When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.

Suppose there was a species that was very peaceful, very good at diplomacy and just generally very nice— but they also happened to look really terrifying to humans. Sort of an opposite to that ‘humans are cute space orcs’ thing— species X is perfectly friendly, but just happens to look like they walked out of a human horror movie.

We don’t blame them for it, it’s not their fault (and we’re slightly too afraid to talk to them about it anyway) we just quietly avoid ships where they are stationed and stay away from areas where they live and, over time, it just becomes accepted that, for whatever reason, you don’t put humans and species X together. Captains turn down human applicants if they’ve got a member of species X on their crew and visa versa. They barely notice that they’re doing it, it’s just how things are done.

Then one day a human crewed ship breaks down in species X space so that one of their ships picks up the distress signal. Being such lovely people, they offer to help and the humans can’t think of a good enough excuse to refuse.

The repairs take about a week and, the whole time, the species X crew members are loving the human ship. It’s so spacious, you barely even see other crew members! (They don’t realise that all the humans are constantly ducking out the way whenever they see them coming.)

The humans, meanwhile, just spend the entire week in Hell. The species X crew members like to take shortcuts through the ventilation shafts, so you can constantly hear them skittering around above your head; the ship is full of this low key but very distinctive smell— rotting meat, the smell of death (apparently they give it off when they’re happy); half the crew have goosebumps, despite the temperature controls working perfectly.

The ones working in the engine room directly alongside the species X crew have it hardest though, they can’t run away— and it’s very hard to relax and do your job when, suddenly, you hear this noise above your head and a hairless, milk white creature with no eyes and a huge mouth filled with razor sharp teeth and long gangling limbs with fingers and toes that look human but like they’ve been stretched, leaps silently with catlike grace from the rafters, lands right next to you, flicks out a forked tongue, holds out a long taloned hand and asks “can I borrow your spanner?”

dragonatthedinnertable  asked:

I really need to know about the mailman who delivers based on the aztec lunar calendar!!

So my family lives in the unincorporated Larimer County and for about 10 Years, our postman was Mr. Schmidt. 

Do not allow the name to fool you.

Mr. Schmidt was well over 6 feet tall, mostly gangling odd-bending limbs and had a beard that went nearly to his knees.  Our post office allegedly had a regulated delivery schedule, but Mr. Schmidt would turn up with mail according to his own personal comprehension of time, which I’m pretty sure was set to his home dimension of Qulaxon-51^778~

I’d be lying in bed at 2AM, Dog on my feet in a pitch-black room, when there would be the loud squealing of a an ancient subaru with a USPS roof ornament and a failing timing belt that never got replaced the whole decade I knew him, and my room would flood with the unholy blue led headlights he’d installed.


Ah.  I would think to myself, Mr. Schmidt’s Austrian-Texan* holler still echoing in my ears. Mail’s here.

Mr. Schmidt had a difficulty in his job in that the driver’s side of the car in the US always faces the middle of the road, unless one drives into oncoming traffic.  Which means that most postal workers have to stop and hop out of their trucks to stick the mail in the box.  Mr. Schmidt was fundamentally opposed to doing things like parking, or following OSHA recommendations, so he committed some kind of automotive black magic and moved the back seat bench up to the front and angled all the pedals, so that he could drive the Subaru whilst lounging across the bench, head and arms outside the passenger window, one foot operating the pedals and the other one steering.

It was like if one of the members of ZZtop had an illegitimate child with tree-beard and he grew up to be both a hedonist roman and a postman.

Mr. Schmidt’s odd schedule and curious antics were very tolerated in my neck of the county though, becuase he could reliably deliver mail to our curiously unplottable house, and the other houses on sometimes-numbered roads that were really more sage than dirt and located halfway up a canyon.  Packages arrived well before they were due and never so much as dented, and we were somehow never afflicted with penny-savers.  Not rain nor snow nor gloom of night nor bears nor wildfire evacuations nor that one time it got down to -20 and the road was covered in three inches of ice and everyone’s tires went flat could stop his deliveries.

My family had been in the practice of mailing a fruitcake between various blood and legal relations for several years as A Practical Joke, but after an uncle burned my aunt’s house to the ground (God please make sure he’s dead) we weren’t sure Freddie Fruitcake was still with us. The aunt called us, sobbing after three weeks of holding it together in the face of the loss of her house to tell us that she hadn’t been able to find Freddie in the wreckage, and that she’d been intending to send it to us this year.  We did our best to comfort her, it’s fine, honestly the fruitcake isn’t important compared to her safety, please come for the holidays. 

She agreed and we went to collect her from the airport a few days later.  We arrived back at the house to discover that Mr. Schmidt had parked the Subaru and was standing at the front door with a small package in his hands.

“This looks important.”  he said, handing my bewildered aunt the box before nodding, folding himself back into the Subaru and driving off. Awed and wondering, we hustled inside from the snow, and studied the package.  Unfamiliar handwriting, return address from Seward, Alaska.

Inside was not Freddy, but another fruitcake of the same brand.  As far as anyone knew, we’d never spoken to Mr. Schmidt about the Great Fruitcake exchange but his relationship with reality was odd enough that I suppose that he could have been listening in.

*My best guess for the accent.  It was really more over-caffeinated goat than anything else.

(This story has been brought to you by a late-night coffe binge. If you’ve enjoyed it, please consider buying me a coffee?)

when ppl say ron can’t be bisexual bc he’s ‘canonically straight’ i’m just like ??????????

where ?? does it ??? say that ???????

like i’m sorry i must’ve completely skipped this part of the book: ‘He was tall, thin and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose. He was also the biggest heterosexual to ever heterosexual. “No homo!” he yelled when Harry approached, waving his straight pride flag in Harry’s face.’

by the way...

you’ve got your finger on the trigger but your trigger finger’s mine

This party is the first big, public party she’s been to with him. The first one with Shawn’s celebrity friends, the first one with press access and important wrist bands. And they’re not really there together. She’s not complaining; neither of them want to share their thing (relationship, her knowing subconscious supplies) with the whole world yet. Even only a limited number of Shawn’s friends really know what’s up with them, because it’s relatively new and they’re still exploring.

They’ve both already decided, though, that whatever it is, it’s too important to share with TMZ and ET and whatever other gazing eye or camera lens that might be turned their way.

They’ve been mingling separately for about an hour now, and she doesn’t think she’s even seen him since they showed up (separately, but together, amongst a crowd of his home friends). She’s not bad at mingling with celebrities alone - she’s good at curbing her enthusiasm and pretending she’s not quite as starstruck as she she feels. She sticks out like a sore thumb, in her humble opinion, but she’s mostly just glad no one’s asked her why she’s there, alone at a glitzy LA party.

She’s in the middle of drumming her fingers against the bar to the beat of the music, waiting for the bartender to mix her drink when she spots him a few feet away, sticking out in a the throng of people as he talks animatedly with his hands like he’s wont to do after a beer or two. Her stomach flips like she’s seeing him for the first time, and now she wishes she’d ordered a huge glass of ice water to sooth her suddenly dry throat.

She’ll never get over that, how she falls for him a little more each times she sees him. It’s part of the reason she’s even at this party, pretending she doesn’t really know him and hasn’t been seeing him naked regularly for the past five months. She’s fucked for him. Fallen harder for this gangle of limbs, pink lips, and brown curls than she would’ve guessed, no matter how taken with him she was when she first met him.

She’s been taken with men before. None have lasted quite so long before. And none of them have ever made her so eager to be vulnerable before. They’ve never made her feel safe enough for that. Shawn’s different. She’s still nervous around him, gets butterflies even five months along, but she’s never scared with him.

(She’d gotten so used to being scared.)

The bartender places her bellini near her fingertips and she hums a quiet, “Thank you,” before bringing the wide-brimmed glass to her lips. She lets her elbow rest back against the bar as she sips her drink and watches the crowd. She forces herself to avoid Shawn, has to convince herself she doesn’t need to watch him every second of the day like she desperately wants to.

It’s not like she’s trying to keep tabs on him, or something. She just likes looking. He’s such a pretty thing, with soft curling hair, pink full lips, and apple-round cheeks that flush any time she reminds him how good he makes her feel. She loves that he’s a performer because his job almost always gives her one reason or another to stare at him, to soak in as much of him as she can.

She likes watching the way he is with people, how he curbs his charm to appeal to whoever he’s talking to, adjusts his demeanor in order to connect to someone. He’s not always the smoothest– they both know he still stutters talking to a pretty girl, especially a pretty girl they both like– but he always manages to leave an impression, to leave whoever it is wanting more. It’s why he’s so good at his job, she supposes.

She needs to stop waxing poetic about her maybe-boyfriend in her own head as she scans the crowd for celebrities she might know. She’s trying to focus on the lyrics of the song beating in the background when she feels a body sidle up to hers at the bar. She’s mid sip when she gets the inclination to turn, has to finish drinking as she looks at the man ordering a beer next to her. She’s swallowing and lapping bellini from her top lip when he finally turns to look at her, catches her with her tongue swiping across her lips.

He smiles. She can’t pretend it’s not sexy.

She knows he’s not Adam Brody, but he looks a lot like Adam Brody. Tall, curly black hair, light blue eyes, strong jaw accented by a trimmed beard that trails down his throat and draws her eye to his adam’s apple. Well. She certainly has a bit of a crush.

She drags her eyes back up to his face, but decides she has to focus on his eyebrows as she talks to him, can’t stand to quite look him in the eye as she says, “Only beer? Nothing else behind this extensive bar could entice you?”

That gets her a low chuckle, and she focuses on the cool drink in her hand, has to ignore the flush blooming in her cheeks. The guy shrugs a bit as he turns to face her a bit more, resting his forearm on the bar as he says, “You caught me. I’m afraid I’m not so creative when it comes to alcohol.”

She takes a drink of her bellini as she listens to him, tries to ground herself in reality somehow because she hopes to god she’s not imagining his british accent in her head. She hadn’t noticed it with his murmured, “Beer, thanks,” earlier, but it almost knocks her over now that he’s speaking clearly and directly to her.

She clicks her tongue in response, tilts her head and asks, “When are you creative, then?” in a tone she knows is coy and flirty, but there’s no chance in hell of anything more than this exchange occurring, so she decides to have fun with it.

He ends up being a musician, like she could’ve predicted, but not much of a singer, he claims. He likes instruments, likes to compose, and is actually quite impressive with the range of orchestral instruments he can play. If she weren’t busy falling in love with someone else, British Adam Brody would be a perfect candidate for a fuck buddy.

So she puts her hand on his arm and laughs at his jokes and lets him tell the bartender that she’ll take another bellini. She wonders, briefly, if Shawn is watching her as she plays with this man like a cat does a mouse. She’s not doing this for that reason, to get his attention and make him jealous or whatever. She’s just playing her character– single girl at fancy L.A. party– and she’s actually having some fun. And, well, what else is supposed to do when she can’t talk to the guy she’s actually with?

She doesn’t think Shawn would be jealous, but for a moment, she worries. It isn’t an attractive trait, and she doesn’t want to go there with him, to have jealousy be a problem. It’s suffocating, when someone treats you like you belong to them, like a dog or a piece of chattel.

She doesn’t think Shawn would do that to her, she’s found him far too agapic for that, but she’s also never been in a situation quite like this before. She’s faking it, but she’s flirting with this guy and he’s taking the bait like the gullible dope he is, and she worries Shawn might be a bit gullible, too.

British Adam Brody orders another beer and slides himself closer to her in the process, and she’s close to excusing herself for the restroom when someone slaps a hand on his back in greeting and distracts him long enough for her to slip away, leaving her second bellini glass in her wake.

When she’s slipped far enough away to focus on the crowd before her, she easily spots Shawn looming over the crowd. She sees the broad expanse of his chest first and gives herself a moment to admire it as she steps towards him. She gets closer and tears her gaze from his chest, letting herself finally look at his face.

It’s not until their eyes lock that she realizes he’s already been looking at her, his gaze a breathtaking contrast of dark, yet amused. She’s not surprised by the dull throb she feels between her thighs as she manages to smile sweetly at him, not feigning innocence per se, but definitely not acknowledging her recent shenanigans.

She keeps her gaze on his, keeps smiling right at him as they get closer and his lips tug up into a little smirk she has to pretend doesn’t make her want to melt into the floor. She looks away from him as she dodges the group he’s with and walks past him, heading for the lounge area she noticed earlier.

It’s less crowded than where she was before near the bar, and there’s a free loveseat in the corner. Sitting there, she’s not facing the main party but rather a large, floor to ceiling window that showcases a devastating view of the ocean. She’d almost forgotten they were on the beach.

She’s busy watching the waves lap against the shore in the light of the moon when she feels a large, warm palm cup her shoulder. She swallows her startle and just tips her head slightly, opening herself to the room a bit as Shawn leans down over the back of the loveseat, bring his head near hers so he can murmur in her ear, “Having fun?”

His fingers curl into her skin as she smiles then wets her lower lip, turning her head a bit more so their noses are dangerously close to brushing. “That bartender makes a good bellini,” she replies seriously, as if she’s constantly on the search for the world’s best fruit & champagne mixed drinks.

She gets a chuckle from him as he pulls away, his hand falling from her shoulder and she has to stop herself from being so disappointed. They can’t touch while they’re here, not really. Not like she wants to, at least. She scooches to put some distance between them as he comes to sit next to her on the loveseat, and she has to ignore the little bemused look he gives her because she knows keeping a few extra inches between them is definitely more for her benefit than the party’s. No one would care, or even notice, if they were sitting thigh to thigh in the corner of this party, but she knows herself. Knows her thigh pressed to his is step one of ending up in his lap with her lips attached to the strong cut of his jaw. She doesn’t like to think of Shawn as a weakness, but in cases like this, he’s absolutely her demeanor’s Kryptonite.

“I was actually talking about your friend,” he continues once he’s settled, a smirk once again blooming on his lips as he slings an arm across the back of the small couch, resting closer to her shoulders than she’d like at the moment.

He doesn’t sound mad, or even vaguely peeved when he mentions British Adam Brody. Again, his expression is more one of amusement than envy, like he’s ready to discuss the prank they’re both planning on pulling later or something.

She has to stop herself from reaching over and carding her fingers through his hair as she turns to face him a bit more. She feels like she’s barely keeping herself together as she concedes, “He was pretty. British, too.”

Shawn’s laughing again, a bit fuller now because he knows she has a thing for English (and Scottish and Irish and Not-American) accents she won’t exactly admit to. She feels her cheeks flush but doesn’t act on it, just rolls her eyes a little as he finally manages to say, “Was he a wizard?”

He knows she hates it when he calls everyone with an English accent a wizard, and that’s why he still does it to this day, even though she stopped reacting and started playing along a few wizards ago.

She grins, runs her tongue across the front of her top teeth, then purrs, “I don’t think the wand was his instrument of choice, actually,” in a tone that sounds a bit more lewd than she’d intended, but it gets Shawn’s brow to raise nearly to his hairline before he grins and shakes his head, leaning back a bit more comfortable as he lets his hand drop casually to her shoulder, fingers dragging across her skin.

“I’m sure he was dying to show you his favorite instrument,” he matches, like he loves the idea of someone else being hot for his girl, loves that he knows she’s gonna pick him every time. Like he’s proud of himself for being so lucky, for accomplishing something as great as being her guy of choice.

His hand on her shoulder burns her skin and her paranoid mind tells her the whole party is watching them, when she knows the whole party doesn’t give a shit about them. Regardless, she has to take a moment before wrinkling her nose and shrugging a little, “To be fair, I was acting a bit interested in a private concert.”

Shawn’s grinning, and then he’s not, when he says, “Wait. You still mean sex, right?” And yeah, she loves him. The metaphor was getting stale, anyway.

She can’t stifle her laughter as she nods, and it’s Shawn’s turn to roll his eyes as he holds up a defensive hand and mumbles, “Okay, okay. I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Sorry,” she finally says, laughter dying down as she takes a breath, “I just think you’re cute.”

“And that British guy definitely thought he was gonna get laid,” Shawn deflects, bringing the conversation back to her game.

“How long were you watching us?”

“Long enough.”

“That’s creepy, babe.”

Shawn huffs a little, but the corner of his mouth is tugging up in a fond smile as he replies, “I didn’t have to watch him long to see him check you out.”

“Well, I do look pretty cute tonight,” she muses, looking down at herself.

She feels his fingertips against the angle of her jaw, fingers curling under her chin so he can guide her gaze to his. He looks heartbreakingly earnest when he finally says, “You look beautiful,” like he’s correcting a serious mistake she’s made.

She still blushes every time he says it, still can’t believe how sincerely he seems to mean it. She feels the heat in her cheeks and wonders if he’ll ever stop affecting her like this. The way he’s looking at her is stifling, and she has to look away whilst biting her lip, trying to keep herself from doing something stupid like kiss him.

He must realize how particularly intimate the moment is only once she’s turned away, and then his fingers fall quickly from her chin like she’s on fire and he’s burnt himself. Her eyes close for a moment, and she lets herself miss his touch as her lungs search for a calming breath.

She hears him clear his throat awkwardly and she wants to laugh. So she does– loudly, fully, brightly. Her head falls back as she does and she ends up leaning into the back of the couch, right into the crook of his arm.

Her laughter begins to subside and she blinks open her eyes to look up at Shawn as he starts to speak, “Are you laughing at me?”

She sucks in a breath, trying to stop her remnant giggles before she replies, “Only a little.”

“You were laughing a lot,” he corrects, his eyebrows raising.

“I was laughing at us,” she clarifies, settling more confidently into his side, then turning to face him a bit so she can see his pretty face clearly.

“At this,” she says as she lifts a hand vaguely between them, grinning like she might start laughing again. “It’s annoying, to have to pretend, but it’s also… Kind of funny. Like, is this how Hannah Montana feels?”

“Are you drunk?” is his only reply, even though he’s grinning at her like the sun shines out of her ass.

“I’m. Buzzed? Buzzed. Buzzed is a word. I’m buzzed.” Her cheeks hurt from smiling as she prattles on but she can’t stop. And she’s well aware it’s not really the two champagne-heavy bellinis making her act like this. Alcohol she can handle– it’s him she think she’s drunk on, now.

She missed him. She’s happy he’s here now, even if they’re going to have to break apart in the next two minutes before someone comes looking for him.

“You’re funny when you’re buzzed, Hannah,” Shawn teases, the smirk pulling on his lips causing her heart to stutter before her humming brain can come up with some sort of retaliation.

“I’m funny always, Jake Ryan,” she goes with, arching a challenging eyebrow.

Shawn’s face drops, lips drooping to a frown as his brow wrinkles and he asks, “Who’s Jake Ryan?”

She could’ve guessed that he wouldn’t know, but she sounds much snappier when she answers, “Hannah Montana’s boyfriend!” with an eyebrow raise that says, ‘Duh!’

(And so what if she’s never actually said the word ‘boyfriend’ to him before?)

His eyebrows raises in response for a moment like he’s trying to process what she’s said, but then he grins and says, “Okay.”


“I’m Jake Ryan,” is all he says back, smiling like he’s got a stupid secret he doesn’t want to keep hiding.

“Actually, Jake Ryan was Miley’s boyfriend because Hannah Montana didn’t have a boyfriend. So If I’m Hannah, then… Wait, hm. Actually– no. Yeah. I don’t remember. I guess it doesn’t matter,” she finishes with a shrug and the devastating urge to rest her head on his shoulder and let him carry her home when they’re ready to go.

Despite his disgusting adorable laughter at her rambling, she forces herself to remain upright, to stay only generally tucked into his side rather than halfway in his lap like she wants to be.

She hears him say, “I hate this,” as his laughter subsides, and she looks up at him, giving him a frown and her best puppy dog eyes.

“You hate hanging out with me?”

He scoffs, shakes his head, “I hate hanging out with you when we can’t like. Be ourselves.” He looks forlorn when he finishes, like someone just told him he’s not allowed to have his favorite food anymore or something. Well, sadder than that. She likes to think he likes her more than food. If only a little.

“Yep,” she nods, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis, “This blows.”

With that, Shawn shifts beside her, pulls his arm from her shoulders and stands up before turning to her, offering a hand for her to take as he says, “Let’s go.”

She blinks, thinks maybe she’s more drunk than she thought and is imagining it. It’s real, though, and he’s standing there waiting for her to slip her palm against his. She laughs as she says, “Go where?”

Shawn smiles, slow and smooth again like he’s got a secret, then says, “To the hotel.”

She bites her lip as she watches him, says, “People will see if we leave together,” but takes his hand and pulls herself up anyway.

He doesn’t let her keep any space between them once she’s standing, instead pulls her close and wraps his free hand around her waist. She cranes her neck to keep her gaze on his like she always does when they’re this close, then watches his smile change into something more serious as he lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug.

“I don’t care if you don’t,” he murmurs, fingers curling into her side like she’ll float away if he doesn’t hang on to her.

“I don’t care. Like, at all,” she replies, presses herself even closer to his chest.

“Good,” he starts, keeping her close as he starts for the exit, “Because when we get back I’m gonna spread you out and make you come harder than that asshole from the bar ever could.”

Well, she can’t argue with that.

He keeps her close as he guides her to the door, and she decides that maybe a little jealousy doesn’t hurt, after all.

—    bold   all   physical   traits   that   apply   to   your   muse.

        tagged by:


eyes (general):     large   /   small   /   narrow   /   sharp   /   squinty   /   round   /   wide-set   /   close-set   /   deep-set   /   sunken   /   bulging   /   protruding   /   wide   /   hooded   /   heavy-lidded   /   bright   /   sparkling   /   glittering   /   flecked   /   dull   /   bleary   /   rheumy   /   cloudy   /   red-rimmed   /   beady   /   bird-like   /   cat-like   /   jewel-like   /   steely   /   hard   /   long lashes   /   sweeping eyelashes   /   thick eyelashes

eyes (color):     chestnut   /   chocolate brown   /   cocoa brown   /   coffee brown   /   mocha   /   mahogany   /   sepia   /   sienna brown   /   mink brown   /   copper   /   amber   /   cognac   /   whiskey   /   brandy   /   honey   /    tawny   /   topaz   /   hazel   /   obsidian   /   onyx   /   coal   /   raven   /   midnight   /   sky blue   /   sunny blue   /   cornflower blue   /   steel blue   /   ice blue   /   arctic blue   /   glacial blue   /   crystal blue   /   cerulean   /   electric blue   /   azure   /   lake blue   /   aquamarine   /   turquoise   /   denim blue   /   slate blue / slate gray   /   storm blue / storm gray   /   silver   /   silver gray   /   chrome   /   platinum   /   pewter   /   smoky gray   /   ash gray   /   concrete gray   /   dove gray   /   shark gray   /   fog gray   /   gunmetal gray   /   olive   /   emerald   /   leaf green   /   moss green

eyebrows:     arched   /   straight   /   plucked   /   sparse   /   trim   /   dark   /   faint   /   thin   /   thick   /   unruly   /   bushy   /   heavy

skin (general):     lined   /   wrinkled   /   seamed   /   leathery   /   sagging   /   drooping   /   loose   /   clear   /   smooth   /   silken   /   satiny   /   dry   /   flaky   /   scaly   /   delicate   /   thin   /   translucent   /   luminescent   /   baby-soft   /   flawless   /   small pores   /   large pores   /   glowing   /   dewy   /   dull   /   velvety   /   fuzzy   /   rough   /   uneven   /   mottled   /   dimpled   /   doughy   /   firm   /   freckled   /   pimply   /   pockmarked   /   blemished   /   pitted   /   scarred   /   bruised   /   veined   /   scratched   /   sunburned   /   weather-beaten   /   raw   /   tattooed

skin (color):     amber   /   bronze   /   cinnamon   /   copper   /   dark brown   /   deep brown   /   ebony   /   honey   /   golden   /   pale   /   pallid   /   pasty   /   fair   /   light   /   cream   /   alabaster   /   ivory   /   bisque   /   milk   /   porcelain   /   chalky   /   sallow   /   olive   /   peach   /   rosy   /   ruddy   /   florid   /   russet   /   tawny   /   fawn

face structure:     square   /   round   /   oblong   /   oval   /   elongated   /   narrow   /   heart-shaped   /   cat-like   /   wolfish   /   high forehead   /   broad forehead   /   prominent brow ridge   /   protruding brow bone   /   sharp cheekbones   /   high cheekbones   /   angular cheekbones   /   hollow cheeks   /   square jaw   /   chiseled   /   sculpted   /   craggy   /   soft   /   jowly   /   jutting chin   /   pointed chin   /   weak chin   /   receding chin   /   double chin   /   cleft chin   /   dimple in chin   /   visible adam’s apple

nose:     snub   /   dainty   /   button   /   turned-up   /   long   /   broad   /   thin   /   straight   /   pointed   /   crooked   /   aquiline   /   roman   /   bulbous   /   flared   /   hawk   /   strong

mouth/lips:     thin   /   narrow   /   full   /   lush   /   cupid’s bow   /   rosebud   /   dry   /   cracked   /   chapped   /   moist   /   glossy   /   straight teeth   /   crooked teeth   /   gap between teeth   /   gleaming white teeth   /   yellowed teeth   /   braces   /   overbite   /   underbite   /   dimples

facial hair:     clean-shaven   /   smooth-shaven   /   beard   /   neckbeard   /   goatee   /   moustache   /   sideburns   /   mutton-chop sideburns   /   stubble   /   a few days’ growth of beard   /   five o’ clock shadow

hair (general):     long   /   short   /   shoulder-length   /   loose   /   limp   /   dull   /   shiny   /   glossy   /   sleek   /   smooth   /   luminous   /   lustrous   /   spiky   /   stringy    /   shaggy   /   tangled   /   messy   /   tousled   /   windblown   /   unkempt   /   straggly   /   neatly combed   /   parted   /   slicked down   /   slicked back   /   cropped   /   clipped   /   buzzed   /   buzz cut   /   curly   /   bushy   /   frizzy   /   wavy   /   straight   /   lanky   /   dry   /   oily   /   greasy   /   layers   /   corkscrews   /   spirals   /   ringlets   /   braids   /   dreadlocks   /   widow’s peak   /   bald   /   shaved   /   comb-over   /  thick   /   luxuriant   /   voluminous   /   full   /   wild   /   untamed   /   bouncy   /   wispy   /   fine   /   thinning

hair (color):     black   /   blue-black   /   jet black   /   raven   /   ebony   /   inky black   /   midnight   /   sable   /   salt and pepper   /   silver   /   silver gray   /   charcoal gray   /   steel gray   /   white   /   snow-white   /   brown   /   brunette   /   chocolate brown   /   coffee brown   /   ash brown   /   brown sugar   /   nut brown   /   caramel   /   tawny brown   /   toffee brown   /   red   /   ginger   /   auburn   /   copper   /   strawberry blonde   /   butterscotch   /   honey   /   wheat   /   blonde   /   golden   /   sandy blond   /   flaxen   /   fair-haired   /   bleached   /   platinum

body type:     tall   /   average height   /   short   /   petite   /   tiny   /   compact   /   big   /   large   /   burly   /   beefy   /   bulky   /   brawny   /   barrel-chested   /   heavy   /   heavy-set   /   fat   /   overweight   /   obese   /   flabby   /   chunky   /   chubby   /   pudgy   /   pot-bellied   /   portly   /   thick   /   stout   /   lush   /   plush   /   full-figured   /   ample   /   rounded   /   voluptuous   /   curvy   /   hourglass   /   plump   /   leggy   /   long-legged   /   gangling   /   lanky   /   coltish   /   lissome   /   willowy   /   lithe   /   lean   /   slim   /   slender   /   trim   /   thin   /   skinny   /   emaciated   /   gaunt   /   bony   /   spare   /   solid   /   stocky   /   wiry   /   rangy   /   sinewy   /   stringy   /   ropy   /   sturdy   /   strapping   /   powerful   /   hulking   /   fit   /   athletic   /   toned   /   muscular   /   chiseled   /   taut   /   ripped   /   herculean   /   broad-shouldered   /   sloping shoulders   /   bowlegged

hands:     delicate   /   small   /   large   /   square   /   sturdy   /   strong   /   smooth   /   rough   /   calloused   /   elegant   /   plump   /   manicured   /   stubby fingers   /   long fingers   /   ragged nails   /   grimy fingernails   /   ink-stained

@squorkal I did my best with the boys in your style. I think I made some slight differences to Louie and Huey’s hair. 

I just couldn’t resist giving my son bangs. 

And Louie, I feel, would need to be bribed in order to cut his hair because otherwise he just wouldn’t bother.

Teen Ducks is such a fun idea to work with. And if it’s alright with everyone present I’d like to impart some head canons of mine in regards to the Duck teen years.

Duck anatomy is weird and wonderful. I wanted, here, to put some of the effects of duck puberty on display.

ie: sort of mish-mash the canon “kid” model with the canon adult.

  • So their feet and hands are bigger. This is normal for human teens, and honestly I think it’s flipping adorable.
  • Their necks are longer, like an older ducks, but not quite there yet. Similarly, their tail feathers are starting to sprout properly and their bills are beginning to grow.
  • Their legs and arms are long and gangling. 


@robinine-blog​ I don’t know if you recall, but I mentioned a while back that I headcanoned that Huey would actually grow up with a strong body type/build.  

This is because his character is a perfectionist. In his teen years, Huey works hard to eat healthy and stay fit, as a proper scout would.  

And after all, how is one supposed to adventure and solve mysteries to the best of their ability if they aren’t in peak physical condition?

So Huey begins to strive toward that ideal. He packs his own, his brothers and even Webby’s lunches everyday, and gets mad when they don’t eat their lovingly prepared meals in favor of school cafeteria junk. 

He’s one of those early morning joggers. And one day he asks Mrs Beakley politely if he may be permitted to train under her alongside Webby. It’s one of the worst decisions of his life, but he powers through and it starts getting easier.

He’s also something of a semi-model student. I say “semi” because he still gets into a fair bit of trouble, as to be expected from a member of the Duck/McDuck family.

He runs for class president every year but never wins. It’s usually because his brothers and Webby are insistent on helping his campaign.

His best subjects are History, Home Economics and Woodshop.

Don’t talk to him about his “worst” subjects. If he gets a grade below an A he dubs it sub-par. If he gets a grade below B you might think someone had died.

Teachers know not to refuse him a chance at extra credit. ^

Most kids give him a wide berth ever since one substitute did not take into account the aforementioned. ^ 

But some bullies still bother him. His response is typically the cold shoulder, if they’re just trying to annoy him.

Often has to bail Dewey and Louie out of fights.

Once a teacher called Dewey a “hopeless case” right to his face and needed to be taken to the ER with a staple embedded in their nose. Donald bought him a new model airplane when Huey came home on suspension and told him what happened.


Someone get this kid a sandwich.

^ I say because Dewey has all the energy, none of the appetite and all of the metabolic rate. For being sporty, boundless and always ready to start trouble Dewey is actually pretty scrawny in his teen years. Eventually he’ll grow into a similar body type to Scrooge and Donald. 

Underdog Jock. Whether its a football match, dodgeball or even wrestling Dewey is this. Nobody roots for him, but everyone secretly knows he’ll end up winning anyway. Is it pure determination or hidden skill? Probably the former. But whatever drove this kid when he was ten drives him into highschool and beyond. Dewey comes out on top.

He calls himself a serial romantic. He tries.

He’s not in any clubs. He spends his time during recess out on the field, usually playing soccer or challenging people to races. Spends a lot of time with Webby, who accepts every challenge he throws at her.

King of cross country. This kid can run.

His best subjects are PhysEd, Electronics and, surprisingly to most, Home Economics alongside Huey. They make a pretty good team in the kitchen, combining Dewey’s creativity with Huey’s caution with the stove. Dewey has a good nose for spices.

His worst subjects are Languages, English and History. He has no problems with this.

Gets injured often. Very often. He could walk you all the way to the nurses office if you blindfolded him and spun him around on the spot until he fell over from dizziness.

Picks fights with people who give either of his brothers or Webby so much as a stink eye.


He’s the guy you go to to get things.

Louie wears his waistcoat instead of his hoodie because the teachers grew suspicious of him hiding things in his sleeves. Occasionally the grouchy PE teacher, who has it out for him, will ask him to turn out his pockets in the hall. Louie turns out his outside pockets.

He has pockets stitched onto the inside of his waistcoat.

He sells the things he hides in his pockets. Candy. Concert Tickets you thought had been sold out. Cheat papers. Information.

Gets everything from threats of a beating to sappy love letters slipped into his locker. He doesn’t pay attention to any of the threatening ones, unless he finds them funny. He usually gives the letters back to his admirers with a lollipop and a soft “no thanks”.

Knows the first names of the lunch ladies and the names of all their pets, children and grandchildren. Gets free food all the time.

Lowkey had a crush on his Spanish teacher.

Spanish is a subject he’s very good at. As well as Language Arts, English and Mathematics.

Has been banned from Home Economics.

Has been banned from all vending machines.

Knows how to get two for the price of one from all vending machines.

He’s getting a little chubby. But running around the world with Scrooge keeps him in shape. PE isn’t his worst subject.

Has a lot of trouble with a lot of kids. People out to get him into trouble. Or out to give him a black eye. Either way, he can handle himself in a brawl if the other guy is the same size or thereabout. But if the guy’s bigger… He’s just lucky the big guys aren’t smart enough to know not to mess with him when his brothers are nearby.

Phew! That was a long one. Sorry, folks. But! That’s all I’ve got so you can be thankful it’s over now.

Winifred, English Setter (6 y/o), Norwich, VT • “Her full name is ‘Winifred Gangles the Snuggle Smuggler’ – she’s actually registered as that. I got her from the pound when she was a year old. She spends all of her time at top speed.”

anonymous asked:

Domestic jupeter headcanons?

  • it is cold on mars, and peter a) doesn’t own many warm socks and b) is a thief. so he just steals juno’s, which has the added benefit of forcing juno to buy new socks and do his laundry a little more often because before that peter was complaining constantly about the state of the socks which he had stolen, peter
  • when peter has a place he’s actually returning to, he becomes a squirrel. there are caches of various tools and clothes and food items everywhere in juno’s apartment. it is actually kind of a problem. there are knives in the couch, peter. peter.
  • “I can’t take you anywhere,” juno says, somewhat impressed, as peter empties at least four tables’ worth of silverware from the restaurant they went to out of his pockets (and also a doorknob, and a dog collar, and someone’s wallet, which juno makes him return.)
  • peter is, so far unsuccessfully, trying to teach juno to break out of handcuffs (it doesn’t help that juno probably enjoys being in the handcuffs a little too much)
  • they flirt by bickering
  • constantly
  • “can you please stop feeding every animal that shows up on the fire escape?” - juno, frequently
  • “when you buy some groceries worth feeding to a human being, darling,” - peter, usually
  • peter thinks juno’s penchant for tasteless art is the single funniest, most endearing thing he’s ever seen. he occasionally shows up with pieces whose previous owners are probably glad to see them gone. juno is equally touched and annoyed that his boyfriend wants him to hang stolen goods on his walls
  • juno gets back at peter for stealing his stuff (like his toothbrush, and his last expired PI license, and his socks) by pilfering peter’s jewelry, mostly stud earrings and any rings that look like they could break a nose. peter retaliates by painting juno’s nails when he has things he needs to be doing with his hands
  • casual touches!!! all the time!!!
  • c a s u a l  k i s s e s
  • “move out of the doorway I need to get through” “not until you kiss me”
  • peter is always careful to be uncharacteristically loud when he’s approaching on juno’s blind side so that he doesn’t surprise him
  • living with juno is basically like living with an alcoholic cat, including the bits where the cat starts running around like a maniac for no reason and then stares at the wall for three hours
  • peter’s good at expressing affection through words and gifts. juno gravitates more towards doing things for and with peter.
  • juno starts cooking a lot more often. he was always good at it and now he makes a bit more of an effort, getting rita to help him scrounge up recipes from places peter has mentioned he’s visited, places he’s mentioned he wants to. he doesn’t want hyperion city to close in too much around peter, does his best to bring a little of the universe in.
  • juno is exactly the right height that peter can sneak up behind him while he’s cooking and put his chin on top of juno’s head, like the smug gangle he is
  • peter usually enters via the windows (there are so many cameras at street level). this makes juno yell a lot
  • they honestly just like being together and sitting on the sofa half on top of one another and swapping stories for hours
fic: Of Sunsets and Swings

title: of sunsets and swings

genre: reality/tiniest bit of angst if you squint

word count: 2300

description: a little getaway cements an idea they’ve had for a while now and brings a sense of relief they never expected to feel. (ft. mother lester, some jetlag and a couple of swings)

“I find some irony in being in a kid’s park while we make this very grown-up decision.”

Keep reading

student info: Junk, the student assistant librarian

The library is an odd place, and the librarians are an odd bunch. There’s the research librarian who hunts monsters; there’s the one who smells like fig newtons and seems to live and breathe books and only books, as if bound somehow to the library itself; there’s the… some guy, you think, who helps with reshelving (and “some guy” is not at all an accurate description of… whoever or whatever he is, but you don’t dare risk any other description) and, of course, the head librarian. The head librarian is called Irons, and her name suits her. Mrs. Irons is rarely seen, but when she does show up, everything- everything- falls silent. They say Mrs. Irons once shushed the Wild Hunt. You almost believe it. They say she learned the true name of one of the Gentry, and put him to work in the library as an unpaid intern. You don’t know about that, but you don’t look up when you hear some guy shuffling a book cart around the shelves.

And then there’s the student assistant librarian.

The student assistant librarian is exhausted and stressed all the time. Usually she says her name is Junk, but sometimes she gets confused and introduces herself as something else instead- not ever her true name, no, just whatever she happens to blurt out. She’s used to false names. She wears boots with iron hobnails and sweaters inside out and cargo pants with a hundred things in their pockets; her hair is usually uncombed but always smells of witch hazel. She’s tall, but she has the sort of permanent stoop you get from keeping your eyes on the ground all your life. She’s personable, but she doesn’t do well when conversations go off script. She never makes eye contact, and her dark eyes move oddly when she looks around- as though there are things in the room she wants to avoid seeing. She lies as often as she tells the truth, seemingly without reason. Her lies are always either entirely inconsequential or unconvincing to the point of absurdity, but she always delivers them with the same impossibly straight face.

The job is minimum-wage work study; you’re not sure how many hours they’re even allowed to give a student each week, but it seems like Junk is always in the library. There’s a dingy old microwave behind the circulation desk and a pile of clothes from the lost and found that could conceivably be a bed, if you’re an exhausted college student who doesn’t want to risk the trek back across campus at three in the morning. (Any time but three in the morning, freshmen quickly learn- you can be a night owl all you like, but three in the morning is not our time.) 

The student assistant librarian, whose name is usually Junk, is on the brink of flunking all her classes and always behind on reshelving. This is understandable. She is a student and an assistant librarian, but the real task of the student assistant librarian has little to do with either of those things. The library is an odd place and it is full of odd things, things odder even than the librarians. It is the task of the student assistant librarian to provide protection between the library and the students. She wanders the shelves with silver studs in her ears, washers on a chain around her neck, salt in her boots, a hand-crank flashlight in her pocket, and a crumpled guide to the Dewey Decimal system in her hand. She recites a poem as she walks, not because it keeps her safe but just because it’s her favorite stim: feeling the rhymes and rhythms on her own tongue, finding the patterns, finding the sense. It helps keep her calm- and she needs to be calm when she walks the shelves. 

She finds the students who have wandered into danger; she finds the danger that has wandered into the library. She sorts things out. She chews her lips bloody inside every time she goes into the deep shelves, but she sorts things out. She knows exactly how to deal with the Gentry, and exactly how to avoid dealing with them. She is not all-powerful, nor does she think of herself as particularly heroic, but she is smart and she is stubborn and when you are in her library you will be safe.

There’s a rumor that Junk was born with the Sight. You’re not sure if that’s true- you’re not sure if that’s possible- but when you look at her, this strange gangling girl who strides into the deep shelves every night for minimum wage and strides back out again with lost students at her side, this girl who knows every rule for every interaction with the Gentry, this girl that lies as easily as breathing and once accidentally introduced herself as Captain Kirk, this girl that you once saw crying into a cup of E-Z Mac behind the circulation desk… when you look at her, you think that if anyone was ever born with the Sight, it was probably Junk.

You do not envy her that.

She has a cat, officially registered with the school as a support animal for her autism. It is grey, a bit chubby, incredibly loving, dumb as a box of rocks and about as energetic, and all in all one of the most aggressively mundane animals you’ve ever seen. Perhaps that’s why the Gentry have never messed with it- or maybe that’s because Junk has always ensured that the cat is as protected as it is possible for any animal to be: an iron-buckled collar of brass bells, fur washed with witch hazel water she’s left in the moonlight, salt packets sewn into its support animal vest, no name given, and always at her side. It does not chase mice in the library. It does not chase anything at all, nor has it ever attempted to drink or eat from the offerings that students leave out. Maybe, upon reflection, it isn’t actually that dumb.

On the occasions she actually manages to make it to class, she usually falls asleep on her tiny desk within ten minutes. Even in small classes, most of her classmates don’t want to wake her. Student assistant librarian is not an easy job, and it is only decency to allow her rest where she can find it. Her grades suffer, but she will return to the library for her shift, and when you are in her library, you will be safe.

Junk doesn’t have a major. Even after two years, she’s still muddling through her gen eds. She doesn’t often talk about her family- at least, she doesn’t often tell the truth about them- but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love them. Sometimes, at Elsewhere, it’s best to keep the things you love secret. Her family, whoever they are, wherever they are, are proud that their daughter made it to university. They do not know about her job, or the duty that comes along with it. They especially do not know about her grades.

Finals week is hard on everyone, but it also means that the number of students in the library increases tenfold- and so does the number of other things. Finals week is the most dangerous time of year, more dangerous even than the ravages of Spring Break, and it is the duty of the student assistant librarian to provide protection between the library and the students. She stays up all night herding the desperate studiers out of the unsafe places; she takes her exams as quickly as she can (too quickly) and then races back to the library to fetch those who have gone missing in her absence. It is not uncommon to see Junk full-on sprinting down the campus sidewalks during finals week, lanky limbs akimbo, hair wild, cat peeking out of her backpack. As hard as she runs, though, she never cuts a corner from the safe pathways. 

Not a single student has been Taken* from the library since she started work- an unprecedented record. She’s proud of that, even and especially on days when she’s too exhausted to put three sentences together, let alone write a timed essay. It seems unfair to give a job like this to a full-time student, and it is- but there is something about it that’s vital that the student assistant librarian must be both student and librarian. They must be a go-between. They must walk both worlds. They must provide protection.

(*She found a philosophy student halfway to the Barony once, miles past the marble palace in the reference section. He was lost and glamour-dazed, but not yet Taken, not all the way. She gave him half the sandwich she had in her pocket (the other half went back into the pocket, just in case) and led him back to the circulation desk in time for the end of night shift- the journey had been several days, she was certain, but time passed differently in the library. Two weeks later, the same philosophy student went missing from a party, and never reappeared. Junk couldn’t do anything about that; he wasn’t in her library. But no one gets taken from her library.)

Junk never asks for anything in return from the students she rescues from the deep shelves- it is her duty, after all, and duty means a bargain bigger, more binding, and more sacred than any trade between students. Still, it might be a good idea to help her with her classwork. After all, if she flunks out, the school is unlikely to get another student assistant librarian like this one.


((Hope this is alright! Wasn’t sure how to submit this but… Junk and Mrs. Irons are original characters of mine, sliding into Elsewhere University AU-wise. Anyone who wants to can find out more about them and their other lives (and talk to Junk!) at my blog @deweydeadcimal.))

That’s What We Do - (post-TLJ Kylux)

Classic Kylux  /  Rated T  / 2100 words

Mission objective: get Ren to his quarters quickly and without anyone noticing that their new Supreme Leader was drunk off his arse.

Surely Hux does not get paid enough for this.

Hux finds him in the audience chamber.

They’ve retreated back to the Finalizer after that cock-up on Crait, their new Supreme Leader shouting at anyone within earshot that he wasn’t to be disturbed. They’ve managed to rout the Resistance, reduced them to a group small enough to cram inside a single junk freighter, but the sheer fact that any of them survived at all when he had the number, the ships, the opportunity to reduce them to nothing. It was… sloppy. Poor form, given the resources expended. The casualties.

The waste of it galls at him, nagging like the sharp edge of the tooth that he’d chipped when Ren threw him into that damn console. He keeps running his tongue over it.

They would have to do better. And so, Hux takes his life into his own hands.

“Supreme leader,” the words stick behind his teeth and have to be forced out, “We need to discuss our next move. The galaxy is watching to see what you will do next.”

No response except the faint echo of his own voice.

Ren wasn’t here.

Hux had expected to find him lounging on his throne, relishing his stolen power. (That ten-stone scavenger girl killed my master Snoke and oh dear I just couldn’t stop her his arse.) It’s what he would have done, anyway.

He pauses. Glances around the audience chamber for good measure. It isn’t as grand as the one on Starkiller Base, but it’s dark and suitably ominous all the same. Snoke had a very particular aesthetic.

“Ren?” This isn’t the time to play hide and seek you overgrown child, if you leap out of the darkness at me I swear to the maker I’m going to punch you in the face and claim it was an accident-

And there- a faint sinusy sound, like a cough or maybe a snort.

“Supreme Leader Ren?” Hux tries again, trying to layer honey over the words and only succeeding in making them sticky.

Another sound, this one closer to a sob.

He approaches the low dais holding the empty throne, the sound of his own boots on durasteel echoing around the empty room. Zeroing in on the sound, Hux finds him.

The Supreme Leader is sitting on his arse on the floor, wedged into the little corner between the throne and the wall immediately behind it. He’s got one long leg sprawled across the floor, the other drawn up so that he can rest his head on his knee.

Ren makes another wet sound and Hux realizes he’s crying.

“Get up,” Hux says, flat.

Ren mutters something that sounds like fuck you.

“This is unseemly. Get up.”

Ren laughs, a weak, throaty sound. “You don’ get to tell me to… what to do, Hu-cks.”

He’s slurring. Swaying a little where he sits.


“You are embarrassing yourself-”

“I’m Supreme Leader now.” Ren continues loudly, not listening, before mumbling into his knee, “No- nobody getss tell me… what to do.”

“Yes, you are.” Tension is building in the hinge of his jaw. If anyone saw Ren like this the First Order would be a laughingstock. Their Supreme Leader drunk and pathetic, crying over his failures- all of high command would be a joke. “And right now you’re a disgrace. Go to bed, Ren.”

Ren growls and waves an arm and there’s a momentary surge of adrenaline- of fear - but all that happens is a light pressure, like somebody had bumped into him in a crowd. Ren glares up at him myopically, eyes red and unfocused, and waves again. Sloppy. Uncoordinated.

Another bump. Hux rocks back a half-step.

“F-fuck you, Hux-” Ren buries his face in his knee again, hugging both arms around his bent leg.

Keep reading

marmolita  asked:

How about something about Gladio and Ignis or other Citadel-related people handling the fact that puberty turned Noctis from a cute kid into a really surprisingly attractive young man?

Author’s Notes: I’m… not sure if this is at all what you wanted? H-haha, sorry. orz Anyway, thank you for the prompt, and sorry this got so long and rambly. ^^




Puberty comes late to the crown prince of Lucis. At fifteen, he still looks like a child, with a certain softness to his face and a slenderness to his build.

He tries to beg his way out of school picture day, because he knows well enough that, when he stands beside his classmates, he’ll be shorter than all but a handful.

Then comes sixteen, and with it all the trappings of adulthood. Per the king’s instructions, Ignis begins briefing Noct in more expansive matters of state: in boundary disputes and diplomacy; in civic planning and rules of law.

It’s as though Noct’s body rushes to catch up with the responsibility.

He grows a foot in two months; his limbs take on the gangling, awkward look of adolescent puppies. He has to be measured for an entire new wardrobe, and then another, several months after that.

Ignis notes the razor that rests by the bathroom sink now, a point of pride, though he doubts that Noct has much call to use it. He notes the frequency with which the maids have to change His Highness’ sheets, and he sighs, reminds himself of the hormone-driven days he was more than happy to leave behind, and sits Noctis down for the most embarrassing conversation that he has ever had call to engage in with another human being.

It lasts for half an hour. It focuses primarily on responsibilities, and the importance of maintaining the royal lineage. It covers the unpleasant effects of certain sexually transmitted diseases, and what measures should be taken in order to avoid scandal. 

It ends with Noctis in possession of a box of condoms. 

It ends with the knowledge that Noct can turn that peculiar shade of dahlia pink, heretofore unseen.


The damn kid has a fan club. 

Gladio’s not sure when it happened, but hell if it isn’t the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

Iris comes home from school one day, all worked up about it, and Gladio knows by now exactly which way to prod to get his sister to talk about whatever she’s excited about. She’s bad at hiding it; that’s just the kind of person she is. If she’s into something, it comes bubbling up out of her.

So he prods, and she begs off answering, and then two hours later, she comes back around while Gladio’s reading in his father’s study. She sits herself down on the couch, and she says, “I wasn’t the one who started it,” and Gladio feels his eyebrow go up.

Iris launches into a tale of intrigue and betrayal, one that ends with two of the most popular girls at their school founding the Prince Noctis Fan Club.

And what else was she going to do? She has to keep an eye on them, to make sure they’re not doing anything that’ll be bad for Noct’s good name. So she joined, too. She might not be first in line to be Shield, but she can shield the prince from some things, at least.

Gladio tells her that she did the right thing.

He agrees that it’s best she keep tabs on membership, for Noct’s sake. 

He sees her to the door, and he closes it behind her, and he sits back down with his book.

Then he laughs so hard tears roll down his cheeks, and bites his thumb to keep from being loud about it.

And when Iris’ class comes to the Citadel on their field trip, he cajoles Noct into playing tour guide.


Noct’s new apartment looks like a space that can be lived in, finally.

The cardboard boxes scattered haphazardly across the floor have long been unpacked. Their contents fill the shelves. Ignis saw to most of it, fiddling with considerations such as convenience and aesthetics, while Noct played games on his sofa.

That’s months in the past, now. On the occasions when the space is clean, it actually looks quite nice.

The young man that stands in the center of it, in his trim black suit and sloppy tie, looks at home here. It’s done Noct a world of good, getting some space for himself outside the Citadel.

The new living arrangements come with several specific unfortunate downsides, however. Among them: the time between coaxing Noctis from bed and him walking through the door to the Council’s chamber has dramatically increased.

Ignis glances him over, with a critical eye.

He looks half awake, still. His hair has been gelled, but there’s a certain sloppiness to the way it’s been teased into its peaks and valleys. His face is washed, but the concealer and eyeliner the prince sometimes takes pains to apply is conspicuously absent, abandoned in favor of a few more minutes in bed. The tie knotted at his throat, a beautiful silken blue, looks as though it’s been arranged by a five year old.

“Honestly, Noct,” says Ignis, and steps forward to straighten it up.

His fingers slide against the silk; his touches are brisk and businesslike. But he’s aware of Noct’s eyes on him, that curious shade of night-sky blue. He’s aware of long lashes that truly don’t need the help of the eyeliner. He’s aware of the way Noct’s lips curve up at the corner into a smile, fond and familiar.

Suddenly, Ignis isn’t certain when the chubby toddler he played with as a child turned into this young man before him, who looks every inch the dashing prince from the pages of a fairy tale.

“You do it better, anyway,” says Noct.

Ignis steps back and admires his handwork; the tie is crisp and even, and Noctis looks very much the young gentleman.

“There,” he says. “That will serve.”

It will more than serve. 

His Highness has a photo shoot for a popular girl’s magazine next week. Ignis makes a mental note to ensure they fit this tie into the wardrobe.

It complements the blue of Noct’s eyes quite nicely, indeed.


They’re in the middle of training when Noct loses the shirt.

Gladio doesn’t blame him; it’s hot as hell, and they’ve been going at it for damn near an hour and a half. He stripped out of his own at the start of the session, and he’s still sweating buckets.

But Noct hardly ever ditches his.

If Gladio had to guess, he’d say it probably has something to do with the mess of a scar halfway down the kid’s back. It’s pretty badass, honestly, but he there’s no telling what’ll set someone off. 

Whatever the reason, Noct keeps the shirt on, most days. He hasn’t taken it off in training for – hell, probably almost four years now.

He was a scrawny scrap of a thing, last time Gladio saw him without it, but those days, it looks like, are long in the past.

He’s filled out, that’s for sure. The shoulders are broader, and the abdomen is all lean muscle. However much Gladio gets on him to lay off the pizza, he doesn’t need to. Sure, he’s not ripped. Gladio knows for damn sure he can bench press four times what Noct can pull off, easy.

But Noct’s trained in just about every weapon in the armory, and it shows. He’s built like a gymnast, all sleek power. 

It’s a good look on him. No wonder his fan club’s having its three year anniversary next week.

When Noct glances up and catches him looking, Gladio gives an unimpressed snort.

“Gonna have to step up arm day,” he says. “Can’t have the crown prince flexing with those noodle arms.”

“Noodle arms,” says Noct. “Right.” There’s a flash of blue, and the biggest great sword in the Armiger flickers to life in his hands. It’s as long as Noct is. When they started, he could barely lift it, but now he falls into his stance, massive blade out before him, head tipped up in challenge. “That sounds to me like an invite to knock you on your ass.”

Gladio feels himself grinning. He calls up his own sword in one hand – uses the other to crook his fingers, the world’s universal come-get-some gesture. “Bring it, princess. Let’s see what you’ve got.”


The Accordan ambassador is tall and amiable, and entirely too familiar with the prince.

At dinner, he’s seated to Noct’s left, and he spends the meal leaning in closer than is proper. After, he blames the drink; Lucian wine, he claims, is far more powerful than what he’s grown accustomed to.

Ignis, who counts himself something of an expert on vintages, knows very well that the alcohol content from most Accordan wines is much higher, but for propriety’s sake, he presses his lips together and says nothing.

After the meal, King Regis and his son retire to the lounge to entertain the visiting diplomat. There are certain concessions in the upcoming trade deal that His Majesty hopes to lay the groundwork for, off the books.

Ignis won’t be needed for the remainder of the evening. He’s free to retire to his own quarters, and nothing pressing requires his attention. It could be one of those rare few early nights, if he so chooses.

Instead, he lingers in the grand hall, seating himself where the tour groups pass to and fro, during daylight hours. Now, the there are no curious eyes about to see the sights. Now, the Citadel is nearly empty.

He’s not certain what he’s waiting for.

He idles there far longer than he can excuse as fancy, tapping notes to himself neatly into his phone for tomorrow’s meetings, for want of anything better to do.

That’s where Gladiolus finds him. The man’s in a suit, hair slicked back. He had a tie at one point, but it’s been removed from its spot around his neck, crammed into a pocket haphazardly.

“What,” says Gladio, slowing to a stop before him. “You don’t have anywhere else to be?”

“Not at the moment,” says Ignis, primly, and taps in the last of his notes before looking up.

Gladio sprawls onto the bench without waiting to be invited, legs spread casually in the manner of ill-behaved thirteen-year-old boys. Ignis spares him a lingering glance. 

“Never seen you not in a rush to do something or other,” says Gladio, bemused.

“There’s nothing wrong with keeping a tight schedule.” Ignis adjusts his glasses, though truth be told they don’t need it. “What of yourself? It isn’t like you to linger after hours.”

Gladio lifts one big shoulder and lets it fall. “What, can’t a guy feel like hanging around?”

It would be hypocritical for Ignis to argue the point, and so he doesn’t. He only opens up a new document for his three o'clock with the minister of finance and begins tapping in something new.

He’s written barely two words when his phone buzzes.

It’s a text from Noct, and it reads, “you still around?”

Ignis replies immediately: “I am.”

There is a moment’s pause, during which Ignis pretends to add to his notes but makes no alterations of any value. Then a new text arrives. “can you come here pls.”

He’s on his feet before he’s finished reading, turning toward the elevator that leads up to the higher-security levels of the Citadel.

Gladio says, “What’s the rush?”

And Ignis, thoughts on the Accordan ambassador blaming the wine, says, “Noct,” and his tone is a bit tighter than he intended.

Perhaps Gladio can read his inflection. Perhaps his posture, more closed off than usual, gives him away.

But Gladiolus is on his feet an instant later, falling into step beside Ignis as he makes for the elevator. “On my way,” Ignis taps into his phone, as the doors slide closed behind him.

They arrive at the king’s lounge barely five minutes later. Ignis knocks on the door, brisk and businesslike, and calls out, “Highness?” in a voice loud enough to be audible through the elaborate paneled wood.

There’s a pause, and then Noct opens the door.

He’s decidedly more disheveled than he was half an hour ago. His hair is askew, and the knot of his tie is sloppy. But more than that, his eyes are flat and guarded, in the way they get when he’s upset about something.

Ignis takes in the scene: a room empty of King Regis, empty of anyone else save the Accordan ambassador leaning casually back against the couch, a glass of half-drunk scotch in his hand. His face is redder than it was before, and he looks a touch disheveled, as well.

And Noct. Noct catches at Ignis’ cuff and stares up at him, and then toward Gladio, standing there in the hall. His grip is too tight, and his fingers are trembling.

That tells Ignis all he needs to know.

“Terribly sorry,” says Ignis. “I’m afraid the Council has announced an emergency meeting. His Highness is required elsewhere.”

Then he holds the door wide and says, “Gladiolus, if you’d be so kind as to see the ambassador out?”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way Gladio’s eyes linger on Noct. He doesn’t think he imagines the tightness in the man’s jaw. “With pleasure,” says Gladio, grimly.

“Highness,” says Ignis. “Shall we? The timeline is rather pressing, I’m afraid.”

Noct nods, and lets go of Ignis’ sleeve. He says, “Lead the way.”

He follows Ignis out into the hall, toward the Council chamber. They walk in silence until they reach the first turn in the hallway. Then Ignis changes his route, circling back around to veer toward the Citadel’s private suites.

It takes them just shy of five minutes to reach Noct’s old room. It’s maintained in his absence, for when an official function runs late and he wishes to stay over instead of returning to his apartment.

He stands there in the doorway, looking somewhat harrowed, until Ignis says, “If he tries to reschedule, I’ll shift his appointments around until his ship sails. After he’s safely off our shores, the authorities in Accordo will receive a request for a new representative.”

“Thanks,” says Noct. He swallows. “My dad had to beg off. His leg gets bad, you know? But I thought, it’s just groundwork, right? I’m okay at negotiating.”

Ignis waits for the rest. He hopes that Gladio was rather less gentle than usually warranted, in seeing the ambassador out.

When the silence stretches too long, Noct says, “He got kinda handsy. I would’ve punched him out, only I thought dad wouldn’t appreciate a diplomatic incident.”

Ignis feels a strange swell in his chest at the words. He says, “The right ties in the Accordan media make certain diplomatic incidents all but disappear, you’ll find. As it so happens, I have the right ties in the Accordan media.”

“So you’re saying I should have punched him out.”

“I’m saying,” says Ignis, tone more fierce than intended, “that it would have been no more than he deserved.”

Noct thaws a little, then. The guardedness slips from his eyes, and from his posture. He looks like he means to reply, but Ignis’ phone buzzes before he can. “Go on,” says Noct. “It’s probably Gladio.”

It is, in fact, Gladio.

“How is he?” the text reads. “Does this guy need to accidentally fall down the stairs before I cut him loose?”

Ignis stifles a smile. “Your Shield,” he says, “is considering something of a diplomatic incident of his own.”

Noct leans over to look, with a huff of something very nearly a laugh. “Call him off. And tell him I’m fine.”

Ignis taps his reply into the phone and then slides it into his pocket again. “Are you?” he says, when he looks up.

“I am,” says Noct. But the longer Ignis stares, frank and even, the less Noct seems able to meet the gaze. “I just didn’t expect it, you know?”

Ignis takes a breath in and lets it out slowly. It’s a rhetorical question, but he finds himself answering, anyway. “Nor should you have had to.”

They stand there for a moment, in silence. At last, Noct says, “Thanks, Specs.”

“I would say any time,” says Ignis, “but frankly, I’m hoping we’ve never cause for a repeat occurrence.”

Noct smiles, wry and crooked. “You and me both.” He turns from the door, toward the couch where he used to play video games at twelve years of age, and sits himself down on the indent that still indicates his favorite spot. “Hey,” he says, almost as though it’s an afterthought. “You mind giving me a ride home, when we get out of here?”

“Not at all,” says Ignis. “Although I suspect we’d best wait for Gladio. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll be along shortly.”

Gladio is along shortly, and he brings with him some choice words about the Accordan ambassador’s parentage. Ignis adds a few thoughts of his own, decidedly less crude but every bit as cutting.

By the time they see Noct from the building, through the meandering back hallways of the Citadel and into the private attached garage, that shaken, uncertain look has been chased from his face entirely.

anonymous asked:

OK SO can I get some eddie not knowing about richie's abusive parents and during a fight things get pretty serious and eddie yells at him and walks towards him angrily ranting about something and he's pinned to the wall and just crumbles down whispering please stop but eddie keeps going bc he's hella angry and he just screams about something and does and intense move with his hand BUT OBV NOT WITH THE INTENTION TO HIT HIM HE'S JUST REALLY EXPRESSIVE and richie yells DAD NO and eddie breaks down

God, stab me in the heart anon!!!

It had been their worst fight yet. In retrospect it had been over something completely stupid, and if he was honest, he couldn’t even remember how it had even started. Things were said, voices raised, and with each push of their emotions the ball gained momentum down the steep hill that was their relationship. They were in a barreling rampage, with enough drive to destroy what they had built. Eddie wanted to stop, he really did but with each snarky remark that dripped from Richie’s tongue threw fuel on his already sweltering fire.

Keep reading

Worth the Wait

FFXV Nyx/Reader Fic (Complete)

Word count: 11,089

Rating: Explicit (NSFW)

Summary: You had never gotten along with your fellow Glaive Nyx Ulric; everything about him grated on your nerves, from that mouth of his that never knew when to shut up, to the way he always seemed to be right in your path whenever he wasn’t wanted. The two of you were like oil and water. But he finds you irresistible, and he won’t stop until you finally give in.

(Originally posted on Archive of Our Own.)

Disclaimer: I do not own FFXV or any related characters, nor do I own you. No money is made from the writing of this story.

Inspired by @hypaalicious and her Gladio fic “F**K You”. It got me wanting to write some angry smut of my own, and this is what came of it.

Keep reading