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scifrey · 1 year

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Keepsakes: A Waster

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta’d

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature-ish.

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death. Some sexytimes. Some whomp and hurt/comfort.

Relationships: Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Lyta Hall, Jed Walker, Daniel Hall, Rose Walker

Summary: Short ficlets set in the Hob Adherent world, based on prompts received from readers. Feel free to DM me or leave prompts in the comments, and if it resonates with me, I may write up a ficlet! Thank you for the inspiration in advance.

Set about five years post-Cling Fast.

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

A Waster

Inspired by a prompt from @theotherwillow on Tumblr.

It makes poetic sense that Jed Walker’s first summer job is at a Ren Faire in upstate New York. Being the grandson of the anthropomorphic personification of Desire, and nephew besides to the Prince of Stories, at sixteen years old he is both engaging enough to play a minor squire in the faux King’s court (with a little bit of daily story to carry for the visitors), and handsome enough that he has a small gaggle of heart-eyed tweens of all genders following him around like ducklings.

“Think we should go rescue him?” Hob asks, nudging his husband with his elbow. They’re leaning against the fencing of the tiltyard, within which Jed himself is busily arming a knight for the afternoon’s jousting demonstration. Blocking the gate in the fence itself, Jed’s fanclub is sighing and hollering at him in turns.

“And ruin his fun?” Morph asks, readjusting his grip on Daniel’s ankles. “No, I think not.”

Hob laughs, and hands Daniel, the most serious toddler on planet earth, another goldfish cracker. Perched on Morph’s shoulders as he is, Daniel takes it with a dainty curl of his pudgy fingers, and then immediately sprinkles orange dust in Morph’s hair when he crunches into it.

Rose and Lyta are probably walking back from the loos by now, and Hob hopes that Rose has her phone out and is capturing the moment. He doesn’t want to ruin it, or worse, potentially tip Morph off by looking around. Or by pulling out his own phone.

Hob didn’t think he could love his increasingly bizarre and growing found family more than he did when he made his vows to Morpheus, former King of Dreams and Nightmares. After being all alone in the world for seven centuries, being the only one of his kind, the only one who lived down and dirty in the ditches with the other humans yet staring up at the stars and dreaming, the only one who had to leave behind everything he was and everyone he loved over and over again, he was already overwhelmed with gratitude that upon Morph’s retirement, there would be even just one other human in the world like him.

Knowing that there was just one other human being who knew his sorrows and joys, who was as fascinated by humanity as he was and was swiftly learning to be as fascinated with life, made all the things he had to give up and leave behind all the more bearable. The anticipatory grief of a goodbye every handful of decades was weighed against the comfort of knowing that he would not be doing so alone. Hob, like the First Man, finally had his companion (although unlike Eve, Morph was only barely made in man’s image. Even now, he still held himself like a King, still moved like an ethereal creature, and still made love like a delicious nightmare.)

But more than just his companion in eternity, Hob now has, well, an Endless amount of bonus people in his life. People who care about him, and about whom he cares, and who won’t go away. Death may be a mug’s game, but his life, oh life is so much richer, so unbearably, marvelously wonderful now that he has people in it that he won’t have to hide from, or lie to, or bury.

He’s realized that while he’d been not-dying for the last seven hundred years, he is now, finally, living.

Morph’s former siblings, despite no longer being related to Hob’s husband, still consider him their family. And so Hob has sisters again. Brothers. Siblings. And though while he may be the youngest of the bunch (he was the eldest in his family, and has always by default been the oldest person in the room), instead of feeling condescended to or flippantly indulged, or babied, instead he feels included, and cherished, and watched-over.

And his bonus-people extend to more than just the Endless.

Now there are also the two Walkers, and the two Halls.

And the third being who both is Daniel Hall and is not, in the Waking. Who both is Morpheus, and is not any longer in the Dreaming. Who simply is Dream of the Endless, but is not simply anything.

Honestly, the best part of spending time with their honorary nephew Daniel in the Waking is that his little kid brain can’t hold everything that is Dream just yet. Out here, he’s just a kid, albeit a very observant, curious and calm one.

So, luckily, he isn’t sitting on Morph’s shoulders with the knowledge of what Hob looks like naked.

(Yes, that was something Hob worried about. When Morpheus informed him that in transferring all his power and self-ness to the new Dream of the Endless, he was also transferring all of his memories, Hob had needed clarification.

“What good,” Morpheus had asked, “would a Ruler of Humanity’s Dreaming be, if he recalled none of what Morpheus had done or achieved, or regretted, in the last several million years?”

“But, all your memories, including the ones of of me?” Hob had choked. “All of them, all of them?”

“Dream of the Endless is an adult, Hob Gadling,” Morpheus had assured him. “Memories of our fornications will not corrupt him.”

“But Daniel’s a baby!”

“Daniel will not have access to the knowledge or be cognizant that he is Dream until he comes of age. Until then, his Waking mind is separate from his Dreaming one.”

“Yeah, and when he turns twenty-one, or whatever you Endless dream to be ‘of age’, then he’s gonna know, intimately, what it’s like to fuck his uncle Hob!”

Morpheus had considered that and, after a moment, cleared his throat and said. “Perhaps I will not transfer all of my recollections to this new facet.”)

Out on the tiltyard, Jed has completed gearing up his knight. Hob is impressed with the kid’s speed–though he does this several times a day, so he should be well rehearsed by now–and with the quality of gear the actor heaving himself onto the horse is wearing. It’s not correct –nothing that is a historical interpretation can be one-hundred-percent correct–and Hob knows this as both a history professor and historical artifact himself. But it’s close.

The knight delivers a speech to the crowd as Jed walks back to the fence, winking and waving to his adoring audience. Hob misses the gist of the knight’s words, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not here for the story.

“Your hands flex on the fence rails,” Morph points out as the knight takes his mount through a few warm-up paces before the tilt, making sure that everything is laying correctly on both their bodies. “Do you wish it were you on the horse?”

“God, no,” Hob says, and passes Daniel more goldfish to keep said hands occupied. “Just… sense memory, you know? I can’t tell you how many hours I stood just like this, watching the bouts, studying the footwork, or the tactics of my favourite’s opponents, or the scoring. I feel like I should have a penny ale, a beard, and some fleas.”

“I find I am glad you do not,” Morph says, and leans over to press a kiss to Hob’s smooth cheeks.

“No, no, no,” Daniel protests as his own steed moves. “Wanna see.”

“We are not going anywhere, young master Hall,” Morph assures him as he straightens again.

“Did you ever do that?” Lyta asks, coming up beside Hob, and leaning her own arms against the wooden rail.

“Welcome back,” Hob greets, even as Daniel shouts “ Mama!” and pitches himself toward Lyta so fast that Hob has to spin on the spot and pluck the little daredevil out of the air so he doesn’t knock his mother on her arse.

“Thanks,” Lyta laughs as Hob hands her wiggling son off to her.

“Did you?” Rose asks, from her other side, accepting a mushed up goldfish from Daniel’s hand as he offers to share. She pretends to eat it with a “num num num” and drops the cracker flakes on the grass behind her.

“Nah,” Hob says, turning leaning into Morph and turning his eyes back to the knight’s demonstration of some skill-at-arms–namely, getting his lance through very tiny rings hung from posts at a full gallop. The man is scoring more than he’s missing, so he’s doing a decent job. “Wasn’t nobility, was I?”

“You were a knight,” Morpheus reminds him.

“Yeah, but not this kind,” Hob says, sliding his hand into Morph’s back pocket just to hold his husband close. “As soon as I was knighted, I was pretty much also a married man. Which meant no crusades, no warmongering, and at my wife’s insistence, no goofing off of a weekend with extremely sharp sticks for the fun of it.”

“Bet you could still lay this guy out, though,” Rose says.

Hob shrugs deprecatingly. “It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve properly held a sword,” he says.

There’s a shout of glee from beside their little group, and Jed comes to greet his family in character, trailing his groupies like a magnet. Jed capers and clowns for Daniel’s delight, and then scampers off to his next segment of story with a trail of sighing admirers in his wake.

For the rest of the afternoon, Hob dodges any other invasive questions about his time as either a knight or medieval peasant with as much good humor as possible. Even he’s not sure why he’s not being more effusive about it, especially since correcting misunderstandings and misapprehensions is literally one of his favourite things about his job, except that…

This isn’t the university.

This is a… theme park.

And it’s making light of some of the worst moments of his mortal life. Sure, yeah, there’s fun things–the jousting, the guy shouting “PICKLES” as he wheels around a barrel of them for sale, the cute costumes, and the marvelous roving musicians, and Hob got to teach Rose a dance he used to do with Eleanor.

But, but, there are also stocks. And folks are calling for beheadings as if they were a joke. And there is an actor playing the town drunkard and another playing the town crazy, and these were genuinely dangerous people in his day, in his life, and everything is…

Everything is too bright, too off-kilter, too circus-like. It’s wrong in just enough ways to be uncomfortably uncanny. It’s like when he’s lived overseas for so long that English has ceased to be the first language he spoke and thought in, and then returned to London. Then he hears English everywhere, and he can’t not pay attention to it because it’s so rare to hear, only it’s not rare, because he’s back in England, which makes it overwhelming and…

And Hob just reminds himself that they’re here for Jed. That’s it’s just two days, one with the Walkers and Halls, and one for themselves. It’s just one night, and it’s… for their nephew. Who specifically asked them to come. How could Hob say no to that?

And if Hob is hiding behind Daniel wherever he can, if he’s letting his husband stand between Hob and the costumed courtiers, if he’s squeezing his hand too tight, well, Morph hasn’t said anything about it. Though it doesn’t escape Hob’s notice, either, that Morph is looking increasingly uncomfortable as Rose and Lyta’s good-natured questioning continues.

Thank God Matthew isn’t here. He’d definitely be urging Hob to participate more in the day’s events and Hob just… just… no.

By dinner time, Hob is feeling prickly and very much like he’d like to go somewhere less peopley for a while. Consummate extrovert though he is, even Hob Gadling needs to rest and recharge sometimes.

Luckily, the park has begun to clear out. To avoid the inevitable meltdown that happens when Daniel’s sleep schedule is disrupted, Lyta and Rose take Daniel home as the long slow summer sunset begins to shade the world golden. Most of the other families have done likewise.

Hob feels like maybe he’s on the edge of a temper tantrum himself. Deciding this means he’s just hangry, he steers Morph to the outdoor food court, with the little restaurants in stone buildings built in a ring around a few dozen picnic tables. They’re shaded with tall, skinny trees, throwing lovely verdant green shadows, gilding all the handsome sharp angles of his husband’s face.

The people who are left are mostly attendees in costume settling down for a night of feasting, drinking, and bonfires in the campground of the park. Abdicated Kings don’t sleep on the ground, and there’s no way Hob’s paying someone for the privilege of doing so ever again, and so Dr. and Mr. Gadlen have rented a room at the nearby, ever-so-slightly sketchy motel. Besides the bed, its only redeeming feature is that it’s close enough to stumble through the trees to the park grounds.

Hob’s half tempted with the thought of just dragging Morph back to the room and curling up on his skinny chest for a while, until the weirdness goes away. Instead, they nab a picnic table near the melee grounds, and watch the knights give their final performance of the day in sword-to-shield brawl as they wait for the meals they ordered to be dropped off.

The melee itself doesn’t look very choreographed, from where Hob’s sitting, so it must be a bit of fun the actors are having with improvisation. All the same, he winces when the crack of a wooden sword shattering rings out. The knight whose blade is now fit only for kindling laughs, at least, as she retreats to the side of the fenced-off paddock, clearly disqualified.

Morph catches Hob’s flinch, and reaches out to offer his hand. Hob takes it gratefully.

Another crack of wood-on-metal makes Hob jump, and hands twitching for a weapon that he no longer carries. It sounds like a battle, like every battle, like all the battles Hob has ever suffered through. It has him at attention, on edge, looking for ambush and attack from all sides, and growing ever more antsy when none comes.

“You are hyperventilating, erasti,” Morph says gently, squeezing Hob’s hand to get his attention. “Are you having a panic attack?”

“No, no,” Hob insists. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just…”

A serving wench, all boobs and hair, drops off their tankards and trenchers. Hob and Morph separate only because neither of their meals come with forks.

“Is it really so terrible, being here?” Morph asks, soft and low. He's picking at the meat pie he’d selected for his dinner. It isn’t venison, and he’s eating more of the crust than the content. But Hob is happy to see him eat that much. Morph never seems to be consuming enough calories to keep himself healthy, and yet the man hasn’t died of scurvy yet.

Hob sighs and wipes the grease from his turkey leg off on a paper napkin before scrubbing his free hand through his hair. “Look. I don’t hate it, okay? It’s just… very, very weird seeing my life turned into an idealized, rose-tinted glasses, sepia-toned nostalgia, distorted fun house. It’s not bad, I’ve just… felt one step to the left all day, you know?”

“Like a waking dream that you cannot seem to shake off,” Morph says with a nod.

“Yes,” Hob allows, charmed by the way that Morph still clings to describing the world as if the Waking was still just the lesser realm to his former kingdom. “I just gotta… I dunno, reset my brain or something. Then I’ll be fine. I’ll have fun.”

Morph looks up over his shoulder and says, “Speaking of fun.”

“Uncle Dream! Uncle Hob!” Jed says, skidding onto the seat next to Hob and slamming into his shoulder.

“Oof, watch it around the old men, young squire,” Hob chuckles, shoving Jed back a few inches playfully. The kid’s all limbs and wild hair, skinny as his uncle, despite being as handsome as his grandparent. “You’re meant to be the younger son of landed gentry. Decorum, please.”

“Sorry, yeah. So, cast party at the tavern tonight,” Jed plows on, oblivious to the way Morph is smirking, enjoying his excitement. “The King says you’re both welcome, and I want your opinion on how authentic it is.”

“How come everything has to be authentic? Why are you all so obsessed?” Hob riposts with a forced smile, waving around his giant turkey leg. He’s trying to be a good sport, he really is. He can’t blame Jed for his curiosity, especially not when he encourages it in his students. “Why can’t it just be fun? Take this, for example. Turkey. Never had that a day in my life when I was your age. Never even heard of the place.”

“Turkey is a bird, not a–ah, I see!” Jed laughs. “Didn’t know much about what was outside of the borders of England?”

“Jed, me lad,” Hob had said. “I couldn’t have told you much about what was outside the borders of my village before I followed old Buckingham to Burgundy. And I never even tasted turkey until the 1560s.”

“1562,” Morph had said, with his uncannily accurate memory of every dream Hob has ever had, even now that his brain is ostensibly a human one. “After a performance of Gorbadouc.”

“Ah, yes! They served it with the head and tail on, as was fashionable, and I dreamed about the damn thing chasing me through a park all night,” Hob chuckles, delighted by the memory, and filled with a fierce adoration for the fae creature he gets to call his own. “I wonder whose fault that was.”

Morph plasters on a look of faux innocence that’s so outlandish that it sets Hob laughing. It’s a good laugh, a hearty laugh, a cathartic laugh. It’s belly-deep, and eye-watering, and wonderful. It’s just what Hob needed.

It also sets off Jed, who in turn sets off Morph, whose noises make Hob laugh even harder. Because Morpheus, abdicated King of Dreams and Nightmares, former Prince of Stories, and ex-Endless has a truly awful, wheezing, terrible laugh.

Hob figures it’s the result of millennia of Morph hiding his emotions. From what Hob’s winkled out of Death and Despair, Dream of the Endless used to be a carefree, passionate, all-or-nothing kind of entity, before heartbreak after heartbreak had turned him into the closed-off, brooding, wounded creature that Hob had met in 1389.

That version of Dream, the wounded Morpheus God of Sleep, barely smiled, barely frowned, barely moved. He masked all his hurt, didn’t let happiness touch him, refused love and care from even the denizens closest to him, like Lucienne.

And so his laugh had become similarly repressed, a wheezing little “hzzzrrr hzzzrrr” rumble that sounded more like a backfiring cat than a free expression of joy. It wasn’t until after they were married that Hob finally heard Morph’s full-body laugh–the honking, snorting, wounded-donkey sound that just made Hob fall in love with him even more.

Hob sees this uncaged freedom-to-feel in the new Dream, in the way that Morpheus’ past hurts don’t haunt Daniel. This green-eyed incarnation says yes to everything, finds joy in all the small wonders of humanity, loves freely and unreservedly, praises his nightmares and gossips with his dreams, and makes Miko, his own albino raven, laugh with sly asides.

And without the mantle of his past-life sorrows and obligations to weigh on him, Hob is finding out that Morph is a curious, compassionate, expressive, loving creature. He truly adores humanity, in the same way that Hob adores it, though sometimes Hob wonders if it’s rather more like the way a sensitive, kind child adores the family dog. That is, that humans are clever and beloved pets, beneath Morpheus but no less beloved for it.

Well, he’s human now, as Hob keeps reminding him. He’s down here with the dogs, fleas and all, and there’s no reason not to join in the puppy piles and the playful wrestling, and the runs in the park, and the howling at the moon.

And boy, does Morph’s laugh howl.

When they’ve all got hold of themselves again, Morph and Hob reach for each other’s hands at the same time. One, two, three squeezes, and somehow Hob feels more present than he has all day.

“But you’ll come?” Jed presses, standing up. Their laughter has caught the attention of the last lingering members of his fan club, and Hob would bet his right arm that Jed’s planning to make a run for the cast-only area of the park.

“We’ll come. Text me the details!” Hob agrees, shouting the last thing to Jed’s retreating back.

Hob waits for the fan club to pass them by, and then and tears into his turkey leg one-handed. It’s gone cold, but that’s fine. Hob’s had plenty of cold-game dinners in his lifetimes. What’s one more?

“You are in better spirits,” Morph observes, once they’ve finished their meal, and are just lingering over the last of their beers. He rubs his thumb along the mound of Hob’s gently, a soothing touch that gratifyingly grounds Hob in the moment.

“I am,” Hob says. “Sorry for being out of sorts before. I just… I don’t like reliving the violence of it. I don’t like the glorification of the violence. But I think a good revel may be just what I need.”

“Excellent,” Morpheus says, with the firm headbob he uses when they’ve made a deal or a bet. “Then revel we shall.”

Hob’s about to suggest another round while they’re waiting for the park to close, but then Morph’s face transforms into an expression of sly guilt. He looks over his shoulder at someone approaching from the vendor stalls.

“With all that we have discussed, I am unsure how welcome this gift will be, erasti,” Morph confesses, as the woman stops by their table. She’s thickly muscled, and wearing a carpenter’s canvas apron. There are wood-shavings in her hair. “But this is for you.”

The vendor moves to hand something wrapped in a swag of hunter-green broadcloth to Morph, but he releases Hob’s hand and gestures at Hob instead.

“For me?” Hob asks, accepting the long cloth bundle.

There’s something hard inside it, but not heavy. Hob's not an idiot—he knows that it's sword-shaped. So his surprise when he lays it down carefully on the table, away from their greasy and crumb-flaked napkins, and flips back the cloth wrapper is not because of what his gift is so much as how fine it is.

"Lord in his heaven," Hob breathes. "This is gorgeous. "

And it is. It's ash wood, stained a pleasant ruddy colour, strong and positively gleaming with polish. The sword is carved to resemble his war-sword, the one he'd retrieved from the cache in Gadlen House. Hob grips the leather-wrapped hilt experimentally, and is pleasantly surprised to realize that it doesn't just resemble his war sword: the proportions are exactly the same.

It's lighter, of course, because it's not made of steel. But otherwise it's identical. There's even a soft leather sheath so he can wear it on his belt, exactly how it would have hung back when he was allowed to carry such a blade in the open public.

Well… almost identical. On the pommel, instead of just a series of concentric circles, the crafter has created a beautifully life-like carving of a sunflower.

“Thank you. Your husband commissioned it,” the carpenter says, with a wistful twinkle in her eye, which tells Hob just how romantic she thinks it is. "He sent me the photos and measurements, based on the Witch Knight's original arming-sword."

"We're not calling him that," Hob says on reflex, before his brain catches up with his mouth. Then he registers what she said, and jerks his head up to Morph. "You did?"

"I did," Morph intones.

"This… you couldn't have just done this in one day," Hob realizes, running his hand along the wooden blade, which has been sanded soft as silk.

"He emailed me weeks ago," the crafter agrees.

Morph smiles, the small pleased one that always makes Hob's heart flip over in his chest. "The same day we booked our flights."

"You ridiculous creature," Hob says, running his thumb over the sunflower on the heraldic badge. "I adore you, too."

The crafter bids them goodbye, after another round of effusive thanks and praise from Hob. As soon as she's out of earshot, Morpheus grows pensive.

"I love it," Hob reassures him. "My… weirdness about today aside, it's very thoughtful and very cool."

Morph huffs. "I thought, perhaps, you would be more enthusiastic about the pageantry. My nephew had mentioned that some spectators also don garb, and I assumed…" he gestures to the wooden sword, laying on the green swag.

Hob smiles gently. "You thought that I would be eager to dress up, and that your knight may be in want of his weapon, my liege?"

Morph squirms a little, cheeks and ear-tips flushing petal-pink. He always gets a bit hot under the collar when Hob uses his old titles on him, and Hob loves teasing him.

Hob rubs the back of his neck. It's a bit sunburned and prickles hotly. "It's a nice idea, but I didn't bring a costume."

Morph flushes pinker.

Hob sits upright, delighted. "Did you bring us costumes?"

Not wanting Morph's thoughtfulness to go to waste, and feeling much lighter after dinner, Hob decides that he can get over himself long enough to do a bit of playacting and mucking about. As the park closes for the night, they amble back to their motel room to don the garb Morph had brought along.

For Hob, Morph’s selected skin-tight brown leather trousers, far tighter and sinfully tailored than anything Hob actually wore in his life, knee-high boots in a darker shade, and (Morph’s favourite colour on his husband,) a hunter-green poet’s blouse with full sleeves. The outfit is finished with a matching leather waistcoat and a belt with pouches big enough for Hob’s wallet and phone, a clip for a fancy pair of riding gloves, and a space to hang the new wooden sword.

“I look like the porno version of Robin Hood,” Hob says, examining his whole arse on display in his reflection.

“Hmmm, yes,” Morph agrees, unrepentant. He crowds up behind Hob in the pokey washroom, hands cupping said arse, and presses a possessive, nibbling kiss just high enough on Hob’s neck that everyone will be able to see the bruise peeking out of his collar.

For himself, Morph is wearing his own black leather pants and calf-high boots, not needing to have those made when they were already in his closet. But he’s commissioned a gorgeously luxurious black-on-black brocade coat, with a tight mandarin collar, a gleaming row of tiny silver buttons, and well-fitted sleeves buttoned closed at the wrists. It falls to his knees in an ahistorical swallow-tail cut, showing off his slim hips. Over this, Morph has added a thigh-length, sleeved surcoate of rich ruby-red silk, trimmed with silver. The a waterfall of fabric hangs from his elbows in diamond-shaped bell sleeves that mimic the shape of the coat’s tail. It's cinched with a richly and intricately filigreed silver belt that Hob knows for a fact he last saw on Delirium.

Morph looks delicious.

Vain tart.

“I have to admit, there is actually something fun about wearing the fantasy version of all this stuff,” Hob allows, head tilted to the side to allow Morph access. He reaches back to squeeze Morph’s arse in retaliation.

“Mmmmf,” Morph agrees, his mouth full.

“No itchy wool,” Hob goes on, letting his head fall back to rest on Morph’s shoulder.

“Mmm…”

“No stiff leather.”

“Hm.”

“No fleas.”

“Mpfh.”

“No body odor ground into the fibers…”

“Hob, you are not being very romantic,” Morph complains.

“Oh, am I not? Is there something else I could be doing to set the mood, my liege?” Hob asks, raising his head to meet Morph’s eyes in the bathroom mirror.

“I can think of a few things,” Morph rumbles.

“So can I,” Hob says, with a wicked grin.

He pushes Morph back just enough to give him space to turn around and kneel. Morph braces his hands on the countertop, and then it’s Hob whose mouth is full.

As the Ren Faire is just far enough away from the next major city for the drive to be tedious, many of the actors and day-staff spend the weekends in their own part of the campground. Jed shares a janky old trailer with the other squires, watched over by some of the senior knights who’ve been working the Faire for a few years, and who can show the kids the ropes and make sure they don’t do anything too stupid with their free time.

Most of the vendors who’ve been working the Faire for decades have little apartments built above their stone-and-wood shops, and live there all summer. The miniature stone keep that serves as the background for the stage and courtyards contains bunk rooms and kitchens for the actors playing the members of the court, allowing them to cook for themselves (and the eternally-bottomless-pit teenagers on staff).

This means that the tavern on site, which is more of a sandwiches-and-a-coffee kind of place during the day, is licensed for liquor at night. Jed and the other actors partake of the canteen in the back of the building that keeps everyone fed during the day, and spend their evenings like ‘real’ medieval peasantry having a revel at the local pub.

“Reminds me of somewhere,” Hob says with a cheeky wink and a twinkle in his eye, when Hob and Morph approach the tavern an hour or so later.

“Hob, erasti,” Morpheus, murmurs. “Have fun tonight. And do not bully the bartender.”

“I don’t bully bartenders,” Hob lies, tugging on his ear. It’s not bullying, just… helpful critiques. It’s just sometimes hard to be in the profession and not want to offer the advice gleaned over nearly four decades of owning his own pub while in his cups.

They’re greeted with a “wah-hey!” from the crowd, and the actor playing the King–apparently the default den-mother around the place–jumps up to greet them.

“Welcome!” He says, sticking out a thick, calloused hand. Hob takes it, struck again by a wave of uncanniness as he realizes the man’s scars and rough spots match up with his own. It’s so rare that he shakes hands with anyone who’s trained with swords in this day and age. “I’m Grant. You’re Dr. Gadlen and, uhm, Mr. Gadlen, our Jed’s uncles, yeah?”

“Bob and Morph,” Hob corrects, “Yeah, we are. Nice to meet you.”

“Come in, come in,” Grant says, with all the gay magnanimity that Hob has seen him using during his performances today.

The tavern itself is a mix of the fantasy-version of historical architecture and hidden modern conveniences. The lamps glow golden-yellow, but are LED lights, clearly wired to a switch by the door. The furniture is handmade and solid, but the joining style is modern, and the cushions on the chairs and benches are obviously from the dollar-store and stain-proofed. The floor is packed-dirt strewn with reeds, but under that Hob can see stone tiling. A thousand other things jump out to him, not only as a literal expert in the era(s? It’s unclear what century this Ren Faire is trying to emulate, he can’t pin it to just one) but also as a pub owner, and as someone eyebrows deep trying to restore his own Ye Olde Timey pub.

The bar and its backing and stock itself is more analogous to the kind you would find in a modern pub, for all that it’s made from rough-hewn wood, and is tucked into the corner of the building around a few tar-black support beams.

Grant hustles them over to a table filled with the faux nobility, after a quick detour to furnish Hob with a tankard of draft beer and Morph with a metal goblet of sweet white wine. After introductions all around, where the queen–Jan–exclaims over their costumes and the Royal Mistress–Shel–admires Morph’s commitment to his noble posture, one of the courtiers–Mark–says, “Say, aren’t you the guy from TV?”

Jan turns to study Hob’s face. “Yeah, you are!”

“My husband is indeed Doctor Robert Gadlen the Sixth,” Morph confirms, the traitor.

“The Witch Knight!” Mark crows. “Hey, guys, it’s the Witch Knight!”

Half the pub cheers. The other half asks the first half if they should know who that is.

“We’re not calling him that,” Hob insists, but at this point it’s more of a running gag with the public than any real protestation. That horse is well and truly out of the barn.

Mark laughs, delighted that he’d recognized him. Everyone chats for a few minutes about the difference between historical recreation, as Hob and Harriet do, and historical reinterpretation, as the Faire does, when the last remaining person at the table finally speaks up.

The guy is dressed in the loose, sweaty underpadding of knight’s garb, the gambeson askew and the state of his shirtsleeves underneath frankly disgraceful. If Hob had ever shown up in public after a bout looking like that, El would have clapped his ears and sent him home to smarten up. The man’s light, thinning hair is askew, and his face is already ruddy with drink. He stares at Hob, a little beerily, and says: “You’re not a real knight.”

Hob and Morph exchange a smirk, and Hob raises his tankard in acknowledgement. “Nah,” he says. “Robert Gadlen the Third was the knight. I’m the same as you. I just play pretend.”

“I don’t play!” the knight snaps, slamming his own tankard on the table hard enough to rattle the metal cups.

“Shane, come on,” Grant says gently. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

“What, just because I’m an actor, you think it’s all fake?”

Hob holds up his hands, don’t shoot, trying to diffuse the situation. He’s still trying to figure out how this went from zero to sixty so quick. “Sorry, man. I saw how hard you worked out there today. I know it’s not easy–”

“You don’t have any idea,” Shane spits. “You just pranced around on TV, probably had a stunt guy do all your riding and fighting–”

Hob frowns. He should probably let the blow to his ego go, but Hob’s always clung to his pride in ways that are probably slightly unhealthy. “I’ll have you know that I did all the riding and fighting myself. The shooting, too! Bow and matchlock!”

“Erasti,” Morph murmurs calmingly, and lays his hand on Hob’s thigh. “Peace.”

“He started it–” Hob murmurs back, but then catches his own tone and bites his tongue. He sounds like a whining child.

“Tell us about that,” Jan jumps in, clearly desperate to turn the tide of the conversation. “We can’t have real firearms here, obviously, but I’ve always wanted to try firing a flintlock.”

“Matchlock,” Hob corrects gently, watching as Shane shoves away from the table and flounces theatrically over to the bar to get a refill. “You have to light it yourself. Flintlocks weren’t introduced until after the 1660s, and before that were snapchaunces, the snaplocks…”

Hob goes on, holding court for a few more minutes, flicking gazes at Shane often enough that Morph finally pinches his knee. “Enough,” Morph says into a lull, while Jane and Shel proclaim their intent to get the music started.

“But–”

“Enough,” Morph repeats. “Let it go. This is a command from your king.”

Hob snorts and pecks a kiss off Morph’s rosebud mouth, tickling the underside of Morph’s chin with a finger as he does so. “Not a king any more, duckie.”

“Your god, then.”

“Not a god, either.”

Morph raises one elegant hand to press his finger directly into the lovebite he’d left on Hob’s neck. Hob shivers in salacious understanding. “And yet, were you not just worshiping at my–”

“Hey, you came!” Jed interrupts from behind them, and Hob springs back from Morph like he’s been shocked.

Morph smirks. “No need to pantomime prudishness, beloved,” he rumbles. “Do recall who the boy’s grandparent is.”

“I’m still not making out with you in front of the kids,” Hob scolds him playfully, then scooches over to make space between Hob and Morph on the bench for Jed to squeeze into.

Grant welcomes Jed to the table, Jan and Shel head off to chivvy the musicians into picking up their instruments, and Hob peers into Jed’s tankard to make sure it’s just cola. Not that he doesn’t trust Jed, but he remembers what it was like to be young and peer-pressurable.

“I’m so glad you guys dressed up,” Jed enthuses. “What a cool sword!”

“It’s a waster, technically,” Hob says, unsheathing it for Jed to inspect. “Because it’s wooden. But I have no intention of wasting it in a practice session. It likely won’t splinter if I do spar a bit with it though, it’s too finely made.”

From the bar, Shane the wannabe knight scoffs.

Hob bites his cheek and continues to explain the sword to Jed, ignoring all the noises Shane makes. It isn’t until Morph is elaborating to Jed and Grant about the experience of being a foreign power at court, helping them construct an improv scenario for when an attendee is dressed in the royal fashion, that Shane finally saunters back to the table.

He leans on it heavily, squinting into Morph’s face.

“Aren’t you that author guy?” the man says, leaning too far into Morph’s personal bubble for Hob’s liking. Not because he’s a jealous, possessive asshole who needs to show the room that Morph belongs to him, but because he knows that being touched by strangers makes Morph uncomfortable. “The one who makes up those twisted-as-fuck fantasy books? That nightmare shit? What would you know?”

“My research is meticulous,” Morph says, face blank save for an archly raised eyebrow. All the same, he’s leaning back into Jed, trying to keep Shane’s sour breath off his face.

“ And he’s a New York Times best seller,” Jed pipes up, clearly proud of the hard work Morph has done in the last few years to establish himself as a different kind of Prince of Stories, now that he’s human.

“I wasn’t talking to you, maggot,” Shane snaps at Jed, without even looking up at him. “Squires don’t talk to their betters unless addressed first.”

Jed jolts, and hisses out, “Yes, sir.” He hangs his head and scrunches in on himself.

Hob whips a look over at Grant, who looks chagrined, but not particularly like he’s about to step up and call Shane to task. He’s not a real regent, after all. He has no actual power here.

Morph's face clouds over with thunderstorms, and Hob knows for a fact that if his husband were still Dream of the Endless, Shane would be suffering incurable night terrors for the rest of his pitiful life. As it is, he’s got no doubt that after Desire hears about this, the guy’s absolutely never getting laid again.

“Hey, back off,” Hob says, reaching around Jed to shove Shane back, if no one else is going to do something about his attitude.

For a second it looks like the pretender-knight won’t go, but then he straightens and saunters over to harass some of the younger women knotted together in the corner. Not a single one of them looks happy at his approach.

Hob sends another reproachful look at Grant, who tucks his tail between his legs and slinks off to the bar for his own refill with a muttered excuse.

Coward, Hob thinks. And just as bad as Shane, if he’s not calling it out.

“You okay?” Hob asks Jed softly, as Morph rises to follow Grant.

Hob doesn’t know what his husband is saying to the man, but from the ashamed expression growing on the king’s face, it’s nothing that’s letting him squirm out of his responsibility as a figurehead to set a good example.

“I’m fine,” Jed whispers, all his good cheer from earlier extinguished. “That’s normal.”

“That’s normal,” Hob repeats, flatly unimpressed. “What’s the deal with that asshole?”

Jed shrugs with one shoulder, looking a bit uncomfortable. “He’s just… really into all this, you know? Takes it seriously.”

“Well he’s seriously being a knobhead,” Hob mutters.

“He’s just passionate,” Jed protests.

“You don't have to make excuses for him, it’s not on you to apologize for his behavior,” Hob reassures Jed. “Even if you are his squire. And let me tell you, I never treated my squires the way he talks to you. No one did. You asked about accuracy? This shit’s not it.”

Jed finally looks up at Hob, big dark eyes shining in the golden lamplight. “Really?”

“Really. And you tell the other kids, too. What he’s doing, that’s not right, and you don’t have to take his abuse.” Hob pulls Jed into a fierce hug right there in the middle of the room. “You’ve suffered enough of that shit. You tell me if he doesn’t shape up after you guys push back, and I’ll come straight back here and fix it.”

“How?” Jed laughs, wiping at his face discreetly as Hob lets him go. “Challenge him to a duel?”

“Hell, yes,” Hob promises, taking a swig of his beer. “Then he’ll see who uses a stunt team.”

“That’ll make the girls happy.”

Hob narrows his eyes at that. “Explain.”

“Shel calls him a… what is it? A ‘busted step’?”

“Ah,” Hob says with a sinking understanding. “A broken stair.”

“He hasn’t done anything to me,” Jed says quickly. “But there’s a few of the girls who don’t want to work with him any more. Just because Shel plays the mistress, he thinks that she’s gotta, you know, really be that. It’s really starting to bug her.”

Before Hob can formulate an answer to that, Morph makes a distressed noise.

Hob is very, very attuned to all the sounds his husband makes, mostly because he’s usually so silent. Any sounds of Morph’s are meant to be treasured, cataloged, and hoarded away. This is not a sound he’s ever heard Morph make before. And it’s definitely not one Hob ever wants to hear him make again.

At the bar, Morph is leaning back against a pillar, cornered by Shane, who has his meaty hand on Morph’s waist, where it definitely should not fucking be. Morph turns his head to the side, away from Shane’s, and snarls something under his breath. Shane, the bastard, only throws his head back and laughs.

Morph, while a fighter, is not a brawler. He’s used to having unimaginable cosmic powers at his fingertips, so he sometimes forgets that he can shove creeps off.

Hob, though?

Hob has no problem with beating the shit out of someone who deserves it.

Hob sets down his beer hard. “That’s it, I’m kicking his ass.”

Jed straightens, eyes widening comically. “Uncle Hob–”

“You want authenticity, lad?” Hob asks, turning to get Shane in his sights. “Watch this.”

And then he strides across the pub, right up into Shane’s space. He grabs the lout’s shoulder hard, fisting his hand in the fabric of Shane’s disgraceful gambeson, and hauls him off Morph. Shane stumbles back as Hob yanks him around and to the side, feet going out from under him so the only thing holding him more-or-less vertical is his own grip on the bar and Hob’s hand in the undercoat.

Hob tugs one of the gloves folded over his belt free, and slaps Shane directly across the face.

“Outside, you sorry excuse for a man,” Hob snarls into the chorus of shocked gasps rising from everyone in the pub. “Now.”

And then Hob drops him into the dirt, where he belongs.

“Aren’t you worried about him?” Jan asks Morph as they detach themselves from Hob at the sidelines of the melee grounds.

“Not in the least,” Morph murmurs back, folding his arms over the rails of the fencing. Even as he walks into the small dusty field, Hob can tell that Morph is smirking with barely contained delight.

Hob kicks at the dirt a little as he crosses towards the far rail, where the props are stored. It hasn’t rained here in at least a week, judging by how powdery the dirt around the trampled grass is. The area closest to the audience has been laid with fine red sand, which will shift under his feet. He’ll have to watch his footing there.

Shane, who is plodding along one step behind and five feet away from Hob, isn’t surveying his environment.

Amateur.

No, worse than an amateur, because amateurs are keen to learn and grow.

Idiot.

Shane weaves straight over to the rack of metal swords, using a key slung around his neck to open the cage.

That also seems idiodic, Hob thinks. Who is trusting this guy with protecting the weapons?

For a moment, Hob considers fighting with his waster. He could use it handily against a steel sword, but Morph went to all the trouble, and likely expense, to have it made specifically for Hob. It would be a shame to nick or split it.

Instead, Hob follows Shane to the cage and selects a sword that looks beat up, but about the right weight for him. Shane sneers. He already has what Hob assumes is his own sword in his hand, a gleaming thing that is pretty but, based on how he’s holding it, all wrong for him.

Idiot!

Shane snatches up a shield from a bin to the side of the cage, a stereotypical crest-shaped one. With a shrug, Hob selects a round one with well-riveted handles and a smooth edge for deflecting blows. Hob can already spot a few pits in the edge of Shane’s shield that would be perfect for locking the blade of his own sword into.

Those dents should have been repaired as soon as Shane was off the tourney grounds. In a real battle, they could cost a man his life.

And this is why you don’t treat your squires like shit, Hob thinks maliciously.

While his anger had flared hot and fast in the tavern, now that he’s out under the summer night sky, Hob feels detached and calm. He’s not about to get cocky–after all, Shane’s been fighting with a sword and shield daily for months, if not years, while Hob himself hasn’t properly trained with these particular weapons in centuries.

But Shane has learned to fight for crowds, not for his life.

This is going to be a pleasure.

Properly armed, Hob moves to stand a few good wide paces from the fence, which is now groaning-heavy with actors and vendors, watching with a mix of fearful worry and tipsy amusement.

“This is your chance to apologize,” Hob shouts over to Shane, loud enough that everyone can hear it. The crowd goes silent, waiting for the response.

“Fuck off!”

A few people groan, but most look unsurprised.

“Apologize for how you spoke to my nephew, and for assaulting my husband, and for harassing the other actors, and I’ll let this go!” Hob demands again.

“I said fuck off,” Shane snarls.

Courtesy demands that Hob repeat his offer to stand down a third time, but before he can, Shane charges. Hob spares a moment to glance over at Morph, shrugging.

Morph gestures with one elegant moon-pale hand, which Hob takes to mean Kick his ass, baby.

So Hob does.

First, he lets Shane come to him. The man is taller than Hob, broader, but also drunker. Hob takes small steps, to the side, to the back, just enough to stay out of the bending compass of his swinging sword.

“Stand your ground and fight me!” Shane snarls after a few moments of Hob’s calm side-stepping.

“Why should I?” Hob asks, in a very even and non-confrontational tone, stepping, stepping, stepping aside. “You’re doing a marvelous job of fighting yourself for me.”

Shane catches Hob’s meaning, and goes still. Too still, too fast, which makes it easy for Hob to dart in and slap him on the ass with the flat of his blade.

“What the fuck, man,” Shane growls, spinning to try to track him.

“Oh come on, baby, don’t be like that. You know you liked it,” Hob sneers back.

Shane snarls again, and lunges showily, which Hob dodges just as showily, to the approving roar of the crowd.

“How heavy is that sword?” Hob asks, raising his shield to block a flurry of graceless, clubbing blows. “By the way your wrist keeps dipping, I’d say too heavy. It’s clearly too long for you, too. You know, swords aren’t like sports cars, no one’s going to think your dick is small just because your sword is–oop.”

Shane swings at Hob’s ankles, and Hob leaps back, but lands awkwardly. He manages to use the momentum to fling the weight of his shield around, roll onto it in the dirt like a little turtle, and use that same momentum to pull himself right back up into a crouch just in time to block Shane’s attempt to bash his head in with his own shield.

“Have you torn your shoulder yet? You will, if you keep over extending your swings the way you are–”

“Shut the fuck up and fight me,” Shane howls, stepping back and opening his arms wide in a ridiculously macho challenge.

Hob springs up and into a solid fighting stance. “Fine,” he says, with all the gravitas his fury deserves. “If that’s what you want.”

The first blow is delivered hard against Shane’s exposed inner elbow. If the swords were sharp, it would be enough to take his arm off at the joint. As it is, Shane just howls with pain and drops his shield. As he curls forward to cradle his arm, Hob steps into his body, turns on the ball of his foot to put his back to the prick, reaches up with the arm holding the shield, and clobbers him in the head.

Not hard enough to concuss, Hob hopes, but definitely hard enough to make Shane reel backward and stumble. Shane flails out with his sword, blood from a small cut on his forehead suddenly blinding him, and Hob ducks under it. He swings out his leg, and knocks Shane’s feet out from under him.

The brute lands hard on his arse, sword up to protect his face which is, really, just so stupid. It would be very, very easy for Hob to press into his wrist and make him stab himself through the eye. Instead, Hob slaps his sword arm aside with the flat of his blade, and steps on Shane’s chest to keep him in place.

“Now,” Hob says, loud enough to be heard over Shane’s harsh panting. “Are you going to apologize, or am I going to be calling the police and filing assault charges?”

“Assault charges!” Shane howls. “I’m bleeding! I should charge you!”

Hob bares his teeth at the little shit in a parody of a smile. “Go on, try it then,” Hob says, and crouches to get the tip of his sword right up under Shane’s chin, pushing a white divot into the soft flesh there. “I think you’ll find that there are going to be a lot more witnesses on my side than yours.”

Shane swallows hard, and Hob almost wishes the blade edge was sharp enough to nick him with the motion. It’d be poetic. Instead he rests more of his weight on Shane’s ribs, just enough to make it harder for him to breath.

“See, that’s the problem with being a complete and utter shithead,” Hob hisses into Shane’s face. “Nobody likes you, Shane. Nobody will stand up for you. Nobody will fight to keep you here, and most importantly, nobody will be sad when you quit and go home tonight. Do. You. Understand?”

“I understand!” Shane yelps, terror flashing through his eyes at what he sees in Hob’s. “I understand! Get off me, man!”

“I’ll know if you don’t leave,” Hob says, with one more dig of the tip of his sword against Shane’s neck.

“I’ll go! I’ll really go!”

“Good.” Hob slides the side of the sword up Shane’s cheek, taking with it the key to the weapons cages.

Hob straightens and turns to the gawp-mouthed, silent audience.

“Squire?” he calls out.

Jed leaps to attention. “Sir?”

“If you please,” Hob says graciously, holding out his sword, key dangling from the blade, and shield.

“Of course, sir!” Jed says, scrambling to climb over the rails of the fence and relieve him of his burdens.

“Good lad,” Hob says, scrubbing his hand through Jed’s hair. “Thank you.”

Jed jogs back to the cage.

Hob takes one step toward his husband. He sees what’s about to happen in Morph’s face before he hears the whistle of a sword cutting through the air. The way Morph's expression changes suddenly is enough warning, and Hob to lunges to the side.

Shane’s sword, instead of catching his neck, lands a solid blow against his ribs. Hob hears more than feels the crack. Red-hot pain radiates up his torso, and dusts his vision with white spots. But he’s already moving, turning under his own shoulder, dropping his hand to the hilt of the waster, sliding it free of the scabbard in one smooth motion.

Shane tips forward, overbalanced, and Hob pops up behind him. He and raps the hand holding the sword with his waster hard enough to break two of Shane’s fingers.

Snap, snap!

Shane yelps and drops the sword.

Pop! as Hob drives it into Shane’s foot, neatly breaking his big toe in his soft leather boots.

Thwack, goes the waster, as Hob snaps it’s against Shane’s temple just hard enough to stun him a little.

Hob raises the sword again, two-handed like his kendo sensei taught him, his rib absolutely screaming. But he schools his expression, keeps it passive.

“No!” Shane whines, cringing back. “No, I’m sorry, please–”

“Fucking right, you’re sorry. Pack your shit and get out, you disgrace,” Hob snarls.

For a moment, no one moves. Then a few of the other knights clamber over the fence to help Shane to his feet, and drag him toward the cast trailers. Not a single one of them is looking him in the eye.

Jed comes back for Shane’s abandoned weaponry, and then Morpheus is suddenly there, cool hand on the hilt of the sword over Hob’s rough fingers.

“It is over, my champion,” Morph intones softly. “You may stand at ease.”

“Can’t though,” Hob wheezes. “Cracked a rib. Take the sword?”

Morph removes the sword from his grip, replacing it lovingly in its soft sheath. Then he helps Hob lower his arms, supporting his left one, where the injured rib is, with a hand under the elbow.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Jed asks, when he returns.

“No,” Hob says. “Nothing to be done but to wrap it. I can do that myself.” Then he offers Jed a blinding wince, masquerading as a smile. “And it’s not like it can kill me.”

Morph and Jed walk Hob back through the trees to the motel, where he takes a hot shower with Morph holding him up, and a handful of painkillers that the site medic pressed on them along with a roll of tensor bandage and a sling.

A cracked rib is a bitch, but manageable. If it was truly broken he'd have to worry about bone shards and pierced organs, but a quick palpitation proves that everything is still where it ought to be. He's not looking forward to the flight home, though.

Hob wasn't blessed with supernaturally fast healing along with his supernaturally long life, but a good night's rest with Morph as his pillow, keeping him from rolling onto his bad side, and Hob feels much better than he thought he'd be. He doesn't remember his dreams, but figures he has Daniel to thank for the way his chest doesn't burn and spasm with every inhale.

A galaxy of bruises has bloomed on his torso overnight, and Morph takes extra care to kiss and soothe them in the syrupy morning light.

After they re-don their costumes, Hob feels up to the walk back to the park, though it's slow going and he has to lean on Morph's arm for stability. His husband deposits Hob at the picnic table nearest the melee grounds and goes off in search of something to break their fast.

The medic finds him before Morph returns, and has Hob's waistcoat off and his poet's shirt up over his head before he can bid her "good morning.” Hob knows better than to fight her as she inspects the bruising and rewraps the tensor, so must make quite a sight by the time Grant and Jed join them.

"Morning, gents," Hob says around his mouthful of fabric.

"How are you?" Grant asks.

"I'll live."

Jed snorts.

"How's Shane?" Hob asks, gracious in his victory, even if his voice is throttled by the medic tightening the wrap across his lungs.

“He left last night," Grant says, ashen through the gap in the green linen that Hob can see through.

"And he won’t be able to perform for the rest of the summer,” the medic adds. "Not until his fingers and foot heal."

“What a shame,” Hob replies, meaning the exact opposite. "His elbow?"

"Just bruised," the medic says. "You can put your arms down."

"Katya's the new head knight," Jed says, pointing to the person warming up in the field once Hob can see again. "They're great. I can't wait to work with them."

"Happy to hear it, my lad," Hob says, and he means it.

Grant clears his throat. "I, uh, I spoke to your husband last night and I want to… um, I want to offer my apologies that it came to…" he gestures to the sling the medic is tying around Hob's neck. "I'm the King, I've been here the longest. The cast looks to me to set the tone. I should have… well, I should have spoken up."

"And next time, you will," Hob says. Simple as that.

"Me too," Jed promises.

"Good. Now, don't you folks have somewhere to be? Some people to entertain?"

"Yes, but first," Jed says, reaching out to help Hob lever himself upright. "If you can manage it, you're wanted at the castle. Don't worry, I've already texted Uncle Dream to meet us there."

Hob, deciding he can do worse than let his nephew surprise him, and moreover to allow himself to enjoy it, lets Jed lead him to the stage by the keep.

The thing that Hob is wanted for, it turns out, is another damned knighting ceremony.

He's starting to collect the things.

The whole cast, most of the vendors, and a few dozen curious audience members applaud as Hob is led up the steps to stand before the king and accept his accolades. Grant is suitably vague about how and why Hob's being recognized, and he's just fine with that. He's had enough with being rewarded for hurting people.

The speech is heartfelt but brief, thankfully, but then Hob is expected to kneel.

"Godsbones," he gasps, trying to get down. Grant gestures that it's not necessary, but if Hob's going to do this, he's going to do it right.

Morph steps up and lends him an arm to cling to, and smirks the entire time he helps Hob kneel on a red velvet cushion.

What’s a few moments of pain weighed against the way it makes Jed grin, or Morph’s eyes twinkle, or the photographs that he’ll be able to look at a hundred years from now and recall the smell of this fresh morning, the feel of the cushion and the wooden stage under his knees, the kiss of Grant’s prop sword on his shoulder, tapping on the exact place where Morph had left his love bite.

When Hob rises again (slowly), now Sir Robert Gadlen the Sixth of the Court of Upstate New York Ren Faire, Jed throws his arms in the air and crows: "Three cheers for the Witch Knight!"

Lost in the huzzahs of the assembled hordes, Hob clutches his side and moans: "We're not calling me that!"

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artvinyl · 1 year

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Best Art Vinyl 2022 Winners

“This year’s winning entry features a hyperreal painting that seeks to portray both stifled desires and “the possibility of soaring liberation”

Read Design Week’s article and interview with Simon Monk, the winning artist of our annual #BestArtVinyl Award:

Artist Simon Monk’s hyperreal painting for UK rock collective Black Country, New Road’s Ants From Up There album has been announced as the winner of the Best Art Vinyl Award 2022.

For its 18th year, the competition received over 200 entries. A panel of artists, designers and music industry experts selected a shortlist of 50 covers, before the final three were chosen via a public vote.

“An image of frustrated desire”

Monk is a UK-based contemporary artist interested in using painting to breathe new life into a cheap or otherwise unimportant object. His hyperreal style is achieved through layering translucent colours and using high-quality oils and alkyds (a polyester resin modified with fatty acids and other components).

Black Country, New Road was drawn to Monk’s style for its nostalgic quality. The band’s drummer Charlie Wayne explains how, for him, looking at the painting is “as familiar as looking at a childhood photograph”. Wayne notes that Monk’s work is very different to the band’s first album cover.

At first glance, the album cover looks exactly like an old photograph, but a closer look reveals it to be a hyperreal painting. Monk explains how his subjects “exist illusionistically in front of the picture plane”, which helps to put it in “the viewer’s space”, adding to the hyperreality.

“My plastic bag paintings were started as a solution to the problem of how to make a still life oil painting in the 21st century without it being boring and old fashioned”, says Monk.

He says that he sees the painting as “an image of frustrated desire” as the airplane is being stifled inside the bag. The plastic bag is struggling to contain it, which Monk says suggests “the possibility of soaring liberation.” After listening to the album many times, Monk says he noticed “a yearning, searching, frustrated quality to the music” that is “analogous to the content of the painting”.

Aside from the painting, all other aspects of the cover design – from the hand lettering to the choice of card stock – was led by the design team at the band’s record label Ninja Tune. Monk says the team were “extremely self-effacing” in showcasing his imagery at the forefront of the cover, rather than “obscuring it with type or covering it with filters”.

Monk planned to create a companion painting of a golden elephant in a carrier bag. Unfortunately, he came to the studio one morning to find a torn bag and a broken elephant on the floor. Since Monk only paints from real life, not from photographs, the second painting was never completed. Monk also created two additional artworks inside the deluxe vinyl box sets available from Ninja Records.

Black Country, New Road - ‘Ants From Up There’ deluxe box set on display at the Art Vinyl Exhibition at The Collection & Usher Gallery in Lincoln until 22/01/23

Hardcore oil painting..

Coming in second was the artwork for French punk/hardcore trio Birds in Row’s third full length album Gris Klein, created by band member and tattoo artist Bart Balboa.

The cover features a cool-toned oil painting of a person admiring a bunch of pink flowers, produced on linen. Although Balboa used a predominantly dark and neutral colour palette, the person’s lips – which sit at a central point of the canvas – are cherry red, while the budding flowers have been painted in pastel pinks.

Balboa revealed that this was the last painting he had managed to finish before falling into “an artistic void”. He also created an accompanying stone lithograph print for the LP.

Imagining a post-apocalyptic landscape..

West Yorkshire-based illustrator Jake Blanchard’s work for Richard Dawson’s album The Ruby Cord came in third place. The album concludes a trilogy of LPs that began with the pre-medieval world of Peasant, released in 2017. The Ruby Cord aims to transport listeners back to the present day, where they are faced with a somewhat dystopian future.

Though Blanchard’s style is characteristic of psychedelia, he also takes influence from the natural world as well as mythology and ancient cultures. His focus for the cover was to illustrate the albums 41-minute opening track, Hermit, which imagines a character “wandering through a post-apocalyptic landscape burdened with supplies”, says Blanchard.

After producing the final sketches, Blanchard moved on to the line work with pen and ink, so he could scan the illustrations and colour it digitally. “A few elements were changed or added with a graphics tablet and then I made and added textures including the background watercolour”, he says.

According to Blanchard, he worked closely with Dawson throughout the design process, who was very open to his suggestions.

All 50 nominated album covers are featured in an art installation in the window of The Hari in London. The winners will also feature in several exhibitions put on by Art Vinyl over the year in locations across the globe, such as Tipton Eyeworks in Budapest. The designs can also be viewed online, on the Art Vinyl website.

Written by Abbey Bamford, Design Week

January 6, 2023

#BestArtVinyl2022 artanddesign artprize artvinyl bestartvinylaward recordcoverart albumart recordcover exhibition

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granitemoon · 2 years

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Darius Origin 9

As he exited the shop, he saw a group of fairies talking. He found a bench and waited. And waited. He looked at the clock and saw he had been waiting for 30 minutes. The night progressively got colder and he began to shiver. Finally, a tooth dropped. The fairies kept going, but he needed them to get distracted and move along. “What was the best way to get that done?” he thought to himself. Oh right! Fairies can communicate through dances, and while some can speak, all are fluent in dance. Thankfully, his father was also fluent in dance and Darius began to remember an insult his father had done to a particularly rude fairy. So he walked up to the fairy group, they were surprised to see him approach so casually. He started off with the dance equivalent of “hey” and the fury responded hesitantly, the other fairies suspiciously gathered around the lead.

He made a dance saying “have you heard?” all fairies looked super uncomfortable as to where this is headed. Then quickly and smoothly he said it. It had the desired effect. All the fairies ' jaws dropped and the other fairies in the back put their hands over their mouths. They flew. Fast. Leaving the tooth on the ground. Which he promptly collected into his pouch. He knew that they would gossip, and he also knew that they would return to this post. Meaning he needed to go pronto. He decided to try out the teleportation trick his teacher taught him earlier that day. With a spell circle, he spread abomination matter underneath himself, taking in Alador’s advice of spreading it out evenly, so the matter got everything when he successfully teleported. He remembered the words the teacher had said and that he had etched into his abomination study journal “When you teleport with abomination matter, it’s not a full abomination so there's no sentience to control or direct. In this state it’s pure liquid and controlled by your intent and mind. To successfully teleport you must know what you want and have a clear image of where you want to go '' He heard those words in his mind and he pictured his room back home.

The sofa was across the bed in his room. The posters of a lot of abomination users. His desk was filled with observations and notes. His abomination matters in jars on the floor. The fresh smell of his room. All that became a complete image in his mind. He swept his hands up and allowed the matter to cover him. Suddenly everything went black. He had kept his eyes open. There was nothing, yet it felt like everything. He could almost swear he heard whispering. Then his eyes were flooded with light. And everything materialized. He was back. He quickly checked his pouch and verified that everything was there. He had all of his limbs. He let out a huge sigh of relief. Then he layed out all of the items and quickly made an abomination. What was interesting about their eyes, is that it was exactly this part that they don't really create. It’s a mix of the witch and the abomination together that makes it. It takes less than a second.

He somewhat felt bad, but he needed to do this. He grabbed his dissection kit which he had received from school and sculpted out the eye. Then the next one. He emptied out a jar filled with abomination goo. Letting it splatter all over the floor. He combined the recent goo with the leftover to create another. And another. And another. Another. He kept going till all the abomination goo was gone, from the jar and the first abomination. In the end, he had around 450 eyes. He panted exhaustively and stumbled to his parents room where his mom was a potion maker. He brought the cauldron to his room.

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breynoldsstoianovarts102-02 · 1 year

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Blog post six

The final two projects have trained my eye to look for differences in visual hierarchy, resolution, and white space. This visual awareness has come about from my progression through project five and into the final project. The topmost image displays my draft of project 5 for the critique. As I was analyzing the indents separating the headers and subheadings from the body text, I noticed that the space between the header and subheading for the first paragraph of each item was inconsistent with the spacing in the text below them. The image that is second from the top is the finalized version that shows how I moved the subheading to the same line as the heading. Another issue that the in-class critique brought to my awareness is the hyphenation of the third subheading for each object. The subheading titled "associations" extended over into the next line, which was at odds with the rest of the formatting.

The introduction of visual hierarchy, resolution, and white space from project five has translated over into project six. Visual hierarchy of text is illustrated in the third image from the top. In addition to the photos that form the frame in the mood board that is displayed in this photo, there is a clear distinction between the scale of the text titled "Header" from the "Subhead," "Body," and "Caption." Moreover, when choosing the images for my mood board, I applied a filter on Google that selected large pictures out of a collection. I found this technique to be efficient at generating high resolution images. Since blue and green is my favorite color combination, I made sure that the images and the color palette displayed that desired color scheme. Unlike visual hierarchy and resolution, white space did not come into play until after I had chosen all the pictures. When arranging each photo on the mood board, I did not have a specific layout in mind. Therefore, the white space present in the third image from the top is a result of mere experimentation.

Now that I have started designing the process journal, I have been strategizing how to best unify the composition. After looking back on the pictures from the mood board, I reasoned that making each background page a blue and green color scheme with alternating-colored figures would tie together the process journal. The bottom three photos present the first three spreads of the book. These pictures show the previously mentioned color scheme, but also the layouts I have devised. Unlike the layout of the first spread, I figured that distributing the body text into two instead of three columns for the second and third spreads would increase white space. However, being the intro page, the first spread has less content. So, breaking the body text into three columns better conforms to this layout.

A concept that resonates with me from the final textbook reading is the importance of a process portfolio. Liz Danzico—an interviewee—identified a portfolio that demonstrates a work’s progression as an essential consideration for hiring a job candidate. Such an idea has prime relevance to this course. A semester long task has entails taking photos of each project’s stage of development. To me, creating a process folio is more than just documenting a work in progress. In line with what Allan Chochinov—another interviewee—mentioned, each picture fits into a portfolio that tells some larger narrative.

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greyshuman · 2 years

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Texshop split view

Texshop split view how to#

Texshop split view for mac#

Texshop split view mac#

When I first saw the disclosure triangles, I thought that I had somehow messed up the formatting of my document. I have attached an image of a Finder window in list view with disclosure triangles that are done properly for comparison.

Texshop split view mac#

In every other Mac application, disclosure triangles are indented when the section that has subsections is itself a subsection. There are little triangles beside sections in the Document Map Pane that have subsections, so you can show or hide parts of the document structure. What’s confusing is that Microsoft implemented the disclosure triangles incorrectly. Word even indents subsections that are nested in sections above it, so you can see the document structure that much more clearly. If you open the “Document Map Pane,” you get a little panel along the side of your Word document window that has all the chapters, sections and subsections laid out for you. In Microsoft Word, there’s a feature that’s similar to the one from TeXShop. In my beloved typesetting programme of choice, TeXShop (a Mac front-end for LaTeX), if you click on the “Tags” drop-down menu, it gives you an ordered list of all the chapters, sections and subsections in your document, so you can see the structure of your document at a glance and skip to the part that you’re interested in.

Texshop split view for mac#

:P Posted on 2011 MaOctober 14 Tags App Dev, Cash money, Métro, Profit, The internet 4 Comments on Montréal Métro iPhone app I found a marbleĭisclosure triangles in Word's Document Map Pane Design flaws in Microsoft Word for Mac 2011 I’m not about to start posting my ideas on the internet though: That’s a great way to have someone else make my app before I do. Not many!) Also, I have a few ideas for other, better iPhone apps that I think could be a lot of fun.

Texshop split view how to#

Now that I’ve sort of figured out how to write and submit an app for the iPhone, I’ve got my sights set on bigger cities where this sort of app hasn’t been written before. If I could get a few of you guys to post this to your Facebook, I’d be raking it in. Every month I get roughly 300 visits to my blog from people in the Montréal area. I had to fill out some US tax forms (just indicating that I wasn’t a US citizen) and then today they finally started selling my app on the iTunes store. The app was approved on Friday the 18th, and Apple processed my Canadian tax info last Tuesday. It was getting Apple to process my tax forms that was the longest part of the development process. That said, it was approved on my first try, and it took less than a week. Writing the app wasn’t so hard, although submitting it to the iTunes store was a bit of a headache. I also collected information regarding transfers. So, a couple weeks ago, I donned my lab coat, grabbed a clip board and went to every métro station in Montréal and wrote down where all the exits were. I thought it would be a good exercise, just as practice for some other ideas for iPhone apps that I’ve had. I decided to write an app that would be really simple from the user’s perspective-just choose two stations, and the app tells you which car to get into at your departure station, and then which car to get into at your transfer station(s) (if applicable). You need to know which car to board before you get on the train. (You can’t just infer one from the other, though, since in some cases the train approaches from the right side of the platform and in some cases it approaches from the left.) In fact, the other app told you only which métro car to exit in order to be near the exit, not which métro car to enter, which seemed to undermine the point of the app. Also, this other app tells you nothing about which car to board in order to transfer. The data set is incomplete, and the interface leaves much to be desired. I would certainly use an application like that! Turns out someone already did it for Montréal, but they did a crappy job of it. A guy in London, UK made an iPhone app that would tell you which car to exit so that you would be closest to the exit on the subway. I was inspired to do this by something I heard on CBC a while back. On and off for the last little bit, I’ve been working on a little bit of a side-project: Something for when I don’t want to think about research ethics anymore.

#Texshop split view

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jaeminscoffee · 3 years

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Daddy Issues | S. Jn

Pairing | Seo Johnny x Fem!Reader

Genre | Smut, fluff

Wc;type | oneshot: 3.93k [not proof read]

Warning(s) | Pwp, dilf!johnny, y/n's a pillow princess, daddy kink, overstimulation, teasing, edging, dacryphilia, slight voyeurism, degradation kink, heavy use of the words 'doll, princess, slut, pretty, angel', typical lyra smut, i made haechan johnny's son (i was about to write changbin as johnny's son but decided against it) age gap, unprotected sex ( the Reader's on pills. Remember this is a fiction, don't play the wrong card irl) filth.

a/n- i found this request buried in my asks and was tempted to write it. Sure, the warning looks intimidating, but i know you wanna read it, y'all whores (ily) shoutout to @bakugou-is-my-bae @cvntzennie and @jenopollo for helping me decide what to post first! @suhpersonic

Minors try not to interact! <3

Age is just a number, so surely, there's nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed of, right?

There's no reason for you to not fall for the friendly neighborhood bachelor, well not so bachelor bachelor, since he does go around asking people who knows of his marriage to pretend it never took place.

Johnny's hot, super hot. Has the build of a supermodel. Has the face that one can only imagine belongs to a greek god, as you'd jokingly tell him how he seemed to be god's favorite and how you loathe Aphrodite for showing favoritism (which would always end up with you getting a very sultry, teasing look from the lad)

Johnny has the type of personality that women can only wish the entirety of the male species would possess. He's an absolute sweetheart, life of the party, definitely the center of attention wherever he goes. And oh god, does he have an immaculate fashion sense.

But Johnny's also the father of Donghyuck. Your best friend.

More than being ashamed about the fact that you actually fell in love with a man who has a child of your age, it was the fact that you had to fall for Donghyuck's father of all people.

Donghyuck is a sweetheart, definitely got his personality from his father but he's also got that glare that could creep the Lord's of the darkness from his father. He's got so much from his father that the resemblance is uncanny.

You'd not want to get onto hyuck's bad side since you've gotten first hand experience at stopping him from almost committing homicide to someone who spoke shit about his friends, more specifically, you.

But Hyuck's not in town. So a little fun with Mr. Suh wouldn't hurt anyone, correct? After all, you're still only a human with desires and the want to take risks.

You'd always not so subtly drop hints at Johnny and he'd always give you that look that would have slick collecting itself between your thighs. A warning look.

A look that said, "cross the line and you'll get it"

But that's the thing, you want to get it and will do anything to get it.

"Y/n."

You'd ask yourself less than a million times if you want to do this or not.

Sure, you weren't this hesitant when you decided to sext your best friend's father knowingly when he was in business mode to irk him up but that's one thing.

And having to confront the same father who left a message smaller than a sentence that completely disregarded all the obscene text and images to show that he's not the slightest bothered or suprised by your behavior for that matter was another thing.

"Tomorrow at mine."

It's almost as though he deals with hormonal teenagers one as such as yourself on a daily basis and that thought kind of backfired at you considering the whole 'Let's piss Johnny off so that he'd finally give me what i want' agenda.

Ironic, huh?

"Mr. Suh." you start hesitantly, unsure of what to call him, scared of what his reaction would be after your inappropriate shenanigans last night.

Your stiff demeanor broke down a little with just a hint of shiver passing down your spine as you watch his features contort into a subtle but cocky smirk, "So now you're being all formal,"

"Well, what else would you like me to address you as?" you inquire, feigning oblivion to his tone and what he's implying at. "You tell me, doll. You seemed to have a lot of names to call me last night," he takes a step forward, prompting you to walk a step backwards, further into the corridors of his apartment and away from the actual location.

"I do not know what you're talking about.. " you let your voice shrivel towards the end, eyes wandering around the complex, finding interest in every small detail as you avoid Johnny's teasing gaze.

"You don't?" Johnny takes another step forward, latching his hands onto your forearms to prevent you from stepping further away, "You must have had a heavy sleep to forget all that you did last night," his voice drops dangerously low as he begins to walk backwards and back into the safety of his apartment, all the while keeping his gaze fixated on you.

"That won't do, would it? How about we take a walk down the memory lane? And see if that rings any bell?" He brushes your hair away from its static position on your shoulder, allowing him to appreciate all those fine details of your shoulders and neck that are exposed from your selection of clothing, an off shoulder.

"How about we don't...?" You ask with skepticism, jolting slightly when you hear the door shut behind you and at the new intrusion of personal space by the lad.

"Why are you acting all shy now, Y/n? Weren't you the one so eager to get into her best friend's fathers pants? Just be the whore you are, darling. Your facade's fooling no one." okay you definitely didn't see that coming.

Johnny's expressions morph into that of mischief as he watches your eyes grow wide and mouth fall ajar, "Am i not correct? Are you not a whore?" he asks with an eyebrow quirked up in a questioning manner.

You don't reply, almost as though the question was meant to linger in the open and that it was a rhetorical one. What you didn't expect, however, was for Johnny's hands to find pursuit around your neck, not necessarily applying pressure, but there as a warning.

"Answer me."

"I'm not.." you answer with a feeble voice, internally cringing at how squeaky you sound which only added to Johnny's amusement.

"Really? Because I don't think good girls go around drooling at a divorced man, her friend's father for that matter and definitely do not send lewd images and voice out their fantasies to a guy twice their age, still want to pretend you're innocent? Or you admit it and we cut down the chase?"

"Yes, I am." you breathe out when his fingers tighten around your neck, a triumphant smile making its way onto his lips. Yet, Johnny felt the need to keep pushing,

"you're what?"

"I am what you said I am," you speak, trying to avoid looking at the scrutinizing look on his face which seemed futile as he had his arms wrapped around your neck, keeping your head in place.

"I want to hear you say it, doll. I need to hear you say it." At this point Johnny's intent was to get you into a flustered puddle in his hold and it sure as hell was going in that direction, seeing how you can't even hold his gaze for more than a few seconds in a shot.

"I am.. I am a who-"

The sound of a phone ringing loud cut you off midway through your sentence, to which you were absolutely relieved. Johnny only seemed to grow annoyed the more he heard the phone ring. With a loud huff, he lets you go, not before giving you a stern look, "Go to my room." he instructed, making his way to the study.

You let out a breath you've been holding in unknowingly the moment he steps away from you. You watch his figure retreat from you with awe, only now realizing how messy you felt between your legs and how your knees keep buckling.

"Oh Hyuck!" you hear Johnny exclaim into the phone the minute you step forward to follow his command.

Your best friend is on call with the guy you're about to fuck.

Your blood runs cold as you shakily make your way into the apartment and towards the bedroom, shrugging off your sling bag, hanging it behind the door as you place your phone on the bedside table to wipe your hands dry from all the sweat that had accumulated at the palm of your hands.

"Yeah, I'm fine, about to eat to my dinner actually" you hear the moment to make yourself comfortable at the edge of the bed, looking over to the door where Johnny stood with his arms across his chest, the other holding up the phone as he leans his weight onto one shoulder, leaning into the doorframe.

You take the time to really appreciate his appearance. He adorned nothing more than a simple grey sweat and tight black tee but he seemed ready to walk down a runway at any given moment now. His long hair, slightly disheveled looking almost intentionally messed up, compliments his features. And oh his features.

The everlasting smirk stayed still on his lips, moving as he exchanged words with his son.

You only come back to your senses when Johnny snapped his free hand in front of you, gaining your attention. He points at his own shirt, then points at you, mouthing 'off' while he listens to Donghyuck speak about whatever he's speaking.

"Really? Jeno said that? Tell him I'm more than willing to welcome him as my gym partner, the lad seems strong" Johnny makes a quick move to remove the gadget from his ear, before holding it in front of him after placing the call on speaker mode

Your eyes widen the moment you hear the disturbance in the background and Donghyuck's voice resonate through the room. "no?? Why would you want to work out with him? He'll only make you feel old, you know?"

"Says the one who still can't beat me at arm wrestling. If anything, i think Jeno would make the perfect gym buddy for me," Johnny raises an eyebrow at your defiance, cocking his head towards the side, staring down at you with a predatory look, "Hyuck, you know, Y/n-" you scramble to take your shirt off at the mention of your name on the call, "-stopped by earlier" he lets out a silent laugh of disbelief.

"Oh? Oh yeah! I'd told her I'd give her book back before I left but I forgot, did you perhaps give it back to her?" Donghyuck questions.

"I figured you must've forgotten so, yeah i did." Johnny replies, pushing himself off of the doorframe, now walking towards you.

"Man, I miss her! I might facetime her after I end the call with you," Johnny sets down the phone beside you on the bed, leaning down, placing both his hands on either side of your lap, finding comfort at the crook of your neck,

"I remember her mentioning something about her cousin coming over? Maybe wait for an hour or so before calling her" his lips graze against your neck each time he spoke, you let out a tiny whimper at the so longed feeling, only to earn yourself a small bite at the earlobe, immediately accompanied by a hand over your mouth, "you need to be quiet, doll. Or my son would find out how much of a slut his best friend is," he whispers in your ear.

"Yeah? Did she mention which one?"

"No, not really, she kinda just stormed out after getting what she wanted" Johnny creates a trail of kisses all the way from your neck to your shoulders, down the collarbone while one of his hand worked to unhook your bra, "Yeah, she's weird like that," you hear Donghyuck let out a chuckle as you whine into Johnny's palm, your figure slightly trembling from the fear of getting caught all the while being excited about the risky situation he's put the two of you in.

"Anyways, I'll call you tomorrow? The boys are coming over now so I got to go! Night, dad!" Donghyuck speaks up again, "Night, Hyuck."

You hear the beep indicating the call has ended. Johnny let's his hand drop from your mouth and makes its way towards your hair, brushing through the strands before pulling at it with a firm grip, "I had my son on call and here you are making all these sweet noises, you wanted to get busted, doll?"

"It's not my fault! You-"

"ah-ah! Don't talk back, angel. You're already in deep trouble, don't want to add onto that now, do we?" He makes a swift move to have you lying on your back, your torso completely exposed to him while he remains clothed.

"But Johnny-" you whine, jolting when you feel his hands caressing the soft flesh of your inner thighs, "How do you think Hyuck would feel about this?" his hands travel further north, cupping your heat from underneath your skirt. "fuck, you're drenched"

"Now tell me, pretty girl, what are you supposed to be calling me, now?"

"Johnny-, tha-that was a joke! I don't have daddy kin-" you try clenching your thighs close from the sudden attention your core was receiving. Johnny wholeheartedly lets out a laugh at your attempt to hide your true feelings, making a quick act of disregarding your soaked panties somewhere behind him.

"Darling, the more you deny it, the longer we keep going at it-" his thumbs at your clit, applying pressure but making no move to quench your needs. You let out a sigh of bliss at the feeling, your back arching off of the sheets at the sensation.

In any other situation, you'd be embarrassed at how sensitive you'd gotten just from all the dirty talking and looks Johnny passed you. But that's the catch, he's Johnny, the only one who can get you this sensitive while doing the bare minimum.

"Say it, Y/n."

"No, Johnny! It's-it's embarrassing.." you plead with your eyes, grinding your hips against his fingers, earning a satisfied, dirty look from the lad.

"Very well.. I'll just draw it out of you"

Without warning, Johnny with little to no resistance, slides two slender digits into your wetness, setting a pace fast enough to draw loud chains of cries from your mouth.

"You hear that, doll? You hear how fucking wet you are? Hm?" he growls animalistically, the thumb that remained on your clit now moving in circles with a motive to get you undone in seconds.

"Johnn-..!" you whine out, feeling your orgasm growing so close that you could almost taste it, "Still going at that, angel?" he questions, not really expecting an answer as he soaks up the pleasured look on your face. "Johnny- I'm close.. -" you fail to notice the mischievous grin growing on his face as he speeds up the movement of his fingers.

"Of course you are, doll" He feels you clench around his fingers, back coming off of the mattress as you ready yourself for your release, waiting until the last minute to draw his finger out.

"Why would you-? Johnn-I was so close!" you cry out as you sense your core clench around nothing, whining about the incomplete orgasm. "Why would I give you what you want when you wouldn't comply, baby? That's not how this works." He shrugs, licking his fingers clean of your essence, moving up from the bed to remove the shirt that seemed to be suffocating now.

"Johnny, please!" you whine louder, rubbing your thighs together to create some sort of friction, all unsatisfactory as it did not meet the same intensity as that of his fingers.

"Please what, doll?" He smirks, knowing the ball is in his court and that you'd had to give in any moment now. Johnny leans down once again, drawing lazy circles at your clit, using his other hand to hold himself up above and close to you, his minty breath which had a hint of coffee fanning your face as you whimper, finally feeling your high building itself up again. "Spit it out, princess, you know you want to." he speaks in a soft voice.

"Please..please" you beg for nothing in particular, getting all worked up again, "The begging's lovely, doll. But you're starting to anger me here, will you say it? Or should I leave you hanging again?"

You mutter prayers under your breath, hoping he wouldn't actually leave you hanging again, "Fine-" he moves again to remove his fingers from you to deprive you of pleasure all over again when you finally latch onto his wrist, keeping his hands in place blurting out, "Daddy! I'm so-sorry.. There, daddy, please make me come" you give in, the name, the feeling and look of pure victory on his face as he grins like a cheshire cat only intensifies the heat growing at a rapid pace at the pit of your stomach.

"Final fucking ly, princess. Daddy will make you feel good" He reinserts his fingers in, drilling it with desperation to see you come undone as he draws rapid circles on your now sensitive clit with the other hand, watching you squirm under him.

"Joh-Daddy i'm coming..!" you cry out weakly as you feel your orgasm hit you with much force, easily driving you into over sensitivity. Johnny's patient in helping you ride out your orgasm, not stopping until you let out a throaty sob and plead him to stop to allow yourself some room to breathe.

Johnny, however, makes no move to stop, only speeding up his fingers, his gaze fixed on where his fingers disappeared inside of you while his other hand held you down with a vise grip, "Give me one more, doll. I know you've got one more in you. " he pants, the feeling of his girth in confinement only throwing himself to sensory deprivation as he feels himself twitch inside his sweats painfully.

You shake your head, tears now flowing elegantly down your cheek, your lips puckered into a slight pout, your eyebrows drawn together as you let yourself melt into the pleasure Johnny was providing you with. "Daddy.."

You whine, feeling your second high reaching you ridiculously quick as you see Johnny's face contort in concentration,

"I need to get you nice and wet for me, princess, you're doing so well. Give daddy another one" you coaxes you with his sultry tone, words and actions, inevitably having you come undone under him for the second time that night.

You let out a choked moan, finally having enough as you curl upon yourself the minute Johnny removes his fingers from you, full fledged crying at the overbearing feeling of sensitivity.

Johnny groans at the sight, leaning down to press a soft peck on your sweaty forehead before getting off of the bed to remove his pants alongside his boxer at a slow speed, granting you some time to recover.

"Condom?" he asks, readying himself to reach into the drawing when he notices you shake your head a no as a reply, "I'm on pills.." you mutter weakly.

You hear him curse out at the thought of doing you raw, flexing his muscles before climbing on top of you again. He takes his time to gently turn you back onto your back, pressing his tender lips against your irritated one for the first time that night, his hand ever so slightly moving to play with your clit once again, making you jerk, "Daddy!"

"Sorry, doll. Daddy just needs to make sure that princess is ready to take his cock"

Your whining intensifies at his words, wiggling your hips to move closer to his own, "But I am ready! Look, daddy! I'm so wet and ready for you!" you whimper, earning a chuckle from the lad.

Just like all the other times that night, he aligns his cock at your entrance without a warning, the tip ever so slightly pushing through your walls, "Alright, big girl. Show daddy how much of a slut you can be for him."

Suddenly, Johnny detaches himself from you, moving further away as he leans by the edge of the door, smirking at you whining at the loss of contact, "Patience, angel"

He grabs hold of your hips, manhandling your body into all fours as he enters you completely with no trouble once he's got you where he wants you to be.

Something about having to take Johnny from behind was so sexy that you could almost immediately feel your orgasm grow, "Fuck baby, keep clenching around me like that and i won't last long," he grunts, moving in you with a steady pace,

"I never expected my son to befriend such filthy sluts like you, Y/n. Look at the mess you're making on my sheets" He grabs a fistful of your ass in a tight squeeze, the sudden shift in his demeanor only serving as a whiplash as you feel yourself growing closer and closer to the sweet orgasm.

"Jesus, doll, you're so fucking tight i can barely move" Johnny growls, talking to keep himself from coming too fast.

"Daddy.. I'm close. M-I'm so so close" you cry as your arms give out and you fall face first onto the mattress, the new stretch in your back only encouraging his cock to hit you deeper, finding the sweet cushion that serves as extra pleasure for you.

"Me too, princess, me too.. '' You hear him let out a whine, his thrusts growing sloppier as he does you slower but deeper.

He reaches around your body to find pursuit at your clit for the nth time that night, rubbing rapid, messy circles to go with his deep thrusts, "Daddy!" you reach your high with a high pitched cry of his name.

Johnny comes not too long after you as he couldn't resist the constant tight clenching of your walls around his cock. He thrust slowly to ride out his high as you twitch helplessly, face scrunched up in too much pleasure.

You feel your body being manoeuvred onto your side as he whispers sweet nothings which pass right through your ears as you feel him softened inside you, the feeling ridiculously soothing for your used up walls,

"You did amazing, darling." he kisses your temple, not making any move to remove himself from within you, which you silently thanked him for.

You both lay in silence as you turned your body towards him, earning a hiss and a playful smack from him as it added pressure onto his sensitive member. You wrap your arms around his torso, about to nuzzle into his chest and just drift away to dreamland when you hear the familiar ring of your phone from the table beside the bed.

You feel Johnny's body shift to reach out to get your phone, looking at the caller ID before handing it to you with a smirk that you knew meant that he was up to no good. "Oh! It's hyuck" you exclaim in shock, quickly accepting the call and placing it near your ear, moving to get away from him.

But Johnny seemed to have other ideas, as he latched an arm around your torso to keep you from moving, "Hey-" you begin, immediately feeling Johnny experimentally thrust into you again, making you whine, "Y/n! I miss you~-oh hey, are you okay?" you hear Donghyuck's voice from the other side,

You look at Johnny with a pleading and warning gaze to which you earn yourself a toothy grin from the lad,

"Of co-course! Just a little.. peachy,'' You turn around to place a hand on his chest to halt his movement, "You don't sound just peachy.. I've heard you like this before!" you hear Donghyuck make those noises he makes when he's thinking as Johnny keeps thrusting lazily the more you look at him, you see him open his mouth to speak, "Oh fuck! You're getting laid, aren't you???"

"Tell Hyuck daddy says hi"

935 notes · View notes

sunatooru · 3 years

Note

How about a headcannon where sakusa, suna, oikawa, kuroo are like big closeted pervs towards their s/o like sniffing their pannies and licking it, or jacking off with it, or jacking off to jus a pic of their s/o jus smiling. Their dating but they kinda hide their SUPER pervy side bc they don’t wanna worry u but you actually think it’s a big turn on when u find out

Every time I started writing I would space out thinking about how HOT this is, so here’s some snacks xx

Warning: post time-skip therefore aged 18+, minors dni, 18+ smut, underwear stealing, sniffing, humping and licking, characters masturbate and you catch them

Sakusa

* he really didn’t seem like the type who would be a pervert

* But something inside him struck when he met you

* You were beautiful, kind and you smelled amazing

* He couldn’t stop smelling you, you smelt clean and fresh

* He would always bury his head between your neck and shoulder to kiss your neck

* You just thought he was being romantic but really he wanted to inhale as much of you as a reminder, for when he’s alone but didn’t want you to know

* It was his turn to do the laundry and he feels compelled to sniff your used underwear

* He scrunches it up and inhales deeply, the smell of your cunt makes his cock twitch

* Fuck, you smell so good

* He palms himself over his joggers, pushing your underwear closer to his nose as he adds pressure to his bulge

* He grunts when he thinks of the way to struggle to take him inside your tight cunt

* He’s so into the memory, he doesn’t notice you watching him touch himself as he smells your dirty underwear

* “..Omi..” it comes out as a whine and he whips his head to yours

* You’re standing there in one of his tops, he catches sight of the underwear your wearing and strides towards you

* He lifts your head, watches the way your eyes are pooled with desire, constantly running down his body and his bulge

* He runs his finger over your underwear, the wetness coming through

* “Fuck...you smell so good” He gets on his knees and rubs his nose over your underwear

Suna

* Every little thing you do makes his heart and cock swell

* The way you bite your lips when concentrating, the way you smile and how serene you look as you sleep

* He’s taken countless of photos of you, always browsing through whenever he was missing you

* He liked knowing you thought it was cute when he took pictures, not knowing how you would react to the real reason why he needs them

* And today was one of those days

* He goes through his album of you, smiling softly until he reaches a picture of you sleeping, his thumb in your mouth that he sneaked in

* His stomach tensed at the way your lips unconsciously wrapped around his thumb, so sound asleep yet so pretty

* He spits in his hand before sliding it under his boxers, hand pumping his growing cock as he stares at your picture, gaze fixed on your lips as he applied pressure

* He bites his lip as he teases his tip with his wet palm

* Finger grazing his slit as he collects the pre cum, smearing it down his length and jerking himself faster

* “Fuck baby..” he groans, his hand holding the phone shaking as he pumps harder

* “So pretty...want to cum on that pretty face...”

* So consumed in the feeling, he doesn’t notice you standing before him

* “Rin...” he snaps his eyes to you, the fact you’re right in front of him makes his balls tighten

* He tries to slow his hand down, almost stopping if you didn’t place a hand over his

* “Don’t stop.” You command, slowing getting eye level with his cock

* You add pressure and continue his pumps, licking the tip and making eye contact with him

* “Cum on my face, Rin”

* He has a new addition to his album now

Oikawa

* He’s so in love with you

* Loves how you look, how you feel and how you always know what to say to him

* And then when he finally got to slip into you...a goner

* The way he would pull out and be covered in your wetness just made him dumb, and he just had to take a swipe with his finger and taste it

* Ever since then he needs to feel you and if you weren’t there then he needed to find a way

* So when you forgot your panties one day, soaked in your juice, he treasures it like crazy

* He never told you about it, hoping he could keep it to entertain himself

* And he was really needy today

* You were coming over in 5 minutes but he couldn’t wait any longer

* He bites his lips hard as he inhales the used underwear, rubbing it over his lips as he grips his standing cock

* He was glad he managed a way to keep the the underwear moist, inhaling it once more before wrapping it around his length

* He groans at the feeling, the material sticking a little to his skin, the cotton material softness always feeling like your tight walls

* He massages his other hand down his chest, nails slightly scratching I’ve this nipples as he fucks your panties faster

* “Fuck, fuck, fuck...”

* His breathing gets sharper, the images of your face under him as you squeeze him, how unaware you are of all the things he want to do to you

* His head is clouded with images of you, the used underwear around his cock making him want to steal more

* He can hear your voice, a soft moan escaping and he fucks his fist faster

* But then he feels his tip being swiped at and he open his eyes to see you watching him use your panties as a toy

* He watches you bring your finger, covered with his pre cum, into your mouth, his throat tight at the sight

* “Tooru...keep going please...” you plead, crawling over him and kissing his lips

* “I’ll give you a new pair. Cum for me pretty boy”

Kuroo

* He’s so sweet to you, always holding your hand, making you walk in front of him and treating you with treats

* He loves everything about you and there’s nothing more he likes than seeing you laugh from his lame jokes and cry from his thick cock

* He’s a underwear thief

* He secretly hides them from you after he’s fucked you dumb, hiding it under the bed, cleaning you up and acting like he doesn’t know where it went

* He’s actually a little scared if you found out

* More scared about the fact he likes how they consume his senses - taste and smell

* He know he should control himself, but he forgot he stuffed you panties in his pocket

* He pulls it out and breathes it in, rolling his eyes back when it travels to his cock

* He grabs his bulge and rubs it, hissing when he gets to his tip and finally frees it from the constraints of his clothing

* He pushes your soiled underwear into his face, his nose and mouth covered by the material, eyes closed as he pleases himself

* He grips the base of his cock and slides his hand against it

* He sticks his tongue out and licks the material, groaning as he swallow your taste

* He strokes faster, his free hand coming over to push your underwear into his mouth, tongue gliding along it to collect your remnants

* He jerks his lips upwards you taste fills him, he quickly pulls the underwear out his mouth and holds it behind his cock

* His grunts, spilling himself onto the cloth, rubbing his load with his tip making sure to smear as much as possible

* “What are you doing?” He spills a little more at your voice

* He turns and see you watching him, cock in hand as he drenches your underwear

* He doesn’t know what to say and glues his eyes on the way you lick your lips

* “What are you doing...without me?” You walk up to him and pick up his cum, pushing it around

* You sit on his thighs, hand running over this neck and to his jaw, kissing his lips with a smirk

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deniigi · 3 years

Text

Lando The Nosy Neighbor AU

Title: good fences make good neighbors

Summary: Modern AU based off the premise presented to me as ‘Han and Leia move into the same neighborhood and start a feud, only to eventually overthrow the local Homeowner’s Association.’

Relationships: Pot-farmer!Han/Lawyer!Leia; Farmboy!Luke/Survivalist!Din; Lando & Breha Organa & Chewbacca

This is based off a rural community in Washington which has local cults.

Lando POV

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

A hippy has moved in next to the Organas.

It’s a good one, too. This one hasn’t even rented a moving truck, they’ve just come on over with all their furniture tetris-ed in on top of itself and wrapped tight with rope, blankets, and prayer.

Lando’s petunias screech for watering as the hippy throws open the truck’s door and comes staggering out, cracking his lanky back. Out of the other side comes an even hairier, even lankier person. He closes the truck door and looks right at Lando.

He stares.

It is a challenge. But of course, not one that Lando is not prepared to handle.

He points at his watering can.

Hippy Two seems to scoff.

Lando waits until he’s distracted by the first hippie struggling with the blue house’s doorknob to dump the remaining water into the pebbles under his ornamental bridge.

He returns inside and goes about his busy business, tying back the curtains.

It is always good to have someone new in the neighborhood.

It takes the hippy couple a few weeks to get settled into their new home, and in that time neither has ingratiated themselves to Lando.

The stupid one with the floppy hair caught onto Lando’s tricks at the weekly poker match held in the local bar. Lando may have lost his irrigation system, but he has not lost his dignity. It was old anyways. He’s been planning to replace it for nearly a year now. There is never a better time than the present to start making your dreams into reality.

And anyways, the floppy haired out-of-towner will get what is coming to him. Lando has already sown the seed of his demise.

Leia Organa returned home to look after her poor, sick, stubborn mother just two months ago. Breha is fine, of course, not even cancer could snuff out her fires, although she is bored of her husband and daughter trying to trap her indoors. Her immunocompromised escapades have been delightful to watch.

The Organas are always a lively group. There is never a dull moment or lack of machinations among them—especially the lady of the household. She, like Lando, appreciates a good tussle. Which is why he has pointed out to Leia that her new neighbors’ greenhouse is mighty interesting, is it not?

Lawyer Leia’s ears pricked up like a horse’s, and Breha’s sharp eyes took on new sheen.

Lando watches Leia in the mornings now, struggling to find upper-body strength and purchase on the wood of her backyard fence, among the roses and bougainvillea. She’s so tiny, Leia. Breha is not an overly large person either, and thus is no help in this endeavor to collect data on the greenhouse of questionable origins and purposes on the other side of the fence. Leia doesn’t need her, though. She needs no one. She’s seen what she needs to.

Lando pours tea from a glass pot given to him by someone in his company who wishes for their secrets to remain so and beautiful, clear amber liquid fills his cup.

He looks up to see Leia holding her phone out as far as she can without relinquishing her grip on the fence. She fumbles, trying one-handedly to document the crime before her, but alas. Even the mighty sometimes trip on the red carpet.

The phone slips. She grabs after it in slow-motion, horror filling every pore of her face.

It is gone now, that phone.

The Public Nuisances will know what she has been up to.

Lando sighs and leans back in his seat.

It is no time at all before the dropped phone is returned graciously over the white, waist-height fence that separates the Public Nuisance’s yard from the Organas’. Leia snatches her phone back and wipes it off with her hand and sleeve. The shorter public enemy, Han, he calls himself, smiles at her cheekily. He retracts his hand and gestures to the taller fence, barely visible for the fruit trees and vines, between their backyards and says something that makes Leia go very, very still.

It is, undoubtedly, a challenge. Not unlike the one that that the more polite public nuisance, Chewie, opened his and Lando’s relationship with.

Chewie has explained without mincing his words, that he and Han have come here because their last venture was lost in a snowstorm. Chewie will be damned if his precious seedlings are so callously frosted over again. The Pacific Northwest has no chance of freezing over, he says. It provides a better setting to grow stock.

Weed, he means. Marijuana. Chewie is again, not shy. He and Han make good money supplying dispensaries with their organic, hand dried leaves. It is apparently ‘artisan’ like in quality.

Lando isn’t sure he’d go that far, but yes, it is nice stuff. And yes, Leia, bastion of justice, does need to see the men’s permits.

Lando opens the window for a breeze and catches Han telling Leia that he’ll produce them if she arm wrestles him for the right to witness their authenticity. Leia agrees. Han fetches a small worktable from the house’s garage and sets it between them.

The match is over within seconds. Leia has never been so insulted in her life. She demands a rematch and, out of sheer indulgence, Han gives it to her.

He is nearly a foot taller than her. He could lift her up and over her own fence with ease if he so desired. He wins the next round. And the next one. He loses the last one by reason of having his leg deadened under the table but stands abruptly to renegade on his earlier promise.

“You watch yourself, princess,” he calls over his shoulder with his hand on his front door’s knob.

“Oh, I’ll be watching,” Leia snarls back.

Han slams the door. Chewie looks from him to Leia standing fuming in the shade of her family’s pine trees.

“Unbelievable,” she snaps at him before stomping off herself. “UNBELIEVABLE.”

Lando flicks his eyes up to see Breha’s dining room window wide open. She too, has a cup of tea. She lifts it his way and he lifts his back.

Finally, some quality entertainment once more.

Han and Leia’s hatred has become neighborhood gossip. They have begun going to extraordinary lengths to gain the others’ attention. For example, Han, in weeding his sparce flowerbeds, was careful to shove the fruits of his labor between the fence slats into Bail’s well-tended herb garden. Bail, ever the gentleman, does not mind, but of course Leia feels that her family honor has been spat upon. She collects the weeds and returns them to her owner, via mailbox. It is kind of her to put the flag down, so Han knows that he’s received a message.

The retaliation is a mural in rainbow colors commissioned by Han and painted by one of the budding young teenagers from a school about a thirty minute drive downtown. It is...psychedelic. And facing Leia’s bedroom window.

Han asked the youth who painted it to add in a figure in the center of the composition; it is a brown-haired woman dressed all in white, surrounded by thorny vines, and attempting to climb a fence. The young artist must have felt like Michelangelo in the application of those delicate strokes of artistry. They knew they were creating something holy.

Han helps that along by bracketing the figure with solar lanterns that light up at night and keep the image fully illuminated.

When Lando arrives to Breha’s side to go on a walk, arm in arm, with her and her beast of a terrier, she giggles like a schoolgirl behind her hand.

“Han is very handsome,” she tells Lando.

“He’s alright,” Lando says.

“I think he and Leia are a perfect match. Will for will. No one’s ever dared to cross her like this.”

Now that is a fact.

“I wonder if this is the start of something more,” Breha says.

“What does your husband think?” Lando asks.

Breha waves him off dismissively.

“Oh, you know. He’s convinced that Leia will kill Han in his sleep, and we will be forced to post bail, but I told him—as I’ve told you, Lando—Leia’s too smart to get caught committing axe murder. Now poisoning, that’s a different story.”

Lando wakes up and makes coffee. He turns on his computer and opens his curtains to let the light pour in and warm his hardwood floors. He stands at the window, hiding a smirk behind his mug.

Leia has had enough. She has called the Home Owner’s Association and they are standing at Han’s front doorstep.

It is about three weeks before Han and Leia have overthrown the Home Owner’s Association for interfering in their escalating romance—ahem—bloodfeud. By then, Lando’s work-from-home situation is suffering. It is impossible to focus with those two cluttering up his view with distractions left and right. He determines that, for the sake of his finances, he must direct his attention to something a little further afield.

The Lars’s vegetable stand is becoming something of an institution.

It’s about a mile or so out of Lando’s way, tucked smack in the middle of the battlefield that is the stretch of land between the survivalist cult that lives in the forest and the pseudo-Buddhists that live in their compound. The farm itself is a few acres and the Lars’s son can be seen walking around, herding livestock out of the road and into pastures.

Lando has heard whispers that this son is none other than Leia’s twin brother, but no one has the nerve to directly ask the Organas about the truth of such a scandalous idea. The most that can be said about Luke Lars-Skywalker is that he is a master of social media.

He has created a Youtube channel and an Instagram to document the practices of his family’s farm and the products they produce. He is in a twitter-war with many communities online for his videos on small-scale bee-keeping, and his family’s stand is proudly boycotted by the vegan association in the city on farmer’s market days.

It has become well-known among the farm-to-table restaurants in the city, though, and that is why Luke keeps on keeping on with his cows and his fowls and his silly camera holder.

But all that means little because Luke Lars-Skywalker is in love.

Anyone with eyes can see it.

He is in love with an ancestral enemy.

See, in this area there are not one, but two cults and naturally, they abhor and reject the others’ teachings. To the south are the pseudo-buddhist, clairvoyants who have fashioned themselves more or less as monks preoccupied with meditation, self-development, and a few fairly mystical beliefs among the rather terrifying devotion to martial arts. To the north are the survivalist whack-jobs who don’t believe in electricity or running water, but who are also, somehow, preoccupied with self development and a terrifying devotion to martial arts.

Both groups have publicly denounced the other as misguided extremists.

The rumors say that Luke and Leia’s biological father is one of the clairvoyants, and this is where the heart of the current delightful irony lays.

Luke Lars-Skywalker is in love with one of those survivalists.

Lando knows this because he has seen it with his very own eyes.

He took a trip a while back to purchase some greens from the vegetable stand and he was there for a little while, picking through the selection, when he looked up and saw Luke’s posture explode out of its lax boredom. Lando looked over his shoulder to see what Luke’s tan, freckled attention had latched onto and lo and behold.

It was a man. And not only a man, a man with a baby.

Luke stuffed knuckles into his mouth to keep from cooing as the father of the child nodded at him and meandered over to have a poke through the produce piled up on the stand. The baby, dressed carefully in layers of warm, water-resistant clothing, watched Luke right back. He smiled and grunted, waving his dark, stubby arms and Luke melted—literally collapsed into a fraction of his size behind the paystation.

The father, a white rugged guy with dark curly hair and a great deal of stubble, shifted the baby to his other arm. His worn, heavy clothing and the military-style canvas sack on his back marked him as one of the Cabin-In-the-Woods people.

Lando felt like he was watching a country romance flick in real life.

Luke gathered his courage and approached the dad and baby to ask if they were looking for anything in particular. The baby immediately held hands out to him. Luke asked the father if he could hold the little one. The father said ‘no.’

Lando nearly choked on his own spit.

“Oh, sorry buddy,” Luke said to the baby. “Daddy thinks I’m gonna eat you up.”

“He just got a bath.”

Luke gooey expression hardened in an instant.

“Excuse you. You sayin’ I’m dirty?” he asked. “You sayin’ I smell like horseshit?”

The father stared at Luke wordlessly.

“Pigshit,” he corrected.

“WHAT.”

Lando no longer needed only greens. He had to pick a cheese from this bountiful pile. Oh dear, so many to choose from.

“I said, you smell like pigshit. And he just got a bath,” the survivalist father said. “How much for the tomatoes?”

“Twenty a pound,” Luke said viciously.

“That’s steep.”

“There’s a discount for people who smell like pigshit.”

“You get a lot of those?”

“No, but I know how to wallow in the time between buyers.”

“Are you angry or something?”

“Take your damn tomatoes.”

“I didn’t pay yet—”

“Just take ‘em. Go. Go.”

“Twenty—?”

“Hey, Mr. Calrissian, that’ll be ten-fifty,” Luke said over the protests.

That was then. This is now. And Luke Lars-Skywalker has not let up on his tirade against this survivalist. Nor, it is important to note however, has the survivalist stopped coming to the vegetable stand when Luke is working it.

What is even more is that Lando can see with his own two eyes that the survivalist is not holding his baby at the vegetable stand now, as Lando closes his car door a little ways from the stand. Luke smiles at Lando as he draws near; he is bouncing at the knees. He waves the baby’s hand in greeting and the child gurgles and twists back to grab at his face.

Lando smiles and does not say anything.

He finds Chewie inspecting a sprinkler at the edge of his and Han’s yard on the way back and crosses the street to inspect it with him. It sputters. Chewie suspects outloud that their squirrels are getting stronger and more destructive by the day.

Lando asks him if he’s been the Lars’s vegetable stand since moving into town.

He has.

Lando asks if he’s ever seen Luke there, holding a baby.

He has.

Lando is smug.

“Mr. Rugged Mountain Man is falling for the farm boy,” he tells Chewie.

Chewie lifts a thick eyebrow.

“One day soon, that baby is going to go from living off the grid to living in a barn,” Lando tells him. “Mark my words.”

Chewie tells him that that is impossible without a kidnapping charge because the Rugged Mountain Man is the straightest man that he’s ever seen. Lando tells him not to judge a book by its cover.

Weirder things have happened. Han and Leia, for example.

Chewie tells him that he knows that Lando is somehow responsible for those two’s newly inescapable sexual tension and he will never forgive him for it.

Lando cannot believe his ears. Him? An instigator? Of course not, Chewie. He is but a humble spider, waiting around in his house for a fly to shake things up. He is an observer, nothing more, nothing less.

Chewie just points a finger at him.

Lando points a finger-gun back. He fires it with a click of his tongue.

#star wars #han/leia #dinluke #lando calrissian #fic #ficlet #don't mind me I'm just thinking about petty neighborhood politics

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underworldreaderinserts · 4 years

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Hey, this is my first time doing a request and I don’t know if this is the right place to put it (I hope it is). But I was wondering if you do do multiple characters, if you could do (separate) headcannons for Zagreus, Thanatos, and Hypnos falling for someone completely mortal on the surface? Thank you so much and I’m really sorry if I didn’t input my request correctly!

Hello, love! No, you did absolutely fine, this is exactly where you’re supposed to submit your requests♡ Thank you so much for sending it in! I hope it’s to your liking♡ I’m so sorry it took so long to publish. The past few days have been hectic! But I’m back♡ Do these even count as headcanons? I’m so sorry-- I know you asked for them separate, but I thought of them all together, and I accidentally made a poly circle. Since this post is long enough already, I’ll leave them out, but please let me know if you’d want me to make a post with them! I had so much fun imagining and writing it that I couldn’t help myself♡ -- Ryan

Thanatos:

✧ Your modest, mortal life hadn’t been too grandiose; you worked as a humble physician, tending to your village in ways of medication and treatment, everything between minor procedures and check ups.

✧ In your line of work, death was no stranger. It wasn’t very frequent that patients died in your care, but when they did -- whether it was a life lost to infection, injury, or illness -- they were only in extreme cases. (Needless to say, Thanatos had made all those visits to your practice)

✧ In the beginning, he'd refrained from any involvement in your life -- only watching over the soul whose allotted time was running out before reaping them, then departing.

✧ But one day, he’d watched you fighting to keep your patient alive. Tears streaming down your face as you did everything in your power to stabilize the boy. His parchment read, ��name; Nicos, age; 10, cause of death; injury by stampede’.

✧ He knew that he’d have no other choice but to take the boy’s soul -- living with those irreversible damages would be a worse outcome.

✧ After that, he began to notice things he never did before.

✧ The care you put in to making your patients comfortable before they passed. How you went above and beyond caring for them, and giving preventative measures to prolong their life (though he’d still be there to take the soul regardless, he’d watched as you did your best to preserve their life). All of it showed how limitless your strength was.

✧ “He’s.. doing fine. The boy.” You heard a voice one day, an unfamiliar one. You turn around from the bookshelf you stand before, holding a journal and a vial of ointment.

✧ “Excuse me?” You blink, asking the stranger softly, taking in his features. He wasn’t from the village, you were aware of that. The village rarely had travelers passing through, and given this man’s robes and garments, you weren’t quite sure he was an ordinary man.

✧ “Nicos. He’s doing well.” The man wields his scythe, gently shifting its weight from one hand to the other. Your eyes widen as it dawns on you. “Than..atos?” Correctly identifying him, he seems to give a small bow of his head.

✧ You do as any sane person would, in the presence of a god; you drop everything in your hands and take a step back. You had enough reason to believe him -- after all, you knew everyone in this village, and Nicos had passed months before his arrival. There was no way he’d have known.

✧ “Are you... Is it my time?” You ask, leaving Thanatos a bit puzzled. “Are you here to collect my soul?” You repeat, and the understanding visually clicks in Thanatos, and he chuckles, shaking his head. Of course, you’d believe he’d come for your soul, as he’d only ever appeared before humans who have met their time. “Then... What is it you’ve come for?”

✧ You’d asked the million dollar question. Why had he even appeared before you? What was it that drew him out like this? “I... Can’t tell you myself. I just came to tell you, he’s doing well.” And with a toll of a bell, he’d disappeared. No word of goodbye, no mention of ever coming back.

✧ Reflecting on what had just happened; The God of Death himself had come into your home, just to tell you that Nicos was alright. It warmed your heart to take comfort in that, knowing that he was no longer in pain.

✧ Sitting on the situation a little longer, and judging by that little bit of information, it finally dawned on you that he was there, personally, for that event, and that he’d thought of you enough to reassure you.

✧ Due to his work, Thanatos makes frequent trips to the surface.

✧ Frequent trips to the surface, meant frequent visits (where he could, of course. Lord Hades would have his head if he didn’t prioritize his job).

✧ At first, he refrained from any sort of involvement in your life -- he’d come for his job, and nothing more. But now he seeks you out. He’ll stop by to check in, or even just to see your face. And one thing differs now, when he comes to reap the soul’s whose allotted time had run out.

✧ “Take good care of them, Thanatos.” You’d smile softly as you place a coin over your patient’s mouth, voicing your little prayer to him. You said this each time, too, and it made him think you could see him.

✧ He wasn’t sure when it began, but thoughts of seeing you as he carried out his job filled him with a warm, soft feeling.

Hypnos:

✧ In charge of the census of the dead, Hypnos was aware of how everyone dies; when they died, and where they end up in the Underworld.

✧ He found that his job became so ingrained in his being that, when he’d drift off at work, his dreams would take him to visions of the lives of some of the mortals he had met, or have yet the pleasure of meeting when they come to the underworld.

✧ Most of these dreams always tie back to a particular individual -- someone who seems to touch the lives of everyone they’ve ever met.

✧ At first, he’d just assumed that you’d met and knew everyone in the world, as the only common denominator throughout these dreams was you. But upon further evaluation of that statement, he had determined that was impossible.

✧ Next, he had to admit that perhaps he was drawn to you. Whether it was a connection the Fates mandated, or it was his subconscious actively seeking you out, he’d have these visions of your life, these interactions with the people in your life.

✧ An image of your smile, the depiction of an experience you had. You’d invaded his dreams, and eventually his thoughts.

✧ Being shackled to the House, and without the luxury that Thanatos or Zagreus have to go to the surface, Hypnos only has a very one-sided means of interacting with you; and though he doesn’t know you, he’s very drawn to you.

✧ It’s curious. As he’s seen all these snippets of your life, he feels he simultaneously knows everything about you, yet nothing about you at all. He could see these candid shots of your life, but he doesn’t know your dreams, your ambitions, or even the sound of your voice.

✧ With his thoughts always falling back to you, he’s a bit more spacey on the job, receiving reprimands from Hades more and more often, looks judgement from his brother, and looks of solemn understanding from his mother.

✧ Achilles teases him, recognizing traits of “a lovesick puppy”, but never really gets an answer on what that means (he might even observe Cerberus for a while to see if he can understand it a little more).

✧ He awaits enthusiastically, and a tad bittersweetly, for your eventual arrival to the Underworld, desiring nothing more than to meet you, and to hear your experiences of life on the surface.

⚠️Spoilers Ahead!! ⚠️

Zagreus:

✧ Most of your mortal life is spent in Persephone’s vibrant and luscious gardens.

✧ You lived not too far from her cottage, and you made frequent visits to her, bringing her goods and gifts from the market, and the words from all the gossipers of the town.

✧ As far as you knew, she was the only one who lived here, and she didn’t seem to have any family of her own. Taking care of her gardens seemed to be her passion, and to be honest you enjoyed her company. There was something about her, so lively and inviting, that made it hard to stay away for long.

✧ Trips to Persephone were always fragrant, delicious, and warm, despite the permanent snow in the region. Conversations over meals, fishing by the river, and of course time spent in the garden where you got to watch your toils bear great produce.

✧ One day, you return to the cottage, a basket of bass and trout resting on your hip as you walk. The plan was to make a profit selling them in town, and use the coin to get better tools for the garden and the kitchen.

✧ Though, on the way to the cottage, you notice scorched earth in the shape of a bare footprints. The trail leads up to the garden, where you find Persephone with a man you’ve never seen before. A man like you’ve never seen before.

✧ You watch on as Persephone embraces this ethereal form, whose skin is much like ash and moonstone. He looked beyond out of place, yet, something about him felt so familiar.

✧ Focused on the two before you, carelessly unaware of your surroundings, you snap a branch under your foot, alerting them of your presence. The stranger flinched, tensing as he pulls his guard up. He turns to meet your eyes, and whatever words you’d formed in your mind vanished.

✧ One red, one green -- his eyes bore into yours as you admire his. That electrifying moment of attraction ends in time with Persephone clearing her throat.

✧ No one needed to say anything for you to recognize he’d had the same energy as Persephone. You could deduct immediately that he was her son. But nonetheless, Persephone’s words broke the silence, “[Y/N], This is... my son. This is Zagreus.”

✧ “Zagreus..” You sit a moment, tasting his name as it falls from your tongue, and it was something about the way you said his name that drew a shiver up his spine.

✧ “[Y/N]... Have you been here the whole time? How much did you hear? Do the Olympians know of you, too?” His questions went miles a minute, but made no sense to you. “Why would the Olympians...? What, do you mean the Gods?” You ask, and Zagreus exchanged a look to his mother, recognizing his own mistake.

✧ However, he’d reached his limit in that moment, and Zagreus clutched his chest, stumbling. Immediately, you drop your basket in worry, and go over to help him maintain his balance. Persephone placed her hand on your shoulder, and you watched as his body faded away.

✧ It was then, between that day and the next visit Zagreus paid to the garden, that the whole truth was told to you. How Persephone was actually the daughter of Demeter, the cause of the perpetual snow, and Zagreus was her son with the God of the Underworld, Hades.

✧ Since the day he’d met you in his mother’s garden, his curiosity was piqued.

✧ How long had you been visiting his mother? If you hadn’t known she was a Goddess of Olympus, what was it that drove you to help her? His heart beat faster with his recount of your eyes, your voice, your worry as he felt the tug of the Styx back to the Underworld.

✧ His mission remained escaping to see his mother again, and again, but he found himself hoping each time that you were there.

✧ To try the food that you’d make for him. To hear the newest rumor that was spreading around the town. To help around the garden, and see you glow with happiness as each of the plants met maturity.

✧ You’d invaded his mind, tugging at the strings of his heart -- and on the days when you were away from the garden, his mother had no problems teasing him about his crush on you. Though, she admits, if she’d have to give her only son away to anyone, it would absolutely be you.

#Zagreus x Reader #Hypnos x Reader #Thanatos x Reader #Zagreus Headcanons #Hypnos Headcanons #Thanatos Headcanons #SFW Zagreus #SFW Hypnos #SFW Thanatos #SFW Headcanons

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cr4yolaas · 3 years

Text

— how they act after your break - up [ timeskip ]

characters . bokuto koutarou , kenma kozume , sakusa kiyoomi , oikawa tooru , osamu miya

tw / cw . post break - up behavior , self - hatred , implied unhealthy eating habits ( sakusa )

a / n . um new posting layout kinda that im too lazy to do w my previous posts . but i've always wanted 2 do these kinda hcs so :)

# BOKUTO KOUTAROU

he always adored you as a whole. that's why he always had his phone out, ready to take a random photo or video of you doing whatever you were doing at the moment — whether it be cooking, watching your favorite show, or simply laying down on the couch, he'd have his camera pointed towards you as if you were the only one in the world ( besides him ), paying no care to whether or not you were paying attention.

so as he scrolls through the seemingly endless album of collective photos and videos, he wishes he'd taken more. bokuto's buried in the bed that suddenly feels so much more empty and large because you're not there. he cards a hand through his hair, now down and sticking to his forehead from soft beads of sweat, and yet, it doesn't feel anything like your porcelain fingertips.

the realization hits him that no amount of videos could compare to how you made him truly feel.

# KENMA KOZUME

he streams. he streams for days and days on end, no break, foolishly waiting for you to pop into chat or to at least be watching. but you never do.

even so, he holds onto that thin silver string of stupid stupid hope, sinking into his gaming chair, turning on the camera as usual. routine — a routine that eventually breaks him. he pays no mind to the flow of concerned comments in the chat, random viewers pointing out his deepening eyebags and the groggy tone of his voice.

when it finally does break him, he feels regret.

because you're not there to pull him out of his melancholic pit anymore.

# SAKUSA KIYOOMI

kiyoomi's cooped up in the depths of his now barren apartment, body fatigued and worn from the stress he's mindlessly put on it. he was never one to speak his affection, and when he showed it, it was soft and subtle, through the smallest of actions.

he regrets it. it was never enough, he realizes.

however, his biggest regret of all is never capturing moments with you, no, instead they're barely engraved in his pretty little skull as he tries to grasp onto each and every one of them before they can slip through the cracks in his hands. he doesn't show up to any practices or games or even small team hang outs, all because he's stuck. stuck trying to collect every thing he once had, every little bit of you, every fading image of you. he wants to feel you once more, for you to simply be in the same room as him, to just look at him for a millisecond.

so he falls into the habit of preparing your things for you — even though he knows you'll never be there to accept any of it. he places the mug you always adored because of its little patterns on your bedside table. he prepares your towel in the bathroom right before the time you usually shower. on rare days where he finally decides to get outside of the bedroom and eat, there's always a plate of your favorite meal ready before his own meal.

simply because he regrets not doing it before. while you were still there.

eventually, atsumu has to come over and help, cleaning up the apartment while sakusa stays in bed no matter how much the blond pries, wallowing in pure unfiltered self - hatred.

# OIKAWA TOORU

he never copes.

he's down bad. not even the thick blankets can bring him a comfort similar to yours. his chest aches, his heart crafted with clay burning with dumb desire, constantly waiting for you to return. even though he knows you never will.

occasionally, before he goes to bed ( he never sleeps in the end, his thoughts are too loud ), he finds himself hugging his delicate form, his own hand holding his damp cheek, eyes puffy as he tries to replicate the comfort you brought him. the words of assurance he whispers to himself, the same words you spoke to him, never make up for the hole he's created in his stomach.

he misses you to the point where it breaks him.

# OSAMU MIYA

he handles it somewhat well. with the stress of the restaurant piling up on his shoulders, he can barely feel the white - hot sorrow boiling inside his guts,

it's only when he gets home that the grief hits him. you're not there to greet him with a soft peck on the lips, no soft voice echoing around the house as you tell him about your day right before asking him about his, no warmth. it's painstakingly cold.

it's only now that he doesn't know how to handle it.

raging thoughts bring him back to the cute bentos and onigiri he made you as a show of affection.

he misses you.

and so, he decides to add the adorable designs to his meals, claiming it's a " new special he figured would work nice on the menu. " every hand - crafted piece of fish or seaweed or vegetable he places on the rice brings him back to you. he can't tell if he loves it or hates it — but it's all he has left of you.

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canyouhearthelight · 3 years

Text

The Miys, Ch. 154

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

I was able to get the Master Post cleaned up this morning. I know there is a reblog going around with some of the links missing... I put that one up originally as a place holder so I could update my page links in chapters 101 through this one. I did NOT anticipate it would get immediately reblogged, which made me squeak in pleasant surprise. I’ll reblog the full post so everyone has the right one.

Also, thanks to @baelpenrose, @the-raven-fae, and @charlylimph-blog for keeping me going and all your help beta-reading and checking my links. You three are the real heroes here!

“The quiet rooms are done,” Hannah yawned the next morning. “It’s a good thing we decided to make them available immediately, because the first one had people scheduling time before we finished the second one.”

“How many did we end up with?” I asked, pushing down my own urge to yawn. I had always prided myself on being able to resist the urge to yawn when others did, and I wasn’t letting that stop now.

The model of the Ark came up on the table emitter, and Hannah zoomed in on the highlighted areas. “Right now, we have twelve, just like you set up for the second Food Festival. But I’ll be honest, they rooms are already booked for the foreseeable future, and I don’t think that’s tenable.”

“Agreed. I’ll talk to the rest of the Council, but at this point, we need to see about setting all available spaces for quiet rooms.” I nodded and added that note to my agenda. “Moving on, food vendors being allowed in BioLab2. Any updates?”

Parvati flicked the data to everyone. “Grey isn’t thrilled with the possibility that the food will contaminate the aquatics, but is willing to allow vendors in ‘The Fairy Circle’?” She gave me a questioning look. “They said you would know what that meant.”

I just smiled and shook my head. “It’s where I go camping. Conor managed to pull off a prank that fooled even Charly and made a Faerie circle. It’s a good choice, though: ten, eleven feet across, accessible, and far enough from the water that there wouldn’t be any risk.”

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Credit to Conor on that one. But, Grey was very enthusiastic about the idea of setting up some picnic tables throughout the woods and letting people bring picnics.”

“I already have some vendors on board, there,” I breathed in relief. “Especially the ones who specialize in the type of foods that lend themselves well to being portable.”

Hannah’s face lit up. “Do we get to taste test some of these? I’m really getting some bento box and pasty vibes from what you just said, and I’m not sure which I’m more excited about.”

“I think I can get that to happen,” I laughed. “I wouldn’t mind trying some of the options myself, but I can at least already confirm that all bases are covered for dietary requirements. Next up, where are we on the holiday date?”

“Still working with the other departments to finalize a date where all projects can be completed, paused, or at least at a point where they don’t require direct observation. Everyone is on board, though.”

“That’s the biggest hurdle,” I confirmed. “Means we can proceed with at least putting the rest of the events together in preparation for the final date. I trust you two in handling the party aspect of it, and Charly is already working Bash on another Kink Night event at the Undine - minimal planning needed there. So, let’s figure out who is coordinating the paint-tag fight, and we can loop back to the plans for the party.”

“While I am entirely sure Charly can handle planning for both the paint tag and the other - seeing as both were her ideas - it doesn’t feel fair to leave them both entirely on her shoulders,” Hannah agreed. “It says here that you already had Conor confirm we missed Holi?

“By about six months,” I confessed. “So we’re pretty much both too late and too early.”

“I do believe the arrows would be frowned upon, in any event,” Parvati joked. “I still have her paint formulas - flavors are not listed, but there is a distinct lack of both black and yellow.”

“Those were… scotch bonnet for the black, I know that one. I think the yellow was gochujang, which would still hurt if you got it in your eyes,” I recalled.

She flicked her hands, bracelets chiming. “I will ask for a new formula for yellow, but I think we can live without black paint. The yellow was lovely, though.”

“Ask nicely, and she’ll probably give you the glitter formula colors, which I think are different flavors from the regular palette,” I suggested. “And the glitter is ultra-violet reactive, so that’ll be fun.”

Emphatic stabbing at her datapad ensued - impressive, because it wasn’t even physically there, just emitted from the band on her wrist. “Once I have those, I believe Hannah and I can coordinate that along with the party. There is no food component, it is only for one day, so the scope is far smaller than the Festival was.”

“And besides,” Hannah added with a shrug, “whip up some paints and some spongy balls to soak it up, set boundaries, invite anyone who wants to attend. Planning done.” She dusted her hands off for emphasis, but she had a point.

“I’ve got the care packages well underway, so we’re solid there. The party. What’s the plan there?”

Parvati dismissed the schematic from the table emitter and sent a different image to it. This one was practically the opposite of what I had expected: where I had anticipated Food Festival 2: Pyrotechnic Boogaloo, I was instead looking at a park that I was reasonably certain only existed in dreams.

Soft green grass that my toes wiggled to touch spanned a rolling, looping thoroughfare. Trees arched overhead like an arbor, and were either woven with lights are absolutely covered in fireflies. Between breaks in the canopy, a night sky filled with more stars than I had seen in my living memory. Here and there small braziers burned brightly with fire, resting on sturdy rugs and dotted around with cushions.

“Vati,” I whispered hoarsely. “We can’t use BioLab2 for this, can we? Will Grey allow it?”

“We can, and they are.” Her smile was the feral one that usually preceded a coup de grace of event planning. “This, however, is not BioLab2. This is the corridors of levels twelve through fourteen, leading into the lab.”

My first urge was to guess what she was planning, but my mind came up blank. I circled around my desk to stand closer to the table. “Okay, talk to me. Make it make sense.”

She nodded. “The grass is real, laid down like sod. The terraforming teams have agreed to let us use it, provided we allow them to collect data on how it holds up to so much foot traffic and include a post-event question regarding the tactile feel on bare feet. So, bare feet they shall have.” She winked when I realized she and Hannah were going to make it part of the theme. “The trees are an illusion, simple light emitters against the corridor walls, combined with the existing texture of the surface.”

When she moved the image to mimic walking further down the path, Hannah picked up. “The larger spaces are actually where the corridors are longer between quiet rooms. Rather than trying to pull off the tree illusion, we’re going to create a night sky with shooting stars, comets, the works. Like a dream.”

“I like it. It’s not what I was expecting, but I’m even more impressed for that.”

“We couldn’t compete with Charly,” Parvati confessed. “She is already going to have our base desires covered. Anything we tried to do would look like a pale imitation. So, we went the other direction: What else do we do to feel alive?”

“We dream,” I laughed. “It’s all a fairy tale dream, isn’t it?”

“That’s the goal,” Hannah confirmed. “A beautiful dream. One day and one night where you can live out your humanity however you want, without having to compromise. If someone wants to throw paint with childish abandon, then stroll and dance through a dream, and finish the night at the Undine trying something they never dared to do before, they can do that.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds decadent.”

“I was going for hedonistic, over all, but you’re on the right track,” Parvati laughed. “Hannah and I agreed that everyone on the Ark needed one perfect day. And since perfect is different for everyone…” She shrugged. “We just decided to give them all the options. The quiet rooms will be open if their perfect includes a botanical garden, or a cloud… the mess halls will be open if it means a feast, or even just decadent hors d'oeuvres they could never make an excuse to try. It’s literally all on the table.”

“Consider it signed off on.” I still couldn’t take my eyes off that grass, toes wiggling happily. “Just let me know the date when we have one, I need a pedicure to enjoy this completely.”

<< Prev Masterlist Next >>

#the miys #found family #humans are weird #science fiction #aliens #apocalypse #humans are space orcs #humans are space fae #earth is space australia #post apocalypse #post post apocalypse #original science fiction #original sci fi #original writing

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manoessay · 3 years

Text

Yall like tv tropes?

I picked some of my favorites for c!quackity

[Image description below]

[First]

Knight Templar Big Brother: He cares about the more underprivileged members of the server, mainly the younger members, and has resorted to rather extreme measures to take revenge against those who have hurt them, most notably Dream. This includes forming the Butcher Army after Tommy's exile, and making plans to torture Dream for weeks on end after listening to Tommy vent to him about what happened to him in the prison, even if his personal interests do play a role in his actions in the latter incident. The latter incident is further implicated by the fact that a potato, the very same item Dream used to give Tommy a No-Holds-Barred Beatdown, is seen among the many torture implements Quackity has used on Dream during the montage at the beginning of the April 12th stream.

[Second]

Crouching Moron, Hidden Badass: While he usually acts like a goofy Cloud Cuckoo Lander, he is also the only person on the server who has ever had Technoblade and Dream at his mercy.

Cruel and Unusual Death: Getting a pickaxe in the head to the point of post-respawning disability isn't exactly a good way to go out. In fact, it motivated him to hold a months-long grudge on Techno to the point of attempting to kill him in the same way, as if it were a twisted form of poetic justice.

[Third]

Desperately Craves Affection: Played for Drama, in a sense. Quackity's desire to belong has contributed to many of his character arcs, from his wish to become a part of L'Manburg before the Election Arc, to everything he did as part of the country, to arguably his various romantic exploits. It doesn't become prominent until the Las Nevadas arc... which isn't all that surprising, since the arc got kick-started by him being unintentionally abandoned by his loved ones. It eventually culminates with Quackity suppressing his own empathy to try to gain the respect and security he's wanted all this time.

[Fourth]

The First Cut Is the Deepest: In a weird, twisted way. After Schlatt drops dead at the end of Season 1, Quackity gets into a polyamorous relationship with Karl and Sapnap like nothing ever happened the very next day and gets along with them very well... except it is heavily implied later on that he steamrolled over his trauma and insecurities from his previous relationship, and when some miscommunication leads to accidental abandonment several months into the relationship, Q's unresolved relationship trauma gets triggered to the point that he starts jumping to conclusions, and let's just say that is when the shit hit the fan.

[Last]

Hidden Depths:

Quackity is usually very silly and light-hearted, often doing chaotic things just because he feels like it. However, when the situation calls for it, Quackity can be very serious, refusing to back down even against people like Dream if it means standing up for what he sees as right.

Quackity can also be surprisingly menacing when pissed off despite his lack of combat prowess. He has shown a very vengeful and dangerous side of his personality towards Dream and Technoblade that typically goes unseen because of his usual comical demeanor.

Other than having a surprisingly courageous side, Quackity also seems to be very good at keeping secrets. This is best exemplified with his prized pet skeleton horse, Ossium, whose existence Quackity keeps a secret and only trusts his location with those he really cares about. When Tommy and Tubbo descend down into Dream's Hall of Attachments in the Season 2 finale, it should be noted that there is no spot for Ossium (then named "boner") among the attachments Dream is planning to collect as blackmail material, implying that not even Dream knows about the horse's existence despite knowing about other people's most prized possessions.

#dream smp #c!quackity #torture mention #im absolutley normal right now #im doing fine im doing good #i really like crouching moron hidden badass as a trope #there is more his trope page is a goldmine

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someonestolemyshoes · 3 years

Note

Yo, saw your post about levihan prompts:

How about Hange discovering Levi’s secret hobby (of your choice)

Feel free to do whatever you feel like

And I love your work! 💕 have a good day

Hello! So sorry for the delay in this one, but thank you so much for your patience 🙏 I got stuck for such a long time in the middle of this ksksks but it is finally done! I also played around a little bit with the whole...discovering a secret aspect, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway! And I hope you're ready for some sweet sweet childhood friends levihan~

Levi likes photography.

This, in itself, is no great secret. Hange can barely remember a time he wasn't following after her with a camera strapped around his neck, or packed into his bag—always within reach, should something striking catch his eye. A little neon plastic toy, at first; each click of the shutter cycled through preloaded images, expert shots of famous landscapes, places they could only dream of seeing. And then, a polaroid—still a toy, in essence, still plastic, still gaudy, but this one took real pictures in real time, and spit them out into their eager, shaking fingers within seconds.

Hange remembers them ruthlessly wafting the little laminate squares and watching with bated breath as black mottled into foggy grey, as the blurred silhouette of the park bench faded slowly into being. It was a fascinating thing, at the time. Magic at their fingertips. The picture turned out fuzzy and overexposed in places, where the sun had glared in over the corner of the park bench, but Levi had settled the little square on his little palms and looked at it like he held the whole world in his hands.

There were innumerable disposable cameras, too. Light little things with reels of film, never enough for Levi's insatiable desire to snap pictures of every single thing he saw. They spent half their childhood in the chemist, sitting in the hard plastic chairs, wriggling anxiously as they waited for the film to develop. Kuchel always handed them the envelope, fat with prints, with a small smile curling the corner of her mouth and a fond twinkle in her eye, and Levi always took it politely, while Hange gave a boisterous thanks, and the pair of them delved greedily into their spoils.

He was older, in his early teens, when he was gifted his first real camera. It was heavy, compared to all the others, a case made of metal with buttons and gadgets and a fancy screen on the back, to preview each picture he took. Levi was wholly enamoured with it. He spent hours adjusting it, figuring out what each button and knob did, how they affected each picture; took countless shots of the same rock in the park until he'd tested every combination of settings he could think of.

He had cycled through more cameras since then. Grown a small collection, each one a little different, a little more suited to particular shots. Hange understood the concept in theory, but the particulars were lost on her, and Levi never took the time to explain. Not that she minded—Levi's pictures were beautiful, breathtaking in the way he could capture even the most mundane details and make them something wondrous. Perhaps for the first and only time in her life, Hange had no desire for the magician to reveal his tricks.

He has an eye for things that Hange simply cannot see. She is observant—to a fault, at times, intensely analytical and endlessly curious. Everything is a question, an opportunity to research, to learn, but she doesn't see the way Levi does.

Wild daffodil. Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Hange sees a perennial flowering plant, native to Western Europe, classified by its pale yellow petals and elongated central trumpet. She sees phylogeny with a rich taxonomic history; subspecies originating all over the globe, some larger, some smaller, some more vibrant and some more muted. She sees anatomy, science.

Levi sees the way the evening sun rusts the buttery petals until they blush; sees the way dew drops hang like pearls from the tips of the leaves in the early morning, when the light is still smoky and thin. He sees a moment to be captured.

It should be impossible for a picture to hold so much detail. Hange can look at Levi's daffodil and feel the way the spring wind blows gently on her skin, the sun warm but the breeze a little biting, a remnant of the fading winter. She can smell the pollen heavy in the air, feel the tickle of short grass on her ankles, hear the trill of songbirds in the branches of distant trees.

His proclivity for photography grows with them. Hange's interests spear out in a thousand different directions, from physics and chemistry to botany, to engineering, to literature and mathematics, to history, languages and landscapes—life is a limitless source of information and Hange chases it every which way, insatiable.

And wherever she goes, Levi dutifully follows, with his camera in hand.

Until now.

Now, they are eighteen. The summer is lazily drawing to a close, and tomorrow, at 8:45am, Hange will be boarding a plane that will take her to the other side of the world to attend the university of her dreams.

And Levi will be staying here.

Despite Levi's perpetual scowling and indiscriminate grunting, their last evening together had overall been a pleasant one. Levi and Kuchel had worked hard on their meal, and it had been nice in a warm, filling kind of way, to spend her last night at home with the two of them.

Now, she and Levi are holed up in his bedroom, while Kuchel had insisted on doing the clean up herself. Hange's mind has been churning non-stop for weeks now, ramping up with each passing day, and tonight, her thoughts are unstoppable, and they spill from her with giddy, jittery excitement.

"The university is huge, but my course is pretty small—only like, 30 places. It'll be easy to get to know everybody."

"Nn."

"And did I tell you? There's a museum right on campus? They've got a huge collection, and I heard students can access it after the first semester."

"Hm."

"And there's a flower garden, too—they've got species from all over the world, Levi. They'll have plants I've never even heard of."

"You said."

"Oh! And—my accommodation isn't all that far from the coast. The water looks beautiful in all the pictures I've seen—look, see?"

"I know. You showed me already."

Hange looks up from her phone, where the screen is lit with a bright, sunny beach, tan sand and a stark blue ocean. Levi flicks his gaze over it and offers a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder. Hange frowns at him.

"You could at least pretend to be excited, you know."

Levi gives her a deadpan stare.

"It looks...warm."

Hange sits back with a thump, and kicks weakly at Levi's shin. She pouts over at him. "Better than nothing, I guess."

They sit at opposite ends of the window bench in Levi's bedroom, legs tangled haphazardly together in the space between them. The window was thrown open in some vain hope of tempting in a breeze, but the air is thick, and the soft wind that does blow is still stiflingly warm. It sways Levi's fringe against his brow, but does little to stave off the oppressive heat.

The sky outside is dark, but it is alive with stars. They cast bright sparks on an inky black canvas, and there is no moon in sight. Already, Levi has snapped pictures of it, twisted dials and pushed buttons and switched lenses until he was satisfied.

It is a beautiful sight. Infinite.

Hange lets one leg dangle out the open window. Levi gives her a sour look and wordlessly closes one hand around her other ankle. She has a long history of behaving carelessly—Levi has borne witness to one too many slips and stumbles to trust her entirely. It would be just like Hange, to miss her flight in favour of a trip to the emergency room.

His thumb strokes back and forth absently. There is a callus there, rough and catching, that scratches against her sensitive skin.

Her predominant feeling is one of excitement. Studying abroad had been a dream of hers for almost as long as Levi had owned a camera—to travel beyond the bounds of their small rural town, to see more, learn more, fuel the relentless hunger in her. But there is an undercurrent of something else, some squirming discomfort that refuses to settle. It intensifies with every sweep of Levi's thumb against her skin until it sits heavy in her gut.

She looks over at him. His gaze is trained out the window, a small frown furrowing the skin between his brows, but his eyes are glassy, with none of their usual sharp, unwavering focus. Whatever he is looking at, he is not really seeing it.

It would be a lie to say that his silence had not troubled her. He had been quiet throughout dinner, opting instead to listen to Hange and Kuchel's companionable chatter as he pushed his food around his plate, and he had barely said a word since they had cleared the table and retreated to his room. He had hardly even looked her way.

Irritation bubbles within her. Levi is always more subdued than she is, content to sit quietly while Hange babbles endlessly, about anything and everything. But he usually has something to say. His silence, today of all days, makes her angry. They have one night left like this—one more night to talk, face to face, before they will be separated for who knows how long, and Levi is offering her nothing.

"Levi," she says, before she can think. Something in her tone must startle him, for he blinks rapidly, as though pulled out of a daydream, and rolls his eyes to look in her direction. His gaze settles somewhere near her shoulder. She bristles. "Can you at least—"

"Levi?" Kuchel's voice is distant, floating up from the bottom of the stairs. Levi looks at the door instead. "Can you come give me a hand for a minute?"

Hange clamps her jaw shut. Levi casts her another sidelong glance, and ticks his tongue against the back of his teeth. He squeezes her ankle once, then pushes himself to his feet. "Don't fall, idiot. I won't be long."

Hange feels distinctly like a child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. It's immature, and perhaps it's unfair of her, but she had assumed that Levi's invitation for dinner might, at the very least, come with a little conversation.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. They never fight, not really—they bicker endlessly, poke each other's cheeks and pull each other's hair, childish rough housing that they never grew out of. But they don't fight and as grumpy as Hange feels about Levi's near silence, she doesn't want to start now. She runs a hand back through her hair and sweeps her eyes about the room, counting long, even breaths as she does.

Levi's room is immaculately neat and tidy. Everything has its place, on clean, dusted shelves, or stacked in straight, neat piles atop his desk. It is a level of organisation Hange has little energy for; she herself is a hurricane, picking up and dropping off detritus everywhere she goes.

But Levi's borderline obsessive cleanliness makes it easy to spot something that is out of place.

Hange's gaze falls on a drawer in the desk. The drawer itself is as immaculate as everything else, gleaming wood and a reflectively polished brass handle. What catches her eye is the corner of a glossy piece of paper, caught when the drawer had been closed.

Hange is a curious creature. Rarely can she hold herself back from exploring an unknown, and now is no different. She unfolds herself from the bench and stretches to stand, then crosses the room on light, tip-toed feet.

Levi is, by and large, a rather private person. He does not share much of himself openly, hides behind an impassive mask, guards what is dear to him close to his chest. Hange is an exception to this rule, whether Levi wanted her to be or not.

As such, she has no real issue prying the drawer open, and is unsurprised by the predictable contents within.

Photographs.

Of course it was photographs.

Her lips tug up in a fond smile and her eyes roll, but it is as she is reaching in to flatten out the rumpled picture that had been poking out of the drawer, that she notices what they are photographs of.

Her.

Hange picks out a stack and sits cross-legged in the desk chair. She flips through them, eyes growing wider with each new picture she uncovers. Every single one is of her. Some recent, some not so recent—some must be from the very first real camera, for she is still in her braces, all thin, gangly limbs and scruffy hair and taped up glasses.

There are pictures of her in the winter, mitten-clad hands wrapped around a paper cup of hot chocolate, blowing steam into the chill air. She can see in stark clarity, the red tip of her nose and the chill bitten over her cheeks; she can almost feel the cold, taste the cocoa on her tongue.

She finds a picture of her from an autumn years gone by. She remembers it as though it were yesterday—they had spent the whole afternoon raking fallen leaves in the courtyard behind Kuchel's cafe, scooping them into a terribly tempting mound beneath the shedding tree. Hange had been unable to resist. Levi had captured her moments after her dive into the pile, sitting up with her weight propped back on her hands, dry leaves clinging to her messy hair and sticking to the fibres of her cardigan. The sun was low, and it cast her in a golden glow, highlighting the vibrant red and orange of the fall foliage around her, drawing out the auburn undertone in her hair and the amber of her eyes. Her smile is almost blinding.

Another shows her in the spring, laying on her belly in the long grass beside a row of blooming daffodils. There is a book spread open before her and she is, as expected, engrossed in it; Levi has snapped the shutter as she was turning the page, the thin edge of the paper caught between the delicate tips of her fingers.

Hange has never considered herself to be particularly pretty. She is just...Hange, a little bit of wild, a little bit of manic, a lot of clumsy and dirty. Being attractive has never been of much concern.

But there is something in the way Levi has photographed her, time and time again, in the way the light catches her, the candid ease of each new picture, that looks....beautiful, in its own way. Somehow, he has made her mess into a masterpiece.

Levi likes taking pictures of things. Plants, rocks, rivers, landscapes and skylines—he likes capturing the mundanity of everyday life and turning it into something spectacular, but he has never done the same thing with people. As far as Hange was aware, Levi had taken very few pictures of anybody at all.

And yet, she holds this pile in her hands, and there are plenty more pictures littering the drawer before her.

There is a strange feeling brewing on her as she stares at them. She had been so excited about moving away to study, so eager to explore the world beyond their quiet countryside home, that the reality of leaving had never truly sunk in. She feels it now though, acutely; a hollow ache in her chest that grows with each picture she flicks through.

Levi has been her shadow for as long as she can remember. There are few memories that he is not a part of, few moments that she can recall in which Levi was not by her side—he has been a constant for her. Something certain and dependable.

And from tomorrow, he will no longer be there.

Hange had known this. She had known it from the moment she had accepted her offer, and she had known it as they looked through her options for accommodation together, as they explored the local area through pictures and videos and maps online. She had known it as they had prepared her visa, organised her finances. Booked her flights. Every step of the way she had understood, logically, rationally, that studying abroad meant leaving Levi behind.

But the weight of it is only hitting her now. The reality of it is like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut—it leaves her shaken and breathless in the worst way.

From tomorrow, Levi won't be with her at all.

Her grip tightens on the photographs hard enough to wrinkle the glossy paper.

She had done a pretty good job of not getting too emotional about the whole thing. For the most part, Hange had been overwhelmed by her own excitement—there had been no time for sadness between all the loose ends she’d had to tie up in order to make the move a possibility. Now though, all that is left is to head to the airport and board her plane. No more distractions.

Hange doesn’t realise she is crying until the bedroom door opens again, and Levi steps into the room, coming to a sudden halt halfway over the threshold.

Hange can't tell if Levi's look of shock is because of the open drawer and the pictures still clutched in her hands, or the tear tracks on her cheeks. He stops dead in the open doorway, fingers still curled around the handle, and for a moment he stares at her with eyes wider than Hange has ever seen them, but then his brow dips low and his lip curls, and his grip tightens around the door handle. Hange holds the pile of photographs close to her chest.

She is expecting anger. She doesn't suppose she could blame him if he lost his temper with her, then. She has a terrible habit of bulldozing into everything, after all, and perhaps this was the one thing Levi had longed to keep secret from her. Her snooping, on top of his already sullen mood—perhaps this is the final straw.

But instead, he turns his face away, staring resolutely into the corner of the room. Starlight spills through the open window. Even in the thin, muted light, Hange can see a vibrant flush colouring the skin high on Levi's cheeks.

Hange sniffles, and wipes clumsily at her cheeks.

"I didn't have you pegged as a closet pervert, Levi," she says, waving the handful of pictures at him. Her voice comes cracked, and weaker than she'd hoped. Levi's knuckles turn white.

It's a funny thing, seeing Levi embarrassed. His emotional expression is usually limited to small twitches, here and there—a slight furrow of his brow, a wrinkle of his nose, a soft twitch of his lip. Hange can count on one hand the number of times she has seen his feelings show so completely. It's almost painful to witness.

"I don't mind," she says. Levi doesn't look at her. Hange looks down at the pile again. "They're nice."

Levi finally releases his death grip on the handle and pushes the door closed. His eyes are still downcast and his cheek is still cherry red, but he hasn't run away and he hasn't snapped at her (yet). Hange takes these things as good signs.

"I didn't know you took pictures of people," Hange says.

"I don't."

"Are you saying I'm not people, Levi?"

Levi lets out a disgruntled sigh. He crosses the room, and plucks the pile of pictures from Hange's hands. His cheeks are still pink, and his brows are still furrowed, but he has composed himself some.

“No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re a creature. You’ve got snot all over your face.”

Hange laughs wetly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and rubbing the mess on her pants. Levi gives her a look of pure disgust, parking his hip against the edge of the desk beside her and skimming through a few of the pictures. There’s a curious expression on his face, a softness in his eyes that Hange isn’t used to seeing.

“Stalker,” she says. Levi kicks at the desk chair without looking up. “If you wanted a photoshoot, you could have asked.”

Levi scowls. He straightens the edges of the pictures with care, and sets them carefully on the desk. “If I wanted to take pictures of you posing, I would have asked.”

“Wanted to capture me in all my natural glory, huh?” Hange braces her elbows on the desk and rests her chin in both hands, grinning cheekily up at Levi. It must look ridiculous, with her watery eyes and the red point of her nose, but Levi isn't even looking at her to notice.

Levi says nothing. His gaze lingers on the pictures for a little longer, and the colour in his cheeks deepens. Hange nudges him with her elbow, smiling. The pictures are...sweet, in a way. There's something flattering about it. She slumps back in the chair, her smile wavering where a fresh wave of melancholy tugs at the edges of her lips.

“I’ll miss you, you know.” Hange’s voice cracks humiliatingly as she speaks. Levi looks over at her. Hange curses the wobble of her bottom lip and wipes at her eyes beneath her glasses. She isn’t expecting much; Levi is terrible at expressing feelings at the best of times, and so it’s more than surprising when, after a moment of consideration, he nods at her.

“Same.”

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. Hange presses her fingers into her eyes, trying to stem the flow, ease the sting there. She doesn’t want to spend their last evening together crying, but now that the tears have begun, Hange can’t seem to stop them. A lump builds in her throat, aching beneath her tongue and she can feel her chin wobbling, lips pulling down at the corners. She sniffles pitifully, draws a shuddering breath.

“Oi…” Levi says, though he doesn’t sound angry, or even uncomfortable like she had expected. His tone is gentle. It rips a sob from her.

Hange feels him move closer. He jostles the front of the chair, and when she opens her eyes to look at him she finds him standing right in front of her, between chair and desk, looking at her with a furrowed brow. It’s different to his usual scowl—his brows are a little upturned in the middle, exposing some kinder emotion; something like worry, or concern.

Hange tilts forward until her forehead presses into his chest. Levi’s hand comes up quickly to the back of her head. His touch is familiar, comforting, and Hange cries a little harder when his fingers tunnel into her messy hair, cradling her against him.

She cries until she feels spent, sniffling and gulping empty air. Her fingers twist into the hem of Levi’s shirt as she composes herself, mumbling, “you’ll keep in touch, right? You won’t forget about me?”

Levi clicks his tongue at her. “Stupid,” he says. “As if you’d let me.”

“I’m serious.” She sits back and looks up at her. Her eyes are burning, raw and wet, and the skin of her cheeks stings from crying, but she looks at him with as much determination as ever and says, “call me. Every day.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not! Just once, every day. Even if it’s only five minutes.”

Levi flicks her between her brows. “You won’t have the time, dumbass.”

“I’ll make time.”

Levi scrutinizes her for a moment, then says, “I’ll text.”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

Levi curls his lip and pulls at a lock of her fringe, muttering, “brat. Why don’t you call me?”

“I will,” Hange says plainly. Levi’s eyes widen a fraction. “I’ll call as much as I can. But you need to call me too, okay? I wanna hear from you a lot.”

There is a long pause, and then Levi turns his eyes away. The light in the room is pale and muted, but it is just enough to highlight the pale flush gathering anew on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. It’s almost cute.

“Fine. I’ll call. Happy?”

Hange grins at him. “Very. And I’ll send you photos of everything, all the time.”

Levi leans down towards her, pinching her nose between his thumb and forefinger and giving her head a little shake. “On your shitty phone camera?”

Hange nods. She bats his hand away and cranes herself up into his space, smiling something wicked. “You’ll hate it. They’ll be all blurry and I’ll have my thumb in the corner of every picture.”

“Pest.”

“Lots of selfies, too. So you won’t forget what I look like.” Hange blindly swipes up a picture from the desk, holding it up between them in front of her mouth and nose. Between Levi dipping down into her space and Hange stretching up into his, they are so close that Levi has to cross his eyes to get a look at it. “Not that I think it’ll be a problem.”

He rolls his gaze up to look at her over the top of the photograph. Up close, Hange can see just how bright the blue of his eyes is, how dark his lashes are; she can see the shadows they cast on his cheeks, the deepening flush bruising the skin red. Levi has always been a pale thing, but now, Hange can see the smattering of light freckles across his nose, barely visible in the low light. He looks pretty. Her heart stutters in her chest at the sight.

Hange has never fully understood Levi’s drive to photograph everything. To preserve any given moment, bottle up every minute detail. She sort of understands it, then—it’d be nice, she thinks absently, to save this particular view for forever. The thought makes her face grow warm.

“I won’t forget.” Levi’s voice is quiet, caught somewhere between embarrassment and uncertainty. He sways closer, rocks back, hesitates. And then he leans down and lets his forehead drop against hers. Hange can feel the press of his nose against her own, separated only by the picture between them.

Hange is used to being close to him. She’s a clingy person by nature, always grabbing him and hugging him, smooshing her cheek against his or shoving her face into his hair, but she is always the one to initiate such contact. Levi is tactile, in his own way—small, non-invasive touches, his fingers on her wrist or his palm at her back, always delicate, understated.

To have Levi enter so wholly into her space like this is new. It’s nice. Hange finds herself feeling very, very thankful for the paper between them, for the urge to lean forward and kiss him comes unbidden, so suddenly she isn’t sure she’d be able to resist the impulse if there hadn’t been a barrier in her way.

“Is it my dazzling good looks?” she says, acutely embarrassed by how breathless she sounds. Levi makes a small, noncommittal noise. His fingers find hers where she’s holding the picture, gripping it and pulling it until it slips out from between them. For the smallest moment, Hange feels the skin of Levi’s nose against hers, and the warm puff of breath on her lips, and then Levi straightens up, flipping the picture for her to see it.

“I’ve looked at your ugly mug every day for long enough. Don’t think I’d forget it so easily.”

It’s a truly unflattering photograph. Hange has her head tipped back, laughing boisterously at some thing or another, with her eyes pinched closed and chocolate sauce smeared over her lips, a drop of cream stuck to the end of her nose. Hange is sure she has looked better, but the thing is—despite her state, the picture still isn’t bad. Hange can hear the lilt of her own laughter and feel the tacky syrup, savour the sweetness of the cream on her tongue. There’s something so...animated about it, about the way the light dances over her skin and in her hair, and the way the background blurs around her, drawing her into sharp focus.

It’s nice, in a strange, unreserved kind of way.

But she’s still a mess. Hange snatches it and slams it down on the desk, glowering up at Levi.

“Why would you take that,” she whines, petulant. “You’re supposed to take pictures of nice things!”

“Because it’s very...you,” He says, neatly slotting the pictures back into the drawer, and moving back to sit on the window. Hange follows, drops herself onto the ledge opposite him with a pout.

“What, disgusting?”

Levi shrugs. “Messy. But...not bad.”

“I’m supposed to take that as a compliment, I guess? That’s almost sweet coming from you, Levi.”

Levi scowls over at her. She dangles one leg back out the open window, dropping the other heavily into Levi’s lap. He adjusts it until he is more comfortable, his hand wrapping again around her ankle, but does not let go once he has settled. He keeps a hold of her, his fingers tracing thoughtless patterns on her skin. The space between them is warm, comfortable. Hange leans her head back and breathes it in—the peace, the quiet, the simple pleasure of spending a tender evening with her favourite person in the whole world.

It’s nice. A small, frightened part of her doesn’t want it to ever end.

Hange has been set up in her student apartment for three weeks when the package arrives.

Moving had been harder than she had anticipated. She’d accounted for common issues—problems with her visa, her plane tickets, and had checked multiple transport options from the airport to her accommodation in case problems arose—but she hadn’t put all that much thought into what would happen once she settled at her apartment.

Unpacking had been boring. Her roommates were nice enough, the studious, bookworm-y type, but unlike Hange they weren’t overly sociable. They kept mostly to themselves in their rooms, perfectly content with brief conversations in the kitchen before retiring again, and with classes still two weeks away, Hange was finding the lack of social interaction difficult. She had explored some, but the city was vast in a cluttered, claustrophobic way. Hange had always enjoyed travelling, and had talked relentlessly of every adventure she could take herself on in a whole new country and all the new places she could explore, so much so that it was almost embarrassing, the way she had found herself so unwilling to stray too far from her accommodation without a companion by her side.

She’d felt a little homesick in the first couple of days, lonely and isolated. She missed the small comforts of the country, things she hadn’t even realised she had taken for granted. Quiet nights. Star studded skies. Long grass and trees and the fresh, earthy smell on the breeze. The city was unbearably loud at times, and even when the wail of sirens or the beep of car horns quieted, there was an unidentifiable hum beneath it all that never ceased even for a moment.

She felt Levi’s absence most acutely. Hange had known she would, but she hadn’t been prepared for how much it would hurt to be apart. She felt silly for it—it was ridiculous, to miss her friend more than she missed her own family, even. But Levi’s presence had been more constant than anything else, back home, and without him, she felt like a small part of herself was missing.

He called, as promised. Once a day, though oftentimes it was very late in the night for him, and he sounded tired. If Hange were less selfish, she might tell him to get some sleep instead—but she missed him. Hearing from him was the best part of her day.

It was about an hour before their designated call time when the post came. Hange answers the bell with a frown, which only deepens when the delivery driver hands her the package.

She takes it into her room, settling cross legged on the bed and inspecting the mystery item. It's a decent size, like a large shoe box, wrapped neatly in brown paper with her address lettered in tidy, familiar handwriting in one corner. Hange’s stomach lurches—she’d have recognised the writing anywhere, but her suspicions are confirmed by the return address. Levi’s.

She rips into the paper quickly, snatching up her keys to tear through the tape on the top of the box. It is stuffed full with packing paper, an envelope with her name on it sitting on the top. Hange picks it up and with trembling fingers, she opens it and unfolds the short note inside.

Hange,

Sorry things have been kind of shitty. This stuff might help or it might make things worse, but I figure you can just throw it out if it’s no good. Or give it away. Whatever. I don’t even know if all of this shit will make it through customs, so if you get an empty box it’s not my fault.

I don’t get how you eat half this junk, but I hope it makes you feel better, anyway.

Look after yourself. Eat real food.

Levi

Hange presses the note to her chest, grinning. Her heart aches, but having Levi go to this much trouble for her...it feels nice. Knowing he is still thinking of her. She’d never have admitted it out loud, but Hange had been concerned that perhaps Levi would forget about her after all, without her there to pester him all the time.

She pulls out some of the packing paper, and smiles widely at the rest of the contents.

Levi had put together what Hange can only call a care package. There are packs of her favourite snacks and sweets, things she’d complained she hadn’t been able to find in stores here; crisps, chocolate, hard candy, little mini boxes of sickeningly sugary cereal. There are tea bags with blends Levi knows she likes, each neatly labelled with instructions on what temperature to brew at and how long for. Levi had also packed some of the soaps Hange likes, the ones he uses but she refuses to buy for herself. The lavender scent drifts up out of the box and Hange’s heart squeezes tight in her chest. There’s a shirt in there, too—Hange recognises it at once, as one of Levi’s old, worn tees, thin grey cotton that feels impossibly soft in her hands. It’s far too big for either of them, and had always been the go-to item Levi would chuck at her when she decided she was staying over for the night and had nothing to wear to bed. Hange pulls it on quickly, savouring the soft feel and the smell of it.

In the bottom of the box, there is another envelope. This one is thicker than the first, and Hange knows what it contains before she even opens it.

Photographs. A small pile of them, depicting places she and Levi had frequented from when they were children right up until this last year—her favourite part of the forest, where the trees thin out and the river pools at the foot of a small waterfall. The great, open fields, sometimes full of long grass, sometimes clipped short and striped with windrows. Kuchel’s cafe, with umbrellas raised to block the sun on the tables outside, or else warm and low-lit and cosy in the cold winter. Hange settles back on her pillows as she flicks through each picture, a soft smile on her face. Looking at the images of home hurts, but it isn’t a terrible pain—she longs for these old times and these familiar places, but each recovered memory makes her happy.

In Levi’s pictures she can vividly recall moments in each and every location. He works some kind of magic with a camera, to trigger so many sensory memories—the scent of freshly cut grass, the feel of hay, dry and sharp, poking into her back through her clothing, and the gentle trickle of the river water, the splash of it as it runs over the falls, the feel of it cool on her skin. The tangy zest of fresh-pressed orange juice in the cafe, peach fuzz on her lips and the soft flesh of ripe fruit bursting between her teeth, sticky nectar coating her fingers.

Hange looks at each picture in turn, until she reaches the bottom of the pile, and there she stops abruptly, eyes widening at the last photograph Levi has packed for her.

It is one of Hange, taken in the window of Levi’s bedroom. She was looking out at the night sky, her elbow braced on her bent knee, chin in her palm, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. The starlight haloed her, shining from her hair and illuminating the jut of her chin, the curve of her nose and the slope of her brow. Behind her, Levi had captured the bright glow of the stars like jewels on a deep velvet canvas. She looked peaceful. Happy. For lack of a better word, beautiful.

Hange grins widely. Her eyes sting and her throat aches, but the picture—the whole box, really—makes her happier than she's felt in weeks. She brews her favourite cup of tea from the blends Levi had sent her and settles into the corner of her bed, lifting her phone to snap a quick selfie. She sends it to Levi, complete with a caption: thank you for my presents 😊 all ready for your call!

Levi responds almost immediately, first with a simple you're welcome. And then, after a minute, you look good. Speak to you soon.

Hange sinks deeper into the cushions, cradling her tea close to her face, masking the pleased flush on her cheeks with the heat from the steam.

Hange keeps him longer than usual, today.

There is a simmering warmth in her stomach as she listens to Levi's voice over the line. It comes tinny through the speakers, low and rough in the late hour, and his dark, grainy image looks tired, lamp light casting him half in shadow. They talk of everything and nothing, same as always—Levi tells her about his day, about the cafe and Kuchel, and Hange pouts as she tells him how little progress she is making in befriending her new housemates. Levi never voices any concern for her aloud, but Hange can sense it in the dip of his brows as she talks. She gives him a genuine smile when she reassures him that classes will start soon, and she's confident she will settle better after that.

Levi seems reluctant to leave, but after a little over an hour of aimless, comfortable chatter, he is yawning and blinking heavily, the lower half of his face nuzzled into his pillow. In the end, Hange makes up some watery excuse about visiting the coast while the sun is still high, if only to let him get some sleep.

"Sure. Have fun."

"I will! Sleep well, Levi."

Levi hums. The view shifts, blurry and indistinct, the mic muffled by the rustle of sheets, and when everything settles he is laying on his side, fringe mussed and falling over his eyes. He covers another long yawn with his fist. "I will."

"You'll call tomorrow?"

Levi rolls his tired eyes, but the corner of his mouth pulls up in a fraction of a smile. "Sure."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Hange grins. Levi watches her for a long moment, eyes scanning over her face. Then he holds up a hand in a tired wave. "Night, Hange."

"Night."

Hange stares at the screen for too long when the call ends. That terribly selfish part of her would have loved to keep his company for the rest of the day. Maybe, with a little travel sized Levi in the palm of her hand, she'd have been brave enough to explore some more, enthused about all the new things to see with somebody to share them with.

Sighing, Hange drops her phone to the desk and stands from the bed, stretching. There are still things she can do—she has plenty of recommended reading to get through, a small mountain of books at her disposal, and she has mapped the route to her campus often enough that she isn't feeling too overwhelmed by the prospect of the journey.

As she heads for the door, Hange notices something on the floor beside the bed. A neat, rectangular piece of paper; one of the photographs Levi had sent her, laying face down on the ground.

She picks it up again and brings the paper close to her face. Levi had written something on the back of it in small, quick letters, less tidy than his usual practiced script, as though he’d scribbled it as an afterthought, or else that he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to read it.

There is a date, the same night she had found Levi’s secret photo stash, followed by Hange’s name, and the location of the shot. And beneath that Levi had scrawled a few words. Hange squints to read them, and then her eyes grow wide, blinking owlishly down at the note. Her heart swells almost painfully and something solid balloons within her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her lips tremble into a smile as she props the picture carefully on the bedside table.

The day is still young. Hange brews herself another cup of Levi’s tea and settles on the bed with one of her books, content to spend the next few hours reading—though she finds it strangely difficult to focus, with the words Levi had written on the back of the photograph swirling round and round in her head. Hange doubts they will leave her any time soon. They left her feeling more homesick than ever, but there is a soft, giddy kind of comfort in them all the same. It's a feeling that Hange will savour for as long as she possibly can.

It's weird here without you. Come home again soon x

#ask #levihan #my writing #snk #the way this has kicked my ass for hjkjhg MONTHS #I'm so sorry for the delay but thank you so much for the prompt!!! I was so excited to work on it #and I'm glad I finally got it finished :)#sorry it once again got incredibly out of hand length-wise #drabble my ass

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