#and hopefully with a regular update schedule again!

[do-you-know-this-queer-character]

Updates, Apologies, and Moving Forward!

Hello everyone! I am not dead, and this blog is not dead. I know I've been gone for a very long time again, and I'm very sorry.

I had to say goodbye to my cat, my emotional support animal, my baby. I won't say too much here, but she was suffering, and unfortunately there was nothing that could be done. My mental health is fragile at the best of times, and while I am okay and safe, it has been a difficult few months for me. I am also a full-time college student with a job, so all of my free hours were spent in grief. It's taken me a while to feel alright enough to come back, but here I am. I'm still passionate about queer representation in media, and I want to continue to share queer characters with the tumblr community. Starting tomorrow, I will resume the 8 times a day posting schedule that I was starting to utilize before my disappearance, as queueing posts makes my life much easier. I'm sorry if I don't respond to notes or asks left during my break. It's a lot to sort through and I value community engagement on this blog more than anything but I am just one person and I can only do so much. Feel free to re-send asks! Going forward, I'll be making a few changes. I am working on a publicly available google sheet of all characters that have been posted on this blog with results that I will link in a visible place so that people wanting to submit a character can (hopefully) quickly search to make sure that character hasn't been posted yet. I also will eventually be looking for another mod, although that will not be until the summer and I will make more posts when the time comes. I will personally be awol for the last few weeks of may and the first few weeks of june due to a job opportunity out of the country, but I am intending to have queued posts continuing to upload at the regular schedule during that time. Unfortunately this means I won't be able to edit mistakes or answer questions, but hopefully any issues can be addressed when I return. Thank you all for your patience, I'm sorry that this radio silence has gone on for so long, but I've thought about this blog a lot during my absence and I'm certain that it's not a project I'm giving up on any time soon.

#update #not a poll

[brown-little-robin]

28: Ground Rules

part one | previous | next | masterlist | ao3

Joseph Wilson is a bit of a ghost.

It’s not about the loss of his voice any more than everything is. It’s about being thirty-eight, he supposes, and having no full-time job besides art. It’s about being thirty-eight and unmarried, though with a large heap of good friends. Joseph Wilson wouldn’t—couldn’t trade his life for a normal white-fenced existence, but he can’t help feeling painfully different when his mother asked him “Are you ever going to settle down, honey?” with a sad look in her eyes.

She asks that every once in a while, and every time, Joseph gives her the same gentle look. He can’t answer that question. His heart has always compelled him in certain directions, gently and irresistibly and unchangeably. Joseph cannot negotiate with his heart. It compels him toward unknown beauties, the alien landscapes of the planet Tamaran, the depths of the jungle, the mediums of watercolor and poetry, the strange alienness of Raven, the lonely grace of Nightwing. The ever-expanding horizons of friendship.

His heart rarely compels him toward romance, and that always ends with Joseph being hurt. He stopped calling his refusal to get himself hurt cowardice a long time ago.

Along with the question, Adeline always offers to give him a position in her company, Searchers, Inc. She reminds Joseph how effective he could be as an agent, seeking out the information that Searchers sells. Or, Joseph suspects, as more of an all-around odd-jobs agent. A retrieval specialist, maybe. A diplomat, when the company requires diplomacy. Which is often.

He got a taste of the life of a Searchers agent last week. He had to go to Qurac and find his mother, gather information without getting caught, and get her out of a heavily guarded prison—with her on a broken leg! Joseph did it, and he did it well. But that life…

An overwhelming sense of orange occurs to Joseph Wilson’s senses, and the feeling of a bullet in his leg, and the sound of gunfire and shouts. He lets it wash over him and dissipate.

That life is not for Joseph.

What life is for him? A month ago, Joseph thought it was decided: the life of an artist. His life in Metropolis. An easel in the living room, canvases in the closet, a guitar by his bed, and leather and paper notebooks stacked on his desk and nightstand. Anxiety medication on his nightstand. Jericho uniform gathering dust on the top shelf of his closet. Medical pack for the vigilante friends who occasionally come to his door with wounds and illnesses. A calendar full of cultural events, art shows, part-time teaching, and get-togethers with his friends.

It was a good life. Joseph was content. Even with the occasional loneliness.

And then Wally West found him walking home from the general store, took one of his grocery bags, and fell into step with him. Joseph Wilson learned more about speedsters from that one breathless conversation than he had ever known before. Wally West was a whirlwind of explanations, the gist of which was “Barry Allen was the second flash; Barry has a grandson (Impulse); Impulse has a clone (Inertia); Inertia is a supervillain; well, actually, there have been multiple Inertias, and the first one wasn’t so bad; the first one just came back from the speed force and he doesn’t want to live with us and we’re worried but we’re trying to give him a chance; have you ever heard of a lightning rod? Okay, well… it’s kind of strange.”

Wally West explained the concept of a lightning rod—someone who gives a speedster the “grounding” to escape the speed force. He said their idea was to have Raven give Thad Thawne an artificial lightning rod. The hope was that the lightning rod person would be able to curb Thad’s powers if necessary. It wasn’t the strangest thing Joseph ever heard of by a long shot. But the idea of creating an artificial lightning rod seemed wrong.

Joseph understood that the plan was a desperate bid to rehome a supervillain, but something in him was shocked. If a lightning rod is so integral to a speedster’s heart… if it comes from mutual love and trust… what would it do to a person to have that void filled with magic? Joseph can’t imagine that the magic wouldn’t affect the child’s mind; Raven’s magic and emotion intertwine nearly inseparably. Would the lightning rod force him to trust Joseph? To love him?

Joseph hated that idea instantly.

But… the child Wally West described did seem to dearly need a new home. A young clone created to be a weapon, trying his best to figure life out but desperate to move away from his blood family. And Joseph has always had a soft spot for traumatized children.

Joseph Wilson has known of a few—a very few—reformed villains. He knows it’s an awful, difficult process to rebuild your life. He knows, too, that blood family is complicated and hard and sometimes it’s better to be away for a while.

He learned more over the phone with Max Mercury; he learned the boy’s name, Sophos Thaddeus Anacletus Free; he learned that he definitely has PTSD, dissociation, and nonverbal episodes; and he learned that Max loves him very, very much. Max didn’t say so, but it was there in his voice. It was obvious in the way he asked Joseph, softly, to be honest. He asked him if he would seriously consider taking Thad in. Max didn’t want to give the boy false hope.

Joseph said yes.

Of course he said yes.

It seemed like fate at the time. Joseph Wilson, living alone with a house full of art and a mind full of knowledge about trauma and recovery, having a child fall into his lap. It felt like being needed and perfectly able to provide. Like the possibility of doing what was not done for him when his throat was cut. Healing the hurt.

He loves his mother, but all she knew how to give him was protection. Training. She never knew how to give him comfort.

Then Joseph met Thad Free, and the boy walked with him and talked to him in his rusty little voice, and Joseph fell in love with him then and there. His heart ached. He was never so sure about the compulsion in his life. He saw the stiff, over-careful way Thad moved transform into sure-footed, childish delight. He saw the hope in his yellow eyes, and he wanted to give that to Thad forever.

And then his mother vanished on a Searchers mission, and Joseph had to find her, and on the airplane ride home, she dropped the bomb on him:

“I want to give Searchers, Inc. to you.”

Joseph froze.

“I won’t ask you to be an agent,” Adeline Kane said. There were bags under her eyes, her white roots were showing, and her leg was in a cast. “I know by now you don’t want that. I think I know my own son. But… Joseph, I can’t keep up with the company anymore, and not just missions. Your mother’s getting old, honey.”

Joseph signed, “You’re retiring?”

Expressions are always exaggerated in ASL because that’s one of the ways to indicate meaning, including framing a sentence as a question, but Joseph’s disbelief must have shown really clearly. Adeline smiled at him knowingly.

“Sooner or later,” she said. “I hope sooner. Depending on if you agree to take over Searchers. If not… if not, I’m going to have to find someone else I can trust. And there’s no one in Searchers.”

“No one?”

“No one. Hazard of being a… well, frankly, a shady, barely-legal, and downright deceptive company. I’m glad you never joined, Joey, you’re too good to be part of it.”

Joseph signed, quick and almost angry, “Then why ask me to take the whole company?”

“Because I trust you,” Adeline said. “Because whatever you decide to do with it, it will be good. Change the company to be more legal, or more impactful and positive? Wonderful. Burn it to the ground? Fine!”

“Mother,” Joseph signed, horrified.

Adeline shifted uncomfortably in the airplane seat, reached out her hand, and took Joey’s cheek in her hand.

“Joey,” she said tenderly. “You can say no, and I’ll never ask again. But, darling, I know you could use Searchers well.”

Joseph turned his head into her hand and closed his eyes, throat closing up with emotion.

He ended up telling her that he’d have to think about it. She said Searchers could keep running for a while without her, but he should make his decision before her leg healed.

“Otherwise I’ll just end up taking over again,” she laughed, and Joseph laughed, too, in his own silent way.

As they disembarked, his mother said bluntly: “I need help around the mansion. While my leg heals. Would you be willing to come? I’m sorry, I really don’t want to put responsibility on you, but I’m a wanted woman, and—”

“Give me two weeks,” Joseph signed.

When his heart compels him, he rarely denies it.

The next day, Max Mercury called him. Thad Free! He has a commitment! But he told his mother he would move in with her! Joseph was furious with himself for forgetting. He gave Max a day and a length of time for Thad to visit: nearly a week. It’s a long time. It’s not nearly long enough.

Thad Free stands in the middle of Joe Wilson’s apartment like a polite ghost. He waits, solemn-eyed and wary, as if for Joseph to react to his presence. He looks like he expects Joseph to recoil from him in disgust.

He’s a pale creature, lighter blond than Joseph himself. The light from the picture window makes every hair of his body shimmer like thin strands of gold. In his whitish-blue sweater, he seems out of place among the rich greens and pinks of Joseph Wilson’s apartment. Like a white pigeon.

Thad Free reminds Joseph of Raven, back when she was new with the Teen Titans. When she feared her powers as much as she valued them. Thad Free moves like Raven: light-footed, like he’s trying not to take up any more attention than his existence demands. Tension rides in his shoulders. He watches Joseph like he’s afraid one of them is going to get hurt if he looks away.

Joseph gives Thad a quick tour of the apartment first, trying to coax him to move a little easier. It’s only three rooms, counting the bathroom; the kitchen and living room are one area, and the bedroom is one area. Joseph smiles ruefully as he acknowledges that the apartment is pretty small. Thad smiles back and shrugs.

Joseph signs apologetically, “There’s only one bed, sorry. Can you sleep on a futon?”

Thad looks surprised to be asked.

“That’s fine. I don’t sleep well in beds anyway. Normally I sleep on the floor.”

Joseph widens his eyes. Thad laughs softly.

“It’s more normal than how I used to sleep,” he says.

Joseph cocks his head, curious.

Thad lets his canine teeth show in something like a grin as he says “Suspended upside down in a tank of purple liquid, all chained up in the VR equipment.”

It’s heartbreaking. It’s weird. Joseph balks, torn between the impulse to reach out and the impulse to laugh. Thad grins knowingly at him and sticks his hands in the pockets of his pale-blue sweater. Joseph laughs, and Thad looks pleased with himself.

Joseph takes Thad out to the living room and sits down on the couch. Thad sits on the opposite side of the couch, tucking his feet under him. He seems seconds away from taking flight.

Joey signs, “Let’s set some ground rules.”

“Oh thank God,” the boy blurts out, and then looks away, blushing.

Aww.

Joseph waits until Thad Free looks back. Then he signs, “One rule: look at me while we’re talking.”

“Oh,” Thad says, and Joseph watches the realization hit him: looking away removes Joseph’s ability to communicate. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Joseph brushes his fingers along his palm twice: “I forgive you.”

Thad nods and settles down a bit, moving his legs so he’s less crouching, more kneeling. He looks more comfortable this way.

Joseph signs, “Don’t break things or make loud noises.”

“I wouldn’t,” Thad protests, offended.

Joseph gives him an apologetic look and shrug.

“I don’t have many rules for you,” he signs. “You’re my guest. I’ll tell you more if I need to.”

“Okay,” Thad says slowly.

“It’s not a test,” Joseph signs. “I just can’t think of any more rules right now.”

“Okay,” Thad says again, steadier.

Joseph signs, “You?”

Thad looks alarmed.

“Me what?”

“Do you have any ground rules?” Joseph asks.

Thad looks confused.

“Things you want me to know?” Joseph prompts. “Things I shouldn’t do or talk about?”

Thad’s body glitches. It’s as if Thad moved while Joseph was blinking, only Joseph didn’t blink. Joseph is just realizing that Thad must have slowed time when the boy says decisively: “Yes.”

Joseph puts his hands in his lap and leans forward, listening.

“Don’t touch me without asking.”

Joseph nods. He knows that one, but it’s always good to hear again.

“And try not to come up behind me with no warning.”

Joseph nods. He lifts his hands and signs, “Coming up behind me is bad for me, too.”

Thad nods back. He takes a deep breath.

“Sometimes I dissociate. Do you know what that is?”

Yes. Yes, Joseph does.

“Don’t touch me while I’m not conscious, please,” Thad says. “And don’t… don’t…”

Thad’s gaze falls to Joseph’s hands.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it?” the boy requests. “It just happens.”

Joseph signs “OK.”

“And don’t talk about clone stuff, please.”

Joseph asks, “What clone stuff?”

He has to fingerspell “clone”; there’s no ASL sign for it. Thad grimaces.

“Don’t talk about Bart. My genetic original. And don’t… I guess just don’t ask me about being a clone. You can ask stuff about my past and I’ll answer. It’s fine. But not about that. Not about him.”

Thad’s voice is husky.

Joseph puts his hand on his heart and inclines his head, giving Thad a sympathetic look. The boy can’t hold eye contact; he looks away out the window, then remembers and looks back at Joseph, flustered.

And then he looks away again. His shoulders hunch.

“Sorry, I just—sorry. I’m not good at this.”

He stops. He looks at Joseph’s hands again.

“Uhh… so, sometimes I get overwhelmed, and I have to go be alone… I’m not trying to be rude, I just… I can’t do it. I’ve rarely ever had to interact with real people before. I’m sorry.”

Joseph signs, “It’s OK. Truly.”

Thad looks down at Joseph’s hands, shamefaced.

“Raven gets overwhelmed too,” Joseph signs. Then he remembers that Thad doesn’t know Raven’s ASL name, so he fingerspells it: “R-A-V-E-N. And Raven is one of my best friends.”

Thad signs “OK.”

Is he going nonverbal? It seems like this got into some heavy territory for him.

“Do you have all the ground rules you want?” Joseph asks. “You can add more later.”

Thad nods. He looks up at Joseph again.

Joseph smiles at him. “If you want to be alone for a while, you can hang out in the bedroom. I thought I’d do some painting this afternoon. I’ll be out here. We can order dinner at seven in the evening. Does that sound all right to you?”

“Yes,” Thad says quietly—but sincerely. “Yes, that sounds good.”

Joseph nods. He gets up, slowly, and stretches, arms up in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Thad hop off the couch with the light grace of a dancer.

“Joseph?” Thad’s voice asks.

Joseph puts his hands down and gives Thad his full attention.

Thad says, “Thank you. For the ground rules.”

Aww. Joseph remembers the way Thad relaxed when Joseph assured him that the moss he stepped on would grow back, and something clicks. Thad was raised in isolation from human contact, and probably punished for every wrong move. He’s terrified of doing something wrong.

“You’re welcome,” Joseph signs. It’s the same sign for “Thank you,” and he hopes Thad takes it both ways.

Thad nods seriously and asks to be excused.

#We are back! :) #and hopefully with a regular update schedule again! #longer notes will be on AO3 #but the gist of them is: #ASL is its own language. please take all English signed dialogue as translated from the ASL and know that it will have inaccuracies. #I don't know ASL #although I am doing my absolute best to portray it accurately and respectfully #and I WELCOME criticism on ASL / signing! #(not on other stuff please XD I'm doing my best and fanfic is a creative/fun outlet for me.) #Anyway enjoy! #The Strange Redemption of Thaddeus Thawne #Thad Thawne #Joseph Wilson #Joey Wilson

[plokoonsdisapprovingeyebrows]

a solid percentage of this timetravel fixit fic of mine is turning into "Jedi Masters Being Mother Hens: The Fic" and i am enjoying it so much omfg

the funniest part is Plo being like "thats fair, i'd be doing the same thing if it was me" every time.

#i should be studying for an exam again but i cant stop myself!!! #im hopefully gonna start posting in a couple weeks #gonna try and do a regular update schedule for the first time in my life lmfao

[jessamine-rose]

‧͙☽˚⋆⁺*˚꒰ Moonrise ꒱˚*⁺⋆˚☾‧͙

Surprise, surprise, the epilogue for The Spider and the Fly was finished early!! To everyone who loved Yandere! Miguel x Variant! Darling’s story, pls enjoy this short continuation which takes place after the events of ATSV (◞ꈍ∇ꈍ)◞

Tw:: YANDERE, unhealthy relationships, self-deprecation, Stockholm Syndrome, mention of nsfw, babytrapping

Note:: Female reader, ATSV spoilers, LYLA and Darling definitely have BFF keychains

♡ 1.6k words under the cut ♡

“He did what?”

“You heard me correctly.” LYLA flickers in front of you, her expression serious. “He escaped to another dimension. So now Miguel is looking for Miles in Earth-1610 while everyone else is scattered across the multiverse.”

“I see…” Your gaze drifts to the empty side of the bed. You can’t help but feel both worried for your lover and impressed by Miles Morales.

“But here’s the good news: Your desk wasn’t damaged when they chased him around HQ! Though you’ll be very busy once you get back to work. There will be a lot of multiverse jumps in the next two days, not to mention damage control.”

Never mind, Miles must be stopped as soon as possible.

The mere thought of all those incoming reports is enough to stress you out. What more for Miguel with the fate of the multiverse?

“And of all days, this has to happen while I’m on sick leave.”

As if on cue, you are interrupted by another coughing fit.

“Do you feel worse?” LYLA quickly does a medical scan, but your results are only slightly better than yesterday’s. “You should get more rest.”

You drink more water, shooting her a grateful smile. “Thanks for the update.”

In the dim bedroom, Miguel’s AI assistant is the brightest source of light. The Nueva York skyline appears gloomy, owing to the heavy rain. Is the weather similar in Earth-1610?

“Is Miguel going to be okay? It sounds like he’s already been through a lot.”

“You know how he is. He won’t go down without a fight.”

She’s right. And based on the records of Miguel’s previous missions, Miles and The Spot will be dead once he catches them. It will be difficult to watch.

There is a moment’s hesitation before LYLA continues speaking.

“He left a message for you: ‘Get well soon. And don’t try anything funny while I’m gone.’”

Now that puts a smile on your face. “Of course. Tell him I understand.”

Two days, less supervision. A stronger ______ would definitely plan an escape attempt while Miguel is distracted, notwithstanding the tracking devices and LYLA’s surveillance. But such an opportunity is wasted on you.

If anything, you already miss him.

…Though it is nice to imagine a break from Miguel. There are only so many warnings, so many hours of his sole company, so many ruined sheets and scarlet restraints before your apprehension resurfaces. His love is as intense as it is twisted.

Regardless, the previous months have been the happiest days of your life. Not even the increase in Anomalies could get between the two of you. There is a certain bond to be found in stressing over the same reports and drinking gallons of coffee together and getting jointly reprimanded by LYLA for “overworking yourselves, amongst other forms of self-neglect.”

Your status in the Spider Society has also changed thanks to the public knowledge of your relationship, sans the dark details. It hasn’t really bothered you, apart from the friendly jokes and knowing looks you get before your regular visits to Miguel’s laboratory.

Thinking about it now, Gwen Stacy has also asked for your help in convincing Miguel to let her visit Miles. Hopefully, she is doing well in her home dimension.

Then again, she is much stronger than you. She can handle this.

A holographic screen pops up. Reading it, you follow the scheduled reminder and take your medications. At least your cold has subsided.

LYLA watches you. “You’ll make a full recovery in no time. I’ll inform Miguel.”

“That’s good to know. Can you please relay another message to him?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“‘Good luck. I’m counting on you.’” You finish your cough syrup and close the screen. “‘And please take care of yourself.’”

Even today, he made time for you. A spoon-fed breakfast. A hands-on medical examination. Caldo de pollo and other healthy pre-cooked meals. Brief video calls. A text message explaining that he would come home late due to The Spot, now unsent.

“At least it means I can delay the news.”

LYLA gives you an inquisitive look. “What news?”

You open the bedside drawer and take out a used pregnancy test.

She gasps. “Are you…?! But your medical scan—”

One line.

“Oh.” She double-checks the device for confirmation. “Another negative, huh?”

“Yeah.” After returning it to the drawer, you lie down and wrap yourself in more blankets. “Can you keep it a secret this time? I want to tell him myself.”

“Sure.” She looks at you with renewed concern. “Hey, you okay? It’s not your fault.”

“I know.”

Still, you’ve grown tired of seeing the same result or more precisely, Miguel’s reactions. How many more times can you watch his gaze shift from hopeful to disappointed? By now, you’re already taking fertility drugs and discussing adoption—not that there’s anything inferior about the latter, but your Variants were able to conceive their child. Why can’t you?

Just last week, you noticed a medical article amongst his holographic screens. Miguel had highlighted a paragraph about the connection between stress and fertility. You don’t know if the research was for you or him; but either way, nothing can be done about that.

Worst of all is the relief you feel every time you see that single line. It feels like a secret betrayal, the final shred of your sanity in collaboration with your reproductive system.

“How did she do it?”

“What?” LYLA gives you a confused look.

You lie on your side, facing her. “My Variant. I mean, she was obviously healthier and also in favor of having kids, but…how did she manage? Wasn’t she ever scared of making a mistake with Gabriella? Is it even possible for us to raise a family as happy as theirs?”

“Hey, you’ll figure it out.” She gives you a kind smile, the perfect simulation of sympathy. “It’ll be Miguel’s first time, too, you know. Your pregnancy, your baby, and everything else will be just as new to him. And you can always count on Jess or Peter B for advice.”

“He did say that I’ve warmed up to Mayday…though she still prefers Miguel.”

“Nah, that’s only cuz he lets her treat him like a playground.”

Sitting up, you look around the room. It has undergone a few redecorations since you’ve moved in, under Miguel’s permission and LYLA’s encouragement. Everywhere you look, your personal items are mixed with Miguel’s.

The desk holds a jewelry box, one of your first belongings in Nueva York. The bottom drawer holds an assortment of rings, most of which were purchased on your last shopping date.

It wasn’t anything romantic. For someone who can read several reports and statistics at the same time, Miguel looked almost overwhelmed by the variety of clothes and accessories which caught your attention. LYLA’s opinion was more helpful and fashion-literate.

…He did call you pretty in the fitting room. The comment was totally unprompted for a dress which looked no different from your usual outfits. Up until that point, you had been observing your reflections with a mix of critical looks and pleased smiles.

After blushing, you quickly brushed it off as a matter of preference—LYLA did say that he likes your personal style more than your Variant’s. It’s more suitable for Nueva York.

Never mind that his gaze was on your face, not the dress.

…

Maybe one day, a special ring will be added to the jewelry box. Hand-picked by Miguel, made of any material except pearl, a perfect fit for your ring finger. It will be deserving of a place in the hidden compartment, where you keep your collection of pretty red spiderwebs.

When you receive it, it will be a special moment exclusive to you and your Miguel O’Hara—the versions of you who met on a moonlit night in the shadows of New York City.

Whatever happens, he still loves you. You, despite your flaws and every trait which sets you apart from his Variant’s wife. That is a promise you can believe in.

The room is too cold, so you adjust the air conditioner and take out another blanket. It won’t be as warm in Miguel’s absence.

You should get more rest. The sooner you recover, the sooner you can get back to work and give him one less thing to worry about.

After his mission, you’ll welcome him home as always. He will reciprocate your kisses, call you by your special nickname, and appreciate the food you prepared—his favorites, to celebrate another saved universe. If he looks tired or stressed, you will be the one to comfort him.

…Then you will show him the pregnancy test.

The hope will appear and vanish from his gaze. There will be reassurances directed at both you and himself. Miguel will give you a hug and soft kisses, which became part of the routine after the second test. After that, he will move on to a new topic or suggest a movie night.

Then during your next ovulation, you will be confined for a different reason. You will have to deal with Miguel’s company, his passionate touches, his lovesick declarations, his desperation for your own version of domestic bliss. A small, pathetic part of you has begun to look forward to it.

If he defeats The Spot and Miles Morales.

“Hey, LYLA?” you whisper.

She moves closer to your face. “Yeah?”

“If this continues…he’s not going to alter my DNA, is he?”

“…That’s the last resort. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

♡

Prologue ft. Wife! Darling ๑ Side Stories

So did I jumpscare y'all with the early release of Moonrise?? It’s part of a double feature with Sunset, hence the contrasting titles and simultaneous ideas. But aahhh little did I think that I'd finish this fic ahead of schedule~

Lots of love to my beta-reader @diodellet!! And thanks again to everyone who expressed their love for my Miguel O’Hara writing. May my next idea be less painful for all of us :’>

Tag a Miguel O’Hara enjoyer!! @yanmaresu @yandere-romanticaa @yandere-daydreams @bweoo @kocherry @oofasleep @h2o2-and-baking-soda @yandere-wishes @hisachuu @weebsinstash @handsomeunderwear-art @literaree @pumpkin-toffee @curesi @miggyyyyohara @abyssalrot @letskidaddle @miguelswifey04 @skeleton-on-wheels0

#miguel o’hara #miguel o'hara #yandere miguel o'hara #yandere miguel o’hara #yandere miguel o’hara x reader #yandere miguel x reader #yandere spiderverse #spiderverse x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #yandere atsv #across the spiderverse #tw: yandere #tw: dark #fem reader #lyla #atsv x reader #atsv #atsv spoilers #atsv miguel #atsv lyla #spicy warning #spiderman 2099 #jessamine-writing

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 3: The House Of Soup, Salad, And Breadsticks]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, Nintendo, smoking, kids, parenthood, all-you-can-eat breadsticks, wedding planning, mentions of birth trauma and abortion, a brief Greek lesson, Audi Quattros have very tiny back seats.

Word Count: 9k (someone take this laptop away from me!! I am out of control!!).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevirr @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1

Thank you so much for your patience and encouragement, I was really not doing well for a while but all your kind comments meant the world to me!!! I don't know when Chapter 4 will be ready, but hopefully early next week. My posting schedule is super wonky now. We'll get back to regular Sunday updates eventually, besties. 🥰🧁

It’s Thursday, late-morning, sunlight bending in through the open windows and a flock of blue-winged teals toddling through the backyard on their clumsy webbed feet. From the little pink Panasonic boombox pipes Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again. Your steps as you dart around the kitchen are airy and effortless; you’re humming without realizing that you are. You can’t seem to stop watching the clock, the second hand ticking endlessly, revolving like a moon around its planet. Olive Garden tonight! Olive Garden with Aemond!

“Knock knock?” your guest ventures tentatively as the front door creaks. You hear her heels click on the ever-so-slightly inclined floor and the bright jangling of keys and bracelets. Her accent does not surprise you; you were the one who answered the phone when she called in a panic yesterday.

Jade Dragon is a European company. I shouldn’t be shocked that Brits are descending upon Napoleonville.

You greet her from the kitchen, sight unseen: “Hi! Come on in!” Amir rushes over to set the very last cupcake on the glass serving tray, key lime with cream cheese frosting peppered with zest like flecks of emeralds. You have scrubbed the counter meticulously to make a space for your guest to do her cake tasting. There is an open wooden barstool for her, a yellow legal pad for you to jot down her selections. She steps into the kitchen—click click click, jangle jangle—and she is a stranger, surely, and yet something about her face strikes you as familiar.

“I really must thank you again,” the woman says, wringing her pinkish little hands, glittering with rings; she’s flushed all over from the heat, which she isn’t used to. She wears what for many women would be their Sunday Best: a modest organza dress patterned with sunflowers, gold jewelry and heels, and (oddly) a khaki overcoat that runs to her knees. Her hair hangs in thick, glossy, auburn waves. She smells like perfume, amber and roses, a brand you don’t recognize. “I was so distressed when I called, I must have sounded like a madwoman. It’s all just been so fraught. I know this is very last-minute, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you making time to see me today. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“We are delighted to help!” Amir croons warmly as he swoops in to take her coat, which she surrenders with some bewilderment, her large dark eyes clever but innately vulnerable, anxious. Again, you cannot shake the sense that you have met her before. Amir’s hands sweep down the overcoat as he peeks at the tag inside, and he mouths to you, grinning, eyebrows raised above the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses: Christian Dior! He’s delighted to help this lady, sure; but he’s far more enthusiastic about the prospect of squirreling away more cash for his imminent exodus to San Francisco. Amir hangs the coat in the tiny living room closet and then goes to the stovetop to check on the Kentucky butter cookies that are cooling there.

“Amir and I love baking for any occasion related to a wedding. Everyone is cheerful and excited…and hungry too, of course!” You give your guest a reassuring smile and wave her over to the counter. She’s still tormenting her own hands, still glancing uncertainly around the kitchen. Amir is using a spatula to transfer the cookies from the baking sheet to a cake plate. “Remind me, ma’am, on the phone you said your name was…Allison?”

“Alicent,” she corrects, taking a seat on the barstool beside you and clutching a camel-colored leather purse. She hesitates before she adds: “Targaryen.”

Targaryen?! Jade Dragon?! You gawk at her. Amir drops a Kentucky butter cookie on the floor. You exchange a glance with him and can practically see the bills flitting through his mind: Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Franklin.

“Please don’t make any fuss on my account,” Alicent pleads with those sleek, imploring eyes. “I’m just a customer, just an ordinary customer—”

“A VIP customer!” Amir says, beaming. He won’t work on their rigs, but he’ll take their money in a heartbeat. He considers it compensation for the inevitable environmental catastrophe, for the souls of all the places their dynasty bleeds dry.

“Ma’am…Alicent…Mrs. Targaryen…” you sputter. “What on earth brought you here?”

“My son is getting married.” She squeezes her eyes shut, an infinitesimal frustration, a self-reproach. “Our son, I mean. Viserys and I, our son is getting married, and we’re hosting an engagement party for him and his fiancée this Saturday, as I mentioned when I called. We had arranged to have caterers fly in, but now there’s some sort of visa problem and they won’t be able to make it in time. I found a company based out of New Orleans that is very well thought of for hors d’oeuvre and lunch, but the cakes I sampled…well…they left a lot to be desired. I was desperate, I tell you, utterly bereft, you know we have family and friends and all these industry representatives who will be in attendance, photographers, journalists, and I can’t ruin it, I can’t embarrass the happy couple, it’s not as if people get more than one chance at a wedding!”

Amir rolls his eyes at you from across the kitchen. Listen to this idiot, he means.

“But then I asked around town, and I got the same recommendation over and over again,” Alicent tells you, smiling now. “Everyone said that I just had to stop by Hummingbird Bakery.”

And now you know exactly where you recognize her from. She looks so much like the drunk man from the holding cell; his hair was blonde and his eyes were that sad swirling blue, but nonetheless he was a Targaryen the same as Alicent, and they share so much of the same bones, blood, innate defenselessness. That boy is getting married? His poor goddamn bride. “Well I am thrilled that you found your way to us, Mrs. Alicent Targaryen. And I think you’ll taste at least a few cakes that you’d be proud to serve at the engagement party.”

“And you can have them ready by Saturday?” Alicent asks fretfully.

“Absolutely.” You won’t sleep much between now and then, but the business matters more. And if you can recruit the Targaryens and some of their associates as regular customers…well, you might actually be able to start saving up for that new house Aemond asked you about on the night you met. You gesture to the glass tray on the counter. “Amir and I have baked twelve cupcakes for you to sample today. I’ll write up a list of the flavors you like best, and we can make any customizations. You can choose one flavor and have multiple cakes made, or four cakes in four different flavors, or any other arrangement, you just let me know and we’ll see that your wishes are granted.”

“These are all for me?!” Alicent says, surveying the cupcakes.

“Yes ma’am. Vanilla bean, triple chocolate, coconut, red velvet, carrot, white chocolate raspberry, key lime, lemon, peanut brittle, cherry chocolate chip, blueberry jam and cream cheese, and hummingbird. But don’t get overwhelmed, you only have to eat one bite of each.”

“And whatever you don’t finish we’ll let Cadi throw to the gator,” Amir says.

“Gator?” Alicent is alarmed.

“She lives in the tree row,” you explain. “She doesn’t bother anyone.” And you almost add: Except Aemond, of course. He hates her.

“Oh. Fascinating.” Alicent blinks a few times. “And who is Cadi?”

“My daughter. She’s ten, she’s at school. She’s…” You glance at the clock. “Learning about fractions and decimals at the moment.”

“How wonderful! And what does your husband do for work?”

“Terrorism,” Amir says, and Alicent Targaryen’s jaw drops.

“He’s the sheriff of Assumption Parish,” you swiftly amend. “But he’s my ex-husband now.”

Alicent doesn’t know how to reply. She stares at the cupcakes instead of at you. After several long, awkward seconds, she says: “My, do these look delicious! Where should I start?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

“This one is hummingbird cake, you said?” She picks it up. Her hands are fidgety; she doesn’t seem to ever stop moving. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Did you name the bakery after it, or did you name the cake after the bakery?”

“Oh no, the cake existed first. It’s been popular around here since…what, Amir? The 60s? Something like that. My mom taught me how to make it when I was seventeen. Hummingbird cake was my favorite dessert for years.”

“It’s from Jamaica originally,” Amir notes. The Kentucky butter cookies are displayed on the kitchen table, and now he’s beginning to peel vivid green Granny Smith apples for dumplings.

“It has bananas, pineapple, cinnamon, pecans…”

“Mmm!” Alicent sighs as she takes a bite. “Oh, it’s fantastic! The different fruits add such dimension of flavor! And the texture too, so interesting. Very substantial, almost like a fruitcake. Yes, I think that is a strong contender.” She continues on to the next cupcake. As she nibbles on each one, she chats nervously, almost compulsively. “She’s a darling girl. Woman, I mean. My future daughter-in-law.”

You get up to pour Alicent a glass of sweet tea. “What’s her name?” you ask politely. You are actively trying not to let your thoughts drift to Olive Garden: soup, salad, breadsticks, Aemond licking blood-red marinara sauce from his lips as he smirks at you from across the table, acting like he doesn’t want to be there.

“Christabel.” Alicent sets down the carrot cupcake, opens her purse, and digs through her wallet for a photograph. It’s small and rectangular, and the girl trapped inside the frame—a girl, truly, if she’s twenty you’ll eat your white denim shorts—looks like Teri Copley: billowing platinum hair, squarish jaw, pink cheeks and red lips, large dollish blue eyes. She reminds you of Barbie; she reminds you of something that belongs in a box on a shelf somewhere. “Her father is a marquess.”

“She’s gorgeous! And is that…is that a job…?”

“It’s a title,” Alicent Targaryen says with a demure, apologetic smile as she tucks the photo back into her wallet. She has spoken of things she should have known were above you. “Like a duke or a baron. Christabel is from a noble family back in the United Kingdom. Milford Haven, more specifically.”

Amir gasps, elated, waving his paring knife around in the air. “She’s just like Princess Diana!”

“She’s very young,” Alicent says, a bit wearily. She takes a bite of the lemon cupcake. “But then again, I was even younger when I got married, seventeen. That’s just the way it was back then. None of my friends even thought of going off to school for years and years, or playing the field, or getting a serious job. In our eyes, there were no other options. You found a good man from an acceptable family and you settled down and started having babies.” Alicent sips her sweet tea, ice jangling in the frosted glass. “Oh, that’s dreadful! Cold tea!” She shudders. “I suppose that’s how you all keep from getting heatstroke down here. Cold drinks and no clothes.”

“Sorry.” You glance self-consciously down at your shorts.

“No no, it’s quite alright. I’m in your jungle, I can’t expect you to conform to my idiosyncrasies.” This is a word you don’t know, although you try not to show it. Then Alicent winks. “Now, if you ever find yourself across the pond…”

I’ll never visit another country. Nevertheless, you chuckle as Alicent expects you to. “I understand what you mean about not having options. I got married at seventeen too.”

“Did you?” she asks, somber now. Her large umber eyes are uneasy, searching.

“Yeah. I was way too young. And unfortunately, the only way to know you’re too young is to not be young anymore. And by then you’ve already made such a mess of things.”

Amir looks over at you; this is not recruiting-a-customer conversation. Alicent nods, slow and thoughtful, studying you with those vast eyes like a dark mirror image of that Targaryen boy in the holding cell. She nibbles on the peanut brittle cupcake to avoid having to respond.

You pivot. “How many children do you have?”

Now Alicent brightens. “Four.”

“That many! I can’t even imagine. They must bring you so much joy.”

“In between the chaos, yes,” Alicent says, sampling the key lime cupcake. “Daeron is my youngest, he’s so sweet-natured, so encouraging, always offering to help with my projects around the house. He never complains. He hasn’t been gobbled up by the company yet. My only criticism is his obsession with his godawful parrot. I’d have it murdered, but tragically Daeron already knows it’s supposed to live 50 years. Helaena reads a lot—about gardens and insects and other planets, all sorts of things I can’t make heads or tails of—but she’s kind and gentle, and she still lets me fix her hair and take her shopping once in a while.” You think, smiling: If I tried to touch Cadi’s hair, I think she’d claw my face off. “And then my son who’s getting married—”

The front door bangs open and heavy footsteps race across the floor. He appears in the kitchen: greased-back black hair, a single gold earring, tan skin, white suit, a bold Hawaiian shirt—sapphire blue water, green palm trees, hot pink flamingos—underneath. He’s breathing heavily and his forehead gleams with perspiration. Alicent appears stunned to see him.

“Criston? What’s wrong? I said you could wait in the Lexus.”

Amir asks the man: “You’ve been in the car this whole time?”

“Don’t feel too bad for me. The Lexus has air conditioning.” The man, Criston, turns back to Alicent. “There’s a lizard out there!”

Amir sighs impatiently. “It’s a gator. And she’s perfectly harmless.”

“I just watched her maul a duck to death! There’s blood all over the grass!”

Amir is unfazed. “To humans, I mean.” He resumes peeling apples.

You tell Amir glumly: “I might have to get Willis to shoot her.”

“Only if it’s a murder-suicide.”

“Criston, help me choose,” Alicent says. She has a gift for ignoring unpleasantness, you’re beginning to notice. “I suddenly feel so overwhelmed.”

He walks over to the counter and begins taking a hefty bite out of each cupcake, eating after Alicent without any trepidation. They confer in murmurs, nods, shrugs, their own language that is threaded with a distinct and curious familiarity. Alicent catches you observing.

“He’s my bodyguard,” she explains hastily, then titters. “And my personal assistant, and my driver…”

“And your babysitter,” Criston says, grinning, crumbs all over his face.

“Yes, they never seem to outgrow the need for that, do they?” Then Alicent addresses you. “Could you manage to have six cakes ready by Saturday, do you think? They’re all so lovely. I don’t think I can narrow it down to less than that.”

Amir casts you a petrified glance. Notwithstanding that, you reply: “I suppose we can handle six.”

“Brilliant.” And you think: Aemond uses that word a lot too. “Then we’d like one vanilla, one chocolate, one blueberry, one coconut, and one hummingbird. And a key lime. I just adore the color, don’t you? A gorgeous, vivid green. It reminds me of the moors back home.”

“Yes ma’am.” You scribble her order down on your legal pad.

“And how much do your cakes cost?”

“$10 each,” Amir tells her.

“$10!” Alicent exclaims, looking at Criston. “Can you believe that? We’re certainly not in Knightsbridge anymore.” She takes $60 out of her wallet and hands it to you. “And you can deliver it to the house if I leave you an address? Around noon on Saturday?”

“Of course, no problem.”

Alicent gives you an address to add to your notes—you don’t recognize the street name, it must be in a new development—and then checks the clock on the wall. “Oh, is that right?! Christabel will be landing at the airport any minute. I’ve got to rush back to the house to make sure everything is ready for her. I can’t be a subpar host.”

“Where’s your coat, Ali?” Criston asks.

“In that closet over there.”

Criston fetches her coat and drapes it over her shoulders. Amir flashes you a salacious smirk. You wiggle your eyebrows back.

As Alicent and Criston cross the kitchen towards the living room and the front door, they pause by the table where an assortment of baked goods, different every day, is displayed for walk-in customers. Criston points to a cake plate piled high with Rice Krispie Treats. “You know who likes those,” he says softly.

“They’re very popular!” Amir announces, ever the salesman. “And we can make them with any kind of cereal you could imagine. Fruity Pebbles, Frosted Flakes, Cocoa Puffs…”

Alicent says, a bit randomly: “Cap’n Crunch?”

Amir doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely!”

“Alright.” She has a faraway look in those dark oil-drop eyes, always a little shimmery, always a little sad. “I’ll take two dozen of those as well.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” you say.

“Thank you. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you echo, perplexed.

Criston and Alicent depart. You hear the front door swing open and then close again. Outside, Criston reminds Alicent to leave plenty of space between her and the gator. An engine rumbles and gravel crunches as the Lexus rolls out of the driveway.

“If they’re not fucking, I’m Tom Cruise,” Amir says. “Speaking of fucking, what time is Scarface coming to pick you up?”

“5:15.” You nod to where Alicent was sitting. “She’s not bad for a robber baron.”

“Oh, please. She would grind your bones into flour if that’s what it took to have cakes ready for her child bride engagement party. I hope that Christabel girl knows what she’s getting into.”

What is she, eighteen? Nineteen? “She doesn’t.” The phone rings and you scramble for it. “Hello?!”

It’s not Aemond. “Hey, sugar.”

Ugh. “Hi, Willis.” Across the kitchen, Amir mimes slitting his own wrists with the paring knife.

“Listen,” Willis drawls in his familiar, I’m-about-to-deliver-bad-news tone. You can hear noise wherever he is: sirens, shouting. He must be using his car phone. “I’m all tied up down here on Route 90, we got a hell of a wreck, ten cars and an 18-wheeler. Had to close all the goddamn lanes in both directions. I don’t think I’m gonna get home until late, really late, maybe not ‘til 9 or 10.”

“So you have to switch nights. You can’t pick Cadi up from school.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, will ya? And that I’ll take her fishin’ this weekend to make it up to her. I’ll keep her Saturday and Sunday, if that works for you.”

“She’ll love that,” you say distractedly. No Olive Garden. No Aemond. Not tonight, anyway. “Anything outside and with animals. Anything that lets her get filthy.”

“Thanks for understandin’. I gotta run.”

“Bye.”

“So long, sugar.” Willis hangs up. So do you.

“Oh no!” Amir waves his knife around threateningly. “No, not a chance, that gremlin does not get to ruin the first real date you’ve had in…what…ever?!”

You smile; you can’t help it. “It’s not a date. Aemond is fancy and kinky, I’m a mom covered in frosting, people like us don’t date. Besides, his personal ad was very clear: Single and not looking to change that.”

“He’s not acting very single.” Amir begins chopping the peeled apples.

“It’s fine. It happens. We can go to Olive Garden some other time. I’ll try to call Aemond, and if he doesn’t answer I’ll tell him when he gets here. Maybe we can at least chat on the front porch for a while or something. Watch the lightning bugs come out as it gets dark.”

“I’ll hang out here with Cadi,” Amir offers.

“What? Really?” Olive Garden might be back on the menu! “You will?”

“Yeah, ho. I can’t in good conscience just stand by while you are deprived of traumatized war veteran dick. I need a break from Grandma anyway. She’s gotten really into Unsolved Mysteries and that shit gives me the creeps. I don’t want to hear about missing or murdered people. I’m already scared I might end up like that.”

“I’d find you. I’d rescue you. My and my pet gator.”

Amir laughs, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Sure you would.”

“I’ll give you $10 out of my share of the bakery profits this week. For watching Cadi, I mean.”

“Deal,” he says. “Now help me with these dumplings so we can get started on those six cakes for the motherfucking Rockefellers.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s 5:13 p.m. when Aemond arrives at what Cadi named the Fall-Down House when she was in kindergarten, toting in her Chewbacca backpack sheets of homework about shapes and seasons, things you could help her with. You wonder what you’ll say when she gets to her senior year of high school and starts asking about calculus, physics, Shakespeare, college applications. It’ll be like she’s trying to talk to you in a foreign language. It’ll be like trying to explain colors to a blind man.

You’re almost done wiping down the stove and counter; Amir and Cadi are singing along and dancing to Kyrie by Mr. Mister: the Moonwalk, the Electric Slide, the Wop, the Sprinkler. Aemond wanders in and hovers on the border between the living room and the kitchen, his neon teal duffle bag hanging from one shoulder, staring with this profound, childlike puzzlement on his face. He looks like he’s never seen people dancing before; it’s some exotic ritual, some rite of a religion he doesn’t practice. He wears dark jeans, a black button-up shirt, black Converses, and his trusty Marlboro jacket. His fists are buried deep in the pockets like he’s holding something precious there, treasure, wisdom, secrets.

“Wassup, Scarface?!” Amir yells over the music, pretending to be reeling Aemond in like a fish. “Show us your best moves! Do the Worm! Do the Robocop!”

Aemond raises an eyebrow, drops his duffle bag, and—after a moment’s hesitation—glides across the tilted wooden floor to you. He takes your hands, spins you around, something like a clumsy, out-of-practice waltz, something real and enchanting beyond measure. And when was the last time you really danced with a man? Willis’ senior prom? Aemond sings as Amir and Cadi do the Running Man:

“Kyrie eleison down the road that I must travel,

Kyrie eleison through the darkness of the night,

Kyrie eleison where I’m going, will you follow?

Kyrie eleison on a highway in the night…”

Aemond releases you, sweeps his blonde hair off his forehead, and guzzles your frosty glass of sweet tea that you left on the counter in an expanding pool of condensation. You are reminded of how Criston devoured the cupcakes with no concern for the fact that Alicent had already tasted them.

“Such a weird song,” Cadi says as it fades out, as the cicadas and nighthawks grow louder through the screens of the open windows. “What the heck is a kyrie eleison?”

“It means Lord have mercy,” Aemond tells her. “It’s Greek.”

“Willis got stuck cleaning up an accident about a half hour south of here,” you explain. “But Amir and Cadi are going to have some nice couch potato time together.”

“Can we watch Unsolved Mysteries?” Cadi asks Amir excitedly, clinging to his arm. Amir groans.

“I might have an alternative,” Aemond says. He returns to his duffle bag, unzips it, and produces—not blue silk scarves, fuzzy handcuffs, a riding crop, or any other tokens of depravity—but a Nintendo game console.

Cadi screams and sprints to Aemond, unable to rip it out of his hands fast enough. “No way! Really?! I can play it?!”

“You can keep it.”

“What?!” She ogles the tannish rectangular box, the two handheld controllers. “This is the most epic day of my life!”

“I’m glad I could deliver it in person. I was just going to leave it with your mum.” Aemond starts taking cartridges out of the duffle bag. “I have Commando, Super Mario Bros., Star Force, the Karate Kid, Kung Fu, Burger Time, Donkey Kong and Donkey Kong 3, Alpha Mission, the Legend of Zelda, and Golf, which I honestly would not recommend. I used to have Top Gun too, but my brother spilled Tang all over it.”

“This is better than Christmas!” Cadi shrieks. “This is better than my birthday!” She dashes to Amir and starts hauling him off towards her room. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

“I’m being kidnapped,” he tells you, feigning distress.

“Cadi, chill. Do you know how to hook that up to your tv?”

She reluctantly surrenders Amir’s hand. “Yeah, Michelle has one.”

“Okay. You can get it ready, I have to talk to Amir for a sec.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, and vanishes into her bedroom with the Nintendo and a precarious armful of game cartridges.

“Thank you,” you tell Amir quietly. “Seriously. I know I owe you.”

He grins. “Anytime. You’re helping to pay my way to San Fransisco, I really can’t complain.”

Aemond perks up. “You’re visiting San Fran?”

“I’m moving there,” Amir says. “And as soon as humanly possible! Sun, sand, and Speedos, here I come! Why? Have you been?”

“I have, actually. It’s a great city.”

You turn to Aemond; this is new information. “Did you go to school there?”

“No, I went to Imperial College in London. But I flew to San Franscisco to interview someone I was writing a term paper about.”

Amir squints at him. “Imperial paid for you to fly across the world for one interview?”

Aemond shrugs, hands back in his jacket pockets. “I got, uh, a research stipend.”

You ask: “Who did you interview?”

“I don’t think you’d recognize the name, but he was a really incredible guy. He was a nurse and the first person to ever come out publicly as having AIDS. Then he spent the rest of his life educating people about the disease. Bobbi—”

“Bobbi Campbell?!” Amir is awed. “Of course I know who he is! You actually met Bobbi Campbell?!”

“Yeah, we had lunch together. Wine and cioppino. His partner was there too.” Aemond is somber, reflective. “It’s probably the most worthwhile thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well you just get better and better, don’t you, big boy?” Amir says. “Have fun at Olive Garden. Don’t hurry home or anything.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You are beaming, serene, warm all over, bewitched by the magic of liminal spaces, doorways between realities that rarely touch. Frank Sinatra—Fly Me To The Moon—floats through the restaurant speakers. The table is cluttered with plates and bowls: breadsticks, salad wet with Italian dressing, zuppa toscana, minestrone, main courses. Families in nearby booths are chattering; wine glasses clink, stories are recalled. You always wonder when you see cheerful married couples surrounded by children: Are they really happy? Is it worth it? Or do they go home after these displays of fairytale adoration and ignore each other, argue, brawl, crack open the Bud Lights, crack knuckles, crack bones like glass? Does true love exist at all? Or is it a lie we’re taught so the species can live on? “I’m in Italy.”

“You’re not in Italy, Cupcake. You’re in Gonzales, Louisiana. I can glance out the window and see a Doller General and a Burger King.”

“I’m basically in Italy.” You gesture to your plate, large and oval-shaped. Your entrée is divided into thirds: chicken parmesan, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo. “I got the Tour of Italy. I’m now an expert in all things Italian.”

Aemond smiles at you, the way he usually does: amused, teasing, craving. “In Italy, the pasta is always al dente. And they use very little sauce, not like here where everything is drowning in it.”

“I personally love my ocean of sauce.”

“And in Italy the bread is served plain. No butter, no olive oil, no…” He scrutinizes a breadstick. “Whatever this is. Assorted soy products, probably.”

“Don’t ruin my dinner or I’ll tie you up next time.”

Aemond laughs: crinkles around his eyes, pure boyish radiance. “Go ahead. I dare you.” He eats a bite of his herb-grilled salmon. “I looked into your Saint Honoratus of Amiens. He’s the patron saint of bakers.”

You roll your eyes like this is obvious. You like knowing something Aemond doesn’t, Aemond with his vocabulary and his high-powered career and his petroleum engineering degree from Imperial College in London, England, a place you have never seen and never will, a city that might as well be located on one of Saturn’s rings. “Yeah, clearly.”

But you never feel like the clever one for long. “And of oil refiners.”

“Is he really?”

Aemond grins. “Yeah. So we’ll have to share him.”

“Did you ever think about doing something besides engineering?” You already know the answer. You saw it in the way he talked about Bobbi Campbell.

“I did,” Aemond admits. “The engineering thing…it was expected of me. It wasn’t really my choice. It’s fine, I’m okay with my job, I’ve come to terms with it. But when I was a kid, I wanted to be a historian.”

“People get paid for that? To study history?”

“Not a lot. But I love the stories. When I was at Imperial, I’d fill every extra space in my schedule with history and anthropology courses. I interviewed Bobbi for my Microhistory class.”

“Micro…history? Tiny history…?”

“You learn everything there is to know about one individual, or one town, or one product, whatever, and through it you can get a better sense of the bigger picture. Like…you could catalogue what specific pieces of furniture were in George Washington’s house to study 18th-century trade routes.”

“Or you could use Ketchikan, Alaska as an example of the dangers of oil rigs and the corrupt, greedy company policies of modern-day robber barons.”

Aemond stares at you. “Yeah. Sure. You get it.” He wastes no time changing the subject. “Where did you go to college?”

“College?” This is preposterous. “Aemond, I never finished high school.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” you say. “I dropped out. I don’t have a high school diploma. I definitely didn’t go to college.”

He’s utterly bewildered. “But…you aren’t stupid.”

“Yes, Aemond, a lot of not-stupid people don’t go to college. And I’d imagine the opposite is true as well.”

He sighs, long and deep, rubbing his scarred forehead with his fingertips. “I’m sorry. I could have worded that more sensitively.”

“Willis is a year older than me. I got pregnant the night of his senior prom. I never went back after summer break. I figured…you know…what was the point? I didn’t need Calculus or World History. I needed money. I needed baby clothes and a crib and a car. And my high school wouldn’t have let me in anyway.”

Now Aemond glares, though his wrath isn’t for you. “They kicked out pregnant girls?”

You smile wryly, chomping on a breadstick wet with marinara sauce. “They still do. They have to make cautionary tales out of us. The weak and the lustful.”

“Well then how the fuck is someone like you supposed to provide for yourself?”

“By marrying whoever got us pregnant and never leaving them.”

“Medieval,” he snaps. He stabs at his salmon, loses his appetite, slams the fork down on the plate. The waitress had just been approaching to ask about dessert; she does a 180 and vanishes again.

“Aemond,” you say gently. I don’t want to ruin tonight. “Please don’t be angry.”

“There are specific things that make me angry.” He rests his chin on his knuckles and peers out the window. Seconds tick by; Frank Sinatra sings about New York, another city you’ll never visit. Then Aemond looks at you again. “What is it like to be a parent?” he says, in the same reverent and mystified tone that someone might use to ask what it was like to flatline on an operating table before being brought back to life. Did you get a glimpse of the gates of Heaven? Did you feel the heat of Hell?

“I can only tell you how it feels to me.” You are wistful; you are painfully honest. You’ve never told anyone this before. No one has ever asked. “It’s…wonderful, and terrifying, and exhausting. You love them more than anything, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get tired, irritated, impatient, resentful. One minute you’re laughing hysterically with them, the next you’re begging them to go to sleep so you can have a half hour to yourself, or just ten minutes, or just five. And then as soon as they’re gone you miss them. You’re too strict or too lenient, never just right. You sacrifice—money, time, your body, your soul—but it’s never enough. You accidentally hurt their feelings and then tie yourself in knots to fix it, but you can never show them when you’re sad, or frustrated, or afraid. They can be so sweet and then so inadvertently cruel. They’re too young to understand that they’re being ungrateful. They ask you questions you don’t want to answer. They’re your reason for living, they’re a burden, they’re the best thing that ever happened to you, they’re your closest friend, they’ve trapped you somewhere you don’t want to be. There are all these emotions that come in waves, they go around and around and never stop. It’s like a tire spinning in mud.”

Aemond considers you for a long time before he speaks. “I think you’re doing a good job. Cadi seems happy. She’s…uh…spirited. But happy.”

“She’s a little wild, but that’s my fault. We grew up together. I didn’t draw many lines, and now it’s too late. And she’s getting old enough to notice things she didn’t see before. Most of her friends’ parents are still married. They might not be in love, but she doesn’t understand that part yet. What she understands is that we’re broke and her dad lives in a different house, and I’m the one who made that happen.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Aemond insists. He starts to reach across the table for your hands, then stops, reconsiders, grabs his duffle bag that’s squeezed next to him in the booth instead. He unzips the small pocket on the side and pulls out a toothbrush, a travel-sized tube of Crest, and a miniature bottle of Listermint. “I’m going to go brush my teeth in the bathroom, and then I’m going to fuck you in the back of my car. Okay?”

Your smile has returned. The magic has too. “Okay. You don’t want dessert?”

“I don’t need tiramisu. I already have a Cupcake. Unless…do you want tiramisu…?”

“No, I don’t like coffee.”

“I think they have other things too, cannoli, cheesecake…”

“Aemond,” you say. “I want to leave now.”

“Got it.” He leaves $30 for the waitress on the table—he always pays with cash, you notice—and bolts for the bathroom. Fortunately, you’d had the same thought; shortly before Aemond arrived at the house two hours ago, you’d packed your pink toothbrush and a tube of Ultra Brite in your Valerie Barad rainbow purse…just in case. By the time you get back to the table, Aemond is waiting and looking uncharacteristically anxious: biting his lower lip, clasping his hands together behind his back. He’s relieved when he spots you. “I thought you might have ditched me.”

“What, and walked 25 miles home?”

“Forget it. Let’s go.” And he shoves his hands into the pockets of his Marlboro jacket before he can reveal any more of himself with them.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re flying down Route 70 with all the windows down, warm twilight wind flooding through the gaps between your fingers, centuries-old southern live oaks and flowering dogwoods passing by in a blur, an Eddie Money tape in the Audi Quattro’s cassette deck. Under the bridges you cross, brackish bayou water ripples lazily, thick with cypress trees, duckweed, spider lilies, salvinia, wading great egrets and lurking alligators. The seats are tan leather and spotless. Aemond rests a palm on your bare thigh, just below the hem of your shorts. His blonde hair whips in the breeze. From the passenger seat, you can only see the right side of his face, the unscarred side. It’s almost like he’s whole again. He puffs on a Marlboro Red, smoke escaping through the open windows, tobacco and tar and nicotine, chemicals and earth.

“We better stop before we get into Assumption Parish,” you tease. “You don’t want one of Willis’ deputies to stumble upon us.”

But Aemond is particular; he wants the perfect spot. Just a mile before Ascension Parish gives way to Assumption, he finds an overgrown dirt pull-off used for fishing. He parks the Quattro just out of sight of the highway, rolls up the automatic windows, blasts the icy air conditioning.

“Get in the back,” he orders, unclicking his seatbelt. The intro of Take Me Home Tonight thunders through the speakers. You obey, climbing into the (very not-spacious) back seat. Just seconds later, Aemond follows.

You giggle when he pulls you into his lap to straddle him. As you toss away his Marlboro jacket and unbutton his shirt, Aemond yanks off your orange tank top, unhooks your bra, accidentally breaks the tab of the zipper off your white denim shorts with his strong, frantic hands. He needs you; he needs you all the time, everywhere, and he’ll never get enough. He’s kissing you deeply, roughly, nipping at your lips and tongue, breathing his smoke into you. His fingers slip into your shorts and under the silk that you bought for him, blue like his eyes, blue like the sky before heavy rain. You’re moaning, grinding, impatient; he’s helping you shimmy out of your shorts, he’s tugging down his jeans. And now you realize that he wants you to stay on top. “Aemond, no, I’m not good at it…”

“Shut up. You’re good at everything.”

That’s a lie, you know it is; still, Aemond makes you believe it. He grabs your hips and shows you exactly how to move them, and soon the rhythm feels effortless, soon you are wet and relaxed enough for him. At the last minute, he gets a condom from the pocket of his jeans, rips it open, and rolls it on. And again, you are struck by a strange but unmistakable disappointment that you cannot have all of him, that you cannot experience what it’s like to be as close to him as humanly possible, this man that you hardly know, this body that unleashes ecstasy in yours.

It’s quick: your arms linked around the back of his neck, Aemond kissing your throat and the slope of your jaw, his hands and murmurs guiding you, delicious fullness and friction. You’re amazed when he comes—I made that happen?? I did that??—and a tidal wave of extraordinary pride, lust, power surges through you. Aemond helps you finish with his fingers, only a few vigorous strokes, and then he drags you down onto the Quattro’s back seat with him.

“Careful,” you say as you lie on top of Aemond’s chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, goosebumps springing up in the chill of the air conditioning. You’re all tangled up in each other; there’s no room to get away. “You’re not going to be able to get rid of me.”

“I’ll accept the risk.” The last rays of sunlight fall across his damp skin, turning him to amber, tiger’s eye, gold. “What happened when you had Cadi?”

You turn your face to look at him. “Huh?”

“You said you were unconscious for a few days after she was born.”

“I told you that?”

“Yeah. The first night I came over. And you’ve been on the pill ever since. You never wanted more kids?”

“No,” you say quietly. “No, I didn’t. I still don’t.”

“So something happened.”

“It’s not a cute story. It’s not sexy.”

“I’ve surmised that.” Another word you don’t know.

“I don’t really ever talk about it.”

“Because you don’t want to, or because people don’t ask?”

You’re amazed by how much he sees, like you’re a clean window, like your skin and skull are made of glass. “My water broke and I went into labor, but I wasn’t progressing fast enough,” you tell Aemond. “I mean, the nurses told me I wasn’t progressing. I didn’t really understand what that meant. It felt like something was happening. There was a lot of pain and pressure, and it was intense, definitely, but it was bearable, I still felt like myself. I was actually really proud of how calm I was. But I guess it wasn’t enough. So the doctor started me on something called Pitocin, and then the contractions weren’t bearable anymore. They were…I can’t even describe it. It was like this bone-breaking twisting, but also sharpness, razor sharpness. I imagined knots of barbed wire. It’s the only thing I could compare it to. And I wasn’t in control anymore. I wasn’t myself at all. I was this animal being trapped, being tortured, and there was no break between the contractions, they happened over and over and over again, one right after the other, and it went on for hours. I kept telling everyone that I couldn’t do it. I needed an epidural, laughing gas, pills, anything. I was begging them to knock me out. I was trying to rip the IV with the Pitocin out of my hand. But no one listened. The nurses acted like I was being dramatic. Women have babies every single day all over the world, why couldn’t I just shut up and deal with it? My mom was around, but she had pretty straightforward births, and I don’t think she could comprehend what it was like. Willis told me I was doing a good job. That’s all he could say: Good job, sugar, you’re doin’ just fine, sugar. But I didn’t want mindless encouragement. I wanted somebody to help me. I thought I was dying.”

Aemond’s hand smooths your hair. He’s watching you closely.

“When Cadi…when she was finally born, I wasn’t excited to hold her. I didn’t even care. I was just relieved the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. I told my mom to take her. I could hear the baby crying, and I remember thinking: Who is that? I almost died for that? I felt nothing for her, absolutely nothing. And then I heard…it sounded like someone had turned a sink on, because there was water running. But then the nurses were yelling and the doctor rushed back into the room. I was hemorrhaging, and it wasn’t water that I’d heard, it was blood, my blood, gushing all over the floor. I passed out and I needed transfusions and I woke up three days later. The very first thing a nurse said was that she was so happy to tell me that they’d been able to stop the bleeding without doing a hysterectomy, so I’d be able to have more children. Can you believe that? It was like I didn’t exist. I was just a vessel. As if I wanted to go through that again. No, never, no thank you. I got attached to Cadi, but it took months. Obviously, now I love her. But I was empty for a long time. Just empty, and sad, and in pain, and hopeless.”

“And your useless fucking husband named the baby you almost bled to death having.”

“He didn’t mean for it to be hurtful,” you say. “He thought he was helping. And it’s a hell of a name, I have to admit it. Arcadia Dove, like a Star Wars character or a superhero. It suits her.”

But still: Aemond shakes his head, incredulous, outraged on behalf of your long-gone teenage self. “When you found out you were pregnant, did you ever consider…you know…not having it?”

You give him a small, guilty smirk. What kind of mother could admit this? “Yeah. Yeah, I did. That was my plan, actually. I called a clinic in New Orleans and made an appointment. Cleared out every penny of my savings to pay for it. Cheaper than a life sentence, right? Amir offered to go with me, but neither of us had a car or a license, and I could never let my mom know. So I asked Willis.”

“And he wouldn’t drive you.”

Worse. “He told me that if I went, I’d be a murderer.”

Aemond jolts upright, furious. “He actually said that to you?”

“Aemond—”

“No, hold on, he actually said that?! He said that you could drop out of high school, you could throw all your dreams out the window, you could become a mum at fucking seventeen years old and marry some guy you barely knew, and if you wanted a way out that would make you a murderer?!”

You offer weakly: “Willis is really, really Catholic. A lot of people down here are, and—”

“He’s a coward, that’s what he is. He was willing to sacrifice your future to soothe his conscience. His life didn’t change. Yours did.”

“I love Cadi. I don’t regret her.”

“But you should have had a choice.”

You study Aemond: his glinting right eye, the deep stormy furrows in his brow. “Why are you so angry?”

“Because you deserved better. You could have been something more.”

Something more? Something more? “I’m not horrified by how I’ve turned out, Aemond. I made the best of my circumstances. I have a job I enjoy, I keep a roof over our heads, I have people to live for.”

“You deserved better,” Aemond repeats, soft and low.

“So did you.” You touch your palm to his scarred cheek and ask in a whisper: “What happened? Who hurt you?”

“Stop,” Aemond says, flinching away from your hand. And that’s the safe word; you have to listen.

~~~~~~~~~~

At home, Cadi and Amir are chatting at the kitchen counter with a late-night snack of apple dumplings, warmed in the microwave, and Breyer’s vanilla ice cream. Blue Bell is cheaper, but Breyer’s tastes real; it’s one of the few things you won’t compromise on.

“Mom, guess how many levels I beat in Super Mario Bros.!” Cadi doesn’t notice that your tank top isn’t quite covering the brutalized zipper of your shorts. Amir definitely does notice; he mouths to you: Baby Jesus is so sad.

“Um, I don’t know…how many levels does it have?”

“Thirty-two,” Aemond informs you.

“Seven?” you say.

“Try ten!” Cadi grins triumphantly.

“Radical! Amazing!”

Aemond applauds. “No way! You’re a prodigy!” You don’t have to ask if he wants to stay. He scoops two apple dumplings into the same bowl and then pops open the microwave, like he lives here too. “How long should I heat these up?”

“About 45 seconds,” Amir says. He yawns and puts his dishes in the sink.

“Thanks again for entertaining Cadi.” You give him a tired, repentant smile. “I would tell you to take tomorrow off, but we both know that’s not an option. I’m going to set my alarm for 3:00 a.m.”

“I myself will most certainly not be awake at 3:00 a.m. But I’ll try to get here by 7:00.” Amir gives Cadi a hug that she pretends not to appreciate. “Goodnight, slayer of Bowsers.” Then he waves to Aemond as he breezes out of the kitchen. “Goodnight, destroyer of zippers.”

Aemond covers his mouth to keep from laughing. “Cheers, Amir.” He brings the bowl of apple dumplings from the microwave to the counter, adds several heaping mounds of vanilla ice cream and two spoons, and slides it over so you can share. Outside, you hear Amir’s Ford Escort pull out of the gravel driveway. “You have a lot of baking to do, huh?”

“Oh my God, I completely forgot to tell you. You’ll never believe who showed up—”

“Mom, can we go shopping tomorrow?” Cadi asks, derailing your train of thought.

Cadi? Shopping? This is an unusual request. “Shopping for what?”

“For my riding boots,” Cadi says brightly as she finishes her apple dumpling, and you think, sinking in ways you can’t let her see: Oh fuck. Here’s the conversation I’ve been avoiding for weeks. “Michelle and Erica are both going to that horse camp in July. Breanna and Sam are going too. Kristen might even go, and she’s a total freakazoid! I can go, right? I’ll need boots, and a helmet, and I want to ride an Appaloosa. They have all kinds of horses, but Appaloosas are my favorite, and if they don’t let me ride one I’m going to go nuclear.”

“Honey, I don’t think it’s going to be possible this year.”

“But I have to go. Everyone else is going.”

“I tried, I really did. But I just can’t swing it right now. Next summer I’ll have more money saved up, hopefully, and then you can go to horse camp, and maybe we can even go to Biloxi for a week too—”

“I don’t care about Biloxi.” And now she’s lashing out, because she’s realizing the answer might really be no. Aemond is silently picking at the apple dumplings, looking between the two of you but not knowing what to say. “I care about going to horse camp when literally all of my friends get to—”

“Cadi, I’m so sorry, I really am. But sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s okay, that’s a part of life. We’ll still have fun this summer.”

“I’m not going to have fun if I’m just stuck here at home all day!”

Stuck here with me, stuck here in the life I built for her. “Cadi, please—”

“I’ll give up my birthday presents,” she pleads, her eyes turning misty. “You can just not buy me anything for my birthday, or Christmas either, and you can use what you would have spent on that for—”

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, a hand on her little shoulder, her tiny breakable bones. “I wish I could give you what you want. I really, really do. I’m trying to make things better for us.”

“Can’t you ask Daddy for more money?”

And you remember what Willis said at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office: Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year. “Daddy wants to help too, I’ve already talked to him about it. We just can’t make it happen right now.”

“Daddy always says he’d have more money if he didn’t have to send you so much every month!” Cadi blurts out. Aemond is watching you, but you shake your head. He can’t say anything. It’s not his place. “That’s why I can’t go to horse camp, isn’t it? Because we don’t all live together?”

“No, Cadi, that’s not what this is about—”

“Erica’s parents live together and she gets to go! Michelle’s mom and dad are always taking vacations!”

“Every family is different,” you say, fighting to stay calm while your throat is closing up and the blood in your face is hot enough to scald.

“Sam’s mom just bought her riding boots and gloves!”

“I’m not your friends’ mothers, I’m sorry, I’m just not.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have kids if you can’t afford them!” Cadi screams, tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, and then she storms off to her bedroom and slams the door.

You and Aemond are left alone in the midst of humming florescent lightbulbs, long-eared owl hoots, the ambient shrieks of cicadas. The apple dumplings and ice cream have dissolved into a soup. Your lips are trembling; a single blistering tear escapes down your cheek. You refuse to break down. You learned years ago that there is nothing to be gained from it. Aemond studies you, seeking and worried. You avoid his gaze. His hand reaches for yours, stops short, retreats to drum his fingers against the counter.

At last, Aemond says: “How much is the horse thing?”

“Too much. Way too much. It’s over $300, I won’t be able to make rent.”

He sighs; not a frustrated sigh, you think, but a sigh of incredulity, maybe even of pity, which is the last thing in the world that you want from him. Aemond takes his wallet from his jeans pocket, leafs through it, and counts out $400 in twenties and tens that he stacks on the countertop.

You are mortified, horrified. “Aemond, no—”

“Look, next time I see you, we need to talk. We need to talk about my situation, and your situation, and what we’re going to do going forward. And it’s…fuck, it’s, it’s complicated. You’ll see. But we have to get it sorted out, because this is…” He gestures to you, to him, to what you’re building between you like a bridge linking islands. “It’s different than what I expected it would be. And that’s a good thing, but…there’s just a lot we have to discuss.”

“Aemond, I can’t accept this much money from you.”

“The money doesn’t matter. $400? That’s nothing. The money’s not real to me. But it is real to you. So please just take it. And next time I see you we’ll…we’ll decide what happens next.”

It’s complicated, Aemond said. You’ll see. See what? How bad could it possibly be? “We can’t talk now?”

“No, I can’t do it now. I just can’t.”

He’s not just uneasy or distracted. He’s fucking scared. “You’re married,” you say.

“No. No wife, no kids. I swear to God.”

“No girlfriend either?”

“No.”

“You’re divorced.”

“No.” He combs his fingers through his short blonde hair, stares blankly at the wall behind you. “You’re free Saturday, right?”

“Yeah. I think Cadi will be with Willis all weekend, actually. He’s taking her fishing on Lake Verret. If Jade Dragon hasn’t blown it up by then. I’ll be busy with work Saturday morning and early afternoon, but after that I’ll be around.”

“I’ll come over around dusk, probably,” Aemond says, hands in his Marlboro jacket pockets, thoughts miles away. “I have something going on Saturday afternoon too.”

And he leaves before you can thank him for the stack of cash on the counter, or for any of the rest of what he’s given you.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond x you #aemond x y/n

[yridenergyridenergy]

Is there a way to know if members are healthy and feeling well? Shinya's last video, he looked really really thin, the voice note on his last blog update felt sick and tired. The tour was very compact, the bus looked uncomfortable (for musicians over 45 years old, I mean, c'mon). They must be resting now, but I feel that their company is exhausting them for the sake of saving/gaining more money. I don't know if it's just me, and I'm worrying for no reason. Does the company even do routine check-ups on their health? Is it reasonable for us as fans to ask this to their management?

Shinya always has a particular voice, but I haven't heard that voice note that you mention. It's no news that Shinya is incredibly skinny, as even h.Naoto's assistant commented that he was the only one that she could wrap the dark tunic on at the smallest holes/size and she seemed surprised.

Traveling and being on a plane in general tends to make people sick, so if he did hit a bad patch, hopefully he is getting better now that he is back in Japan.

For Shinya, I have my own opinion, but at the end of the day, I'll trust that he is a midlife adult who must have at least learned how to manage maintaining that size in a sustainable way.

Nobody on the band has been outspoken about the downsides of touring overseas this year except Kyo, and I'm always baffled by how much Kyo is allowed to complain so publicly about his own management hah. Good for him, and I mean, he's an artist and their primary one when you think about it, so you can't really restrain him much.

It's difficult for me to form an opinion on the management's frugal tendencies when I don't actually see numbers. All I know is that Kyo is able to afford Gucci, expensive toys, etc. and when that impersonator was arrested, from what I understood, he assured us that he wouldn't have ever needed to ask for loans like that. Whatever sacrifices the band is making to apparently make touring abroad profitable at least translates into them being well paid, even if that's just from performing in Japan.

Money also may play only a small role into the decision to have them sleep on a bus and only carry one luggage each. Extra luggage would have to be checked in and could get lost. Checking into hotels, where fans are also staying, presents its own series of issues.

Either way, Kyo had mentioned going to see a doctor in a monthly birthday video on kyo-online (I won't give more details but it was a super minor issue, don't worry) and I think even in another type of content where it sounded more like a regular checkup.

Ultimately, they are adults, they're the main moneymakers fo sun-krad and I'm sure that they would be able to push back against at least future decisions if their health could be jeopardized in the long term. Kyo had mentioned in 2012-2013 that he had warned his management time and time again that the grueling schedule of their tours and shows would grind down his throat, so it was no surprise to him when it became so bad that he needed surgery and the band had to go on a hiatus. I'm sure that everyone learned from that, and Kyo's singing has been spot-on every time I have seen him since 2015 or so.

[purity-town]

No update today...because I just graduated from college!!! It's been a wild weekend with my graduation ceremony and moving apartments and all that, but from here on out I'm officially free!

We're also just past the third anniversary of Purity Town! I had started working on the comic towards the end of my first semester at college, during one of the lowest points of my life -- so suffice to say, I'm so glad to see how far we've come since then, and many thanks to everyone for sticking around for so long and making this such a fun experience to work on!

And with all that, after ages, I've finally got ask responses all typed up under the cut!

And thank you for reading!!!!! Seriously, it makes me so so so happy to see people enjoying this comic so much -- I'm getting to draw things and get excited about my lore ideas and present NPC interpretations and OCs and it's wonderful that other people are just as hyped about it. I adore Chris and Andrew a lot and I'm glad other people do too!

Haha, yep! The Dryad gets to see That Guy again after 450 years, the townsfolk get to see the equivalent of a mythical fairy show up to bless their town, and Andrew has to deal with the Literal Actual Dryad in town and up in his business. Everyone will be happy about this and there's no way it will end messily!

I've definitely thought about it! Particularly having her being Andrew's maternal grandmother, and then working elements reminiscent of that into Andrew's mother's design -- I even have a general idea for how she looks based on that, though I don't have anything to show for it as I haven't tried properly drawing her out.

I think there are several interesting hooks that could come of it, depending on how you spin it. Big problem with all of that being that, at least off the top of my head, there's hardly any in-game lore surrounding the nymph -- she's just someone (some creature? a type of creature? a unique being?) that exists.

I did see a note on the wiki pointing out the similarities between the Dryad and the Nymph's designs, but I'm not totally convinced that's intended; they just happen to both be showing a lot of skin. The definition of "Dryad" including the word "Nymph" nudges me towards them being related, but I'm still just...not sure. Maybe Nymphs (or Nymph, singular) are a handful of Dryads who were not outright killed in the war but instead mutated beyond recognition by the eldritch powers they fought against? Much to think about; I'm open to ideas if anyone has opinions on the matter!

Here you go! And a sta.sh link again in case of Tumblr-image-quality-shenanigans.

Thank you!!! The Aether is an incredibly fun location to draw in general; it's so strange and magical and gives me an excuse to add stars and sparkles everywhere. Add in the Shimmer and it's just- such a delight, haha. It's rainbows and starlight and it was really interesting translating the in-game side view we get of the Shimmer pond to the top view in the comic.

Thank you :) This was quite the semester, and working around other folks' schedules for groupwork and sudden project requirements changes and so on and so forth left me with a busy and unpredictable schedule. But I was able to wrap up the semester with solid finals and a great GPA, so it worked out in the end -- and now I'll finally be settling into a more regular work schedule. No more all-nighters (hopefully)!!

I’ll admit that I haven’t really thought about this much. If anything, I’ll probably handwave it a bit to be more general -- main reason being that there are plenty of reasons for someone to be on edge during a Blood Moon, and that can be an interesting thing to explore without making it into a “haha menstruation” joke.

(Also, considering the Zoologist transforms during a Blood Moon regardless of moon phase, I think the idea of the moon warping the mind and that being amplified during Blood Moons in general is a more interesting take. But even if you remove that element, Blood Moons are scary and characters being snappy or on-edge is reasonable given the circumstances.)

I don’t have a good response to this bit, but please know that it made me laugh quite a lot.

First off -- I’m so sorry for taking so long to answer this ask; I hope you’ve gotten good info elsewhere in the meantime but I’ll add what advice I can give! Here are some general tips below -- some may be more useful than others depending on your situation and approach to drawing, but I hope it helps in some way or another!

Start small. Purity Town started as a 2-page mini-comic, and then expanded into a 10-page chapter as I got used to the comic-making process and decided whether I wanted to stick with the project or not. Purity Town ended up snowballing into a larger narrative comic rather than the "small comic snippets accompanying a more typical fanfic" as I had originally been thinking of, but starting small helped me ease into it nonetheless. By the time that I had finished the first chapter, I had gained enough experience working with comics to feel comfortable/confident enough to continue on to chapter 2, and things just kept rolling from there.

Pace yourself. I'm quite slow at drawing, so I generally do my best to set aside time every Saturday just to work on the comic, as well as working on it whenever I feel like it over the week. This keeps me from burnout (and repetitive strain injuries). Importantly, having a set update schedule also helps me remember to actually work on updates, as leaving me to my own devices = never getting anything done (see: how long it took to answer this ask). However, many folks do just fine updating entirely on their own time, so take this one with a grain of salt and figure out what works best for you!

Plan ahead. This applies more to making longer, narrative-focused comics. Because comic-making is so time consuming, every page should count. You don't need to have the entire thing written out before you begin (see again: burnout; it's also nice to have some level of flexibility with the story to see it grow alongside your skills), but planning out at least the current story "segment" is a big help. I like to script out the current chapter, starting with a pile of out-of-context dialogue snippets and overarching chapter ideas and boiling it down to a proper dialogue script with notes for panel ideas. It helps a lot with figuring out how long the chapter will end up being and lets me freely move events around until I'm happy with how they fit together, rather than doing it all on the fly.

Do what you can to save time. If you're a digital artist especially, look into what tools your art program of choice has to help make your illustration process smoother, like paint filling tools or vector lines. If you want to re-use backgrounds or character art, then do so! It's okay! Do whatever makes you enjoy what you're doing and happy with the end result!

Stay organized. This was touched on in a number of the other points, but it's so important that I'm giving it its own slot. I make liberal use of folders and layers -- personally, I use three layers for lineart and every layer has at most two colors. Text gets its own folder and special effects have color-coded labels. My layers are always organized in the same way and I keep often-reused materials (like the lineart for Chris' staff) in separate files for easy access. Of course, the specifics are dependent on how you draw, but this has made a world of difference for me personally.

It's okay to experiment and change things. Figure out what works for you -- some folks do comics entirely as sketches or lineart without coloring, you'll see book-style vs. scrolling/vertical webcomics, and all that. It's okay to swap things up if you find that something isn't working out. Don't get too caught up in everything being "perfect," just experiment and see what makes you happy.

(Side note, but if anyone here specifically uses Clip Studio Paint and wants to talk about platform-specific details like brushes or using certain tools, feel free to send me a message on Tumblr/Discord about it. I am by no means a master of Clip Studio, but I am at least familiar with the particular tools I frequently use and can give info on them!)

Based on personal experience, a random cave halfway down to Hell. 90% chance that it’s completely enclosed and filled with random monsters, haha. Luckily the Dryad was there to stop him!

#purity town #not an update #pt asks

[jeonqkooks]

goodbye :)

not really lol this was clickbait 🤠

BUT now that i have your attention, i am going on a semi writing hiatus tho. i feel like this is long overdue. i'd like to start off with a couple weeks, maybe a month, maybe longer, idk? we'll see how it goes.

i'll still be relatively active on tumblr - answering asks and whatever bullshit i usually do - and discord (bc let's face it, i have nowhere else to be lmao) so i guess this is mostly a formal announcement for myself so that my brain can process the fact that this! bitch! needs! a! f*cking! break! 👏 it's not like i even have a regular update schedule to begin with, so for most of you things will probably feel the same. but tbh for me, writing doesn't feel as fun as it used to. it hasn't for a while, and neither has being on tumblr in general (some days it fully feels bad being on tumblr but i'm still Here bc i do not know what to do with myself lol).

don't get me wrong, i still love writing and i still want to write. but i just want to be able to actually enjoy it instead of feeling pressured to do it, yk? so i just need to find the spark again bc right now it feels like a chore and we definitely don't want that 😕

also - i feel like most writers go through this at some point - i keep (unintentionally) comparing myself to other writers and a bitch just cannot stop lmao. i've noticed that whenever i feel stuck while writing, i'd look to others and i'd think "damn, why can't i do this or that?" and that'd just make me feel worse lol miss girl gotta work on that. i mostly keep stuff to myself and lately it's been a little More than usual and i don't want to keep going when i obviously need a break only to end up overflowing one day and impulsively deleting my account (i probably won't lol this is my permanent address)

i'll use the time off to get back into reading too - god knows i haven't been reading fics as much as i used to. apologies to all the writers whose works i've been dying to read for so long but just haven't had the energy to sit down and dig in. reading is one of my main sources of inspiration (i made this blog bc i loved reading so much that it inspired me to write my own shit!) so hopefully that'll help the process too ✌️

unrelated to the writing bit but i also kinda want to use the extra time to start working on a professional portfolio and maybe jump back into my wack ass redbubble shop lmao

sooo yeah. i'm not gonna pull a one direction and just ride off into the sunset for good lmao. if anything, i hope i'll pull a bangtan and bounce back with even more content and vigor than before. maybe this is jeonqkooks chapter two 😎

maybe this was a bit dramatic lmao but anyways, sorry to anybody who thought i'd be leaving. unfortunately, you're stuck with me until tumblr gets swallowed up by the sun <3

#take two playing in the background for eternity #i’ll see you dorks around #this has been a post

[pastafossa]

Ok. TRT business and a question, cause I need feedback from readers at this point.

First: the final chapter of the Raven What If fic should be posted this week, I'm about done editing it. The bigger, much more important question: So I have a potential chapter for tomorrow. I've been worrying and fretting over posting it, not because I think it's bad, but because it's short by TRT standards, currently around 2k words, and it both frustrates me and makes me feel weirdly guilty at the thought of dropping what's so much less than my usual. I'm used to being able to write longer chapters, being able to squeeze everything I want into them, and I have a literal outline of this goddamn chapter that has this good stuff in it and I know what needs to be written. I can see it right there. The movie is playing in my head just fine. But the truth of it is, my writing is slow at the moment thanks to post-covid brain fog. I'm checking in with my doctor, I've started taking specific supplements (which I'm hoping to see results from in the next few weeks), I'm clawing my way back bit by bit, but I continue to write slowly, mostly because I either can't focus or I have to stop every few sentences to struggle with a word I can't remember. It's incredibly frustrating. The thing is though, at least I *am* writing, which gives me hope. But this is where you - the readers - come in. Because right now we have two possible paths for updates going forward for a bit. Option 1: Longer gaps between our usual chapters. If we go this road, it'll take longer but as I chip away, I'll eventually have the full planned chapter, which I'd post. This would be a chapter closer to what we've had most weeks for the past oh god like 2 years. At current speed I'd drop it in a few weeks, and then hopefully the next one would come a little faster, until eventually we're back to our usual. So basically, you'd get your big chunks when the updates do come, and the same natural endpoints and arcs as before. Drawback is obviously the time between updates, so you won't be fed as often (though I'd try to find things in my editing folder to clean up and drop, like the Raven fic).

Option 2: Shorter chapters but more regular updates. If we go this road, we'd be back to weekly updates of our adventures with Matt and Jane. There'd just be less than usual for a bit and then, hopefully as I improve, you'll see the word count begin to climb back up. So in this case, you'd be getting a weekly dose of TRT, the usual fluff and angst and action, but the catch is less overall to read (likely individual scenes rather than multiples), and potentially sudden endpoints/more cliffhangers as I 'end' at what was outlined as a scene change.

Which way I go will mostly depend on ya'll tbh. I think I can make either work, since I've managed to start writing a little again and I really, really am hoping the supplements help. But since this'll potentially alter the update schedule we've had for years, I wanted to see which you'd prefer.

So, Option One - longer gaps but long chapters - or Option Two - shorter chapters weekly. Which would you prefer?

#the red thread #i have been so gd frustrated. like it doesn't help my meds and other illnesses ALREADY cause brain fog #now i have this shit #where i can literally see in my head what needs to happen but words no go for long time #and i've gotten so used to long TRT chapters that i've been fighting the guilt over the idea of shorter chapters #so i figured i'd check in because if ya'll are actually fine with that then i'd feel better about it #alternatively i just keep plucking away and eventually drop the full length chapter #i feel like the feedback for whichever way we go will help me settle and not feel bad about longer gaps/shorter chapters #in the meantime i'm doing what i can. following doctor's orders and taking my supplements #along with writing in little chunks and editing to see if that can help me retrain whatever's been fucked up basically #so. option 1 or option 2?

[kit-kat-katie]

I love you, but you love him, and he loves me

A/N: Sometimes I forget that the things that I say have a tendency to age like milk... apologies for the lack of updates and fics. I've been drowning in schoolwork since the semester started and I haven't had much of a chance to work on an extended fic like Our Time. The current plan is to have this post up for February, put up a Johanna fic in April/May, and then finish up Our Time over the summer (hopefully). Anyways, here's some Clove fluff that's a week late for Valentine's Day! :D

oh, thanks for 100 followers! I am so happy that people enjoy my content without a regular schedule. thank you so so much again!

TW: underage drinking/smoking, brief mention of weed, small fighting scene, reader is put into uncomfortable romantic situation

Pairing: Clove x GN! Reader (Rivals to Lovers in 2x speed)

Summary: You love Clove. She likes Cato. Cato likes you. Your life is a comedic love triangle until your best friend's drunken disaster causes you to connect with Clove and discover something new about her.

“On your left.” 

Catelyn gives you a quick warning before flipping you on the back and slamming you against the mat. You squirm against her grip for a moment before spotting a weakness in her legs.

An opening.

You grab her leg and pull her to the ground before taking her hands and pinning them to the ground.

“Don’t count me out yet.” You sneer as she scoffs.

“Fucker.” She mumbles as a buzzer goes off in the distance.

You immediately jump off of her and offer a hand up, which Catelyn begrudgingly takes.

“Trying to impress your girl?” She raises an eyebrow before you shove her aside.

Clove’s staring at the two of you, well, just you since Catelyn’s stepped off the mat to grab a drink of water. Her eyes immediately drift off to look elsewhere as you let out a sigh.

You wish she’d look at you longer, as much as she looked at Cato.

It’s funny, in an ironic way.

You love her.

She loves him.

And he’s paused his sparring to walk over to you.

Probably to ask you on a date or to go drinking or to go do something with romantic undertones that you don’t want to do.

So he loves you.

Catelyn had egged the two of you on before realizing that you wanted nothing more than for him to leave you alone. You didn’t want to refuse Cato’s invitations - he was the choice for a Hunger Games tribute in the near future, and that’d piss off more people than your trickiness could outmaneuver.

Perhaps running through a nearby window would be the best way to avoid him?

…And he’s right in front of you.

You glance behind him, only to see Clove's jaw tighten.

Fuck.

~

An invite.

“That's all he wanted?” Catelyn teases as you make your way to the place where Cato always invited you after sparring practice.

It wasn't like the two of you were going to be alone. It was a tradition for the top contenders for this year's Hunger Games to engage in a few… adult activities before the Reaping occurred. This way, the two tributes shipped off could get to enjoy a little bit of adulthood before heading to the Capital.

It wasn't anything too awful, just some cheap booze and a few blunts to pass around. Any people that passed you all by would simply look the other way - who'd want to risk being harassed by a group of teenagers?

You didn't usually partake beyond a few sips from some cheap bottle of booze - someone needed to carry Catelyn home, after all.

When the two of you slip behind a pair of buildings, a few boys around Cato's age wave you over.

“Let's get this over with.” You grumble, hoping to spend this evening without uncomfortably resting in Cato's arms.

~

You failed.

Horrendously.

When you arrived, Cato threw an arm around you and hasn't let you go since. You're tempted to drink more so you don't remember what he's said or done, but seeing your friend nearly face plant into a campfire has you rethinking that decision.

As if matters couldn't get any worse, Clove arrived just in time to see Cato place a kiss on your cheek. She huffs before glaring at the two of you from a fair distance away.

This time, you notice, her glare isn't directed at you.

She's glaring at him.

~

Catelyn's barely able to stumble forward as you throw an arm around your shoulder. She excitedly points at a lamppost and tries to point at it, but she ends up falling out of your grasp and onto the barren road.

“Catelyn, c’mon,” You try to coax your friend from the ground, but she shakes her head, “We've got to get home before sunrise.”

“Nu-uh!” She slurs, face-down in the pavement.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose until you hear footsteps come from behind you.

“Need some help?” 

In all of her brazen glory, your knight-in-shining-armor (a black leather jacket, a plain t-shirt, and blue jeans), Clove, offers to help.

“If you don't mind, I know you might be busy with someone else.” You quietly say as she shakes her head.

“I wanted to take a walk to clear my head, away from everyone else.”  She grabs Catelyn from the ground, who whines like a petulant child, before you hoist one of Catelyn’s arms over your shoulder.

Clove does the same, and the three of you walk in silence until a biting question slips off her tongue.

“Do you like Cato?”

“Absolutely not.” The answer leaves your lips before you can refine the words with a bit more thought. “We're friends, sure, but I don't feel anything for him.”

Relief escapes her lips as she takes a deep breath out, then in. She smiles, as do you in return.

“Good, good. I was worried that you were into him.” 

“Why?” You stop, which causes Clove to stop.

“I thought- I thought I liked him, but I saw him kissing you and… I didn't like how it made me feel.” She blushes at her honesty as you bite your lip.

“If you like him, Clove, you can have him. I certainly don't want him.”

She harshly laughs before turning to look at you.

“Don't you get it? All of those times that I saw you two together, I thought I was jealous of you. Today, after seeing him draped over you, I realized that I'm jealous of him.”

Her confession leaves you breathless as you pause to consider her words.

She… likes me.

“Clove, I…” It's your turn to get nervous as you try to meet Clove’s unwavering gaze. “I really, really like you too.”

Catelyn, in a moment of drunken clarity, lifts her head up to look at the both of you before loudly sighing.

“Just kiss already, you idiots!” She lets go of the both of you to (not-so) gracefully fall on the ground as your arm finds its way around her.

You lean in to kiss her, before pausing.

“Is this okay?” You mumble, centimeters away from her lips. 

A mischievous smile slips onto her face as she answers by kissing you back.

You wouldn't have many nights like this again, but this night would always be special to you.

#fanfic #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfic #the hunger games fluff #the hunger games x reader #x reader #clove kentwell fluff #clove kentwell fanfic #clove kentwell x reader #clove kentwell

[animalsalvationassociation]

Emma Jade in MEOMI’s Style

Illustration Time: 5hrs 31m

[ DO NOT REPOST, ALL ART & CONCEPTS WERE MADE BY ME ]

Okay so if it wasn’t clear before, this is Professor Emma Jade. She is a Zoologist and a Animal/Nature Activist. She is an ally to the Octonauts as well as many other organizations (Ex. C.L.A.D.E.). Emma also happens to be very good friends to Captain Barnacles as well as many other activists that work within the A.S.A.

In this AU Emma is the main character. I wanted to showcase the potential of the Octonauts world by using Emma to help the audience understand how things work on this version of Earth.

She’s a very interesting character, and I’m excited for all of you to get to know her. I wanted to make up for the week that I didn’t post in between the other Octonauts refs and the last post. This won’t always happen but I’m too excited to wait for the next picture because of how gosh darn cute it is. So expect a post on Thursday!

My regular posting schedule should be every Tuesday if not then Thursdays. I’m in the process of looking for a new job (hopefully in childcare) so that schedule may change in the future. But I will be sure to keep all of you updated! Again a HUGE thank you to everyone who is following along, I hope this will be able to inspire others to keep strengthening our little fandom, because it sorely needs it!

(P.S. This isn’t my favorite drawing but its been the basis for all of her main colors so I’m still rather attached to it. This was actually the first digital version of her as well so extra attachments I guess)

[ This is an Octonauts AU, in no way is this canon to the OG storyline. ]

Original Design:

https://www.tumblr.com/animalsalvationassociation/733195730614943744/welcome-to-the-asa

If you want to see more check me out on DeviantArt I have lots of other fandom based drawings over there or go check out my Instagrams!

https://www.deviantart.com/cookiecrumbles52

I'm an Octonauts Group Admin! Wanna add your art??? Go check it out!

https://www.deviantart.com/octonauts-community

Instagrams:

@ CookieCrumbles52 (Stories)

[ https://www.instagram.com/cookiecrumbles52/ ]

or

Palace_City_52 (Character Creation)

[ https://www.instagram.com/palace_city_52/ ]

#octonauts #octonauts fanart #octonauts above and beyond #octonauts story #octonauts redesign #octonauts the asa #fanart #digital art #digital fanart #clade #covertleagueofanimaldetectivesexperts

[sam-loves-seb]

I’ve read your Several Sentences Sunday post an embarrassing number of times. I’m just that excited for the next chapter of I’m Not The Way I Was.

aw thanks so much, this is so sweet. i'm so glad you're excited about i'm not the way i was. i am too!

also gonna use this ask to say that unfortunately there will be no new chapter today :( there are a few parts i'm still playing with because i wanna get them right, and life's just been too chaotic lately to actually give ch 6 the time and attention it needs. i am hopeful that posting will resume in two weeks and we can get back to the regular update schedule. fingers crossed!

until then, i'm posting the first thousand-ish words of ch 6 under the cut to hopefully hold everyone over until then. (it's unedited and unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.)

enjoy. xx

Ian wakes up in Lip’s dorm room. Again.

The alarm clock is blaring at full volume, and Lip kicks Ian in the shins until he’s conscious enough to reach over and shut it off.

“What fucking time is it?” Lip groans into his pillow.

“Eight-thirty.” Ian yawns.

“I don’t have class ‘til eleven,” Lip says as he pulls his pillow out from under his head and whacks Ian in the face with it.

Ian shoves him off. “Yeah, but I have work at nine.”

That’s part of the reason Ian was able to drag himself away from Mickey’s house last night. He took a cab back to CPU in the middle of the night after he got off Mickey’s block and realized he had to be up in six hours for work. He could’ve stayed at the house and taken the L back to campus in the morning, but he was so wired after his talk with Mickey last night that he used the cab ride to tire himself out.

Which ultimately wasn’t that successful because he spent most of the ride texting Mickey and planning their first date. He even called him as he walked across the green to Lip’s dorm and listened to Mickey’s raspy voice, half asleep and smiling on the other end of the line as they decided on a date and time.

Tonight. Seven o’clock.

“Next time you go to your boyfriend’s house, stay there ‘til the morning,” Lip teases, grabbing his hoodie from the floor and sliding it on over his bedhead.

Ian gave him the one-sentence-summary of his conversation with Mickey when his bleary-eyed brother opened the door for him at two-thirty last night. He did not, in any way, shape, or form, use the word boyfriend, but Lip doesn’t seem to care.

“Yeah yeah,” Ian says with a quiet smile, pulling on a fresh t-shirt he steals from Lip’s dresser. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair tonight.”

Lip reaches over and plucks at the eight-ball design on the front of the threadbare cotton shirt. “You staying at Mickey’s?”

“No,” Ian answers automatically, then pauses. His hands go still where they’re half buried in his backpack. “Well. I don’t know.”

Lip just raises his brows at him as he sits down in his desk chair.

“Is that a normal first date thing?” Ian asks, his brows pinched. “To sleep over?”

“Why are you asking me?” Lip asks, tapping out a cigarette from Ian’s pack.

“’cause you’ve done this shit before.”

Lip cracks the window and lights up. “Only one of us has dated Mickey Milkovich before, and it wasn’t me.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but…” He shakes his head. “You know, Mickey and I never went on dates.”

Lip pauses. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, shrugging. “And I wanna do this right. I don’t know what the… etiquette is.”

Lip takes a long drag and sort of tilts his head from side to side. “I doubt Mickey does either.”

Something about that settles the little ball of anxiety that was slowly starting to build in Ian’s chest. Because Lip’s right—neither of them know what the hell they’re doing with this shit.

Whether that’s good or bad remains to be seen, but at least it puts them on an even playing field.

“Look,” Lip says, leaning over and clapping Ian on the shoulder. “Just feel it out. If things are going well, maybe suggest it, see what he says.”

Ian nods. “Yeah.”

Lip squeezes his shoulder. “Just talk to him about it. Okay?” He leans back in his chair. “It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.” Ian breathes out a long exhale. “Okay.”

The panicked nerves inside of him start to turn into an excited buzz after a minute. He’s definitely still nervous, but it doesn’t feel as heavy. Suddenly he desperately wants it to be seven o’clock, and he’s walking over to the Alibi to pick Mickey up for their date.

The fact that Ian has to work an eight-hour janitorial shift between now and then is criminal.

“You know I’m rooting for you,” Lip starts, “but in the off chance you don’t end up staying at Mickey’s house tonight—are you coming back here?”

“Nah,” Ian tells him, shaking his head. “Figured I’d stay at the house. Last night, and all that.”

“Oh, right,” Lip says. He blinks tiredly, a little dazed. “Forgot about that.”

Ian finishes packing his shit in his bag. “Bank’s coming to change the locks tomorrow.”

Lip taps his fingers against the edge of his desk. “I think I still have some shit in my room. Maybe tomorrow morning… I mean, I have work, but I can probably catch the L early and come home to get it before—”

“I already boxed it up,” Ian tells him, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I put it with my shit, so you can come get it whenever. Kev and V said we could move our stuff to their place until we figure out where we’re gonna go.”

Lip nods. “Thanks.”

“Yep.”

With a heavy sigh, Lip turns in his chair and opens one of his textbooks, flipping through the pages until he finds the folded sheet of notes he crammed in it yesterday.

“What are you doing?” Ian asks, tying his sneakers. “You said you don’t have class ‘til eleven. Go back to bed.”

“No, I gotta get this done,” Lip says, glancing at the clock. “I won’t have time to do it later, I have a… thing.”

Ian raises a brow. “A thing?”

“Yeah.”

When Lip doesn’t expand on it, Ian crosses his arms over his chest.

“You’re gonna be late.”

“Don’t care. What’s your thing?”

Lip sighs. “Alright,” he says, dropping his pencil. “You know that professor I told you about?”

“The one you’re sleeping with?”

Lip nods. “The school board kind of found out about it when this naked picture I took of her leaked online.”

“Jesus Christ, Lip,” Ian says, his mouth dropping open.

“I didn’t leak it,” Lip says, then shakes his head. “Long story—whatever. They know, and now I gotta go to this fucking hearing about it.”

Ian stares at him with worried eyes. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. Can’t they kick you out for this?”

Lip considers it, then shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Ian blinks. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Lip scrubs his hands over his face. “So now I’ve got that to worry about, and Helene’s career is under fire over something that shouldn’t have been anyone else’s business in the first place.”

Ian’s lips quirk up. “Helene?”

Lip kicks at his knee. “Shut up.”

“You’ve never told me her name before.”

“Yeah, well. That’s when I thought we could keep this whole thing on the down low.”

Ian hums in agreement.

“Anyway,” Lip says, running his finger over the corner of the page in his textbook. “I gotta read this.”

“Yeah, I gotta head out,” Ian says, standing up with his backpack on one shoulder still. “Good luck today.”

Lip waves halfheartedly. “You too.”

Ian makes a confused face as he walks backwards to the door.

Lip smiles. “With your date.”

“Right,” Ian says, and he can’t help but smile too.

“Give Mickey my love.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

...more to come!

[ read from the chapter 1 on ao3 ]

#intwiw #no new chapter today loves my bad :( #i feel really bad about it but #sometimes live is just busy as fuck #anyway #here's a snippet #i'm not the way i was #ask sam

[damagnificentcookie]

Forever Mine

Dark!Alma Peregrine X Reader

Summary: Y/n is a librarian that is stuck inside the loop. One day Alma went to the library to borrow a book when suddenly y/n caught her eye. Since then Alma would secretly follow her and perch outside her windows after she reset. She noticed that y/n never loses her memory of the day and constantly changes her schedule even subconsciously. Y/n needs her, she must protect her,...for the safety of her wards of course.

Tag List: @elza02 @mandy-asimp @sunshinecallie @whatsupwithjinx @notmanagingmymischief

Warning: Slight swearing, kidnapping, drugging, killing, basically most things that happen in the movie RUN

A/n: I should be updating my other miss peregrine book on wattpad but I reaaaallyy wanted to try and write this, hopefully, yall will like it :D (Also I'm going to do a mix of the book and movie here)

"Fiona, can you watch over the loop till I come back? I'll be back before supper!" Fiona eagerly agreed before hugging Alma tightly goodbye and running off.

Alma watched as Fiona disappeared around a corner and waited a while longer before she carefully opened the door and left.

The library was always pretty busy in the loop, but then again everything repeats so Alma knew when was the perfect time to go without it being too busy. She pushed open the door as a bell rang alerting the librarian of someone's presence.

"Miss Peregrine! How great to see you today, again." You welcomed warmly.

"What do you mean by again, darling, I have only just entered." Alma watched as your eyes widened and tried to quickly find an excuse to cover your mix-up.

Laughing it off, Alma placed the books she has borrowed on the table and waited for you to take them.

"Would that be all Miss Peregrine?" You smiled nervously as you put the books she has returned in a bin.

"That would be all, dear. But may I ask when you are free? I would like to introduce my children to you so whenever they come to town they know a familiar face."

You were put back a little not expecting this from a regular. It got you thinking, that every day has been repeating for the last month, you could always just say tomorrow and pretend you didn't remember this encounter when the day miraculously resets.

"Oh, that would be quite lovely! I'm free tomorrow at noon." You replied hoping she didn't notice how long it took for you to respond.

"Well it's settled, I'll come back tomorrow. See you later, dear. Oh, and please call me Alma." She winked at you before leaving.

You watched her from the window wondering how odd this encounter was. She would always come to the library and return a book at exactly half past twelve but never tried to make a conversation with you. You would always catch her staring when you turned to put her books in the return basket. How odd.

˚˚˚

Waving goodbye to your coworker, you headed out the door and made the long trek home. Oddly enough, you always felt that you were being watched but whenever you check your surroundings, no one is nearby. Shrugging it off as paranoia you seemed to forget about the bother.

Upon reaching home, you hung your coat before going into the kitchen to make some tea when the raven-haired regular invaded your head. Happy that she has talked to you today although it was odd, admittingly she is quite strange.

Shaking off the thought you took the kettle off of the stove and prepared the tea. You thought for a while, perhaps you should go with her to meet her children.

Putting the tea and some biscuits on a tray, you walked to your dining room and set the tray down. You then walked towards your drawer and brought out a pen and some paper.

If you were going to possibly come with her, why not prepare some gifts?

You started to draw a few items like teddy bears, a football, a pair of skates, and some other items. You have heard that she has about twelve kids, amazing that she can take care of that many without losing her marbles. You most definitely could not, the solitude of your home and life is more than satisfying enough.

You placed your finished drawings to the side before finishing your tea and moving it away. You decided to draw a sapphire necklace for Alma.

...Alma...what a pretty name.

You froze before shaking any thoughts out of your head and continuing the necklace.

You finished it just in time for the bombs to fly overhead. Covering your ears, you closed your eyes and started to count to ten. Soon you can hear that the bombs have left and soon it became quiet.

Opening your eyes, you took your drawings and set them down in a row. You placed your hand over the teddy bear and gently lifted it out of the paper. You repeated the process before now having live items instead of drawings. You threw away the leftover paper and started to wrap the items and placed it into your work bag.

Deciding this was enough for today, you retired to your bedroom failing to notice a falcon perched on your windowsill, watching you.

˚˚˚

"A beautiful Daisy Bell~" Softly singing to yourself as you placed the returned books back onto their designated shelves. Not hearing the bell from the door ring you continued to sing and sort the books until you hear the familiar click of a certain someone's heels.

"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do~" You turned around quickly to see Alma looming over you pretending to look through the books on the shelves as she continued your singing.

"I'm half crazy all for the love of you" A shiver ran down your spine as her eye's met yours. You backed up and accidentally bumped into the shelf behind you.

You were in awe...she has such a beautiful voice, not that you haven't heard her speak before. Dear god, what is this woman doing to you.

"Miss Peregrine! How great to see you today." You smiled at her as you prayed that your face wasn't beet red. Alma tsked as she turned around and walked away, promptly having you let out a sigh of relief.

"Didn't I say you can call me Alma? You don't have to keep up the act, dear, I know you are pretty special." You stood there in quite a shock, frozen in place.

How could she have known? Were you not careful enough at hiding? You never drew outside of your home once. Tons of questions flood through your mind demanding answers. Finally snapping out of your trance, you walked to your desk and opened the little side door so you could go behind it.

Awkwardly you cough while asking her what you can do for her today. Handing you a book that she has borrowed just two days ago you quickly took it out of her hand and placed it into the return bin before asking her if there is anything else.

"Forgot your promise already? I don't like liars nor deal-breakers you know? You should be punished, dear." She looked into your eyes to search for what you may be thinking, trying but failing to suppress her growing smile.

"I have no idea what you are talking about Mis- Alma?" You say while trying to look anywhere but at her.

Alma raised an eyebrow and hummed. She thought for a while before smirking.

"Well if you truly don't remember then may I ask what's in your bag? It looks heavy, you don't have anything planned for tonight?" Her smirk widened when she saw a flash of fear in your eyes. Oh what an adorable little thing, you need her. You are as clueless as a little bird who flew right into a window.

The more this conversation continues the more unsettled you start to get. Your brain is screaming at you to tell her to leave but your heart was in control today and you stood your ground. Sighing in defeat, you walked back out of your desk and grabbed your bag. Your shift ends in 3 minutes, no point in hiding anymore. Alma smiled and walked towards you satisfied.

"I see you remembered, now don't you try to lie again, alright? Follow me, dearest." You were deeply unsettled but excited from today's encounter, but guessing it is too late you followed her home not realizing this will be the last time you will ever see the library or outside again.

˚˚˚

"Would you like some tea?" Alma asked as she lead you into her house, you were in awe at how gorgeous everything looked. The garden was nicely kept with kids running around and playing, and the inside was nice and comfortable with tons of decorations that complemented the walls.

"That would be nice and by golly Alma, your house is gorgeous! Did you decorate it yourself?" You complimented as you walked along the halls, gently moving your hand across the displays. It felt as if you were in a museum.

Getting caught in your mind, you failed to notice Alma's face grow red as she prepared your tea and secretly added an unknown substance.

You turned around and found that Alma was seated on a sofa looking at you with an unreadable expression. Smiling at her, she looked into your eyes and smiled back. You walked over and sat across from her taking the tea and thanking her.

Stirring it around you realized the tea smelt...odd? Shrugging it off as being nervous you took a sip as Alma watched you intensely. You felt a bit awkward and scared by her odd behavior, but that just prompted you to finish the whole drink in a matter of seconds.

Oh dear, that was a terrible idea. You felt like puking, it was getting terribly hard to breathe and you can't tell if its the heat or the weird aftertaste the tea had. You fell to the floor coughing violently as Alma rushed over to you and started to pat your back. Slowly, you tried to look at Alma but you just started to cough more until you felt lightheaded.

You felt yourself being lifted up and carried away. Resisting the urge to close your eyes, you looked at Alma and saw that she was looking back at you with a smile on her face.

You wanted to scream, to yell for help, anything, but you slowly succumbed to the pain and closed your eyes.

"Don't worry, my love. I will take great care of you, don't worry anymore. You are forever mine.

A/n: Honestly I felt like this may have been kind of disappointing for the wait but I really did not want to make you guys wait any longer. Thank you all for the support and I hope you will enjoy it! I might write a part two tbh...

#run 2020 #miss peregrines home for peculiar children #miss peregrine movie #miss peregrine x reader #dark!fic #diane sherman #eva green #eva green x reader #alma peregrine x reader #alma peregrine #miss peregrine book

[thatmistersguy]

woah! what's this place??

HELLO and welcome to the dev blog for Limited Edition!, an SCP Foundation visual novel revolving around Wondertainment and the Little Misters!

This is a project that has been in motion for a few years and this whole thing is my attempt to document and answer questions about it (and post Misters and gamedev stuff in general). We have a dedicated tag for the game as well: #scp limited edition !

My main blog is @cameatslemons if you'd like to come hang out! More information about the project (FAQ and other such things) can be found below the cut, and my inbox is always open. Hope you enjoy your stay!

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS (and stuff that's important to know):

What's this whole thing even about? Follow Mr. Mad on his adventure with the other Little Misters to the Wonderworks as they try to regroup, find Mr. Collector, and try to survive the looming threat that hangs above them all.

Is there anyone else working on this, or just you? It's a one-man show here! The only other person involved is my pal Ant, whose job is to just be subject to all my rambling. I'm currently looking for a musician to help with the soundtrack, though! I may also be on the look-out for programmers familiar with Ren'Py in the future if my own attempts don't work out.

When will it be done/come out? I don't actually know; as much as this project is my baby, I can't prioritize it over my real life. I'm a college student training for a career in archaeology, and that takes a LOT of time and effort!

Will we get regular updates? Not exactly. Even though I've tried to do that in the past, these days I can't really afford to dedicate enough time to Limited Edition to produce tangible, presentable results every single week. I post when I can, but a concrete update schedule is just too stressful.

How long will Limited Edition be? Preferably 3-4 hours at the minimum.

Will the new Little Misters like Barista be in Limited Edition? Nope! We're focusing entirely on the original 20. Limited Edition will at the very least serve as a through-line story for all of them.

Will you make other games? Hopefully. Again, I'm a real person with a real life, and this game is already taking a lot out of me, so I can't promise much. However, I'd love to make more games after this one.

What's your favorite SCP? SCP-049, on account for being responsible for transing my gender.

.

CURRENT PAGE COUNT: 213

#scp limited edition #intro post #faq post #figured i might as well make a single post for everything i want to be known ^_^

[shirefantasies]

Update (again):

So wowza y’all, I have a much larger number of matchups than I expected as well as regular requests and a couple things I just wanted to do 🫶🏻😅

At first I was going to just post all the matchups to get them all out there before my regular works, but there were more than I thought fair that way and I love my regular posts! Thus I realized I just need to have a more consistent posting schedule and I came up with the idea of:

Matchup Mondays!

On mondays I’ll post a matchup or 2 and one or two other days later in the week (just depending on how busy or prepared I am) I’ll make a regular post. If you want to see my previous matchups or find your own, I’ve tagged even the previous ones with ‘matchup monday’ to keep it consistent. Hopefully this is an ok balance for me and you. Thank you guys again for the support and patience as I do my best to keep my buffer going and also get things out for y’all 💕

#updates #lord of the rings matchups #lotr x reader #the hobbit x reader #marti irl

[bellybiologist]

Tallying up the Year

I hope you guys' december (which is almost over already, wtf) is going/has gone well! 2024 is upon us.

This christmas weekend, I mostly found myself thinking about how this year went, and honestly? despite all the things I haven't gotten to do, I still managed to accomplish quite a lot.

Me typing this rambly post out is less anything anyone needs to read, but more to remind myself of Things That Got Done™ than anything else because sometimes... I forget I do be getting shit done! And it's important we remind ourselves of the work we do.

The Things That got Done™

I advocated for my own Health. I scheduled (and went to!) so many doctor and dental appointments this year, holy shit. But, if the last few years have taught me anything, I simply have to put in the effort. I got my colon mostly sorted out, started a new regimen for my skin and hair (after chopping it off) so I'm feeling better, schedule an appointment with the optometrist in January, and even got lots of issues with my teeth fixed. Granted, our broken medical system made it incredibly stressful, and i spent thousands of dollars on the latter that I will be paying off til next july BUT!!!! This section is about the good things.

Started Streaming Again! I've been missing streaming since I stopped way back in I believe 2020. It was a fun way to interact with followers and supporters, so I'm glad I'm back to it on a regular schedule, with many of the old regulars still joining me while I work. Speaking of which:

I finished 43 total stream doodles. While I'm only filling a handful a month, it's definitely adding up! 40+ boys in the span of 5 months is nothing to scoff at, and that's not even considering that I'm doing this alongside normal patreon work.

I finished 39 total commissions this year. I'm definitely still going quite slowly, and I thank everyone who has been extraordinarily patient thus far, but I'm happy to say that my pace has been decent... at least relative to previous years. I got more done in the last 5 months than i did in the roughly year and a half period before 2023!

Replaced SEVERAL appliances that broke down. My computer moniter, my microwave, my refrigerator... all failed on my this year, and it took some work, but I finally managed to get them all replaced! So far, everything is working fine, but next on my agenda is to save up for a new desktop. This one I use for work has been at it since 2017, and it's about time to look into upgrading.

My Google Drive is Looking Nice. It's still not perfect, but I'm still immensely proud of how it's shaping up. There's still some curating of older pieces to do, but I've found a stride where I'm regularly updating it for people to peruse.

=====

Now despite these W's, I still got a long way to go. The things below could be considered resolutions for 2024, but that feels cursed to call them that. They are simply:

Things I Want to GET Done

Adding more YCH Figures. I was definitely expecting to have more to choose from by this point. And I really need to update some of the older ones too, because I think they've aged poorly. I got some neat suggestions and hopefully will find some time this week to showcase them in my discord to collect some feedback before releasing them.

Do more involved pieces/projects. I want to do more things like Comics, or simply pieces that I work on over the course of several sittings, ones where I can experiment and fiddle and practice!!! I rarely ever get to do that these days (I've only finished a few Big Personal Pieces this year), and I need to find time and energy to do them more because those are the things that truly make me feel like I grow as an artist. (and maybe I can find a shading style I actually fucking tolerate.). I also want to get more OC development and stuff done too, cuz I really didn't draw my children a whole lot this year!

Make more fucking Money!!!!! Let's not kid ourselves. I want to get to a point where I'm not just barely meeting the monthly quota. How to get there? I don't know, honestly. Things are so very stacked against artists right now, so it really does feel like the only thing that can be done is Not Give Up. Which I won't do. If/when I go down, I'm making it everyone else's problem. Trust. 😏

Save up to Visit the Boyfriend. I haven't seen him since January 2022! Big goal is to be comfortable enough to where I can fly my ass up there and smooch him. 👏🏽

======

I won't lie, i'm going into 2024 quite anxious and still scraping by by the skin of my teeth (that I'm still paying for). It's going to be a BIG year cuz oh boy, it's election year, there's plenty of family developments i gotta keep an eye on and work to be a part of... not to mention all the horrible stuff going on still (free palestine!).

Here's hoping shit goes our way this coming year! And let's get ,more strikes going so everyone is getting their fucking money!!! :V

#verzi rambles #god 2024 is a BIG year for lots of reasons