm hey... school spirit, i’m kinda in love with someone and i heard—” “hi” and then you fall onto the ground because something scares you

turns out the spirit’s name is sunoo and you just summoned him

it also turns out this spirit was kinda cute 😟

he had offered you something like a book — telling you if you follow all the rules — you’ll end up dating your crush

turns out it was just a middle school romance book you could of bought at dollar tree.

you were rightfully mad at him Since all you did was end up embarrassing yourself

somehow during your argument, your eyes caught a glimpse of something in his pocket

you took it. because you deserved it

and ATE IT when sunoo told you that it grants you any wish when consumed

you didn’t even need to listen to any of the disclaimers because it was already in your stomach

one things turns into another and now you’re a spiritually bound fish to sunoo.

turns out what you ate was mermaid scales and he needed to eat one too so you could turn human (he told you he can’t explain it because it’s a long story!)

you two are now bonded together (4lyfe 🥺🤞) and you aren’t that happy due to the fact he was always teasing you and playing around with you!!!!

you were now his human assistant.

you helped him with cleaning the toilets and he helped you by saving you from the supernatural

very well balanced relationship

you grew very fond of sunoo as time went on

even though you almost died a few times... he was always there to save you from whatever the spiritual world had to offer

i won’t spoil anything but... school spirit sunoo seemed to have a soft spot for you too 😇

you showed him your passion for art and everything like that

you tried to dodge questions about the... y’know... why he was a spirit

knowing that it would probably hurt him

plus he didn’t have all those things coming after him for nothing

falling in love with a ghost wasn’t what... you were expecting when you first joined your school

but i guess you had no choice since he was spiritually bound to you!

∷ jungwon — whisper of the heart

you loved the library dearly, you loved reading and writing— just books in general

your favourite place was a really big cosy library a few minutes away from your house

you had always borrowed more than three books every visit

and every time you would look at who borrowed the book, the same exact name would show up each book you borrowed

“yang jungwon... he seems to have good taste in books”

you would dreamily sigh thinking about what this jungwon looked like

later on in the week you were writing a story at the park— y’know, normal things

your friend called you out of the blue for some reason rushing for you to help them

out of panic you forgot your book on the bench and didn’t realise when you had finally finished helping out your friend

to your surprise there was already someone sitting on the bench

and Reading Your Very Own Story

you literally just run up to him and snatch it from his hands because you’re embarrassed!!!

what didn’t help was the fact that the first thing he did was Laugh in your face about it .

he called your story stupid!!! and critiqued it!!!!

you just bicker with him and complain to your friend about it later that night

the next day you thought that... maybe if you went to the library again you might spot this yang jungwon

so you make it your mission to get to the library

funnily enough your plan had failed in an instant when your eyes caught a cat that you just became curious about

you followed it because it just wouldn’t stop getting away from you

it also looked like it was taking you somewhere but 😦

after a tiring ten minutes of following this cat from hell and back. It brought you to this old antique shop

you instantly fell in love with the store and everything in it

you were so distracted by everything that you hadn’t realised someone was behind you

you could feel your eyes widen when you realised it was the same boy from the park

holding that same cat you were following too????

“why are you here?” his eyes literally started Squinting at you

he then proceeded to tell you about how his vocal lessons were nearby and more importantly that the cat was His

he asks you if you want to go visit where he does his lessons and Obviously being as curious as you were, you accepted

when he brought you there you could see his eyes instantly sparkle from just being there cute... kinda

he even started to sing for you and that’s when you thought that he wasn’t that bad

some of his teachers started to join in too and before you knew it, the sun was already gone and you’ve spent the whole time with some boy that you were supposed to hate

“jungwon, who’s your friend” your body Froze in shock when you heard that name

jungwon thought you were stupid for not knowing your name and now you realise you’ve been crushing on him this whole time

(i refuse to continue on more with this because it’ll be too long unless some of you want a oneshot of this 😍)

∷ ni-ki — haikyuu

being forced by your teacher to sign up to be some volleyball team’s manager was Not that fun to experience

but there you were, managing a volleyball practice of that very own team

thankfully, it was safe to say you had a good relationship with all of them

and an even Better relationship with a certain volleyball player

nishimura riki and you were practically glued to the hip

you were so incredibly thankful that he was the first one to speak to you when you first started becoming their manager

the rest of them were tall and scary but riki was just tall and friendly

he was so energetic and just So bright that you couldn’t help but look forward to seeing him every day you had practice

he would even teach you how to play volleyball

like he’d be like “isn’t this move so cool? let me teach you it!”

at this point you could be a professional volleyball player with the help of riki

you were overjoyed watching them win their final match to compete in the spring interhigh

you were also incredibly happy to know that riki scored the winning point

he couldn’t stop telling you about it and you just kept excitedly praising him and not to play favourites but you weren’t this excited when heeseung scored the previous winning point

even though you and your team were excited, you could feel how nervous they were when they entered the huge gymnasium

they were surrounded by all the best high school volleyball teams in the country

the very first team they went up against gave them a very Tough time

you remember sweating so hard when the scores were almost the same, the other team leading in that set

you decided that. Maybe you could help

“riki! you can do it” your shouting somehow caused riki to instantly become energised

everything was a blur up until your team had Won the match

and all because you gave riki some encouragement

he literally ran to you the second they had won and almost knocked you down

you didn’t wanna tell him that he was sweaty so you just let him carry on hugging you tightly

the rest of the team was like “why didn’t you cheer us on like you did with riki?”

and when you tried to explain your face just started heating up like crazy

so you ignored the subject.

riki just took it as he was your favourite

but what you didn’t want to tell them was the fact that you had a crush on him

as if it wasn’t obvious enough 😟

#prism.nw #enhypenwriters #lsn.works #hybenet #enhypen scenarios #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen drabbles #enhypen timestamps #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop fluff #jungwon x reader #heeseung x reader #jay x reader #jake x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunoo x reader #riki x reader

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts) 

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

*

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

*

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

*

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

*

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think? #but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

[lilydalexf]

Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with MustangSally

MustangSally has 33 stories at Gossamer. Even if you haven’t read it, you’ve probably heard of at least one of them, Iolokus, since it’s an X-Files fanfic classic. All her fics hit big and are well worth your time. I’ve recced some of my favorites here before, including And Dance by the Light of the Moon, All the Children are Insane, and Iolokus. Big thanks to MustangSally for doing this interview.

What's the story behind your pen name?

I could tell you but then I would have to kill you.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

Yes and no. Yes, because life has moved on since the early nineties and the characters and the fans are in vastly different places now. Our current tech would make the premise of the X-Files impossible. No, because of the longevity of some of the Star Trek TOS work (there’s an archive of hard copy fanzines at the University of Iowa). Top-drawer authors started out in TOS fandom.

I’m just greatly saddened that my physical body is showing wear and tear while the fic doesn’t. Fic gets to stay smooth-skinned and muscular, captured at the peak of perfection.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it?

At the risk of sounding atrociously trite, I think of the friends I made.  I met some very remarkable women that I’ve been able to stay friends with online for over twenty-five years.  We may have moved to Facebook and post entirely too much about our pets and which of our body parts has sagged this week, but we’re friends.  It’s a furiously funny, feminist, and well-educated group of women with jobs in the highest levels of academia, finance, communications, and media.  I’m amused by the fact that if I have a question about how a virus replicates, I can ask a PhD I’ve been drunk with in Las Vegas.

Back in the day, I had a job that sent me traveling around major cities in the US and UK. I could post on a message board and within ten minutes there were people I could go out for dinner and drinks with. We already knew we had something we could talk about for at least a couple of hours. Additionally, most of these people were women so there was an added level of security. Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

Well, it was mostly atxc and the Yahoo! groups mailing lists that spiraled out into Geocities sites and, eventually, LiveJournal. The amusing thing is that getting in on the ground floor of social media and the Internet has helped me get jobs!  When I look at a new piece of software, I think, ‘this is hella easier than uploading to Geocities.’  We had to walk uphill both ways, in the snow, on dial-up, fighting off dinosaurs with our AOL CDs while writing HTML code. What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

DO NOT FEED THE TROLLS.

The past four years in politics have basically been the ugliest online kerfuffle the world has ever seen. I survived the Shipper Wars of ’96 and I thought those were brutal, but that was NOTHING. The only way to win an argument online is to not have the argument at all. Arguing with a troll is like mudwrestling a pig: You both get filthy and only the pig is happy.

Also, READ THE FUCKING TERMS OF SERVICE.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

I had the most terrible straight-girl crush on Scully. I wanted to be her best friend, I wanted to BE her.  I wanted to order Chinese food and paint each other’s nails and talk about bones.  Scully and Princess Leia and I could all just hang out poolside with hot and cold running waiters and poolboys, drink margaritas, and bitch about how unfair it all was – if the stupid men would just get OUT OF THE WAY AND LET US DO OUR JOBS, the world would be so much better. What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

This question is really about Iolokus, isn’t it?  You can’t fool me. [Lilydale note: I can neither confirm nor deny the motivation for this question, but I cannot complain about the answer.]

Simply put, I was enraged. The moment it was revealed that Scully’s ova had been used in experimentation, I lost my feminist mind. It was the most obscene defilement imaginable.  Scully wasn’t nearly as angry as I was.  What I thought needed to happen was for Scully to become a fiery force of vengeance against the MEN who had done this to her.  Clearly, I was not going to get that level of satisfaction from the show, as I was imagining Kali-like carnage on a global scale. I emailed RivkaT (whom I did not know well at that point) with a proposition that we work together. Strangely enough, we didn’t meet face to face until we were well into the project, but we did talk on the phone quite a bit. The rules were simple – everyone had to be punished in truly horrific ways, and at some point, we had to see if we could write a car chase (only because that seemed impossible).  Then it basically turned into a very twisted game of chicken to see who could be the most outrageous in terms of killing people off or writing really horrific things that fit within the structure of the narrative.  I did, in the end, write the car chase, but RivkaT one-upped me by throwing in a helicopter (a FOX News helicopter, at that).  

Really, RivkaT?  A helicopter? What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom? I am terribly proud of what I wrote, pleased that it brought pain and pleasure in equal amount to people, and, again, thrilled by the people I became friends with. I admit that I stopped watching the show when Scully announced her pregnancy.  I could only see a long jump over a shark tank for the rest of the series. I haven’t watched the new episodes, either.  It is complete in my mind and doesn’t need to be continued.  I wouldn’t say no to having a reunion with some of my fic friends, although we’re still chatting online like everyone does.   Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

Rivka and I wrote in the Buffy fandom for a few years, but then we moved on to real adult jobs that left absolutely no time for me to write. I’m in education, and I regularly sweat blood for fear that someone is going to find my old fic. The Buffy people were fun; there was a certain *shininess* to them that I really enjoyed. The X-men authors were just batshit and delightful, and some amazing stuff came out of Marvel fandom, particularly in the Thor/Loki and Steve/Bucky subgenres. I’ve learned to appreciate a good coffee shop AU and one famous Erik/Charles fic where all the main characters are crabs. Seriously, crabs—it’s hysterical. [Lilydale note: Other Crabs Cannot Be Trusted by groovyphilia currently has almost 2,500 kudos at AO3.]

Every few years, I’ll have a student try to explain to me what fandom is and I just smirk. Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully? No. Not really. Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom? I fell into an X-Men hole a few years back and had a great old time wallowing in the Cherik muck, and there was a flirtation with BBC Sherlock as well. Strangely enough, I became interested in A/B/O fics only because of what they were saying about the role of women in our society. The limitations on the male omegas seem absurd and then you realize those are the same limitations put on women all. the. time.

Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now?

RivkaT very nicely formatted everything and put it up on AO3. What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

I will always be stupidly proud of how shocked and horrified people were by Iolokus. The truth of the matter is that Iolokus has Greek drama at its core. Scully is Medea, and the entire story is lousy with “blood on the threshing floor” and Dionysian rites. The everyday is subverted into horror, and wives and daughters will tear men limb from limb like the Maenads. Since I was ultimately disappointed with what Chris Carter did with the entire show, that approach seemed appropriate.

At a certain level, all fic is corrective fic.  Like critic Anne Jamison said, “Irritated fans produce fanfic like irritated oysters produce pearls.”  And because fic has fallen so much into women’s sphere, a pure form of correction is not just the death of the author but the MURDER, a new creation springing up from the spilled blood like Cadmus sowing dragon’s teeth.

Okay, that’s a bit much. Maybe I should just take myself back to the isle of Goth Amazons or something. Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I had to write a self-evaluation and a reflection on pedagogy today. If that’s not fiction, I don’t know what the fuck is.

All my creativity is caught up in trying to pretend to be a normal middle-aged white woman so no one knows I am really a lizard.

Is there anything else you'd like to share with fans of X-Files fic?

Keep writing, keep reading, keep fighting the commercialization of narratives. As things grow more and more commodified, all our dreams and desires reduced to tchotchkes made in China, it’s a revolutionary act to separate your work from the marketplace. Be bold, take chances, turn the trope on its ear and kick it in the ass. Take everything the creators have done to make a work palatable to the unwashed masses and set it on fire.

Be subversive.

Be mean.

Have a great fucking time.

(Posted by Lilydale on March 2, 2021)

#old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #mustangsally

[gameofdrarry]

Wizards Hearts Recs: Tooth Rotting Fluff

Wizards Hearts was a four-month-long Drarry reading fest. Players were given a playing deck of 52 tropes, and were asked to find 52 different fics to read and comment on to fill their decks. To prevent the same few fics from being read, fics were restricted to only being used for the game three times before being considered ineligible for further points. The tropes and submissions list can be found here.

Check out the masterlist of fics for this trope below the cut!

📜 Dial Tone by firenxe Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  34699 Tags: Texting, text fic, Drarry, non-magic au, AU Summary:  Harry Potter decides to text the number on his arm. Draco Malfoy finds himself woken up by messages. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Say the words / then stay around by teatrolley Rated:  Not Rated Words:  5703 Tags: Established Relationship, Fluff, Not That Much Angst Really, a lot of love, and two very confused people, Auror Harry Potter, Office Romance, Ministry Work Summary:  They’ve been together for a while when Harry decides that he wants to try the Auror Office again. What he doesn’t consider is the effects the work might have on the two of them. But, then again, maybe those effects don’t have to be all bad? Or: A few months of the start of the relationship between the fumbling, blind-leading-the-blind and in-love Harry and Draco. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 With A Bite and A Hiss (and Some Curry On Top) by ZandraGorin Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  4779 Tags: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Parseltongue, Pets, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Injured Pets/ Animals, Kissing, Fluff, Parselmouth Harry Potter, HP Fluff Fest 2020 Summary:  Draco keeps bringing animals home and keeps cooking curry for Harry. Harry is of the opinion that it has got to stop. Well, not the cooking curry part. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 the 1 by Darlinxx Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  5913 Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Fluff and Humor, Awkward Romance, Domestic Fluff, Pansy attempts at matchmaking, is this meet cute? idk, Harry sucks at flirting, Draco doesn’t know how to deal with his feelings, Harry is the perfect gentleman, Draco acts like a bitch but is actually a softie, Draco wears earrings on this one, and Harry takes it in stride, if that weirds you out then you can fuck off, haha just kidding I’m not mean Summary:  "You're not terrible. I mean, maybe not everyone's type, exactly, but…you're just a little –" "Insane?" Draco supplies. Harry looks at him. "Intense," he says. "That's not always a bad thing." ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Love You More by hedwig4evr Rated:  Explicit Words:  37185 Tags: Love, and marriage, Sickeningly In Love, Engagement, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Sex Toys, bubble baths, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Frotting, Hand Jobs, Shower Sex, Bottoming from the Top, Switching, Top Harry Potter, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Top Draco Malfoy, Bottom Harry Potter, 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2018, sex in the bath, Lots of love and sex, Early Bird prompt, lots of fluff, Tooth-achingly fluffy Summary:  After years together, Harry decides to propose to Draco. Once it's revealed to their families and friends, though, they start to question whether this is what they really want. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Aggressive use of Florists by Mountainwolf Rated:  General Words:  53521 Tags: Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Harry Potter Raises Teddy Lupin, Auror Harry Potter, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Floriography, Snark, Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Florist Harry, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Canon Divergence - Post-Hogwarts, Dick Jokes, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy Friendship, Oblivious Harry, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, lots of magical flowers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Godfather Draco Malfoy, Heartbroken Harry Potter, Soft Harry, Caring Draco Malfoy, Drama, Family Drama, A little bit of angst, Reformed Draco Malfoy Summary:  Harry is being lovesick in Neville’s flowershop after having been dumped, and Draco is very aggressively winning over ministry members by sending them fuck-you flowers. Harry is absolutely no help but learns a lot about floriography, stupid purebloods, and Draco. OR; Harry struggles raising Teddy alone, longing for a partner and a family. His future dreams for domestic bliss have been crushed by his ex, who left him for a better looking, more ambitious, less 'damaged' model. A lot of people try to support Harry, but he is, as ever, hiding how truly bad things are going. Then, Hermione -and a few others, set Draco on him and things start developing in a direction neither really expected. Everyone sees how good Draco and Harry could be together, and with some political maneuvering from unexpected sources-and a lot of flower deliveries, they start to see it too. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Cracking The Code by orpheous87 Rated:  General Words:  12218 Tags: Advent Calendar, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Romantic Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Auror Harry Potter, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy Summary:  Harry makes an advent calendar for Draco. What we see are snippets of their mornings throughout December. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 This Summer by Saras_Girl Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  39256 Tags: N/A Summary:  This is a summery romantic comedy featuring my favourite ensemble cast, in which Harry is confused, Draco is Draco, and Hermione attempts to eat all the things. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Something Good (The Second Time Around) by Ravenclaw626 Rated:  Explicit Words:  99382 Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, POV Harry Potter, Stay-At-Home Parent Harry Potter, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Research, Mpreg, Mpreg Harry, Pregnant Harry, Medical Procedures, Childbirth, labor pains, Harry Potter is a Good Parent, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Non-Canonical Character Death, Homophobia, Marriage Proposal, Weddings, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Pregnant Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Unplanned Pregnancy, Single Parents, Single Parent Harry Potter, Single Parent Draco Malfoy, Top Draco Malfoy, Bottom Harry Potter, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Sex Toys, Rimming, natural birth Summary:  After putting his youngest on the Hogwarts Express, Harry feels a little lost and without direction in life. There’s someone on the platform who notices, though, who also knows how it feels to come back to an empty home. Can this someone help Harry find his way? After years of contentment, acceptance, and ‘good enough’ — he never could have imagined that a whirlwind romance with his former childhood nemesis would become his something good after a lifetime of trials. A story about love, happiness, and second chances. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Realisations by orpheous87 Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  15486 Tags: Post-Second War with Voldemort, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Fluff and Humor, Fluff, Humor, Mild Peril, Happy Ending, H/D Erised 2020, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, POV Alternating Summary:  When they return to Hogwarts for their final year, the students are surprised to learn that they will take part in 'team-building' activities instead of contributing to the House Cup. Paired up by Professor McGonagall, they need to work together to complete the challenge. Of course, new friendships and relationships are built along the way. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Bloom by tsauergrass Rated:  General Words:  1473 Tags: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Like you're in for a toothache, Language of Flowers, Harry Potter is an oblivious idiot Summary:  Harry ruffles through the buckets of flowers in the cooler. “What are you looking for?” “Something special. It is a note.” Harry pauses. For days Draco has visited his flower shop, but not once has he ordered anything with a message. Harry Potter has fallen in love. Naturally, the only way to do so is to pine Victorian-fashion, his secret hidden behind blooming flowers. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 These Tender Moments by theartfulldodger Rated:  General Words:  1380 Tags: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, SERIOUSLY ALL THE FLUFF, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Kid Fic, Sickly sweet medicine for all your despair, A warm hug, Domestic Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE Summary:  A Christmas Eve filled with overindulgence, a sleeping toddler, creatively altered expressions and slow dancing in the kitchen. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 That Christmas by Janieohio Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  18729 Tags: Christmas, Fluff, Romance, Family, Humor, 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2020 Early Bird, Kid Fic, POV Alternating, Implied Sexual Content, Pets, Married Life, Toddlers, Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Parenthood, Protective Siblings, Gay Pride, Referenced Death, Adoption, Surrogacy, Christmas Cookies, Precocious Child, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian, See Notes for Translation Link Summary:  25 years of Christmases in the life of Harry, Draco, and their friends and family. 25 drabbles, one year per chapter, set in my That's Life Together universe. Read on AO3

📜 Blind Hope by cami_soul Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  1051 Tags: Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Established Relationship, Short & Sweet, Fluff and Mush, Did I Mention Fluff Summary:  Harry is working up the courage to ask Draco to move in with him. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Fill a Tent with Love (and Wrap it with a Bow) by riddleme_this Rated:  General Words:  1604 Tags: Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Quidditch, Setting up tent, Draco and Harry are best friends, Love Confessions, Bad Flirting, so much fluff ahh Summary:  Harry is determined to confess his crush on Draco. Enter a Quidditch Match, setting up a tent, some bad flirting, and things might just actually work out. ❤️ Read on AO3

#fluff #tooth rotting fluff #drarry #drarry recs #game of drarry #wizards hearts #wh masterlist

[httpteddybear]

Cherry | Harry Styles

SUMMARY; After Harry gets his heart broken once again, he swears off love, until Y/n and her dog bring him a delicious gift and their friendship along with it.

WARNING(S); Cursing, disgustingly adorable fluff, a v cute cameo from my real dog Peachy!! (send her some kisses), slow burn, angst if you squint

WORD COUNT; 7.8k

AUTHORS NOTE; Hey, this is for @tiostyles Fine Line challenge, give her a follow! Also, this is my first time publishing my writing so I’m so so sorry if it’s terrible. Forgive me if it's written badly. I wrote this on Tumblr so sorry if it looks funny or anything. Also pls give all the love to my dog peachy she loves attention. (thanks to @lostincalum​ @h0tsos​ for reading a bit of this) Happy Reading!!

“I don’t know what to say to you except I’m sorry.”

Harry was everything but okay. He’d just found out that the girl he had pined over for months obviously didn’t feel the same. Now Harry was a smart man. He knew the ins and outs of his career and who he should and shouldn’t let into his life, which is why he was so baffled that he’d chosen the wrong person to let into his heart. She’d met Gemma and Anne, even a few of his cousins, and they’d all loved her. It was quite heart wrenching because even though she’d just told him the number one thing that would end a relationship, he still loved her.

“J-Just don’t call him baby, okay?”

—

It’d been almost two months since he’d seen Camille and his life wasn’t really alright. He wasn’t fully over her, she was incorporated into his daily life. His clothes, his thoughts, his eating habits, his favourite tv shows, everything. Somehow everyone found out within a matter of days what had happened, so he got an earful from Jeff. Then he got the sympathy from his family.

The only thing worse than both of those was the pity. When he went to get coffee the barista said she “hoped he was okay.” While giving him his coffee, and then Harry had seen a group of fans and the first thing that was said to him was “you poor baby.” That had set him off. Because even though it was tough, he was not a baby. He could do his own laundry and make his own food. He was not dependent on Camille for any of that, it was just nice to have someone by his side in a non-platonic way. Don’t get him wrong, he still put on a smile as they belittled him a bit. It was what he did.

So currently Harry was sitting on his couch, watching Disney movies. He felt more comfortable in his London home than the one in L.A. so he gathered his essentials and hopped on a plane. He was in a big knit sweater and some sweats. He felt content as ever. He had sort of swore off love when the Camille situation happened, so this feeling of contentment was nice. Inside his home he didn’t really have to worry about prying eyes or people judging him, so wrapped in large clothes looking very small was okay. It was okay outside of home too, but he always had a knack for looking somewhat presentable. He liked to be pretty. As did everyone but it made Harry feel like he was on top of the world. If he had the courage to wear a dress he damn sure would.

As Harry was finishing up he’d decided it was time for a cat nap. So that’s what he did. He didn’t bother to take off his clothes, just lazily pulling himself up the stairs and into his room before crashing down on his bed, pulling the duvet over his feet and up to his neck before rolling to his right side. He’d always been a side sleeper. From what his mom said, at least.

—

“Peachy! Who’s my good girl? Who’s my best girl?”

Somehow peach had found the other shoe Y/n was looking for, and that warranted some love. Y/n smiled as the Samoyed licked her happily. They were about to go on a walk to explore the new neighborhood. Y/n had judged moved into an adorable two-bedroom, one-bath, yellow house. Y/n was the epitome of someone you’d find living in that type of house. With her vanilla perfume, big fluffy Samoyed dog, and overall happy personality, the homeowner thought she was the perfect candidate to rent to.

Going on her way, Y/n decided she’d take a walk somewhere she hasn’t driven through, her best option was essentially a rich community, but she didn’t care. Her dirty shoes hit the pavement alongside Peach, watching as her dog sniffed everything in sight. Turning the corner, she found the cutest little bakery, and her excitement showed. Walking up to the brick building, she’d immediately seen the sign in bold. “NO DOGS.” Frowning, Y/n looked around. She started to walk to the pole she was going to tie peach too, but then she heard squeals.

“Mommy! Doggie!”

It didn’t bother her, so she rerouted.

“Hi miss, is it okay if my dog loves on your little munchkin? She’s very sweet and I’ve heard your child’s excitement.”

The mother smiled at how kind the girl was before nodding. Y/n brought peach over, and she was overjoyed to see the tiny child immediately clutching on.

After a few moments of her chatting with the mother, her stomach decided to make itself know. So she politely excused herself cursing at her stomach for ruining an adorable moment. Tying peach to the grey pole, she trotted inside the bakery. It was mostly empty minus the couple sharing a moment by the window and the assumed college student typing away.

“Hi, welcome to Wall Street Bakery! What can I get you?”

Y/n had to scan over the menu, they had everything from cackle to scones, so it was a difficult choice. But she’d finally agreed on a cup of whipped cream, for peach, and a half a dozen cupcakes. She didn’t know what she’d do with the extra, but she’d figure it out. Pulling nineteen pounds from her purse, she told the girl to keep the change, and she was on her way.

Peach had, as expected, ate all the whipped cream from the medium size cup. Y/n had a single cupcake before she was stuffed, in her defense, she had four slices of pizza, so this was just a tiny snack for her. She didn’t know why she ordered six, but she knew she’d find something to do with the remaining. She and peach started to walk again, taking all kinds of turns and twists, but not enough to lose their tracking. Suddenly Y/n came to a beautiful White House. It looked elegant, so she stopped to admire.

In her mind it wasn’t really creepy, she was just admiring the luxury. The more she looked the clearer everything became. Including the figure in the window of the second story. He sat idle, maybe reading or listening to music, she couldn’t quite tell. He looked dainty, fragile even. So Y/n knew where the five cupcakes would go. She swiftly pulled out a sticky note and a pen and got to work.

‘Hopefully, this sweetens up your day!’

-Y/n :)

—

Harry was listening to music. Mainly Stevie Nicks if we’re honest. He’d decided that today was going to be a relaxing day, which means that going to the studio was out of the agenda. Jeff was okay with it, stating that he had to have a meeting with someone else anyway. So Harry had a fully free relax day. So social media, television, and laziness were his full schedule. Harry had almost gotten caught up with his timeline then his stomach rumbled. He got up, going downstairs. He walked through the living room, still hearing Disney Channel from the tv. Finally getting to the kitchen, he started looking.

Now, after countless walk between the cabinets and the fridge, Harry just gave up. He decided to be a tiny bit productive by getting the mail. Harry slipped his feet in the weirdly angled slippers by the door and walked outside. Harry looked like a proper dad right now, clad in pajama sweat pants, a robe with no shirt under, and fuzzy slippers. As soon as he got outside he saw a pastel pink box with a yellow sticky note on it. Harry wasn’t crazy, but maybe this was something from Camille. Maybe a box of his favourite red velvet cupcakes that her mom made, or maybe a truce. He tried not to get his hopes up. He also wasn’t stupid. So there was no way he was opening that box inside. Just in case.

So, carefully, he grabbed the sticky note from on top of the box. His eyes scanned the letters as a small smile came to his face. Whoever this was, seemed nice and trustworthy, from what he could gather from the tiny paper. So he opened the box, just having to take the small piece of tape that was on the box. Inside we’re a mix of vanilla and chocolate cupcakes, and while it wasn’t red velvet, they looked pretty promising. Again, Harry didn’t know this stranger, and he was a bit of a skeptic when it came to random gifts on his doorstep. But for an unknown reason, he felt inclined to just trust his gut. He was getting far too hangry to worry about death.

He picked up a chocolate cupcake and bit off about half in one bite. Trust and believe that he moaned at the taste. When you deprive yourself of sweets for a healthy diet, a bite into any kind of sweet felt like you were on acid in cake land. So Harry forgot all about the mail and swiftly took the box inside, kicking the door closed with his foot. Now he was almost one hundred percent sure that his whole day would be filled with the sweet-savory taste of these cupcakes.

Harry was very grateful for y/n the cupcake giver, whoever they may be.

-

Y/n felt like she was doing well in life, not astronomically good, but well. She didn’t have any major issues, she was generally acceptable by society. Well, her generation society, cause, of course, some piercing, tattoos, weight, and anything seemly not normal to grandmas around the world was a sin. She got okay grades in school and had a nice job. She had enough money for a tiny yellow house, a dog, and of course herself, so in her mind, she was doing more than good. but for some reason, not having a significant other was the biggest problem for anyone who found out. Y/n had boyfriends, girlfriends, flings, she dabbled in just about anything she felt, but for the past three years, getting her and her pet a life was the most important thing at the time. Now, y/n wasn’t opposed to having someone around. Maybe the cute girl at the coffee shop, her curly hair, dark skin contrasting against striking blue eyes, and pearly white smile was enough to give y/n butterflies as she finished her scone that day. Or the cute boy in the window, there was just something about him. Y/n liked him enough to give him five beautiful delicious cupcakes, so that should say something.

Pop culture was something that y/n was very interested in. Every now and then she’d find herself drooling over Calum Hood on her feed or staring at a paused shot of Zendaya in Euphoria for twenty-three minutes. She loved seeing people grow and she could even say that she was a fan. In fact, if you showed her the music video for Best Song Ever, she’d probably burst in your face with “Niall, do the shimmy, do the shimmy, do the shimmy, and Zayn pirouette and Louis do the splits, and Liam you stay exactly where you are because you are PERFECT,”

Y/n loved things like that, it was amazing to see people get credit when they deserve it. Sure she was heartbroken when My Chemical Romance broke up, maybe she cried for two hours when One Direction broke up, but she got over it. She could proudly listen to Welcome to the Black Parade without crying and she even kept up with Niall and Harry, not like she used to, but she tried to like a picture every now and then. Y/n was a go with the flow kind of girl, she moved on from things quickly and saw the good in things. which is why she was very confused seeing #camillerowecancelled all over her timeline. it was hard to not click on it, but y/n was having a good day and she did not need to indulge in things like that, she left that behind when she deleted Wattpad in 2014.

“Ma’am?”

Y/n nearly forgot that she was at a pet store, social media does that.

“Oh! Yes, hi. I was just looking to see if you guys had any Huskies or Pitbulls?”

Y/n was on a mission to get Peach a friend. She felt bad that the 6-month-old puppy had to be all alone while she was at work, so the only option was getting another dog to keep her company. Peach got on well with just about every dog, so it wasn’t a life-changing decision, she just had to find a dog that Peachy would get on well with. 

The worker showed her and Peach to the dog area and just left, for that she was thankful. She had always talked to Peach and she intended to ask her about the dogs she got excited about but she was sure the worker would’ve thought she was crazy. So she walked around a bit, looking at dogs and talking to Peach. Then, she nearly dropped her phone. She ran to the glass swiftly, looking at the tiny pup. It was a Husky-Chow Chow mix, and she knew she already loved her, she had no name yet either. Peach saw y/n get excited and started wagging her tail. soon enough, a puppy was on in front of her and peach couldn’t be happier to see the mini bear-like dog.

“She’s only about eight weeks old, and a lot of work, are you sure?”

Y/n couldn’t believe the audacity of the question. Of course, she wanted a tiny bear scampering around, going on adventures with her and peach. So she signed about thirty papers as quick as she could. She came to the name paper and the question hung in the air. What did she want to name the tiny bear? With Peach, she got a few days to be creative, and the samoyed was just peachy, so she named her Peach. Y/n searched her brain for names until she couldn’t think anymore. Then she squealed. She does that a lot.

Now, Y/n was on her way home, little Pipkin in her lap,  peach sat in the passenger seat as she jammed out to Lana Del Rey. Pip seemed to be having the time of her life, happy to be out of the confined cage. Y/n was, as you’d say, living her best life. She really didn’t have a care in the world. No one could really blame her. Y/n was pretty sure she just scored the cutest dog in all of London.

“Summertime and the living’s easy!”:

Y/n made it home in record time, she's pretty sure she was speeding, but Peach seemed very excited so she wanted them to be able to interact. She put Pip’s tiny leash and harness on, which was proved to be useless. Pip just kept tangling herself in Y/n’s legs and nearly got trampled by Peach. So, Pip got off scot-free just being carried. Peach was sniffing the tiny animal as soon as Y/n stepped in the door.

“Peachy, hold on I promise I’ll put her down in a sec.”

After getting settled, Y/n carefully set Pipkin on the ground, going to the couch to watch the two dogs interact. Peach sniffed Pipkin and vice versa, both faces have been in the butt of the other in addition to their own. They ran around the house for a bit, then the yard. They ate together for the first time, Peach even tried to share her food. They got on well, just like Y/n had predicted, so she decided it was time for a group walk. Y/n put a pastel hoodie over her tiny black camisole crop-top and exchanged her slides for converse, then they were out the door.

Pip seemed to walk better with Peach as Y/n helped guide. She went the same way as yesterday, finding she liked the scenic route even if it was longer. She walked passed the coffee shop, even smiling at the cute curly-haired girl. She passed the bakery this time, she wasn’t feeling sweets today. She walked quite a bit, even taking a few selfies of all three of them. Y/n was excited. She and Peach had a new companion. It might also be the rush of the fact that she's pretty sure the cute window boy is out in his lawn. She tried to keep cool, even almost went to the other side of the street but peach wasn’t gonna let that happen. It seems already Pip has become a rebel because she stayed with Peach. Y/n trained them, but they weren’t like Army dogs, so she let them practically pull her until two houses before his. She fixed herself up a bit, checking that her posture didn’t resemble the hunchback of Notre Dame. 

She got closer and she could already feel the butterflies swirling in her tummy. Peach and Pip must’ve felt it too, because closer they got, the closer to Y/n the dogs got. Especially Pip, but I’m sure its just cause she’s very tiny compared to the man, his hand could probably fit Pip in its palm. Y/n contemplated talking to him, which she did until she was nearly up in his face. When she saw him clearly, oh boy. Butterflies were an understatement. it was like a swarm of fuzzy bumblebees was tickling every part of her tummy. Y/n can definitely confirm that curly hair and bright eyes were essentially her type as of now.

“The boy from the window!”

If Y/n wanted to die before it was nothing compared to now. she literally wanted London to swallow her and her dogs until they were in the middle of nowhere with no proof of their existence. Pip and Peach weren’t bothered, sitting idle in the sun. The gate blocked out a bit of Y/n’s beet-red face, not as much as she would have wished.

-

Harry had decided to go outside. It was a pretty nice day for London, the sun was even out. So after copious amounts of sunscreen, some more presentable clothing, just in case of a fan, and some slides, he was on his way to his larger than the normal front yard. He planned on being out for a bit, so he brought snacks and drinks too. His mother taught him the habit. She always had some sort of snack in her purse and she almost always had those mini water bottles.

He lived in a pretty secluded part of London, but he still wanted to be prepared if a fan came up to him. Harry didn’t want to sound like an ass but more often than not, he didn’t want to take pictures. He was all for living in the moment. After always having a camera on you for about six years, you’d get sick of it too. It's not that he didn’t like meeting fans, he loved it. They made him who he was, but almost every one of them wanted a picture to document that they met him. It's albeit sad, the fact that if you just said that you met him, everyone would ask for proof. Trust does get a bit tainted from fame. 

Harry was almost ready to go inside, he was near sunburnt, and if he didn't get inside his mom would scold him. Now some people might think that he's an adult and that he doesn't need to listen to her. Harry thinks different. His mom is such a kind soul but if you make her mad enough to scold you, oh she’ll scold you. Harry didn't like the feel of the cold aloe vera either. He’d kept it in the fridge, it was mean to cool you down and soothe you, but that's maybe a five minute cool. His had been in the fridge for about two months. Then, he saw a fluffy cloud walking alongside a very tiny bear, so he stayed. Even to just get a closer glance at the dogs.

Now imagine this, you’re on your lawn, waiting for two dogs to pass by, but they stop at your gate. You’re curious and, in this case, you think it might be a fan. what would be the face you made if the first thing that person said was,

“The boy from the window!”

It took him a minute to even process the words the girl just spoke, he was on autopilot walking to his gate and unlocking it. He went up to the girl, she looked sweet, she was very pretty and looked like she could model but also like she had just run three miles, her face was very red. Harry didn’t mention it. Instead, he said,

“Pardon?”

He couldn’t tell who was redder. that was an idiot thing to say, he could see it now if this angel really was famous, the headlines would probably be at his neck, making jokes about how he had shit pickup lines, but he did. That probably warranted cheating in his mind.

-

Y/n couldn’t believe she was about to explain that she was being a creep but she didn’t know what else to say, she couldn’t just let the silence sit but holy shit, she was talking to Harry Styles. Her stomach said barf on his feet but her mind said to play it cool, she chooses the latter.

“I, uh, yesterday, I saw you sat in the window, and you looked a bit sad, at least from where I was standing, so I left five cupcakes at your doorstep. I’m Y/n.”

Y/n saw his face shift, but his eyes showed immediate confusion. 

“How’d you get through the gate?”

Way to go y/n, you trespassed. You finally meet a boy, well, see a boy, and you fuck it up by trespassing? yay.

“I- It was actually open a bit and you looked sad. Listen, I'm sorry but please don't send me to jail. Pip and Peachy need me to feed them and I need my tiny house I beg you just like punch me instead I sw-”

Y/n couldn’t help herself. From her perspective she made a damn good case, cause no one could take the person who has two dogs to jail, Well, they could, but morally? yeah right bitch.

“Hey, don’t worry, yeah? just let me pet your dogs and we’ll call a truce.”

Y/n didn’t think this could get any better. She met Harry Styles, and he likes her dogs. Not gonna lie, Y/n thought he was a cat person, sure he could be a ray of sunshine, but he had major resting ‘step a centimeter too close to me and I’ll kill you’ face. Her need to scream right now was a ten on a scale of one to nine. Sure she kept her composure and would until she got comfortable, but if she was alone, she’d break a glass. One Direction among, various other artists, shaped her taste in music all through high school. She listened to No Control pretty much every day of freshman year, it was on her morning playlist.

Y/n zoned out, caught up in her thoughts, but when she did come back from the wave of nostalgia, she saw possibly a once in a lifetime moment. Her dogs, snuggled up into harry, as he sat there in all his handsome glory.

“I completely forgot to introduce m’self. I’m Harry.”

he held a kind smile, it didn’t fully reach his eyes, but it was genuine.

“I know who you are, congratulations on the new song, by the way.”

He didn’t miss a beat before asking,

“Would you like a picture?”

Y/n honestly didn’t know what to do. Would saying no be too rude? ‘Cause she did not have the energy to pull out her phone. 

“Oh, no thanks, actually.”

He seemed, almost relived? It was confusing. Y/n didn’t meet celebrities on the regular, but she was almost one hundred percent sure that he would have thought she was rude. 

After talking and letting Harry pet her dogs a bit more, she, unfortunately, had to go. She let him know, they exchanged hugs, and she said a sorrowful goodbye to Harry. It was weird, sometimes she forgot that people she looked up too were just like her at some point. maybe playing with a Tamagotchi or beating one of their friends at BopIt. It truly was a ‘rags to riches’ story for so many famous people.

Y/n finally got home, after taking a few pit stops, letting Peach and Pip do what they needed to do. She was relieved to see her tiny yellow house, it held a lot of character for one, Y/n even went as far as naming it Lanana. It was a dumb combination of lemon and banana, re; her house colour. Second, her feet were pretty much throbbing. Pip was acting like she was dying from walking and Peach immediately lied on the floor. Y/n also found the rug to be pretty comfortable as she lied on it, staring at her surroundings.

Her cacti seemed to be doing well, probably cause it was fake. It seemed fairly clean, so she didn’t have to worry about that tomorrow. her tapestry of corgis seemed to have come down on one side, but other than that her walls looked genuinely okay, she has yet to put a hole in them. and her books on the coffee table were still unmoved. Y/n didn’t really read them, but who has books on their coffee table that they actually read? The ceiling was pretty bland though, maybe she’d buy something to put on it. 

Y/n rolled over and pulled out her phone. her eyes were probably going to hurt later. Whenever she started scrolling, it didn’t matter which app, she had trouble stopping. But she’d get up eventually, if not, Peach would probably maul her if she didn’t get her peanut butter covered meds. Y/n debated going on twitter, but she didn't really want to see anything on there, opting for Instagram, she got into a comfortable position and started scrolling.

-

Harry was very, very frustrated. He had gotten a sunburn and that scold from his mom. Anne went on for about fifteen minutes about how he’d get skin cancer and how he’ll feel like leather by the time he’s fifty. She had good intentions, but Harry had thin patients. He did keep it under wraps, he had too. It’d be a whole other scolding if he got snappy with his mum. He actually talked to her for ten minutes, more or less, about what was going on in his life and etcetera before his mum called it a night.

He kept thinking about you, well you and your dogs. Sure human interaction was appealing, puppy interaction was essential. Had you been anyone else, excluding his mum and a few friends, Harry would have called security. He just chose to trust his gut and the dogs that you were with.

It was a rare feeling that harry got around dogs. Not like the love you give your significant other, it was less intimate. More like the love you give a child or someone you love very much. Harry almost considered getting a dog. Big or small the creatures were loyal, always waiting for you to get home and following you through the house. They were very reliable and dependant on their owners. Harry thought that was something he needed. Someone to depend on him, keep him grounded and let him know he was wanted. He had wanted a dog up until he realized that he was too busy. He was always busy now. Getting ready to release a new album, having to give his all for it to be what he imagined. He barely had time to himself, a pet would be too much to handle.

Had Harry realized a singing career would jeopardize his opportunity to get a dog, he would have never auditioned in the first place. Harry always had a love for animals. Now, when you hear that you take into account people's fears, with Harry, you didn’t have to. By the age of three, he was trotting up to garden snakes, helping to untangle them from whatever twig they were stuck in. He helped spiders outside and whatever you can think of that someone would fear, he’d do it. Not because he was brave, because if you told him to try and run over a tiny stream in-between the grass, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you no and throw a fit. Harry was just gentle, in a lot of aspects. 

He was gentle when he broke up with people, he was gentle when his bunny was getting ready to pass away, he was gentle when his sister was stressed looking for colleges, he was just gentle. which came with a lot of selflessness. Everything was Harry’s fault, in the sense that he blamed himself for a lot of things. He still blamed himself for Camille. Her falling out of love wasn’t his fault, she made that clear, but he couldn’t help but nitpick his flaws. The was he sometimes zoned out while she talked, or when he had a meeting but she had an off day, he felt terrible leaving Camille alone.  Harry was off.

He wasn’t broken, he felt okay, there was no metaphorical hole in his heart. Harry was fine. Except for when he wasn’t. The nights of alcohol and screaming led to nothingness. No more screaming, no more soft cuddles in the early hours. Harry was indifferent about it.  On the one hand, he was glad. He had calm peaceful nights and his liquor cabinet was almost always full again. On the other hand, his bed felt awfully empty. He still slept on his side, it felt like she was still lingering. Even with the million times, he washed the sheets, she still felt like she was right there.

Harry hoped he’d get over her.

-

Y/n was running detrimentally late. She’d gotten the best job interview and guess what? She got up an hour too late. By the eighth time she snoozed, she realized she had to be up. So she did some shitty ‘natural’ makeup, threw on a blazer, a cami under it, and the matching pants. She still looked bomb, Y/n would never doubt that. Especially when her confidence needed to be high. So now that Y/n was pulling up to get coffee, she’d regretted getting up so late.

The drive-thru was packed, everyone getting their own coffee. Y/n opted to go inside, coffee was like her push to get through the day and a Trenta should be enough to keep her somewhat lively. She still had to wait in a line inside, but this one was shorter. She tapped her thigh and scrolled through Instagram until she was at the counter. The barista was cute, having cool dyed hair was something Y/n gravitated towards, she could never get her hair a crazy colour, having to work serious jobs all the time. She always had to stick to somewhat natural. She’d rebelled at some point in middle school with bright, neon red hair. Then she’d stuck to natural colours, neon didn't look that good on her.

–

She picked up her coffee, taking a sip before starting her journey to her car. Well, she was, then the universe decided she needed a cute cliche.

“Oh! shit, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t even looking an-”

–

“and I just bumped into you, I’m sorry oh god.”

Harry recognized Y/n, and he wanted to say hi. Apparently, his version of hi was coffee spilled all over her shirt. He didn’t mean to, but the profuse apologizing was kind of cute.

“It’s fine love, saw you ‘nd thought I’d say hello.”

Harry caught Y/n blush at that. Albeit she got flustered over the tiniest things. She was quite cute now that Harry wasn’t distracted by dogs. She had a very nice style, besides the fact that there was now a stain on her camisole. She nearly matched the cafe chairs with her pants and blazer. It was cute.

She was cute.

–

To say Y/n was shocked was an understatement. For once a cute guy wanted to talk to her and she didn’t have to pine over him for months first. It was nearly a miracle. Y/n was a nice girl but confidence wasn’t always her strong suit. She couldn’t just talk to people, no no, she usually had to make an idiot of herself first. With the looming failure over her head and her heart racing, it made it very hard for Y/n to make new friends.

“Oh, for sure, uh I’m in a bit of a sticky situation.”

He held a finger up, signaling her to wait. He was discouraged she’d think he was weird and leave. But after coming back outside, a hand full of towelettes, he saw she was still there. Y/n took the damp fabric, wiping her blazer a bit, the only place the stain was visible was her blazer. Thank god for her camisole being black otherwise Harry would be able to tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. Sure she likes attention but not wearing a bra was solely hatred. Primarily Y/n had underwire bras, they were like hell around your boobs. So she opted out, it wasn’t like she expected to see Harry. He’d probably already noticed, it’d gotten considerably cold. He hadn’t said anything though, so there wasn’t much to dwell on.

Y/n patted herself down, thankfully getting most of the coffee stench out of her clothing. She’d forgotten all about why she was wearing a blazer or her interview. Y/n had her priorities all off, of course, Harry was more important than her interview, logically no, but Y/n wasn’t thinking with her head. Who would?

Harry was trying to decide whether or not he should ask for her number, was it too soon? What if he looked too desperate? The press would eat that up, he could already hear a tacky headline being typed. Y/n didn’t look like the type of girl that would care about that type of stuff. Desperate was surely socially constructed. Harry was obviously in too deep, who cared about any of that? he was gonna go for it.

Y/n was starting to see a difference in her blazer as the stain dried. Harry seemed spaced out, literally. He looked like he was on Mars. Harry looked like he was gonna say something, as he looked Y/n in the eyes for the first time.

She was gorgeous. Sure he’d dated models and beautiful women, but this was like home-brewed, authentic beauty. Her hair looked so soft, it was the type of hair that matched a lions mane, one he could imagine all over the pillow next to him. He liked Y/n, she was cute. After seeing her a few times Harry was almost drawn to her. She had an expensive personality. Not the kind of snobby, rich expensive, but rich with delicacies. She was kind to strangers she spoke to, and her dogs fit right with her, almost giving her a throne of cute, fluffy, kindness. The music in the coffee shop was heard outside, Harry swayed his body a bit to the beat.

“So, since we’ve run into each other a few times, I guess the universe thinks we’re soulmates.”

Harry didn’t need to rip off the bandaid, Y/n had just done it for him. Her smooth words flowed to him like silk, sure maybe Harry was getting a bit stalkerish, but it was all with good intention. If Y/n could be confident enough to say that and smile on, surely getting her number shouldn’t be that hard.

“So, ehm, I was wondering if I could ‘ve your number?”

Y/n was properly freaking out. Who wouldn’t? Harry looked at her with the most adorable gleaming eyes and just how could Y/n ever say no to that? He was her type but elevated. He had the bad boy vibe, but a heart of gold. Y/n liked to think of him as a milk dud oddly. But he and the mild dud alike had a hard, chocolate exterior, but sweet, chewy, caramel insides. He was ethereal. 

“Yes, yeah absolutely.”

-

It was now about a month after that. Harry and Y/n were going strong in the friend zone. Every time Harry asked Y/n out she was busy and vice-versa. Somehow the universe had gotten them together, but now it was like it vanished. All the work was now in their hands. It wasn’t as if having a date with one another was work, it wasn’t. Frankly, they really did enjoy each other's company, even through texts. But it was their literal work. 

Y/n couldn’t get a day off to save her life. Her boss was a bit of a dick. On top of it, most days off were spent graciously on the couch, feet propped up, and two dogs cuddling into her, all three intrigued by SpongeBob and Squidward arguing. Harry was in the middle of finishing up his album, so most of his time was spent at the studio. His days off were spent in L.A. It was rare that he was in London, sometimes he had to beg for a break. Thankfully he had jeff who sort of understood. So sure breaks were rare, but Harry spent so much time trying to work his hardest that he was keeping himself from it at this point. 

Harry had done enough waiting. Y/n seemed right up his alley. Her personality wasn’t too overbearing or too happy, she was a perfect state of nirvana. A calming aura came where ever she went and Harry could almost feel it through his screen. He and Y/n texted about anything. It could be a meme she sent him at three am, in turn, he’d laugh but tell her to get to bed. Or he’d send her minuscule things, like the stuff he sees in his everyday life that reminds him of her. Was Harry fully over his ex? No, but he’d get there. For you, Harry would at least try. Everyone had understood he was hurt but Anne pushed him to be happy for him, so that's what he was doing.

He’d texted Y/n about setting up a little get together, he didn’t want to call it a date, thinking maybe he’d scare her off. Y/n was persistent though, responding with ‘So it’s a date.’ It wasn't even a question, she’d just said it out in the open in hopes that Harry would be okay with it. He was. If Y/n could’ve seen his face when he read it she’d probably get a good laugh because as soon as he processed the text his lips curled up, bringing his mouth into a toothy smile. It felt nice to have someone paying attention to him again. He’d seen a few fans on his drive, waving as one cried, she immediately apologizing for being an ugly crier. There was something about finally getting a date and talking to the fans that put him in a fantastic mood. 

He was currently sitting in traffic, just coming back from seeing his mum. The surroundings were a bit bleak, all the houses were either White, Gray, or Black. Harry loved colour. He loved being able to express himself with pleasing ones that coordinate. Sure when he was little he’d throw on a raincoat but put shorts on, but having a stylist most of his life helped. His style was like a grandpa in a twenty-year-old’s body. Not that he cared, but it was a bit of an improvement from young British bloke who thinks he’s cool. Traffic started moving and Harry took his foot off the break, shifting gears to get moving. What was he doing? Well he, was on his way to get a particular bubbly nirvana girl. He and Y/n had planned the date about a week ago and agreed that they’d do something as soon as he got home. She insisted that he went home and relaxed, but Harry was stubborn, assuring her that he’d be fine. 

They had yet to plan where they were going, Y/n had talked about just going out and figuring it out when they ‘cross that lightbulb’ and he agreed. He neared the street that Y/n had given him and his mind was getting the best of him. Not every girl was the same but what if? There was always a possibility that it could happen again. Was his heart ready to risk it? Not fully, but one date couldn’t damage him that much. Harry always had a strong heart. When someone pushed him off the slide in primary school he’d said he fell. In Secondary school when his crush Rachel traded him for someone older, he’d let it go. He was strong and he could handle this. Y/n didn’t seem like she was like that.

He pulled up outside of her house, smiling at the bright colour. It was very her. Her windows were bright and open, he could see a small succulent on the ledge inside. She had a well-kept yard and the grass was as vibrant as ever. Considering it was London it could be hard to maintain a yard or even a garden, the weather was always temperamental. He heard the door open, watching as she stepped out from behind the white door. She looked beautiful, clad in some spandex shorts that fit her bottom nicely and a big sweater. It looked like a merch sweater of some sort. 

Y/n had a cute little bounce in her step, her hair bouncing a bit too. She and Harry had been on the best terms. They texted almost every day following him getting her number. She got to know him a bit better. She paid attention to a lot, she was an observer. The way he typed and formed sentences was very pleasing to the eye, at least he didn’t have terrible grammar. She reached the car, giving him a smile as she got in the car.

“How are y’love? Hair looks nice.”

Y/n smiled, attention to detail was always nice. They had also joked multiple times about her secretly being a lion cause she’d sent him a selfie after a particularly long day at work the day before. You could see the tangles and how frizzed it was. Harry thought it was adorable.

“Thanks, I’m good, at least it's brushed this time, right?”

He laughed. It was a nice sound.

“Any thought to where you’d like to go?”

Y/n hummed, thinking a bit.

“I was thinking ice cream, it’s rare that London has had this many sunny days, I’m wondering if we should be scared.”

They both laughed, agreeing on ice cream.

“Y’want the aux?” Harry offered.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Y/n hooked up her phone, going to Spotify and smiling as Hey Jude played through the speakers. She and Harry sang along ridiculously off-key and talked the entire drive to the tiny ice cream shop. Harry stopped the car and got out. So far, Y/n wasn’t bad. In fact, she was great. Her happiness radiated through the car, he bets it's hard to be in a bad mood around her. She’d opted for no makeup and Harry liked that. He loved girls with and without makeup but it was a gesture he appreciated, even if it wasn’t for him. 

Y/n looked up at the options, she didn’t particularly care for a lot of it, she didn’t want to eat something that had too much sweetness, she’d get a tummy ache. Harry had ordered Moose Track ice cream while Y/n ordered Ben and Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake. This was typically her go to unless she was sad, then she buried her sorrows in Cherry Garcia.

They didn't even sit down before they were chatting. Conversation flowed easily between them. They could go from talking about their day to talking about childhood. It was nice, there was no pressure to come up with a topic. If there was silence as they at it was comfortable, the ice cream shop wasn’t very full, it is on the outskirts of London, so they didn't have to worry about paparazzi. They talked about their favourite bands, people they looked up to, fashion choices, just about everything that came to mind. It was nice, Harry and Y/n singing to their heart's content to the Queen flowing through the shop, Y/n even getting up and using her spoon as a mic. Harry hadn’t felt this nice in a while.

“Then he turned and there was a garden snake and I’ve never heard a fifty-year-old man scream at a higher pitch than him.”

Y/n finished off her story, she and Harry had been laughing their asses off for about an hour, they’d been there for about two. 

“This is nice, love hanging out with you.”

Harry’s words held sentiment that made Y/n’s heart burst. 

“Same.”

Y/n replied, laughing as he made faces at her. This was easy. No pressure, nothing was forced, it was genuine first date bliss.

“Oops.”

Harry smirked as he took his spoon, putting a bit of chocolate on her nose,

“Harry.”

Y/n whined dragging out his name. He laughed, leaning forward. He kissed the ice cream off her nose watching as her cheeks tinted pink, it was adorable.

��You asked for it.”

next thing Harry knew there was ice cream on his nose now too, except she didn’t kiss it away, opting to take her finger and wipe it. bringing the finger to her mouth she laughed, making a face resembling the grinch as she licked her thumb. They didn’t want to leave, Harry would pay to have time freeze and keep this moment present forever. Sadly he couldn’t. They got up, going to the register.

“I’m paying.”

Y/n stated, dismissing Harry’s protests. 

Harry had dropped Y/n off, and there was no doubt he wanted to keep her around. He had his doubts but the small time that they had in the ice cream shop was phenomenal. Was Harry fully over his ex? No. But that was okay. He didn’t have to rush, he’d be just fine getting over her with Y/n’s help. He didn’t need a therapist or a new girlfriend, he needed someone to show him that he could have better. Y/n was better. As long as you two kept talking Harry was sure he’d be over it in no time.

y/n; so plans for our next date? ;)

#harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #Harry Styles #harry styles imagine #x reader #finelineficchallenge #fine line #fic challenge #cherry by harry styles #angst #fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #wowow this took a bit to write #and im doing tags while in the middle so its not even done #also to anyone who doesnt look at the tags #hi what r u doing here #i wrote paragraphs at a time havshsb yimez #YIMEZ #omg yes #masterlist #AND SHES DONE! #yahtzee

[ohdaim]

april fool's day oneshot

hi guys, i wrote this today in one sitting, and it's lazily edited:) i'm recovering from an oral surgery and on strong medication, so i hope this makes as much sense as i think it does.

Ship: Ignis Scientia/female reader Summary: You are a Citadel valet working the night shift, frequently attending to Ignis' car. You have no idea how to talk to him. He has no idea how to ask for your number. Words: 1849 idk if this is considered fluff or just mutual pining but with like,, idiots

__

Stir together bread crumbs, garlic, parsley…

You scanned the rest of the newest recipe on your favorite cooking blog, Feeding The Fussy. As always, it looked delicious. As always, you rated it five stars and typed out a comment.

I followed the recipe exactly, but I left out the bread crumbs and cheese. I used shrimp and bacon grease instead. Terrible recipe. Won’t make again.

Putting your phone away, you came to attention when someone stepped out of a Citadel elevator across the lobby. You worked night shift as a palace valet and hardly saw anyone but for a few regular night owls. One of them approached now, and gods, you were nervous all of a sudden.

Ignis was your favorite regular. He was polite, tipped well, and made small talk so you wouldn't have to. You didn’t know what he did in the Citadel or why he so often left at four in the morning. You just knew you had a big crush on him and, for that reason, could never carry a full conversation without getting sweaty palms.

“Good morning.” He greeted you first. “Quiet night?”

You nodded, entering the info you needed to check his vehicle out of the system. You wanted to say something, anything. Nerves got the best of you, and you excused yourself into the back room to get his car keys. On your way out, you held them up. “I’ll have your car here momentarily.”

Ignis didn’t respond. He wasn’t even looking at you. His attention was on his phone, a corner of his mouth curled upward.

You paused, taking in the smirk with shy curiosity. That was a new look. What was he smirking at? When he seemed to remember himself, he schooled the look and met your eyes. Startling, you repeated yourself quietly and went through the doors leading to the parking garage.

Ignis’ car consistently smelled like coffee wrapped in leather. Your phone vibrated in your pocket as you buckled in. Because you wanted to linger in the nice scent--was this extremely weird? Yes, of course--you checked to see what the buzzing was about.

An email. You’d gotten a reply from the Feeding The Fussy chef. They’d liked your comments in the past but hadn’t addressed your obvious jokes. You stared at the subject line for a beat, then opened the message.

Thank you for the review. Almost as insightful as last week’s eight hundred word description of your current diet and how my recipes conflict. Do you have any suggestions on how to improve this one?

Your nervousness grew so heavy, it burst in bright red over your face, a flame in your chest. The chef was talking to you. You’d chalked it up to luck that they understood your sense of humor and the intent of your comments. Never had you thought they’d give more than a like. You typed a response before getting back to work.

Pro tip: Using a microwave is faster than the oven. Also, I’ve begun a new diet (details to follow), so is there any way to make this recipe without the ingredients?

Ignis’ car was fancy but less so than most others in the garage. You always felt a pinch of regret when pulling it up to the lobby entrance. Driving a car like his just to see how fast it could go, it wasn’t something you’d ever get to do. You didn’t own one yourself, and truthfully, you'd only gotten a driving license to be qualified for this job. Getting out, you waved at Ignis and extended an arm toward the open driver’s seat.

Tip passing from his hand to your own, you bowed and tucked the money into a pocket. He thanked you, getting into his car. You waited for him to drive away, likely the last person you’d see this shift.

“Ah, pardon me,” Ignis startled you by climbing back out, the car door hanging open. He held something out to you. “I believe you dropped this.”

You looked at your phone in his hand, your eyes wide, nervousness becoming embarrassment. Quickly grabbing it, you bowed again. “Sorry.”

Ignis chuckled. “It’s quite alright. Good thing I noticed when I did.”

Nodding emphatically, you wished he’d just go before you humiliated yourself further.

Clearly not reading your mind, he lingered a moment longer. “In truth, I--”

“Have a good day, sir.” You didn’t mean to interrupt him and hadn’t expected him to say more.

He cleared his throat and smiled. “Same to you.” Thanking you again, by name this time, he left.

Back in the quiet lobby, you put his tip with the rest you’d made that night. You sat behind the desk and buried your face in your hands. The sting of feeling stupid in front of Ignis was abated by the underlying excitement that came from talking to the chef you admired.

They specialized in meals for picky eaters, which you were. They used clear directions, so they could be followed by an amateur chef, which you really were. They sometimes added personal anecdotes spiced with sarcasm and dry jokes to the recipe’s background, which made you feel safe to comment. You refrained from checking your inbox, content to wait until you were home to see if they’d replied yet.

Two attendants arrived for the day shift, and as you hitched the strap of your bag over a shoulder, readying to leave, one of them told you to wait.

“You should pick up a new nametag before your next shift.”

Glancing down at your uniform, you remembered you’d lost yours several days ago. “Oh, right. I will.”

You stepped into an elevator, pressing the button for the metro station level. New nametag. Dumb. You had your work badge but still required a tag. How else would the Citadel inhabitants know who to thank for fetching their expensive cars? You rolled your eyes at the thought, already annoyed. You’d have to come to work early to pick it up. Was it too soon to quit and attend culinary school? You needed to make a bit more money first. Ignis tipped large bills, but still, it’d take years of picking his car up every morning before you could afford tuition.

Grinning to yourself, you weaved through the incoming morning crowds and boarded a train home. It had felt nice, hearing Ignis say your name on his way out. He was the only person who ever addressed you, so maybe getting a new tag was worth it for that alone. Ignis was just-- He truly-- You really liked when he came down, that was all.

It didn’t strike you for another several hours, as you filled out the online request for a new Citadel employee nametag, that Ignis must’ve remembered your name. You supposed a great memory was probably just another part of his polite demeanor. That’s what you told yourself, at least, to keep your crush from growing. You didn’t even know the man.

You attempted the chef’s latest recipe, and as it cooled, you--very casually and not nervously at all--checked to see if they’d replied.

I’ll keep that tip in mind. As for your question, I recommend the following replacement recipe: brew a cup of coffee or tea, sit somewhere comfortable, and enjoy the beverage knowing your comments haunt me whenever I cook.

You read and reread the message, then laughed into a hand. Worth the wait. You ate a bite directly from the dish on your counter, huffing through the fresh heat with mild regret. They deserved a genuine review after such honesty, but it seemed you were doing little more than burning the roof of your mouth. So you took a picture of the food, offering a thumbs up with one hand in frame, and sent it as a reply.

The next night you worked, Ignis arrived much earlier than expected--before midnight, no less. He was coming in rather than going out. Another man was with him, someone blonde and unfamiliar. Ignis opened the back to retrieve something, turning you down when you offered to get it for him. The blonde man, his smile sincere but awkward, complimented your shoes.

“Thanks.” You didn’t really know what to say. People chatting with you was uncommon.

“They match your uniform’s tie… thing.” The blonde man was red in the face. Someone needed to tell him he didn’t have to make small talk. You were just a valet. He persisted, his smile broad. “It’s nice, y’know. You’re, like, coordinated and stuff.”

“Prompto.” Ignis closed the back and proffered a piece of luggage toward the other man. “Leave her be.” When the man took the bag from him, Ignis gave you the car keys. “I apologize for my friend. He can’t contain himself around beautiful women. Add inebriation, and he’s a lost cause.”

You gripped the keys tightly, taking in everything with a slow nod. Yes, of course, right. All of that made sense. Ignis was bringing a drunk friend into the palace. Normal Ignis stuff.

“Do you think Cor’s gonna be mad at me?” the blonde asked Ignis, walking backwards from the car toward the lobby doors. “Iggy, what if Cor gets mad at me?”

Ignis rolled his eyes, a hand checking his inner jacket. “A tad late to worry about that. Go directly to the barracks and try to sleep it off.”

“Where are the barracks again?”

Ignis’ chest broadened with a sigh, and he left the guy hanging. Withdrawing a money clip, he held it out to you. “For your trouble.”

You hesitated taking it. The outer bill appeared to be 1,000 yen, and it was several notes thick… More than the usual tip. You took it slowly, fingertips brushing his leather covered palm, and murmured a quiet thanks.

Ignis remained, his hand lifting to brush loose strands of hair out of his face. He wasn’t as put together as you were used to. Your eyes trailed downward, now noticing the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Huh.

He cleared his throat and began, “There’s something I--”

“C’mon, Iggy!” The blonde man held one of the entrance doors wide open. “If I knew Cor was gonna be mad anyway, I would’ve stayed at Noct’s.”

Ignis gave you a hasty farewell, already walking away to push the blonde man through the door. They disappeared inside, leaving an awkward wake of silence. You settled into Ignis’ coffee-and-leather scented car, a realization hitting you late, as they tended to do. Had Ignis implied you were beautiful? You didn’t entertain the thought for long. Ignis was a professional, royal something-or-other. He would never. You were reading too much into it. Surely.

On the walk from Ignis’ parking spot back to the lobby, you checked for the latest message from the chef. You’d boldly given them your number in a DM when the comment thread became unbearably long. You hadn’t held out hope of receiving a message and read their initial text at least ten times in disbelief before responding and saving the number.

Was this a new friendship? You hoped so.

#ignis scientia/reader #ignis scientia #ffxv fanfiction #daim writes #lmao do recipe sites even have direct messaging idk #this thing doesn't have a title #it was supposed to be about a prank but i am in fact the fool #anyway i love you guys please take this #i'm going to rest now aaaaaaaaaaaa

[kob131]

Looks like Hbomberguy's hours long crap is up(publicly).

“Made a legendary animator, his most trusted colleage (shows Shane) and two-”

People he outright went to and he acknowledged were better writers, thanks for admitting that HBomberguy and not be an insulting jackass right?

“RWBY’s failures matter because it could have been something-”

So could Twilight- That means nothing at this point other than ‘I made a bunch of headcanons and the show dared to not follow them.’

‘It’s easy to see why this show has such a devote fanbase because it frequently threatens to become good-”

So did Fairy tail (except for real) and that died out. Also you are really chipping away at my goodwill

‘People say what it promised!”

You mean this?

‘Weaken REAL criticism by being given too much attention-”

Hypocritical much douchebag?

“*insert a bunch of sarcastic bullshit mocking critics of RWBY*”

*rolls eyes* You say as you mimick them down to using the DEAD.

‘It’s separated into two eras with issues that don’t necessarily overlap-”

Bull. Fucking. Shit. Most of RWBY’s problems now ORIGINATED in the early Volumes. 

“If you’re a fan of the show you’re probably gonna dread what I’m about to say and if you’re a fan of the second half then you’ll probably agree with what I’m about to say-”

Considering you’re stupid sarcasm is just a less smug version of what I do, pretty clear ‘agreement’ and ‘actual good point’ are very different here.

“If you love RWBY and are still gonna watch, thank you and I love you for joining me on this journey.”

Less a journey and more a Seven Page Muda but sure.

“My goal isn’t to make people think less of the show-”

Which is why you openly insult it in the beginning.

“-but to think more about it.”

So far you’ve shown about as much understanding of the show as FloofArtist, complete with hypocrisy. And considering what I’ve heard about your video, you’re not getting better.

“I hope to give credit where credit is due-/It’s said failure is the best teacher-”

Which is why you openly insult people.

“’Rooster Teeth is starting game development!’ *insert insulting Steam Statistics*’

Fucking wonderful. Like you haven’t already tested my patience.

“*gushes about the Red Trailer after about eight minutes of recaping*”

Cool, eight minutes wasted on knowledge that EVERY RWBY fan knows. Literally every RWBY fan knows the origins of RT and Monty and the bitch basic knowledge of how they came together. You seem to have targeted this to RWBY fans and yet to blab about shit that you get after looking at the fandom for 2 seconds.

To say nothing of how you prove something was wrong with the Red Trailer. Namely, you never mention a plot, a personal conflict, a display of character or anything other than ‘cool music!’ and ‘animation!’ despite the show being pretty plot dependent.

*Gushes about the White Trailer*

Yet another bitch basic gushing with nothing of substance to it. For a guy who says he wants people to think critically about RWBY, you sure don’t do that for what is considered the basis of the show. It’s just talking about shit you like instead of anything worthwhile.

*Yet more gushing with the Black Trailer.*

... You know, I watch these kinds of videos searching for some kind of intellectual stimulation. Something to make me think and engage with. Right now, I get more stimulation and engagement from RWBY itself than a supposedly critical video that doesn’t even have to bother with anything original.

“The show already has generic monsters who just want to destroy humanity and yet you have written your characters to act exactly the same-”

And within your own bitching, you discovered the counter. The Grimm have nothing really to explore about them outside giving them variations and powers whereas the human characters can have these things called ‘motives’ and ‘reasons’. Not to mention even you would say people act like that in real life *cough* anyone NOT of your political alignment *cough*.

“And the audience is left with one lingering though...he can make that jump.”

How does it feel that Family Guy did a better version of your joke?

“She’s written like two adult men who have never written anything professional before except Red Vs. Blue wrote a Teenage girl-”

.... Monty wrote her based off her voice actress.  You’ve also made me regret ever using this same insult against Miles and Kerry so congrats on that.

*Even more gushing...*

You know, I am legitimately considering rewatching the Persona episode of Game Theory because at least MatPat’s faffing about is short and he has more content in his first eighteen minutes than this.

“More people have gone back to watch the trailers than watch actual episodes of the show!”

The trailers are the first thing people would watch to know about the series- no shit they’d be higher in view count.

“It’s so hard to not be onboard with the trailers!”

It’s actually very easy, especially in their release.

Why? Simple, a lot of the depth in the trailers only exists with context from the show itself. The White Trailer is cool and all but it’s symbolism and deeper meaning comes from Weiss’ backstory and the truth depth of Blake leaving Adam and what it causes is found in the show, the two best trailers while Red is just mindless fun that you can get better from other places and Yellow is just kind of neat.

How the fuck am I the more critical of the two of us so far?

“Then the show actually came out and it was terrible-”

Piece of advice, don’t follow this up with a super janky, uncanny valley 3D animation that makes Volume 1 look appealing.

“RWBY isn’t just a bad show, it’s a bad show that could have been something-”

*cracks neck*

The idea that RWBY or any show ‘had potential’ is most often used when a person once had a fondness for the property in question but has long since lost the goodwill to see it in a positive light, trying to make up for the cognitive dissonance of the conflict between liking what it once was and disliking what it is now. The issue here is that these so called ‘issues’ are born of the original creator who either founded the show or helped found it which means that it was pretty much DESTINED to be this way as the creator’s specific interpretation of their own work is what resonated with you in the first place and was likely built up to in the subtle inner workings of the show, thus making the big changes you want so badly would cause a ripple effect that would have affected your past impression of the show because everything in a show is connected. And in all likelyhood, your impression would have soured no matter what.

Tl;Dr- ‘It had potential!’ is self defeating and stupid.

‘The creators are receptive to criticism!...well, they try to be.-”

Oh boy I can’t wait for Mr. ‘kill half of all babies’ to try and speak about THIS topic.

“You don’t engage with any of the good faith criticism and just reward shitty people with attention. And I hope to show them that as a lifelong fan of RT and Monty Oum, that I’m saying this thinking RWBY could have been good...and still could be.”

Says the man who when referencing Miles for the first time, actively SEPERATED him from being a ‘treasured college’ of his friend and insulted him with Yang even though the fault lied with MONTY. 

All while referencing a tweet where he chews someone out for saying EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE SAYING ( ‘God this is why i hate this fandom. You miss the point. If I critise the show I'm a hater because you worship it. I'M OFFERING CRITISM U IDIOT SO THE SHOW SEES ITS FAULTS AND FIXES THEM. HOW THE FUCK CAN U KEEP MOVING FORWARD IF YOU DON'T IDENTIFY YOUR OWN FAULTS AND LEARN’). Yeah great job there jackass- How exactly are you any different from this fucker?

So that’s my thoughts on the first twenty or so minutes. Can already tell it’s gonna be shit.

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: Mouse Droids and How To Fix Them – A Quick And Easy Guide [Livestream] Summary: Luke has a Space Youtube Channel and Leia watches his videos to de-stress from a terrible day. Mouse droids are named and the Empire and its terrible quality are dragged through the sarlacc pit. AN: Anyway, did somebody said TIE-Fighter story prequel? No? Too bad.

Leia was a well-composed and well-behaved serene princess right up until the doors of her rooms closed behind her. The moment she was out of sight, she kicked off her shoes with such a force that they soared half across the room and crashed against her wardrobe with a loud crack. She took the pins keeping her braids in place out of her hair and threw them onto the dresser. Then as graceless as a regular fifteen-year-old girl, Leia dropped onto her bed and screamed into her pillow.

Today had been terrible.

Leia hated all the pointless festivities that only ever served to make everyone there feel important and powerful but did absolutely nothing for the people they were supposed to govern. She couldn’t understand how her parents managed it. They were good and selfless people, always calm and serene even when the newest governor was basically spitting one insult after the other at them. Leia always wanted to shout back, it was her first instinct. Idiots who couldn’t be bothered to contribute anything productive or kind, should shut up and stop hindering others from doing their job. Leia had kept her mouth shut of course. She had smiled pleasantly as her mother had taught her and acted as expected from her.

But that didn’t mean that she hadn’t wanted to strip the gloves off her hands and show him how much of a bloodthirsty royal she really was. She shouldn’t have desired it, but it annoyed her so much when others purposefully misunderstood her. It had been a year since she picked her coronation color. When would people finally stop commenting on it?

Yes! Princess Leia Organa had chosen white! She’d forgone five-hundred-years of tradition and picked the color of the snow on Alderaan’s mountains, of ice so cold it burned, of the sheets upon which they wrote the names of their dead.

Leia wore the color of war, mourning and remembrance and she wore it well.

How could she not when the Empire was murdering innocents, subjugating whole worlds and waging an unjust war? Picking green or blue would be an insult upon the suffering she had been forced to witness. She didn’t want to be remembered as another impassive royal, bowing to the whims of the Empire. Leia hadn’t been meant to live in a tyrannizing Empire in which she had to watch her every word and step. She wanted to speak her mind and missed the Republic she never got to experience.

Her parents, while displeased she out herself in such danger, had understood it. Most Alderaanians understood it and supported her, but not that stupid new governor. Instead, he went on and on about her image and character flaws – and worse! Talked about marriage.

Leia was already dead set on staying unmarried. Her parents had been lucky. Despite their marriage being arranged, they’d loved each other. Or maybe they had been in love first and the political advantage of the marriage was just a bonus. Leia didn’t entirely know, but she knew to one hundred percent that all her potential Alderaani suitors sucked. They were arrogant and petty or worse, both of that but way older than her as well. She could marry somebody from a different planet, but the Old Houses would frown upon that and then she’d have to deal with more in-fighting and risk losing control of Alderaan’s society and give the Empire even more access to her planet. It was bad enough as it was.

Groaning, Leia rolled onto her back and got up from her bed again. She’d hate herself in the morning if she didn’t dress out of the fine robes completely. She fetched herself her sleeping clothes and washed the make-up off her face. It felt like taking off uncomfortable armor and she was more than glad to get rid of it. Leia didn’t mind dressing up. As a child, she had loved trying on her parents’ much too large clothes and she still loved picking out dresses together with her mother, but sometimes she wished it all wouldn’t take so much energy.

Redressed, Leia returned to her bed, ready to pretend to fall asleep when she knew that she wouldn’t be able to close her eyes now. Her mind was too unfocused, her thoughts all jumbled up. She laid still and waited until another moment had passed before reaching for her bed stand and pulling out her secret private comm.

Leia had three of them. One for official business, one was the officially private secret comm – the one every important person in the galaxy was supposed to have and hide – and then there was her own, which she used to stay up-to-date with activities unbefitting on an Imperial princess.

She checked the holonet, skimming through articles that made her blood boil and delightfully bright art that called for resistance. She was pleased to notice that more and more Alderaani artists were choosing lighter colors in their barely legal paintings and downright joyful when she saw an account post images of white flags. Those posts would probably be taken down once the meaning behind them spread a little more, but Leia was proud nonetheless. She had caused this, this was her contribution to the Rebellion.

In a better mood already, Leia went through her notifications. She had a few replies to articles she had written and- oh.

 [Notification: Scrap Hunting has started a livestream – 1 Min ago]

Smiling widely, Leia clicked on the link connecting her to the video. The livestream had indeed only started recently, and not even properly. Leia had missed the last one sadly because she’d been in the Core, too far away for Scrap Hunting’s terrible holonet connection to reach. Alderaan was just close enough to Tatooine for Leia to watch them.

She couldn’t quite recall how she had stumbled upon the channel. She had just been clicking through some random videos one day and there it had been. Leia wasn’t all that knowledgeable about ships – her parents had kept a keen eye on her since the Speeder accident she’d had when she was ten – and didn’t really have much access to the hangers either. Droids, on the other hand, Leia knew plenty about. They were everywhere and nobody wanted to live without them, which made them the perfect spies with the right adjustments. Leia knew how to wipe a droid’s memory so clean, it was shinier than any crystal and how to hide protocols upon protocols in their storage. Her favorite droids were C-3PO and the R2D2 unite serving on the Tantive IV. Artoo especially had a lot of personality. Leia needed to sort out her Binary so she could catch all the colorful curses the astromech liked to inflict on people.

The two boys running Scrap Hunting – well, only really Luke actually – were sympathetic. They didn’t talk about droids like they were simple tools and they were proficient in fixing them up. Therefore Leia was very pleased to see that the title of the livestream was Mouse Droids and How To Fix Them – A Quick And Easy Guide. This would be fun, the right kind of distracting noise she needed after such a long day.

X

“Alright, we’re all set up now,” Luke said. “Hello everybody! I’m Luke and welcome to another episode of Scrap Hunting!”

He waved at the recorder and then picked up a small back droid from his table. “This is what today’s livestream will be about! An MSE-series droid! A lot of you guys said you’d like more livestreams and the weather’s been pretty good recently and I fixed the signals so I hope this works out just fine.”

Luke smiled and reached for the first tool lying in front of him. “I decided that fixing up this little guy here should be fine for a shorter video. I don’t have to think so much about what I’m doing and can talk at the same time.”

He began taking off the outer casing of the droid and carefully set it aside. “I know, I know, I’m always talking, but nobody complains about it.” Luke stopped spinning his wrench for a moment to think. “Okay, alright, maybe my uncle complains about it sometimes but that’s what he gets for making me check all the vaporators on my own. Anyway, I talk a lot and so does this chat. Lots of people joining in here! Hi!”

Luke looked through the chat, returned greetings and explained how he had gotten the droid as payment for helping out in a repair shop.

“And I know the owner thought he was just giving me so boring little plaything, but do you know how versatile these MSE droids are?”

X

Leia definitely knew how useful they could be. She grinned when Luke comically shook his head when people began sending in question marks and began belittling the tiny Mouse droids. They made excellent spies, infiltrators and guides. Underestimating them just because they were cute was fatal. Leia was happy when Luke reacted as outraged as she was and began elaborating on what the droids could be used for.

X

“And like, I get sending the droids back when they trigger your instincts, I wouldn’t keep around a droid that reminds me of a womp rat or a krayt dragon.” Luke paused, the half-open mouse droid lying on his lap, and apparently considered his suggestions.

“Okay, maybe I would actually want them. Could you imagine a droid krayt dragon? So cool.”

Luke reached for the nearest datapad and took a few notes, then put it next to him on the table and returned to working on the MSE.

“But yeah, point being: Why did the Aar’aa sell them to the Empire so cheaply? Add some extra software and boom, you can sell them for twice the price. Then you’d even make a bonus. Oh, well, I suppose the Empire at least made a good deal there.”

The MSE droid laid bare now and Luke could easily access its memory. He took his datapad once more and connected it to the droid. After a few seconds, he had access to its memory and immediately frowned.

“Or it did not. What is this programming? I researched what I could find before, downloaded some protocols-“ Luke looked away from his datapad to point down, “-links in the description as always. But just- honestly. Who wrote this protocol?”

He gently knocked his head against the droid’s frame. “I’m so sorry, don’t worry, I’ll speed up your processors.”

X

The next hour, Leia spent listening to Luke ramble on about what changes he made and why. Once or twice she even threw her own suggestions in the chat and watched contently as Luke picked up on them and began to work with them. She wished she didn’t have so many duties and could spend her days doing things she actually wanted, take a more active role in the rebellion. But she supposed that as long as she could escape annoying politicians for a while, she’d be fine.

Leia glanced at her chrono. While it appeared to be midday still on Tatooine, it was already early morning for her. She should head to sleep soon.

Thankfully, the livestream was also wrapping up. Luke had reassembled the droid and screwed the last bolt down.

 “And done!” Luke said and helped up the repaired Mouse droid. “A Quick And Easy Guide to Mouse Droids. Now, the only thing left is repainting and naming it. Same rules as always, highest donator gets to choose the color and the name.”

Leia watched as a lot of people began donating. Some just threw in five credits, just to support the channel. She’d done so before as well. It was only right to help somebody else and give him a thanks after cheering her up. Leia typed the first one, then stopped.

She was tired, had been for at least thirty minutes now, but her mind was finally calm as well. She was still and upset, but not so that she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Leia shouldn’t waste her allowance on this, but Leia had also had a terrible horrible no-good day and wanted to name that Mouse Droid.

X

“And that was it!” Luke announced. “Many thanks for all your donations. I’ll keep you posted on what my next project will be. Hopefully something a little more interesting than this little buddy here. Now let’s see… The highest donation is one- one thousand credits from @rebelroyal!?”

Luke’s voice was awfully high-pitched, shock visible all over his face. “Is this real- oh gosh. Thank you so, so much! I’m not sure- Many thanks for supporting this channel! You may name any future Mouse Droids I come across, oh Force. Right. Uhm. What is your suggestion?”

Leia eyes her discarded white dress on the floor and chose.

X

History’s eyes on you @ rebelroyal

Paint it white and name it Emmy! Many thanks for all the lovely content you provide.

Little Emmy, it turned out, look much better in white than it did in the awful black so representative for the Empire.

X

[Notification: Twin Suns @skyseekerpilot has mentioned you in a new post]

Twin Suns @skyseekerpilot

I have adopted 4 more mouse droids to keep our ship clean!

Twin Suns @skyseekerpilot

[Foto: Five Mouse Droids standing in front of Luke, who was sitting on the ground, smiling cheerfully. The droid in the middle was Emmy. It was a little banged up and had a couple more scratches. On its right were an orange and a blue droid, freshly painted from the looks of it. On Emmy’s left were two black ones]

@ rebelroyal The orange and blue ones have been painted and named already, care to do the honors for the other two?

X

Leia smiled fondly at the picture and began to type.

History’s eyes on you @ rebelroyal

How about yellow and green? Benny and Penny so it rhymes?

Twin Suns @skyseekerpilot

Done :D

[Foto: The two previously black mouse droids have been painted as well and are furiously cleaning the floor of a ship]

#star wars #leia organa #Luke Skywalker #emmy the mouse droid #fanfic #im back on my social media mess

[itzagothamcitysiren]

Welcome to the Family

I’ve always struggled finding someone who I think would make a good Damian. I love the voice actor from the DCAU, and even the kid who did the voice in the Harley show lol, but live action wise I’ve never really settled on a kid I’d think would do a really good job.  I’d love to know everyone’s own fan casting and who they would think would make a good Damian. :)  

Mother’s Day pt.2          

  Damian couldn’t stop himself from watching the whole scene play out in front of him, cursing Drake as he knew that this was his plan all along. Drake wanted to rub it in his face no matter how hard he would deny it when Damian confronted him on it later. The bitter taste of the sweat was all Damian could taste as he slowly began to peel off his costume after a long and tiring night of patrolling Gotham City. His eyes darted from person to person, trying to keep the sudden annoyance down in the pit of his stomach.

           His father stood off near the batcomputer, slowly getting ready to call it a night, overlooking some files. His father had his cowl off, the tiredness of a long night out in the city showing on his face. A little ways away stood his sister, politely excepting the water bottle Alfred was now handing out to each of them. He started to head towards the pair to retrieve his own but halted. Drake approached them, clearly hiding something behind his back, underneath his cape. He turned around, simmering but kept listening as Drake began to speak.

           “Hey, staying the night?” Tim cleared his throat as he approached Halley, a hint of hopefulness reaching his voice.

           The girl chugged her water bottle, capping it off with a sigh. The cold liquid felt good running down her throat. Placing the near empty bottle on a nearby desk she turned to give Tim her full attention. With a smile, she leaned up against the desk, her muscles sore. “Nah, I have to head to the library first thing tomorrow, finish up my term paper.”  

           “I can help you. Use the library here,” Tim frowned, offering his help. He hadn’t seen his sister as much as he’d like over the past few months. She’d been busy with her last year of college and the internship she started this year at the Gotham Gazette.

           He did get to see her two weeks ago but that didn’t really count. He’d never gotten to meet the Robin before him, Jason Todd, but Halley spoke very fondly of him. They had grew extremely close he learned and she was absolutely devastated when the Joker killed him six years ago. And for the last couple of years, Tim would accompany with her to visit Jason’s grave on his death day because she could never bring herself to handle going alone.

           “As much as I would love that, it’s actually a study date.” She bit her lip, looking at her feet.

           “Wow, like a date, date?” Tim was taken aback, almost looking proud at the older girl. All the years he’s known her, she’s never been one for dating or having interest in anyone.

           “Yeah, we’re going to go to this café; the one on fifth, the one you said had really good coffee muffins.” She nodded, still timid about the date itself. She hadn’t been on a date in six years. It felt weird, but Dick told her it was time to start moving on and Dick had never led her astray before so, she was going to try. Jason would want her to anyway, she kept telling herself.

           “Well, I hope you have a good time. And actually get some work done.” Tim chuckled. “Well since I won’t see you in the morning and it’s technically the tenth right now, here you go,” Tim said, pulling out what was hidden behind his back.

           Halley looked down at the items that were being outreached to her, her eyes already getting watery. Tim really didn’t understand how much this stuff meant to her. Glazing over the card, seeing it goofily decorated with glitter and cute little doodles, Halley couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. She thought it was adorable. Opening it up, she read what he wrote inside, chuckling more at the little stick figures of Nightshade and Red Robin. Inside it read:  A mother is the person you can always call to see how long chicken can last in the fridge.

           Shaking her head at him she moved to the other item he handed her. It was a medium sized box wrapped in wrapping paper with little cute cartoon pugs and an oversized purple bow. Putting the card in between her armpit, in order to not drop it, she tore the wrapping paper apart, letting out a squeal, causing everyone to look at her in shock; it took a lot to make the former assassin to squeal in pure giddiness.    

           Damian was now almost fuming as Halley lunged herself into Tim, nearly tripping the boy over in her excitement. Her grip on him was tight, as was her grasp on the gift she still held in her hand, as if holding onto it for dear life. She couldn’t believe he got her this,

           “How did you get this? It sold out in seconds!” She pulled away, now hugging the object to her chest, “Tim you really didn’t have to do this, I totally didn’t realize the date, with school and-,”

           “I knew how much you wanted it and were bummed when you had to go on that mission with the Titans when it went on sale and so I ordered it for you, so you didn’t miss out.” Tim cut off her rambling, shrugging her off. “I was going to give it to you for Christmas, but it didn’t come in on time so I saved it for this.”

           “I can’t wait to show Steph!” She excitedly held it up to look at the smooth and shiny new box, revealing it to everyone in the room the newest Jeffree Star and Shane Dawson palate. “You’re literally the best Tim.” She pulled him into another hug, this time a quick one, no one noticing how Damian was now practically steaming. “What are you doing Wednesday? I’m only at the Gazette until like noon, we should hang out, go to the movies or arcade or something once you’re out of school. I’ll pick you up.”

           “I promised I’d help the Titans with something, it’s not an emergency though-” Tim frowned, hesitating, he could try and reschedule.

           “No, no it’s okay. I know you’ve missed them, being busy with school and all,” She waved off, scrunching up her nose. “We’ll figure it out, but soon, we gotta at least go get burgers or something. It’s been too long.”

           Damian watched as Halley began to start saying her goodbye, realizing that it was nearly five am at this point and wanted to try to get at least three or four hours of sleep before she had to be up for her date. She called out a goodbye to Bruce and Alfred, shooting Tim another thank you and smile before heading to the showers to change and grab her bag to head to her apartment in the city. On her way out, Damian felt his cheeks turn red as she nicely wished him goodnight, smiling wider than she did to Tim. Feeling a strange pang in his chest, he brushed her off, muttering a grumpy ‘night, before curtly turning to head up to the Manor.

           He was unamused by the exchange between her and Drake. He was only under the impression that he was giving her that immature card, not a gift as well. She looked so happy that it almost appeared that Drake was indeed the favorite brother, which absolutely could not possibly be true.  He was the blood brother, he reminded himself. He couldn’t let Drake outshine him like that. It wasn’t even because he cared that much, it was just unacceptable. If it had been Grayson it might sit a little easier with Damian but Drake?

           Damian thought about it until the sun shined through his windows, making him even angrier. Why was he letting this get to him as badly as it was? It was just a stupid card and a box of colorful dirt. But that stupid card and box of colorful dirt still stood in his mind for the following days, making it nearly impossible for him to concentrate on anything else. His father asked him what was wrong during patrol the following nights, only to get a growl here and a grunt there in response. If Damian had to see Drake’s smug look one more time during these moments, he’d finally kill him, his father be damned.

           Damian couldn’t believe how much he let this get to him. He tried to deny it; blame it on hormones or whatever Grayson called the cause of his mood swings. He didn’t even begin to consider admitting he was jealous of his sister’s close relationships with his so called brothers until he found himself standing in front of the Gotham Gazette at 1:50pm. Gritting his teeth, he walked straight in. Once he reached the front desk, he said he was here to see his sister. He was a Wayne, they knew who he was and the woman nervously pointed him to the way to the office his sister worked in.

           The look of worry and shock his sister wore as he stood in front of her desk confirmed that this had indeed been a terrible idea.  She had been head deep in her computer, typing away furiously, while on the phone, barking out questions and demands; something about needing to have some interview with some councilman rescheduled ASAP. Damian was impressed as she spoke. He was used to her stern voice from working with her on missions but this was different, she seemed so professional but scary; he almost felt bad for whoever she was talking to on the phone, but also felt proud by the way she was demanding things like an al Ghul would.

           She must have thought that he was someone else who knocked on her door for when she slammed the phone down, she didn’t even look up at him, just outreached her hand waiting to be passed something. She was expecting someone. She was busy. This was a terrible idea, Damian thought to himself in a slight panic. Was that sweat starting to form on his brow? Grow up Damian, he spat to himself.

           When her hand stood empty she shook it aggressively as if silently saying to hand her something.  Damian raised an eyebrow at her and when she was still left empty handed, she whipped her head up, clearly irritated. She was tired from another all-nighter. She couldn’t even consider going on patrol last night, which was something she never missed up until the last couple of months. She was itching to be done with school already.

           She had to stay up all night trying to make a backup plan for her final article and paper. She was writing about the coming election, making a strong article highlighting the past Mayor’s and city officials. It was a puff piece, but a damn good one. She wanted it to be perfect so that way when she graduated in June she’d hopefully get to stay at the Gazette permanently. But at the same time, she was also just trying to use her connection with the paper to weasel her way into an interview with councilman, Rupert Thorne.

           Her paper had been her obsession since starting it; she was exposing the corruption of city hall and it was at the point where her grade didn’t matter, she just wanted it to be done so she could publish it. Everyone knew that Gotham was corrupt, but no one really talked about, just complained about the crazy, dressed up weirdos that tormented the city at night. People like Scarecrow, Riddler and the Joker make people overlook villains who in her opinion where just as bad. For example, Rupert Thorne

           He had his nose deep in too many illegal operations running out of Gotham that Halley and even Bruce lost count. He had the audacity to run for mayor this election season, as being a councilman wasn’t enough for someone like Thorne. If he won this, Gotham was more screwed then it already was. Without at least speaking with him once her entire paper and grade would be ruined. And she couldn’t exactly go as her alter ego and force him to talk to her. That would raise too many questions. She didn’t even care as she named dropped Bruce, making sure they knew that she was Halley Wayne; she was desperate.          

           When she saw Damian though all thoughts about Thorne left her mind and her face softened before scrunching up again with concern. Damian never visited her before a she had been pretty sure he forgot that she interned here a couple days out of the week. Stopping her work, she looked up at him, looking around the room as her co-workers eyed them curiously.  “Damian, is everything okay? What happened?”

           “Tt.” He crossed his arms.

           “Damian, is everything okay?” She pressed, seeing that look in his eyes when he looked stressed or in trouble.

           “Nothing is wrong, I-,” He paused. He hadn’t figured out what to say. He didn’t prepare for this. Gulping down his anxiety, he took the seat that was across from her desk. He could see the bags underneath her eyes and the untouched food sitting at the other end of the desk. He also noted how the clock said that it was now a couple minutes past two. “Didn’t you tell Drake you were done with work at noon?”

           Halley blinked a few times, now knowing that there was no emergency but instead was just thrown off. What was he talking about? Looking down at the time on her laptop it clicked. Her conversation with Tim in the cave, about possibly hanging out today. Oh right, she remembered.  Looking back up at her younger brother she gave him an unsure look, she didn’t understand why he was here.

           “Um, yeah, well I don’t have a concept of time when I’m in here.” She lightly chuckled, trying to get a vibe on why he was here. Rubbing the black beanie on her head, itching her head awkwardly, “Most times the janitor has to kick me out.”

           She looked at him when he just nodded at her, still not stating why he was sitting in front of her. She was surprised he remembered her conversation with Tim, she hadn’t thought he had been listening and it was like they were talking that loudly for him to be forced to overhear him. She had taken note of Tim texting her about how unbearable he’s been since last Sunday though. She bit the inside of her cheek, was Damian jealous? She laughed to herself, there was no way. But when she have him another look over she saw his green eyes staring at her messy desk with a slight pout on his face. Oh he was totally jealous of Tim, she thought.            

           She looked at her untouched lunch, having totally losing herself in her work and forgetting it even existed. She then felt her stomach growl, seeing how Damian noticed it as well, raising his eyebrow higher, if that was even possible. Quickly saving the document she was working on, she slowly closed her laptop, letting what she was about to do sink in. Trying to contain her smile, not wanting to scare him off before she could even begin, she cleared her throat.

           “So do you like Burgers?”

#damian wayne #damian wayne x sister!reader #damian wayne fanfiction #damian wayne imagine #tim drake #tim drake x reader #tim drake fanfic #tim drake imagine #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x oc #dick grayson #dick grayson x sister!reader #dick grayson x oc #dick grayson x batsis #batfam x batsis #batsis #bruce wayne #bruce wayne imagine #batfam x reader #batbros #batman fanfiction

[thegoodomensdumpster]

I am reposting, for convenience purpose, the ficlet I wrote based on this post that suggested a human AU where Aziraphale and Crowley meet at Warlock’s eleventh birthday party, being respectively a real magician for hire and a real waiter. I have no idea why this inspired me right away, but it did. I’ve corrected a few things in this version. Enjoy !

« Well, that went down like a lead balloon » said the waiter. « Hm ? I’m sorry, what was it you were saying ? » asked the magician politely.   He had been busy trying to wipe out cake bits from his coat. However, he had only managed to spray the icing all over his clothes and hands. The magician licked one of his fingers, resuming his attention on his new companion. « I said » repeated the waiter, « that went down like a lead balloon ». The waiter, a slender fellow in dark glasses, grinned as he was unsuccessfully trying to get water off said glasses with an equally damp corner of his white jacket. His eyes were a mezmerizing light brown, almost yellow, and he was smiling widely, as if the whole event hadn’t been a disaster. The disaster had begun halfway through the magician’s performance, as all the children grew impatient, started to insult the magician, then each other, then the staff, and proceeded with a general battle involving flying cakes and water guns. A proper disaster.

The magician felt strangely better, seeing the waiter grinning with a kind of confidence he didn’t have. It unexpectedly softened his own anxiety. « Oh, yes » he said. « Rather dreadful, I’m afraid. Erm… » He was about to offer to shake hands with the waiter, but there was more cake than hand on the body part he raised towards his companion. The man chuckled and took the magician’s wrist between two fingers, shaking that instead. «  I’m Mr Fell » smiled the magician. «  Anthony Crowley » replied the waiter. « Nice to meet you. » « I’m sorry about the mess I created » apologized Mr Fell, turning slightly towards the house.

Both men could still hear the horrible children shouting and throwing various objects at each other, back in the garden. One hell of an eleventh birthday party.

« Nonsense. The little monsters did that themselves. »

« No » sighed the magician, « I know it’s partially my fault. The tricks I performed were… outdated for this kind of audience. »

Crowley said nothing and pinched his lips. He really couldn’t counteract Mr Fell on that point without lying, as he had watched the show the magician had performed from the back of the room and had been dying of second hand embarrassement the whole time. Mr Fell didn’t pay attention and kept talking.

« Youngsters nowadays have the attention span of a fish. Not the clever kind like dolphins, of course. All they want to see are flashy tricks and pyrotechnics, and mesmerizing visuals… Cards and bunnies out of hats aren’t that impressive anymore. »

The magician sighed deeply.

« And they almost had it. I was ready to deliver this kind of show, you know. »

The waiter raised a confused eyebrow over his glasses.

« Why didn’t you ? »

« Erm… I… Uh… I had a lot of … tools and material, and, er… »

« Lost it, didn’t you ? »

«  Oh no ! No, not exactly lost, more- » « Well ? » Mr Fell sighed again, a bit annoyed this time. The annoyance seemed to be directed more towards himself than anyone else.

« Well, if you must know, I gave it away. »

« You WOT . »

The waiter’s eyes widdened in shock. Magic material must cost a fortune ! What could have this man been thinking, giving up on his livelihood like that, shortly before having to perform a show for the birthday party of the American ambassador’s son ?

Mr Fell felt the stare of Crowley through his dark glasses. He rubbed his hands distractingly, making some more cake purée between his fingers. « I had to. You see, I have this couple of friends, the poor things, they had some terrible luck lately, got evicted from their home, and they… they really needed the money, so … »

Mr Fell gave a worried look at Crowley.

« It was the right thing to do. »

Crowley’s mouth stayed wide open and silent for a few seconds.

« Wow » he finally managed to say. « Are you some sort of an actual angel ? »

The magician blushed. It wasn’t only the skin visible under the cake sprayed on his face that gave his emotions away, as he also failed at maintaining a dignified composure, visibly very touched by the compliment. Crowley couldn’t help but smile at his mannerisms. Mr Fell coughed even though he didn’t need it, as a sort of forced transition to go back to his normal self.

« It’s a pity really » continued Mr Fell with a more steady voice « that young people need so much flash and color to appreciate a good show. Because… »

Crowley froze as the hand of the magician came dangerously close to his ear. However, it went back almost immediately, holding a golden coin.

« … it does require skills to perform even the most basic of magic. »

The waiter laughed.

« You should check you pockets » offered Mr Fell .

The waiter did, and stopped laughing. There were several other coins, and bits of cake inside.

« Oh, oh my. Awfully sorry about that, I had forgotten all about the cake. »

Crowley raised his head, impossible to read through his sunglasses. The magician’s anxiety kicked back at full intensity.

Crowley burst into laughter and the knot in Mr Fell’s stomach burst into nothingness.

« You really are an angel, to be tipping this generously » joked Crowley.

« You won’t be able to buy much with these fake coins, I’m afraid. »

« Ah, too bad. I would have needed the money, considering I’m quitting. »

Mr Fell turned as white as a sheet.

« What ? Why ? Is it because of what just happened ? Is it because of me ? »

Crowley shrugged.

« Nah, not really. I’m fed up. Had enough of these… stupid rich people and their impossible kids. I change jobs regularly. Never manage to keep one for long. I don’t really like taking orders, but I don’t feel like… having responsibilities and such. I just… Saunter vaguely from one job to another, I guess. »

The waiter was absentmindedly playing with the coins in his hand, unbothered by the cake bits. He looked tired.

« Would be nice to have a steady situation, though » he whispered.

The magician felt sad, but couldn’t quite think about what he could possibly reply to comfort his companion. The waiter cut his thoughts abruptely, turning once again towards Mr Fell with a wide grin.

« Hey, let’s leave the garden » he said. « Since none of us work here anymore. »

The logic quite escaped the magician, but as he had already gathered all his belongings in his suitcase and his bunny in his cage, and had been paid in advance, he indeed had no real reason to stay by the gates of the mansion. He nodded, and opened the door.

« Oh, wait a second » added Crowley hurrily, fleeing back into the garden.

Mr Fell grimaced as he saw the waiter jumping under an apple tree, and downright stealing a couple of fruits.

« Crowley ! » he exclamed disapprovingly.

The man came back, beaming, one apple in each hand, unnoticed by any of the staff members who still had many undisciplined children to handle. Crowley held out an apple, red and bright, to Mr Fell.

« May I tempt you to a spot of lunch ? » he asked in an amused tone.

« Really, my dear. If I am an angel, then you are a demon . »

The magician took the apple nonetheless.

#good omens #Fic #ficlet #my stuff #human au #good omens fic

[duckbeater]

Courtship, pt. 2

Writing about happiness is very difficult and boring. The below are some small attempts I’ve made to write through my happiness. My small, important readership deserves an update, says my brother, whose sensibilities have only rarely steered me catastrophically wrong.

I AM BUYING CHAMPAGNE TO CELEBRATE MY LOVER

Today’s the last day of his job and he’s throwing himself a little party. In September he begins med school and in the next month he’ll put his affairs in order, readying for the big move. I have the sense that tonight begins our diminuendo, despite his staying over last night and spit-fucking me, and I’ll surely stay over tonight, after the many champagne toasts to his prosperous life ahead. 

We’ve started sleeping as two spoons embracing chest to chest, with our faces tucked awkwardly in a neck or an armpit. Of course I wake up gasping, my mouth sucking after a less hot pocket of air, and turn, and enjoy that he pulls me tightly back to him. He’s a heavy sleeper and I’m a light sleeper, and our bedding situation resembles something like a rock in a tumbler with my rolling over and over and over again, arising too early, wildly underslept, shining with sweat, but ecstatic that we’ve touched all night long. I’m attending his celebration in a sleep deficit that I’ve covered with caffeine and a long, soulful run beside the lake. I’ve been thinking about us a lot. 

He wouldn’t call himself my lover, I think, but I’m hoping the expensiveness of the champagne I’m bringing will convince friends in attendance that that’s what we are. I’m hoping my largesse goes noticed and commented on—that it’s interpreted as my being in love with him, and that his peers compel him, by either fretting over my largesse, or pitying me for it, or anyway finding it impressive or amusing or tender or charming—that they tell this young man I’m adoring him and I’m adoring him well. That my adoration seems steadfast and considered. And despite the riskiness of the circumstances (our differences in age, the widening gulf in distance, a sometimes depleting lack of shared cultural references), when we are together I feel comfort and joy. This must be obvious to him without the expensive champagne. I’m always saying it out loud, or anyway variants on the theme of “comfort and joy,” like a seasonal blessing, a profusion of blessings, needing remarked upon. I’m seriously afraid I mother him.

“Let us take in the scene,” I have said before, “let us only observe for the moment my sitting in your lap, your hands on my neck, my constant kisses. What joy!”

He’s done something to my sense of my proportion, and also my prose style. I can’t seem to describe our relationship without slipping into the sardonic, recursive, mildly-institutionalized voice of Robert Walser, a writer I find too cute by half. I’m finding my life too cute by half, I fear. If this is what happiness feels like, I don’t really want much more of it. It’s making me stupid. “People will think that pain has made you stupid,” wrote Walser, a statement that comes back to me when I can’t distinguish between the good times and bad times making me an idiot.

AFTER THE SPIT-FUCKING

We stayed up late talking about what it means to say goodbye to people who don’t know you’ve cared for them. I don’t pretend this conversation had subtext. For the last two years, he’s worked with profoundly disabled people, first as a case worker and then, after the pandemic closed the campus and made that job “nonessential,” as a nursing assistant on the same floor. 

He spent months feeding, changing, bathing and bedding non-ambulatory children and adults. Most cannot speak, a few cannot see, and none can walk, of course. It is a world I’ve rarely thought about—indeed, a world many of us rarely consider, because in its theater of human need are scenes of unremitting hopelessness. It is a languageless suffering and it perdures. I can become very mystified, very shallow-breathed thinking about his care for these souls, however quick he’s been to dissuade me from romanticizing or elevating his ministrations. “One of my verbal residents tells me to fuck myself all the time,” he’s noted. Still, I would point out that birth defects and accidents account for a small percentage of his caseloads’ impairments, and that active neglect and abuse perpetrated intentionally by former guardians (or unwittingly by the American healthcare complex) have hobbled his charges for life. I don’t like hearing stories about choked babies and toddlers left so long in beds their soft bones grow slab-wise, so I’ve asked him, coward that I am, to please skip origins if he’s entering an otherwise benign workaday anecdote.  

His most patient complaint: using his iPhone to FaceTime parents who want to see their son, then listening to one-sided conversations, burbling, giggles, tears, even story-time. His campus closed to all guardians—a devastating precaution. “Don’t send anything xrated today,” he’d text, and I’d know he was hosting a reunion. So I’d keep my clothes on. And he’d answer the phone from an immediately weeping seventy-year-old mother saying, to her forty-year-old son, “Why good evening, Max, good evening. This is your mother. Hi, baby. Hi. I love you. I am your mother. I will always be your mother. I am sorry I cannot touch you, I cannot hold you, I cannot be with you in this time, but you are my Max, and I am your mother. And I love you always. You can hear me and I’m gonna tell you all about my week, okay? And then I’m gonna ask Scotty here how you’ve spent your week, okay?” He said he usually cries on these calls and when I asked why, he said, “Because it seems polite?” And I pressed harder and he said, “Because I get to—I get to connect these people who have missed each other so much, and it’s so sad. They haven’t touched in months. They might not touch this year. My phone sometimes runs out of battery. It’s so weird.”

I’ve asked him whether families are happy to be rid of their incredible dependents and he said that by and large families are miserable to give over members to the institution: that age arbitrates the giving. “A mother and father have a baby at twenty-five. They can care for him well into their fifties—their twenty-five-year-old, their thirty-year-old son. But when these parents enter their sixties? Their seventies? They can’t lift an adult male. They can’t bathe him or change him. Even basic nutrition gets hard. Meal prep is tiring. It’s long. They start to lose track of medications, and they have medications themselves, you know? So the situation gets very difficult and if they want to live, and if they want him to live, they feel like they have to give him up.”

We’re at the point now where intimacy is a given. He doesn’t swallow, but brings me to orgasm, taking me in his mouth and then dribbles it, I guess, my cum, back onto my stomach, apologizing with a flushed red smirk. “I hate that,” he says, “I really hate it.”

“Go ahead, eat it,” I say, joking.

He gives me dark eyes and showily palms the wad into the black pillowcase behind my head.

“Holy Christ!” I yell. “The nerve! The pluck! The audacity!”

There must be a phase in relationships when extracting intimacies—not only of the “terrible things I did in high school”-vein, or the “times I cheated”-vein, or the “unwittingly right wing ideologies I support”-vein—that close couples endeavor. Where you’re always compulsively revelatory, to seem as interesting as you did in early courtship, as erotically forward and emotionally captivating. We’re in that moment and we surprise one another with small tributes as befits that level of affection.

One of the intimacies I proffered is that I’m going through a religious re-awakening, a need for ritual and sacraments. He finds this funny. (I find it embarrassing.) Yet one of his duties has been wheeling charges to his building’s Tuesday Mass, and then helping to administer the Eucharist. I don’t think he in fact touches the host (I don’t think many in his care can safely take of the host; “I’m mostly there in case anyone seizes,” he said), but he did slip a large wafer away for me and now it’s in my apartment, among my candles, possibly growing mold. He asks me when I’m going to eat it and I tell him around Christmas. 

(That was a lie. I’ll eat it when our romance is over, to consecrate the time we had.)

“I eat it,” I say, and he glowers.

I TOLD HIM ABOUT A MYSTERY SURROUNDING MY FAVORITE AUTHOR

Norman Rush. For a decade and better I’ve wondered about the long dedication in Mating, whose last lines read, “...and to the memory of my father, and to my lost child, Liza.” The novel, set in Botswana and borrowing heavily from Rush’s time there as director in the Peace Corps, suggests that perhaps Liza died in Africa or was born still. She goes unmentioned in his Paris Review interview, in subsequent novels, short stories, and reviews. There’s no hint of Liza’s fate. (As I edit this, I recall a phrase in Mortals, the narrator’s idea that “children exposed you to hellmouth, which was the opening of the mouth of hell right in front of you.” Explaining further: “[I]t was the grandmother, the daughter, the granddaughter tumbling through the air, blown out of the airplane by a bomb, the three generations falling and seeing one another fall, down, down, onto the Argolid mountains. With children you created more thin places in the world for hellmouth to break through.” And then, in Subtle Bodies, Rush describes a wayward teen boy, whose angry and aggressive behavior corresponds exactly to Rush’s own troubled teen son. In fact, Subtle Bodies is about the decision to have children at all. Nina follows Ned to a funeral, to fuck him. So, Rush has indeed remarked on children and strife, as he has lived it. Anyhow—) Yet by accident I listened to an old Fresh Air interview where Rush is asked to comment on the aspect of family in his novels, and to clarify that inscription. 

“I have a daughter who is now thirty,” he says, “who was born with diffuse brain atrophy and has been institutionalized for many years. Um. But I think the rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

“What was her condition?” presses his interlocutor.

“She is uh profoundly retarded,” pauses, “and will be so.”

“So you feel she is lost to you?”

“Yes. There is no recognition possible between her and us.”

I reproduced this exchange from notes on my phone. Scotty replied, “I don’t think that’s right, actually. Maybe between her and—who—who was it?”

“Norman Rush and his daughter Liza.”

He said, “Maybe between Liza and her dad—yeah, maybe she was so disabled she couldn’t recognize him. I take care of men like that. But I recognize them.”

We were talking about important books at all (I mean that semi-seriously) because his co-worker had gifted him three works, including a volume of Yeats’ complete poetry.

“Why did Paco give you Yeats?” I asked.

“He thinks I need more poetry,” said Scotty.

(Frankly I have felt and still feel sexual jealousy against Paco, who recently got brilliant red and black knee tattoos of spider webs. Like, Spider-Man spiderwebs, covering both kneecaps. Every few weeks he cooks a large meal for Scotty, and they talk about life until 4 A.M. drunk on bourbon, immobilized by edibles, full and warm and caring, and it makes me mad. It makes me mad, because I can’t really see the point of staying up until the uncomfortable small hours between 2 and 5 unless there is sex involved, but Paco is straight, a father, an excellent chef, a dedicated friend, and so my grousing is a kind of unwarranted possession that baffles me into silence on the matter.)

I didn’t have anything intelligent left to say about Norman Rush. I groped along a narrow thought, however, a thin ledge. “You know—a novelist, especially a novelist as concerned with language and comprehension as Norman Rush, would feel particularly devastated by the condition of his daughter. He would see it as ironic and then as punitive and again as senseless—supporting his comforting regime of a militant atheism.”

Although very sober, I recited the first stanza of The Second Coming, tripping over two lines (but the best lines), saying, “The worst lack all conviction, while the best/Are full of passionate intensity.”

“What?” said Scotty.

“I just—that was Yeats.”

“Who?”

“Go ahead and tell your boy Paco that your hot fuck gave you a teach on William. Butler. Yeats.”

“What?” said Scotty. He grinned at me. He got up and ate a yogurt.

#norman rush

[spectralscathath]

Skinny Vanilla Latte

Mikaela is the world's nicest customer, and Yuu's heart absolutely Does Not go 'doki doki' whenever he comes into the cafe for his standard order. Anyone who says otherwise is entirely incorrect. (Mikayuu but Coffee Shop AU)

Commissioned Mikayuu oneshot for @fyrecrackeruwu

Ao3 link, ff.net link

“Peppermint mocha, extra whip, for Lacus!” Yuichiro called out, trying to remember his customer service smile even though he knew his eyes said ‘I’ll kill you’ to every person in the café. Narumi just had to go and get a new job, like the traitorous bitch he was. Being a lifeguard wasn’t even a real thing.

Narumi’s absence left the Moon Demon Café down a barista, and because Shinoa and Kimizuki were banned from interacting with the general public, Yuu had been the only one they could shunt from the kitchen into front of house.

Fuck this job. If he didn’t need it so badly he’d have tossed his apron in Guren’s stupid face to get rid of the shitsmug smirk.

“Hi, welcome to the Moon Demon Café,” he turned to the next customer. “What can I-” oh my god. Don’t pause keep talking. “… I get you today?”

Holy SHIT someone call Heaven because an angel had gone missing. Seriously, the customer standing on the other side of the counter was the prettiest guy Yuu had ever seen. Not to be corny on main, but this was the first time Yuu had ever thought ‘eyes like sapphires, hair like spun gold’ had ever felt like actually applicable metaphors for someone.

“A skinny vanilla latte, please?” Pretty Boy said with the utmost politeness, and Yuu remembered that breathing existed and so did brain functions.

“Of course, can I interest you in any of our specials today?” He put on his best grin, writing down the coffee.

“No thank you, just the coffee.” Pretty Boy kept smiling, already having his card ready to pay because clearly this guy was Mr Perfect Customer.

“Sure thing, can I get a name for this order?” He barely held back from tacking a pet name onto the end, but he managed. Someone get him a medal.

“Mikaela. Mika works though, please don’t try spell ‘Mikaela’.” Pretty Boy- Mika’s- smile became slightly glassy, with the wartorn eyes of someone who’d had consistent misspellings of their name throughout their life.

“Mika it is,” Yuu grinned at him and scrawled it down. “I’ll have that ready for you in a jiffy.” Why the fuck did he say ‘jiffy’.

Mikaela snorted, bringing a hand up to cover his smile. “Sure thing.”

Yuu smiled and started up the coffee grinder, his cheer instantly evaporating away when he heard the sound of an empty grinder. Where were the coffee beans kept again? Shinoa better not have moved their location to fuck with him.

“It’ll be just a sec,” he forced a grin at Mika, getting a shrug in return. Customer seemed chill, cool. He reached under the counter to find empty air, instantly ducking down to check. Nothing but coffee residue from the bags. Welp.

“Hey, Kimizuki?” He yelled at the back.

“What?!”

“Where’d the coffee get moved?”

“You think I know?! Figure it out yourself, dumbass! I’m cooking!”

Yuu’s eye twitched and he counted to ten in his head to prevent himself from leaping through the overpass to wring Kimizuki’s neck. “Of course,” he grumbled. “Let me just pull some coffee beans out of my ass, that’s how we run things here.”

There was a soft chuckle and Yuu blanched, realising that shitfuck his sarcastic grumbling might have been a little too audible. He whipped around. “Uh- sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

Mika hid his laughter behind his hand again, blue eyes glittering like sapphires. “No no, it’s fine. Don’t worry.”

Yuu relaxed a little bit, kinda starstruck by the mirthful twinkle in those eyes. “I’ll just find you the coffee, give me a moment.” He spun around, hunting through every cabinet he could until he managed to find a dark roast with ‘hi Yuu’ scrawled on it in purple glittery ink. Shinoa and her fucking gel pens.

He started making the coffee properly this time, mentally promising that he would commit first-degree murder and get away with it the minute Shinoa showed her rat face again. He waited for the coffee machine to do the job and wrote Mika’s name on the takeaway cup, pausing before thinking to himself ‘fuck it’ and adding his phone number. He was gonna take the shot, especially since Mr Gorgeous had laughed at his sarcasm.

He finished putting it all together and smiled as he handed it over. “Skinny vanilla latte for Mika.”

“Thank you,” Mika grinned and pulled out a cup sleeve, slipping it onto the cup and completely hiding Yuu’s number. Yuu’s smile cracked. Fuck.

“Uh-” But Mika was already walking away after dropping change in the tip jar.

“Thank you!” He waved goodbye, the door closing behind him with a little jingle.

“You’re… welcome.” Goodbye gorgeous. Guess Yuu’d never see him again.

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

It was with great surprise that Yuu did in fact see Mika again, this time over Mitsuba’s shoulder as she did the ordering and customer talking while he just made coffee after endless coffee. Fuck rush hour holy shit.

He tried to catch Mika’s eye in-between frothing up milk and shaking cocoa powder over a cappuccino, green catching and locking with blue for the barest second before Mika smiled widely and gave him a little wave, a fancy-looking camera hanging around his neck. “Hi Yuu. Good luck with the rest of your shift, I hope it calms down a bit.”

“What, this? It’s no problem!” Yuu bragged, before he caught the side of his wrist on the milk spout and bit back a curse. Always with the burns.

“See you next time.” Mika grabbed his coffee, oblivious to Yuu’s plight, and walked out the door, again emptying some coins into the tip jar before he left.

Mitsuba turned to Yuu, blonde twintails bouncing with the movement. “You know that guy? He’s the nicest customer I’ve had yet. I hope he becomes a regular.”

“Yeah.” Yuu nodded. “Me too.”

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

Mika did, in fact, become a regular. Which was awesome.

Every Wednesday and Friday like clockwork he’d show up, order his skinny vanilla latte to have there, pick a booth, and do stuff on his laptop. It was pretty cool, aside from the fact that Yuu couldn’t write terrible pick-up lines on the latte glasses.

That was Plan A of ‘Operation: get Mika’s number’ thwarted.

Plan B was to write it on the napkins, but then the problem was that Mika didn’t order food. Currently Yuu was on Plan C, which was Plan B but better.

Mika walked in with his laptop bag and his camera-holding thingie, waiting patiently in line until he was at the counter. “Hi Yuu.”

“Hey Mika. The usual?” Yuu gave him a charming grin.

“That’d be great, thank you.” Mika beamed. It was really pretty.

Yuu had to take a second to recover.  “Easy, one usual coming up. Do you want to try a muffin to go with it? On the house, between you and me.”

Mika looked like he was considering it and for a moment Yuu’s hopes were rising, rising higher- “Thank you for the offer, but I already ate. Just the coffee, please.” And down those hopes fell, dashed against the rocks and crumpled like wretched Lucifer, cast from Heaven into the pits of hell.

“Sure thing. Give me a shot if you need a refill.”

“Will do.” Mika smiled at him, paid, and pottered off to go take a seat.

Yuu watched him go, noticing that he was wearing thigh-high boots what the fuck that wasn’t fair. That was illegal, that had to be illegal.

“Uh, sir? Sir? Can I order now?” Someone rang the bell and Yuu snapped back to reality, looking at the man in the- what the fuck was that a fucking cat? It looked like this man had lopped off the skull of a white tiger and mounted it on his head what the actual fuck. Yuu really hoped it was fake, he desperately fucking prayed.

Okay, goodbye Mika, hello Crazy Customer of the Day #309.

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

“Afternoon, Mika, the usual?” Yuu grinned at him, the café a bit quieter than usual. Maybe this time he could get a good conversation in while making Mika’s coffee.

“Yep, and also an English Breakfast tea, no sugars. I hope that’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all. You meeting a friend here?” He hoped it wasn’t a date. His attempts to try give Mika his number through shitty pick-up lines could not be foiled so easily.

“You could say that.” Mika smiled cheerfully, offering his card. “On debit, please.”

“No prob. He here yet?” Yuu looked around, not spotting any new faces.

“He said he’d be by in a few minutes. I’m surprised there’s not a rush, normally this place is quite busy. I thought getting a table would be harder.” Mika looked quite concerned at that.

Yuu waved it off as he finished putting in the docket. “It’s pre-midterms week. Everyone’s panic-studying, ordering pizza in, all that stuff.”

Mika chuckled. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m on top of my studies then, or else I might have had to miss out on the best coffee on campus.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” Yuu shot him a finger gun and a wink, before wondering if he’d overdone it. Luckily, Mika seemed to find it hilarious by how his smile went supernova and his laugh bubbled out of him.

“Definitely not. Thanks again.” Mika placed some coins in the tip jar before he went to the booth he always tried to sit at, pulling out his phone once he sat down.

Yuu watched him go and set to work on making the drinks, wondering if he should try make a food platter. Counterpoint to him trying to woo Mika through good food was the fact that Kimizuki was a snotty bitch who would kill him if he gave out even more free food, crushes be damned.

And yeah, Yuu could totally throw down with Kimizuki, but Mitsuba would tattle about it if there was a fight and he’d probably lose his job.

He’d just have to make it the best damn coffee in existence.

He was halfway through making the tea when a man walked in, and Yuu had to stop and stare for a sec because while yes, he was very fucking gay for Mika, he still had eyes.

It was when the total hunk sat down in front of Mika that Yuu felt his bout of ‘he’s pretty’ turn into entirely rational jealousy. Was Mika dating this guy? It took a special kind of hotness to pull off a braid and dyed bangs, Yuu could admit.

He put on his customer service smile as he carried the drinks over, rampant envy broiling in his veins. He set drinks down, being extra delicate and polite with Mika’s coffee and blanking out the other guy entirely. “here you go, Mika. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks. Crowley, this is Yuu, the barista I mentioned. Yuu, this is my dad, Crowley.”

Yuu practically heard the record scratch sound. Dad?

His next thought was along the lines of ‘oh thank god, Mika’s still possibly available’, and he was starting to realise he may be desperate. “Nice to meet you, Crowley.”

“You too,” Crowley grinned back with a touch of a British accent curling around the words, red eyes twinkling in amusement. “Thanks for the cuppa, luv.”

Yuu nodded before tuning him out again and giving another smile to Mika, going around to clear some other tables and already plotting his next move. Fingerguns and winks were now on the table. Mhuahahahaha.

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

“So, Mika, how’s the photography?” Yuu struck up a conversation as he cleared away the latte glass, taking advantage of the restaurant’s quiet to try and kickstart a deep meaningful conversation that he was absolutely going to fill with stupid jokes.

“it’s going well,” Mika smiled, saving the photoshop file on the screen. Clearly he’d lost a file once by accident and saved every program with the vigour of a spartan warrior ever since. “Are you interested in photography?”

“Actually, I’m studying psychology,” Yuu grinned. “Gonna go for a masters if I can once I’m done with this, then eventually you’ll have to address me as Dr Yuichiro.”

Mika’s smile sharpened slightly. “A PhD, huh?”

“Thinking about it.” He shrugged, trying to look humble when he was anything but.

“I think Dr Yuichiro’s got a good ring to it,” Mika smiled slyly, and oh no that wasn’t fair he was not allowed to make it sound so sexy.

“You’re the first. Kimizuki said I shouldn’t be allowed near people,” he grinned.

“And you work the register?” Mika laughed.

“Used to work in the back ‘til Narumi up and ditched us to ‘follow his dreams’,” Yuu told him conspiratorially. “I’m the only one of the kitchen staff who can reliably not scare away customers, so I got shunted here.”

“Maybe I should thank Narumi then, if he got me such a good barista,” Mika smiled. “You’re not scary at all.”

“How dare you, I’m terrifying,” he joked.

Mika scoffed, sapphire eyes sparkling. “As terrifying as my cat.”

Yuu let out a theatrical gasp, balancing his tray on one hand as he clutched his heart. “I think I liked you better when you were a polite customer.”

Mika blinked innocently at him, a challenge curling at the edges of his toothy grin. “Am I not anymore? Shame.”

What a brat. Yuu smirked at him in answer. “Well, I can’t be rude to customers, so I’m legally required to say no.”

“Only legally? Not morally?” Mika rested his chin in his hands as he leaned forward on the table, his photoshop file left entirely forgotten.

“Morally I can say whatever the hell I want as long as it’s not said in front of consumers.” Yuu winked.

“I guess you’re treading on thin ice right now, huh?” Mika bit his lip in affected concern, a prominent pearly canine catching for a moment, and Yuu’s mind went fucking blank. “Best be careful then. I wouldn’t want my favourite barista to go jobless. Right, Yuu-chan?~”

“R-right.” Yuu stuttered for a moment as he tried and failed to come up with literally any kind of flirty remark in reply, getting zero zilch zip from his flatscreening brain. Head empty no thoughts. “I’ll get you a refill, then?”

Mika’s smile screamed ‘cat who caught the canary’. “Don’t keep me waiting, Yuu-chan.”

He nodded and scampered back behind the counter, taking a minute to settle his racing heart. He heard a tapping sound and looked at the overpass into the kitchen, Kimizuki rapping a spatula on the counter.

“You’re pathetic.” Kimizuki’s scornful gaze was only amplified by the glasses he wore.

Yuu flipped him off. Fuck Kimizuki.

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

Yuu steeled his nerve as Mika walked in, refusing to let his crush pull one over on him again. Shinoa hadn’t let up since Kimizuki had told her, and Yuu was getting real tired of every whipcrack hand motion she was sending his way.

Mika smiled very innocently as he walked up to the counter, blue eyes bright and oh-so-breathtaking. “Hello, Yuu-chan.”

Little bastard.

“Good to see you too, Mika,” he grinned, resting his elbows on the counter. “Here for your usual, or are you thinking of switching it up?”

“Hm,” Mika tilted his head like he was considering it. “Now that you mention it, maybe I should try something out. How about something a little sweeter this time, Yuu-chan?”

“I think you’re sweet enough already,” Yuu flirted cheesily, watching Mika’s eyes widen a touch. That’s right, he could flirt too. All that ‘Yuu-chan’ business had no power over him now. “But sure, hit me up with what you want to try.”

Mika’s eyes sparkled delightfully, a challenge in his smile. “What’s your poison, then?”

Yuu raised a brow. “Well, I’m a black coffee kind of guy-”

“Because you grind so fine?” Mika interrupted him, like he didn’t just say the sexy pick up line for Yuu.

He gave Mika a Look, Mika merely batting his eyes back at him. “Double shot, nothing extra.” Maybe a bit of hazelnut when he really needed a pick-me-up. “That’s my coffee.”

“A ‘keep me up til two AM’ kind of guy, I like that.” Mika snickered.

“Stop it,” Yuu cautioned. Only he was allowed to use terrible puns like that.

“Make me,” Mika downright dared him, leaning over the counter a little more.

Yuu grabbed his chin and looked him in the eye, a spark of victory gleaming in his emerald gaze. “Keep it up and we’ll see where it gets you, gorgeous.”

Mika’s pupils dilated.

Yuu smirked at him and let go, picking up the docket sheet. “So, coffee order? You’re holding up the line, babe.”

Mika beamed, a smile like spun sunshine. “You know what, I think I’ll go for my usual after all. But maybe next time I’ll be a bit more daring.”

“Sure you will.” Yuu winked at him. “Later, beautiful.”

Mika laughed as he went to his favourite booth, Yuu internally high-fiving himself as he went. That went excellently.

Okay. Next time he’d ask him out. Next time for sure.

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

Today was the day. It was absolutely the day. Today for sure.

He handed Mika his coffee, got ready to say ‘I love you give me your number’, and chickened out when he realised that was absolutely not the way to ask and would instead plant him straight in ‘ultra creep’ territory.

Next week. Next week for sure.

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

Yuu looked up from wiping down the counter, groaning as Shinoa came in. “Aren’t you meant to be on your day off?”

“Well, yes,” Shinoa smiled far too innocently, and Yuu’s hackles went up with suspicion. “But my dearest friend has been telling me ALL about his new favourite café, so I had to come by and see it.”

“Shinoa, you work here.” Yuu glared at her.

“He doesn’t know that,” she smirked, eyes sparkling mischievously. “I never say names, my darling Yuu.”

“I never agreed to you calling me that.”

“I don’t care.” She swanned up to the counter, propping herself up on her hands and tiptoes. Yuu scowled as she smeared her hands all over the area he’d literally just wiped clean. “Now gimme free coffee.”

“Fuck off. Employee discount only and even then I’m debating making you pay full price.”

“You’re so mean,” she pouted. “And when I’m buying for my friend as well. I think you’d like him, as much as a big meanie like you can like anyone.”

“I like people, I’m not Kimizuki,” he rolled his eyes. “Who’s your damn friend?”

“Oh, you might know him.” Her evil grin came back full-force, making her look downright demented. “Why don’t we see if you can guess from his order?”

“Do you know how many customers we have?” Yuu snapped a tea towel at her hands. “Hands off the counter, you’re probably infested with something.”

“Boo you.” She huffed and raised her hands, twiddling her fingers as she did. “Anyway, I want a multi-mega mocha milkshake with extra sprinkles and four shots of coffee. Oh! And whipped cream. Lots of it.”

“You’re going to die from a caffeine overdose and I will film it.” He wiped the counter down again out of spite.

“Maybe so, but at least I’ll die not hopelessly pining for some boy who takes, oh, what was it now?” She tapped her chin, looking deep in thought. He didn’t buy it for a second, especially not when she turned a vicious smile onto him. “Oh, right, skinny vanilla latte. Large.”

He wondered what the hell kind of expression he made that had her cackling like the wicked witch she was. “You gotta be joking.”

“Nope, and remember, on the cup for that one, my friend’s name is Mik-ae-la~” She sounded out the name, taking too much joy in it. “And make it fast, sweetcheeks, he’s going to be here soon.”

“I hate you with every blood cell in my body.”

“Make sure to put one of your cute little pick-up lines on that now,” she winked. “I’ve been reading them whenever I take out the trash. You’re so desperate it’s cute. Now shoo shoo, make me coffee, coffee man.” She flicked a hand at him, revelling in the power that a customer had. Shit like this was why she was banned from interacting with the general public at work.

“Sure thing. I’ll bring your drinks out to you,” he forced out through a smile, teeth grinding together as he gritted them. His eye may have twitched. He wasn’t sure.

She twirled around and skipped to her seat, spinning her favourite little trinket in her hand and making the green and orange lights on it flare up like she was at a rave. He tried to stare a hole through the back of her head before he set about making her the drinks she ordered.

Mika. Mika was friends with Shinoa. It was a testament to how in love he was with that guy that knowing Mika willingly hung out with Shinoa did not become an immediate turn off. He liked her too, sure, for whatever was left of his sanity’s sake, but she was still a pain.

He heard the little bell above the door jingle and glanced up, his heart skipping a beat when he saw Mika waving at him. “Hey Yuu,” Mika grinned, sounding way too proud of himself.

“Hey Mika,” he smiled back, unable to stop himself from getting all soppy at the edges. “Skinny vanilla?”

“You bet,” he winked at Yuu and sauntered off to sit with Shinoa, the two of them immediately starting up some sort of gossipy conversation judging by the hand motions and expressions.

He looked down at the drinks he was plating up, took a deep breath, and furiously scribbled a puntastic pick-up line and his number on the napkin under Mika’s coffee. This was it. He was going to do it.

“I am not a coward,” he muttered to himself, picking up the tray and carrying it over. “That was a multi-mega mocha milkshake with quadruple shots, extra whip, and sprinkles, and a large skinny vanilla latte?”

“She’s having the deathshake.” Mika pointed at Shinoa, who fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“No problem.” Yuu set the drinks down, trying to ignore how he could hear his heartbeat thundering in his eardrums like the bass beat of a good metal concert, keeping on a smile that was at this point reserved only for Mika. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Will do,” Mika reached for a packet of sugar and dumped it into his coffee, picking up his spoon before his hand froze, sapphire eyes tracing over the wickerscratch handwriting on the napkin.

Are you an espresso? Because you’re a shot to my heart. Call me?

Mika blinked up at him, Yuu frozen in place with the sort of calm that only came from blasting beyond panic and landing in the cool grey apathy of total nerve-ridden shutdown.

Shinoa snorted, the sound snapping Yuu out of his quiet reverie. “Uh- I mean, unless you want to kinda- not to be a creep or anything, but we could-” he paused when Mika put a finger over his lips.

Mika’s smile was soft as silk. “I like movies?”

“Movies. Right. I’m off at eight?” No way no way no way-

“Eight sounds great,” Mika’s grin became a bit toothier. “I’ll meet you out front?”

“It’s a date?” Yuu smiled hopefully.

Mika grabbed the front of his apron and kissed his cheek. “You bet it is.”

“Great!” He gave him a thumbs up, practically floating back towards the counter with a sunshine smile all his own.

He heard Kimizuki scoff from the overpass at him. “What coffee shop fanfiction bullshit is this?”

Yuu ignored him, too happy to even care. Best workshift ever.

#owari no seraph #seraph of the end #mikaela hyakuya #yuichiro hyakuya #mikayuu #yuumika #yuumikayuu #fyrecrackeruwu #my writings #commission

[kinghellcat]

Tales from the Burial Mounds, Part I

I wrote a little vignette! I think I want to make a short series of these, detailing the time Wei Wuxian and the Dafan-Wen family lived in Yiling. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and much longer since I shared my writing, so... be nice to me :x Thanks!

2k Rated G

Tags: Wei Wuxian & Wen Ning, feelings, a lot of feelings (dude idk how to tag)

The wind made hardly a sound as it rushed through the bare, brittle branches of the trees dotting the sides of the Burial Mounds. Though it was well into the summer, the trees remained gnarled and blackened, as though they’d been burned. Not one of them bore leaves, nor flowers, nor fruits. Indeed the only thing that grew well here were bitter wild herbs. Those and radishes. Wei Wuxian had never liked radishes, and couldn’t imagine why anyone else would. But they grew here, they fed the people here, and thus he would tend them. 

Wei Wuxian kneeled in the dirt, pulling weeds and inspecting the spindly leaves. Much of the work had already been done, but he wasn’t ready to rejoin the others yet. “Yiling Patriarch” is hardly the title he would’ve given himself -- how self-important it sounds! -- but he supposed it suited him after all. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he’d already begun feeling the pressure of supporting and protecting the people here. He had brought the remnants of the Wen clan, the Dafan-Wen, to this dreary place, and thus he would protect them. 

Only, he felt that they deserved better. Better homes, better clothes, better food certainly. A better leader too. Someone who had more, or anything at all, to offer. Eventually, Wei Wuxian’s hands came to a stop and he found himself just sitting in the radish patch alone, feeling sorry for himself. He shook his head vigorously, like he could shake the negative thoughts from his mind. He stood and stretched his arms high to the waning sunlight. 

It was probably almost dinner time. If he didn’t return to the main compound -- if you could call it that -- Wen Qing would surely give him another lecture. Heaving a mighty sigh, he brushed off his robes and made his way back to their shabby dining room/main hall/everything else room. It was made from the ruins of a temple to the fallen, all those whose bodies were buried in these hills. The irony was not lost on him; the fearsome Yiling Patriarch, the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation making his home on a literal mound of corpses and sharing meals with criminals in a desecrated temple was probably exactly what the world had expected of him. 

In reality, it was just a bunch of poor, scared people who wanted nothing more than to live in peace. The world would never get to see that, they wouldn’t even try. And why should they? Wei Wuxian thought wryly, It’s not like this is a place worth visiting. He shook his head again. Now was not the time for complaints. If the Burial Mounds weren’t worth visiting, he would at least try to make it a place worth living in. And if that meant he had to eat radish soup every night for the rest of his life, well, that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

He arrived with enough time to spare that Wen Qing didn’t go off on him, but she did lightly scold him for getting so dirty. Wei Wuxian just laughed it off; he had realized by now that she scolded people to show that she cared. It was sort of touching to think he was included among the people she cared for, if only she could express it more kindly… With a sharp breath, Wei Wuxian once again cut off his train of thought. If he let his mind wander toward Jiang Yanli, he might actually cry. Instead he forced himself to focus on the present, on the people around him now. 

Wen Ning had helped Granny Wen make dinner tonight, and though it was still mostly radishes, it was almost tasty. Wen Ning had apparently been quite skilled in the kitchen since he was very young. “Well, see, my sister was always busy with her studies, and after our parents died, it was only natural that it’d fall to me, right?” He had reasoned when Wei Wuxian remarked on his cooking. Underselling himself, as usual, Wei Wuxian thought. But he knew that trying to force praise on Wen Ning only made him uncomfortable, so he let it be. He settled for giving his hand a warm squeeze. 

Wen Ning shuffled his feet shyly, but squeezed Wei Wuxian’s hand in return, ever so lightly. “Thanks…” he mumbled. He withdrew his hand and returned to serving up the others, with a very small smile. Even when he was alive, Wen Ning hadn’t been the most expressive person, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel deeply. On the contrary, it was the strength and breadth of the feelings he left unexpressed that had allowed Wei Wuxian to return him to life, or something close to it. All his leftover resentment and fury at the abuse he and his family suffered before his death, on top of a lifetime of being looked down on and ignored, had turned him into a frighteningly powerful fierce corpse. 

But that rage was tempered by an even greater kindness. For all his anger at the injustices of the world, Wen Ning was a gentle young man. Sweet, even. Juxtaposed with his ferocity on the battlefield, one might assume he was two different people. Wei Wuxian laughed, thinking that if only people could see the great and terrible Ghost General serving soup to his aunties and cousins, they couldn’t possibly find him so frightening. They couldn’t possibly hate him. Wei Wuxian had already cursed himself a thousand times for turning such a good, kind person into a weapon, to be feared and reviled by the rest of the cultivation world. But what else could he have done? Let him die? He could never have forgiven himself for doing nothing. 

Wei Wuxian sighed. He wasn’t doing a very good job at staying positive tonight. He finished his soup, down to the last wretched radish, and excused himself. Wen Qing side-eyed him as he slunk away, but if she was suspicious or concerned for him, she didn’t say so. She returned her attention to her family, and reached across the table to wipe a dribble of soup from Wen Yuan’s chin. “A-Yuan, slow down or you’ll make a mess.” The little boy nodded, but continued to slurp loudly and messily. Wen Qing shook her head, but she smiled fondly. 

Wei Wuxian’s mind threatened to wander to his sister again. How he wished to see her again! But how could he, after his unceremonious departure from the Jiang sect? Jiang Cheng would never allow it, and frankly, he wouldn’t want Yanli to see this sorry place. He wanted nothing more than to taste her cooking again, to rest his head on her shoulder while she comforted him… His fingers curled into fists at his sides and he squeezed his eyes shut. It wouldn’t do to start crying while anyone was still awake. 

The inside of the Demon-Subdue Cave was just as shabby as the rest of the settlement, worse maybe, considering that it was literally a dark, creepy cave. But Wei Wuxian had claimed the spot for his own, and the Wens knew better than to bother him here. There was plenty of space to tinker, which meant there was plenty of space to make messes. There were crumpled papers, faulty talismans, and half-finished inventions littered all across the floor and on the flat, raised stones that functioned as tables. Wei Wuxian stepped carefully around them as he made his way to the back of the cave where his bed stood. It was another raised stone platform, just long enough to lay on, with a moth-eaten blanket thrown haphazardly over it. He stretched out lazily, his shoulders popping and spine cracking loudly. Though it seemed almost pointless to try, he got as comfortable as he could and tried to sleep.

Sure enough, sleep evaded him. He tried over and over again to clear his mind and relax, but failed every time. Waves of melancholy lapped at him, shot through with deep regret. Why did I do this? How could I leave Yunmeng? How could I betray Jiang Cheng and shijie? One half of him lamented, desperately wishing for his soft bed in his nice clean room back at Lotus Pier. The other half tried to reason with him: I had to do something. I couldn’t let the Wens die! My dream has always been to stand on the side of justice. Isn’t that what I’m doing? It was a solid argument but still he had trouble convincing himself. 

He got up and surveyed his many abandoned projects. Maybe he could distract himself with his inventions. He’d been meaning to work on improving his Compass of Evil. Scooping up his prototypes and sitting at his makeshift desk, he examined the parts and the enchantments he’d placed on them. He took the latest version apart and put it back together, but couldn’t think of what to add, what to do differently. Frustration mounting, he gripped the compass and hurled it across the cave with all his might.

It hit the wall and broke into pieces. A yelp from the darkness startled Wei Wuxian from his seething. Wen Ning took a step into the dim candlelight. “Master Wei… are you well?” He asked. Since his resurrection he had lost his stutter and most of his nervous twitches, but he was still shy, and polite to a fault. His long, dark hair was loose around his shoulders, nearly blending in with the darkness, making his ghostly pale face stand out among the gloom. “You left dinner much earlier than usual… I wanted to check on you sooner, but Wen Qing kept stopping me.” 

“I’m fine,” Wei Wuxian lied. “Thanks for worrying, though.” He tried to smile but must have failed; Wen Ning looked thoroughly unconvinced.

“Forgive me, Master Wei, but I’m not stupid. I can tell something is bothering you… I want to help you if I can.” He took a few steps forward, but stayed out of reach, like he was afraid to approach Wei Wuxian. Was his poor mood so obvious? Wei Wuxian stood and closed the gap between them, ignoring the flash of panic in Wen Ning’s eyes. 

“Oh Wen Ning. I know you’re not stupid.” He started, laying a hand on Wen Ning’s arm. Wen Ning’s posture relaxed a little. “But really, it’s fine. You help me with so much already! You don’t have to worry about a bad day.” 

“Master Wei--” Wen Ning tried to argue, but Wei Wuxian cut him off.

“Haven’t I told you to stop calling me that?” He laughed. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Wen Ning stared for a moment, eyes wide. “Friends…” he echoed. “Right… Sorry Mas-- er… um.” He fumbled his words, eloquent as always. Suddenly he seemed very interested in the ground.

Wei Wuxian laughed for real this time. Maybe he was teasing him too much, but it really was a lot of fun. And at least he seemed distracted from trying to talk to Wei Wuxian about his feelings. Just to lay it on thick, he reached out for Wen Ning’s chin and tipped it up so they were looking each other in the eyes. “Repeat after me: Wei. Wu. Xian.” He said clearly.

If Wen Ning could still blush, he would surely have gone beet red by now. “Wei…” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Wei Wuxian.”

“Good!” Wei Wuxian smiled, patting Wen Ning’s cheek gently. It had actually felt a little nice for Wen Ning to drop some of his usual reverent formality. 

Wen Ning shifted his gaze to the ground again. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, trying to find the right words. After a few moments, he clenched his jaw and made eye contact with Wei Wuxian again. “Wei Wuxian,” he repeated, with more confidence than Wei Wuxian had ever heard from him. “As your friend, I am worried about you. Even if I can’t help… At least let me care.” His expression was subtle, but the knit of his eyebrows and the set of his jaw spoke volumes. He was serious. 

Wei Wuxian didn’t have a response to that. He simply blinked a few times before a single tear slipped out. With a gasp, he took a step away and turned his back. Stop it stop it stop it! He yelled at himself. A firm hand grasped his shoulder. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But you don’t have to be alone with whatever is bothering you.” Wen Ning said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Wei Wuxian was still for a long time. At last, he nodded and turned back around. He mustered up a watery smile for his friend. “Thank you. I’m glad to have a friend like you.” They sat together quietly for a while and eventually Wei Wuxian couldn’t hold back his tears. He was just thankful he managed to keep the pitiful wailing to a minimum. When he finally felt as if he had run out of tears, Wei Wuxian was exhausted. He’d been tired for days now, unable to relax enough to get any rest, but now he could barely resist the thrall of sleep. He figured this must be his body finally giving up on him. His eyelids fluttered and he swayed a little. Immediately, Wen Ning reached out to steady him, and looked at him quizzically. He leaned into Wen Ning, resting his head on his shoulder, smiling vaguely before blacking out completely.

#badcat.txt #mdzs #mdzs fic #wei wuxian #wen ning #wen qing #wen yuan #wei wuxian & wen ning #first mdzs fic #be nice to me

[honestandsincere]

reputation

Y/n writes something that Ethan doesn’t like

----

“This is preposterous! Totally and utterly absurd! It’s almost laughable!” “Mr Dolan, I’m terribly sorry-” “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Howard! This is my entire reputation we’re talking about here. This is slander!” “Again, Mr Dolan, if there’s anything I can do-” “Don’t publish the damn article, Howard!”

Ethan Dolan slams a tight fist onto the desk in front of him before pushing himself out of the worn leather chair. He grunts in frustration when his eyes meet his brother’s, sending him a look of warning. Rage pulses through him; he feels his forehead pound with stress. Ethan likes to think he’s untouchable, but this article might just be his downfall.

“I’m afraid, Mr Dolan, that the decision of whether or not the article should be published lies in the hands of its author,” Howard Benson, editor in chief of LIFE Magazine says calmly. Ethan takes a deep breath and walks past his brother towards the floor length window of the office, his eyes scanning the skyscrapers and seemingly tiny reflective pieces of glass. He chuckles in incredulity, knowing that if push comes to shove he could end the publication entirely. But he doesn’t want to destroy them just yet. “Forgive me, Howard, but aren’t you in charge of the final draft of the magazine? Surely this is all under your control?” “I wish I could do something about it, Mr Dolan. LIFE Magazine puts all responsibility in the hands of our journalists, that’s what makes us so unique.”

Ethan pivots quickly, his head snapping towards Benson’s direction, the cool facade he’d put on now fading. Grayson can see his brother is on the cusp of another verbal explosion but makes no attempt to stop him. “It makes you a joke of a publication! This article is about me, my business! I should have a say in what gets released!” “I understand that Mr Dolan, but you did agree to an unbiased interview. Miss y/l/n simply wrote about her observations.” Ethan clenches his jaw, walking back towards the so-called boss’ desk. He presses his palms against the mahogany, pushing his weight towards Benson, “What a pathetic excuse for a journalist, Howard. I should’ve known she would manipulate everything I said for clout, some kind of twisted kudos-”

“Ethan,” Grayson finally intervenes from the back of the room, “watch what you’re saying.” The older twin rolls his eyes, “If you read the article, Grayson you’d understand I’m entitled to an opinion on Miss y/l/n considering she shat all over our business’ name.” “Miss y/l/n has been one of our most esteemed writers for the past three years, Mr Dolan. She’s incredibly well received by our readers. This article is not a reflection of her work in its entirety,” despite being a man of maybe sixty, Howard Benson seems intimidated by Ethan’s presence.

Ethan pushes himself from the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He feels as though he’s overheating, never has he been so disrespected in his entire career. “Bring her in,” he shrugs. “I’m sorry-” “Did I stutter, Howard? I said bring her in.” “Ethan, bro you’ve gotta calm down,” Grayson sighs. “When we’re filing for bankruptcy because the entirety of New York turns against us, I’ll calm down,” Ethan spits.

Benson reaches forward for his telephone and Ethan watches as he pushes a sequence of numbers into the machine. “Hi Mary, could you please send in y/n? Thank you,” he sounds tired, weary. He doesn’t look up to gauge Ethan’s reaction.

----

“So, Mr Dolan, what was it that drew you to business?”

Ethan leans back into the plush velvet armchair of The Ritz-Carlton’s restaurant. He weaves his thick, ring-clad fingers together and pushes a small hum from his full lips. “I guess I’ve always had an entrepreneurial streak in me. My brother and I would sell candy during recess at school, I’ve always been good at selling.”

Y/n y/l/n taps her ballpoint pen against her chin after scribbling down each of his words, “Could you let our readers know what it is you do?” “My brother Grayson and I are what I like to call the ‘New Real Estate’. Dolan & Dolan buys derelict and abandoned plots of land across the city for huge companies like hotel chains or shopping complexes.” “Interesting,” she nods slowly, Ethan pays attention to the way her brow furrows in focus as she’s listening to him, “what project are you most proud of thus far?”

He takes a sip of his gin and tonic, letting the satisfying burn tingle the back of his throat. He swills the liquid around the crystal glass before speaking, “Last year we found a plot in Brooklyn, a real shabby place. It’s now just had planning permission from the council for a new Four Seasons Hotel. It’ll generate a few hundred jobs and will be superbly beneficial for the community.” Y/n grimaces, but he’s too busy checking his phone to notice. Ethan’s black pinstripe suit and shiny Gucci loafers make her feel a bit queasy, this man is wearing her month’s paycheck. She glances at her recording device that’s on the table in front of them. They’ve been talking for approximately ten minutes and she already knows she can’t stand the man.

His arrogance is disgusting; she didn’t miss the tone he used with the waiter when he explained that the table by the window had already been reserved. She notices the way he refuses the engage in any of her questions that don’t involve him. When she’d asked him about his opinion on the city’s new plan to cut carbon emissions he’d been incredibly nonchalant, and yet as soon as she’d referred to his success at the Business Awards earlier this year it was hard to get him to shut up. Y/n had done her research into Dolan & Dolan. She knows what they do. All this talk about ‘derelict and abandoned’ patches of land across the city is a joke. Essentially, they wipe out other businesses around them, forcing them to sell their office blocks or warehouses to the brothers who then go on to rake in millions from these huge chains. It’s foul play. There’s nothing commendable about it. But she’s not going to let Ethan Dolan know that she knows.

“So how do you go about sourcing this land, Mr Dolan?” she asks innocently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He smirks at her, loving the way she seems so dazzled by his presence, “Well, nobody loves this city as much as my brother and I. A lot of the time we head out into deprived areas and ask local people what kind of change they’d like to see in their communities. Most of the time they’re looking for business, something that’s gonna draw people to their corner of the world, y’know?”

Y/n hums in false agreement. Another lie. Ethan Dolan has never set foot in a ‘deprived’ area in his life. Dolan & Dolan’s main projects are based in the city center, the big highrise buildings that are constantly being refurbished are all down to them. Buying out businesses. Admittedly, y/n cannot hold him responsible for making people redundant. Having rifled through what must have been thousands of documents online, it seems that Dolan & Dolan employs those that worked for the businesses they destroyed. This young man in front of her, his pretense of integrity, is sitting on one of the biggest empires in the city. But he’s not a good man.

“Earlier this year, Vogue labeled you one of the ‘most eligible bachelors in the world’. How does that make you feel?” “I think you’re mistaken because I rank number one on that list,” he laughs at her, watching the way she clenches her jaw, “In all honesty, it doesn’t bother me.” Y/n wants to roll her eyes, his words seem humble and innocent but it’s his tone that gives him away. It’s like he knows this interview will look nothing but praising in print. Ethan Dolan is making her feel stupid. She hates it. “Finally, what are your aspirations for the future, Mr Dolan?”

Ethan leans towards her, setting his glass on the table and not breaking eye contact, “I guess, Miss y/l/n, I just wanna make the business world a better place for young philanthropists like myself.”

----

Y/n y/l/n would be Ethan’s cup of tea if he didn’t hate her. She’s pretty, well dressed and clearly an educated young lady. He can’t stand her.

As she walks through Benson’s door, her wide smile falters. Y/n’s eyes meet Ethan’s and the softness of her features harden. She sends him a curt nod and shakes Grayson’s extended hand with mandatory politeness. Y/n looks like she belongs in an office, her pencil skirt, and crisp white shirt make her seem professional yet youthful. It’d be cute if he didn’t want to ruin her career. Howard has risen from his chair to greet y/n, an almost sympathetic look on his wrinkled face, “Miss y/l/n, thank you for joining us.” “Of course, Mr Benson, what can I do for you?”

Ethan scoffs, “Don’t play dumb.” Both Grayson and Benson seem shocked by his behavior. Y/n wasn’t expecting anything less, “Excuse me, Mr Dolan?” “You’re a smart girl, don’t mess me about,” he’s leaning against the window, not feeling the need to move towards her in order to assert his dominance. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to elaborate, Mr Dolan,” y/n remains composed. “That article you wrote, it’s very hyperbolic.” “Mr Dolan, I don’t write fiction.” “You seem to have dabbled in it, y/l/n.” “I wrote about my impressions of you and your business-” “You made up a whole lotta shit-”

“Ethan,” Grayson warns, cocking a brow at his brother. Ethan shoots him a look telling him to keep his mouth shut. “Have you read this magazine before, Mr Dolan?” she asks, walking to the water machine beside Benson’s desk. “Of course I have,” he rolls his eyes. “Well then you’d know our motto,” she pours herself a glass of water and cradles it in her hands. Y/n watches as Ethan straightens himself into a standing position and holds the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I don’t see how your motto relates to this issue, Miss y/l/n.” “The Elegance Of Honesty Needs No Adornment,” she says as if it were a universally known fact. Howard Benson nods. Ethan sends him a glare. He stops nodding.

“You see, Mr Dolan as a journalist not only am I paid to be honest, it’s my duty to provide our readers with the integrity and honesty they deserve to be given.” “Again, this is not relevant.” “Mr Dolan, you lied to me during our interview, I couldn’t not write about that.” her tone is firm. “You have no right to include information beyond our interview in your article. I agreed to be featured on your cover as New York’s youngest businessman, not to be ridiculed,” Ethan looks at her with so much intensity it’s a wonder he doesn’t bore holes through her eyes. “I’m sorry that the truth angers you, Mr Dolan. Is there anything I can do for you?” “Don’t publish the article, y/n,” this is the first time she’s heard him say her name, it sounds alien in his accent, almost wrong. “Mr Dolan, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Ethan groans, “I’ll sue!” he exclaims, “I’ll take you to court for slander.” He expects her to respond, but y/n doesn’t flinch. She knows the truth. She knows what he’s like. Howard Benson begins to panic, he sends y/n a look of worry. LIFE Magazine cannot afford a court case, not one filed by Ethan Dolan. “Your integrity as a publication will be severely maimed, I’m sorry Howard. But Miss y/l/n has given me no choice.” Benson squeezes his eyes shut, deliberating what he should do. Y/n turns to watch him, praying he won’t give in to Dolan. “Y/n, I’m so sorry but...”

Grayson sighs in relief, Ethan’s smile is as wide as the horizon and Y/n’s eyes are the size of saucers. Never once has Howard undermined the magazine’s main principle. She’s outraged. “Mr Dolan, I apologize for the inconvenience,” Howard says begrudgingly. “Thank you, Howard. I always knew you were a good guy,” Ethan walks past y/n and extends a hand or Benson to shake. Y/n has never seen her boss look so defeated. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Lewis,” Ethan smirks turning to look at her. She says nothing, staring at his attractive face and feeling sicker by the second. He pats her shoulder almost sympathetically and walks towards the door, Grayson following him.

Y/n waits for them to leave before she moves. She looks to Howard, “I’ll start writing a new piece,” she says. He opens his mouth to respond but he can’t seem to say anything. Y/n sighs and turns on her heels.

----

Ethan Dolan : The City’s Brightest

He can’t deny it sounds good. It looks good too, his face plastered on every newsstand, the entire city seeing his suited glory. His hair is swept in a mass of styled curls, his scruff makes him appear rugged but professional. He always does photograph well.

His inbox is full. Every one of his contacts desperately praising him for the brilliant article. Everybody fawning over his generosity and admirable need to give back to the community. He’s witty, considerate and intelligent. Y/l/n’s words couldn’t have painted him in a better light. Ethan almost likes her. Almost.

Ethan Dolan is undeniably attractive, in his looks and his mannerisms. He is nothing short of welcoming, polite and respectful. As he looks over Central Park with an animated smile, he seems young; in awe of this city and all it has to offer. He speaks of his family with a warm fondness that’s hard to find in many of his generation, his close ties to home echoing in his business today...

Ethan feels like he can breathe now. There’s nothing he can fault. He has no qualms, it’s perfect. He almost wants to reach out to her, maybe follow her on Instagram just to show his gratitude. Ethan would quite like to see her again, maybe talk to her a little more. He likes that she's so headstrong. He lays the magazine out on his desk and exhales in relief. His face stares back at him in black and white, the headline blinding but brilliant.

Grayson walks into their shared office, a small spring in his step. He hands Ethan the coffee he'd asked Carol, their assistant to go and get from downstairs. Ethan thanks him. "It's a great article bro," Grayson chuckles as he flops into his leather swivel chair and spins himself around, "that y/n can write." "Yeah, I know," Ethan nods, sipping his now lukewarm drink. "I googled how many readers LIFE gets," Grayson continues, logging into his computer on the desk that's opposite Ethan's. "Really?" "Yep! Take a wild guess of how many New Yorkers now think you're the 'Brightest'," "I dunno, like a million?" Grayson snorts, "4 mil, bro! Plus another like 20 million online!"

Ethan's eyes widen. This is insane, incredible even. The business will be booming in the next few days, he's sure of it. The Dolan Twins will be on the guest list for every event the city has to offer. He can see TV interviews, more magazine articles, the paparazzi swarming around the double doors of Dolan & Dolan HQ. Ethan can picture summer in the Hamptons with all of their clients, polo games and champagne. 24 million. "Thank God they never published the first draft," he laughs to himself, setting his coffee down on the desk and picking up the magazine. "I never got to read it," Grayson shrugs, "what was so bad about it anyway?"

Suddenly Ethan's chest feels tight. His hands are now clammy and his head starts to pound. He's broken into a cold sweat and suddenly his suit feels about three sizes too small. Y/n y/l/n knows. She knows everything. This young woman with 24 million readers knows all about Dolan & Dolan. She probably still has that first article lurking in a folder on her goddamn laptop. Ethan feels sick. There's no way he can let that get out. He'll die before that article gets published.

His head snaps up to look at Grayson, "Get LIFE on the phone. I need to speak to my new best friend."

-------

I should be studying but instead I wrote this! Big shoutout to @babyboydxlan for the pic. Hope you guys liked this! I kinda wanna make it a series, but let me know your thoughts! Lots and lots and lots of love!! xxx

#dolan twins #ethan dolan #ethan dolan imagine #ethan dolan fanfic #ethan dolan one shot #ethan x reader #ethan dolan x reader #ethan dolan blurb #grayson dolan #grayson dolan imagine #grayson dolan fanfic #grayson dolan x reader #grayson x reader #dolan twins imagine #dolan twins fanfic #dolan twins blurb #dolan twins oneshot #new york #reputation

[thatdarncatchronicles]

That Darn Cat | Issue No. 3 | An Unexpected Party

Warnings | None

Rating | K+

Genres | Friendship, Family, Snark (it’s totally a genre)

Word Count | 1.5K

Summary: In which Selina catches Jim when he comes back from a date and gives him an unfair amount of grief. Cue milk theft, hot tips, and lots of blushing Jim.

"Evening, Detective."

Selina had to work hard to keep her neutral expression from cracking when Gordon jumped, still half-in, half-out of his coat, and whirled towards her. She settled for an unimpressed quirk of her eyebrow.

"Selina." Jim's mouth smiled, but his eyes were flat as untangled himself from his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. "Make yourself at home." His eyes swept over where she sat, cross-legged in the middle of his counter, and landed on the half-empty bottle of milk in her hands.

"Oh, don't worry. I have."

"So I see." He shook his head, dropping his keys on the counter. "Breaking and entering is illegal, Selina."

Selina feigned offense. "Whoa! Listen, I didn't break anything. The window was open."

"The window was not—we're on the fourth floor."

"And…?"

"How do you even know where I live?"

"I followed you." She threw back a gulp of milk.

His eyebrows shot up. "You followed me."

"You got bad ears or somethin'? That's what I said."

"Tonight?"

Selina could have sworn she saw him flush, just a little. Interesting. "Nah, a few nights ago. You work late, man. I always thought detectives were nine-to-fivers"

He flashed a bitter grin. "Yeah. So did I. Why did you follow me?"

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Detective."

He squinted. "What the—what is that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. Hey." Her head titled as she looked him up and down. "You look different. Spiffy. You have a meeting today, or something?"

Jim shot her a warning look as he loosened his tie.

Oh. Selina's eyes widened as a wicked grin spread across her face. "No. You were on a date."

Jim slung his suit jacket over his shoulder and headed to his room. His ears were definitely redder than they had been a second ago.

"You were, weren't you!"

The door clicked shut. Selina smirked.

He emerged again a few minutes later, minus tie and shoes, and padded to the kitchen without even glancing at her where she was now sprawled on the couch. She wiggled her eyebrows. "So...How'd it go?"

Jim grabbed a glass from the cupboard and placed it on the counter with a clatter before turning to open the fridge. He rooted around for a few seconds before he blinked, straightened, and slowly, deliberately pushed the door shut. His baleful gaze turned to rest on Selina for a long moment as she took another swig of milk.

Selina smothered her gratification and gave her head an innocent shake. "What?"

He sighed and replaced the glass. "Why are you here, Selina?"

"Hey! No changing the subject. I asked you first."

"What?"

She sat up and threw her hands in the air. "How. Was. Your. Date?"

Jim scoffed, shaking his head as he retrieved the glass and filled it with water instead. His ears were positively pink, now. "You're in my house, without permission, sitting on my couch, drinking my milk, and you want to know how my date went?"

"Fair's fair, Detective." She set the milk on the couch's wooden arm and crossed her arms, leaning back into the cushions. "I asked you first."

Jim made a face that Selina decided to refer to the "Really? Very mature" face. She tucked it away for potential future use and enjoyed his exasperated sigh as he ran a hand over his face and leaned back against the counter. His cheeks were pink, now, too. Oh, yes. Selina dug her heels in.

"Listen, man. Homeless kids ain't got TVs. We gotta get our entertainment somewhere." She gave an inward flinch. Bringing up the homelessness was a mistake. Fortunately, Jim seemed sufficiently annoyed by her persistence to ignore that part.

"Fine, fine. It was good."

She waited expectantly.

He didn't continue.

"Seriously? That's it? Details, my dude."

He rolled his eyes and gave a shrug that was probably supposed to look casual. "We had a good time. It was nice."

"Wow. You are really bad at this. I hope you're not this boring on your dates."

"My dates don't show up in my house uninvited and drink my milk."

"So that's what has you all bent outta shape! Look, man, if it's that big of a deal to you, here. Let me—" She grabbed the bottle up and popped the cap back on, holding it out to Jim as she licked away the residual mustache.

She savored the way his nose wrinkled. "No. Please. By all means, just…" He trailed off, waving his hand in dismissal.

"Suit yourself." She popped the cap off again. "So, are you gonna tell me about her? What's she like?"

"No one's taught you it's not polite to pry into other people's affairs, have they?"

"Who cares about polite? What's her name?"

It was Jim's turn to throw up his hands. "You know what? Alright. Fine. Her name is Lee. She's a doctor. She's kind, smart as they come, and has this smile that just...lights up her face."

Selina watched, wide-eyed, as Jim's expression transformed from deadpan to...worshipful. Gross.

"Lights up the whole room, really. She's great. She's nice. We ate pasta and had a nice time, even though I made a mess by leading with work-talk. I think it might actually—" Jim stopped abruptly, frowning as if surprised at his own speech.

"Wow." Selina shook her head. "Wow."

Jim grit his teeth. "What."

"Nothing, nothing. Just...Gotham's golden boy's got it bad."

The water in Jim's glass sloshed as he threw his arms out in exasperation. "This is only the second time we've gone out. I don't even know if it's gonna work, yet."

"Uh-huh. You were practically making heart eyes. I might puke."

"Yeah? The bathroom's that way. And I'm not Gotham's golden boy." He dragged a chair in front of the couch and straddled it, arms resting across the back. "Alright. Like you said—fair is fair. Why are you here?"

Selina pulled a rolled-up newspaper from her jacket and chucked it at him.

He caught it against his chest and unrolled it to read the headline. "Oh."

GOTHAM'S GOLDEN BOY VOWS TO TRACK DOWN ANACONDA KILLER.

"Yeah. Oh." Selina blew a curl out of her eyes. "You know, you really gotta stop doin' that."

Jim looked up from the article. "Doing what?"

"Oh, I don't know—telling serial killers you're after them? Why not just put a sign on your back that says, 'Snake food! Come and get it! Four out of five vets recommend me!'"

"Ah. Well, I appreciate your concern, but you don't need to worry about me. And I don't think you came here just to warn me off."

"Nah. I came here to tell you I know where he's holed up."

The reaction was instant. Jim leaned forward, eyes on her with a focus so intense, it was all she could do not to squirm. "Where is he?"

"Down, boy. Take it easy. There's an old apartment complex on my block. No one's been in it for years 'cause it looks like it'll topple like a Jenga tower if you so much as sneeze. Anywhere else, it would have been torn down ages ago, but—"

"—it's Gotham." Jim was standing now, searching around his desk and coming up with a pen and paper. "Address?"

He pulled out his phone and made a call, letting it ring as he jotted down the address she gave. "Harvey? We got a lead." He sighed, shoulders slumping a little. "I know. No, I know. I know, Harvey, but—Harvey. Harvey?" Jim made a face and flipped the phone closed. He stared down at it for a moment before shaking his head and darting back into his room. He returned less than a minute later, tie back in place, arms full of his holster, jacket, and shoes.

Selina sat up straighter. "Wait—you're going after him now?"

Jim looked at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Yeah."

"Even though your partner just told you he wasn't coming." At Jim's look, she continued. "No, I wasn't eavesdropping. It was fairly obvious what went down. So, this is why you always look like you haven't slept in a week. You actually don't sleep. It's all so clear now."

He shrugged into his holster, then his jacket, rolling his shoulders to settle them in place. "How'd you know where he was, anyway?"

"His snake got one of my cats."

Jim looked up from tying his shoes. "You saw it?"

"Ayup."

"You're lucky it didn't get you."

"Yeah, yeah. It's stupid to go in there alone. You should wait for your partner."

"I'll consider it." He waved the address in the air. "Thanks for the tip."

With that, he was out the door and Selina was left to listen to his hurried steps as they echoed down the stairs. She shook her head. Four flights. The fire escape was much faster. Draining the last of the milk, she stood, swung her legs over the windowsill, and leaped out into the Gotham night.

A/N: You’ll never guess what next issue is about!

If you said, “It’s about Jim and Selina going after the Anaconda Killer” you’re exactly right! Good job, you smart cookie.

So, I am currently recovering from typhoid, and my brain was super foggy when I wrote this one. So yeah. If it’s terrible, I blame the typhoid. :P

Follow @thatdarncatchronicles​ and #thatdarncat (no spaces!) to never miss an issue! Next issue up soon. :)

Oh! Also, you are doing great.Yes. You are doing great at life. And if you know you aren’t doing your best--no stress! There’s always tomorrow, and you’re growing and learning just like every other person on the face of the planet. Like me. And my 50 y/o father who told me the other day that he still just feels like he’s pretending to be an adult. He’s really good at it. You will be, too. This is all gibberish, but the point I’m trying to make is that as long as you’re doing just fabulously, and you’re on your way to doing even better. Remember to drink your water today. Hydration is important and makes your skin prettyful. Also, I love you. Peace out, gorgeous soul.

Issue No. 1 | Of Spaghetti and Sneezes:

https://thatdarncatchronicles.tumblr.com/post/620372790294528001/that-darn-cat-issue-no-1-of-spaghetti-and

Issue No. 2 | A Hint of Pesto Aioli:

https://thatdarncatchronicles.tumblr.com/post/620559916396052480/that-darn-cat-issue-no-2-a-hint-of-pesto

#thatdarncat #gotham #gotham fanfic #jim gordon #selina kyle #jim-x-lee #gotham fanfiction #gotham fandom #ben mckenzie #camren bicondova #batman #gotham city #only in gotham #dc comics #dcu #im batman #fanfiction #fanfiction community #writer #writers on tumblr #writing #writers community

[isidar-mithrim]

Souls of ink

Now, though, there was something she couldn’t talk about with any of her brothers.

Or better, someone.

[Read on Ao3]

Written for the prompt: “Think about someone who makes you feel good. What is it about their personality that you find appealing?” [Prompt Posse #3 by Hinny Discord]

Disclaimer: I freely used several quotes from CoS

___________________________________

Ginny was sitting on the bed, her fingers grazing the dark cover of the diary she’d found among her second-hand books. The thrill she’d felt upon finding out all the pages were blank was still pulsing in her veins: it was like an extra birthday present, and she couldn’t wait to use it. A little voice was saying she should have probably hand it over so her parents could give it back, but she ignored it. After all, the diary was fifty years old: that Tom Riddle guy was never going to miss it.

Flicking through the pages, Ginny felt the urge to write something down.

She’d never thought about having a diary, before; there had always been at least one brother she could speak or write to if one of the others had driven her mad, and in the not-so-rare occasions all of them had acted like prats, she had vented with her mum, yelled in their faces, or stolen their brooms behind their backs.

Now, though, there was something she couldn’t talk about with any of them, something that was heartwarming and embarrassing at the same time, something that made her stomach squirm.

Or better, someone.

With her heart pounding in trepidation, Ginny opened the diary on her crossed legs, dipped a new quill in a bottle of red ink (she couldn’t afford to waste the black one), and traced the letter with slow, careful movements.

This diary belongs to Ginny Weasley

The red ink looked like blood on the yellowish paper, but the writing had come out nicely. Ginny was about to draw a flourish under it when the ink shone brightly on the paper and then, as though it was being sucked into the page, vanished.

She gaped at the blank page, bewildered. That was why Tom Riddle had never used it, then: it didn’t work.

Ginny tightened her grip around the quill, her eyes prickling in frustration. Of course she had to find something useless and broken and – and suddenly, unexpectedly, words oozed back out of the page, written in her very own ink.

Hello, Ginny Weasley. My name is Tom Riddle. It’s very nice to meet you.

The sentence faded away as quickly as her own words had, but not before she could read them. She stared at the page with a thundering heart, not daring to trust her eyes. How was that even possible? How could a diary answer to her? Sure, the mirror in her bathroom talked, not to mention Aunt Muriel’s portraits, but this felt… odd. More personal. More intimate.

Taking a deep breath, she laid the quill on the paper.

Hi

Her words sank into the page once more, and she waited.

Hi, Ginny. Could you tell me what year is this?

1992

It’s been fifty year since my diary was made, then. I wonder how did you come by it.

I found it between old books

I’m glad you did, Ginny. I hope we’ll become great friends.

Not sure how to feel about being friend with a book, Ginny settled for a vague answer.

I’ve never had a diary before

I’m glad this is your first, then.

I don’t really know where to start

You can talk to me about everything you want.

You won’t tell anybody?

I won’t. Your secrets are safe with me. No one else will be able to read what you write.

Ginny bit her bottom lip. It’d be wonderful to have someone willing to listen about her feelings for Harry without taking mickey, but how could she trust him?

Promise me you’re not some joke by Fred and George

Who are they?

Just my stupid brothers

They’re always up to something

Well, I am not. I won’t ever hurt you, Ginny. I’m sorry that they don’t treat you well.

She felt a pang of guilt.

They’re not that bad, she hurried to write.

You were upset at the idea they could mock you, though. I think they should treat you better.

Ginny kept staring at the page even after the words had vanished.

Tom was right: she had been upset at the idea, and they should treat her better.

It was easy, for them, to make fun of her: they could always count on each other, they didn’t know what it meant to be the only girl, to be the youngest one, to stay alone in that big house when they were all away. And now Ron had made new friends, now he had Harry Potter – Harry Potter! – and that Hermione, and he’d forgotten about her.

I hate that they don’t let me play Quidditch with them, she scribbled, pressing her quill on the page.

I don’t blame you, Ginny. It sounds very mean.

They think I’m weak just because I’m the youngest, and a girl.

How old are you?

I’ve just turned eleven

You’re about to go to Hogwarts, then.

Ginny smiled, a wave of excitement washing over her.

I am! My letter came two weeks ago, and I’ve bought all my books and stuff today! I even got a wand!

Are your Hogwarts books the ones you found me in, then?

Yes! I had to buy half of them secondhand, but you’ll never believe who gave me the other half!

Let me guess. Merlin?

Ginny giggled.

You’re so silly, Tom! But no. It’s someone even better

Better than Merlin? I can hardly believe that.

I swear it!

Come on, try again!

It has to be Dumbledore, then.

Ginny pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle a laugh.

No! He’s younger than him

A wizard, then. When did he become famous?

Ten years ago

Then I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him, Ginny. I only know what I’ve learned before this diary was made.

Now that Tom had said it, it sounded obvious, and she felt stupid for not realising it. She dipped the quill in the ink, ready to apologise, but new words began appearing on the papers.

I can learn new things, though.

Ginny sucked in a breath, and her hand trembled in anticipation while she wrote the next line.

Would you like me to tell you about him?

I’d love to. He must be very generous, if he gave you half of the books you needed.

A shiver of excitement run down her spine. Here it was, the proof that Tom was interested, that he would understand, that he’d appreciate how great Harry was.

Her handwriting got messy, and blots of red ink dropped on the paper.

It was Harry Potter! In person! I still can’t believe it! He just put them in my cauldron, like it was the most normal thing in the world!

He must be an exceptional wizard, to impress a girl like you.

He’s the bravest I know!

I assume he doesn’t have a white beard, if he’s younger than Merlin and Dumbledore.

Hahaha no of course he hasn’t!

He has black hair that are always messy and gorgeous green eyes and he’s so handsome, Tom!

How old is he?

He turned twelve a week ago. I still can’t believe his birthday is so close to mine! I’m so sorry I missed it

Twelve? How can he be such a capable wizard at twelve?

He defeated You-Know-Who when he was only one year old!

Not even Merlin could have done that!

You-Know-Who?

Ginny inhaled sharply. How could she be so stupid? Of course Tom hadn’t heard about You-Know-Who. She’d much prefer not talking about him, but she couldn’t let Tom down. She swallowed and dipped the quill into the bottle.

He was a very dark wizard

We don’t say his name

Why?

We just don’t

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I understand if you’re scared. You don’t have to feel ashamed because of it.

I’m not scared! scribbled Ginny, outraged.

It’s not just me that doesn’t say his name! Nobody does!

He must have been very powerful, then.

A surge of odd annoyance rushed through her body.

He was really bad

He hated Muggles and Muggleborn, and he killed a lot of people

Including my uncles

This sounds terrible, Ginny. Now I can see why the Wizarding World doesn’t use his name. Even if I’d like to know it, not telling me was very considerate of you. Thank you.

Ginny breathed deeply. Getting mad a Tom for not knowing things wasn’t the solution. He had asked her to explain, and she had done a poor job at it. She had to keep her temper in check. He deserved her patience.

I can tell you, if you want

You really would? I’d hate to force you to do something you’re not comfortable with.

It’s okay

I’ve never written it before, but I know how do it

I’m touched, Ginny. It’s incredibly brave of you to offer.

It’s not a big deal

It’ll disappear in a moment as all the other words

You’re right, it will. You’re remarkably bright, other than brave.

Ginny had to bite her lips to keep herself from beaming.

Thank you so much, Tom

It means a lot

It’s the truth. Are you sure you want to do it?

Of course

His name was

Voldemort

That is indeed a frightening name. I almost wish I didn’t ask you. We’re very lucky that Harry Potter defeated him. I wonder how he did it, at such a young age.

You-Know-Who threw a Killing Curse at him, but he survived

He survived the Killing Curse?

Tom handwriting had got sloppier, but Ginny understood: she still couldn’t believe it either.

Yes

Nobody knows how

But he has a lightning scar where he was hit

I’ve seen it

What happened to You-Know-Who?

He’s gone

Gone? Do you mean dead?

He just vanished

Nobody knows what happened exactly

This is all very fascinating, Ginny. Thank you so much for telling me.

Of course

Was it the first time you’ve seen Harry Potter, today?

No

You won’t believe it, but he’s staying at our place!

He’s Ron best friend

Who is Ron?

Another brother. He’s an year older than me, as Harry

They met at Hogwarts

And they fought against an evil teacher to protect the Philosopher’s Stone! They say he wanted to give it to You-Know-Who to make him come back!

This is really impressive, Ginny. You’re lucky to know him. He seems like a really brave wizard.

Oh, Tom, he is! And he’s not only brave! He’s generous, and modest, and polite, and kind and that idiot of Malfoy was so awful, it was obvious that Harry hadn’t ask for it today, it was all Lockhart’s fault, but then Malfoy called me his girlfriend in front of him and it was so embarrassing!

Malfoy? Is he another of your brothers?

Ginny wrinkled her nose at the mere idea.

No, thank God! He’s just a stupid boy from Ron’s year, and he’s a Slytherin, and he hates Harry because his father was friend with You-Know-Who and because Harry is a great seeker and Malfoy is jealous of him! My brothers didn’t let me play with them the other day, so I’ve never watched him on a broom but Percy said he’s as good as Charlie and I can’t wait to watch him playing at Hogwarts! I still can’t believe that he’s Ron best friend, and that he’s here, in this house, sleeping in Ron’s room, and I keep getting red as a tomato every time he looks at me, Tom, it’s awful! Last day I sent all my porridge on the floor just because he came in the kitchen, I don’t know what to do! You have to help me!

I will, Ginny. I’ll do everything I can to make him see what a wonderful girl you are. I promise he won’t ever forget about you.

#fanfic #fanficiton #harry potter #prompt posse #prompt posse 3 #hinny discord #missing scene #canon compliant #chamber of secret #tom riddle diary #ginny weasley #hinny #tom riddle #diary #weasley #the formatting is awful sorry XD