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alienaiver · 3 months

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Rotisserie Chicken

Suna Rintarou x gn!reader

warnings: none! this is pure fluff wordcount: 1.2k content: fluff, SFW, genderneutral reader, bodypositive and poc friendly reader, domestic fluff, established relationship, post-timeskip, canon compliant, not beta'd, youre married and pretty handy in regards to like. building stuff LMAO, light humor and banter, no use of y/n, i googled rotisserie chicken a thousand times to make sure i spelled it correctly. it looks wrong no matter what i do

notes: this is part four of my domestic life with suna series! i should really make a masterpost actually. anyways, your 10 year old bed that you lovingly bought together at the start of the relationship is creaking; you fix it. suna has his thoughts and secrets are uncovered!

go to part 1, 2, 3 (but can be read as a stand-alone)

Suna walks into your bedroom with a cold bottle of tea in his hand and his phone in the other, eyeing you for only a moment before throwing himself onto the recliner in the corner. You’ve been forced to take PTO days before they expire and so the recliner, dubbed the Laundry Chair, is actually available to sit on. Suna doesn’t hesitate.

Silently, he lifts his phone to stare into the screen again, making a point out of not commenting on your work. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees you popping up from behind the bed frame to see if he’s looking at you. When he isn’t, you pop back down and fiddle with the screws. Profanities have been said because your small power drill hasn’t been charged over night like you planned yesterday (you forgot to turn on the outlet itself before joining Suna on the couch for a late night Netflix evening).

He knows that you’re hoping for an offer of his drink but he’s as stubborn as you are; you’re fully capable of asking, he reasons. You grumble out some more words before you turn to the next screw. He bites the bullet, “why, oh, why has the mattress been lifted from my perfectly functioning bed?”

The way your head rises up and your smile beaming has him rolling his eyes already, “I’m just tightening the screws. The creaking is making me insane.”

“Oh?” he says, unscrewing his bottle, “I find the clown bicycle honks kinda hot when you do your half-hourly rotating.”

You narrow your eyes but before you can speak he continues, “I wonder who would’ve been correct in saying that IKEA furniture that’s been disassembled before is shit. Who could’ve saved us the trouble?” He looks to the ceiling and around the room before his eyes lands directly on yours, “that’s right. Me.” he says dryly, challenging you with a raised eyebrow.

You snort before you turn back to your task at hand, the mattress balanced hazardously up against the walk-in closet that’s currently half-open. Not a dangerous thing at all, no, he observes to himself.

After a moment of silence you forego his scolding and ask, “what the hell do you mean half-hourly rotating? Who does that?”

He scrolls social media as he chuckles, "you. You do that. Like a little rotisserie chicken but instead it’s all natural, no electrical wires needed.”

The wide stare you give him is enough to make him crack a smile, eyes still theatrically trained on his screen. “Is that why I’m called rotisserie chicken on your fucking phone!?”

Bingo. Suna sits up straighter with as neutral a smile as possible, stretching his arms above him, “of course. Everyone knows I call you that.”

“Everyone!?” you shriek, completely forgetting about the screws that urgently needed tightening only a few short minutes ago. Suna groans from the stretch, “yeah, my boss ate it up.”

“Your boss? Who, the trainer? The physiotherapist?” you ask with a laugh spilling from your mouth; unbelieving but at the same time awed that Suna talks to someone about you. Those are useless details to share.

“No, the bald guy who sponsors the team. The one who loves hugging you when you stop by practice and matches.”

You make a grimace at the memory. He’s truly a kind, middle-aged man but he is very touchy-feel and while you don’t mind a hug once in a while even from acquaintances, it is shrewd how many he tries to squeeze in there. Then, you shake your head at your husband, “you’re unbelievable you know that, right?”

You pretend to throw the screwdriver in his direction and he mock-dodges to the left and wipes his brow in relief when he successfully avoids the sharp object, “what is unbelievable is the fact that we brought the bed from our first apartment to our house. I feel like we deserve something to go with the rest.”

You grunt as you reach a screw that no matter how much you tighten it, it seems to go loose. You realize it’s not even the same as the others on this metal… thingy. “Rin…” you say and it sounds like a warning. Suna’s muscles tightens for a moment, “why is this screw different from the rest?”

he gulps loudly. He’d forgotten about it; spent so long hoping you’d never notice (or that the bed wouldn’t fall apart underneath you) that it disappeared into the back of his mind. He gets up to take a look as if he can’t imagine the exact screw you’re fiddling with.

“Oh, that one,” he tries to say breezily, hoping casual will be the correct path to take. You look up at him when you realize that he knows something; he shoots a picture of you instead before he continues, “uh, we couldn’t find the screw so Atsumu just put that one in, saying it was the right girth.”

Your eyebrows shoot to your forehead in such a speed that Suna’s sad he didn’t capture it on video, spluttering out incomprehensible sounds that might’ve been words, accidentally spitting on the floor in your vigor. Probably something about different screws having different purposes. Then, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, “and why didn’t you just call for me? I was right downstairs when you and Osamu assembled the bed! Why did Atsumu suddenly help you?”

Suna avoids your gaze by looking pointedly out the window; snow was falling and staying. Winter would be cold this year.

“Suna Rintarou,” you say sharply and a shiver runs up his spine. You enjoy seeing the reaction. He deflates, “you were sitting with my nephew who’d gotten hurt. I didn’t want to… I didn’t want to disturb you.”

You warm at his confession. His nephew had gotten hurt, running around as family and friends were carrying furniture and boxes into the newly bought house; a box he’d been curious about had fallen over him. All it needed was a kiss and a band-aid and he’d been fine, but you had sat with him and sang until he calmed down. You even think you scolded the box together with him.

You shake your head, “well I guess this screw has been holding out. We’ll just continue using it then.”

Suna rolls his eyes, “why don’t we just buy a new bed?” the question makes you laugh, “we have one that works perfectly fine, don’t we? We even upgraded the mattress when you first got on the National team!”

Suna rolls his eyes, “next time the clown bike’s back, I’m buying us a new bed.”

You give him a thumbs up before you crawl out from the frame, “yeah, yeah. Now put the mattress back with me, will you?”

“Sure, Tjiken.” he says with a sly smile. It’s the nickname his niece once started calling you out of nowhere. Your eyes widen and mouth drops open in an ‘o’ shape as you realize.

“Is my cute, familial nickname a child abbreviation of the word chicken!?”

He can’t tell if you find it funny that his whole family’s calling you chicken, or if you’re slightly horrified. Personally, he’s amused that you’re finally learning the truth that’s been common knowledge among his family members.

He can’t wait to start his own family with you someday, hopefully soon. Then, he’d find an equally silly name and teach your child to call you that. His eyes twinkle with excitement at the thought that you might do it back, too.

#suna rintarou x reader #suna x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu x you #suna rintarou x you #haikyuu fluff #suna rintarou fluff #nohr.writing #nohr.hq #DHJASKDA AS A WARNING IVE HAD A MASSIVE PAIN DAY SO I CANT TELL IF THIS IS ENTIRELY COHERENT

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tanith-rhea · 1 year

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Neighbours

Miranda just broke up with her fifth boyfriend of the year. It is September and she is starting to feel done with juvenile relationships and thinks it's time to settle down and focus exclusively on her Policing Bachelor's. To this effect, she moves to a new apartment to start the new no-relationships (or at least no-men) chapter of her life. Shame that her new neighbour seems to disagree with that… at least when she’s sleeping.

Word count: 3k

Part One, Part Two

I love this gif by @kingpreciouswrld so much, thank you!

Your new neighbour is the cutest person you’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s no big deal, obviously, but it would be stupid to deny she is the person with the biggest puppy vibes you’ve ever encountered.

You first saw her coming back from a workday. She was just moving in, a few boxes in the corridor, some blocking your door. Your previous apartment was a disarray of disassembled furniture and all manner of clutter.

You missed your old apartment, but it was for the better. The new one, just across the corridor, was a one-bedroom at almost half the price, it was also half the size, but you could not care less, being only you.

“Hey, do you want some help with this?” you remember asking the bent-over girl lifting the heavy-looking boxes.

She didn’t respond immediately, instead turning around to look at you with white-blond eyebrows up on her forehead.

“Oh my god, sorry! Am I blocking the way?” she tried to flatten herself in the wall, but the box was still very big if you were to pass.

“No” you chuckled, amused with her sweet but ineffective attempt at making space “I live here, actually” you knocked on your door and shrugged.

“Fuck I’m blocking your actual fucking door” she seemed exasperated with herself, turning slightly pink. She was so adorable you felt your stomach bubbly. Maybe you would throw up rainbows, who knew?

“It’s no problem, really. I can just open it and jump over the box. I’m asking if you want help” you tried to smile gently. Most of the time your smiles were snarky or smug, so you didn’t have much practice conveying niceness.

She bit her lip and you wanted to curl into a ball and scream in happiness. How the hell did she manage to be so cute? You wanted to punch her.

“All right… yeah, thank you. If you’re serious…” she gave you a sheepish smile and you promptly lifted some boxes as well.

The boxes were indeed damned heavy. It only made you admire even more how easily she seemed to pile two or three of them and bring them inside. She could throw you across the room without breaking a sweat, you were sure.

She thanked you again and you tried to act normal and said she could just shout if help was needed. You were just across the corridor anyway.

She didn’t shout for help. She didn’t even call for a chat, actually. You left early in the morning to work and came back close to six when she was already inside, you assumed, watching television or playing games or whatever you assumed students did these days.

The only interaction you had after the moving in was when you came back from work two days later to find a chocolate cake on a paper plate with a “thank you <3” note on it. The heart and her handwriting were very round, and you thought she must have had one of those teachers that made kids write four pages of calligraphy with every homework.

You didn’t even have the excuse of giving the plate back, and what would you say if you simply knocked on her door? Hello, I think you are adorable and would like to spend time with you even though we are just neighbours, and I don’t mind if you don’t find me attractive, I just want to look at your cute as fuck face? No, that wouldn’t do. You just had to accept your predicament and move on.

But the mind is a funny thing, and countless nights of not sleeping enough and rewatching Buffy, The Vampire Slayer atop the stress of applying to culinary school were just the thing it needed to decide it was time for a good old sleepwalking.

The first time it happened you woke up trying to open the door to your old apartment at four in the morning. The hallway was dimly lit by the soft blue nightlights kept for those who stumbled home after a wild night out or left to work in the ungodly hours of the morning. You went back to your own apartment, drank very cold water and decided an early start was as good a decision as any. You made scrambled eggs for a change and actually had breakfast before leaving.

The second time was the same. You woke up cold with your hand twisting insistently in your neighbour’s doorknob. By the fifth you were starting to get frustrated, and by seventh, you were beginning to consider telling Miranda about your predicament, lest she decided to go for a midnight walk and find you trying to break into her apartment.

But you didn’t have the chance. The eighth time, Miranda forgot her door open, and your sleepwalking self was satisfied to finally be able to enter her “home”. You woke up with a searing pain in your head.

“Are you awake? Are you all right? Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, you scared the shit out of me!” your neighbour’s voice was a high-pitched audio on 2x velocity.

Her hands were on your face, and you were sprawled on the rug of her living room.

“What…?” your heart rate was slowly rising, and you didn’t understand what was happening. You were partially used to waking up in the hallway but laying on the ground with a panicked Miranda on top of you was at least a bit disorientating.

“I think you sleepwalked into my home” she took a deep breath, trying to lower her volume “I heard something bumping from my room and came out to see a figure down the hallway… so I hit you with a frying pan”

“You did what?!” the absolute nerve! Well, actually you invaded her home, so good on her for defending herself “What if I was a real burglar? You would come at me with a frying pan?” your head was still aching, probably where she hit you, but you gave her a side smile.

“I’m at policing school for something, aren’t I?” she went up and offered you a hand smiling, she seemed relieved.

Policing then. That made sense considering her height and strength, but you could swear she was an artsy one, maybe sculpting and drinking herbal tea or whatever.

“Sorry, officer, didn’t mean to cause any trouble” you joked, getting up and patting your pyjamas.

“Next time I’ll have you arrested” she arched a brow, amused.

You definitely wouldn’t mind that. Ok, that was enough. She was cute, yes. It was the middle of the night and she had bed hair and her blouse was hanging off her right shoulder but that didn’t give any right.

“I’ll, hm… go then” you pointed behind your shoulder to the door “You probably want to go back to sleep… I should too” you smiled tightly, trying to keep the swagger or whatever, look cool, even if you had just invaded her home, flirted with her and stared at her unguarded form probably still warm from sleeping.

She seemed to jump at that, realizing the circumstances, and looked at the clock. Almost five, damn.

”Oh, you could actually stay. It’s not a problem” she speed-talked at you.

“Are you sure…? You could still sleep around… two hours?”

“Classes start at eight, might as well make use of the extra time” she shrugged, smiling contently “But you don’t have to stay if you don’t want” she quickly added, seeming less confident.

Jesus, the girl was a rollercoaster of emotions.

“No, sure. I’ll stay” you smiled, and she seemed satisfied with that “Actually, I’ll make you breakfast. You go shower and get ready and I’ll make you panda-shaped banana pancakes” you blinked, trying not to laugh at her confused look.

“All right…” she walked slowly to the hallway “Will you need help in the kitchen?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll find my way” you reassured her, and she nodded shortly before disappearing into the bathroom.

Miranda was the funniest girl you had met in a long while. She was direct and innocent in a hilarious and charming way. After two or three pancakes she was asking you about your preference for sleepwear bottoms or what brand of toothpaste you used. You also discovered she swore off men after five bad relationships in only a year. That was interesting but discouraging at the same time. For one, she wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with a man, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t straight. Chances were that she was, from how she talked about men, and that was at the very least really disappointing. You thought you had a chance when you first saw her, but that just went to teach you never to judge a book by its tall, beautifully breathtaking cover. She was an absolute lesbian thirst trap, and it was hugely unfair.

At least now you were friends, not simply the person across the hallway, and you could be content with that; if not jumping excitedly in gay bliss, but that was ok.

One breakfast turned into eating junk food over at your place, watching Buffy because you still had one season to go for your fourth rewatch, and talking about all manner of things. Miranda was in the third year of her bachelor’s degree, halfway to graduation because she studied only in the mornings. She was twenty-one, two years younger than you, and apparently had fooled around with some girls in the past; mostly just “straight and curious” as she put it. She didn’t seem too happy about it, and you didn’t touch the subject again.

Almost an entire month of eating at each other’s places and watching whatever was on television went by and you could almost lie well enough to yourself that you weren’t slowly falling for her and were just happy for becoming closer and closer friends with her. But then it happened.

You had drunk a few beers together while Miranda did some research for a paper she was due next month. It was late and you were napping lightly on her shoulder when she leaned on your hair and kissed the top of your head.

“You can go sleep if you want, I’ll finish this in a bit anyway” she murmured close to you and in your half-sleeping daze you only agreed with a hum and went to the bedroom.

Her bedroom, in the apartment that wasn’t yours anymore.

She saw you walk down the corridor and didn’t say anything, which was strange. Some people didn’t mind having friends sleeping over, but you were going to her room, not the guest’s, and still, she didn’t utter a word. Later, she went to sleep as well. You were already deep in a dreamless sleep unlike you’d had in a long while. She slipped in the covers beside you and brought you to her chest, you sighed contently in the crook of her neck while she played with your hair until she too fell asleep.

Waking up in Miranda’s bed was the sweetest sensation. Her body was warm, all tangled with yours, and she snored softly with her head atop yours. For a few seconds you were in heaven, and then the situation finally dawned in your head. You were sleeping in Miranda’s arms. How the hell did that happen? You remembered last night as if it was… well, yesterday. She said you could go to sleep, but she didn’t specify where, and your sleep-deprived brain took you to the exact bed it had been trying to get you into for at least a week and a half some time ago. And Miranda did nothing. Actually, she didn’t “do nothing”, she went and slept with you in said goddamned bed.

“I can hear you thinking” a sleepy voice came from atop you; Miranda was awake and hugging you while pressing her nose to your hair. She made a contented hum and hold you tighter before letting you go, sitting up “It’s all right, this was your apartment, I get that you would go to your old room if you were sleepy and not thinking clearly” she smiled, letting you off the hook.

She was so unfairly beautiful with pillow marks on her cheeks and sleepy dust in her eyes, a dopey smile not at all timid, but warm, before getting up and crossing the corridor to the bathroom.

You were in hell. You also were in heaven, but it didn’t belong to you. Miranda was your friend; she was straight and very much not interested in a relationship at the moment. She said so herself, countless times while drunk and complaining about ex-lovers, whom you wanted to beat to the ground for not seizing the opportunity of catching her eye, thank you very much. You could not continue doing this. You were far too invested for your own good and it was time to take a step back and reflect.

You got up, knocked on the bathroom door to say you were going home to get ready for work and left.

The following days were horrible. Miranda would come over with takeout only for you to lie about a headache and wanting to sleep, or you wouldn’t come back till it was late enough that she would be inside watching tv. Sometimes you said you had work stuff to sort out, which you didn’t, and she knew because you worked at a café. It also wasn’t a good enough excuse because she did college stuff all time at your house and it never was a problem. She knew what you were doing, and she didn’t stop you. Maybe she was relieved.

It was Saturday night, almost a week after the “I can’t keep lying to myself that I love you” incident. Miranda hadn’t knocked in two days, and you were eating ice cream on the sofa while indulging in some well-deserved skin care consisting of tears and self-pity when a voice sounded at the door.

“Hey… are you there? I can listen to the tv” it was Miranda, of course it was.

You knew you were being a drama queen, but you enjoyed those stages of breakups where you could cry all day and stuff yourself with sweets. It didn’t mean you wanted her to see that.

You hid the ice cream underneath the coffee table and furiously cleaned your face in the hem of your t-shirt before opening the door.

“Hi! Sorry, I was just cleaning, everything is a mess today, I’d prefer you didn’t see it” you didn’t even give her a chance to speak.

She looked easily over your shoulder, noticing nothing out of place.

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to interrupt” she looked at her hands, squishing each other nervously “Listen… I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I’d like for us to go back to normal” she sounded so sorrowful you wanted to bang your head in the wall for being the cause.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable” one truth “it just has been a busy week, I really wish we could have hung out more” two lies, well, one and a half. Could she spot which was which in your voice?

She looked at you uncertainly, her hands clenching like she needed strength to proceed with whatever she wanted to do.

“I understand your position in this situation, and I respect it. It was inappropriate of me to take advantage and a completely absurd assumption as well” she closed her eyes forcefully for a few seconds, her brows furrowed tightly before looking at you again “I can keep my feelings to myself and be only your friend. Everything would be normal; I wouldn’t even touch you if you’d like”

What the hell was she on about? Keep her feelings to herself, what the fuck?

“What? Randee, you didn’t take advantage of me, I slept on your bed. You could have kicked me out if you so wanted, it was your right, and you didn’t. You were actually decent and pretended it was all ok and reasonable”

She seemed confused, and you were starting to feel a bit frustrated at the situation. Nothing she said made sense.

“No, it wasn’t right of me because I wanted it!” she had to stop speed-talking at you like this, you could barely understand her “I could have slept on the couch, or in the guest room, but no. I slept with you… because I wanted to, and because I could… and now I wish I hadn’t because you’re pulling away from me and I feel like you don’t even want to be friends anymore while I can’t get enough of even being near you”

…

What now? Your heart was eerily calm for what you’d just heard. Did it stop and you were dying? Would it expand and explode from the absolute incredulity of what you had just heard?

Miranda’s bottom lip was trembling and she looked alarmingly close to breaking down in tears when you lunged yourself forward to hug her.

She sobbed, heavens allow it to be in relief, and hugged you back with much more strength than you could take. You could barely breathe but you didn’t pull away.

She started crying this time, but you traced soothing patterns in her back until it subsided and brought her inside to sit on the sofa. You brought up the ice cream starting to melt from underneath the coffee table and offered her. She accepted and ate while sobbing. It was the sweetest, most wonderful thing you’d seen in your entire life. You cuddled up to her side, hugging her shoulders while she calmed down. You could barely keep your excitement from showing now that you knew she wanted you back. This incredible woman wanted you back.

When she finally calmed down and put the ice cream aside, you loosened your grip on her shoulder and looked at her face, her puffy red adorable face.

“I wanted to as well,” you said simply, looking her in the eyes, hers locking into yours with a surprised glint “And I couldn’t deal with the feelings I had so I decided to keep my distance”

She was silent for a moment, searching your face for any signs you weren’t saying the truth.

“Do you still?” she asked slowly, looking at your lips.

“I do” you whispered before smashing your lips together.

#miranda hilmarson x reader #would you look at that #top of the lake #miranda hilmarson #constable hilmarson #gwendoline christie #female reader #fluff #humour #just some lighthearted fluff #there will be smut #just got too long for a single post

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copperbadge · 1 year

Note

Of course it’s perfectly ok to enjoy “Stealing Harry”; the clue is right there in the title: STEALING Harry. It’s a TRANSFORMATIONAL work, full of characters whose sexual identity and attitudes would make Rowling tear her hair out. The lovely disclaimer on the front helpfully spreads the word about Rowling and her anti-trans fuckery. C’est parfait! 😘

Back when I was a much more dramatic young man, the very first description of Stealing Harry from the website I kept it on at the time read "Stealing Harry grabs canon by the throat and disembowels it." :D

I've always had a slightly contentious relationship to the canon, although it wasn't nearly as contentious before I started writing Laocoon's Children, because that involved reading and disassembling the (at the time) five books available, to try and reroute them through this more idealized alternate universe. It really showed me where the flaws were in the books, where Rowling was pleasing herself instead of serving the story, where things fell apart for one reason or another.

It's easy to hit such low-hanging fruit as JK Rowling these days but every author, in every book, does this, so it's not like she's unique; Rex Stout once said that nothing corrupts a man so thoroughly as writing a book (he wrote forty of them). So it's not like I'm a paragon, I do this too; there are places in Twelve Points right now where I'm literally asking myself "Should I fix this or can I play the Romance Novels Aren't Perfect card?"

But when you are doing such close analysis you do really start to see the ugliness early, which is why I mostly disengaged from the universe -- the canon, the fanfic, the fandom -- around when book six came out. There were things I was struggling to reconcile, and I realized I wanted to be working with different canons. Just as well, or book seven would absolutely have devastated me. As it was, I read it once, went "Huh," wrote one fanfic, and then walked away.

Still, I'm proud of what I did in the fandom, the stories I told -- most of them, anyway -- and the things I learned from it. Without my early Harry Potter fanfic I would never have developed the readership I have, and I don't know how I would have found community without that. So, you take the good with the bad. And if I have to have a couple of famous Harry Potter fanfics, at least the really well-known ones are almost universally "I thought canon was lame so I fixed it."

#transphobia #harry potter #jk rowling

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ametistacollinsworld · 1 year

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♡ Jealous! N x Fem! Reader ♡

My fifth request! Hope you like!

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N was a special disassembly drone, this nobody could deny. Everything about him was attractive to you, like his goofy and cute personality that popped out every time you gave him a hug or a kiss on his cheek, making the drone a blushing mess, or even just the random actions he had, like his embarrassed laugh , expressions when he was excited, anyway..everything about him was so cute!

And N couldn't disagree about finding you adorable back. After he got over his romantic feelings for V, the disassembly drone realized that he now harbored feelings for you, which wasn't so bad in N's view. You were one of the only drones that was ever truly kind to him, giving him gentle hugs, holding his hand, or simply pecking his cheek…all the affection he would never get from V or J. You were just the sweetest girl in his eyes.

After a long time growing feelings for you, N finally got the courage and asked you to be his girlfriend. Which you happily accepted, pulling him into a passionate kiss that he instantly melted into your arms! (Not literally- Lmao-)

Well, back to the present time…

You were currently talking to V near the ship, sitting together in a rusty old car, just talking about things in general. After V promised to finally "behave herself" towards you and Uzi, the drone was finally allowed to go without the chains, which at first for you was still a bad idea, but after the events involving Doll… you trusted the disassembly drone a little more now.

N was watching your interaction with V from afar, watching you laugh when V cracked a joke here and there, ah…how he loved hearing you laugh! Was it just…sweet? But watching you spend so much time with V instead of him felt almost like torture…he was jealous wasn't he? He just didn't want to admit it to himself.

N gave an irritated sigh to himself, soon starting to walk to the entrance of the spaceship, soon entering it with his head down without noticing your eyes following him.

'' Hm..'' You mutter to yourself still looking at the ship's entrance, which soon attracts V's attention.

'' Are you okay (Y/n)? You just got quiet all of a sudden..'' V asks leaning further into the car.

'' N looks upset.. I think I'll go check on him. Can we continue talking later? It's nice to talk to you V! '' You say softly giving the drone a smile, which she rolls her eyes, but soon returns the smile.

'' Of course, I guess. Not much to do here anyway..'' V says getting up from the car looking at you.

'' I think I'll go hunting now~ In case the emo shows up, tell her I went north to hunt please~ '' V says spreading her wings, soon letting their toothy smile and X's eye appear.

'' Sure! But come back before sunrise ok?! '' You exclaimed as the drone already started to fly.

'' Yeah yeah! I'm going now! Until later!~ '' V quickly said goodbye, shortly thereafter flying out of the dome wanting to hunt. You sighed getting up from the car, then heading towards the ship.

Finally arriving at the ship, you opened the door looking for your boyfriend, finding him sitting in one of the chairs with his back to you.

'' N Honey? Are you good? I saw that something seemed to be bothering you.. '' You asked softly, thus approaching the disassembly drone that had a little sour face.

'' Nothing is wrong! I- ah..I-I just lost my crayons..yeah..'' N exclaimed soon stuttering in a softer voice. You blinked not believing this lie.

'' Honey you loaned your crayons to Uzi remember? I even remember how happy you were that she asked you to borrow them for a while.. '' You said looking at the drone that seemed to be getting nervous.

'' Just tell me what's really going on please? You know I would never judge you right? I your partner now N.. '' You say in a sweet tone, soon carefully taking one of N's hands, which he reciprocated by intertwining your fingers with his.

'' O-okay…I'll tell the truth..I-I think I'm jealous of V? '' N stammered embarrassed, leaving you confused.

''Jealous of V? Why exactly? '' You ask having a questioning expression. N feels their cheeks flush, finally realizing what exactly he meant.

'' What I mean is that..I..I'M JEALOUS THAT YOU SPEND SO MUCH TIME WITH V INSTEAD OF ME! '' N exploded, soon realizing that he had yelled, feeling utterly embarrassed. You blinked for a moment, then burst out a little laugh.

'' Awwn..were you that jealous baby? You know I would never replace you right? '' You spoke in a sweetly amused tone, then carefully cupping N's face with your other hand, stroking his cheek gently.

''I-I just.. I don't know what came over me (Y/n)..I'm sorry..'' N spoke in a sad and embarrassed tone.

'' It's okay honey! Really! Everyone gets jealous from time to time! '' You said giving N a smile, which he reciprocated feeling better with your words.

'' Can I get kisses now? '' N asked in a low tone looking at you. You laugh softly at that, he was always so cute and funny!

'' You can win as many as you want! Now come here you goofy! '' You said giving a loving smile, soon pulling N close to you. You placed kisses on his forehead, cheeks and lips, watching as he seemed to melt with each kiss and giggling with every one of them too.

'' I love you (Y/n) '' '' I love you too N ''

#md n #murder drones n #murder drones x reader #murder drones x fem! reader #md n x fem! reader #md n x reader #murder drones n reader

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cartoon-cass · 9 months

Text

So decided to take an in depth look at the new teaser trailer and share what I found.

We start at the elevator we saw in the last teaser image we got, just not with the ominous yellow light. it seems like there's blood or oil on the carpeted floor, and slashes on the walls. Where the seemingly natural light is coming from doesn't fit the architecture of the rest of the hallway, looking industrial, honestly though the hallway is the one that looks out of place, looking more like something that belongs to the Elliot Manor, not sure what that means for the episode but thought it important to mention.

Pulling out a bit further we see disassembled disassembly drones, specifically the male body type (or what most people call the male body type we can't exactly be sure with only 3 disassembly drones). there is something on the tv but for the life of me I can't read that tiny red text. Turning back on the architect it seems to follow the manor look with some industrial bits peaking out.

Moving up a level we seemingly end up in a receptionist room for JCJenson, it doesn't have the IN SPAAAAACEE!!!! though. In the background disassembly drones, seemingly the "female" ones though, and something I just noticed while writing they all seem to be missing heads, I couldn't see any heads anywhere. and writing on the walls, saying "don't look down" or "don't don't look", along with claw scratches.

Up one more we get an office cubicle with a computer open on it's desktop. we also see a computer mouse and a spiral notebook with something on it, maybe a mug or a can? Nothing scary I can see other then the horror that is cubicle farms.

Yet an other cubicle farm with the sound effect of a crying baby of all things? Uzi backstory maybe? Anyway we see 2 Camp 98.7 drones both with loading icons on their visors, which I believe we've never seen before other then when Uzi was talking to N and V in episode 2 but that was only in the corner and her eyes were still on. There seems to be oil on the ground too.

So this is the scene most people are freaking out about. A dinosaur looking thing, while it looks mostly organic from the shadow it does have 2 wires from the back of it's head to it's neck and 2 wires from under the chin to it's neck. There seems to be blood or oil on the ground here too. Also anyone else getting jurassic park vibes from this scene?

I think these 2 scenes are in the same room, also someone is laughing in this scene as well. It seems to be a some sort of observation room mix with an operation room, given the discarded worker drone limbs I don't imagine these "operation" were very ethical. There is a box in the back with some text on it but all I can read is "parts :)".

Presumably this is the hole our main trio were looking at in the first teaser, at the very least we can tell it's open to the air because snow is falling down there, I just noticed how there is not nearly enough snow on everything for a planet that's constantly snowing but I guess I probably shouldn't ask too much realism from this show about murderous drones. On a more worrying note where are Tessa, J and Doll? I hope they are fine but just out of shot.

Last but not least the thumb nail for the video has the weird drone hand that if I had to guess is from that dinosaur drone, I have no evidence other then a gut feeling. Also massive thanks for @magmythedevil for pointing this out but the claw matches the one in episode 4.

#Murder Drones #Murder Drones theory

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krii-bolts · 1 year

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✨KHAN AND THE NORI CLOSET✨

IM BACK TO MURDER DRONES THEORY RANT!!! AND THIS TIME WITH ALL THE STUFF IN THE BEGINNING AROUND KHAN AND NORI!!!

And some-what the 1st of 2 parts, as I got things to connect revolving N's Flashbacks.. and trust me, Spirals are now my most feared enemy by the end of this

Ofc, This is Heavy Ep 4 Spoilers.. So I recommend watching that before continuing down...

Ya ready? Cause I feel like a Drone with a Malware sickness right now over this.. Lets go

^ I'll admit, I had to go back and rewatch this specific shot for What Khan said and it was " After the core collapsed, I didn't notice the collars.."

This photo, by my Speculation and by the Dialogue, Seems to Be a Expedition Team to search and find other drones (Especially with that downed Drone hanging from the trees)

Also, NORI!!! Trust me, We got a entire fucking Bread Slice with this episode when it comes to Nori Lore and not some crumbs

^ 1. We see both Nori and Yeva (From eye colors and hair to the Badges hanging from their necks) in this photo, along with other drones

I also see some backpacks on most of the drones here, including Khan (I think those are backpacks) so further evidence on a Expedition team

^ (Insert Comment on Khan having Dad energy from what he said on this photo)

^ AND HERES THE START OF MY SPIRAL MADNESS!! I know we get closer looks of these drawings but still, we do see drawings that don't pop up on the other shots...

And by that I mean that Very Bottom Drawing with the Spiral and Red Text. All I can read from that Red Text is "They ___ Everything" and could either be "See" or "Hear" in that blank spot, or even "Are"

But it sure does look like a Gravitational Field, doesnt it?

^ OH BOY. 1 . Theres Nori's ID Badge, making more and more clear of that "Employees" theory that I saw before, like with yeva's badge

2 . " Build Doors against the coming sky Demons!" so it was NORI who was all for the doors. That Makes Khan's obsession more.. traumatic (Poor dude)

3 . OK. MORE SPIRALS. And also Drawings of the Corpse Spire.

Along with the Spirals and Spires are many Drawings of Disassembly drones so Nori mustve knew before hand that they were coming (I KNOW SOMEBODY ELSE ON TUMBLR HAS SAID SOMETHING FAMILIAR, I DONT REMEMBER WHO)

There also seems to be Red Text on the Spiral drawings, almost Like a Equation... and Finally

^ This. This shot. This shot is the reason why Im terrified of N's flashbacks now. This shot is why Spirals are my Enemy now.

Khan DOES say something here, and while It was at first hard to notice the first couple of times, I now know what he says:

"The Singularity Awakens."

Trust me, this quote holds wayyyy more significance when I go over N's Flashbacks.

ANYWAYS, More Drawings of the Spirals and this time I can see those Equations some more on the Bigger Spiral on top! Starting with a "F=" with the other half being a Fraction of Two unknown Numbers /symbols

The Bottom spiral... the one thats covered in many small equations, that one intrigues me. I MAY BE DUMB, but that looks like a blackhole with Time Dilation and Rotational Spin (From the graphs above said spiral), with the spiral going inwards and not outwards...

I'm not gonna include the Funny S shot, as I got nothing on it BUT KNOW THIS: N's Flashbacks are next for my rants..

#murder drones theory rants #murder drones #WHY IT GOTTA BE SPIRALS. WHY.

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dangerouscommiesubversive · 5 months

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since i am going to spend the next 2ish years manifesting these: if you could write a changerion 30th anniversary or a kabuto 20th anniversary, what would the plots be? (or would you combine them?)

Kabuto 20th: I feel like there's a pretty straightforward plotline to go with for this one, especially if it's possible to get back most of the actors--I know there have been stupid agency-caused issues with Mizushima returning, but I can dream. Anyway, Hiyori is now a successful restaurateur and children's book author, Juka is happily at work on a PhD in entomology, Tendou's doing his thing as usual and cooking ever more elaborate recipes, and Kagami's running a detective agency, when they start spotting people that they know should be dead (Tsurugi, Kageyama, etc). Cue the return of their Zecters as they ready themselves to fend off another Worm invasion, which turns out to actually be a wave of alien tourists looking forward to visiting Earth and seeing all its weirdness. Tendou cooks for them.

Changerion 30th: We open. It is 1998. It has been 1998 for 30 years now. Everyone has aged, but it is still 1998. Akira and Hayami, now happily gay married and bickering nonstop, realize that time isn't passing and set off with Kuroiwa--who has just been resurrected for the fifteenth time since the end of the show--to kick Inoue Toshiki's ass, having determined that he's the architect of all their misfortunes. Inoue Toshiki is played by Wakamatsu Toshihide. Murakami Kohei appears as himself, working as Inoue's live-in bodyguard. Handa Kento has a bit part as the guy who does Hayami's dry-cleaning and who might be dating Murakami. There are at least three on-screen M/M kisses, one with tongue. The day is eventually saved by a sentai of lesbian technicians who arrive, disassemble the set, and tell the cast that the movie's been cancelled and they should all go home.

#stickers on a laptop

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kah-way-loh · 7 months

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The process of plushifying a 2005 Furby- under a read more so it doesn't clog the tag!

Firstly, I'd recommend starting with either FurbyTech or WalrusFurb's posts... or ideally both! These both give a better understanding of what a 2005 Furby looks like internally and how it's pieced together. My Furby, Pitaya, came to me broken to a severe degree and I didn't realize until I skinned her and plastic shards started falling out of her like confetti! Her fur was also stubborn, not wanting to come loose from the tabs all over... but I managed!

After the fur and feet are free, you can give them a wash. I opted to use a fursuit disinfectant spray instead since I already cleaned her in the past. I then sewed the feet to the main body with a ladder stitch after screwing the plastic of them together

Once you've removed the shells, you can work on taking out the eye mechanism. Since Pitaya was already so busted up, it took a short time to separate everything. Just a lot of screws to remove! And a lot of sharp plastic edges

[Image description: the blinking mechanism of a 2005 Furby, separate from the rest of the internal hardware. The eyes are open. End ID.]

Now, I don't like using hot glue or super glue. But for this, it was necessary to glue the lower eyelids in place to keep that structure from falling off. Aside from the now immobile lower lids, the rest of the eyes can still move freely!

Next was... the beak. Always my least favorite part of plushifying a Furby. I wanted to keep the mobility, so I created an armature with copper wire and set some cut toothpicks in place. Those didn't want to stay in place, so I, again, had no choice but to bust out the super glue and some beads

[Image descriptions: different angles of a 2005 Furby's beak with a handmade hinge mechanism made from copper wire, toothpicks, and wood beads. End ID.]

To attach that to the fur, I had to weave the same wire through the faceplate and the makeshift hinge. The smart way would be to use a heated tool to melt the holes in the plastic... I instead just jabbed an awl through and prayed it didn't break (PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO IT THE SMART WAY). While I was at it, I also did the same thing for the eyes and sewed some spare fabric over the back of the beak to keep stuffing from leaking through

[Image description: the inside-out fur of a 2005 Furby, with the handmade back mechanism attached and white fleece sewn over it. An extra wire on each side of the eye sockets has been pierced through the plastic faceplate. End ID.]

Now, I'm not sure if every 2005 has this, but Pitaya had a tab that held the fur to her face right above the beak, so I went ahead and used that as well as reinforced it with the wires. Without those wires the eyes would be very wobbly and not stay put

Finally I could flip her right side out, stuff her, and stitch her closed! Except I ran out of polyfill... so I'll leave her Velcro section open for now. But for the most part she's done!

[Image descriptions: a stuffed white and pink 2005 Passionfruit Furby. The first image has her eyes and beak closed, the second has her eyes open, the third has both her eyes and beak open, and the fourth is a profile view with her eyes and beak open. End ID.]

Okay so. Overall I absolutely love the end result, but the process was a 0/10 for me. I wouldn't do it again because 2005s are not easy to disassemble in the slightest and it was just a nightmare on my aching hands. I also probably did it in the most roundabout way to limit the amount of super glue I used (I'm sensitive to the smell of it) which added to the complication. Part of me wishes I actually sculpted or at least covered the beak, but I knew I was going to have a hard enough time with it so I didn't bother. For what it's worth, she still looks like a normal 2005 aside from the lumpy stuffing! I need to get more soon for other projects anyway

Feel free to try this if you're ambitious and committed enough, and try finding your own ways to make it easier!

#tj taulks #furby #furby fandom #furby community #furblr #allfurby #f: pitaya #plush furby #i literally put my blood into this project from the number of times i injured myself with a sewing needle and awl #so i won't be selling her for that reason even though i washed it right away #i've done more than enough sewing for this year. my hands need a break 💔

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panelshowsource · 7 days

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this is such a great episode!

for anyone who hasn't listened yet — it deals with some heavy things including food addiction and eating disorders, death, and more, so anyone who wants to check it out should be aware it's about richard's own history and his self-identified "failures", and it's not particularly light-hearted or funny even though it's endearing and inspiring in many ways

i really appreciate his honesty and how carefully he speaks. he has every right to be angry — with his father leaving, with his relationship to food and shame, with the ever-present confines of modern masculinity making life so lonely for men — but he never seems to be. he just cares about being the best, healthiest version of himself. and i appreciate that he doesn't talk at people, preach, act like he knows more or best; he just knows what he knows all while seeking to always be learning more. i really appreciate him!

i've never heard of a podcast by tailors, how interesting! i listened to the episode with alex and it was really sweet! i'll post this in case anyone else wants to check it out :)

(of course 💜)

same, i'd only really heard of it because i got a bunch of messages about it! (i was a little unplugged from scripted tv when the first series came out 😅)

TOTALLY AGREE about jon pointing! his comedic timing, his facial expressions, he is just too hilarious — even though...can i just say...why was that old ass man playing a uni student X_X

anyways — i knew him from plebs!! that's quite a famous itv2 series, so you should check it out and see if you like it! i love tom basden ugh and if you check my non-panel shows masterpost i have live at the moth club and he does standup in ep1!

i am somewhat familiar with it as someone who likes to watch some of the nextup specials (alistair barrie was one i enjoyed recently!) and tries to keep abreast of the festival nominees & winners, but i don't have as much time as i'd like to really weed out my favourites only because there isn't enough time in the day and i'm already trying to watch 100 things a day 🥲

one thing i find funny is how i pay more attention to who would do well on tv opposed to who is just GOOD. like, i didn't get john kearns until stopped thinking about him in the context of dictionary corner and started acknowledging his written set as a very, very specific piece of work that really shouldn't be disassembled and consumed in morsels. but i do see my interest in — and potentially my preference for — panel shows reflected in some of the circuit guys i like, such as alasdair beckett-king, huge davies, larry david. i just know they would kill panel show world if they were pushed properly :')

i find that i like standup a lot more live than i do on screen — which i think a lot of comedians would understand!

as well, i find the discourse about how difficult it is to get started/off the ground now that edinburgh fringe is becoming less and less accessible extremely fascinating and try to listen to all of the podcasts/convos about that that i can. it's costing comedians upwards of 5k just to debut a modest set at edinburgh — which is madness. here is tom mayhew talking to bbc news about this just a couple of weeks ago...

anyways, is there someone you wanted to recommend? i would love to check out anything 😚

—

daniel sloss standup — added a couple of those to drive! god i looooooved him when i was in high school and still do! highly recommend him on roast battle uk if you need extra sloss content. i'll work on the others over the next couple of weeks

alma's not normal — added to drive!

here we go — i know exactly where this is so i can hook you up but imma need you to dm/ask me off anon for the deets!

hold the front page + the unofficial science of home alone — sorry anons i don't have these on me but they're very easy requests someone can hook you up with on r/tv_bunny, so post them there!

—

PANEL SHOW WATCH LINKS / NON-PANEL SHOW WATCH LINKS FAQ / TAGS / ASK

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elemit · 4 months

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A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 12: Resolve

Things do seem to get better for you, in a way. Day by day your hunger becomes easier to - not control, exactly, but at least manage. After all, resisting dark urges is hardly a new experience for you. As your appetites become less all-consuming, you try to look back on the surreal and shifting memories you have made since your cravings began.

You realise that almost two moons have passed since Astarion turned you, and you have no idea as to the state of the world around you. Every moment has been spent in a kind of waking dream. You resolve to use your newfound clarity of mind to find out as much as you can about the time that you have missed, and to connect once more with the companions who had been your daily guides until that strange day of victory. But you still feel as though your mental state is unsteady, and the reclamation of your sense of self is unsure, so you decide to take your investigations slowly. You start small, wandering the house with sharp eyes and ears whenever Astarion has reason to leave.

You pretend that it doesn’t hurt to watch him have the front doors flung open so he can stroll out into the sunshine without you. As you cower away from the light outside, you remind yourself that he is going about business that will improve both of your lives.

You so want it to be true. You so hate to doubt him.

You find yourself searching for proof anyway.

———

The first thing you notice as you prowl the shadowy corridors of your home is that almost all of the servants - your servants - are thralls.

You had no reason, no need, no desire to speak to any of them in your previous state, but now that you try it, you see that they have the dull speech and dead eyes of beings entirely incapable of independent thought. They can carry out basic commands and answer simple questions easily enough, but any queries of significant depth, or any inquiry into anything personal, is met with a glassy stare of incomprehension.

To your surprise, it is Astarion who becomes your best source of information. He seems to enjoy telling you of his machinations in the city.

“I won’t give you too many details, darling, I don’t want to confuse that pretty little head of yours,” he says, before describing his plans to you in broad strokes. He has already bought himself re-entry to the Barrister’s Guild, and has taken his seat in the Parliament of Peers that runs the city. Each one of you - every so-called Hero of Baldur’s Gate - was given a seat in honour of your contributions to the city, apparently. Your eyes widen at this newly discovered capacity of yours. Astarion sees your face and lets out a high laugh.

“Oh, no, darling, you don’t have a seat,” he explains, his voice dancing with mirth at your foolishness. “Naturally there is only one seat per family. You gave up your claim to a seat when you married me. Oh, you sweet thing, sometimes I forget how simple you can be these days.”

Your eye twitches, and you blink away the disappointment. Silly, you tell yourself, to be disappointed at the loss of something you never had. How would it work, anyway, sitting on a council, when you can’t even exist in the sunlight? When your hunger is still so precariously controlled? You’re a fool. You’re a fool. So you pull a fool’s smile onto your face and listen intently to your wise husband.

He explains that the law and order of the Gate was in shambles after the defeat of the Elder Brain. Gortash had disassembled the old City Watch, and in turn, you had disassembled his Steel Watch. The Flaming Fist was in disarray, and although they had clung to just enough semblance of control to muddle through in those first few days after the battle, it was clear that the city needed additional forces to dispense justice.

Who better to lead this New Watch than a Hero of Baldur’s Gate? Who better to administer the judicial control of the city than a man already practiced in the city’s laws, who had so recently shown his dedication to the city in such an unquestionable way?

You smile and nod at his shrewdness. Although, a voice in your head dares to say, his path to power does seem awfully similar to that of a certain follower of Bane. You wonder if you dare voice this thought to Astarion.

Eventually, you do. Quietly, meekly, of course, so as not to cause his anger to flare, so as not to hurt his pride.

“Our plans are not the same at all, my love,” he says with a patronising smile on his full lips. “Gortash was a fool. He believed that the only way the populace would hand power over to him was if he controlled enough of them with the tadpoles. He didn’t understand the world. I can see the way things truly are. People do not need to be controlled to hand over power. They do it willingly. They thank me for it. They are no more than cattle and they long to be led. They willingly hand over the tools of their subjugation because they know, deep down, that this is the way that things should be.”

#astarion smut #astarion x reader #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x you #astarion x tav #bg3 astarion #astarion #bg3 spoilers #astarion romance #a gift a curse #astarion fanfic

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lovelylogans · 8 months

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the parent trap

CHAPTER TEN: domine dirige nos

Remus spends a great deal of time weighing the most British way to say hello. He’s going to have to repress throwing in a what’s all this then, guv’nor? the entire time.

⁂

It’s hard to believe that eight weeks have gone by, Roman reflects as he looks around their cabin.

All their battle plans have been disassembled, the pieces of it packed carefully away to avoid any prying parents who might cotton onto their plot too quickly. Their beds are stripped, their trunks are packed (the pair of them packing their own trunk and helping the other twin pick out an outfit for the plane and subsequent reunion with each parent) and the cabin looks just as empty as it did when they first arrived.

“Big day’s here,” Remus says, and Roman turns to look at him.

He looks only minorly uncomfortable in Roman’s tweed suit; Roman can’t blame him in this blasted heat. He has Roman’s case in hand, Roman’s earrings in his ears, and even though they’ve done this sort of thing before, it’s still rather jarring.

“All right,” Roman says, adjusting Remus’ bright lime duffle over his shoulder, pushing Remus’ sunglasses up onto his head, Roman in green checkered shorts, and a jean jacket over a green, barely-clean Camp Walden t-shirt; Remus assures him that this will track well with the adults. Roman can only imagine this is the case, considering Remus had never once voiced interest in seeking out laundry services during their entire roomateship.

“Tell me what the plan is when you get to London.”

“Arrive in Heathrow, where Uncle Logan will pick me up,” Remus says promptly. “Do the handshake, get in the car, be subtle, blame any weirdness on jet lag. You?”

“Arrive in San Francisco and switch planes for Napa County airport,” Roman recites.

“And chew your nails on the plane.”

“Ugh. And chew my nails on the plane. Papa will be there to pick me up and drive us back home. Maybe Virgil also, but most likely just Papa. Pa,” he corrects, enunciating it in Remus’ accent.

“Reunite with Pa.”

“Reunite with Dad,” Remus says quietly.

They are both quiet at the enormity of this.

“Okay,” Roman says, and looks to the last piece of the cabin they have to pack up. “Last things.”

“Last thing,” Remus repeats.

Roman picks up Paddington from what has become his usual spot next to Cuppy, briefly kissing Paddington’s fuzzy little forehead.

“Take care of him,” Roman says anxiously.

Remus squeezes Cuppy tightly to his chest before he extends Cuppy to Roman.

“You’re probably going to do a better job with him than I ever did anyway.”

Their childhood bears change hands; each boy turns to lay their bear carefully in their luggage. Well, Remus tries his best to settle it neatly, finding a spot nestled within one of Roman’s jumpers; Roman figures chucking it in where it fits tracks well with Remus’ personality, just barely doing enough to make sure that Cuppy isn’t pinched by re-zipping his bag.

“Okay,” Roman says, and he inhales, exhales. “Okay. When we walk out of those doors… I’m you.”

“I’m you,” Remus repeats.

In unison, each boy takes on the habits they’ve spent six weeks observing. Remus straightens his back while Roman slouches; Roman cocks a hip to the side and settles his sunglasses low on his nose while Remus does up his top button; Remus starts to stride out of the door while Roman swaggers.

From now on, I am Remus Parker.

And I’ve never even heard the name Roman James.

⁂

When Roman said this was a looong plane ride, he was not kidding.

He shuffles through his carryon to make sure it’s as organized as Roman would have it. He digs through his pockets for anything fun to play with—no luck, but he does find his notes that he’d smuggled away. He reviews those to stay up-to-date on the minutiae of the life he’s about to steal.

That takes him about an hour.

Only about twelve hours to go.

Remus groans to himself and thunks his forehead against the plastic food tray.

Sleeping eats up about eight hours; the in-flight movie takes up another two.

And, very suddenly, the plane tilts, and the pilot comes over the crackly intercom, and Remus seeing his uncle and Dad is very suddenly less a vague in the future and a much more solid just about now.

Remus’ hands go up to his mouth, and he just barely stops himself before he bites down with a vengeance, instead adjusting to sit on his hands. Roman doesn’t chew his nails; Roman taps his foot or bounces his leg or messes with his hair.

So Remus starts bouncing his leg, staring out of the window as the plane breaks through the clouds, swooping low over the gray skyscrapers and massive churches and winding roads of London.

My Dad is somewhere down there, Remus thinks, and he starts bouncing his leg faster.

⁂

Okay, so when he thought just about now, he’d handily forgot the business of departing the plane.

Which takes. For. Ev. Er.

If everyone would just hurry up and grab their bags from the overhead bin—

But it’s fine, because now Remus is speedwalking through the hallway that attaches to the plane—Roman would know the word for that, so Remus just resolves not to say it—and racing into the gate, then through customs, holding his case tightly, turning to look through the crowds…

No, that man with spectacles has entirely the wrong hair color—that one almost looks right, but he’s too short—a similar suit as to what’s in the photographs, but the wrong face entirely—

Remus clambers up onto a seat to stand on, looking through the crowds, straining his neck, until—

“Roman!”

Remus turns his head; bustling through the crowd, hair a similar shade of brown as his and Roman’s, yes—there he is.

Remus’ Uncle. So strange he’s got an uncle!

(Yes, technically their dad’s cousin, he knows.)

“Uncle Logan!” Remus blurts out, grinning, and Uncle Logan’s upon him quick; before he can even think about it, Remus leans forward and wraps his arms tightly around his Uncle Logan’s shoulders.

Before Remus can panic if that’s something Roman would do or not, Uncle Logan is already holding him, lifting him up, and depositing him back on the ground.

“I missed you!” Remus says loudly, over the rush of the crowd in the airport.

“I’ve missed—goodness, Roman, what have you done to your hair?”

“Dyed it!” Remus says, combing his hand through his hair the way he’s seen Roman do it. “There was a boy in my cabin who—oh, it doesn’t matter, anyway, do you like it?”

“It’s very modern, isn’t it?” Uncle Logan says, briefly smoothing a hand over Remus’ hair. “Is this your first step toward trying out… oh, what are they called. That boyband boy, he has them—?”

“Frosted tips?” Remus says, then, thoughtfully, “I hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe I will.”

“Well, regardless, it’s very fashion-forward of you,” Uncle Logan says, then he extends a hand.

Remus doesn’t gulp, even though he wants to: this is his first real test.

One shake—two—three—then Remus sticks out a hand, Logan puts his hand on top, the Remus’s then Logan’s again, down with their hands and up—they hit backs up of their hands, clap up middle down down down, snap to the hip—bump one hip, then hop for the other—grin to each other—then swap places, and shake hands once more.

Uncle Logan smiles at him. “Welcome back.”

Remus lets out a soft sigh of relief.

“Come along, then,” Uncle Logan says, gathering Roman’s case. “Let’s get you home.”

Remus beams up at him.

⁂

Oh, wow, this is swanky, Remus thinks, trying to be subtle about running his hands over the nice leather.

Uncle Logan and him are seated in the back of a chauffeur’s car, Uncle Logan occasionally switching from reading the society pages of the paper to asking Remus the occasional question about camp to watching as Remus stares out of the windows, trying not to be too obvious about gawking at all the landmarks that speed by.

Big Ben—the London bridge—Remus abandons all pretense and just starts leaning out of the open window at that point—Westminster Abbey—Buckingham palace—

“Eight weeks at camp and you’re acting like an American tourist,” Uncle Logan says, amused, folding down one corner of the newspaper.

“Camp makes you appreciate home more, I guess,” Remus says, distracted by some street performer holding still as a statue. “Oh, Uncle Logan, look at the guards with their funny little hats!”

“You’ve seen the guards a thousand times!” Uncle Logan says, the edge of a disbelieving laugh in his voice.

“But never with dyed hair,” Remus retorts, “and never after eight weeks away from home!”

Uncle Logan simply shakes his head and returns his attention to his paper, murmuring something about children.

They keep driving past great big museums and churches—a lot of other buildings Remus is sure are historically important for some reason—and they turn onto a quieter side street, lined with roses and hydrangeas, and Remus is suddenly very sure they’re coming up on Pembroke Lane.

Remus sits abruptly back in his chair, rolling his window up and combing his fingers quickly through his hair.

“How do I look?” Remus asks Uncle Logan.

“Only a little like you’ve just spent the past thirty minutes with your head out of the car window.”

Remus combs his fingers through his hair a little more aggressively as the car meanders through the lanes, and suddenly they’re pulling up to a door and they’re slowing down and—

And there’s a set of columns with the number 7 on them.

“Here we are,” the chauffeur says, putting the car in park, before he gets out and opens the door for Remus. “Home again.”

“Thank you,” Remus says breathlessly, staring up at the house.

There’s an open window, and curtains that move with the faint suggestion of someone behind them.

That could be my Dad.

And Remus is up the stairs and his hand is on the great golden knob before anyone else can open any doors for him.

Roman’s sketch, come to life in roaring color; the walls are painted a faint shade of orange, the stairs curving up the wall just like in Roman’s image. Remus takes a deep breath and sidesteps into the parlor, yes, that’s right, that’s what Grandfather calls it—

Only to see a banner hanging from the ceiling above the arch that leads into the less formal dining room.

WELCOME HOME ROMAN, it reads, with Roman in a glittery red script, streamers hanging down, and Remus can’t help but grin at it.

Roman probably would’ve loved that.

There’s a faint cough, and Remus jolts to attention—yes, there’s the doorway to the study with the leather chairs and the towering bookshelves, and Remus scampers toward the sound as quickly as he can.

Remus comes face to face with—

A newspaper.

Remus chews his lip, before he clears his throat.

“Grandfather?”

It comes out reedier and higher than expected, but the newspaper folds and suddenly there’s a man; white-haired and balding, bespectacled, besuited, be-tweeded, be-mustached, a pipe in his mouth, just like Roman said he might.

“Is that my little boy?” Grandfather exclaims in amazement, taking the pipe from his mouth and removing his glasses. “That tall, gangly thing?!”

“It’s me,” Remus manages, dropping Roman’s case to the floor as Grandfather stands, spreading his arms.

“Welcome home,” he says, and he embraces Remus. Remus wraps his arms around his Grandfather—his Grandfather!—and hugs him for all he’s worth.

“Did you have a good time, darling?”

“Uh-huh,” Remus mumbles, burying his face into his Grandfather’s chest, covered in tweed as it is. “Great time.”

“What on earth are you doing?” He says, amused.

“Just… smelling.”

“Smelling?” Grandfather chuckles. “Whatever for?”

“I’m making a memory,” Remus says. “Whenever I think of you, Grandfather, even if it’s when I’m all grown up, I’ll remember that you always smell of—” he takes a big whiff, “peppermints and pipe tobacco!”

“Be a dove and don’t tell your father I was smoking when you got back, hey? I’ve told him I’ve cut back,” Grandfather says, chucking his chin, and Remus thinks of Pa and misses him so intensely for a moment, just a moment, and—

“I never do.”

“Good lad.”

“Roman?”

A voice floats down the staircase, through the parlor and the study, a lovely voice like one on a radio or a nature documentary with a smooth accent just like Uncle Logan and Grandfather’s and Roman’s.

Remus jolts for the archway of the parlor, where he stares up at the face of the voice in question.

Remus’ entire body locks up for a moment.

He looks almost entirely like his photograph, except at this angle Remus can see the port-wine stain splashed across his cheek and he’s changed the way he styles his hair. His Dad is dressed in tailored palazzo pants, brown, high-waisted, and cinched at the waist with a crisp white shirt, with pretty gold-and-pearl dangly earrings and a matching bracelet.

He’s still so handsome; even outside of the elaborate suit he’d worn for his wedding all those years ago, he looks like a movie star.

And then Remus is running.

“Dad!”

“You’re back!” His Dad says, quickening his pace down the stairs, and Remus flings his arms around his shoulders, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

His father presses a kiss to his temple, and smooths a hand over his hair just like Roman said he would, and Remus inhales like he did with Grandfather too. Remus’ burgeoning vintner nose picks up freesia, sandalwood, sage; some fancy, expensive cologne to match with the rest of his glamorous appearance.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Remus says, and hopes beyond hope he isn’t snotting into his father’s fancy shirt. What a first impression that would be, even if his Dad doesn’t know he’s making one!

“And I can’t believe it’s you,” his Dad says, putting his hands on his shoulders and pulling back to look at his face. “And with dyed hair!”

“A boy I met at camp did it—do you like it? Do you hate it?” Remus says anxiously.

“I absolutely love it,” his Dad reassures him, smoothing a hand over it. “Very unique! Whichever friend of yours helped with this managed a good dye job for a boy your age! Oh, and a switch to silver, I see,” he adds, touching Remus’ earrings.

“Uh—yeah, I thought I’d try it.” Remus says. “Silver and diamond—old classics, right?”

“It’s all very chic,” his father says warmly, and Remus glows from the praise. His Dad thinks he’s chic! “Experimenting with your style is precisely what you should be doing at this age. I’m very proud of you, finding ways to express yourself like this.”

His Dad is proud of his self-expression!

“Any other surprises?” His Dad says, grinning. “I’m afraid I shall have to have a stern word with any of your camp counselors if you managed to sneak off and get a tattoo or something.”

Remus laughs, wiping a hand under his eye and shaking his head.

His dad cups his face and sweeps his fingers under his eyes.

“What is it, Rome?”

“I’m sorry,” Remus chokes out. “It’s just—I’ve missed you so much!”

“Oh, darling,” his Dad says, leaning in to hug him again. “It seems like it’s been forever.”

Remus snuffles, leaning harder into the embrace. “You have no idea.”

⁂

Roman, Janus thinks as he observes his son carefully splitting open a scone and smothering it with jelly, seems a bit… different.

He seems mostly recovered from his tearful little wobble on the stairs—at least, he’s been devouring the tea that Logan’s set up for them both.

(Logan, the neat freak, is unpacking Roman’s luggage to tuck it all away and start on laundry. Clutter seems to give him hives, always has, since they were children together and Logan would categorically refuse to leave any room without returning his books to the shelf and the toys to their proper places.)

Perhaps it’s just because he’s a few centimetres taller. Or he’s jet-lagged, or it’s the hair, or he’s recovering from eight weeks spent around a boisterous crowd of teenage boys.

There’s something. Janus just can’t quite put his finger on it yet.

“Should I get more?” Janus says, watching Roman carefully as he attempts to fit the scone into his mouth whole. “Would you rather a late lunch or an early dinner? I know plane meals aren’t necessarily the most appetizing…”

Roman shakes his head, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. Janus waits patiently as he chews, takes a small mouthful of tea, and swallows.

“It’s been ages since I’ve had a proper tea, s’all,” Roman says, before he picks up a sandwich.

“Well, I can certainly understand that,” Janus says, picking up a sandwich himself. “No one makes a cuppa quite like a James. I’ll have to thank Logan again.”

Roman nods eagerly in agreement, about to shove the sandwich into his mouth before he hesitates and takes a much more manageable bite.

Americans have eroded his table manners, Janus thinks but doesn’t say, taking a sip of his own tea.

“Tell me all about camp,” Janus says. “Have you made plenty of new friends?”

“Some,” Roman says, then, gesturing to the streak in his hair, “The guy in my cabin who helped me do this—Augustus, but everyone calls him Gus—I guess I got closest to him. He’s an American, he lives in California.”

Janus’ back stiffens. Ever so slightly. Not so much that Roman can tell.

“Have you ever been to California?”

Hm. Maybe he could.

“Once,” Janus says in a light, airy tone, setting down his sandwich. “A long time ago, before you were born.”

Roman accepts this without much commentary, instead changing the subject to how Camp Walden looks; Janus has heard some of this from Logan, but it’s nice to hear it in Roman’s own words.

And also to steer away from that particularly smiley, tall, infuriating, dishy subject—

Stop, Janus orders himself, and refocuses on Roman’s descriptions of the lake, watching the way his hands cut through the air as he describes it.

(It’s no use; Janus thinks of him at least once a day, (oh he’s lying to himself with that number) more so when Roman smiles in that way he does, that same dimple flashing out of his cheek.)

And then Janus’ landline rings.

Janus sighs in frustration, setting down his teacup. “I’m sorry, dear, would you mind—”

“No, go on, go on,” Roman says, getting up himself; Janus crosses the room, picking up the phone and placing it to his ear.

“Janus James speaking.”

He turns slightly to watch out of the corner of his eye as Roman meanders to his dresser. Roman lifts his cologne to his nose, sniffs it, and examines the label; he sets it down, and then lifts the lid of his jewelry box.

Little cad is probably trying to find some jewelry he can pretty-please borrow it for just thirty seconds Dad please, Janus thinks in amusement. He hopes he does; Janus thinks those imitation-emerald teardrops might suit him well, now that it seems like he’s taking steps outside of his red-and-gold signature colors...

An aggrieved sigh makes its way through the phone lines. “Hi, Janus, it’s Vendela.”

“Ah. Hello, Vendela,” Janus says, trying not to wince; if Vendela is calling, then it’s probably a fiasco. “How’s the photoshoot going?”

“No one can make a decision and everyone is five minutes away from nuclear war, from the sounds of it. I mean, really, we’ve had this look set for ages—”

“Precisely—we’ve had it set for ages, can’t you manage without me? Roman’s just gotten home from camp.”

“Oh, bring him, please, if that’ll get you here!” Vendela urges, then, in a whisper, “this photographer they’ve brought is a nightmare, honestly, and this director of photography barely knows lace from satin, so he’s no help at all—”

“Okay, hold on a moment.” Janus puts his phone to his shoulder. “Roman?”

Roman turns from where he’d been tracing the frame of one of Janus’ sketches, the first design that had really netted him any sort of main-stream attention.

“Would you mind terribly coming to the studio with me?”

A huge grin bursts out on Roman’s face. “I’d love it!”

⁂

And so they’re off through the streets of London again, Remus now admittedly a little loopy from the whole meeting his Uncle and Grandfather and Dad and that tea may have been a bit more caffeinated than he’s used to and also the jet lag—but Roman had said it would get worse if he went to sleep earlier than he usually went to bed according to local time, so up Remus will stay with absolutely no napping.

His Dad holds his hand when they walk along major streets, which, if it were anyone else, Remus would probably protest, but as it is, Remus is happily swinging their hands between them and is only vaguely aware that he’s probably jabbering Dad’s ear off.

“—and eventually I ended up winning a key to the kitchen in a poker game, so I could get into the kitchen at night like all the older boys at camp.”

“Yes, I remember you wrote me about that. Odd tradition, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Remus says in an enthusiastic tone he realizes is a bit off for Roman on this particular subject, but he hastily adds, “Dad, there are so many weird American foods!”

There. He’s righted the course. Roman had been very enthusiastic about the concept of American foods.

“I don’t doubt it,” Dad says, amused, then, craning his neck to look ahead, “ah, blasted traffic! They’ve started construction up there since you’ve been gone.”

Remus nods, pretending he knows anything about London roads.

“All right, hold on tightly, now, we’re taking an uncharted course.” Dad says, and Remus falls in quick step alongside his Dad as they skirt around cars come to a dead stop in this traffic, heading quickly for another sidewalk.

“What was your favorite?” Dad urges, squeezing his hand once they’ve gotten past all the cars. “Of all these weird American foods you tried.”

“Chili,” Remus blurts out, curses himself for saying his favorite food rather than Roman’s, and then realizes that Dad probably wouldn’t have asked if he already knew what Roman’s favorite American food is.

“Isn’t that some sort of stew? Odd choice for summer.”

“Nice on rainy days, though,” Remus says, craning his neck up to look at the cloudy, overcast skies above.

“Yes, I suppose a nice warm stew is rather nice on rainy days—and we’re back on course,” Dad says, adjusting the brown, buttery leather satchel slung over his shoulder with his free hand. “Just a bit longer now, Roman, I wasn’t expecting us to have to deal with a fashion emergency today…”

“S’allright,” Remus says contentedly, skipping over a crack in the sidewalk. “I like the studio. An official photoshoot sounds fun.”

“Well, I’m pleased one of us thinks so,” Dad says. “Tell you what—we’ll stop at that dreadful little chippy you like on the way back. I’ll phone Father and Logan for their orders, remind me to do that after the shoot, won’t you?”

“Deal!” Remus says happily. Roman had raved about fish and chips; Remus is excited to try for himself.

And soon—very soon—a building Remus has only seen in sketches:

JANUS JAMES is on the building above an awning, and Remus pulls his Dad up to the window, gawking at the mannequin.

The mannequin is wearing a dress that would look perfectly at home in a Disney movie: a full, ballgown style skirt, dramatic lace details, the back studded with buttons like pearls.

They’ve also put a Vespa in the display. A full, real white Vespa!

“Wow!” Remus says.

“Well, I had to do something while you were away at camp,” Dad says, amused, and Remus curses himself again: what if this had been a design that Roman had seen a hundred times before?!

There’s a mannequin clearly meant to be a spouse, too, in a suit that matches-mostly-but-not-too-matchy, in Remus’ professional opinion; he stares up at it thoughtfully.

“You know who would look beautiful in that?” Remus says, pointing. “Like, really beautiful?”

“Who?” Dad says, still examining the display with a critical eye.

“You.”

That gets Dad’s attention. “Me?!”

“You look really good in white and pearls!” Remus says, gesturing to his outfit today; Dad’s added a matching brown coat to his flowy pants, and the buttery brown satchel is resting casually on his shoulder. Remus is frankly uncertain how he still looks like he could be on the cover of a magazine after walking through city streets for so long.

Dad snorts, reaching over to gently tweak his ear. “I think this jet lag is making you a little loopy.”

Remus cannot deny that. Especially in comparison to what must be Baseline Normal Roman Behavior.

“C’mon,” Dad says, physically turning him away from the window and towards the door. “Let’s go see what all the fuss is about.”

They enter the boutique, and Remus, wary of his near miss with the window, tries his absolute best to act like he’s never seen the inside before.

But it’s really something.

There’s flowy white gowns made of almost every material and style Remus can think of, and quite a few he can’t even name; suits are tucked alongside one side of the building; and Remus can’t get much of a closer look at the impressive chandelier or the couches meant for people to spectate dress shopping without losing track of his Dad, who is heading for a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY with the sort of confidence that, Remus assumes, can only come from having his name on the building.

Remus falls into step beside him as Dad traverses up the stairs, past a few assistants who bid them both hello and keep going, and finally, he opens a door ahead of them.

“All right, I’m here,” Dad announces, removing his jacket and satchel and tossing them onto a nearby chair without breaking stride on his way to the mode.

Remus gapes safely at the scene before them. Makeup artists, lighting technicians, the director of photography, and some of who must be Dad James employees who are fixing the train of the models’ dress all turn to look at him.

“Ah, we’re saved,” says the woman who Remus is pretty sure is Vendela. “Sorry—we don’t know what to do with the veil…”

“If she wears it, it covers the back of the dress,” the photographer explains, “if she doesn’t, it looks—”

“Incomplete,” Dad finishes for him. “Quite right. Now,” he addresses the model, “can you try turning sideways with your chin up?”

The model positions herself accordingly.

“Yes, I see the problem,” Dad says, putting a thoughtful hand to his chin. “Can I have the veil?”

An assistant quickly hands it over.

“Roman, darling?”

Remus startles, not expecting to be included in Grown Up Business Of Import.

“Pass me one of those hats on display in the window, will you please?”

Remus scuttles over to the display in question; he’s not really sure why his Dad has requested a hat rather than a tiara (several on display to the right) or a jeweled headpiece (one’s already attached to the veil, but there are more options in the display to the left) and hesitates at the sight of his options.

He picks the two fanciest—tophats, one entirely black and one entirely white—and moves to his Dad, holding them up for approval.

“Which do you like best?” Dad prompts him.

Remus cannot help but feel like this is some kind of test.

“The white one,” he says.

His Dad shoots him a smile, quick and secretive, and takes it before schooling his face back into a businesslike, stern expression. “Me too.”

The sense of approval washes over Remus with the enormity of an ocean wave.

“Try this,” Dad says, doing some sort of magic to affix the veil to the hat and passing it to the model. “Yes, toss the veil straight back and turn, I want to make sure the detail comes through…”

And as the model turns, Remus suddenly understands why he went for a hat rather than a tiara or a headpiece: the hat’s taller than a tiara or a headpiece would be, making the veil a bit shorter, which means the detail on the back of the dress is much more obvious.

Dad steps back, too, out of path of the camera, as various assistants and the photographer and director make sounds of approval and ahhs.

“See that? Beautiful, how it falls just there,” Dad says, then, to the model, “Don’t worry about the bouquet as much, just remember to look happy, it is,” with a sarcastic smirk, “your wedding day. What number is it now, your fifty-seventh shoot you’ve done with us?”

That does make the model laugh, and the camera goes off with a great flashbulb pop, and Remus witnesses his first ever high-fashion photoshoot.

Dad is too cool.

⁂

There must be something in his face by the time they get to the chippy, because Dad calls the chauffeur to come meet them there and drive them the rest of the way home.

As they wait—for both the orders and the car—Remus takes his chance.

“Dad?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Doesn’t designing all these wedding gowns ever make you think about getting married again?”

There is something almost like panic in his Dad’s eyes. Interesting.

“Or at least,” Remus pushes, “make you think about the F-word?”

“The F-word!” Dad exclaims.

“My father,” Remus says, trying to look innocent and probably failing, but Dad is too preoccupied by letting out the relieved laugh of a parent who realizes they get to live another day without explaining profanity to a child.

“Oh, that F-word.”

Remus raises his eyebrows at him.

“Well—no, actually,” Dad says. “I’ve never worn a wedding gown, you see, much less when I married the F-word.”

Dad’s name is called; they shuffle forward to accept their boxes of greasy food, then back to their waiting place. Remus thinks it might be a little bit torturous to wait until they get all the way back before eating this.

“You can’t avoid the subject forever,” Remus says. “Can you tell me what he was like, at least?”

His Dad sighs, chewing the inside of his mouth, before:

“He was quite lovely, to tell you the truth,” he says, then, quieter, “when we met, he was actually entirely lovely. Lovelier than I thought I’d ever… well.”

That tracks well with Remus’ standing of Pa, but Roman doesn’t know that.

“Did you meet him here in London?” Remus pushes.

“No—we met on the QE2.”

“The what?”

“The Queen Elizabeth II. It’s an ocean liner, it sails from London to New York,” Dad says. “You know how I am about flying, and I suppose your father wasn’t too fond of it either, and the opportunity presented itself—he told me he’d always wanted to try a cruise.”

Remus waits, quiet.

“We met our first night on board the ship, we were seated next to each other at dinner, and I suppose that’s history. He’s an American, you know.”

Remus digs deep for an appropriately sappy, Roman-esque question.

“Was it love at first sight?”

Nailed it.

Dad simply laughs, cranes his neck, and says, “Oh, look, there’s the car!”

Remus lets out a little sigh to himself, but he lets the inquisition go as his Dad shuffles the boxes and opens an umbrella for them both on their mad dash to the car, trying their best to avoid any puddle splatterings.

It’s not like, Remus reflects gleefully, I don’t have loads of time to keep asking him all sorts of questions.

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