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chantsdemarins · 10 months

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Find Tom: Part 2

(a little new art too)

The whole "soccer era" Tom was the push I needed to jump back into a Tom fic, although I am by far much more comfortable just sticking with Loki. I hope this isn't cringey. It’s not that great but I feel like it needs to be posted. 😑

⚠️It's mature so no under 18 readers!

❤️It's a love poem with not a lot of plot!

☠️I used some new smutty words

Lastly, I truly appreciate anyone who takes the time to read my work! No comment is too small, no reblog is unfelt. I wouldn't do any of this if I didn't have readers. You mean the world to me.

@lovelysizzlingbluebird @mischief2sarawr @five-miles-over @lokischambermaid @lokisgoodgirl @mochie85 @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @kats72 @fictive-sl0th @sailorholly @tbhiddlestan83 @peaches1958 @huntress-artemiss @goblingirlsarah @jennyggggrrr @mjsthrillernp @wolfsmom1 @lady-rose-moon @mygfloki @buttercupcookies-blog @lokixryss @simplyholl @eleniblue @kingtwhiddleston

Thank you-thank you-thank you!

Read Find Tom Part 1

He had stayed an extra week-you had called in to work with hope and a prayer you wouldn’t lose your job.

How could you have known that the remarkable business of bedding a movie star not only included being passionately taken on every mid-modern furnishing capable of withstanding Tom’s athleticism but also came replete with nuanced discussions of such things as little-known facets of British history?

A mere night with this man would have been impossible. His words alone filled the time so completely while his cock took up the rest of the hours left in the day. You needed a lifetime but would have to settle for a week. You also felt like Tom’s spare thoughts were enough to earn him a second Cambridge degree.

You often found yourself pouring strong coffee between glasses of Cab to keep your mind sharp enough to ask intelligent follow-up questions. Which you always did. It was impossible not to notice how his conversational ability effervesced through him, a surging sparkle that galvanized in his eyes, creating a disproportionate lure and the impulse to return the enchanting discourse in kind. Over the course of the week, you had time to observe how many of Tom’s features would appear as backdrops to his emotions.

Like the plane of his nose, its pristine alpine slope, when he was grinding his hips into you. Or how his smile consumed half of his face while his lips found yours.

His eyes were mesmerizing vehicles of his intellect like twin comets streaking the sky. You had to watch them. You couldn’t take your own eyes off them. He saw not only you but what was beyond you, possibly what you would become. He had a witchy sense.

Also, strangely when you least expected it, a pallor of sadness would also occasionally descend between your bodies. A departure from his enthusiastic nature that usually led the way. It was clear something had made a lasting impact on him. Was it another woman? A situation? Strife of the elite? Champagne problems that you could never understand. You wanted to ask him to tell you, but you let the sadness be a silent companion to your passion.

All this revelation was amplified in the vintage quiet of the Sea Ranch cottage you had all to yourselves.

That first night, he took you easily. Perhaps embarrassingly easy. After all, you’d been wet since you saw him from across the crowded room. An uncomfortable distraction while you talked about your lives and listened to the quartet play The Lark Ascending in the main room of the after-party. Something about the tender violin and his deep voice from a place far away. The details. The decorations, wild peach-colored streamers blowing in the ocean wind battering the rafters. A hum in your ears.

The way he leaned in closer when you knew he could hear you. You’d swallow him up if given the chance. Later at his Sea Ranch cottage, what felt like an eternity after so much conversation and ephemera, you were finally a crumpled passionate mess. You remember looking down and seeing him finally enter you, the implications, the spectacle.

You felt your breath leave and never quite return.

Later as dawn coursed through and put the evening to rest, Tom made sure to use the California poppy napkins to tidy you both up but stopped himself short of a full janitorial protocol. There was something a little wicked about his disregard. He liked seeing you wrecked. He liked seeing the lingering elements of the sex you just had, still on you. He didn’t want to make things too neat. You felt exposed but did not want to assemble a wall between you.

The instinct was that of vulnerability. Only sometimes found in casual romance. Only sometimes experienced by you.

By Tuesday, Tom’s effulgent historical discourse had fully found its way into your conversation yet again. You sat on the ocean-facing porch in two aging red deck chairs, a temptation for Tom’s fingers. He easily peeled off their flaking paint and collected it into a neat pile on the property’s 1972 glass Sands Hotel ashtray.

He would continue to move the small pile around with his long finger mixing the chipped paint with the singed tobacco and marijuana wrappings from the day for the hours you talked. Tom would grow quiet only when he rolled his own cigarettes one-handed.

You wondered if he smoked back in London or only when on holiday or business, or as an affront to suffocating California standards of healthy living. The sea wind picked up and moved through his rust-colored hair, salt air conjuring it into full attention.

Apparently, he had forgotten his blow dryer, but now, surprisingly, he seemed besotted with his curls. He ran his hands through them as he resumed your previous conversation.

You tried not to lose your concentration on the details. Tom’s mental ephemera began to have a companion in the details of his being you were collecting in the hallows of your own mind. Topics spun wildly from one to another but often fell back into history and philosophy. You prided yourself in keeping up, even if you had to use the cottage's old ethernet cable and early 2000s PC to look up “ontology.”

"British history is rife with privileged white opportunists, wouldn't you say?" His words were intended for both the relentless waves below and you as he stared off into the inky distance. That was quite the conversation shift. You had both just been talking about Steinerberg, Switzerland. He’d been while filming The Night Manager. He went on.

"Take William Bennett, for example, a complete ass."

"William Bennett?" Repeating his choice of subject often gave you a few vital seconds to collect your thoughts.

"Indeed. He essentially earned his fame from an aquatint print of the New York City fire in 1836. The untold story is that he bought the original sketch from an impoverished Italian artist, Nicolino Calyo. Calyo was there amidst the 700 homes succumbing to flames. Bennett essentially duplicated it, and therefore, as a wealthy, idle British artist, he managed to elude any consequences." You scrunched your nose in a silent response before replying.

"And Calyo?" you finally ventured, already anticipating Tom's reply.

"Naturally, he ended up dead and destitute. The old D and D, if you will.”

You laughed but felt a parallel emerge within you. Your life seemed uncomfortably akin to Nicolino Calyo's. Your mind raced - was Tom, beneath his casual Louis Vuitton button-down, a modern William Bennett? Your thoughts looped back to yesterday's breathy exchange after you’d gone down on him and where you confessed that after a long hiatus, you'd begun painting again. Was he secretly archiving the ideas you'd shared about your nascent series, ready to unearth them during his leisure in Margate - a place allegedly sharing the "spirit and design" of Sea Ranch? While Tom moved your things inside as the chill of the evening overtook you both, your mind was fixated on your previous conversation.

In your carnally vexed state, you'd unveiled your infatuation with the hues of mint green, adobe red, and translucent pink. His curiosity had been particularly piqued by "adobe," which led to a discourse on the disparity between the tangible "true adobe" and the digitized shade we've now associated with the word.

He reflected on his time in New Mexico during the filming of the first Thor movie, where he was first introduced to the color scheme of the American Southwest. It had been a captivating conversation that moved fast. An image of Tom as a reincarnated William Bennett, unveiling his own mint green and adobe masterpiece at a glitzy auction event eight years from now felt lodged in your mind.

Apparently, this emerging anxiety of trusting such a departure from your usual type of lover was hard. None of your other partners would still an idea you had for a painting and make millions from it, but of course, neither would Tom. You were becoming irrational. You poured yourself a new glass of wine, emptying another bottle. Closing your eyes for a moment by yourself while Tom assembled the next part of your evening with his usual intentionality intact, even if he didn’t catch your mood. He tracked even the tiniest details in the short time you’d spent together. You wondered if his sadness had descended, preventing him from noticing.

The next day you made love in the early morning hours, savoring his body. He was deeply asleep his naked luminosity shining against the white of the sheets. Tom still smelled like the rosemary he had picked from the bushes out front. You had watched him in his running shorts and nothing else, springs of rosemary in his hands.

He remarked about how wild rosemary doesn’t grow in England; at least, he didn’t think so. He joked he would take some of it back in his suitcase. He’d smell like California. He’d smell like privileged things like taking an extra week off. At that moment, you had felt his lineage as if a halo surrounded him - an impenetrable force field.

The afternoon found you both in the living room, wrapped in tartan blankets, partaking in an improvised indoor picnic. Tom had run a 10-mile round trip to Jenner's only grocery store. The sight of him returning with baguettes, ham, brie, and more wine bottles settled his existence in your mind as a true enigma. His sweaty, proud smile covered his face completely as held the baguette up to the sky in a triumphant cheer. You ran to him and held him around his middle.

You always loved the way tall skinny guys felt. It was a too-familiar gesture for such a casual situation, you tried to pull back, but he nestled his head into the crook of your shoulder. You closed your eyes and heard only the ambient sound of birds.

The morning of the sixth day, you dressed in his white undershirt and boxer shorts. You both reveled in the amusement of exchanging clothing items to create new outfits each day. The addition of Tom’s packed subtly luxurious clothing gave you both interesting options. His Armani suit jacket with just your black underwear. Tom amusingly in your skirt, paired with his unexpected choice of nude suede Herve ankle boots.

Your scarf and his sleek Ray-Bans. His running shorts were cleverly repurposed as a strapless jumpsuit. In the end, the clothes would always come off. You would be naked. You would have your hands consuming one another in a shocking discovery of hidden pleasure. The responses were the truth.

The thing you both could trust. In his sighs, in the warm breath that haunted your collar bones. In the flush of his cheeks. In the sweat on his forehead or the goosebumps on your arms when his fingertips traced the edges of your body with the precision of an engineer, you held on to the touches, the utterances of euphoria. With every orgasm, you felt the incredible raw honor of being human.

You wanted to slow it down long enough to feel it truly. To feel a king cuming inside you. To feel his cum and his claim while lost in the gravity of his eyes. Those magnificent extensions of his brain were a lifeline. Your bodies became sculptures, black quartz in the hot sun.

By Sunday, the end of your time together had finally found its way to you. He whispered in your ear after pulling out, catching any breath he could. He could only stay until Monday, he had to go back to London. You stared at the slow oscillations of the Casablanca ceiling fan. “I’ll miss this,” your words were an echo of the real words you longed to say.

His eyes closed, lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks.

The woman he would one day choose to marry, you thought, God help her. She would undoubtedly be transformed if your brief moments with Tom were any sign. However, for some melancholic reason, you knew it wasn’t going to be you.

You weren’t destined to be the lover who would eventually turn into a wife. He only had room for the ecstasy of passion and intellectual tête-à-têtes. This affair was incomplete, with no clear conclusion in sight. It wasn't a tale like that of William Bennett and his ill-gotten fame through art theft—a story with a beginning, middle, and end.

No, this was something else entirely. Suddenly, as if he was privy to the endless stream of inner thoughts, Tom spoke. "I met you at the right time, y/n," he said, his piercing blue eyes now open.

He jumped out of bed and casually dressed, slipping on a single item of clothing or, more accurately, an accessory — his Gucci belt wrapped sideways around his bare body. It was difficult to concentrate as he strolled past the expansive windows of the cottage. His muscles and his semi-hard cock were the only things holding that thing in place. Your cheeks grew hot. Tom followed up his emotional revelation with a more practical question.

"Shall I make us eggs on this, our final morning together?”

Without waiting for your response, he ventured into the kitchen, energetically rummaging through the cabinets in search of pepper before swinging open the refrigerator.

As he busily prepared breakfast, his underlying sadness was emerging, defying the rational part of his mind that wished it weren't there. Balancing a glass bowl against his stomach, he swiftly began whisking eggs, his intense gaze fixed upon you. This prompted you to inquire once more, "Why is this the right time, Tom?"

He continued whisking the eggs as he replied, "You found me, truly. Sometimes, we serve that purpose for others, akin to amateur archaeologists. Returning to London, I will be more whole, not less."

You found yourself fidgeting with the hem of Tom's t-shirt you were now wearing.

"You desired this life you have didn't you? You wanted fame?"

"I don't know, y/n. I wanted to do what I loved," Tom confessed, pouring the frothy mixture into the heated pan.

"I doubt it’s that simple, I'm sure you've had to make difficult decisions to reach the top."

"Like parting ways with a beautiful woman I met while on an extended work trip?"

"Yes, exactly like that,” you struggled to say.

"It happens all the time, love, all the time. Regret is my middle name. Thomas Regret Hiddleston."

With that sentence, he refocused his attention on cooking, his hands and mind engaged in a synchronized activity not unlike sex, serving a similar yet less emotional purpose.

You discovered a tablecloth tucked away in the back of a cabinet and spread it over the aged blonde table. Professionally, he placed the plates of food before you.

"Quite the last supper we have here," you remarked, attempting a joke to mask your emerging underlying sadness, though failing in your intended delivery.

Your gaze fell to the floor, unable to meet the sunlight streaming through the windows or Tom's eyes. He continued in his relational eulogy, "Its breakfast, y/n, and many more will come. Someday, you'll have a partner, and I'll have someone too. We'll be enjoying meals with them, and something will trigger a memory. Perhaps we'll be by the sea on vacation, and you'll remember me, and I'll remember you."

So he was thinking similar thoughts as you. He did not feel he met his future wife at a Bay Area film festival after-party. It was a long shot at best. You nervously tried to continue talking.

"Of course, not simultaneously. How could we possibly know if we remember each other at the same time?"

"We will never know, y/n. We will only remember each other out-of-sync for the rest of our lives."

With that bittersweet but strangely truthful statement, he reached across the table and gently took your hand and kissed it. You wouldn’t watch him leave late that night. You skipped the coffee after the wine, and poured yourself another, watching the moon reflect off the darkness of the glass.

#tom hiddleston #loki fandom #mcu #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston x you #loki art #loki fanart #marvel loki

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rainbowsky · 4 months

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What's going on with Aibo town? Is it true that turtle reported it? Any idea about this? Why would🐢 do it?

OK, normally I would delete the fan war-related questions I got about this because no one needs that toxic BS, especially on New year's, but I'm making an exception here.

I am only going to answer this because I'm alarmed by how credulous some people are being and I feel the need to wake up some minds.

Disclaimer: This response is for everyone who asked, not just you, Anon. Nothing is specifically directed at you.

Background

MTJJ had erected a whole entire little town of structures, booths, vendors, decorations and lighting, etc. outside the venue for the NYE event that they were calling 'iBo Town'. The original plan was (allegedly) that it would be up for two days, but after the first day it was dismantled and removed.

There are all kinds of rumors spreading around about how/why that happened, and it's all just a bunch of fanwar BS.

Primary rumors:

Turtles reported it, so it was removed.

XFX reported it, so it was removed.

Evidence? Pretty thin in both cases, although there are a few people on Weibo who claimed to have reported it, including someone MTJJ are claiming was a turtle, and some XFX as well.

OK, critical thinking 101

Some questions to consider:

When someone says something vicious online, is it always true, or do people often say things just to be hurtful?

How is credit/blame allocated in life? Do the people who try to take credit for something often do so falsely? Do the people who try to assign blame always do so fairly?

If XFX and/or BXG claim they reported the town, does that mean they actually did?

If MTJJ claim that XFX and/or BXG reported the town, does that mean they actually did?

If XFX and/or BXG reported the town and the town came down, does that really mean that one thing led to the other, or are there other possible reasons such a town might need to be dismantled?

Do people - particularly in China - have a tendency to try to save face? What lengths would a fandom go to save face if they had to deal with the embarrassment of having their town taken down earlier than they had planned, at such a high profile event where the world was watching?

How much direct knowledge do we have about the permissions, permits, etc. MTJJ had enabling them to erect the town, and if permission was granted, at what level did that permission happen (i.e. is it possible someone granting permission didn't follow all the proper protocol when doing so, didn't have the authority to make such a call and/or didn't get proper clearance from the higher ups)?

If MTJJ had all the proper permits and had all their legal ducks in a row and had the permission of the relevant authorities to have their town there, how likely would it be that any random hater could just call in and shut it all down?

Is it possible they had permits but for some reason those permits failed to accurately cover both days? Is it possible they had permits covering both days but something personal came up requiring the permit holder to leave early? Is it possible they had permits for the structures but failed to get permission for the electricity they were using? Is it possible businesses in the area complained and demanded removal? Is it possible a grandmother living nearby complained about the noise or the green light keeping her awake? Is it possible someone involved in organizing the town broke some terms of their permit contract? Is it possible those running the town realized a second day would be boring/ill-attended? Is it possible the people running the town were cold and uncomfortable and didn't have adequate access to bathroom facilities? Etc. etc. Possibilities = endless.

Which narrative plays better with the sympathies of the audience, galvanizes fandom team building and saves face better: "MTJJ's town was taken down due to safety/security/permit concerns" (implying they hadn't properly organized things at best, were endangering others at worst) or "MTJJ had permission to build this town and it was revoked by the authorities for some unknown/ambiguous/bureaucratic reason" (implying that they are powerless and impotent as a fandom to win any fight to keep it up) or "MTJJ committed to running the town for two days but changed their minds" (implying they are unreliable and totally fine with letting fans down or going back on their word) or "MTJJ had done all this beautiful fan support and haters reported it to get it taken down!!" (implying they are a bunch of sweet, selfless, supportive good people being horribly wronged by evil people who coincidentally happen to be their sworn enemies)?

How truly consequential is any of this? Will we remember it a week from now without attacks by MTJJ jarring our memories?

I could go on like this for another hour or more. There are dozens and dozens of questions I would ask myself before drawing any conclusions about this stuff.

If you believe everything that fans say - especially about their sworn enemies/rivals - I don't know how to help you, Anons, except to suggest you go through a thorough thought process such as the one above before putting on your hair shirts.

As for why someone would report a fan support initiative... Young Grasshopper... 😅

Fan wars are a Thing. A HUGE thing. There have been fistfights at events, people destroying each other's property, people getting arrested, people shutting down the charitable activities of other fans entirely out of fandom hate. People are capable of hateful, hateful things, and fandom can make people behave in crazy ways. No group is totally innocent or immune.

Ultimately we will never know what happened. Everyone involved - on all sides - has incentive to misrepresent things. Regardless of what really happened, the actions of a few individuals should never characterize a group numbering in the millions. Whether this happened because of the actions (or inaction) of BXG, XFX or MTJJ, the 'blame' lies with those individuals, not with the entire group.

Happy new year! 🥳

#bjyx #yizhan #fandom reflections #new year's 2024 #bxg perspectives #solos belong to moling su sect #ask

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thinkingimages · 3 months

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Tadeusz Kantor next to the Goplana | Photo: Witold Witaliński

Goplana and the Elves

The exhibition evokes questions about the rank and status of objects. Goplana with Elves were not meant to be a decoration, but to “embody a stage character”. For Kantor, the object as a “form – a spatial sculpture with a metaphorical function” became an element of ambient art; arranging a space which is meant to “absorb” the viewer.

The object “Goplana and the elves” refers to the play “Balladine” which Tadeusz Kantor directed in 1943 in the Underground Independent Theatre. Unlike in Słowacki’s text, Kantor’s Goplana is not an ethereal nymph. The human figure has been replaced by a simplified, geometric form. The artist’s radical gesture shows a fascination with Constructivism and Bauhaus theater, especially Oscar Schlemmer’s “Triadic Ballet.” Such a departure from realism was also a result of the experience of the occupation and the associated dehumanization that disparaged the human figure.

No objects or props survived from the war. In the second half of the 1980s, with the Cricot 2 Theatre Museum in mind, Kantor began creating replicas of the objects that had not been preserved. They were supposed to evoke ideas that were important to him. “Goplana” was made of galvanized sheet metal and wood, which were the artist’s favourite materials. She is accompanied by two Elves made of light, openwork structures.

Curators: Małgorzata Paluch-Cybulska, Bogdan Renczyński

#Tadeusz Kantor #Goplana and the elves #Balladine #Underground Independent Theatre #Cricot 2 Theatre Museum #theatre #spatial sculpture

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soap-lady · 4 months

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A Wild Chapter Appears!

Hey everyone!

So I used to post a chapter every month of Worthy Opponent but eh...I kinda fell in with a bad crowd or a new fandom. I'll finish this story I promise but I don't have the same motivation I used to.

@arylace Is the best co-writer I could ask for and y'all have her to thank for this being finished.

@fantasiame, @g-arya, @lavenderjunes, @charlietheepic7, @ahenix, @delectablycoolscientist, @kaseykay17, @vio-march-0327, @mewwitch, @vixen-uchiha, @coolspidermanmusicflower, @lady-bee-fechin, @raeuberprinzessin, @symwinter, @frieddonutsweets, @seraphkitty, @friendsofthefairies, @nickristus-dreamer, @khneltea, @jumpingjoy82, @fan-written, @woe-is-me0,@corporeal-terrestrial, @queenmjean, @theymakeupfairies, @dorkus-minimus, @idk-j-go-with-it

Worthy Opponent 26

All of the crucial “will you go to the ball with me?” scenes were filmed and the crew was galvanized into action. Notre Dame Les Oiseaux was about to start classes again so they couldn’t use the theater. So instead they decided to create their own ballroom on a soundstage.

The set dressers and designers went all out, taking inspiration from an actual castle ballroom and adding a few of their own touches. Blue and gold damask wallpaper decorated the walls and they recreated the look of a marble inlaid floor with vinyl laminate. Statues of Greek maidens stood in little alcoves (they were only plaster, but the audience wouldn’t be able to tell.) and genuine glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Amelie arranged for a tiny stage for a string ensemble to perform live music and a dining area with a buffet table. Mme. Jennings insisted all the chairs be covered with satin slipcovers to prevent damaging the expensive costumes.

The younger cast was very excited to be showing off their dance moves but the crew tried not to groan when they thought of all the building and painting involved. Fortunately they were able to find a discount wedding supply store that had some lovely banquet chairs and already made slipcovers. Some were blue and the rest were gold. That was once less headache, courtesy of the mayor’s daughter, who was now using her connections for good. Or at least convenience. Amelie arranged for on-set massage therapists and chiropractors to help the crew after a few incredibly long and stressful days.

The Wardrobe Department was so busy Marinette had to be excused from filming to help sew and Mme. Jennings recruited a few additional seamstresses. It was rumored she’d recruited her cousins from Scotland but the women rarely spoke so no one really knew. They worked at a furious pace and soon costumes for the principal cast and most of the secondary were done.

Everyone was tired and stressed so Amelie declared the weekend before they shot the ballroom scene to be free time and arranged for a team movie night and a takeaway dinner for everyone who wanted it. Some elected to just catch up on their sleep.

Work wasn’t quite done for Marinette, Felix and Luka. She had two costumes to finish and fit and they had to try on their costumes to see if any adjustments needed to be made.

Luka practically bounced down the hall. Marinette wanted to see him alone! Well, she wanted to see him alone to see how well his ball costume fit and whether or not she needed to make any adjustments but still, any time alone with her lately was precious and hard to find.

He told himself he wasn’t jealous of Marinette’s new friendships with the cast. Being an actress could net her some excellent contacts and he’d eat his Jagged Stone guitar pic if Mme. Amelie and Allegra didn’t contact Marinette after the movie to make dresses for them.

It was also good she got along with Allen and Claude. He loved to hear her laugh and their stories of past movie shoots and pranks they played on each other on-set made Marinette giggle and helped keep her anxiety down. Plus, Luka didn’t get the chance to play with musicians who weren’t friends or family and Allen was as talented as he was smart and good looking.

He hadn’t spent a lot of time with Chloe. She barely spoke to him although he’d caught her looking him over once or twice in appreciation. Most of what he knew about her came from what his sister had told him about and it wasn’t flattering. For the last four years she had been bullying the formerly passive Marinette and his shy sister. She’d used her father’s position as Mayor to avoid punishment. Until this year when she suddenly stopped. Perhaps she was too busy trying to survive lycee without her usual enabling teacher and an education staff who told her “Daddy” had no power over them, only the Ministry of Education.

Felix…on the other hand…well, that was complicated.

Felix’s resemblance to his cousin was eerily similar and Marinette did appear to have a type. While Luka was relatively sure she was over Adrien and moving on, he had no guarantee she would move on to him. That was…fine. He’d told her he’d be happy for her no matter who she chose. He’d meant it; he’d back off and leave her alone to make her own choices, even if the person she chose wasn’t him.

That being said, even if he accepted her decisions, he didn’t have to like or agree with them. He’d smile and congratulate her but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt. He might even be a little bit angry. He was allowed to be jealous, wasn’t he? He was allowed to be frustrated.

Luka couldn’t blame Marinette if she was attracted to Felix, looks aside. Felix was smart, charming, talented and confident. He was good-looking and aware of it, even if he didn’t exploit it. Watching the way Felix interacted with his mother and his friends, Luka felt he’d be loyal and respectful if he ever chose a romantic partner. Luka genuinely liked him and wanted to be friends, to hang out and laugh together. Maybe Felix played an instrument too. He should suggest the three of them spend more time learning about each other.

If Luka was honest with himself, he was getting sick of letting go of people he cared about with a smile and a wish for their happiness. He wanted to fight, to prove he was worthy, the better choice.

He wanted to be selfish, just once in his life. He deserved to be someone’s first choice and he wanted that someone to be Marinette.

Luka shook his head as his thoughts continued in loops: love, jealousy, longing, frustration. He couldn’t think that way, not in Paris.

He stopped outside the dressing room door that Marinette told him she’d be in. He took several deep breaths and mentally reminded himself to do some meditation and mindfulness exercises later.

*****

Luka raised his fist to the door and rapped with his knuckles. He didn’t have to wait long before hearing her call out “come in!” and he smiled before opening the door.

Chloe wasn’t sitting in the corner waiting to take pictures of him in costume and he asked Marinette why.

She just shrugged. “She said she had plans with Allen and told me she would get pictures of you in your Founders’ Ball costume when we shot the scene.”

He closed the door behind him. “So, we’re alone?”

Marinette smiled. “It’s been awhile hasn’t it? It seems all we do lately is work work work with hardly any downtime.” She sighed, sounding tired.

Luka grinned. “It’s worth it, isn’t it?”

She laughed, delighting him when her eyes brightened and cheek flushed. “Are you kidding? I’m going to be able to put ‘Costume Designer’ on my resume and I’m not even eighteen yet!”

He nodded and smiled at her. “And on your university transcripts. ESMOD would be drooling to have you after working on a Graham Films production.”

Marinette giggled and he wished they weren’t working so he could snuggle with her while they watched a movie. Or did nothing at all. Well, the money he earned on this film would keep his family literally afloat for months. The pay was leagues better than working as a delivery driver so he could afford to put some money aside for himself.

“And not only are you acting, but you’re helping create the score for a major film production,” her enthusiasm for his success was even greater than his own and he loved that about her. She grinned up at him and it was all he could do not to hug her. “Jagged Stone himself will be begging you to work with him!”

Luka chuckled at the unlikely but fun mental image of his music idol getting down on his knees and begging Luka to come work on his latest album. “Mom would love that.”

She giggled. “Oh, yeah.” She looked at him, still grinning. “It’s mind blowing that the two of them used to work together.” She frowned, thinking. “I wonder why they stopped. Creative differences?”

He remembered the way they’d argued at the docks. “With those two? Probably. But it’s just as likely if they were working with Bob Roth back then, he probably drove them apart so he could make more money promoting Jagged as a solo artist.”

“And your mom is way too independent to let someone like Bob control her,” Marinette agreed and they shared a laugh, thinking about Anarka Couffaine telling Bob exactly what she thought of his management style.

The laughter gradually died away and they were left staring awkwardly at each other.

Marinette’s eyes darted around the room, clearly looking for something else to say. “Um, yeah! Do you want to try on your ball scene costume now?”

He knew it was wrong to smile but even when she was shy and awkward she was adorable. “It’s what we’re here for.”

“I’ll go get it!”

She rushed to the storage room in the back and raced towards him holding a brown clothing bag over her head. She double-checked the outside tag with the inside tag to make sure she had the right costume and then thrust it into his hands. “Go go go! Change!”

She grabbed his waist, turned him around and all but threw him into the changing room before coming back and making sure the curtain was closed. “Come out when you’re done!”

He laughed. He loved his Ma-ma-Marinette.

*****

Luka slid the curtain back and hoped he’d put on everything correctly. “How’s this?”

“I’m sure it’ll need an adjustment here or there but for the most part it’s probably…whoa!”

Marinette nearly dropped her pincushion as she stared at him, eyes wide. “You look so good! It’s like you just walked right out of my sketch!”

He laughed and fiddled with the tie. “I don’t think I have this quite right.”

“Oh, don’t feel bad. Hardly anyone knows how to tie a tie anymore.” She crossed the room and reached for the tie, untying it as she spoke to him. “How do you like it?”

Luka allowed her to pull the tie off him, then raised and lowered his arms and let the fabric move around him. “It’s pretty stretchy and easy to move in.” He ran a hand down the front of the coat. “This isn’t leather.”

“No, it’s suede. Suede is stretchier than leather. It’ll move easier than leather during a sword duel.”

“Very smart.” He looked down at his feet. “I’m not sure dress shoes are really Watson.”

“Me either,” she didn’t look up from the tie she was trying to get out of the three knots he had somehow tied it in. “I was thinking of combat boots, not the modern kind. Mme. Jennings has some vintage that might have been her father’s. Are you still a size forty-five?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think these will still fit you. We might get them to stretch a centimeter but not as much as two.” She finally finished straightening out the tie and looped it back around his neck. “I think I remember how to do this from helping my papa. I’ll try to tie it for you but sooner or later you should learn to tie your own.” She glared up at him. “I can’t always stop to do this if you win a Cesar or a BAFTA you know.”

He smiled but she couldn’t see it. “I’ll do what I can.”

She didn’t seem to be interested in what he was saying while she re-tied the bit of silk around his neck. “I went with Victorian or Regency inspiration for most of the cast but for you I went Edwardian. Still muted colors but softer, lighter material. Not as stiff. I went with a summer wool which has more cotton but still that rough tweed look. It’s also a little stretchy because the fabric has some spandex in it.”

Luka wasn’t listening, he just let the lecture about sewing and design flow over him as he heard her talk about what she loved. Her eyes were bright and interested and her posture was confident. He let her turn him this way and that while she got his tie properly adjusted.

“I also thought a standard vest or waistcoat wouldn’t suit you or Watson so I went with an asymmetrical vest instead.”

Her small hands left his throat, which was good, because he was worried she could feel his pulse. Instead her hands skimmed over his chest and slid down his waist. He knew her touch was completely innocent but he had to close his eyes and try to meditate so he didn’t knock his hands away or worse, pull her closer and kiss her. Every time he tried to remind himself she was getting over someone and wasn’t ready for anything serious, it sounded like more and more of a lie.

Maybe she needed a rebound, someone like…Felix. He looked like Adrien sure but he would also be gone in a few months. Marinette might get hurt but hell, it would be over soon and he would be there to console-

No.

That would be cruel and manipulative, to both Felix and Marinette. He loved her and liked Felix. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize their friendship, especially if Felix could help her with her career. Felix deserved someone who wanted to be with him long term and so did Marinette.

Okay, enough. He had work to do. And was Marinette kneeling in front of him and feeling his legs?

This was his punishment for impure thoughts and nearly succumbing to temptation. Oh, and doing something pretty dirty to Felix too.

“I think your pants need to be hemmed.” She was telling him. “I almost went with white but I thought stark white would look too harsh so I went with cream.”

Really, Marinette?

“Well, they look great.” He looked into the mirror so he wouldn’t be lying.

The black, gray and cream looked fantastic, contrasting without clashing. The straight bottom of the vest betrayed the slightest hint of shirt as he moved but he couldn’t have it too tight. The fingerless gloves were very rock and roll and would help him keep a grip on his sword.

Luka glanced at his hands. “Could the gloves have some metal studs on them?”

“I don’t see why not,” she made a note on her phone and then got back on her knees. “I’m going to hem these pants. Try not to move.”

Oh, this girl was immune to irony. “I’ll do what I can.”

She slid the ankle of the pant’s leg. “How’s this?

He looked down, “how far up can you raise it?”

“About a centimeter and a half. I want the pants cuff to look right.” She adjusted the pants again. “What about now?”

He looked in the mirror. “Perfect.”

Marinette pulled some pins out of her wrist cushion and raised the hem until she was satisfied, then looked at the mirror until the hem was even all around.

Luka admired himself in the mirror again. He loved it. He’d have to be careful not to get anything on it but Mme. Jennings told him they usually had a spare, just don’t take it for granted.

He looked inside the coat and found a long inner pocket roughly the length of a sword. She really did plan for everything. That would save them from having to stop filming to grab them.

She noticed his satisfaction and grinned. “I’m pretty good, aren’t I?”

“You certainly are,” he bowed and found it very easy in his costume, “Your Highness.”

She giggled and curtsied. “Please. We’re friends.” She made an elaborate show of offering him her hand to kiss. “Princess Marinette will do.”

*****

When had he stopped?

When had he stopped thinking of Marinette Dupain-Cheng as an opponent? Worthy or otherwise, he no longer thought of her as an obstacle or an antagonist.

That was not to say he’d stopped enjoying their verbal sparring matches. She was quick-witted and easily matched his intellect, matching every barb he threw at her with an adeptness that was as impressive as it was playful.

She no longer scowled at him when he needled her and took his criticisms of her acting with good grace and used them to improve her performance without taking offense. And to his surprise, he longer wanted to offend her.

He could admit to himself (and perhaps his mother) that he didn’t like her when he first saw her. She was lovely, with beautiful blue eyes and soft pink lips. Unfortunately she had been crushing on his oblivious cousin, who at the time had been pining for a superhero. It was pathetic and sad because anyone deserved better than to be someone’s second choice.

Now Adrien was dating Kagami and she seemed good for his cousin; strong-willed and fiercely independent. She could teach him how to stand up for himself; he brought out a gentler side of the fencer. They balanced each other rather well.

And for him? Well, he wasn’t really interested in relationships or romance in general but he thought he’d be a good partner for someone like Marinette. She needed more confidence in herself and someone to teach her how to be selfish every now and then and say no. He supposed she could teach him how to better express his emotions and challenge him and bring his ego down to size when he needed it. Which, if he listened to Allen or Chloe, was often.

Then again, there was Luka.

It would be easy but cowardly to dislike Luka. He was level-headed and mature and when Felix was being difficult or demanding, the older boy would just smile knowingly at him and Felix would feel like a nursery schooler having a tantrum. And he’d be good for Marinette. He knew how to calm her through her anxiety attacks and quelled her self-doubt. He was strong enough for her to lean on and teach her how to relax; that she was good enough.

He was growing fond of both of them and that surprised and worried him.

It was easier, simpler to be alone.No one could hurt, judge, or use you. He’d been through that before and swore he’d never allow himself to be that naive or vulnerable again. Yet, now he was thinking of the Quantic Kids and even Chloe as friends he could confide in. They had fun, whether it was acting, breaking a room full of garbage or a tabletop game. It would hurt to lose them now. He could, and he would survive, but it would hurt.

He’d rather not think of what it would be like to lose Marinette either. She was sweet and bubbly and optimistic but also had a snarky side he appreciated. She wasn’t tempted or intimidated by wealth, she was good at planning and strategy. Sometimes Felix wondered what his life would have been like if he’d met her when they were both younger. They might have hated each other, or been best friends.

But when had he begun to change his mind about her?

Perhaps it was when she pinpointed Lila Rossi as the person sabotaging the film and why. She immediately began to plan and even had contingencies in case her original plan failed. He appreciated someone who could plan almost as well as himself.

Oh, she was heavily flawed as well. She was humble to the point of being self-effacing, she gave so much of herself she sometimes forgot to save something for herself. She was independent and refused to accept help from him unless absolutely necessary. He found her persistence and tenacity annoying when she turned it against him.

Marinette became hyper fixated when something interested her but it was a pain in the ass to motivate her if something didn’t appeal to her. Then he had to fall back on his old habit of annoying her until she lost her temper and did what he wanted without her realizing it. And oh, it made her even angrier when she realized she’d been had!

She didn’t take his behavior lying down. More than once he’d found himself tangled in some homemade trap she’d made and then there was the time he found everything in his office that wasn’t in the safe on the roof. Including most of the clothing he’d been wearing. While taking a nap. He never knew how she’d done it and when he demanded to know she’d just smiled and said, “That’s too easy. Where’s the fun?”

She hadn’t attended a private school and lacked a pedigree but he’d much rather have her in his life than some thoroughbred social climber. Or his superficial uncle who insisted on keeping up appearances and hiding his middle-class background. Marinette’s lack of pretense showed more integrity and, to be honest; class.

She wouldn’t be bought or sold and she wouldn’t be talked down to. She just needed a bit more self-confidence. More of a spine, but not to the extent Adrien did. She needed a bit of polish to show her for the precious pearl she was. That and someone who could protect themselves and her. Well, perhaps not protect her, probably someone to fight beside her.

Felix shook his head to clear it. He didn’t have time to muse about anyone. He still had a movie to film, a supervillain to expose, and a city to protect. His conflicting feelings could wait. He put the girl out of his brain.

He stood up and took a few deep cleansing breaths to clear his mind of wayward thoughts and focus on the scene he was about to act in. Later he would go to the Wardrobe Department to be fitted for his ball ensemble. He wondered what Marinette had designed for him…

…

Dammit.

*****

When Felix was reaching for the door it burst open and Luka nearly ran into him.

“Sorry!” Luka backed up a step and apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention, just trying to get away.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “From who?” Was Chloe hitting on him? Was Lila? He didn’t think either of them were near the dressing rooms today.

“From a very cute girl who was running her hands all over me and kneeling in front of me-” Luka broke off and frowned. “I’m sure she was being incredibly innocent but my mind didn’t take it that way and I had to get away before I could stop myself from touching her back.”

Felix looked all over the other boy. His cheeks were flushed and his breathing was a little heavier. “Why didn’t you tell her to stop?”

Luka just shrugged. “I kinda didn’t want her to.” He gave Felix a similar look; examining him without being too intrusive. “I understand if that’s not your thing but I was in a bit of a difficult situation.”

He pointed to the hallway and Felix slid away to let him by. “No judgment,” he told the other boy, “but you’ll have to understand if I think you’re missing something.”

He winked and left and Felix was just confused. He heard Marinette’s voice from deeper within the dressing room. “Felix? Is that you?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Apparently I’m here for you to put your hands all over me,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I’m here to get my costume fitted,” he amended and she didn’t seem to hear what he said the first time.

“Okay. Come on in.”

He walked in the room and closed the door behind him.

Marinette was waiting for him, looking crisp and competent. She wore gray houndstooth dress shorts and a black turtleneck. Her hair was up in a bun and she looked professional and adorable.

Stop it.

She beamed at him. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Your costume is done but I want to make some adjustments if something is too long or too tight. And I want you to be happy with what I’ve designed for your character.”

He couldn’t help smiling just a little back. “I’m just an actor. I don’t get pissed off and moan about uncomfortable costuming. It’s not my place or right to complain.”

She gave him a flat look. “In a Graham Films Production? I’m pretty sure the co-director does have the right to speak up.”

Marinette went to the back to get him a costume to try on. After verifying the tags matched, she handed it to him.

“Hope you like it.”

Some mischievous part of him prompted him to ask. “Are you sure you shouldn’t help me change?

He thought she would get flustered. Maybe she’d be angry and yell at him. Then they would argue like their characters always did and he’d feel like everything was normal and there was no need to feel awkward.

Instead she smiled at him, lips curved. Her eyes looked him up and down, almost sultry. “My dear. You should be so lucky.”

She pushed him into the dressing room and closed the curtain.

*****

Felix was rather proud of himself for being able to tie a cravat on his first try and looked at what he could see of himself. Unfortunately the dressing room didn’t have a mirror so he would have to leave the room to see his reflection. A ploy of the Wardrobe Department, no doubt. It cut down the number of actors who damaged valuable costumes after realizing how unflattering they were. Well, he wasn’t vain. He didn’t care.

He slid back the dressing room curtain and looked at the mirror.

Okay, he did care.

The long black dress coat was a strange hybrid between a Regency and a Victorian cut and he liked it better, historical accuracy aside. The white shirt contrasted with the black and he thought the gray trousers tied them together.

He looked at the dark gold waistcoat. Another excellent choice that would bring attention to his hair color.

Running his hands over the vest he felt a side pocket. He looked from his reflection to Marinette. She looked satisfied, even pleased with herself. He liked the confident look on her face.

“It’s just big enough for a watch and chain,” he told her.

She smiled widely. “I bet you already have one.”

“Helen’s granddad. It’s supposed to go to the eldest but she’ll let me borrow it.”

She nodded. “Raise your arms. I want to see how easily you can move in it.”

He did so.

“Hold them out, shoulder height.”

He paused. “T-pose?”

“Sure.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say she enjoyed giving him orders and ask if she had any dominating tendencies. That would have been incredibly unprofessional and could have gotten him and his Mother’s production company sued.

But what if she’d said yes?

You’re an idiot, me.

Marinette watched him pose. Her teeth worried her lower lip slightly and he found himself staring at her mouth before he forced his gaze away from her face. He looked straight ahead and tried to focus on…anything else.

“So, how was filming? I’ve been in the dressing room most of the day so I don’t know how scenes I’m not in are going.”

Ah, a neutral topic, something he would be confident talking about. It would relax him. Very smart.

“First, I did a scene with Barrington and Headmaster Doyle. They were discussing security for the ball and whether or not they should hire a private company.” The company would be owned by Jayden’s relatives and he would hack the school’s mainframe to make sure they got hired instead of the school’s original security company. That would give the heroes more eyes on any suspicious people. “Then Doyle and Professor Burnham-Hui discuss old times at school and how they miss Professor Akunin.” It was a great way to humanize the adult characters and give them nuance.

“Fleshing out characters beside our mains? Awesome.” Marinette took a step towards him then hesitated. “Um, Felix? I need to check the seams and the fit. That means I need to touch you.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I’d like permission to touch you, if that’s all right.”

Felix stiffened, but only for a moment. He knew Marinette and was confident she wouldn’t take advantage to be inappropriate. Plus, she was his friend now. To his surprise, he trusted her to be respectful.

“It’s fine,” he told her, “I trust you not to…I don’t know…throw me down and ravish me.”

He meant it as a joke and wanted to needle her but she disappointed him. All she did was give him a flat look and say, “again, you’re not that lucky.”

Marinette got closer to him and reached up, touching his neck and then hooking a finger between his skin and the cravat. “Is it too tight? Can you breathe comfortably?”

He inhaled and then exhaled to show her. “Just fine.”

She nodded and then ran her hands from his underarms down his sides. “The seams look good. Plenty of room I hope? You don’t look like you have any trouble moving.”

Her hands moved lower then stopped. She looked into his eyes and her expression looked professional. Hell, she almost looked clinical as if she was giving him a medical exam. It left him feeling oddly disappointed.

“Hey, Felix?” She frowned and the skin between her brows wrinkled. “I want to check the waistband. I’ll just pull on the belt loops, I promise.”

What was it about her that made him want to make snarky comments and purposely pick fights with her when they were alone? A small part of him was worried he was blending his character with himself, something he hadn’t done since he was a child until this part. Sure, sometimes he had trouble breaking character but that was only for an instant and never when away from set.

Perhaps there was something about Marinette.

At first he thought she was just another bubble-headed fangirl obsessed with his cousin. She might have had a little talent but not much substance. As he got to know her he became impressed by her drive and ambition, her refusal to be intimidated by him. He liked her humor and wit most of all.

She was creative and had a knack for planning. She could be insightful and had integrity and leadership abilities.

It was a shame there wasn’t another Heraldry Miraculous for her to wield. He would have named her Nimue or something similar.

He felt her hands checking the seams along his calves and then stopped at his pants cuffs. He blinked back into awareness. “So uh…how’s the fit so far?”

“I was just about to ask you. The waist feels loose without being baggy. Better than Luka’s; his seemed a little tight.”

Felix clenched his teeth to keep from laughing. Really, she was either innocent or oblivious when it came to teenage boys.

Marinette raised the fabric near his ankles and he felt her hand on his bare skin. Her touch was light and gentle, barely there and even soothing. “I think your pant hem needs to come down about a centimeter. What do you think?”

He looked down and saw what she meant. Yes, the pants were slightly too short. He wasn’t sure how that happened. “I guess you didn’t take my measurements correctly.”

She glared up at him and he felt oddly vindicated. “You really shouldn’t insult me when I have access to sharp objects,” she reminded him and made a note on her phone. “We’re done here. I’ll shut the curtain and you can change.”

She was gone before he could make another smartarse remark.

As he was changing he saw Griff looking at him from his vest pocket. He had the feeling his kwami didn’t approve of his behavior towards Marinette. It wasn’t their business.

“Really, chick? That’s no way to speak to a lady like that.”

Felix paused as he buttoned his shirt. “A lady like what? My co-star? A collaborator? An ally?”

Griff made a huffing sound. “A possible future duchess.”

Felix couldn’t help it. He laughed. “I have no plans to ever marry.”

The kwami looked alarmed. “What of the family line?”

“In vitro and a surrogate.”

Griff ruffled his feathers. He sensed something exceptional about this girl, just as he had that blue-haired rival of his. Chicks these days, still wet from the shell and thought they knew everything.

*****

After Felix had left Marinette could finally let Tikki out of her purse. “Ugh. I thought he’d never leave,” the kwami complained.

“Same,” Marinette sighed and rubbed her hands together as if to remove the sensation of Felix’s body from her fingers. “What was with all the insults? Here I am trying to be professional and he’s acting like an ass.”

“Maybe it was because you had your hands all over him and he was…uncomfortable?” Tikki nearly said “enjoying himself too much” or “flustered” but she didn’t want to risk her charge developing any feelings beyond friendship for the boy. His past behavior aside, there was something unusual about Felix she couldn’t quite put her paw on. That, and even though she once would have paired Marinette and Adrien, she now thought they were better off as partners.

Besides, there was Luka and he was clearly better for Marinette, at least for now. She could relax and be herself around him and Longg and Sass sang his praises when they weren’t fighting over who was the better kwami for the musician.

Marinette shrugged then grinned, looking a little sly. “He’s put on some muscle lately but I like Luka’s body better.”

Tikki giggled. Yes, Lukanette! “Is that why you took an extra long time checking the fit on his costume?”

The girl blushed as she thought of feeling the boy’s pulse under her fingertips and the warmth of his skin. He always smelled really good from the bay rum shaving soap his mom had gotten him for his birthday. “Maybe. What can I say? I’m a normal teenage girl.”

“You’re a pervert,” Tikki accused but without malice. Her mischievous grin ruined her attempts to scold her charge.

“Like I said. Normal teenager.”

*****

"Why am I a little spoon?" Felix asked with a pout as he was spooned by Chloe, clutching Mr. Cuddly to his chest.

The beanbag they shared was soft and plush, like those squishmallow toys Allegra loved. It was brought in by Allegra, an odd chunky lavender colored dragon plush made bean bag, with some pillows that were made of the same material but with a pink cow pattern Claude found. It would fit two comfortably, maybe three pushing it. Often, most of the Quantic Kids fought over who got the bean bag, and this time Felix and Chloe were lucky to be there the fastest. Last time Felix tried he was tackled by Claude while Allegra took the bean bag as her prize. He was so miffed he didn't heal her D&D character when they managed to play.

The lights of their chill room were dimmed, there was a tablet playing an old western film; Griff and Milvii were watching. Eyes dilated and raptured at the so-called modern knights of the Wild West as the kwami declared. To anyone watching it was as if the blondes would have undoubtedly fallen asleep watching a movie. A great cover story for any unsuspecting staff.

"You're holding Mr. Cuddly," Chloe supplied as if the most natural answer in the world.

Felix tightened his grip lightly on the teddy bear that smelled of the essential oils Chloe generously sprayed on it. It was meant to be relaxing, and the refreshing scent of mint and lavender did soothe him. The soft fur was nice under his palms and it was super cuddly as his namesake. Everything perfect for a nap, Felix still didn't sleep. His mind still raced, so much was going on that it seemed so easy to fail. Maybe he should have done paperwork as he told Luka and Marinette?

It seemed wrong somehow to take a nap, the idea of guilt had him frown and tense. To just not give 100 percent in everything. It wasn't his style, Felix was nothing if not tenacious and driven. He worked hard to fulfill his goals. He would succeed in everything. Whether it be acting, directing, or this new superhero thing. Maybe, somewhere on the bottom of the responsibility pole, he could have a social life and new friendships. The image of Marinette and Luka flashed in his mind and he felt guilty. He’d turned down a chance to nap with them in order to spend time with a neglected Chloe.

"Stop thinking, you're not being a good pillow." Chloe grumbled at his ear, tightening her hold on Felix until he whined in protest. "Naps are bandaids to the soul, or Claude claims. That means no thinking."

"I can't just turn it off, Bitchoise." Felix grumbled, a bit helpless, which had the girl sigh and move.

Felix felt a bit off kilter as he suddenly felt the loss of Chloe's body pressed against his back. It was quite sudden and he turned back looking over his shoulder to see that the girl had adjusted herself propping herself up. The strawberry cow print pillow now supported her elbow as she rested her chin on her hand.

She dragged him over and Felix went from looking over his shoulder to on his back looking at the ceiling. Felix felt his hands tighten on Mr. Cuddly defensively, keeping it close to the chest because Chloe was less likely to pinch or tickle him if he had one of her most prized possessions at hand. If the kwami noticed or not Felix was unsure. As far as he could tell, the two stayed glued to Clint Eastwood and whatever movie he was in that they watched.

"Talk it out." Chloe spoke, gesturing with her free hand that Felix should continue and do that. Talk it out, it being the closest either blonde would readily admit to feelings. Felix made a face filled with his distaste and he snarked back at her.

"I must tell Claude he's doing wonderful in your empathy program, Allen also for writing the code."

"Stop it." Chloe snarked, flicking his nose with her free hand. "No deflecting, you don't let me do it so pay up."

Felix groaned, pressing his face to the soft fur of Mr. Cuddly if only to avoid Chloe's knowing gaze. It felt ever since she was bonded with Milvii she saw everything. As if the perception of the kwami bled into the holder; which was unfair. Felix wasn't feeling particularly courageous. He was feeling so weird and confused. Oddly bereft and he wasn't sure if it was one specific thing or a combination of anything.

"I don't know what it is." He confessed. "But I feel like a rope fraying on the ends a bit."

"Hmm…" Chloe hummed thoughtfully as she took into consideration his words. "I'm going to say stuff and you'll listen."

"When you put it like that it means I won't like it." Felix groaned, sinking deeper into the bean bag.

"Don't care, stop fussing." Chloe flicked him again if only to catch his attention, and it wasn't often she could. "You're not a crocodile."

"Your observations are astounding, madam." Felix snarked, he couldn't help it. "What next? I'm not a bear?"

"You're not, maybe an English badger if we’re lucky. Sadly you're a certified bastard with pedigree to match" Chloe followed him easily. "But as I was saying, Crocodiles don't need to chew their food, they bite off and swallow; you’ve been doing that too lately, and you keep on biting off more than you can handle. You're running yourself ragged trying to do a lot and looking cool the entire time.”

“I am prepared and capable with all of my tasks. I'm Felix Graham de Vanilly, we’re very resourceful.” Felix defended himself, but the words sounded weak and hollow even to himself.

She gave him a “you’re not fooling anyone” look which reminded him of his mother. “Fe, we both know that is a lot of bs. I mean, actor and director, ok, both high intensity but in the same wheelhouse. I am willing to admit you’re very capable, resourceful and good with the networking to have brought an outstanding team to back you up. You're reminding Gabriel Agreste that he's nothing but a Boomer and you will defeat him.”

Chloe could tell she didn’t have him convinced just yet and sighed, throwing her hand in the air. “That plan is fun and isn't constant. We get our opportunities and have a field day. I mean it took you days to ride off the high you got showing his little secretary who’s boss which was very nice. The hero gig? Yeah that's taking a lot of our time, I mean--" Chloe paused to yawn as if proving her point. "We're tired, and you focus on what more you can do than learning to juggle what you got. So shut up and nap, you need beauty sleep. If only to make your personality more tolerable to the nice folk."

Felix wanted to protest. Say something, anything to prove her wrong. Sadly there wasn’t much to counter her offers. He was running himself ragged, a rope overused and beginning to fray. He didn’t like it but it was the truth. Dissatisfied with his mortal limitations which were showing up more and more since he’s been in France, Felix sighed, defeated. He needed a massage, a nap, and a nice hour or two of absolutely nothing. Now was sadly not the time, so wasting the precious minutes they all grabbed to sleep felt wrong.

“I might concede…for now, but I’m tired so let’s try to nap.” Felix spoke quickly, turning and resting his cheek on the pillow once again ignoring the satisfied smirk Chloe had as she hugged him once again. It seems the little talk worked in untangling a part of his head for now as he felt himself slipping off into slumber. The low noise of the tablet was soothing like any lullaby, the soft and plush beanbag and pillows were grand, and the weight of another person made him feel less lonely.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Sleep, while difficult to achieve at first, was welcomed eagerly by overworked, tired heroes that basically had their lives divided by two or three different directions. Four if the overachievers were asked, which were sadly most of the heaviest hitters.

While exhausted teens took the fleeting moments to nap with relish; momentarily disconnecting from all responsibilities in their dreams, relaxed and deep in slumber, somewhere in Paris a certain man was making plans to ultimately disrupt momentary serenity. He didn't know that the outcome of this particular plan would backfire spectacularly on his face. With this instance he will gain even more enemies. Not that they knew about it, but this is how it happened.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Hidden from the prying eyes of Paris there was a man. Sunlight shone through an ornate window illuminating the room. Butterflies began to flutter about as it has happened every time he stepped in with ill intent. Hawkmoth thought it was time for a new plot to enact his schemes. Take the miracle jewels of Paris's favorite crime fighting duo and do with it his ultimate evil plan.

"A new day, a new opportunity." Hawkmoth spoke to his butterflies. “Let’s go find one, shall we?”

Hawkmoth tapped into the intrinsic value of the butterfly. Yet for transformation there needed to be a catalyst. Caterpillars had a catalyst that encouraged them to transform and with the miraculous Hawkmoth could manipulate humans to do the same. Yet it was difficult if the circumstances weren't in his favor. 'Twas a delicate balance that Hawkmoth employed, finding the best scenarios to awaken.

He focused and felt himself connect. A network of all living beings lighting up like a map in his mind. Pulsating and illuminated with the colors of emotion. It always felt overwhelming when he stretched his consciousness so far, so he began to refine it. Remove his connection from plants and animals, while they could be good for distractions it wasn't his intent at this time.

Now Hawkmoth looked at the silken strands of so many potential akuma. Eager to see one who was ready for a little nudge to become a beautiful and terrifying butterfly. Colors sparked in his mind's eye, the network pulsing akin to a heartbeat and in an array of colors. He looked out for specific feelings. Anger, sadness, heartbreak, righteous fury, hatred; anything that would birth a worthy Akuma to further his goal.

Oh, longing. The emotion enticed the villain from where he stood and he delved deeper. Ignoring most of the city until the faintest tendrils of his power connected him to the emotion that piqued his interest.

Looking at that sad graying red of a once vibrant love. A young teenage girl was in love. Aren't they always? She was in love with a classmate who didn't know her, one-sided love at that.

Hawkmoth focused on sending his consciousness further into seeing the reasoning behind the emotions. Memories filtered through his mind.

The young girl was in love with this boy since they were young children. For so long she had been in a friend group and she helplessly pined because she had no courage. She was working hard on building her confidence, experimenting with make up and fashion. Joining the same music club, working hard to learn her instrument so she could spend time with him.

The girl was sincere and tried so hard. She even worked a part time job to buy him a present on becoming the first chair in their club. She had just bought the present and was heading home when she saw something. It was the boy, looking shy and sweet. Laughing with a pretty girl both holding hands when a breeze dropped some leaves onto their hair and taking the opportunity of 'removing the leaf' from each other's hair they stole a kiss. It was romantic and beautiful, a young love’s date and the girl felt despair.

Prodding further it seems that the other girl knew of her feelings, and assured him that she would support her. What betrayal! Such longing! The girl believed if she had the chance, if he would give her a chance, she would prove how much better she was. Hawkmoth couldn't really resist. One of his little purple butterflies fluttered down on her and landed on something starting a direct connection between the two.

"Cry not, sweet child." Hawkmoth crooned, his voice soft and delicate to not startle the girl. He imagined a younger Emilie crying and the tenderness was easy to convey. "Your tears are precious."

"Wh--who's there?" The girl gasped looking around for the origin of his voice. She was in her room, she had run home and was crying on her bed. The opened window showed a beautiful parisian scene but no one there to speak to her.

"I am a friend, and one who's seen your plight." Hawkmoth spoke in the form of a greeting. "I saw the depths of your pure love and the pain of your betrayal. It is so awful that a friend would betray us that way."

"Marie isn't my friend;" The girl spat hotly standing up in fury, the pulse of anger was a wonderful spark. She would be a good akuma. "Or else, she isn't anymore, maybe she was never a friend to begin with." The girl muttered deflated staring at a picture framed on her wall. Of her and that so-called friend Marie, they looked happy. The girl was sad all over again. The ember of her anger was extinguishing, and Hawkmoth couldn't have that.

"Of that I am sorry, child." Hawkmoth soothed, softening the girl's sadness with his limited power connected to this temporary champion, and subtly fanning her anger. "I know not who to pity more. You for the betrayal of a so-called friend, or for poor Laurent. He's innocent and being manipulated by Marie. If she couldn't be a friend to you, obviously she cannot be left with Laurent's heart. She will destroy him."

The honeyed words once spoken, seemed to plant themselves deep into the girl. Flashes of emotions pulsated. Shock, pity, love, betrayal, sadness…all culminating in one perfect emotion. Rage so potent that the light seemed blinding in their connection. Hawkmoth couldn't help the smile, he has her where he wants her.

"We have to save Laurent." Hawkmoth spoke urgently, keeping his kind facade.

"We do, I have to. How didn't I think of this before? Oh mon dieu." The girl gasped, pressing a fist to her chest.

"I can't do much by myself; but together we can save Laurent." Hawkmoth proposed. "All I ask is that you also help me; you see some people betrayed me too. They stole something important and everyone praises the thieves. I so do want the miraculous back."

"Of course!" The girl agreed, not noticing how she began to change. Where there was once a sad teenage girl, was the new dark champion of the villain; with a new mission.

"Let's help Laurent, Miss Cupid." The hopeful voice of Hawkmoth whispered with a far more sinister edge. Yet Miss Cupid did not notice the exhilarating feeling of power coursing through her drowned out things she should have noticed.

"Yes Hawkmoth, and don't worry I'll help you, too. The miraculous will be returned." Miss Cupid agreed as she took off.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Forty-five minutes.

Only forty-five minutes have passed.

FORTY.

FIVE.

MINUTES?!

Three quarters to an hour, fifteen minutes away from a glorious 60 minutes. The universe couldn’t even try to give them the full 60 minutes of extra sleep until all hell broke loose. The sick bastard who was responsible: Hawk Moth. The reason? He just had to create a new akuma. The siren and semi-distant screams filled the questions that filled Felix as he awoke with a start.

Insult to injury was the guitar riff that was Claude’s ringtone in Felix’s ear as he picked up the call.

"LARP." The singular word was code to the group. That they would go and transform, fighting the akuma. It was the first time the code was used, and for it to be Claude was alarming. His tone held no room for argument. It was less of a suggestion, or a question. No, Claude was transforming and was simply telling Felix, as Felix was the leader of the Knights.

"Claude," Felix sighed, understanding his friend was mad. Secretly relieved it wasn't his fault, or any staff's. He wouldn't need to plan contingencies. "We agreed not to involve ourselves with pest control."

"Sorry, Boss," Claude didn't sound sorry at all. "Taking a part time job."

"Not alone," Felix was quick to remark.

"Lady-love is talking to the big guy." Claude explained, he had Allegra talk to Allen. No doubt repeating the same code to Allen.

"What does the heart say?' Felix asked, trying to reign them in.

"Giving understanding support."

Shite.

"Griff, are we cleared to Larp?" Felix asked, noticing that Chloe had jumped into motion. The lethargy of sleep clung like a stubborn lover, but she was moving. She had been feeding both Milvii and Griff, and was grabbing a snack bag for both kwami.

"Not up to the best circumstances." Griff spoke up before turning to Milvii.

"You'll do, Percival has already been awakened." Milvii nodded.

"At least we're taking a back seat." Felix proposed as a compromise, they needed to sneak out of here also. "Stay low, don't be seen if you can help it."

“Nah boss, we’re out for blood.”

Click.

“Bitchoise, we’re fighting an akuma.” Felix spoke a bit absently trying to wake up.

"Already texted your mom, and I memorized possible escape routes D-Marinette gave dealing with our other problem. Ready when you are." Chloe chirped.

Once again Felix wondered what he did to piss off the universe this time.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The Akuma Alarm blasted loudly, waking two other teens who scrambled. Both needed secrecy to go and help the city. Luka made a quick lie about helping secure the music equipment because Allen was working mostly alone. Marinette agreed and saw as the boy sped off vaguely running to the music room. She opened the window of her trailer as it faced a rarely traveled path and looked at her kwami.

"It feels mean, having Luka run away to transform." Marinette mumbled.

"Well the Guardian did say that your identities couldn't be exposed." Tikki reminded her holder, not really sure if it should even stay true now after everything. "It's for your safety."

Her little bug was running ragged, a friend who knew what she was going through would have been so helpful. It wasn't as noticeable because the make up team was doing wonders making her not look as tired as Marinette was, and the concealer did a great help on covering the shadows that had been steadily growing. Tikki knew that Marinette was enjoying herself, the designing was fun and it was a breath of fresh air to see creativity in motion.

The acting, while a hurdle at first, was growing on Marinette and Tikki was sure that part of it was how she interacted with everyone, especially Luka and Felix. With Felix Marinette was confident, like Ladybug but without the burden of responsibility. With Luka she was grounded and at peace. Which meant that when she had to stand as the leader and guardian of the miraculous alone, it was harder for Tikki to stomach. The Guardians were a network back in the temple and not one person held all the burden, not even the Grand Guardian. For such responsibility on her young holder, Tikki felt bubbling questions pop in her mind. Maybe it was time for a change, for all their sakes.

At least we have Luka helping out as a hero again, and Miss Kagami. I hope it helps remove her burdens. Tikki thought while she looked at her holder. The teen was psyching herself up and looked so alone and tired.

"Tikki, spots on." Marinette spoke the words, losing her usual youthful enthusiasm. She appeared more battle worn and tired, a general rejoining a never ending fight. Scarlet light wrapped around her body and no longer was the girl Marinette standing there. Now she was Ladybug, hero and protector of Paris.

#felix graham de vanily #marinette dupain cheng #luka couffaine #chloe bourgeois #quantic kids #original characters #worthy opponent au

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visit-new-york · 1 year

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What are the main materials used in the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge?

The Brooklyn Bridge stands as an iconic symbol of engineering prowess and architectural marvel, connecting the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn in New York City. Its construction, which began in 1869 and was completed in 1883, marked a significant leap forward in bridge engineering during the 19th century. At the heart of this magnificent structure lie a variety of materials that were carefully selected to withstand the test of time and provide the strength and stability needed to support the bridge's massive weight and endure the forces of nature.

Foundations and Substructure:

The foundations of the Brooklyn Bridge are built upon a series of caissons—watertight chambers that were sunk to the bedrock below the East River. These caissons served as the base upon which the towers of the bridge would rise. Constructed using timber and brick, the caissons were then filled with compressed air to keep water out, allowing workers to excavate the riverbed and lay the bridge's foundations. Granite blocks were used to create the towers' outer layer, providing a sturdy and enduring base.

Superstructure:

The superstructure of the Brooklyn Bridge, including its towers and main span, is primarily composed of limestone, granite, and Rosendale cement. The limestone and granite provide the necessary strength and durability, while the Rosendale cement—a type of natural cement produced in Rosendale, New York—acted as the binding agent in the construction of the bridge's arches and towers.

Suspension Cables:

The most distinctive feature of the Brooklyn Bridge is its elegant web of suspension cables. These cables are made of high-tensile strength steel, a revolutionary material for the time. The steel cables were galvanized to protect against corrosion, ensuring the long-term stability of the bridge. The cables were meticulously woven and anchored into the bridge's towers and anchorages, distributing the load and supporting the immense weight of the bridge deck.

Decking and Walkways:

The decking and walkways of the Brooklyn Bridge were constructed using wooden planks. Originally made from longleaf yellow pine, the wooden decking has undergone various replacements and renovations over the years, adapting to the evolving demands of modern traffic. Today, the bridge features a reinforced concrete deck topped with asphalt, providing a smooth surface for vehicles and pedestrians alike.

Decorative Elements:

The Brooklyn Bridge's towers and other decorative elements showcase an array of materials, including granite, limestone, and limestone blocks. The neo-Gothic arches and intricate details that adorn the towers contribute to the bridge's aesthetic appeal and make it a true work of art.

Conclusion:

The construction of the Brooklyn Bridge stands as a testament to the innovation and engineering prowess of the 19th century. A careful selection of materials, combining strength, durability, and aesthetic appeal, was crucial to the success of this historic structure. Today, as the Brooklyn Bridge continues to serve as a vital link between two bustling boroughs, its enduring legacy serves as a reminder of the importance of thoughtful material selection in the world of civil engineering and architecture.

#New York City #new york #newyork #New-York #nyc #NY #manhattan #urban #city #USA #buildings #visit-new-york.tumblr.com #Bridge #Brooklyn Bridge

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cathy-cuuc · 2 years

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yumejo · 5 months

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angel snow.

「mifune noeri + oukawa kohaku」 a/n: a present chosen with gratitude in his heart, what a cute idol♪

Iota clusters of snowflakes descended down from the heavens in congruence with Kohaku’s fluttering heart, twirling around his silhouette as they enshrouded the brilliance of colorful string lights—the energetic, buzzing park distant in his mind.

Standing next to the colossal Christmas tree standing imposingly in the middle of the expanse, Kohaku’s gloved hands held out a small gift box towards the girl in front of him. “Here, Eri-han,” his clear, mellifluous voice was discountenanced as she accepted it.

“What’s this for, Kohaku-kun⋯?” Noeri questioned with perplexity etched onto her mien, her quivering fingers refusing to open the delicately decorated box.

Kohaku had invited her out suddenly, the text message he had sent her sounding awfully dour—but as she glimpsed at his expression, she realized it was because he was nervous.

“Well, you’ve done a lot for me—it’s only fair I get ya a Christmas present, right? I made sure to pick something with all my heart and gratitude,” Kohaku’s complexion illuminated with rosy hues as he elucidated his reasoning, “Now are ya gonna open it or should I take it back?”

“D-Don’t take it back⋯!” Noeri panicked, even if she knew he was only mirthfully teasing her, and kept the box close against her chest; feeling her heart resonating with rapture at every beat. “I’m really happy you got me something.”

An anxious eagerness bristled along Kohaku’s veins in a white-hot rush as he watched the producer’s petite fingers unravel the bow enveloping the box, her own mismatched eyes gleaming in unparalleled excitement.

Kohaku could tell that from the bottom of her heart, Noeri was delighted by his gesture. And for him, that appeared to only exacerbate the embarrassment thrumming in his gut.

Prying off the lid with languid movements, Noeri espied a glimmering hairpin nestled on the soft cushion inside. The illumination of vivid Christmas lights made it shine prettily as she held it up—it was an ornate cherry blossom cradled by amber-hued leaves; and it was truly a pulchritudinous design.

“Kohaku-kun, it’s so beautiful!” Noeri gushed effusively, gaze mesmerized by the exquisite details as she unremittingly extolled the present. They both knew she was going to wear it every day with how stupidly devoted she was to Kohaku.

In spite of how his heart throbbed in his chest, Kohaku beamed with unbridled pride, saying, “If ya like it, that’s all I’ll ask for.”

Discerning that pure visage of Kohaku’s, Noeri sprung forward and wrapped her arms around Kohaku with all her strength—her own feelings of felicity and appreciation coalescing inside her, galvanizing her into hugging him.

“Ah, Eri-han, what’re ya doin’?!” Kohaku gasped at the abrupt sensation, her actions disquieting him for an ephemeral second.

Squishing him tautly, Noeri cooed, “Thank you! I’ll cherish it!”

Kohaku felt Noeri’s cheek nuzzling against him, and he heaved a sigh before acquiescing and enfolding his own arms around her. Although he was patently gawky in his movements, unused to such affections (especially by the older girl).

“Merry Christmas, Eri-han,” Kohaku whispered against her ear, just loud enough for her to hear, as the snowflakes around him silently cheered exultantly for him.

After all, his own wish had just been fulfilled♪

#yume fics #kohaku... comfort me during these trying times...

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stelyost · 3 months

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Greetings, Steel! I accidentally discovered a thing that a fan of yours from China made 10 covers and even a cake for Galvan's birthday! I thought it was really nice, so I wanted to let you know about it.

You can see their nickname on the screenshot and it can be found through bilibili easily. Thank you,

Oh my goodness, thank you so much for letting me know, Foyuka. That cake looks like... mint, based on coloration. Which is one of Galvan's favorite flavors. He likes refreshing sweet flavors.

It looks very well made, and is decorated very nicely. The flowers on the side and center/top resemble Lily-of-the-Valley, and.. maybe celery stalks on top? Galvan does love his greens. Very impressive.

I went to BiliBili to take a look, and it seems like Carosy ran an event where they created a lot of covers for Galvan's character birthday (Jan 23). They have also made a lot of other covers and fan illustrations with Denki Sai and Galvan Ize beyond this event.

That's highly dedicated, and words alone can't describe the gratitude I feel towards the overwhelming effort and love shown towards Galvan and Denki, especially when I have been so inactive in recent years with UTAU covers.

I don't use BiliBili, or know how to - I don't have the wherewithal to join and manage my presence on more platforms, at this time. Carosy，如果你读到这封信 - Please know that I'm very grateful for your love and dedication towards Galvan, and I hope that my renewed activity into this year can justify any continued support. 非常感谢！

#long post #galvan ize #steelutauanswers #steelanswers #foyuka

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hapan-in-exile · 1 year

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Volume 2 - Post #3: Downward Spiral

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem Reader

Total word count: 1.8K (of 21K total in Volume 2)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

______________________________________________

III. Apparently, it was naive to assume that the Mandalorian would naturally step in to take control once you were in the field. Ugh, you are the farthest thing from leadership material—why did he insist on doing this?

“I–eeeeeeee…like to lead by consensus?” You shrug.

“This is supposed to be about whether I can trust your judgment, Thuli." Mando’s staticky sigh hisses through the modulator as he cracked several knuckles. Always a warning sign. "So start making some decisions.”

Hearing him say your name galvanizes your resolve. You check the time.

“I don’t think we can afford to wait for them to clear our route inside.”

The guard had mentioned a path through the kitchens, but that felt too exposed. You pull the comlink out of your sleeve and turn the speaker back on.

Thank the gods you had it on mute during the live sex show! You are not ready to have ‘the talk’ with Nito.

“Hey, is there...I don’t know; do you see some kind of service entry or secret tunnel?”

“I’m posted in the northwest corner of the courtyard. It looks like there’s a stairwell that should connect to the roof? You can use the entry on the ground floor, but you’ll need to get past the biometric scanner."

Mando eyes the guard and reaches down for the knife in his boot.

“Retina scan? Or do we need fingerprints?”

“Whoa! We’re going to refrain from maiming and dismemberment tonight, ok?”

“Your call,” he says, pocketing the blade and grabbing the guard roughly by the collar. Striding confidently toward Nito’s coordinates, he drags the guy behind him into the inky blackness of night.

“Wait, Mando! We’re not all equipped with infrared.”

“Why aren’t you wearing your visor?”

“Would you be shocked to learn that Miralukan formalwear is not designed for visibility?”

While Mando was less than pleased to find you’d been lying to him for months about your identity, he agreed that 'Miralukan healer' was a good disguise. A disguise worth maintaining. But, the gilded band encircling your eyes was more decorative than tactical.

“What’s shocking is that you’d wear those shoes when you can’t see one foot in front of the other."

The first portico you walk down is empty. The second is not.

Rounding a corner, Mando throws out a hand to press you back into a shadowed nook, narrowly missing the eyes of another guard posted between you and the stairwell’s access panel.

Mando deposits his haul on the tiled floor and unholsters his blaster. You shake your head vigorously, mouthing the word, ‘please.’

“Have it your way,” he whispers before slipping into the darkness.

There’s a prolonged silence in which nothing happens, and you begin to feel a creeping surge of panicked abandonment. Suddenly, the guard near the stairwell splutters, grabbing desperately at the arm wrapped around her neck. Her legs kick out wildly before she sinks to the ground, unconscious.

“What do you want to do with this one?” Mando asks.

“We can hide them both in the stairwell,” you suggest.

“We?” He snorts. “You planning to carry one of them?”

“Fine. As field commander, I order you, Mandalorian, to hide the comatose guards in the stairwell.”

At that, Mando lets out a laugh—like a real one—and you almost forget about the mission entirely.

“Well, I know you’re telling the truth about being a veteran. It’s a job, not a mission,” he says, as though reading your thoughts. “And being in charge doesn’t mean you have a rank.”

“I know," you say, taunting. "If this was the military, I’d punish you for insubordination.”

As soon as the words are out of your mouth, you wish you could swallow them back. This is neither the time nor place to say that in such a suggestive tone. You clear your throat and recover your focus. “Hey, Nito? Can you search for an entry code?”

“He must know it,” Mando says, holding up the guard by his flack vest. “Can't you take a look inside their head?”

“That’s not how it works. I can’t just scroll through his brain like an entry log to pick and choose.”

“I thought you were going to erase the guards' memories? Wasn’t that the plan?”

“By preventing their brain from converting this encounter into a lasting memory. I can’t isolate just ‘me.’ I have to erase everything.” On that note, you place a hand over the guard’s wrist.

“Which, incidentally, is a lot harder than I made that sound…if I overshoot this, it will be a matter of days, not minutes.”

“Waking up to lose a week of your life?" Choosing between the two guards, he yanks the big one over toward the access panel. "That’s gotta be disorienting.”

“Well, if we did this your way, one of them would be missing an eye….so let them count their blessings."

Hopefully, this guy will wake up to decide this was simply the inevitable result of using whatever growth hormone he’s clearly addicted to.

“I’ve got that access code if you guys are done bickering.” Nito snickers.

Wordlessly, Mando enters the code and smashes the guy’s hand onto the keypad. “After you.”

Nito had set himself up in a utility room where he could slice into the palace's systemwide network. The problem was there were about three flights of narrow, corrugated stairs between you.

Hiking up your trailing hem, you take each and every—very steep, very shallow—step down at an agonizing pace since you can’t see shit.

“Come here.” The suddenness of his hands gripping your waist takes you by surprise, and you utter the most embarrassing little “w-w-whoa,” as Mando lifts you off the staircase.

“This really isn’t necessary.”

“Put your arms around my neck,” he says. “I’d rather you didn’t roll an ankle before we’re thirty minutes into the job.”

With one hand clutching your midriff, he slides his other arm under the crease of your hamstrings to carry you down the stairs.

His fingers dig painfully into the soft curves of your waist—but you like the sensation, this contrast of how solid and firm he is while you are all supple silk and velvet. The fact that your coy teasing immediately dissipates into a stunned silence whenever he touches you is probably the most straightforward evidence that you're falling in love with him.

"Is your palace as big as this one?"

"Hmmm?"

With the helmet on, it's impossible to know if he's looking at you. Yet you can't seem to turn your gaze away from the black view plate.

"You mean, the palace...on Hapes?" It takes you a minute to realize Mando's asking about your childhood. He'd been doing more of that lately—seeking to learn things about you.

"Ha!" You snort. "It's not my palace. But, yeah, it's sort of like this—built into an ocean cliffside. But immense. Many times, the size of this place. I used to get lost all the time."

"Why is this the first I've heard about your terrible sense of direction?"

"I was a child!" You cry in mock indignation, thumping a fist on his chest.

"What's it like growing up in a palace?"

"Lonely," you reply honestly.

Mando pauses, clearly surprised by your answer. While he doesn't say anything else in response, he continues to watch you thoughtfully.

Hopefully, he's enjoying the way your cleavage bounces each time his boots hit the stair tread.

“Why is he carrying you?” Nito looks up from his boards and buttons, genuinely confused.

“Because it would have taken twice as long to let her hobble down here in those shoes.”

You smile broadly over the Mandalorian's shoulder, kicking your feet up obligingly so Nito can appreciate the intricate embroidery covering every inch of your very tall heels. “I hope there’s a way back into the palace that doesn’t involve stairs.”

“Couldn’t she have just…taken them off?”

Mando's body tenses beneath you as though he'd been accused of something. In hindsight, it was the obvious solution, but you don’t think the bounty hunter should have to justify putting his hands all over you.

“Where’s the fun in that?” You say cheerfully while he bends down to place you back on unsteady feet. Nito shoots Mando a worried glance, clearly alarmed by your giddiness.

Time to suit up, so to speak. Opening your clutch, you pull out a pair of lace gloves and the tracking fob. You offer Nito the fob and slip the cape off your shoulders.

“Maker!” Nito puts two furry hands over his chest, mocking a heart attack. “I thought the purpose of reconnaissance was to blend in?”

“Trust me, I look like any other woman on the hunt for a rich keeper. I’ll fit right in.” A memory of thrusting hips and keening moans flashes behind your eyes. “Don’t ask me to explain that, Nito.”

“I wasn’t born under a rock, you know.” He rolls his eyes with such youthful condescension. “We just got here this morning. Where did you even get a dress like that? Same place that did your hair?”

The braid had taken hours, but it was worth it, cascading down your back in messy, gorgeous knots studded with gleaming pearls.

“Believe it or not, I had this lying around.”

“Liar.”

“That’s the dress you were wearing the first time I saw you.”

You almost snap your neck, turning around to look at Mando.

“Yeah? At Ingtar’s place?"

He nods.

"That’s so funny,” you demure. “I didn’t think you noticed me that night.”

“Isn’t that why you wore the dress? To be noticed?”

A familiar stirring churns low in your belly. “With that helmet on, it’s hard to know what catches your eye.”

You blush spectacularly, hearing that suggestiveness in your voice again, a little too sincere this time. It’s just the dress putting you in a flirtatious mood. You're getting into character. It was nerves bubbling up before the mission. Job.

You clear your throat and laugh, “Never would have guessed you’d be on my operating table by the end of the week, did you?”

Mando doesn’t have an answer for that, but fortunately, Nito interjects to reset the energy in the room. “Should the fob be silent?”

All three of you stare down at the stubbornly inert indicator light.

“Surely we're near enough in range for it to register?” You ask the bounty hunter.

“He could be using some device to block the signal,” Mando considers thoughtfully. “But nothing that’ll work at close proximity.”

You look between them. Your boys. Your partners. “Ok. We keep to the plan.”

Nito places his two left hands on your shoulder. “Guard change is in two hours. I’ll have eyes on every inch of the palace. Mando and I won’t let anything take you by surprise.”

You nod, feeling oddly reassured. The Mandalorian’s pep talk is a little more dire.

“This is reconnaissance only,” he says firmly. “I will bring him in. Identify the target. Do not engage.”

But before the door slides shut, you hear him say, “Please be safe, Thuli.”

*********************

Read the next post: Post #4: Another Thrilling Tale of Emergency Medicine

Back to Volume 2 - All posts

#mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #sexymando #sexy mando #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #din djarin #mandalorian smut #mando fanfiction #the mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic #star wars smut #din djarin smut #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader

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edupunkn00b · 1 year

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Lucas Is a Part of You That Loves You

Title inspired by "Your anger is the part of you that knows your mistreatment and abuse are unacceptable. Your anger knows you deserve to be treated well, and with kindness. Your anger is a part of you that LOVES you." apocalynds via Twitter 12:22 PM · Jun 7, 2020

Written for the TSS Fanworks January Remix event, inspired by Rage by @reptilian-with-scallions

~~~ The orange paint on His door was cracked and peeling. Bits would flake off on Self Preservation’s gloves each time he knocked and no matter how carefully he worked with Creativity to scrape away the old paint and lay down a fresh, glossy coat, by the following morning it always looked like this. Cracked and faded, with the splintered wood peeking out from beneath the ruined enamel.

It was too early in the morning to consider waking Anxiety, if he’d even managed to fall asleep at all. The thin purple light spilling out from underneath his door didn’t shift or flicker with movement, so whether sleeping or merely listlessly drowning out the worries with MCR, Anxiety had finally stilled.

Creativity was dead to the world, curled in a ball on the stained stone floor of his bedroom, his heavy chains both imprisonment and comfort as they lay draped over his chest and back like a lover’s embrace. He’d howled all night with night terrors, rattling the picture frames lining the hallway until Self Preservation’s teeth ached and his empathetic tears ran dry. He’d finally settled into a mumbling, twitchy sleep just over an hour ago, and Self Preservation was grateful the youngest of them might get bit of rest now before Kids Bop Creativity roused him for a new day.

He knocked twice on the heavy wooden door, reinforced and guarded at the seams with iron plates so nothing could seep out. There was no response, so Self Preservation slipped through, closing the door behind him with a relieved sigh.

With any luck, even Logic was still asleep at this early hour, and certainly Heart was. Whatever bit of His essence that leaked out into the Mindscape would diffuse into a surface irritability, easily excused as the morning grumpiness of a night owl, and just as easily soothed by a few kind words and maybe a cookie from Heart.

The room was dark and hot, warmed by a young lifetime of repressed rage. Indignation had hardened the floor and the walls into galvanized steel, slippery, the only friction granted by thick, spiky bolts driven into the floor at irregular intervals. It was littered with ripped papers, the shredded remains of his clothing. The walls were cracked cinder block, insulating Him from Creativity on one side and Anxiety on the other.

The room was otherwise empty of furniture or decoration. Orange light flashed from one corner and Self Preservation moved closer, hands down at his sides and breathing evenly, fighting the defensive anger swirling through his veins at the sight of his dear friend.

He was awake.

“Deceit,” He growled from his seat on the floor.

“You don’t need to call me that. My name is—“

“I don’t fucking care what your name is!”

His shout cut Self Preservation’s skin to ribbons for a microsecond before the Mindscape healed him. When it was over and He seethed from his corner, the wet rattle of his breaths the loudest sound in the room, he dusted off his sleeves and straightened his capelet. “Feeling better?”

“Fuck you,” He growled.

Self Preservation took that as a ‘yes.’ “Your clothes… “ He picked up a scrap of orange flannel. “Your clothes have seen better days.” He tilted his head, then snapped his fingers, dressing Him in a fresh outfit, a thick orange and blue plaid flannel over a ripped The Clash tee shirt, black Carhartt’s, and steel-toe construction boots.

He kicked the wall, and dust and crumbled cement rained down onto the floor. “Nice,” He muttered.

“Leave it to me to find a way to protect you even as you insist on throwing your body at the walls,” he purred, fingering the rusty red stain on a shredded sock. “Are you hungry?” he asked, snapping his fingers again. A bright yellow plate appeared, laden with grilled cheese sandwiches cut in triangles and two steaming mugs of tomato soup. He nudged the plate closer and watched the faint orange glow of His eyes consider the offering.

“Whatever,” He shrugged, gaze lingering on the soup. “We don’t actually have to eat, you know. We just want to.”

“And who am I to say what you want doesn’t matter?” Self Preservation asked, picking up a mug and dipping a cheesy, toasty wedge into the soup.

“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to feed your anger?” He quipped, devouring half a wedge with one bite.

Self Preservation smirked up at Him over his mug. “Do they really?”

~~~

Self Preservation set down his lantern and hefted the iron key ring, the heavy loop large enough to slide half-way up to his elbow. Lock after lock, he turned the key, jiggling the last one just right to fit through the rusted keyhole. He’d stopped bothering to treat it with metal lubricant, it never worked anyway. He pulled with both hands and the door to His room creaked open with a grating screech. Creativity’s nattering in the room next door grew louder. His room was next, but that wasn’t where the urgency lay.

There was no need to rush. Self Preservation had only two Sides to care for now.

Lantern in hand, he secured the keys to his belt and started down the dripping stone stairs. They spiraled in a wide curve and every step echoed against the ancient-looking stone walls. There were sconces installed every few feet, but they remained dark when Self Preservation tried to light them off his lantern. He even tried to conjure a light in its place, but each time, the torches fizzled, lasting only seconds.

The darkness swallowed up the light he carried and he looked back, the heavy door still propped open. It seemed to swallow up all the energy in the staircase, even His Rage and Self Preservation’s conjuring abilities.

The small lantern would have to suffice.

If he needed to, he could open the door again, but he’d be little use to Creativity until he’d rested for the night after that effort. He’d learned that the hard way the first time the door slammed had shut behind him. Despite his fatigue after summoning the power to force open the door that kept Him locked up, he’d gone straight to Creativity’s room. Once inside, he’d gotten caught up in his own intrusive thoughts, unable to determine fears from reality. He still wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been trapped there before Creativity realized what had happened. It might have been days.

Judging by the state of Thomas’ apartment when he'd next checked on him, and the dozens of empty Monster drink cans littered around his computer, it might have been weeks.

After several minutes of walking, Self Preservation heard His voice. “Come to rub it in, too?”

“Of course not,” Self Preservation murmured, keeping the irritation from his voice as he touched the keys hanging off his belt. There was only one other Side in the Mindscape who could unlock that door.

Despite the suppression, His eyes shone brighter, the sickly, somehow cold orange glow casting sharp shadows over the crumbled cinder blocks at their feet. For whatever reason, when Virgil was accepted and the Mindscape shifted and twisted, boring this tunnel thirty feet underground, the broken remains of His old walls remained. Each day, He pummeled them to dust with whatever tool he’d conjured that day. Sometimes a chainsaw. Yesterday had been a sledgehammer.

And each night, the Mindscape healed them back to the broken bits they’d started as, permitting neither a complete renewal nor an obliteration of his old walls. It only made Him angrier.

“What did Patton say when he was here?” Self Preservation said with some difficulty. Patton was his friend, his oldest friend. For the longest time, it seemed, it had just been them. But then Rage happened and…

No amount of friendship could span the divide between them on this topic. He’d spent years attempting to convince the Heart that the darkened corners of Thomas’ psyche were meant to stay dark only long enough for him to mature and fully internalize his morality. Until he could learn to accept and love all of himself, even the parts that weren’t bubbly and cuddly, even the dark parts of the so-called ‘Core’ Sides they so desperately hid from him and from each other.

Accepting Virgil, really and truly accepting him, making him feel safe enough to reveal his name, giving him their trust and love, that was all meant to be the first step.

It appeared, though, that instead of reaching back with a hand to help the Others up into the Light, he’d shared enough information, directly to the other three and indirectly through Thomas’ self doubt, to make him slam the door and push his Rage and Creativity further away.

“What did he say?” he asked again, snapping and spreading out a thick orange wool blanket. He snapped again, and a plate of grilled cheese and tomato soup appeared before Him.

He ate an entire piece before answering, finishing in three bites. Self Preservation snapped again and a tall, sweaty glass of iced sweet tea appeared before each of them and He grunted His thanks.

Self Preservation took small bites of his sandwich, holding it with a napkin to prevent marring his new gloves. He waited quietly while He guzzled the sweet tea, then wiped His mouth with the back of His hand. With another snap, the glass was refilled and He slowly sipped His second serving, tapping at the drops of condensation on the outside of the glass.

“The Heart tried some bullshit about Anxiety just being scared and needing his ‘famILY’ close,” He gagged. “ hat’s why Thomas accepted him before me and Creativity.”

There was a flash of a muted orange in His eyes and He rubbed bloodied knuckles from where He’d punched the cracks in the stone floor. It occurred to Self Preservation that He had probably expected a very different reason for Patton’s first visit in over five years.

“You thought he’d come to invite you to meet Thomas,” his voice was low, with a trace of empathetic pain.

“No,” He insisted, eyes darting away from him. “Fuck the Heart, fuck the Light Sides!” He stood up and started slamming his fists against the wall. “Fuck! All! That! Noise!” With a roar, He pulled and one of the stones came loose. He threw it across the room—Self Preservation did not miss how He’d thrown it away from him.

“Gimme your lantern!” He snapped. Something shone through the hole He’d just created, a flickering glow that seemed to match His eyes. “Maybe it’s glass! How’s that for some symbolism, huh?” He waved his hand as though he could push away the dust hanging in the hot, stagnant air.

Finally, the air grew clear enough that the lantern did more than illuminate a thick cloud. He reached through and tapped.

It was steel. Polished, shiny steel.

He Raged. He threw chunks of cinder block at the walls and Self Preservation ducked, covering his face and letting the shrapnel his against his head and back. Red splatters bloomed at the edges of his gloves and at his collar. His hair grew dark patches when his bowler hat was knocked off by a larger piece, leaving his head vulnerable.

But Self Preservation stayed. He lost track of how long this episode lasted, but finally, it was over. He sat, panting in the corner, His own hands bloody and smeared with a dark, muddy paste.

Self Preservation approached slowly. “Lu—“

“Just fucking go,” He interrupted, voice flat. Defeated. Even His eyes were faded. “Go away.”

He stopped in his tracks and gave Him a hard look. He wouldn’t look back. After a while, Self Preservation snapped away the mess, but left behind a soft orange blanket and a pillow. He patted them gently when he set them in easy reach. “In case it gets cold down here.”

“You know it won’t,” He muttered, angry, frustrated, useless Rage pouring off of Him.

“I know,” he whispered, then turned to leave.

~~~

“You let him out and not me?” Hands in fists at His sides, He stood and stared up at him from the bottom step, as far as the Mindscape would let Him go now. He once was able to get all the way to the top step and bang and howl against the door. Now, an invisible wire held Him back, keeping Him within the strict bounds of His room.

Self Preservation stepped inside, tugging off his gloves before snapping, a thick orange blanket appearing in the cleanest part of the room. “Extraordinary problems require extraordinary solutions,” he said, curt, as he sat on it.

“I’m not fucking stupid enough to believe Remus suffered more than me down here! He wasn’t even locked up anymore after Logic and the Prince rescued his sorry ass.” He sat down in a huff, arms crossed over his chest before he picked up a piece of grilled cheese. “Something you were too chickenshit to do.”

“‘Logic and the Prince’ were at risk of being sent down here themselves,” he said quietly before sipping his soup. He stared back, eyes narrowed in skepticism until He noticed the bare skin and scales on Self Preservation’s hands.

“You’re not bullshitting me,” he finally said, wiping crumbs from his mouth and taking a long draw of his sweet tea. “What the fuck is going on up there?”

“Thomas doesn’t have You,” he growled, then sat further back from his friend. Self Preservation’s gloves allowed him greater freedom to sit closer to Him. Without them—and the ability to deny even his own anger at His imprisonment—He too easily fed his rage. “There was… an incident. Thomas had a decision to make and…” He shook his head. Roman was meant to use him as the foil, the bad guy, to use him as an excuse to decide the case in favor of satisfying Thomas’ true desire to go to the callback.

He didn’t do it. Perhaps he was already feeling the strain of his tenuous position. It was an open secret in the Mindscape that Logan and Roman had worked together to free Remus from his shackles. Each gathering of the 'Core' Sides left the air thick and heavy, waiting waiting waiting waiting for the other shoe to drop. Self Preservation couldn't blame Roman for making what felt like the safest decision.

Even if it had been the wrong one.

No-one took the bait to pull Logan into the debate, either. Despite all of Self Preservation’s taunts, despite literally impersonating him, they allowed him to sideline fucking Logic from a major decision about scheduling. Self Preservation looked up when He nodded. Clearly He’d heard plenty of Logan’s thoughts on the matter. Likely Roman’s, as well. Self hatred was still a form of anger, just twisted against the person it was meant to defend.

“By revealing Remus, we were able to demonstrate the necessity of both Logic's and ‘Safe’ Creativity’s roles,” he said, fidgeting with a loose scale.

“Was it worth it?”

Self Preservation looked up. Now that his vision had adjusted to the light, the tear streaks trailing down His cheeks were obvious. He snapped his fingers, conjuring another iced tea, the one bit of physical comfort he could provide his friend and not put the entire Mindscape in jeopardy.

“I hope so.”

~~~

“What the fuck are you doing here?” His shout was loud enough to rouse Janus from his stupor. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon and the entire night with Thomas. After checking in on Him, Janus had crawled into bed and let exhaustion take him. He blinked blearily at the clock. It was lunchtime. The others would all be in the Core Mindscape. Even Remus would be there now, guzzling pickle brine and pretending to eat deodorant sticks.

“You are aware it’s the perfume in soap you’re allergic to, don’t you?” Janus had asked him one morning when he’d come down to visit, a triumphant grin splitting his face. "The same perfume in actual deodorant?"

“Yeah, I know that, Jannie,” he cackled, sprawled on Janus' bed with his head hanging off the edge.

Janus set down his tea and stared at the Creative Side. “And aren’t you afraid they’ll notice you aren’t breaking out in hives from eating that?”

“Lo Lo’s already noticed and he doesn’t give a fuck, so…” he laughed and bit off another huge chunk of marshmallow fondant, swallowing loudly just as Janus took another sip of his bergamot tea.

Remus hadn't been down to see him in weeks.

With a groan, he shoved away the covers and pulled on his gloves and capelet, donning his hat just as the door closed behind him. Across the hall, His dingy orange door hung open and Janus felt quickly at his belt for the keys. They were gone.

“That’s not what I asked you!” His shout echoed up the stone stairs. He sounded even further away than He usually did. The wedding had been terrible for everyone, but most especially Him. Janus had returned to find him bound and gagged. He’d managed to loosen his ropes a bit, but his fingers burned when he tried to remove them completely. Dammit, Thomas!

Janus raced down the stairs, making no effort to quiet his approach. There was another voice, quieter, broken with tears. Janus had expected to find Patton, sobbingly explaining why He had to be locked away. Instead, orange light glinted off a tall, slouched form dressed in a bright white tunic. In the dim light, the sash cut diagonally across his back looked like dried blood.

Roman.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed. Janus straightened, surprised at the acid in his own voice. Yes. Yes, he was still hurt by Roman’s comment. The shame in the Prince’s eyes told him his wound still stung, to. Fuck, he'd been lucky Remus had thought it was funny.

“I’m here,” Roman huffed, pulling himself up straight and hiding his eyes as though that would be enough for Janus to miss his tears. “To demand that L—”

Janus only had to raise his hand, fist loosely closed to halt the Prince’s words.

“I’m here to tell Him to leave me alone,” he finished, stamping his foot. “That!” He pointed to his polished boots. “That’s why!” Roman turned to Him, pointing with a shaking hand. “I did not give you permission to influence me this way! We have no connection and I want no part of your games!” He lowered his hand and folding his arms across his chest, shoulders squared, then took several slow breaths before continuing in a moderately calmer voice.

“I am Thomas’ hero and heroes don’t behave like schoolyard bullies.” He glared at Him. “Stay out of my head.”

“I would not be able to influence you without your permission, Princey, you know this…” His voice was low and smooth. Seductive.

“Stop it,” Janus snapped, drawing both of their attention. “Roman,” he offered an ungloved hand and waited for him to take it. The last of Roman’s walls crumbled on contact and Janus pulled him close and held him like a child as he cried. Rocking him gently, Janus turned them so Roman wouldn’t see Him glaring as he soothed the crying Prince.

“I’m sorry,” Roman mumbled against Janus’ shoulder. “I shouldn’t’ve lashed out at you.” He sniffled and Janus conjured a soft yellow handkerchief and offered it with a soothing little coo. “You were trying to help Thomas and I—”

“You were trying to help Thomas, as well. Just like the rest of us.” Janus finished quietly, meeting His eyes, implicitly including him in ‘us.’ “That’s what we’re all doing.”

~~~

Janus had been crouched in front of Him for nearly twenty minutes before His bright orange eyes finally focused on him. “I see you’ve found your window of opportunity,” he said, holding out a glass of iced tea with a long straw for Him to sip.

“And what else have I got, exactly?” He smiled ghoulishly with the straw between His teeth. “Roman’s got a new man in Thomas' life to romance. Remus, too, if we’re all gonna be fucking adults about it. Virgil’s got something else to worry about, and Patton’s just trying to hold it all together.” He finished the glass and Janus snapped, refilling it. He drank like it had been a week since his last sip.

“You’ve got me.”

He spat out the straw and leaned as far forward as His ropes would allow, eyes boring into Janus’. “Don’t fuck with me and say things you don’t mean in here.”

Janus waggled his bare fingers. “Does it look like I can lie?”

Tears sizzled at the corners of His eyes. “When?” He asked, almost a whisper. It was the quietest Janus had ever heard Him.

“Right now,” he nodded. “Hang on,” he murmured and retrieved a small golden switchblade from his pocket. A two-headed snake glinted at one end as he sliced through His ropes, then offered his hands.

“Are you sure?” He hesitated before touching Janus’ bare skin. “I’ve never…”

“I’m sure,” Janus nodded, grunting with the force of His unfiltered power when their hands touched. Rage sizzled through his veins. “Fuck! ”

“I can—” He started to loosen His grip but Janus held firm.

“No. No, I need to feel this for what we’re going to do next.” Janus closed his eyes. Thomas had returned home, and had just set down his phone. Good. “Thomas!” He called, pulling him down into a dream state and into the lower Mindscape. “Thomas you’re needed here.”

Upstairs in his living room, Thomas slumped over, head pillowed on the armrest, snoring. He awoke in His room, curled on the dirty stone floor. “What? Where am I?” He leapt to his feet and finally noticed the two Sides with him. “Janus, where—” He stumbled back, saved only by Janus’ arm snaking out to catch him. “Who’s this?” he whispered, staring at Him. Bright orange eyes stared back.

“Thomas, this is Lucas, your Anger. Your Rage.” Janus held tight to Thomas’ hand, keeping him close. Lucas’ room began to brighten. “Thomas, Lucas is a part of you that loves you. It’s past time you met.”

#Lucas Is a Part of You That Loves You #ts orange side #ts lucas #ts janus #ts remus #c!thomas #ts roman #other sides mentioned #canonish #references Shackled and Creativity Freed #remix of reptillian-with-scallions' story Rage #imprisonment #food #swearing #hopeful ending

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