Idk just obsessed with smug swatch from tobys Christmas doodles

[AO3] [WATTPAD]

After a few fluffy pleasantries were exchanged, some cutesy things for their new fans, Rise bid her lady love farewell and went back to class. The rest of the day, she doodled in her notebook a few thoughts about the situation, trying to make sense of everything that happened. All in all, she was more or less satisfied with the results, even though she desperately regretted that they had to arrive there through such a rocky avenue.

Once she stepped outside, she barely had enough time to start fishing in her bag for an umbrella before one appeared over her head, blotting out the rain. She looked over to see Ai smiling serenely down at her.

"Awwwww," a chorus of girls from nearby cooed as the two headed off toward Inaba together. The boys around them mostly just looked confused.

Walking in silence with her arm hooked through Ebihara's was the nicest thing she had felt in a long time. If only it would last… but Rise knew better. Being right didn't make it any less hard to take.

"Let go of me," Ai growled when they were alone.

"Aww, c'mon," she purred in an unctuous voice, only tightening her hold on that arm. "We still make an adorable couple. And you know this still feels good."

"I ought to punch your lights out for what you did to me today. How could you out me in front of that whole crowd? Again?"

"What?! I didn't! In fact, I specifically saved you from being outed — they were going to lynch you, and somebody would have knocked your towel off!"

"That isn't- do you really expect me to believe that's the reason you did all that?"

It was, actually. "Of course not. Not all of it, not the only reason. But it's why I sped things up and jumped in when I did. I didn't want…"

Ai let out a bone-weary sigh. "Fine. Doesn't matter, the damage is done. Thank you very much, you cunt."

"Oooh, ouch." They were both quiet for a minute. "What do you mean, I outed you again? I didn't even out you on purpose the first time, and I specifically stopped anybody from finding out this time. Kind of self-destructed my career to do it."

"Oh please, your career was going nowhere. This isn't going to change that. And I didn't mean outing me as trans; I meant outing me as bisexual."

"What? Oh… well I did it to myself, too. You didn't leave me any choice! Do you not remember the part where I begged you to just let me walk away?"

"That's not the point! You made that choice, just like you made the last choice! It was all you! How do you not see why I'm pissed at you for taking away all my options?!"

"FINE!" When that word echoed off the nearby buildings, they both ducked their heads and tried to do a better job of keeping their voices down. "Fine. I'm a huge moron, I do everything wrong, I just mess everything up for poor you."

Ai snorted. "If you're waiting for me to disagree with you, you're going to have a long wait."

"But now you're stuck with me. At least for a little while. Maybe in a week or two, we can stage some big breakup — one where you're wearing all your clothes, and you could get away from me, and spend the rest of your life thinking I'm the worst person on Earth. But until then, it's me and you, so you're just going to have to make the best of it."

This silence was a lot longer. Both of them resented each other, and resented that they still cared about each other despite the damage they were causing. It wasn't until they were walking past the Shiroku store that Ai suddenly seemed to find her voice.

"Crappy as you're being toward me… I have to admit, I'm impressed. You got really conniving in that locker room."

"Yeah, well, you didn't leave me much choice," Rise sighed as she watched the clouds for a moment. "I can't let you run me out of my own hometown, or destroy my whole career. And making life miserable at school was just really getting old."

"Oh." When Rise turned to look at her, Ai shrugged. "Sorry. I don't know how, but I forgot this is your hometown. Probably because you were too busy slutting it up all over Japan to come back until last year."

"Oh yeah, slutting it up. The total virgin."

"You are not. I don't buy that at all; I never really did."

"Oh well," she sighed with a shrug. "Guess you'll never find out now, since you hate me so much."

"Oh yeah? Wait…" Ai brought them to a stop in the middle of the street, near the old Tatsuhime Shrine. "Did you think… I was going to stick my dick in you?"

Rise winced. Hard. She felt an odd chill run through the back of her knees at the directness of the language. "Do you have to be so vulgar? I mean, wow, you could use a little tact!"

"You did. You thought we would be each other's firsts. Awww, that's so cute!"

"Hey, I did not think that far ahead! And I always thought Yu-kun would be… my…"

That one still hit them both hard enough that the ire faded immediately. Seemed that despite all their best intentions to move on with life, they were still two women who carried a torch for a boy that had always been bound for greener pastures once his parents returned from overseas.

"That… can be what you give me."

"What?"

Ai turned to look at her coldly, directly. "Give me Narukami-kun."

"EXCUSE ME?!" she burst out, eyebrows shooting sky high. In the corner of her vision, she saw a little fox wearing some kind of bandana start and rush into the bushes. "Are you crazy? You think I'm just going to-"

"It's really simple. You and I take care of this breakup thing. Then, once I graduate, I'll chase after Narukami; we'll go to the same college. It'll be perfect. You're a year younger, you can't even try the same thing. And if you give me that… I'll consider us square. I will actually forgive you for trying to out me the first time, and for whatever the hell just happened in the locker room. Totally square on all fronts."

Rise couldn't even form a response. That was crazy. No, it was more than that. "Are you that disgusting?"

"What now?" Ai fired up. "Disgusting?!"

"Yeah! For thinking you can just say that Yu-kun is yours without even asking him!"

"God, you're such a goody-goody," she groaned with a huge roll of her eyes. "I meant, you will take yourself out of the running. Obviously I won't want to hang onto him if he's not interested anymore! But if it's between you and me for him, which it was looking like before…"

"Then you're the one, because I'm off the list." Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose while Ai smirked triumphantly. "That isn't… I mean, I can't really agree to that. If he comes after me, I'm going to let him. He deserves to be happy. But…"

"But?" she asked swiftly.

"But I will not chase him anymore. That is the best I can promise."

"You'll… really do it? Wow, I thought you had more fight in you."

"Oh, you have no idea," she grunted, and Ai snorted. "But I also know I really messed up. You won't believe me that it was an accident; okay, I can't help that. But I still should do what's right and try to make it up to you."

The prissy girl pursed her lips as she shook her head. "You always sound like you're in front of a fucking camera." But when Rise just shrugged and looked down at the ground, she didn't follow it up with another snide comment. Just started walking again in silence.

They made it all the way to Rise's before they seemed to realise what they were doing. Ai cleared her throat as she led them up to the door. And she couldn't resist. "What, were you waiting for a goodnight kiss?"

"For your adoring public? Pass." Then she sighed. "I was trying not to let you get rained on. Hurry up."

"Okay." Though she did hesitate. So many things she wanted to say… but now wasn't the time. As defeated as she felt, she had to convince herself that there would be more chances to patch things up if she didn't foul this one up by pushing. "Thanks."

"Yeah, whatever. Go."

And that was that. Except Rise knew, deep down, it wasn't. They would have more chances to do something besides snipe at each other ceaselessly. It was all she had to hang onto for now.

                              ~ o ~

"So wait… I don't get it."

"Neither do I," Rise sighed into the phone as she sorted through her clothes. "But like, do you mean you don't get it at all? Because I can explain it again if you need-"

"No, no, let me try." Chie's tinny voice took a deep breath. "You basically forced him to play a big game of chicken. Either he cops to the fact that you two have been screwing with each other, and he's been playing all these shitty pranks, or he has to spend time with you and like, you can maybe patch things up?"

"Youuuu got it. Oh — this one's cute, I forgot about this." She hung the garment over the closet door.

"Man, that is twisted. But he really said that if you back off Narukami he would forgive you?"

"She did."

"And you believe him?"

That pronoun thing was really starting to get on her nerves. "Chie… can you do me a big favour? Stop calling her 'him'."

"What? But… you told us he's a guy under all that makeup."

"It's disrespectful. She wants to be seen as a girl."

"Well… maybe he shouldn't be a dick to you. That kinda goes with the dick he has in-"

"Chie…" Rise wasn't even entirely sure why her blood was boiling over this so much. Especially when it wasn't like Ai had been entirely respectful to her. But she did know that she couldn't focus on the topic of discussion if she had to keep mentally correcting Chie.

"Okay, okay, geeze. It's not like I meant anything by it."

"I know. Just try? Pretty please?" Rise cleared her throat. "Anyway, yeah, I do believe her. But I'm not stupid. I know this could just be some kind of trick to one-up me again. Like, she still sees it all as a big game to win, and… I don't like it but I can't stop her."

"Right. So he's- she's willing to blow your friendship to kingdom come, and for what? The win? Bragging rights? That's so… depressing."

"She really thinks we hurt her. On purpose. And the more I think about it, the more I get it."

"Well, I don't! We were supposed to be her friends!"

"Her friends have betrayed her before. Back in her old school, they all said she was a gross pig, and disgusting, and… and all that other stuff. And here we act like we'll be her friends, but the minute we find out she's a little different, what do we do?"

There was an annoying groan on the other end of the line, preceding a sigh. And then… "We blabbed it all over school. You're right, I'm… we all sucked. But doesn't he know it was an accident by now? You told him, right?"

"Told her, yeah."

"Fuck. But yeah, so like, what more does h- she want from us? To make a public apology during the morning announcements?"

"Well…" Rise dropped the capris in her hands. "Whoa. Actually, that might be a great idea."

"HUH?! H-hey, come on, I was just messing around! I couldn't do that, you know how I get stage fright!"

"No, no, listen. Not what you said exactly, but… I think you and the others could apologise to her. I have, and that's important since the whole thing is my fault for blabbing in the first place. But I think if we all told her we were sorry for spreading it around…"

Chie didn't answer right away. Rise had enough time to put half of her clothes away before she breathed, "Okay… I don't like it, because it still feels like I didn't do anything wrong. But seeing how it turned out kinda does say otherwise, doesn't it?"

"A little bit."

"Yeah. Copy that, I'm… me and Yukiko are in. I'm sure she would have done it without even putting up a fight. And I can call Yosuke and bully him into agreeing."

"Thanks," Rise laughed as she flopped down on her bed. "Now… what do I wear on my date?"

"Yeah, I dunno. Wait — your what?!"

                              ~ o ~

Her date. With Ai Ebihara.

Now that the entire school was gossiping about how two of its prettiest girls were dating each other instead of the most eligible bachelors at Yasogami High, it was put up or shut up time. Which meant they had to be a couple as visibly as possible or be exposed as a sham. They had thought about simply being cutesy around school, but that could have the unpleasant side effect of getting them in trouble with the staff; they frowned upon public displays of affection. So they settled upon a little flirting and winking in the hallways, and going out to Aiya afterward.

Which was all Ai would talk about on the phone. No deep reflections on how they had hurt each other, no attempts to patch things up; just business. Which was funny, considering their "business" was pretending to patch things up. What a disaster. But Rise tried not to let it get to her; there would be plenty of time to improve this situation if she paid attention for opportunities.

Flirting and winking was easy, because it was brief. They both had some experience with acting; Rise professionally, and Ai in terms of learning a completely new set of outward responses and behaviours. That was another realisation she came to with all that free time apart from Ai. How hard must it be to learn how to be a boy all your life, then realise you aren't one, and have to start over from scratch? She had been about a dozen years behind the other girls her age at that point. No wonder she spent so much time poring over fashion magazines, exhibiting typical bitchy queen behaviour. She had to cram a lot into six short years.

"Well, are you ready, girl?" Ai said with a convincingly enraptured smile.

"Mmhmm!" Bounding over, she wrapped both arms around one of hers. Clinging. That was going to be her thing; since Ai was taller, she would be the 'girl', right? "Let's go! I'm starving!"

Once they were out of earshot of the students, Ai whispered, "Why are you hanging off me like this?"

"Because it's cuuuuuute," she cooed, making the taller girl snort. "And they expect me to be the cute one. I'm Risette, it's my whole thing; if I weren't, they would probably figure out something is up."

"Oh, you had a legit answer. Didn't expect that." Then she shrugged. "I guess that works. It's just… nah. Forget it."

"Oh, don't get all shy now, Ebi-chan!" When she poked her in the stomach, Ai looked so offended that she couldn't help laughing. "No, really. What's up?"

"No, I… I'm just… I know you don't care, but this is bad for my dysphoria."

"Dyswhat?"

Her eyelid twitched in annoyance. "Gender dysphoria. It means… like… you know how euphoria means you feel really good?" Rise nodded. "Dysphoria is the opposite. And in terms of gender, like, it means I'm uncomfortable because…"

Ai was really and truly struggling. So she might as well give it a shot. "Because… your gender isn't right?"

"NO. That's the opposite of- forget it."

"Hey, I don't know this stuff. I don't know why you keep acting like I'm supposed to be- like, you. That's not fair."

"No, it's not. But it's not my job to educate you on all of it, either. Crack a book, go online? God, you have so many resources avail-"

"And you are one of them. I'm asking because I want to understand better! Really! Clearly I screwed up bad so I… do you want me not to screw up anymore, or what?"

That seemed to take Ai by surprise. She blinked a few times before shaking her head. "Wow. Spoiled as ever. You should still try to learn this shit on your own, too, but… I guess… I am a little impressed."

"You said you felt this badness because I'm hanging off your arm, right? I don't get it. I mean, is it because it makes your boy-parts uncomfortable?"

"They're not-" Another deep, cleansing breath. Was she really being that much of a pain in the ass? "Okay, I'll walk you through this, princess. You're hanging off my arm like you would for a guy. But I'm not a guy — and I've literally spent thousands of dollars and years of my life trying not to be seen as one. So when you treat me like one, anyway…"

A crease marred her perfect brow. "Oh. It… gives you the big feel-bad. I see."

And she let go right away. Rise felt even more alone now, walking next to Ai, than she had over their days of total silence. Even now, she was still screwing up. She wasn't wanted by the person she found herself most wanting to be with. If that wasn't the lowest feeling in the world, it was definitely in the running.

"There you go."

"What?"

"There." Ai was pointing at her. "The way you look right now? Probably feel like garbage? That's it — that's how I felt all day when people were spreading the rumour around, how I felt back before my transition began. Like I'd rather walk into traffic than have to keep feeling that way. Maybe it's not quite that terrible for you but at least it gives you an idea."

"Oh." By now, her eyes were watering, but she told herself this wasn't the time for a pity party. She had to take care of Ai if she wanted to show her she was really listening, not just making nice for the sake of moving past the painful retaliation. "S-so I shouldn't… grab your arm. Or do other things that make you feel like the 'boyfriend'? But I don't… know how to… what e-else I'm…"

"Spare me the tears," Ai said — but at least this time, she just sounded defeated instead of angry or disgusted. "Just say what you mean, like an adult."

"Fine! Then I don't know how to be your girlfriend, because all I know how to do are girlfriend things! What, am I supposed to be the boy? I have NO IDEA HOW! Should I get a driver's license so I can chauffeur you around?! Buy you a really, really late White Day present?! I… I'm not good at that, I'm just going to screw it up, and you already think all I do is screw up! So can't you just tell me what to do already if I'm such a failure?!"

By that point, there were definitely more than a few people standing on the sidewalks, staring at the two of them. Rise knew it was her own fault; she had lost control of her emotions. The frustration was manageable most of the time but her patience and resolve weren't infinite. The look on Ai's face was one of abject horror, mingling with confusion. But little by little…

She began to smile. Then laugh — not much, just a chuckle or two. "Oh my God, that was a lot."

"Tell me," Rise said in a softer whisper.

"Fine. The real answer is 'neither of us is the boy', but I don't think you'll like that one. So…" She shrugged and started walking again, Rise hurrying to fall into step next to her. "Just do what you want to do for a friend. But for me. And say something cutesy and girlfriend-y; that part is fine. I would want you to act like the girlfriend, anyway, since you are a girl. I just don't want to be treated like a boy."

"But that's so complicated!" she burst out in frustration.

"Yeah," Ai admitted with a long sigh, eyes downcast. "Everything is. You… really complicated my life. I was hoping I could just marry Narukami, finish my surgeries and so on, and maybe life would fall into place. And here comes Risette to throw a wrench in the works."

That left her quiet for a moment. Then a small smile formed on her lips. "Along comes Risette? Meaning… you aren't completely done with me yet?"

"Tch. Clearly I'm not now that you blackmailed me into this relationship."

"Hmmm, you mean like you tried to blackmail me into outing you?" She examined her nails as they reached Inaba proper, turning down the street toward the diner. "Which I figured out, by the way."

Ai blinked a few times. "You did? What do you mean, you 'figured it out'?"

"Your motive. Guess I'm not as dumb as I look."

"What motive?" But instead of answering, Rise merely skipped ahead a few steps, turned to walk backward, and stuck her tongue out at her. "Hey! What the hell are you talking about?! JERK! You are the WORST!"

                               To Be Continued…

crappy birthday

PAIRING: hidan x reader SUMMARY: your soulmate is shit at birthdays WARNINGS: swearing, violence, descriptions of murder, shitty poetry courtesy of hidan

You wake up on your birthday and don’t feel any different. You go about your daily routine like you do every other day because, as far as you’re concerned, today is like every other day. You’re hardly expecting chocolates because you have no significant other or even friends who might give you sweets to snack on, and even before the incident, you were hardly one to celebrate yourself, although you vaguely remember your parents throwing some ridiculous party for you every year, in fact, your last real, clear memory of them is the three-tiered, casino-themed birthday cake your mother made for you (and proceeded to bleed out all over later that same evening.) 

Oh, well. C’est la vie, and all that, right?

It’s a nice day, you notice once you’ve gotten dressed and wandered out into your kitchen. Not too cold, and certainly not too hot, with a nice breeze, perfect for enjoying a morning that cute little tea shop down the street, with some tea and scones and a book to keep you company.

It’d be nice to share it with someone, if you had anyone. 

(You do have one person, your mind supplies unhelpfully, you’ll always have him.)

You ignore that one, disgusting, traitorous thought in favor of grabbing a worn paperback off your shelf, tying your coat around your waist, toeing on your shoes, and opening your front door.

And then you stop in your track and stare. At the body. On your doorstep

“What the fuck, Hidan?” You swear to yourself, though, you can’t say that you’d be too surprised if the creepy fuck just happened to be close enough to hear it. 

And then Mrs. Sato from next door comes out, humming merrily under her breath as she locks the door behind her before turning to you.

“Good morning, dear. Such a lovely day, isn’t it?”

You smile back, just a little fixedly. “The loveliest.”

“Oh, well! Best enjoy it while it lasts!” Mrs. Sato bobs her grey head a few times and toddles past, stepping around the corpse, like it isn’t there. “Have a nice day, dear.”

“You too, Mrs. S.” You reply politely, finger tapping impatiently against the doorframe as you wait for her to disappear down the stairwell. Then you’re crouching down in the blink of an eye, every sense zeroing in on the body, and that’s when you realize, the body is still breathing.

And that means there’s definitely some weird, ancient, Jashinist ninjutsu involved because aside from the fact that your next-door neighbor didn’t so much as bat an eyelash as she passed, there’s also 1) a hole carved into the chest of the body, meticulously and precisely heart-shaped, just big enough for you to peer inside and watch the exposed organ beat, and 2) the body isn’t just anybody, it’s your childhood rival — Funai Yuka.

You stare for a moment longer, oddly mesmerized by the physical thump of the blood-red heart that you can both hear and see. It is so gorgeously delicate in this one moment, under your complete mercy.

Then, cautiously, you reach out and tug lightly at one tail of the intricately tied bow around Funai’s arms and torso, just below her breasts but above her bound wrists. It is also linked with a red ribbon.

And there’s a card tucked between Funai and the ribbon, one that you retrieve now. It isn’t anything fancy, note hastily scrawled on what looks to be the back of a soba shop receipt with a doodled version of Hidan, covered in Jashinist symbols and what looks like blood, handing a heart — the conventional symbol, not the organ — out to an equally crudely drawn version of yourself. 

You flip it over, and in a slightly messy black scrawl, the card reads,

This dumb bitch thought she was better than you so I Killed her to prove that Nobody is as hot as you P.S. Happy Birthday 

It isn’t signed, but you read it a second time, then a third. And then you laugh, bright and bold in the crisp winter morning, genuine and amused because you didn’t even know Hidan knew what a tanka was — let alone that he could write one.

You look down at Funai again, and it really is sobering to see her like that. Your mind travels back to your childhood, all those long days spent practicing your taijutsu in your parent’s yard in hopes of maybe surpassing her. 

She’d been your worst enemy sure, but she’d been your best friend too. She was the first person you told when you turned twelve, and Hidan’s name appeared on your arm. 

(“Just Hidan?” She’d sneered as you showed her, “hmph. Guess he’s not from any clan. Makes sense, an average soulmate for such an average —”

“—shut up, Bug Queen!” You’d interrupted, tackling her into the dirt, because the name on her hip was Torune Aburame, and everyone knows that the Aburame are total bug-fucking creeps.)

You realize that you’re still smiling when the memory fades. You can almost hear Funai in the back of your mind scolding you about how it’s bad practice for shinobi to show their emotions so freely. 

So, first thing’s first then.

You seize Funai by the throat and haul her inside, slamming the door behind you. Not a drop of blood spills from the open wound as you drag your friend onto your kitchen floor. The tile might have to be sacrificed to the cause, but you’ll just have to deal.

You pull the bow loose, and just like that the genjutsu breaks, Funai’s eyes begin to flutter. She goes from unconscious to fully awake in about three seconds. It’s honestly a little impressive, her memories clearly unaffected if the terror and the fury bleeding into her golden irises are anything to go by, but it’s already too late. 

You’re already rooting around your drawers for a knife clean and sharp enough to mercy-kill her with. She says something, but it’s muffled by the gag and all the blood in her mouth — though you know her well enough by now to know that it’s probably not happy birthday. 

Whatever it is, it’s too late anyway, because you’ve already sunken your entire hand into her chest, palm and fingers wrapped snugly around the rapid-fire recoil of your rival’s heart, by the time she can do anything more than fail at squirming away.

You sigh, because you’re sympathetic, really.

“If it’s any consolation, Bug Queen, you make a great birthday present.”

Then you rip her heart out with one smooth twist of your arm. That weird, old-world soulmate magic floods your system, running along your veins and imprinting into the very essence of your being, with a single glowing soul bond pulsing at the back of your mind and anchoring you to reality so that you aren’t overwhelmed.

--

(And you weren’t always like this, okay?

You used to be a normal person, with normal friends, and normal hobbies, and normal parents that loved you.

But on your twentieth birthday, you received a letter in the mail — the envelope was big and red, and it had the words ‘to my soulmate’ stamped on the front. You were so ridiculously excited.

When you opened it, it went off and destroyed the entire house and killed everyone inside, everyone except, well — you. 

You didn’t show the team of ANBU investigators the card that came a day later. 

It was a stick-figure drawing of your home blowing up with your friends and family inside it. Their bodies are scattered to bits over the page in a bloody mess with the words:

‘Sorry I couldn’t be there in person. I hope you liked the gift! :) Love you. — xoxo your soulmate’ scrawled hastily at the bottom.)

(After that, you begin to mark the calendar. It is a simple red X on a single day out of the year. There is no indication of what it is for, but you know.)

— A year later, you get home from a few hours spent at the training grounds, only to find an innocuous-looking briefcase leaning against the door of your apartment. 

Your heartbeat quickens, and you groan, stooping to pick it up, plucking up the card as well from where it’s slipped into the handle.

Another Hidan original, you note as you duck into your apartment and place the briefcase on the dinner table. 

The drawing is surprisingly minimalist considering Hidan’s usual style, it’s an artlessly drawn picture of you, butt-naked holding miniature globe in your poorly proportioned hands.

Is he gonna blow the whole world up this time? You think with a sigh and flip the card open. In the same sloppy handwriting as before, you read,

Don’t be a pussy. This is not a bomb, okay? You will like this gift.

You thumb the dark lettering before turning to the briefcase and opening it. It actually takes you several long seconds to realize what it is exactly that you’re looking at.

There are files inside, sheaves of papers tucked surprisingly neatly into folders, and—

You reach inside, where two passports are shuffled into one corner. 

One has your name, your personal information — all chillingly accurate. 

One doesn’t. 

Both have your face.

You set those aside, and with a sense of growing urgency, you fumble to open the folders and rifle through the papers.

They’re-

They’re identification papers. Two sets. One is fakes. But the other—

Hidan has restored your identity, you realize, and for a moment, you don’t even remember how to breathe.

(These days, you can get by. You have plenty of cash to use, so you don’t need a job, and so long as you’re not crossing country borders, you have no use for travel papers.)

But it also shackles you, the lack of an identity, walking around like a corpse.

Paying for Hidan's crimes, all these years, even now, as if almost burning alive and watching your entire family die and losing your goddamn mind weren’t enough to atone for the crime of simply having a soulmate.

And now…

You pick up another file with trembling fingers and flick that open. It’s a manuscript. It’s your manuscript, from when you were a writer, a really fucking good one—you might add, and despite having to always battle that hack Jiraiya for the spot on the best seller’s list, which honestly never made sense to you because your works were clearly better — but you suppose there's no accounting for taste, you enjoyed what you did, creating, building your stories.

And now you can do it again. A piece of what you’ve lost, returned.

And it isn’t even just that. The other set of papers – the fake ones – mean something too. It’s a way out, a new start if you ever want to leave. To walk away from this godforsaken country and begin anew. To not only lay your past to rest but also leave it behind so that it will never drag you down again. There’s one last file at the bottom, tissue-thin, and it only contains a single slip of paper.

It’s another note: “Sorry, I fucked up your life and shit. Won’t do it again. Happy birthday.”

— The next year, it’s another card, but only a card, with a classic birthday cake superimposed on a baby pink background. An invitation, with a time scribbled on the inside cover, but dead center on the right, a katauta,

I am running out of ways to show you that I love you lets fuck? (Couldn’t fit this in the katauta but I do oral.)

…The way that it makes your heart skip is ridiculous, and honestly, probably an indication of how fucking lonely you are. It’s not even remotely sophisticated, certainly no Henjo or Kisen. And yet…

Your face. Your face feels hot. God, you’re blushing. And your mouth is doing something funny. It takes a moment to realize you’re trying to pull a truly goofy smile. You’d probably never it live down if anyone else were there to witness it. You take a deep breath. Then you glance at the time one last time before pocketing the letter and heading for the bathroom. 

You have a night to prepare for because, apparently, your soulmate is a closet romantic.

— The door swings open, and you’re already smiling as you drink Hidan in. The man has grey hair slicked back with enough grease to start a forest fire and distinctive purple eyes. Still, they suit him, and when he smiles back, it reaches all the way to his eyes – like sunlight reflecting off whiskey, like sunsets when they spark with magic.

Wordlessly, you step back and let Hidan in. He takes a second to toe his shoes off – because he may be a murderous freak, but he’s still your soulmate, and it pays to be polite – but when he rises, he promptly crowds you right up against the nearest wall and kisses you for the very first time, hard and hungry and thorough.

A possessive hand sinks into your hair. Another pulls you close by the waist, and then you’re arching up into him, a twist of his hips sending sparks of pleasure darting across your nerves even as you open your mouth and let Hidan devour you.

The air is heady with the heat of your combined arousal by the time you part for air. Hidan’s lips are swollen red, and you’re both more than a little breathless. You’re not dry humping anymore, but Hidan’s hands remain cradled around your hips, and you’re absently tangling Hidan’s hair around your fingers. Your faces remain close enough that your noses brush.

Hidan’s eyes gleam like firelight as he peers at you, smug and satisfied, warmed by something softer.

“So, like, did all those fucking poems pay off? Do you, like, love me and shit?”

“Yeah. They did.” You smile, and your own words spill over Hidan’s lips, “I love you and shit.”

Hidan smiles and you feel the soul bond glowing bright and solid right down to the atomic level.

A new bond stirs between you, tentative, and fresh but already luminous with potential. Before you can blink, you’re being shoved against the wall again as Hidan flings his arms around you, laughing, laughing, laughing, joyous delight and overwhelming relief.  

married as...?

As I mentioned, I’ll be posting some of my Obey Me! fanfiction here from now on! Feel free to block the tags #obey me or #obey me shall we date if it bothers you. I’ve posted these on AO3, too, but thought that the audience might be slightly different, so I’m putting it on Tumblr, too. It’ll be under the cut so I don’t clog up your dash. If you’re interested in seeing my other works, click here, but be forewarned of NSFW and problematic content. I will post the non-problematic fics on Tumblr later if you’d like to just wait for them here. I also link my works on Twitter when I post them on AO3 if you’d like to hang around there instead @\luxexhomines ! I retweet a lot of art & Obey Me content, sometimes show sneak peeks of WIPs & crappy doodles. 

Click here for the AO3 link if you’d like to read there.

Summary: You're woken up in the middle of the night by Leviathan, who has something very important to ask you. What could it be? Note: this was inspired by this Twitter thread and dedicated to the person who made the meme~ ♡

There is a short excerpt at the start that shaped how I thought about, approached and hopefully can be felt from this work. 

Every day is full of choices. 

And every one of those days, I have chosen you.

From today onward, too, I will continue to choose you. 

You’re woken abruptly by someone shaking you. You can faintly hear someone speaking and calling your name. 

“...Hey…! Hey! Wake up. I need to ask you something!” 

It was Levi’s voice, and it sounded urgent. You rub the sleep from your eyes and rollover. Your husband was in bed beside you, but he was sitting up, looking at you seriously. You cover your yawn with a hand.

“Mmm...what? What is it? Did you realize you forgot to go get in line for the newest The Magical, Mysterious Jane: Peony Phantom figure?” 

You try to half sit up, propping yourself up on the pillow, and try to gauge his expression. He looked pretty worried. Even for him, this seemed a little more extreme than usual, although he did sometimes wake you up in the night to tell you he needed to go stand in line for new merchandise or a newly-released game. 

He purses his lips, clearly put off as his eyebrows knit together. 

“No, it’s not that! I wouldn’t be that worked up over that. I would just let you know and then go.” 

You reach out and brush a piece of hair from his face, tucking it behind his ears, watching as his face reddens slightly, and you can’t help but smile. Even after all these years together, he still gets shy. You supposed it was just one of the things you loved about Levi, one of the things that made him Levi. 

“Well, then, what is it?” You pause and your sleep-addled brain thinks back as you shift to sit cross-legged on the mattress. “Wait, you said you need to ask me something. What did you want to ask…” you glance at your D.D.D., “at 4:06 am?” 

He sulks, his mouth twisting into his characteristic frown. 

“This is important! I wouldn’t wake you up for nothing. Listen, I have to know…” he trails off, suddenly appearing timid. Levi’s orange eyes turn away from you now, lingering on some point on the covers of the bed. 

“You have to know…?” you prompt. 

His eyelashes flutter as he blinks rapidly. 

“Um…” Levi turns his heated gaze onto you again and grips your shoulders forcefully. The look in his eyes is serious, almost grave, and his lips are pressed together tightly. He’s still got bedhead from being asleep, and some of his hair is sticking up. You hold yourself back from smoothing it down, seeing as he’s so serious. 

“Levi…?” 

You’re also starting to feel anxious, seeing the state that he’s in. But you never would have expected the next words out of his mouth. 

“Do you like me?” 

For a moment, you just gawk at him as your jaw drops open. You keep waiting for him to say that it was just a joke, but he looks completely sober and still doesn’t give. His eyes are wide and he looks so pitiful that he’s starting to remind you more of a puppy you picked up off the streets than the handsome demon you’d married. His hands slide off your shoulders dolefully. 

You shut your mouth. 

“...You’re serious.” When he nods, you resist the urge to facepalm. “Levi, I married you.” 

Again, he’s frowning. You want to reach out and straighten that grumpy mouth into a smile, but you can’t help but think he’s still adorable, even when he’s not in the best of moods. He puts a hand to his mouth, the way he always does when he’s trying to hide how he feels, however unsuccessful those attempts may be. 

“Yeah, but did you marry me as a friend, or as a significant other?”

You stifle a chuckle at first but can’t help bursting into laughter. Meanwhile, he’s staring at you like you’ve gone crazy as you hold your stomach, aching from your mirth. 

“Pfft...Levi! I can’t believe you’re asking me this. And after we’ve been married for a few years already.” 

Levi only looks more unhappy as his eyebrows furrow inward, glaring at you sharply. 

“Well, it was unclear.” 

Seeing how disheartened he is, you sober up and offer a soft smile. 

“Levi, of course I married you as a significant other. I love you. I thought I already told you. Or at least, that you knew.” 

He freezes, and red creeps onto his face. He hunches over slightly, pouting as he pins his gaze to the mattress. 

“I, well… I thought maybe you’d meant it as friends. Since we’re true best friends.” 

“Look at me, Levi.” 

He does, raising his head, and you take the chance to cup his glowing cheeks and lean in, placing a sweet kiss on his lips, those lips that expressed so much, those lips that couldn’t lie. 

When you pull back, you see that the redness on his cheeks has grown deeper a shade. 

“Y-You should have warned me…! You know that I’m still not used to this…”

You laugh, thoroughly amused. 

“Well, it served its purpose. Do true best friends kiss?” You put a hand to his cheek again and brush your thumb over his lips, faintly pink, pliant. “On the lips?” 

You can feel the warmth of his body beneath your fingers as you caress his cheek, the softness of his skin, and your heart begins to race. Despite your teasing, you weren’t completely used to this either. And you felt like you might never be used to it- although, you were okay with that. You loved him. 

Levi puts a hand to his neck, rubbing it. He’s still red. Of course he is. 

“I mean, no, but… You and I are special, aren’t we? Even just as friends.” 

His gaze is sincere and direct, full of the warmth you loved in him, and a hint of coolness in the tint of purple within. You’re smiling before you know it. 

“Yeah, we are.” You lift his bangs and kiss him on the forehead firmly. “But you’re my true best friend and my significant other. There’s a difference. That’s why you asked, isn’t it?”

This time, he flushes a lovely fuschia, stammering his response. 

“I-I told you to warn me, didn’t I…?” He drops his gaze and the corners of his lips turn down, but you can sense fondness within. “But yeah, you’re right. That’s why I asked.” 

You give him a break from your touch and withdraw, although the sensation of his skin lingers on your fingers. One side of your mouth quirks upward as you raise your eyebrows. 

“Do you need further proof? Or shall we go back to bed?” 

Levi is still at first, but then he processes the implications of your words, and he flops back into the bed and under the covers rather quickly. He turns away from you, but you can still see the crimson hue on his ears. 

“N-No…! I’m good, let’s go back to sleep!” 

You settle back into the bed as well with a knowing smile. 

“If you say so. I love you, Levi.” You reach over to his broad back and trace a heart on that warm canvas, although he immediately stiffens upon feeling your touch. “I’ll say it every day to remind you from now on since you still seem like you don’t believe me. Can you feel what I drew on your back?” 

You trace the heart again, your finger running along the curves and muscles of his back. Levi relaxes slightly, letting go of his tension. 

“...You don’t have to do that,” he whisper-mumbles, bashful. “I-Is that a heart?” 

You rub his head, ruffling his hair. 

“Yeah, good work.” You trace another shape on his back. “I don’t have to do anything, Levi. I want to. Because I love you.” 

For a time, silence greets you, and you think he might have fallen asleep as you lazily trace the shape a few more times. 

“Is it a star?” 

You stop and rub his head again. 

“Yeah! You’re good at this, aren’t you? Maybe you’ve got a sensitive back.” 

His reply is barely audible. 

“No, I’m just sensitive to your touch…” 

You shift closer. Did you hear that right?

“What did you say?” 

Even facing away from you, he brings his hands to his face, covering it shyly. 

“Nothing! I didn’t say anything!” 

You chuckle. At this distance, you can hear his heartbeat, quick and hard. You press a kiss to his upper back, right along his spine, slow but sure. You let your lips linger a moment longer than usual, firm and flush against him before you allow yourself to draw back. 

“Do you know what I just did?” you murmur. 

His heartbeat is accelerating, and his body is tense. There’s a pause. Only the rhythm of your hearts and the coming and going of your breaths accompany it. 

“...I thought I told you to warn me,” is all he says, his voice unsteady. Then, uncertainly, “Did...was...is that a kiss?” His last few words are hesitant, quiet, wavering. 

Another rub to the head for Leviathan, you think to yourself. Or at least, that’s what you’d planned on, but instead, he turns and catches your wrist mid-air. Those riveting orange eyes have captured yours in a heartbeat. They’re mere inches away.

“It’s not fair,” he grouses. “It’s my turn.” 

Levi’s lips are on yours, and you barely even register the soft, loving warmth before it’s gone again, and you’re left in a daze as your eyes glaze over. He releases your wrist from his hold. Then, heat rushes to your own cheeks, and you put a hand to them to check- they were burning. Your eyes trail up to his again, and his candid gaze only makes your cheeks hotter. You tighten your lips and your eyebrows crease as you stare at him flusteredly. 

“...Why didn’t you warn me…?” 

He’s smug. A cocky smile stretches across his face.

“You didn’t warn me, so-mmph!” 

You sealed those self-satisfied lips with your own once again, a hand draped over Levi’s back to pull him in closer. You’re still burning up, but you don’t care anymore. As long as you’re with him.

When you part from him, both of you are ruddy-cheeked, glowing. 

“I love you, Leviathan.” 

His eyes are soft now, warm like the golden liquid kindness of the afternoon sun, tender like the petals of orange carnations. 

“I love you, too.”

It’s Not You Pt.6

a/n: happy mishapocalypse, you guys! I finally finished chapter 6, and it’s a bit longer than the others ones (whoops I got too carried away)

enjoy :)

Dean couldn’t for the life of him understand how the hell this freshman was so damn cute. His hair was so (Dean couldn’t believe he was using the word) voluminous. It bounced at every step, and Dean couldn’t keep his eyes off it. Oh how he wanted to run his hands through it. He could almost feel the silky strands between his fingers. And speaking of eyes, it was like every color blue had been combined, glazed, and inserted into Cas’s cute face. A face that lit up like the sun whenever someone passing by in the halls would say hi to it. A face that looked down and blushed whenever it caught Dean looking at it. A face that was so round and sweet and perfect-

Jesus Christ. Dean realized that he sounded like a schoolgirl with a crush. Exactly like the ones Dean would see on crappy TV shows, ones that would doodle all over their notebooks, drawing little hearts and rainbows all over their crush’s name. Dean suddenly wondered if Cas ever had any crushes. If he ever sat down in math class and doodled the name of his soulmate on the cover of his notebook. Dean mentally shook himself for not asking Sam what the imprint on Cas’s wrist was. Then rethinking it, Dean instead mentally pat himself on the back, because that would have been too obvious. In fact, he was being a bit too obvious now, glancing to his left every few seconds, where he and the incredibly cute freshman would lock eyes and look away, blushing, only to repeat the process a few moments later.

All the while, though, an oblivious Sam was leading them through the halls. Making a left turn here, turning right there, navigating the maze of classrooms and hallways. He’d point to something they’d be passing by and start explaining, or stop them at one classroom or another and launch into a story. But Dean couldn’t concentrate. All he saw were those blue eyes and bouncy hair, along with the extremely adorably flustered looks Cas kept sending him. Sam was (thankfully) blind to the entire affair. He acted like nothing was wrong, and moved to say hello to friends, wave to teachers, and keep up a steady string of words that didn’t make any sense to Dean. 

He had now led the group outside, right to the tree Dean noticed on his way into the building not so long ago. His eyes lit up as he attempted to reenact Cas’s daring crusade to save the cat, only earning himself a few laughs from Dean and the surrounding students and an incredibly embarrassed look from Cas. Dean didn’t know how this creature managed to look so flustered and cute at the same time. Again, Dean found himself wondering about the freshman’s soulmate. Had they met? Did Cas know who his soulmate was? And then there was a lingering thought in the back of Dean’s mind that was, was Cas’s soulmate a girl? 

Too wrapped up in his thoughts, Dean didn’t even notice when his name was called by Bobby, who had walked out of the school and immediately made a beeline towards the Winchesters, pulling Dean into a rough embrace. The movement shocked Dean out of his schoolgirl thoughts, and he had to remember where he was for a moment. By the time he actually realized that Bobby was talking, he had missed nearly everything the older student had said. With both Sam and Bobby looking at him expectedly, Dean figured that the best thing would be to nod and agree. 

Bobby barked out a laugh. “Well I never! Dean ‘You Touch My Car And Die’ Winchester is tired of taking care of his one and only favorite thing in the entire world? I thought I’d never see the day that-”

“I’m sorry what? My car?” The blank eyed stare that Dean gave the others must really have been fucking clueless, because Sam and Bobby immediatly starting cracking up. Still incredibly confused, Dean risked a glance to Cas, who also looked like he had no idea what was going on.

“You sure know how to mess with me, idjit.” Bobby clapped him on the shoulder, preventing any more mooning over Cas. He nodded at the boys and proceeded to shoulder the bag he was carrying, striding past them and towards his pickup truck.

“Dean? Hey Dean?”

“Hmm? You say something?”

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother. “Bobby said he was going to get lunch and I asked you if you wanted to eat, too.”

“Sure. Yeah. Go eat.” Sam gave him a look. Crap. Sam definitely knows something’s up.

Thankfully the food trucks standing outside the college weren’t far from the front of the school, making the walk there short and not as awkward as it could have been. Dean’s mind was taken off of Cas the moment he saw the dozens of food trucks lined up, and he gaped at the enormous food selection. There was a salad truck (that Dean knew Sam probably almost lived in), a taco truck, a sandwich truck, a sushi truck, and AHA! Immediately starting for the burger truck, Dean then proceeded to visit almost every one, getting himself a bit of everything. He found his way to the table on the lawn that Sam and Cas claimed, and Sam laughed at the immense amount of food being precariously juggled by his brother. Dean doubled back and secured himself a slice of apple pie, half of which was gone by the time he made it to the table again. 

Sitting himself down with a content sigh, Dean started attacking his hoard, alternating between the tacos and burgers. Sam was staring at him in horror, probably trying to comprehend how his brother managed to inhale so much food without choking. Cas was still averting his eyes, not that Dean noticed, because he totally wasn’t staring at the freshman even while eating. 

“So, Dean.” Dean turned his gaze onto his brother, and before Sam could say anything else, mumbled through a mouthful of food, “How can you still eat that rabbit food, Sammy? I’m surprised you’re not green all over from the amount of grass you consume on a daily basis.”

Sam looked afronted at the thought of his beloved salad being referred to as ‘grass.’ Glaring at Dean, he shot back, “I’m surprised you’re not dead from the amount of fat you consume.” Dean snorted, and picked up his burger, biting into it slowly and closing his eyes in content, trying to get another huff out of Sam. He was successful, and his grin widened when he saw Cas’s smile out of the corner of his eye. Sam started talking again, and Dean made sure to pay attention this time, not wanting to repeat the incident with Bobby. 

“So, what I was going to say before you interrupted me was, how’s your job? Is it still as a bartender, or did you get fired?” Sam smirked. “Again.”

Making a face at his brother, Dean replied, “It wasn’t my fault this time-” Sam laughed and raised his eyebrow in skepticism. “It really wasn’t!” Dean insisted. “There was this bar fight between these two guys. They were brawling over who got to kiss this hot chick, and I mean HOT, Sammy. Don’t you give me that look. She was. Honest. So. Being the chivalrous, charming, prince to the rescue guy I am, I may or may not have jumped in to defend her honor, getting myself fired in the process.”

Sam barked out a laugh and rolled his eyes again. Dean noticed that Cas had lowered his gaze and was staring into his plate. He tried not to be dissapointed.

“And now?” Sam prompted.

Dean sighed. “Now I got myself a crappy job as a mechanic at some random repair shop. The pay sucks and the people are fucking rude, but hey, I get by.”

Sam smiled sadly and admitted in a quiet voice, “Can’t you get a job closer to campus?” Oh Dean had thought about it before, he really did, because of how much he missed his younger brother. But he never acted on it, worried that he’d seem too overbearing. Noticing Cas intently listening to the brothers, Dean realized that he might just rethink his choice to work away from Sam.

But it’s not like Dean could have admitted all of that to Sam, instead going for an affectionate insult. “You know, Sam, I do have to take a break from your face once in a while.” The comment made Sam smile, and Dean smiled back. He turned back to his pie and suddenly heard a quiet voice from his left.

“Your eyes are so green.”

Dean froze, pie halfway to his mouth. His eyes snapped to Cas, whose entire face went beet red when he realized that he said it out loud. Not knowing what to say, Dean just stared. He was saved by Sam, who obviously didn’t hear what the freshman said. Sam had looked up and noticed Dean staring, causing him to also turn his head towards his roommate.

“Did you say something, Cas?” Cas blushed even more furiously and cleared his throat, getting up.

“I said I had to go to the bathroom.” He mumbled, and left the table to go back inside. Dean watched him leave and his heart sank. Sam, on the other hand, just shrugged and went back to eating his salad. 

Poking at his pie, Dean couldn’t find it in himself to eat. With Cas gone, even for a few minutes, Dean didn’t know where to look. There weren’t any sky blue eyes for him to watch, or bouncy black hair to stare at. No cute little nose, or rosy cheeks, or-

“Dean, I swear, something's bothering you today!” For the hundredth time that day, Dean was jolted from his thoughts and/or daydreams about Cas. 

“No. Nothing’s bothering me.” The bitch face Sam gave him put all of his previous bitch faces to shame. “Nothing except for the job at the mechanic’s crap shop. Have I mentioned what a douche my boss is?” Not looking completely convinced, Sam went back to his food.

After a while, Dean decided that he just had to know. Screw Sam and his opinions. So, obviously in the most casual manner possible, Dean cleared his throat and blurted, “Has Cas told you his soulmate’s name?”

Of all the things Dean was expecting, (a suspicious glare, a laugh, no answer at all, maybe), what he certainly wasn’t expecting was a blush. Sam ‘Don’t Call Me Sammy Because I’m A Big Boy’ Winchester blushed like a girl and squirmed in his seat. The mumbled “I don’t know” was said entirely too quickly and quietly, and Dean was about to start pestering him about it, but at that moment, Cas came back. He had with him in tow an even shorter person, but one who was obviously older and related to the (super cute) freshman. Dean saw Sam freeze and lower his fork.

With a flustered grin, Cas gestured to the newcomer and quietly proclaimed, “Hey guys, this is Gabriel. My older brother.” The short dude- Gabriel, Dean reminded himself, stepped forward and reached out a hand to Dean, smiling devilishly.

“Sup, broheim. Do you happen to be Cassy Pie’s roommate, or his roommate's brother that he won’t shut up about?”

Oh?

“Gabe.” Cas hissed. His brother put his hands up in mock surrender. Seeing Dean's face, he winked at Cas and whispered, “Ah, so it’s probably the brother.” Stepping around Dean, he stretched his hand out to Sam next, who was still frozen. “That means that you must be the roommate.” 

Sam’s dumbstruck face was the epitome of shock, and Dean tried to keep himself from laughing. His brother slowly reached out and shook Gabriel’s hand. They stayed like that for an uncomfortable while, until suddenly Sam stood up and declared that Gabe hadn’t yet seen the campus, and that he needed a tour. Right now. 

Abandoning his salad, Sam flew off with Gabe, leaving Dean alone with Cas. 

He was screwed.

Happy Anniversary, Wardens!

It seems fitting that today of all days I give you an update as 10 years ago today, Dragon Age origins was released!

When I knew this day was coming however, I was hoping to have something spectacular to share. But I guess having at least Episode 01 already completed is enough for now! 20 minute long one’s no less!

I’m currently drawing the animatic for Episode 02, 100 pages and counting and that’s only the first minute!

With the money from my Patrons I was able to commission a composer to create the score to my first musical number of the show (if you don’t count Elanore’s lullaby). It’s me singing, so please bare with I’ve had no training haha

And now I’m just working on the audio created by my talented voice actors! And aside from you guys’ support of course,  I think hearing them is what truly makes me enjoy working on this series! Sound is a powerful thing, and hearing my words and reimagined characters of David Gaider come to life is amazing! And when it’s all put together, it just confirms my passion for this project!

If I ever met a Desire Demon and was granted one wish - aside from Alistair to be real ofc! I would wish for the diligence and know how to promote this better, so I can live off the public funding to just make this series non-stop and not bring out an one episode per year haha!  (and hopefully not get sued by EA or Gaider)

I’ve got alot of existentialism happening at the moment - not in a bad way, and I think I’m finally at that place where other Youtubers are where they don’t want to do anything else but working on their projects and it’s just a case of figuring out how! I was going to apply for a university course to be a Trauma counsellor, and although I love helping people it would’ve taken too much time out of my life to not be able to do work like this. And there’s always a possibility I will pick it back up again, but I love how I’m still inspiring and helping people with my art - even if it’s just a little bit! 

I’m obsessed with drawing! When I’m ill, or too busy or when I need to sleep, I can’t stop! Even when I have those episodes where I just want to give up, a few days later I’m picking up that pen again and doodling away so I know I’m never going to truly stop! The same with creative writing!

This series was just a way for me to do a medieval story, that fused with my passion for Dragon Age and my love of Disney films - and to voice a Disney princess! And it’s unbelievable the amount of love it’s got back. Again, I only wish I could do more to make it bigger and better.

Oh I’m also writing 20 and 21; Team Warden are currently at Redcliffe/ The Circle (hence the pic of the Fade mouse) I do NOT want to make The Fade episode boring as it’s the WORST part of the FRIKKIN game! I’m doing my utmost to make sure each Episode stays true to the material, but is different enough to make you not want to just play the game haha (though I doubt The Fade episode will make you want to do that part :P )  I also may be making some.....side romances that not everyone will agree with, just because it just seems to be there for me so I’m going to go with it and see what happens! Who knows! Might not work out at all! But I think by now, you all know who the main pair is but just....try to act surprised okay?

Please know that i am trying to write this as impartial to my own preferences/ game play as possible and only going by what would happen if it were a Disney animation. But with a lovely dark twist of course :P 

Anyway. I think that’s everything. Ugh there’s still so much to do! But if I can get this done by Christmas, wouldn’t that be great?! I am having some computer issues right now; external is dying causing my Windows to act weird, I need a new sound system because a toothpick is keeping the wire at the right angle haha and I’m not even going to go into why my state of the art recording equipment won’t work on my PC for some reason so I’m using a crappy ass mic to recording Episode 02 lines! ...okay maybe I did go into it haha

Sorry this was so long! If anything, I’ve inspired myself to restart my quest to find an agent or a PA or PR or whatever they’re called to help me promote this thing and to get me in line! So woop! 

Now back to work!

Happy Anniversary, Wardens. And as always, Maker be with you!

Business Card (skinny!Steve Rogers x reader)

Summary: Tony’s ‘medicine’ messed with Steve’s serum and now he has to deal with his insecurities and sudden company!

WordCount: 2047

Warnings: N/A

A/N: N/A

“What the hell is this Stark?” snapped Steve Rogers as he burst into the room. Tony looked up startled and his eyebrows raised even farther up.

“Whoa, what happened here, Rogers? Reverse growth spurt?” But despite his sarcasm, Tony was quite concerned. It could be from-

“That medicine you gave me! You said it should temporarily alter some of the serums affects so it can heal me with more ease and then this? Explain yourself!” Steve shouted, his small frame and his attempt to walk intimidatingly at Stark almost made Tony laugh. Instead he scoffed to cover up his laughter at the sight and focus on the ordeal.

“It should only alter some things, but not..this-” tony said standing, “Let me call Cho, she might be able to help. I’m not a doctor you know.”

Steve went red in the face at that comment, “Are you implying that you did not get medical advice on a medicinal invention you gave me?”

Stark paused, “Maybe- it was to help save your life, Cap!”

“It’s medical experimentation!”

“Oh yeah, like you had any problem with that in the 40’s!” Tony shouted.

Both men stared at each other, Tony was growling and glaring. Steve had his shoulders hunched and his fisted balled in anger. HIs fair complexion looked ruddy and red in his anger.

“Look, I’ll call Cho, we’ll talk, see what we can do. The others are going on the mission later tonight, Vision can stay with you,” Tony sighed going to grab his phone.

Steve crossed his arms and glared as Tony spoke on the phone to Helen Cho and he hung up as quickly as he called.

“I’m going to her lab, we’ll figure something out, Cap, stay in tonight, don’t do...anything stupid,” Tony advised grabbing his other supplies and something from a file cabinet. Who knew he could be organized?

“Oh,” Tony said as he raced out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Steve called going after him.

“I’ve got a designer coming in later today to get some measurement and stuff for the downstairs offices, let them in and show them around, should be coming around three-” Tony shouted already pressing the close doors button on the elevator. Steve slammed his small fist into the doors, “tony!” he shouted to no avail. He groaned, he’d have to hide in his room until they figured all this out. No one would stop asking questions or possibly even make fun of him if they found him like this.

But then there was the designing person, the designer. Steve touched his arm, frail and thin once more, he rubbed at it and quietly made his way to his room. The mirror in the hallway had his catch his reflection. He stared at himself. It was so strange. His clothes were gargantuan on his small body, hanging everywhere. There was probably no clothes anywhere that would fit him well. Even back in the forties, everything was loose on him. His hair flapped over his forehead and he pushed it back as he had always once done. It was all familiar.

Steve finally pulled himself away from the mirror and hid away in his room, doodling old memories the best he could. If he dwelled on his appearance any longer he just knew his old insecurities would come back. And they already were, he was DREADING having to speak with the designer.

Before he realized it, it was three, and Vision knocked on the door to inform him of the designer's arrival. Steve looked up and slowly went to the door. He had to brace himself.

Waiting in the lobby of the tower, stood a woman, dressed in a salmon dress that touched the floor, but it was casual, she had on a blazer and a toolbox in one hand and thick folders in the other.

“Hello, I’m (y/n), i’m here to inspect the offices, from (y/l/n)’s Design Work,” she said formally and shifted the weight of the paper to not get too heavy.

“Yes, of course, ma’am, right this way, would you like me to carry some of those papers for you?” Steve asked he felt his face heat up when the woman eyed him head to toe. Was he THAT skinny that the woman didn’t even think he could carry papers!?

“I-I can carry them,” he started to say firmly but he almost gasped when the papers came flying at them.

“Yes, please, thank you very much, they’re pretty heavy and I carried them two blocks cause that cabbie couldn’t get close enough to the building with parking and all. Hectic out there,” she said and switched the toolbox to her other hand. She looked at him again, he was a small man, blonde, with light colored eyes. She smiled, he must have been an intern or something. He was a much better improvement from the last intern she worked with who’d just been offered a job at the firm she’d been hired to design for. Rude, condescending, and disgustingly sexist.

“Is it?” Steve said attempting to hold the conversation. He struggled to click the elevator button when they got there, he was starting to feel out of breath, what papers did the woman have? Or was the loss of the serum’s effects?

“I got it,” (y/n) said quickly and smacked the button as she stood beside him, “you got the papers I got the buttons.” She smiled at him as the elevator dinged open and she stepped in. Steve stepped in beside her.

“What floor?” (y/n) asked, looking at him again, he was quite the shy one.

“Three,” Steve answered. (y/n) pressed the button and they stood there in comfortable silence. At least to her. Steve itched to make conversation.

“So um, what do you do?” He asked.

(y/n) looked right at him, “what do i do?” She couldn’t help but laugh, he was so awkward it was endearing so far!

“I’m a designer, as you know, I do interior design and graphic design, lots of art stuff, thank god it’s on the more practical side, i was going to do fine arts, but in this economy, yeah right!” (y/n) said her words like a fountain. It was only then that Steve realized she had an accent. He couldn’t place it though. It made sense though, she wasn’t white, she probably did speak a second language!

“I-I like to draw,” was Steve’s response, why did he have to say that? Peggy was right, he had NO idea how to talk to women, even in this day and age.

“Really? Cool, like what? Still life, portrait, anime?” (y/n) said as the elevators opened, she walked briskly out and Steve shuffled out after her from the weight of the papers. Damn the remnants of asthma.

“Portrait and still life mostly,” Steve said out of the breath and then gestured with his head toward one of the offices.

“Nice, I can’t paint a person to save my life, come out looking like a crappy clay sculpture,” (y/n) grinned and waltzed into the office, it was an empty grey room with one desk and chairs piled in a corner.

“Oh god, look at this place, ugh, no one he needed a designer, huh?” (y/n) laughed and pointed to the desk, “go ahead and put the files there, i’m going to start taking the room’s measurements. Wait- is there water around here? I knew i left that water bottle in the cab! Damn it-”

“I’ll go get you a water bottle ma’am,” Steve said quickly.

“(y/n),” She corrected, “call me (y/n), not ma’am, what am i? Fifty? I’m just as young as you honey.”

“Right okay, i’ll be right back,” Steve chuckled. He quickly made his way to the kitchen, this woman was funny and pretty laid back. He kinda liked her. He shook his head. He couldn’t think about that now. Especially not like this. Women never liked him then, he doubted they’d like him now.

He was quick to take the water to (y/n) who thanked him again and downed the bottle in a second. He stared.

“What? It’s warm out and i’m working!” (y/n) defended and grinned before crouching again to measure.

“So,” She asked then, “how do you like working for Stark? Or do you work with Ms. Potts?”

Steve was confused, “excuse me? I dont- work for?”

(y/n) looked up, “You don’t work here? Aren’t you an intern?”

An intern. She thought he was an intern. She didn’t even recognize him either! He had to cover his ass quick.

“Oh, I work with Pepper, she’s uh, much nicer,” Steve replied.

“I bet, she was the one who gave me all of Mr.Stark’s information and details, i wasn’t even able to talk to him on the phone. I thought I’d see him here today to get some more info but, hey what can you do.”

“He’s off doing some research actually, he left in the morning.” “Make sense, do me a favor and pass me the third folder please,” she said pointing to the file pile.

“Thank you,” she chirped as she grabbed the file from him and flipped through it quickly.

“Is that pink?” Steve asked peeking over her shoulder.

“Huh?” (y/n) said startled, she didn’t realize he was that close. She tried to stand but lost her balance and tipped over. She dropped the file, Steve grabbed the file, though its contents still spilled out, but much more importantly, he grabbed her. (y/n) gripped his arm tightly and gladly accepted his help in standing. “Whooph! That was crazy!” (y/n) exclaimed, “give a girl a heart attack will you!” But she was smiling so Steve knew it wasn’t that serious, just an expression.

“Thanks, but I think i’m gonna have to crouch again to pick up all this stuff, don’t leave I might fall again,” she teased and Steve laughed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you ma’am,” Steve said sheepishly. Only to be met by her stern look as she stood up again. They stood nearly eye to eye, though he had to admit, she was still a tad smaller.

“(y/n)!” he nearly shouted. She was taken aback and they stared at one another for quite a long moment before (y/n) doubled over in laughter, it was contagious and they both were laughing uncontrollably now.

(y/n) wiped a tear from her eyes and grinned, “oh man- that was good, i haven’t had a laugh like that in forever.”

Steve was grinning from ear to ear with this woman and he felt genuinely happy. He all but forgot about his situation.

They went quiet again and Steve let her work instead of distracting her. It was barely five when she finished up and he led her quietly down to the lobby and the exit.

She bit her lip and paused as Steve opened the door for her.

“Hey, are you doing anything right? Like..it’s five, and work ends right? Or do you work like real late?”

Steve was surprised, why would she care?

“Um..till late,” he lied.

“Oh okay..well, uh, here, my business card,” she said scribbling something on it, juggling with her toolbox and papers. Steve took it politely, not that he might be in need of her services anytime soon.

“Well, have a good night (y/n),” Steve waved and (y/n) smiled back

“You too, mister- hey, i never got your name! All this time!” “Steve,” he said and she nodded.

“Nice to meet you Steve, may we meet again,” and with that she seemed to hail a cab out of nowhere and she climbed in, giving him one last wave from her seat.

Steve watched the cab go and then looked back to the business card. Her name, her number, her address, email, and hours. On the front side was her business name (y/l/n)’s Design Work and just below it ‘CALL/TEXT ME.’

Steve’s eyes boggled. He nearly fainted in the doorway. He made quick to his room to add her number to his phone. He was definitely going to call her.

Don’t Play

who?: Wanna One’s Ong Seongwoo genre: 🌸 type: bullet point the ‘our two lips’ flower boys LDH | PJH | PWJ | KJH | IYM | JH | LGL 

blog navigator. • flower boy AU • Seongwoo loves to play but not on the job and definitely not with your feelings the double-edged sword flower boy AU is back, with added Christmas spirit. I kind of lost touch with this AU, it has been awhile. :”) but TYSM for requesting anon!! The boys are back ;) - Admin L

• so you know that guy who is always over enthusiastic and excited about ANYTHING • that is Seongwoo at his finest • you always hear him before you see him • it’s simply a Seongwoo thing you know? • every time, everywhere • in university lectures • at the campus Starbucks • even on the other side of the football field • Ong’s voice will surround you • everyone is blessed with Seongwoo and the whole student body drools when they see him • along with his 10 friends • everyone calls them Wanna One • for some odd reason • strange • literally, everyone loves them • there are fan accounts on IG and Twitter just for individual members • your college is so extra tbh • side note: this actually happened at my friends’ school • like there were fan accounts of the popular boys • lowkey scary tbh • but anyway, they’re Wanna One • they are just THAT good-looking, well-mannered, smart • if you breathe the same air as them, good for you • honestly, you’ve inhaled too much of Seongwoo’s toxicity • he has been your neighbour since two of you were toddlers • but it isn’t that cute, fluffy, scattered with sugar story that is expected • no • the Ongs and your family aren’t exactly on good terms • it isn’t like World War III is about to lash out any moment but that’s exactly what I’m saying • there’s just some unspoken rivalry that neither of the younger generation understands • ‘you must never associate yourself with them!’ • ‘don’t even think about looking about that Ong boy!’ • your parents shut up whenever you question it and your grandparents brush it off • ‘it’s nothing. just ignore them and don’t give charity.’ • lol trying to trip Mr Ong Senior with your walking stick isn’t ‘nothing’ • but whatever, you and Seongwoo just avoid each other • like you’re meant to • your families would throw a big fuss if the two of you were within a 5-metre radius • ‘why can’t we just sell the house and move?’ You’ve asked that question many times • apparently, this house is passed down to your parents from generations ago and they must ‘continue the family tradition’ • this is weird • side note: I’m sure this happened in real life too • so you continue to avoid Seongwoo • even though many of your lectures are spent a few seats away from each other • sometimes you take that chance to ogle his extremely good features • that jawline • his twinkling eyes • those cool three moles on his face that form a perfect triangle • you wonder if he took his family’s eyeliner to draw it on • there’s no way he can be SO flawless • but he is Ong Seongwoo so there is a way • half of you wants to just say ‘f it’ and talk to him but the other, more rational half is saying that he won’t speak to you because of all that family drama • no one knows what even happened • you go about uni ignoring Ong and trying to suppress your feelings for him • but it’s really hard because of how ‘close’ you are to him • like if you concentrate, you can see that he’s actually drawing flowers on his notepad and not taking down notes • Seongwoo also lets Daniel, his best friend, doodle random sketches on his hands and arms • most of them resemble flora like patterns • it’s also not uncommon to see Seongwoo walking home with a bunch of wildflowers in his grasp • he likes flowers • and he’s intimidating • Seongwoo is that guy who will talk a bunch of crap and expect people to know what he’s referring to • only his friends get the drift • he’s just naturally talented in gag • always cheerful, bubbly, making his friends chortle with laughter • he definitely knows how to put on a show • playfully insults all his friends, won’t hesitate to punch one of them - but gently and for fun • you’ve seen enough of Seongwoo’s quirky personality to fall in love • finally, on the very last day of school, you muster up the courage to talk to him • ‘h-hey Seongwoo, c-could you sign m-my yearbook?’ you stutter out, blushing • internally: please! don’t! ever! tell! my! parents! about! this! • smiling, he turns away from Daniel - who wriggles his eyebrows - and takes your book • ‘sure, of course. I can’t deny my adoring fans, can I?’ • he even adds a heart to your yearbook page • you can’t tell if you should cry or laugh • ‘thank you!’   • ah goodness now you have to make up some crappy excuse as to why your parents can’t see your yearbook • ‘oh! that! I...uh left it at Jaehwan’s place by accident. You know...since we went out to celebrate...’ • Seongwoo was at Jaehwan’s house party too, but you never communicated • I guess it’s a good thing? • a wasted opportunity • other than admiring from your living room window or balcony, that’s the last you see of him and the first yet last interaction you had • you need to be careful, your mother caught you staring at him a few times • ‘staring at that Ong boy again?’ she spits out ‘Ong’ so venomously you nearly shrink back • ‘that Ong son is no good? Don’t mix with him! I’m so glad he will be in a different lecture next year. Good grief!’ • your whole family insists he’s bad influence, turning you into somewhat of his rival • it does irk you a little how much they dislike the Ongs • enough to pit their children against each other • sigh • family drama :( • ahhh, another thing happens • Seongwoo starts to pay more attention to you • ‘hi!’ he chimes when he sees you at the bus stop • ‘you asked me to sign your yearbook...and I saw you at Jaehwan’s party. Y/N? Was it?’ • is he really talking to me? • hold up, there are CCTV cameras around here right? • ‘uh, yeah. see you around!’ • *runs* • another time, you’re going out with your friends and he seems to be on his morning run, Nikes, earpieces and all • ‘GOOD MORNING’ • you blush, shyly waving • Seongwoo greets you every time he sees you around and it really worsens your crush on him • for a good week, you try to avoid him as much as possible • please! don’t! smile! at! me! that! way! • if not my heart will flutter wildly :”) • but our families hate each other • for no reason • and I’m not about to go around pulling some modern day Romeo and Juliet shit • btw, I watched the ballet this year and it was very very VERY enthralling. 12/10 would recommend • suddenly, running from Seongwoo becomes a routinely thing • it works • now, it is the only physical activity you will engage in • to hell with physical education • but do take care of your health guys!!! • you find yourself thinking of other things other than him • until Saturday • you and your best friend are on your way to a cafe for dinner • since it’s Soyeon’s birthday, she chooses to dine at Our Two Lips • please support Cube’s amazing rapper, Jeon Soyeon’s debut single ‘Jelly’ • please please Cube is trash but their artists are never • ‘oh! My relative, Guanlin, works there. I’m here to collect blackmail to send to Seonho.’ • my Cube babies :”) • Lai Guanlin? The opposite of ‘flower boy’?  • oh well • Our Two Lips is early to celebrate Christmas, the place is already decked out with fake snow, Christmas lights and a hella lot of mistletoe • all the flower boys now boast Santa hats • well, some have Poinsettia flower crowns • Guanlin literally goes tomato red when he sees his cousin • he’s all over her Snapchat story • from a mile away in the Yoo house, you can hear Seonho’s evil laughter cackling • ‘I’m done.’ Guanlin says, tossing his mile of menus to someone else and taking a tray of empty plates from their hands • oh look who it is • your jaw falls open, and immediately, you feel redness creep up your neck and guilt root in your stomach • the man you had been desperately trying to evade • Ong Seongwoo • and his perfect constellation moles • to hell with him in his crisp work attire and bright red Poinsettia flower crown • plus, he did his hair up today • the poinsettia’s are the ones holding his up-do in place • in fact, the dark shade of his hair makes the flower crown POP • w o w • but, to your surprise, there isn’t any huge beaming smile, or jokes falling from his lips • just a serious, suave, look • Seongwoo smiles politely and takes the both of you to your seats • throws a huge fuss when he finds out its Soyeon’s birthday • ‘SuNGWOON HYUNG, iT’S SOYEON’S BIRTHDAY’ • if you don’t get the connection, Sungwoon and Jisung spend a lot of time dabbling in dessert and confectionery other than being flower boys • seen in the other flower boy works ^ • wink wonk check them out via the master list • ʕ ·ᴥ·ʔ • this Seongwoo is so different from the one you’re used to seeing • suddenly, you miss his laughter, his smile and his humour • that small glimpse you had of his personality was enough for you to love it   • ‘I’ll be back shortly with your order,’ he says, taking the menus back • cue wink @ you • once he’s out of earshot, Soyeon bursts into a fit of giggles • ‘I knew it! Everyone was betting whether you two liked each other!’ • everyone? • ‘huh? who?’ • ‘oh you know, Daniel, Lin, HyunA, Jisung, Sungwoon, Jihoon, Yeeun, E’Dawn, Hui, Eun-‘ • your hands fly to cover your reddening ears as Soyeon lists pretty much everyone you know • ‘LA LA LA LA LA’ • it doesn’t take you long to realise that you blurted that out a crowded cafe, loud enough for everyone to hear • curious stares bore holes into your back and you can feel the embarrassment choking you • ‘FA-LA-LA-LA, LA-LA-LA-LA TIS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY’Seongwoo belts out, skipping across the room as if it was normal • out from the speakers blast the Christmas carol • the speakers were connected to Seongwoo’s phone via Bluetooth • you’re lucky he invested in Spotify premium as an early Christmas present • ‘to: Ong Seongwoo. With love, Ong Seongwoo’ • he is that hoe who pulls that kind of shit • but yes self love, self appreciation • pretty much forces everyone to join him in a mini Christmas song karaoke session • Soyeon gets the video she needs • Guanlin wants to kill himself so he dabs at the end of every song • all the diners clap and cheer along like nothing happened • they love Jaehwan’s high notes • it takes you a moment to process that Ong Seongwoo, who you tried to hate and avoid • whose family is in deep shit with yours • just saved your ass • albeit it isn’t like he saved you from drowning • well, drowning in your tears of embarrassment but • it’s nice of him to try and cover your peculiar behaviour • ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!’ Ong shouts, spraying canned fake snow • ‘uh, hyung it’s still November.’ Park Woojin reminds softly • ‘well Halloween is already over and we can’t exactly celebrate Thanksgiving right now so it’s practically Christmas already,’ • happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate! • I don’t but I’m thankful for all of you 💓 • Seongwoo wins that mini-debate so it’s declared Christmas starting from 30 November • remember when he said Merry Christmas in the middle of May? yes, mood • ‘JIHOON, I’M GOING TO NEED SOME SNOWMAN LATTE ART’ • ‘JAEHWAN, BRING OUT MORE POINSETTIAS’ • Soyeon simply snickers once more Christmas songs pour out of the speakers • Seongwoo arrives with your drinks and you can’t bear to look him in the eye • ‘Oh gosh Soyeon,’ he whisper-yells. ‘God doesn’t need snow to make an angel.’ • *points at you* • I’m sorry I’m sucking the bad Christmas jokes too much • I can’t believe I came up with that? It’s awful • your face is redder than the Poinsettias or mistletoe decor • when will he give you a break? • never • I love Never so much • ‘hey, Y/N,’ he pauses to set your dinner down • ‘yeah?’ you already know how it’s going to end • you like it • shush, don’t let him know ;) • ‘in my eyes, you’re more radiant than an angel.’ • A S D F G H J K L • that was bad since I made that one up too • you fight a blush and purse your lips, forcing yourself not to smile • ‘I guess you’ll end up on Santa’s naughty list this year,’ you counter-attack • ‘wait...I didn’t know you were into that kin-‘ • ‘because you stole my heart!’   • cutting off Seongwoo for a good reason • he nods in approval, high-fiving you • ‘nice one.’ • all puns intended • with a smile on her face, Soyeon shakes her head and quietly chuckles • ‘you two are the perfect match. I saw it coming.’ • the only rivalry you’ll allow between you and Seongwoo • who can make worst puns? • it’s entertaining to playfully spite him • puns bring people together • Seongwoo looked absolutely dashing • you suddenly love Poinsettias • and mistletoe • but that’s for another day ;) • he’s sweeter than the Christmas stollen you ordered • he’s stollen your heart for sure • puns intended • there’s like 0 way you can hate him now • your family is going to combust if they knew • AHHHHHHH • maybe you’re secretly wishing for Seongwoo to appear under your tree this year • ‘don’t wish for him under the tree, wish for him under the mistletoe!’ Soyeon hisses, winking. • you love her • spending time with your best friend at OTL is 12/10, I’m ready for emotional talks over Christmas scented Yankee candles yes • then • Seongwoo, Sungwoon, Jisung and pretty much all the other staff make their way to your table • you can see the glint of Guanlin’s phone as he records the moment of Soyeon’s face going absolutely red when they start singing ‘happy birthday’ to her • SO CUTE • she’s a girl crush okay, what is my sexuality anymore • the cake that Sungwoon and Jisung made is a mini log cake • those with little reindeer and sleds pinned on the top too • ‘Soyeon, I have locked you in my memory!’ • you don’t need to look to know it’s Park Jihoon and his catchphrases • ‘ahhh, no. That’s now how you do it,’ Seongwoo protests • Jihoon pouts. ‘Okay, show me hyung.’ • ‘Y/N,’ • N O. N O • ‘You have the key to UNLOG unlock my heart!’ He does an ‘unlocking door’ gesture • you can’t contain your giggles and neither can the rest of your friends. • awwwww Seongwoo is really something else • maybe he’s your gift this Christmas • the sweetest, cheekiest, cutest gift ever • you really wouldn’t have it any other way • ‘Seongwoo,’ you call, just before you’re about to leave. • he perks up, a faint pink rushing to his cheeks. ‘yes?’ • ‘maybe...you can give me your number and we can go out more this holiday.’ • his eyes go wide and his mouth falls open a little, shocked • ‘u-uh..sure!’ • he NEVER stutters • ‘I’ll see you around then!’ he yells as you walk out of the shop • outside, there’s a thin layer of snow coating the ground • snow falls • and you’ve fallen for the Ong boy wearing a Poinsettia flower crown • looks like you’ve got a secret to keep this Christmas • and Santa has one wish off your list

Color My World Chapter 1/ 2

I may be taking a hiatus from Ao3, but I still want to share this. I did a lot of research for this and also am ignoring the passage of time (aka It’s 1903 but they haven’t aged)

Crutchie supposed that he just didn’t ‘get’ art. He enjoyed sketches and even some paintings, but he couldn’t really distinguish them from each other unless the content was really memorable. Most of the time, it wasn’t. But that was okay, he just didn’t ‘get’ art.

He liked Jack’s art, though! Everything Jack showed him, even the paintings he thought were kind of ugly though he never said that out loud. Jack was usually so secretive about his art that if he shared it, he either knew it was ugly and didn’t care or he was especially proud of it. Either way, Crutchie voicing his opinion would do no good.

After a stressful day of selling, all Crutchie wanted to do was go up to the penthouse and unwind with Jack. The headline had been crappy, and his leg hurt more than usual but he refused to play it up for sympathy. That would make him just as bad as all the others who faked their limps.

He struggled up the ladder to the rooftop, pulling himself up rung by rung and holding his crutch under his chin. If he dropped it from all the way up here and it fell to the ground, he might never get it back. That would be the cherry on top of his day.

“Hey, Crutchie! Heard you coming!” Jack appeared above him with a jovial laugh, ready to lend a helping hand.

“I can do it,” Crutchie glowered. Jack had seen him do it before.

“I know,” Jack promised with a smile. “But how’s about I take your crutch and then you don’t have to worry about it, huh?”

Crutchie frowned up at him but allowed him to take the crutch up to the penthouse for him. He took several more seconds to climb, but eventually he got there. Jack was waiting for him at the top of the ladder and he held out the crutch with fanfare. Crutchie had to smile at that. Jack could brighten even his gloomiest day.

They settled in and Jack returned to what he had been doing before Crutchie arrived. Unsurprisingly, he was sketching on some rolls of paper that Miss Medda probably provided.

“What are those?” Crutchie asked curiously, pointing to the sticks Jack was using to sketch. They were shorter than Jack’s pencils and wrapped in paper, so they couldn’t be the coal sticks he occasionally used.

Jack turned to him, beaming.

“Just got them today,” he nodded, proudly handing over the box. “For a nickel.”

Crutchie nodded as he read the box.

‘Crayola Gold Medal Eight Colors School Crayons Binney & Smith Co.’

“A nickel?” he repeated, looking up at Jack.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, saw them in a shop and figured ‘you know, I deserve something nice.’”

Crutchie snorted, shaking his head at Jack.

“What? You think I don’t deserve something nice?” Jack pouted, placing a hand over his heart. “That hurts, Crutchie.”

“What I think is I think you got conned.”

Jack huffed out a laugh and held up the eighth crayon that was missing from the box to show that he had gotten what he paid for. Crutchie turned the box over in his hands to see if there was any more information about crayons.

“Can you pass me the green one?” Jack asked, holding out his for an exchange.

“Sure thing,” Crutchie nodded. He picked one from the case and passed it to Jack. “What’re you drawing?”

Jack didn’t respond, but instead gave Crutchie a slightly confused look for a moment. Crutchie somehow felt very small. He wasn’t used to feeling like that with Jack.

“What?” he asked, his eyes darting to the ladder. He knew that he wouldn’t need to escape from Jack, but there was a fleeting moment of panic.

“Sorry. Did I say ‘brown?’ I meant green,” Jack corrected, handing the crayon back.

Now, Crutchie looked at him in confusion.

“No, you said green. …Like the grass,” he confirmed.

Jack side eyed Crutchie. Whatever this joke was, he sure was committing to it. He asked for the box back and Crutchie willingly handed it over. Jack plucked out a crayon that was almost the exact same color.

“Green, like the grass,” he repeated. Crutchie stared between the two crayons, trying to see how either was more grass-like than the other.

“Can you not see colors?” Jack inquired. Crutchie knew he didn’t mean to be, but after the day he had, that rubbed him the wrong way.

“I see colors,” he grumbled. He didn’t need a messed up leg and messed up eyes. He continued a little more quietly. “They just all look the same.”

Jack stared at Crutchie in awe like he was some kind of exotic exhibit in a zoo. Crutchie grabbed for his crutch. Even though going inside would be loud and grating, it was better than sitting here and getting silently made fun of by his best friend.

“Hey. Hey, where you going?” Jack asked, sitting up straighter as Crutchie got to his feet.

“You’re looking at me weird,” Crutchie defended.

“Sorry, I never knew nobody who couldn’t see colors,” Jack explained, rolling up the papers so he could stand too.

“I didn’t know I couldn’t see colors!” Crutchie burst. He had a limp and he couldn’t see right. If he lost his hearing, the guys would think he was an absolute goldmine for garnering sympathy buyers.

Jack reached out to him, carefully touching his shoulders and starting to bring him in for a hug. It was too hot for that and Crutchie shook him away.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jack smiled at him. “It ain’t a big deal.” An idea struck him. “You know, I bet we ask Davey and he would be able to tell you a ton of people who can’t see colors. Inventors, scientists, millionaires…”

Crutchie perked up a bit. Not only about the fact that there might be other people like him, but at the mention of Davey. He hurried to the discarded box of crayons and picked it up. He drew two and stared at them for a long time. 

“Davey’s eyes are blue,” he stated decisively, holding them both up when he couldn’t choose between them. Jack laughed, but it was almost endearing enough that Crutchie didn’t mind. He took one of the crayons out of Crutchie’s hand.

“Davey’s eyes are blue,” he confirmed, smiling. “This is purple.”

Crutchie wanted to argue that they were exactly the same color but Jack was the one of them who saw colors right. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to be good-natured. He shouldn’t be surprised something else was wrong with him.

“I guess I’ll just have to believe you,” Crutchie dramatically sighed in Jack’s direction, sitting back down. Jack smiled at him.

“You’re not leaving?” he teased, settling in beside him. Crutchie shrugged like he hadn’t made up his mind to stay.

“What were you drawing anyway?” Crutchie asked, looking around for what Jack could have been referencing on the roof that required green.

Jack sank into himself a little, modest.

“I never used crayon before, so I was just doing some little test doodles,” he brushed off the question. Crutchie stared at him insistently, silently probing for more. “And I like to draw people I know when I doodle, okay?”

Crutchie scrunched his face in confusion. “And you needed green? Why?” He had a theory but it was probably stupid so he kept it to himself. He didn’t want Jack to laugh at him for asking if the boys with darker skin or darker hair could be green.

Almost sheepishly, Jack reached over and unrolled the paper he had been using.  “Now, like I said I never used them before so it’s not that good and I didn’t finish, but…here.”

He showed Crutchie a half-finished portrait. The lines were kind of flaky but they were still definitely outlining his own face.

“Is this me?” he asked, looking up at Jack again, smiling. Jack nodded. “Why did you need green?” He looked down at his beige clothes. “Do I wear a lot of green?”

Jack laughed again and shook his head.

“Your eyes are green,” he shrugged.

“Oh.” Crutchie frowned before falling silent. That was the second thing he had learned about himself in the span of half an hour.

“Hey,” Jack nudged him. “You ain’t upset about this, right?”

Crutchie shrugged despondently, “I can’t see colors, Jack.”

“So what? Huh? Blink can’t see out of one eye at all,” he pointed out.

“How many things are wrong with me?” Crutchie demanded. “Is…Is my arm gonna fall off tomorrow?”

“No,” Jack shook his head. Granted, he didn’t know that for sure but it seemed unlikely. “And if it did, I’d carry your papes for you if you want. Any of us would.”

Crutchie slumped with a sigh. That was true. He wouldn’t want the help, of course, but it was good to know that they would be there if he ever did.

He reached over Jack’s lap and grabbed the box of crayons. He idly flipped through them as though shifting them would magically allow him to see their true colors.

“Hey, is that why you thought I got conned?” Jack asked suddenly.

“It looks like you only got three colors for a nickel,” Crutchie explained.

He dumped all of them out into his hand and separated them. Blue and purple were together. Green and brown were together. Yellow, slightly darker yellow, black and weird brownish-gray were all their own colors.

“Okay, I guess you got five colors,” Crutchie corrected.

“Penny a color, just like a pape,” Jack laughed.

“Oh! Speaking of papes, the headlines today?” Crutchie changed the topic to complain about the papers. Anything except him. “The most exciting thing was the pope getting sick again.”

Jack laughed but agreed. “And we’ve been reporting on his health for two weeks. There’s only so much interest for ‘the voice of God might be dying? No, for real this time.’”

They dissolved into laughter, and Jack soon started sketching again while Crutchie continued talking about his day, trying his hardest to be cheerful and forget about his weird eyes. They kept on like that until it was about time for dinner, signaled by Jack’s growling stomach. Before they descended, Jack showed Crutchie the finished portrait. Crutchie nodded at it.

“It looks just like me,” he praised. Or at least the version of him that he saw when he caught his reflection. But Jack could have colored him different from real life and he never would have known.

With that, they descended the ladder. Jack went down first and Crutchie followed after.

“You won’t tell any of the guys about me not seeing colors, right?” Crutchie asked when they were halfway down the fire escape.

“Not if you don’t want them to know,” Jack promised, rumpling Crutchie’s hair. “Now, c’mon. Else Henry’ll eat everything before we even get there.”

Do you like bread crust on pizza or do you prefer it cut off? I don’t cut it off, I just don’t eat it. What is your favorite lunch meat? Bologna. Have you ever driven while drunk/intoxicated? No. NO ONE should. What is the worst/hardest drug you’ve taken? I’ve only done weed. What is the worst/hardest drug you’ve been offered, but declined to partake in? Once while vacationing I got offered some acid from a homeless man.

If you’ve ever tried drugs or alcohol, what was your reason for first trying it? I just wanted to. Do you think you could ever have an abortion if you expectantly turned up pregnant? Thankfully, I can’t get pregnant. What is the weirdest ailment a pet of yours/your family’s has sustained? My doggo ate some weed (which she must have found at the dog park she went to that day) and had a really bad reaction to it, it was really scary. We didn’t know what was wrong, she just looked really spooked, she kept swaying and couldn’t really walk, she wouldn’t respond to anything we said, she was shaking and breathing hard... it was bad. The vet knew what was wrong right away, and the tests she ran confirmed it. She had to be given charcoal to make her vomit everything out and then stay for a few hours hooked up to an IV and be rehydrated. When she came home that night she still was swaying and couldn’t stand up right and had that spooked look on her. She just had to sleep it off, but poor girl had a hard time. She kept moving around and was restless. She was back to normal the next day, but yeah it was pretty scary! If you were far from home and needed to sleep for the night, would you choose to rent a crappy motel room for $60 or sleep in your car for free? Why can’t I find a better hotel if I was able to? ha. Fine, out of those choices... probably pull into a truck stop or something and sleep for a bit.  Have you ever ran a toll booth? Why? No. Is there a color shirt you’d NEVER wear? Not really into neon bright colors. Is there a situation where you caved into peer pressure and regretted it? Yes. What is your favorite thing to do at a park? I don’t enjoy going to parks. Would you ever bleach your hair platinum blonde? Nah, I like bleaching and dying it red. What is your favorite video game console? Why? My Nintendo Switch. Do you like the band MGMT? If so, can you recommend another band that sounds similar to their style to me? I only know their song, “Kids”, but I really like it.  Do you like vanilla candles? Sure. Have you ever been in a relationship that was going great, and then suddenly something weird happened and you just KNEW it was going to be over soon? Something like that. We weren’t officially together, but we liked each other and it definitely seemed to be going in that direction and then I felt something changing and I was right. Now he’s like completely off the grid. What are your plans for the weekend? No plans. Are you graduating soon? I graduated college in 2015. How many people have you kissed? 3. What’s your worst habit? Not taking care of myself like I should. I’ve really neglected myself and everything. Are you good with your money? Ehhh. Some months I get a little carried away with my online shopping. Who are you interested in? No one in that way. What do you like about the person you’re currently interested in? Which of the guys you’ve been interested in hurt you the most? Joseph. Do you like your job? Are you trying to get over somebody? No. Do you know anybody who is engaged? Yes. Do you know anybody who is pregnant? On Facebook, yeah. How old will you be in 12 months? 31.  What is something you realized recently? I don’t know. Do you know what your ex is up to? Nope. Not really interested to be completely honest. Are you happy with the choices you’ve made? There’s a LOT that I’m not happy with. Are you currently arguing with someone? No. Have your friends disapproved of someone you were seeing, but you decided to pursue anyway? Yes. What was the last thing you purchased? Some letter beads. I’ve gotten into making beaded bracelets recently. What was your last phone call about? I don’t remember. Can you handle the truth? Depends. What is your relationship status on Facebook? I’m single. How tall is the last person you kissed? I think he’s like 5′8. What do you usually doodle? Random words in cursive, hearts, stars, and just swirly lines. Could things possibly get any better? I sure wish they would. How are you feeling at the moment? Blah. Do you have feelings for someone? Not romantic feelings. What was for dinner tonight? I had Ramen. Would you be able to name everyone you kissed? Yeah, there’s only 3. Are you in a good mood? Blah. Where is the last person you kissed? I don’t know. What color shirt are you wearing? Black. Do you think you could ever make it as a rap singer? Uh, no. Or any kind of singer. How important are looks to you? They’re not the most important thing, but I can’t say they don’t at all. There’s at least some initial physical attraction. However, to me, what I look for in a person goes much deeper than that. Looks only go so far. Did you have a fling this summer but it didn’t really go anywhere? Nope. I’m single af, like I’m not talking to anyone. Do you get jealous? It happens, but it’s been awhile. Envy rears its ugly head more often. :/ Why did you kiss the last person you kissed? I wanted to. What is something you currently want? Summer to go away. What was the weather like today? It’s supposed to be 101F today. D: It’s Friday the 13th in September it should be spooky, fall, cold time.  Do you like sushi? Nooo. Is your hair longer than your shoulders? Way longer. It goes down to my butt. Ever kissed anyone with a nipple piercing? No. What about a lip piercing? No. Nose piercing? No. Do you like your hair? No. It’s way overdo for a dye job and trim. Have you ever kissed someone who had a boyfriend/girlfriend? No. Did you like kissing the last person you kissed or the one before that more? The last one. Ever made out in a pool? No. The shirt you’re wearing, does anyone else have it? I’m sure a lot of people do, it’s a black Adidas shirt. Adidas is a popular brand. What was the last movie you watched? It Chapter 2.

A Meeting of Sorts

The third and final part of my CU fic, Control and Order! The first two parts are here, or here on Ao3. Comments are highly appreciated!

Wordcount: 881

Rating: G

The mirror looked the same as it always did. He had a round face, dark eyes, and a plain purple shirt.

Today was a Sunday. He hadn't planned anything for this weekend, except...

Sighing, Mr. Krupp scribbled down the last few words and looked over the note.

This is ridiculous, but we have to come to an agreement over use of my body. Don't hurt it, and start wearing some decent clothes. Don't let anyone know who you are either.

Mr. Krupp smacked the sticky note up on the mirror and adjusted a video camera to be focused on his face. He had to see how different he looked- from the picture he'd found stuffed in his pocket, Captain Underpants (ugh, that still sounded dumb) had different posture. His smile, his eyes, his stance- it was all foreign.

"Here goes nothing." A slow deep breath before he lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.

__________

He woke up in George and Harold's treehouse- again- with a half-filled glass of water in his hands. He was wearing only his underwear and a curtain. Again. Harold was clutching his note.

"We probably should have talked to him..." He muttered.

"We hadn't thought of how he'd-"

"Why am I here again?" Mr. Krupp glared down at the two fourth graders.

Harold bit his lip. "Captain Underpants doesn't really know about you. He kind of freaked."

"What?"

"He showed up at my door about fifteen minutes ago." George fidgeted with his tie.

"Not that. He doesn't know about me?"

"Yeah- er, no." Harold laughed nervously. "Actually, he thinks you're one of his rivals, since we... um..."

"You don't speak fondly of me." Mr. Krupp said flatly, and George nodded.

"Uh-huh. All we got out of him was that he doesn't know what's going on or who the mysterious person is."

"Oh, and that your neighborhood is depressing." Harold added.

"It keeps away solicitors." Mr. Krupp snapped. "I don't need to explain my life choices to him."

"So you want him to wear clothes? That kind of defeats the point of 'Captain Underpants.' " Harold made finger quotes. "He actually thinks they make his powers disappear."

"Can't you two explain it to him?"

"Look at it this way- if he puts on clothes, he looks like you." George pointed out.

Mr. Krupp dragged a hand down his face.

"Okay, fine. I'll write another note."

"Be nice to him, okay? He's like a kid." Harold's eyebrows were tilted up, and his lower lip was hanging open slightly.

Both of the boys had nervous looks on their faces. Mr. Krupp's first thought was of the dozens of parents that came into his office when their bratty kids were in trouble.

He never thought he'd be comparing those two to adults.

"Give me a piece of paper and a pencil."

The supplies were shoved into his hands and he settled down on the floor, the wood creaking under his weight as he got to work.

My name is Mr. Krupp. You don't need to know my first name. I'm the principal of Jerome Horwitz. This was MY body first. This is ridiculous, and it's all George and Harold's fault, but we have to come to an agreement over use of my body. Don't hurt it, and don't let anyone know who you are either, and I'll let you continue being a hero.

He handed it to George, who skimmed it quickly and nodded. "That works."

Before he could say another word, George snapped.

____________

He woke up in his own house this time, but it looked different.

For one, there were bright, gaudy lanterns hanging from every conceivable surface, from a lamp to the tv antennae to a doorknob.

The other was that there was a scribbled mess of notes in barely-distinguishable handwriting littering his body. His still half-naked body, for the record.

He picked up a random one, squinting at the childish handwriting.

"MR KRUPP, i'm surprised your the one i'm sharing with!!! i thought you were a jerkyjerk but you want to be a hero too!! i cheered up your house, it was dull and gross and boring"

There was a tiny doodle of a face with a tongue sticking out. The rest of the notes were either receipts for the lanterns (lucky they'd been at a discount and he was only out about fifteen dollars, but it was still ridiculous that idiot had managed to figure out how to buy something) or colorful but crappy colored pencil drawings of underwear and stars.

While crumpling the rest of the paper up, Mr. Krupp accidentally flipped over the note, and noticed there was more.

"PS: if your mean to my sidekicks i'll do something. i don't know what but you won't like it!!! don't be mean to them they saved the world!!!"

Sighing, Mr. Krupp set the paper on the coffee table, standing up to grab a garbage can for the rest.

It didn't take very long to take down the lanterns, but after a moment of thought, he left one on the kitchen table.

Captain would probably go get something else and waste more money if he didn't.

(The fact that the bright red did make the room feel a little homier had nothing to do with his choice. Definitely.)

thirty days of skam fic: day twenty two aka, it’s even’s birthday, and isak has a surprise

beginning. accusation. restless. leaves. rainbow. flame. formal. under. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. cans. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. tent. mad. thousand. paper. winter. luxury. letters. promise. simple. future.

[ READ ON AO3 ]

When Even walks through the door, the first thing Isak says is, “Okay, don't be mad.”

That's an ominous request at the best of times, and Even freezes for a moment, halfway through the doorway with his keys dangling from one outstretched finger, a fancy iced coffee he brought home for Isak in his hand, his jacket sliding down his arm. Isak is stood right inside the doorway, like he'd been waiting for Even to get home.

“Hello to you too,” Even says, halfway between teasing and wary. “What did you do?”

He takes in Isak in front of him for a second. He's wearing his usual jeans and t-shirt, bare feet on their kitchen tile. He's not bleeding visibly or missing any limbs; he hasn't had a terrible haircut in the last five hours, and he's free to spontaneous facial piercings. Those are all the obvious ones, so Even eliminates the idea that it's something Isak’s done to himself, and starts worrying about what Isak might have done to someone else. Isak does have a bit of a temper; maybe he's murdered someone and they need to go on the run together. Even could probably handle that.

Except instead of showing him a corpse, Isak nervously takes Even’s hand and leads him through to the main room of their tiny flat, where Even is presented with --

Chaos.

It’s not like their flat is ever usually tidy.  Actually, it’s quite the opposite; even Magnus, whose bedroom is indistinguishable from a nuclear explosion site, refers to Even and Isak’s flat as The Mess.  Eskild has upgraded from referring to Isak’s old bedroom as ‘the devil’s cave’ to calling their whole place ‘the gates of hell’.  But there’s a difference between their piles of clothes on the floor and hoodies jumbled up in their heaped duvet on the bed and Isak’s schoolbooks scattered haphazardly over every surface -- and this.  

The thing is, this isn’t just messy, a lot of their stuff is broken.  Their crappy ikea lamp has been knocked over and cracked against the floor, and the legs of their second-hand table are all scratched and mangled, and their clothes are flung even more all over the place than usual, and there are heaps of paper that must be Isak’s notes and doodles from school all torn and creased and flung around the room, and Even spots one of his shoes looking like it’s been chewed up and spat out.  

“What the hell happened in here?” he wonders.  He isn’t angry, not really, although that might just be because he’s paralysed with surprise -- but also, most of their stuff cost them a few kroner at second hand markets or ikea, and Even had been meaning to buy some new trainers anyway, so it’s probably just Isak’s notes getting destroyed that actually matters.  Of course, Even might be missing something, since he’s only taken a cursory glance around.  As Isak doesn’t respond, Even suddenly worries his fancy camera is another casualty, and steps further in the room to make sure it’s still safely propped up on the windowsill.

Except, as soon as he moves, Even freezes again, because he’s just spotted the culprit of all this destruction.

“Happy birthday?” Isak says meekly, reaching out one hand like he might wrap an arm around Even and then thinking better of it.  Even’s birthday isn’t for another two days, but he gets the sentiment, and he immediately spins back around, reaching one hand out for Isak to hold.

And then, voice trembling and incredulous, Even asks, “You got me a puppy?”

Because that’s what it is, a tiny little fluffy black puppy, fast asleep at the foot of their bed.  It’s so small that Even doesn’t even know how it got onto the bed -- Isak must have lifted it up there, possibly to try and stop it making any more mess.  And it’s so cute, almost obnoxiously cute, with a tiny pink nose, making little huffing sounds in its sleep.  Even has wanted a dog his whole life.  As a kid, when everyone else had imaginary friends, Even had an imaginary dog -- a fluffy black dog called Noodle, who he drew a thousand pictures of, and wrote stories about, and constantly begged his parents to actually buy him.  But Even’s dad is allergic to dog hair, so they ended up with a goldfish instead, and Even never quite got over it.  He told Isak all that months ago, after they first moved into the flat together and Even discovered some of his old childhood drawings while he was packing.  He just never thought Isak would remember, and he especially didn’t think Isak didn’t do something like this.

“I know it’s a bit of a risky present and we probably should have talked about it first, and we’re technically not allowed pets here so we’d have to keep her secret anyway, and I’m actually really sorry, and I actually didn’t even think about it but a guy Sana knows from the mosque had to get rid of their puppies today or they were gonna have to send some to a shelter and as soon as she showed me a picture it reminded me so much of the dog you always talked about wanting and -- and the guy said she was house trained, but I guess he just meant about peeing cus I went downstairs for literally ten minutes to put our washing in the machine and when I came back she’d torn up the whole place!  But, uh, I’m really sorry, and if you don’t actually want her it’ll be really easy to give her to someone else, but.  Yeah.  Happy birthday?”

Even cannot believe this is his life.  He cannot believe this is his actual, real boyfriend, who is sweeter than any other human being on the planet.  He reaches over and drags Isak into a kiss, pulling him as close as possible and trying to pass over every single drop of love he’s feeling just through his lips.

“Did you know that you’re the most amazing boy alive?” Even asks him when they finally pull apart.  Isak’s cheeks are flushed pink, and he ducks his head a bit, pushing Even’s shoulder away lightly.

“Shut up.”  His voice turning a bit hopeful, he says, “So, it’s a good present?”

“Isak.  Baby.  It’s the best present.”

“You don’t mind that she’s a pain, and we might get kicked out if the landlord finds out?”

“There are a million places to live in Oslo.  Besides, we’re very good at being sneaky.  Didn’t someone tell me you’re the master of lying?”

Rolling his eyes dramatically at that, Isak adds, “And, uh, you don’t mind that she maybe ate half of your favourite Nas t-shirt?”

Even pauses for a moment at that, but then shrugs.

“Totally a worthy sacrifice if it means I get to have a puppy.”  He reaches out and kisses Isak again, and for a minute they’re both smiling too wide for it to really work, but eventually the kiss gets deeper and Isak starts tugging at Even’s hair, pressing their legs together.  It’s getting kind of hot, which Even is very okay with, but at that exact moment they’re interrupted by a series of tiny yelps.

Pulling away, Even spins around, and sees the puppy has woken up.  She’s stood on the end of the bed, trying to get their attention, and she’s even cuter when she’s awake.  Even immediately abandons his boyfriend and goes to scoop the puppy into his arms, laughing as she starts licking at his face.

“I see how it is,” Isak grumbles, but he comes over to stand by the two of them anyway, scratching the puppy’s head a bit.  “So, are you gonna call her Noodle, like you wanted when you were a kid?”

Even thinks about it for a moment, as she yelps again and bites his finger with her teeny little teeth.

“No,” he decides.  His life is unrecognisable now from what it was when he first started dreaming about his own dog, and if there’s one thing he and Isak have been learning together, it’s not to live in the past.  “I’m gonna come up with some amazing, meaningful name from our relationship, which will amaze you with its significance and confuse everyone else.”

Isak bursts out laughing, which is Even’s favourite sound in the world.  The puppy starts to squirm, so he lets her down onto the ground, where she immediately careers off towards one of Even’s t-shirts on the floor and starts chewing on it.  

“Of course you are,” says Isak, flicking Even’s arm.  “Well, I can’t wait to hear what you come up with.  Shall we just call her puppy until then?”

Even beams, and goes to scoop the puppy away from his t-shirt.

“Yep.  Now come on, let’s go and take puppy for her first walk.  Between you and me, I think she could do with wearing out a bit.”

Isak goes to grab a lead from the little pile of dog things he’s stashed in the corner, and Even attaches it to the puppy’s collar, holding the lead in one hand and Isak’s hand in the other.  Usually there’s nothing in the world that could get him to leave the flat again five minutes after getting back from work, without even sitting down first, but right now he doesn’t mind at all; to Even, there isn't anything he would rather be doing than going out for a walk with his boyfriend and their dog.

It feels like, just maybe, him and Isak are turning from a couple into a family.  And that's all Even wants, for the rest of his life.

made manifest / 6.9k / canonverse trans!dean (read it on AO3)

wherein castiel defied god for dean before dean even knew his name.  

warning: slurs, gender/body dysphoria, some dubious consent

Dean’s twelve and bored in another health class. He’s staring at a pyramid in the margins of a textbook labeled The Hierarchy of Needs, only half-listening to the dull, muted monotone of the teacher’s lesson in the background. He’s confident he’s got this dumb thing down. After all, he’s seen it about three times this year, because they keep moving schools in the middle of the unit, and every junior high in the country apparently offsets their curriculum by one or two weeks with the sole intention of keeping Dean from getting to the really juicy bits of health.

Lecture complete, the teacher falls into his desk chair and dispassionately assigns a perky student in the front row to hand out worksheets. The promised land of goofy genitalia illustrations and condoms on bananas that lies in chapter seven is a distant dream to the depressing reality of this, a dumb photocopied doodle where he’s expected to write in where he stands on the pyramid. What he aspires to achieve in his life next. His stomach appreciates the irony of the whole situation and growls loudly as his hand hovers indecisively between the bottom tier labeled physiological needs and the next up, safety.

Are you eating? and Are you afraid for your life? Teachers usually assume the answer to that is a given for the kids in a junior high school class, but most the time but it really—isn’t. For Dean.

Not that he can write he’s not getting fed on a school worksheet. He can’t. And he can’t write that he’s not safe, either. He’s not stupid, and he doesn’t want CPS on his tail. But it’s pretty obvious, every time this dumb unit gets drilled into his head, that he’s never gonna move past the “safety” tier, not in his chosen career path. He’s always gonna be afraid for his life, right up until he doesn’t have it anymore. He taps his pen once on love/belonging section, then draws a thick line between esteem and self-actualization, like he’s hovering between them. Like he even has the option of getting to the top of the pyramid when there’s always this invisible monster hovering just under the surface that he’s too busy chasing real monsters to pursue.

His hand hovers over the Self-Actualization Goals line of the worksheet. He starts the shaky outline of a “B,” then a “T,”  and crosses both of them out, and that’s when the perky student handing out worksheets passes by him again, rubbernecking his paper before she resettles at the front of the classroom. Her name is Tiffany or Brenda or something. People seem to like her. There’s a Tiffany or Brenda at every school.

“I’ll bet I know what Deanna’s self-actualization goal is,” she stage whispers, leaning toward her neighbor. The henchman is giggling before Briffany’s even delivered the punchline. “I’ll bet she wants to be an even bigger dyke than she already is. Why else would she wear that awful flannel every day?”

Dean looks down at the dirt wedged under his stubby fingernails and the Bic pen cradled in the smooth, delicate softness of his hands. At the paper on the desk, and at the name in the corner like a foreign language.

Deanna Winchester, fourth period.

Then, on the line about self-actualization, he writes Be a bigger dyke than I already am. They’ll be on to the next town before the stupid health teacher even grades it, anyway. On to the next monster.

It’s less of a lie than he’ll ever admit out loud.

When he’s thirteen, Dean starts bleeding, and Dad drops him off where someone else can deal with it. Pastor Jim does, in his own way, with a discreet packet of bulky pads and pamphlets about abstinence from his Sunday school classes that do nothing to smooth the growing waves of tumult that are always at the back of Dean’s brain, now. The itchy-skinned wrongness that’s grown and grown and grown the more he’s tried to ignore it.

It’s raining out, so they take shelter in the chapel with Pastor Jim for want of anything better to do. Usually he’s all for playing with Sammy, but today he sits alone and sleepy, arms wrapped low around his middle, questing fingers taking in the subtle new flare of his hips and seeking to soothe the aggressive ache inside him. Sammy drives his tiny matchbox cars along the tops of of the pews, rumbling out little vroom vroom noises every time he jumps them across a gap.

Pastor Jim lights candles at the head of the church for evening services, one by one by one, until they light up the chapel, replacing the faded multicolored sunlight filtering weakly through the stained-glass windows overhead.

Dean gets up, and no matter how he tries to muffle his unwieldy feet with soft steps, they echo loud and awkward in the vaulted room. He stops just short of a statue of the Virgin Mary off to the right of the green-draped pulpit, hand still resting gently above the bloated, painful curve of his lower belly. Mary smiles at him, benevolent and wise and empty-eyed, her arms outstretched.

“Do you think God makes mistakes?” he blurts, eyes still on the sweet, feminine features. The demure bow of her mouth. The soft chin to match his own.

He’s not sure where it comes from. He doesn’t believe in God. At first, he hadn’t known he was supposed to believe, and by the time he figured out he was supposed to, he found he didn’t quite know how.

Pastor Jim stops lighting candles and Dean can feel his eyes on the side of his head, can just barely see the thin tendrils of smoke wafting upward from the dowel the pastor had been using to light candles in his periphery. He also notes the absence of the little vroom vrooms behind him, can almost see Sammy peeking above the edge of a pew, watching the exchange with his mouth hanging open.

“What’s this about?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but the silence is leaden and dragging. He can feel Pastor Jim formulating his own assumptions across the room, the same way he had been ever since the first time Dad dropped him on the good pastor’s doorstep. He makes the only pitying assumptions one could possibly make about an ill-kempt, transient child who couldn’t stay in one school long enough to learn why he was even bleeding in the first place.

Pastor Jim sighs. “Oh, Deanna. There are so many things in your life that may seem like a curse. You have experienced so much at such a young age.”

Pastor Jim is at his side all of the sudden, and Dean starts at the feel of a hand on his shoulder. It’s a marvel how quietly the pastor moves. How comfortable he seems in his own skin. His smile feels real, and he wears it like he knows what it means. Like there’s no dissonance when he looks in his mirror, and the way that it looks on his face is the way it’s supposed to look.

“But I think you’ll find that everything has its own logic. Its own intent. Its own reason.” He inclines his head gently to Mary, a deference and an example. “God and his angels are executors of a plan beyond our understanding. So, no. I don’t believe He makes mistakes.”

Dean looks back and forth between Mary and Jim, Mary and Jim and thinks—well, easy for Pastor Jim to say. Pastor Jim has a dick.

Dean takes the medical shears from the first aid kit to his hair in the height of summer when he’s fourteen.

He doesn’t know why he wears it long anymore. It frames his face wrong, thick and wavy where it falls—softening edges that are already too soft. It has a nasty habit of going to a bright, brassy, gold, so rich it looks like someone dyed it, when he spends time in the sun. He doesn’t like brushing it. Hates styling it. Hates how impractical it is when it gets in his face. And he figures that it’s time to get rid of it while it’s hot and he still has an excuse, anyway.

He’s worn it long all his life, just near the same length it was when his mom burned. It’s tickled his shoulders since he was old enough to remember it tickling. All the same, he doesn’t really think twice when it falls in thick clumps to the emerald green tile of the hotel-bathroom-of-the-week. He looks down at his stubby toes and tucks them into the fine layer of it on the floor, curling them there while he shimmies and shivers to get off the stray hairs still making their way down the back of his collar. Sam perches at the edge of the tile with a book in his hand, discreetly watching Dean discreetly watching himself in the mirror. Dean’s halfway pleased with what he sees there for the first time he can recall in a long, long while, even though the cut itself is uneven and sloppy.

“What do you think?” he says, spreading his arms for Sammy, doing a hips-first strutting swirl and spreading the mess at his feet.

Sam quirks his mouth. Frames Dean between his thumbs and forefingers like a dweeb. “S’good.” he says finally, definitive. “But…”

Dean turns back to the mirror, detail work now. He imitates the hairdressers he’s seen working in movies, squeezing pieces of his hair flat between two fingers and then chopping the ends even.

“But?” he says, poking his tongue out as he works. “But what?”

“But Dad won’t think so.”

Dean looks at himself, finishing the cut in silence. Finally noticing the cracks that cut through his reflection in the crappy bathroom mirror.

Sam isn’t wrong.

John Winchester is a man of contradictions. Most of the time he’s a hardened hunter, a single-function machine with a gun permanently affixed to one palm and a machete affixed to the other. And when he’s that John Winchester, he doesn’t mind how Dean looks. How Dean acts. In fact, he likes it. Prefers it. It suits his needs, then, that Dean’s—well, low maintenance. Someone who’s sure of himself and his body and the things it can do. The Dean that Deanna usually is until he looks in the mirror.

But—

But the rest of the time, Dad is drunk. And the older Dean gets, the more Dad tells him he looks like Mom when he’s wasted. Dad breaks him down, feature by feature, until he’s a parade of disembodied organs, a series of puzzle parts that his dad could dissemble and and smash back together in the shape of Mary Winchester.

And to some extent, Dean likes it. Wants more of it. Hungers for the comparison to something his dad clearly finds so good and pure and happy. But it exhausts its welcome fairly quickly, because as much as he loves that he might have his mom’s sterling character or charming wit, he doesn’t—he doesn’t want—

Her nose. Her lips. Her eyelashes.

Or—her hair.

He doesn’t want to be growing into the woman his mom was.

All the same, he’s expecting a reprimand at most. A few harsh words, maybe some extra laps during his workout. He waits up that night to face his punishment like a man, reading under the buzzing light in the kitchenette while the humid heat drifts in the window and cicadas chirp outside. Dad comes in at nearly two, when Sam has long-since given up waiting with him.

And of all the things he psyched himself up for while he waited—he isn’t expecting his dad to cry.

“Jesus,” Dad says the moment he steps in the door, voice soft with the hour and the Jack he’d clearly pounded back behind the wheel on the way home. He drops his duffel in the entryway and reaches out for Dean’s face, palms cupped softly. Dean’s flinched back automatically before he realizes that’s silly, and he lets his dad draw his fingers through the new liberating shortness of his hair, same as Dean had that morning. They share the same quiet reverence, but he suspects there are different reasons behind it for the both of them. “Jesus, Deanna, what happened?”

Shaken, Dean feigns nonchalance, even as the first whiskey tear leaks its slow way down his father’s cheek.

“Got hot,” Dean says, voice trembling and high and thin. “Decided it’d be easier to take care of this way.” He clears his throat, pushing past the tremors, and adds, “Sir,” in a gravelly baritone.

John looks into Dean’s eyes for a long moment, big hand still cupping the curve of his scalp, until he backs off, resigned and heavy-limbed. He runs a hand over his face, over his mouth, trailing tears all the while, and maybe he thinks Dean can’t hear him when he mumbles, “What would she fuckin’ say if she saw you now?”

But he can. And even though Dad doesn’t seem to remember it in the morning and acts surprised to see his short hair for the first time all over again—Dean does. Dean does remember. He lets it haunt him and haunt him and haunt him, like a cursed object that’s made its way under his skin and stuck there.

What would his mom say if she could see him now? What would she think of what he’s become?

Or, perhaps more importantly, what he hasn’t?

There’s no way to answer any of that without a big helping of heartache, so he just lets his dad be grateful when, on a hunt a little over a month later, a kappa tries to drag him into a water trap on a golf course by his hair but can’t get a good enough grip.

He’s got to take the wins where he can get them.

When he’s sixteen, Sam catches him duct taping his tits to his chest. Dad trucked in a bunch of supplies the night before, emptying out the car before he took it out for another week-long bender, and he had a whole couple of rolls he hadn’t used on his last hunt. And the idea grabs hold of him while he’s nursing a cup of coffee and doesn’t let go. He cups the handful he’s got on his chest, pushes the sagging weight hard against his breastbone and thinks. Well Dad’s not gonna be home for a while anyway.

When the door to the bathroom swings open halfway through the process, though, Dean freezes, tits mostly covered, a piece of tape he’d been wrapping around his chest like a string of christmas lights still held out in front of him, still attached to the roll. He’s terrified for a moment that it’s Dad, back a week early and disgusted with him from the bathroom door. But it’s just Sam. And Sam—thinks. That face he gets sometimes, the stupid neanderthal brow where he’s visibly considering.

The bite of the duct tape is hard and unyielding as they consider each other. His skin isn’t breathing underneath, and he’s already started to sweat and chafe at every point where skin meets plastic. His tits are squished up in his armpits somewhere, and even though he’s uncomfortable as hell—he gets the same little glut of satisfaction he got when he lopped off that first tuft of long hair and looked at himself in the mirror years ago.

He likes the shape of himself. The silhouette.

Sam furrows his brow. He’s muddy from the knee down. He’s supposed to be at soccer practice.

“What are you doing?” he says slowly.

Dean brings the strip of duct tape up to rip with his teeth. He says, “What are you doing?” but it’s barely intelligible around the tape in his mouth. Sam gets it anyway. Dean sticks the dangling tail-end of the tape somewhere under his elbow.

“Coach called off practice early. It’s raining,” he says. He looks over Sam’s shoulder to the kitchenette window, and it’s definitely pitch black outside, murky with heavy rain. He hadn’t even noticed. Sam points at the tape.

“That can’t be comfortable. Is that comfortable?” Sam pulls back to grab his own flat chest, wincing in sympathy. Dean reaches for where he cast off his t-shirt on the top of the toilet tank and pulls it over his head. He shuffles around Sam to get out of the bathroom, but Sam seems to have forgotten why he burst in on Dean in the first place, and he follows him back out.

“Do you do that all the time? I don’t think that’s good for you.”

“Don’t you have to piss or something?” he grumbles.

“Plus...pulling it off…” Sam grimaces.

“It’s fine, okay? It’s—whatever.”

“So you do it often?”

“No!”

“Why are you doing it now?”

“Just—leave it alone, Sam.”

“Is it some training thing? Is Dad making you?”

“Leave it!” he shouts, a whole decibel higher than he generally tries to go. It’s a shrill screech and he hates everything about it. “Just leave it!” His chest struggles gamely against the new restriction, heaving strangely and forcing him to take panting, shallow breaths. To Sam’s credit, he’s quiet for almost a minute before he points it out.

“See. You can’t breathe properly.”

“Oh my God you fucking twerp,” he pants. “I’m taking it off. Fine. Get me my fucking leatherman.”

Sam narrows his eyes, but he goes to Dean’s duffel across the room and fishes for the knife while Dean tries to regulate his breathing and act like he’s not sweating like a pig. Sam hands over the knife and gives him one more up and down glance.

“You look weird,” he says. “It just...it looks weird, Deanna.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

When he goes back into the bathroom to do the deed and sees his own reflection in the mirror, he can see why Sam thought it looked—weird. Why it looked stupid. It was. It did. He didn’t look like—like a dude or something. Didn’t look any more like the broad-shouldered, well-stubbled, macho-man Dean that lived in his brain. He looked like a flat-chested dyke in a baggy Goodwill t-shirt.

He cuts the tape off. Nicks himself twice with the sharp knife tip and nearly screams when he rips the goddamn tape off his nipples like a band-aid. And he comes out of the bathroom without even his sports bra on, because who the fuck cares.

Sam looks at him different from then on. Looks at him like he’s a puzzle that he can put together, if he only had the right pieces. And sometimes he looks to Dean like Dean has them, like he has the vocabulary to talk about shaving his head and duct taping his chest and talking like his throat is filled up with gravel all the time. But Dean never finished health class, and he doesn’t have the words. He just knows he’s still stuck down at the bottom of the pyramid.

A couple years later, Sam hits his full teenage growth spurt, sprouts up about a foot taller than Dean and gets the big attitude to go along with it, and he stops asking Dean about his feelings. Dean’s just another thing that makes his family not normal and another reason, ultimately, to get away from it. And that’s probably a good thing, because Dean doesn’t really know how he would express how much he covets Sam’s big arms and full chest and strong chin and body hair without sounding like a fucking creep, anyway.

When Sammy leaves for college, Dean, twenty-two and tipsy and touch-starved at a bar in Kentucky, figures that his virginity is a stupid thing to be clinging to anyhow. It’s been a long time since he dropped out of high school, a long time since someone called him a dyke to his face. It’s been a long time since he slipped a finger or two or three through his own sloppy wetness and admitted to himself that it’s easy to get off to the feeling of something inside of him—as long as he didn’t think too hard about it. Shit isn’t getting any more normal and Dean isn’t any closer to being able to hop meatsuits ala a demonic entity. So that’s that. He picks the most inoffensive of the drunk fuckers that had been ogling him since he walked in. They exchange pleasantries, though Dean honestly can’t be fucked to remember his name, and then Dean takes him to his car.

It’s fine while the asshole’s mouth is occupied. He can’t get any words out as he divests Dean of his jacket and one, two, three tops. And then, following that, two nondescript gray sports bras that were keeping his tits as close to controlled as they ever got. Dean’s perched in his lap, hands tentatively curled on his shoulders, trying to act like he’s done this before.

“Buried fuckin’ treasure under here, sweetheart,” the guy says, mouthing at his tits. Dean tries to tune him out, tries not to think about the way this guy’s big hands span the whole of his waist, because it actually feels alright. “Where were you hidin’ these sweet things?” He pushes one up, then the other. Cups the one he hasn’t got his mouth all over. Rubs rough on the nipples with the palms of his hands. Dean’s never paid that much attention to his boobs except to resent them when they get in his way, but this guy is getting a hard-on just planting his mouth on them. Dean can feel the hot line in his pants and he’s driven to that more than anything, so he takes the initiative and dives into the guy’s fly.

Dean gets the sense you’re supposed to feel more than jealous when you see a real-life dick for the first time, but that’s all he’s got. It’s an okay dick as far as he can tell. It’s not pornstar dick, but it’s a nice size and a nice weight and it’s—he pushes it up against the denim still between his thighs with both hands and gasps softly, too softly. A noise that he hates. Like the demure little kittens in pornos.

It gets harder in his hand and he bites his lip to stifle the sound.

“You like that, gorgeous?” the fuckwit says, looking at Dean on top of him with a dumb, dazed look. “You like my cock, huh, Miss Sweet Deeeee-anna?”

Dean does. He likes it a whole lot. He just doesn’t like the running mouth it’s attached to. Dean figures that his show of looking like not-a-virgin must’ve gone over well with his captive audience, because it’s been all of five minutes in the backseat of his Baby, and this guy’s primed to get his dick wet. And Dean thought he was okay with it, thought he could do it, but then the guy starts tossing pussy around like it’s a hundred-dollar word.

“Want this cock in your sweet pussy, baby?” he says, and Dean goes cold to his toes, feeling, suddenly, like he’s outside himself, watching this, and he doesn’t know who he is anymore. “Wanna feel it inside your pussy?” He pops the p against Dean’s tits. Puh-ussy, and goes for Dean’s fly. He must take Dean’s shivery withdrawal as excitement. He never once slows down.

Dean’s not sure how he figured this was gonna go, if not to—intercourse. Maybe he was hoping some drunk asshole would let him feel up his dick in the back of a car, get his mouth around it a little, and that would be that. Maybe that was fucking naive.

When he was eighteen years old, there was a whole group of shifters in Dallas that preyed on the hookers outside a bar downtown, and Dad gave him a pencil skirt and a tube top and a handful of silver jewelry and told him, in so many words, to suck it up and slut it up. They needed bait.

He’s back there now. Standing on that street corner in clothes he couldn’t stand, pretending to sell parts of himself that he didn’t even want to acknowledge existed. And he remembers thinking to himself, optimistically, that he wouldn’t ever feel that exposed again. But the truth was, so long as you had a pair of tits and a round ass, no matter what lengths and layers you went through to hide them, people stared and people ogled and people thought of you like this guy. As a puh-ussy. If anything, being made to dress like a girl and put everything on display just made him about a hundred times more aware of all the ways people could tear you apart with their eyes and decide what you were before they even said so much as a word to you.

When Dean’s back in his body, back in the back seat of his car and suddenly quite sober, he finds he’s somehow ended up underneath the guy with the nice dick and the bad attitude, and he’s still running his mouth about how wet and hot Dean’s gonna be down there. Dean grounds himself with the creak of his hand clasping on Baby’s leather. Baby barely even yields in firm support. He takes in the hand that’s massaging the fading wetness inside his underwear despite the fact that Dean’s pretty sure he’s been borderline comatose for the past minute and a half, and then he suckerpunches the slathering idiot right in his dumb face.

He looks stunned right before Dean manages to find the door handle above his head, knee the mouthy motherfuck in the exposed nads, and send him sprawling out the side of the car onto the pavement outside, dick flapping and deflating and not looking near as impressive now. He somehow manages to get the door closed and locked and feels solidly on the ground, wholly, completely, at last, sprawled across one leather seat and panting into the upholstery. The guy is still squawking all indignant, pounding on the window, and the front of Dean’s pants are somewhere halfway down his thighs, but Baby has a way of making things melt away. Like he’s just a part of her leather and he doesn’t have to be a body at all anymore.

Over the next few months, he shacks up with his fair share of women and learns to give great head. He finds he likes the equipment well enough when the junk’s not in his trunk. And the next time he nuts up enough to try it with a man, it’s some poor, self-hating sonofabitch outside a gay bar in Des Moines. Dean’s close enough to a man for the meek little bastard to get off, close enough to a woman for him to not feel bad about it. He doesn’t use the p-word once—they’re both chasing the same fantasy. They make a fine pair.

Dean’s twenty-six, and he corners Sam at an apartment in Palo Alto with nothing but dismay when he sees how big his brother’s gotten. How tall he’s gotten. How effortlessly large and imposing he manages to be, just standing across the room. He tosses Dean around like dirty laundry, cleans his clock despite the fact that he’s been training for months in preparation for seeing his baby brother again. And Sam should be rusty damnit. He should be soft. But no. He’s got Dean pinned on the floor like a stuck butterfly, struggling under one of his massive forearms, in five seconds flat.

It fucking stings.

Sam introduces him to his pretty girlfriend as his sister Deanna, and that stings even more. Because even though he’s still stuck down at survival, perpetually in self-actualization’s rearview mirror, he always figured. Well. Sam knows him better than anyone ever had. Probably better than anyone ever would. And if this is a part of him that even Sam can’t see, he figures there never ever will be anyone that does.

They never quite get around to talking about it either. There’s always something more important. College boy’s probably got the words Dean’s lacking now, if Dean ever bothered to pick his brain about it. Sammy could probably put a name to the gag reflex that wanna sends his birth control pills right back up with his breakfast, to the quiet that comes to him when he’s done a bit too much human interaction, but—

Jess dies, Dad dies, Sam dies. Killer clowns, stolen identities, heart attacks, demon possessions, vengeful spirits, ticking clocks, reapers, and it’s just as little Deanna figured it would be, twelve years old and sitting in health class with a sad roadmap of her whole life laying out in front of her on a Xeroxed piece of printer paper. There was never going to be a point where Dean mattered more than the rest of the world. Where this did. Never going to be a point where Dean got to care about more than living to see tomorrow. There was never going to be a point where Dean got to slow down and unpack why it made his blood boil when Sam printed the surname Scully on one of his fake FBI IDs, or why he felt the need to dismantle an entire hotel room with a tire iron while he waited for his dumb little brother to come back alive from a hunt in a men’s prison. A hunt where he couldn’t follow. There was never going to be self-actualization for Deanna Winchester. And there was never going to be a Dean.

There was never going to be, and there never was. Because then Dean dies.

At least all bodies, Dean figures later, innards strung in front of him on some kind of hellish clothesline, look pretty much the same when they’re inside-out.

They say your whole life flashes in front of your eyes when you die, but it turns out that happens when you come back to life, too. Like a deluge of your brain learning how to remember, drawing memories back into it like a prickling limb filling with blood again. And even in a shallow grave, even in the midst of a dark, waking nightmare of being buried alive, there’s a bit of cognitive dissonance to be had when you, past you, the you whose body you inhabited for twenty-nine years and whose sensory memories you’re currently reabsorbing, is different from the one that’s scraping long fingernail gashes into the top of a plywood coffin.

He has the presence of mind to navigate his way to the surface, because in the pyramid of the hierarchy of needs, breathing is pretty much the rocky foundation that forms the base. When he gets to the surface, dazed, it’s—an overload. Everything’s the wrong size. Everything is too bright. The dirt is too hard, too warm. There’s no pain for the first time in a long time, but at the same time, everything is painful. Everything. Down to the drag of the dusty air in his lungs, like shards of glass scraping up his windpipe.

That’s why it probably takes him almost ten full minutes of panting into the dirt by his own shoddy gravemarker to realize that he has a cock.

He flops over onto his back and pats down the front of his pants. He doesn’t remember which pants he died in, but these definitely weren’t made to accommodate the new addition to his anatomy, and it’s not hard to feel the solid lump of it pressed up against his zipper. Likewise, everything up top is too small, too—nothing’s torn up, so Sam must’ve redressed him before he planted him, but his arms are about ready to bust through the seams of his plaid when he bends them at the elbow to feel his chest. Solid, not soft. No tits to be found, in his armpits or otherwise.

He has to stagger almost a mile before he finds a reflective surface, and he spends almost the whole trip there looking at his hands, his feet, trying to fathom the new size of himself, the new shape of himself, his new wide-legged gait. And when he gets to a desolate, empty gas station, miles from any civilization, the only thing he can even think to do is look into the bent and unpolished side of a freezer, the barely reflective sheen of an unclean window to see—himself. He trails in frantic disbelief from reflective surface to reflective surface through the store until he finds the entrance to a dingy little bathroom and flicks on the light. A mirror.

There he is.

There’s not a lot of grand revelation in it, not for him, because this is the Dean that’s been living in the back of his brain since he was old enough to differentiate the things that made a male male and a female female. He still looks like—himself. The body he’s used to. Deanna. He still looks like his mom, more like his mom than his dad despite everything, and there’s still an edge of femininity to his features, but anyone who looked at him would be able to see, easy as anything, the Dean that he didn’t have the words to bring to life before he died.

He lifts his shirt, half to reassure himself that there’s nothing scarred or torn, half to see the flatness of his stomach and chest. He runs his hands over the stubble on his face, marvelling at the texture. At the bend of his arm in his too-small sleeve, he pops all the stitches in the seam along his bicep with an audible tearing noise, and he would almost say he was giddy if this strange turn of events weren’t tempered by the sporadic memories of forty-odd years of torture, and if that specific brand of tear didn’t remind him of the way skin sounded when you pulled it clean away from muscle.

So mostly he’s. Overwhelmed. He holds off on checking out his new junk, not sure he can stomach a look at his penis when just the sight of his Adam’s apple is a little bit more than he can process.

(Well. He takes one little peek, thumbing the waistband of his pants open. Just to be sure he wasn’t—mistaken.)

(He wasn’t.)

(He repeats the resulting, “Well I’ll be damned,” in his new voice six times, just to make sure that wasn’t a mistake either.)

When he can tear himself away from his own reflection, he steals all the money from the register and then he takes his time lavishly sorting through the pathetic clothing selection in the tiny gas station, looking at the men’s sizes with a practical purpose rather than a covetous one for the first time in his life. He leaves in a men’s size large Gone Fishin’ shirt that hangs perfectly on his shoulders and a pair of douchey cargo shorts that need a belt to stay on his hips.

Freshly changed and starting to settle in his skin, a new feeling starts dogging at him. The sort of hair-raising feeling you get when you know there’s something watching you, the prickling awareness you get on your skin when you’re being scrutinized. He pushes past the feeling, trying to formulate a plan, and he remembers that there’s a pay phone outside he could use. A couple cars he could probably jack if his new broad fingers are half as clever as the old dainty ones were. He concentrates hard, even gets as far as going back to the register to steal some pay phone change when he remembers that—that if he called Bobby, if he somehow got to Sam right now. Even if they miraculously believed that he’d been ganked from hell, they’d never believe he got ganked out with a dick.

A fine tremble starts in his hands. He rubs the back of his neck, trying distractedly to wipe off the pair of eyes he feels planted there. He grabs a water bottle out of the humming freezer by the register and tips his head back to take a long, hard pull—acutely aware, again, of that crazy fucking Adam’s apple and the strength in his hand when he squeezes.

When he tips his head back down and takes a long, calming breath, resolving to figure out how exactly he’s gonna make this whole dick thing work—

There’s a guy in a trenchcoat standing outside. Stock still, hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, hair all mussed up like someone’s been running their hands through it. There’s a simultaneous sense of calm and tumult around him, ancient like a lightning storm but unpredictable like one too. He almost crackles with energy, and the store around Dean feels charged. Amped up past what he’d felt a few minutes ago, far past the static crackle of waking up in a completely new form.

Dean’s seen and felt enough non-humans to know that this is one, just from the way he carries himself. Dean rubs his hands together. Up and down his thick forearms. Up to the sturdy new divot of his breast and collarbone. He reorders his jangled nerves, aligns his scattered thoughts, and tries to be in the headspace is Dad pounded into him—he was always emphasizing forethought and planning for Dean on hunts. Always made sure that Dean knew he wasn’t strong enough, like John and Sam were, to strong-arm his way out of a situation. He was just a woman and he had to think.

He’s pretty far from that headspace though. There’s something invincible about the feeling of a bicep that strains against your shirt. Shoulder blades that ripple with power without even trying. Big feet, long legs, muscley thighs. And a height that meant he looked at things from a different angle—down instead of up. Past his nose instead of through his bangs.

So maybe he should set a trap. And maybe he shouldn’t go outside to face whatever unknown is waiting for him in an oversized suit and a trenchcoat. That’s probably what Deanna would’ve done. But today, Dean scans the store for a weapon. Eventually, he finds a big canister of salt and an iron ice pick that someone was using to chip at permafrost in a Coca Cola freezer by the entrance. And somehow, he feels more prepared to face whatever’s out there than he had at his most prepared in another body. Like someone stripped off his armor and give him a lighter, better set.

He approaches the open door, ice pick in one hand, salt in the other. The creature’s eyes travel to where he is even before he should be visible to it. There’s not much point in hiding anyway, so he stands in the doorframe, visibly armed.

Once Dean’s walking down the stairs of the gas station and onto the hard, dusty earth outside, the guy—tilts his head. His pupils seem to grow like a cat’s, and he makes no secret of taking in every inch he can of Dean’s body, from the top of his uneven haircut down to the new, strange, hairy legs that poke out from the bottoms of his stupid goddamn shorts.

He stops about twenty feet short of the guy and watches him watch Dean, watches the unabashed way he takes he takes him in and, based on the surprisingly human uptick to the side of his mouth, the unabashed way he’s enjoying it. The longer he stands opposite him, the more electric the atmosphere becomes. By the time Dean’s decided to take the initiative and take a chance with the ice pick, storm clouds have gathered out of nowhere, and the wind is whipping his dumb coat every which way.

Despite the innocuous tax accountant getup and the pretty, blue-eyed meatsuit, he has a sneaking suspicion that whatever this thing is—he had something to do with dragging Dean’s ass out of hell. He thinks of Pastor Jim in that moment as he drums his fingers on the handle of the ice pick. He thinks of the kind of power whatever this is had to have not just to undo what had been done, but to restructure it. Reorder it. To take whatever preordained sort of destiny people like Pastor Jim thought there was and throw it out the fucking window without a thought.

He raises his makeshift weapon quick, a question hard on the edge of his tongue, brand-new testosterone blazing through his veins like a virgin shot of liquid heroin.

But the creature speaks first. His voice is low and crackly, a pitch Dean used to try and achieve when he had a woman’s vocal cords and all the determination in the world to defy their limits.

He says, “Hello, Dean.”

And his smirk breaks into a full-fledged smile, like he’s been waiting his whole life long just to say those two words.

The ice pick makes a solid thunk as it hits the earth and settles in the shadowed grass at the creature’s feet, dark on its own like something bigger than the both of them, something Dean can’t see, is casting a shadow longer than Dean is tall.

And in the husky, disbelieving depth of his new-old voice, Dean says, “What did you call me?”

1496.

Do you like bread crust on pizza or do you prefer it cut off? i love it.

What is your favorite lunch meat? none

Have you ever driven while drunk/intoxicated? no

What is the worst/hardest drug you’ve taken? weed lol

What is the worst/hardest drug you’ve been offered, but declined to partake in? weed lol

If you’ve ever tried drugs or alcohol, what was your reason for first trying it? i wanted to

Do you think you could ever have an abortion if you expectantly turned up pregnant? no

What is the weirdest ailment a pet of yours/your family’s has sustained? nothing

If you were far from home and needed to sleep for the night, would you choose to rent a crappy motel room for $60 or sleep in your car for free? rent a crappy motel room

Have you ever ran a toll booth? Why? no

Is there a color shirt you’d NEVER wear? i’m not sure.

Is there a situation where you caved into peer pressure and regretted it? yeah, probably.

What is your favorite thing to do at a park? read

Would you ever bleach your hair platinum blonde? maybe

What is your favorite video game console? Why? Playstation because it’s the only one i really played on.

Do you like the band MGMT? If so, can you recommend another band that sounds similar to their style to me? no

Do you like vanilla candles? sure

Have you ever been in a relationship that was going great, and then suddenly something weird happened and you just KNEW it was going to be over soon? no

What are your plans for the weekend? seeing Joker tonight...that’s it really.

Are you graduating soon? i did in 2009

How many people have you kissed? 5 or 6

What’s your worst habit? idk

Are you good with your money? yeah

Who are you interested in? my husband

What do you like about the person you’re currently interested in? everything

Which of the guys you’ve been interested in hurt you the most? -

Do you like your job? yeah

Are you trying to get over somebody? no

Do you know anybody who is engaged? no

Do you know anybody who is pregnant? yes

How old will you be in 12 months? 29

Hiding anything from your parents? no

Can you handle being alone? yeah

What is something you realized recently? nothing really

Do you know what your ex is up to? not really.

Are you happy with the choices you’ve made? not all of them

Are you currently arguing with someone? no

Have your friends disapproved of someone you were seeing, but you decided to pursue anyway? i did lol

What was the last thing you purchased? i can’t remember

What was your last phone call about? calling my husband about something lol

Can you handle the truth? yeah

What is your relationship status on Facebook? married

How tall is the last person you kissed? 6 foot

What do you usually doodle? hearts

Could things possibly get any better? i wish

How are you feeling at the moment? tired and a bit nauseous

Do you have feelings for someone? yeah

What was for dinner tonight? jimmy johns

Would you be able to name everyone you kissed? yeah

Are you in a good mood? Yes

Where is the last person you kissed? At work

What color shirt are you wearing? grey

Do you think you could ever make it as a rap singer? no

How important are looks to you? not that important

Did you have a fling this summer but it didn’t really go anywhere? no

Do you get jealous? Yes

Why did you kiss the last person you kissed? he was leaving for work

What is something you currently want? sleep

What was the weather like today? looks sunny..and probably cold

Do you like sushi? NO

Is your hair longer than your shoulders? a little bit

Ever kissed anyone with a nipple piercing? No

What about a lip piercing? yeah

Nose piercing? no

Do you like your hair? sure

Have you ever kissed someone who had a boyfriend/girlfriend? no

Did you like kissing the last person you kissed or the one before that more? i like kissing my husband, thanks

Ever made out in a pool? idk

The shirt you’re wearing, does anyone else have it? a plain grey shirt; probably?

What was the last movie you watched? Ma (2019)

The Painted Rock Game by TheRe_Writes

It was July 2011 when the Polk County Rocks game spread to my area. People were painting up rocks, hiding them around and posting photos to the Facebook group set up for it. Essentially this was a big Easter egg hunt that was reaching everywhere from Lakeland to Arbuckle, with some people even finding these rocks all the way in Tampa and Apopka. I was 15 at the time and staying with my mom and her then-new husband Joe for the summer. Usually I liked this because it meant I got to be in Florida, but it also meant that I had to spend time with my younger step-siblings. So when they became obsessed with these painted rocks, I was the one who had to go along with them. Back then I was still in my edgy, Hot Topic mall-rat phase so being out in the sunshine really wasn’t my idea of fun. Neither was babysitting. I couldn’t drive and everywhere was connected by long stretches of highway meaning I couldn’t just go out on my own whenever I wanted, so I got stuck babysitting a lot more than I liked.

I was taking Sarah (aged nine) and Tod (who had just turned seven) to the community swimming pool when they found the first one. A small pebble decorated to look like a bumblebee in the corner of the tennis court. Once they picked it up and read the rules scrawled on the bottom they immediately wanted to find more. I ended up spending the rest of that afternoon being dragged around by two excited kids and taking photos of whatever they pointed at or held up to my face. A ladybug one on a wall, a happy frog by the lake, there was even a Pikachu one in a hole on the golf course. We picked them up and carried them with us until we found places to hide them again, as were the instructions given. By the time we had to go home my legs were hurting from all the rocks stuck in my pockets. At that point I was already sick of walking around, looking along hedgerows and picking up stones but they still weren’t done with the game.

The next day I was woken up by Sarah and Tod tugging my sheets and chanting “Jess! Jess! We want to play the rock game!” I tried putting my head under my pillow and ignoring them until they went away, but my mom came in and told me that “They can’t go around the estate on their own,” and how apparently I needed the exercise and sunlight. Before I could argue back she went ahead and bribed me with “If you do this for them today I’ll drive you to see your friends in Orlando tomorrow.” At that I forced myself awake and grabbed around my closet for a matching set of black shorts and tank top. (I know it’s not the best color for the heat, but my wardrobe was very limited at the time.)

We set out with two grocery bags for the rocks we would keep and the ones we would re-hide, starting on our estate and leading up to the ones neighboring it. The colorful rocks were hidden amongst people’s front lawn ornaments, on top of mail boxes and some were just sitting on the grass. A lot of them had big pictures, mostly in a sloppy kids-art-project style but some were very well done. There was another ladybug, a clown face, and a nicely detailed squid among the rocks we ended up carrying. Tod found a US flag one under a bench and Sarah found one that was just painted green on the pier. Being the “adult” I had to carefully get the ones hidden near bushes or the edges of the woods, because apparently I “liked snakes” and somehow that would prevent them biting me. By about midday we stopped to get sandwiches from the gas station and Tod was all tuckered out. I suggested that we stop and go to the pool or go back home to play Wii games to get out of the heat, but Sarah was determined to stay out.

Tod protested by covering his ears and shaking his head. He was red faced and clearly tired, so I couldn’t drag him around anymore. I tried telling Sarah that “We have to go back for Tod, he can’t play anymore” but she was having none of it. She made an exaggerated pouty face at me and kept insisting that “We don’t have a full bag yet!” meaning “We have to go get more!” It was like a tug-of-war, trying to balance the interests of these two grumpy kids without making one have a tantrum at me. The best compromise I could think of was “Why don’t we go home and count all the rocks we have? Maybe then we can go find some more.”

Tod perked up at the thought of going back home and Sarah finally came around to the idea too, so we finished our lunch and I trudged them both back to mom’s house. As soon as we got in the door Tod waddled to his bedroom, and Sarah was pouring out the bags onto the kitchen table.

Together Sarah and I went through our hoard, separating out what we’d keep and what we wouldn’t while I photographed them all. Eventually we boiled the “Keep” pile down to a small few: a pretty cat, Tod’s flag and a yellow M&M amongst about three others. I considered keeping the squid but knew I’d probably lose it in a drawer anyway. The rest were an odd mix of basic smiley faces, bright patterns, local sports and brand logos along with some that were just scribbles and glitter. One was a crude line drawing of what looked like a spiky-leaf which I’d had to drag out of the reeds with my foot. There were a couple of basic Sharpie-drawn Pentagrams and Super-S doodles (probably done by bored teens) which I ended up skipping on the lake. By the time we had our “Re-Hide” bag full again it was close to 3pm. Joe’s usual curfew for the kids was 5pm so Sarah and I decided we’d just go and hide these ones rather than go properly hunting again.

We promised that we wouldn’t go too far, so we only went around our estate this time. I hid some smaller stones on a hanging bird house and Sarah put a few along the estate fence. Before long we were hiding the last one, a neatly-done Gators logo, on the wall of the community pool area. It was very close to her curfew and Sarah was still reluctant to stop. “Jess, can we find more? Just one more!” she begged, but I had to tell her no. I was too worn out, and mom would be so mad if she wasn’t back. Sweaty and groggy we marched home in time for dinner before both collapsing back into bed, fully drained from walking all day in the heat.

That night I was woken up by a whispering voice saying “Jess, can we find more?” I almost had a heart-attack before jolting awake to see Sarah standing there, fully dressed and waving a Disneyland tote bag at me. “Go to bed!” I groaned. “No more rocks now.” She stamped her foot and pouted at me before shuffling back out of my room. I got back to sleep pretty quickly and hoped the kids would forget about painted rocks game in the morning.

When I woke up at 11am after a good long sleep I thought I’d actually gotten lucky. Tod was watching Nick Jr when I went to make coffee and bacon, and he didn’t seem even remotely interested in doing anything else that day. I sat down on the couch next to Joe to eat my late-breakfast while he played on his tablet and joked about how “You make coffee in this house you make it for everyone.” After yesterday I was thankful for the quiet morning and cared about nothing other than mom’s promise to take me to town. I only got to see Becky and David in summer and I’d been missing them all year. By 12 I was dressed and ready (after putting on a whole rack’s worth of bracelets too) and waiting for mom to get back from Publix to pick me up. It wasn’t until then when I realised I’d not seen or heard anything from Sarah yet. At first I’d just assumed she was with mom, but Joe said she’d just gone on her own that morning. I didn’t want to leave and not know if the kid was okay, so I took a quick look around.

After checking the bathroom and the pool-deck I finally found her in her room. She was still asleep in bed. Her pyjamas were dropped on the floor, and knowing how much mom insisted on a tidy house I picked them up and put them on top of her laundry basket. As I bent down to gather up the strewn clothing my hand closed around something hard in the pocket of her pink stripy sleep shirt. Taking it out, I found another decorated rock.

It was a crappy looking one, and I felt bummed out just looking at the thing. The stone was mostly just scribbled black with some squiggle in the middle filled in yellow. It could’ve been a logo for something, but to me it just looked like a question-mark with a long swirly line drawn through the bottom dot. I didn’t remember seeing this when we were sorting out the rocks we kept. Maybe she’d pocketed it without me noticing. I put it on her desk with the rest of the “Keep” pile before rushing to get my shoes and bag in time for mom getting back. I forgot about Sarah and her silly obsession for the rest of that day, I had friends to hang out with and we didn’t care for kiddie rock-hunts.

Becky’s dad drove me home that evening and I got back in at 5pm again. I thanked him for the ride before stepping in the door and going straight to crash out in front of my laptop. As I got to my room I was met by Sarah, sitting on my bed with her Disneyland bag and playing with those damn rocks. “Can’t you do that in your own room?” I sighed, tossing my own bag onto the desk.

She bit her lip at me and went back to arranging her collection. I stormed over to the bed and began picking up the stones, putting them back into the tote “Go play rocks with Tod or something! Let me have my room.” I thrust her bag back to her and she ran out, looking as if she was trying not to cry. For a few seconds I felt relieved, but then the guilt dawned on me. I really didn’t want her to be upset, and Joe would be so mad at me if he found out! After taking a moment to calm down I crossed over to Sarah’s room and lightly knocked on the door. “Hey Sarah, I’m sorry I yelled at you” I murmured. “Can I look at your cool rocks again?” There was silence for a few seconds before she actually opened the door. The bag had been tipped out on to the rug and a few light-colored smooth stones were clustered up next to her bed.

Originally I hadn’t noticed, but these rocks were new. Mom or Joe must have taken her out for an hour or so to find them. There weren’t as many as we’d found yesterday, and most of them didn’t look that nice either. One was a splodgy potato-face and there was one painted to look like a football, but most of them just had simple marks on them. There was a basic love heart and a waving stick figure, she’d found another spiky-leaf one drawn in red this time. But most were little more than initials and letters done in a straight-lines font on white pebbles. Whoever made these probably didn’t care much. Despite their blandness, Sarah still seemed proud of today’s spoils. “They’re interesting” I humored her, “Would you like me to photograph these too?” She nodded and I went along with her request, uploading the photo to the page afterwards too. I didn’t think it was really worth sharing them but that’s how the game went.

I was able to sleep all night without any over-eager kids waking me up, and the morning was pretty dull. Both Joe and mom were at work so I had another babysitting day. I got myself dressed and ready in time for Tod waking up and asking for cereal. Luckily for me he was usually easily entertained so I could just give him a bowl of bran flakes, some juice and a Spongebob DVD to watch all day. Sarah however was still not up yet and it was my responsibility to make sure she did. Joe was very adamant that his kids kept up a good daily routine even during the times they weren’t at school. I made another tray of juice and cereal which I planned to let Sarah eat in her room, and carried it in for her. I pushed the door open, but she wasn’t there. Leaving the tray on the desk I frantically ripped off the bed covers to find nothing. I tried calling for her and dashing around the house again, but there was still no sign of her. Slipping on some flip-flops I went outside and to my relief, found Sarah sitting on the front drive in her pyjamas, humming to herself. I didn’t need to ask where she’d been as she was playing with more coloured pebbles.

I took a sigh of relief before reprimanding her, “What did Dad tell you about going off on your own?” I scolded. Usually she’d get to angry or sad, instead she merely stared up at me and said “But I want another Yellow Sign.” Not caring for her excuses I firmly reminded her “Your dad said you can’t go out without a grown up! Now get inside and eat your cereal.” Taking hold of her arm I forcefully lead her back into the house. She struggled and tried to run off but I was having none of it. Her bare feet were dirty and the bottoms of her pyjama pants were tatty too. I made her take them off and have a bath after her breakfast which she ate without complaining.

Luckily I managed to get her to sit down and watch TV with her brother, just anything to distract her from this current obsession with rock hunting. The rest of that day went by pretty uneventfully, I just pissed around online and played Sims (or whatever I did back then) in peace for a few hours while the kids entertained themselves. By then I’d gotten a lot of replies from the Facebook group, people liking our photos and saying how glad they were that we’d found their rocks. Very few people were still posting though, so I hoped that meant the game was dying out and Sarah would stop caring soon. Nobody was really responding to any of the plain rocks with the black marks, but I wasn’t surprised.

I made sure to keep checking up on the kids every hour or so to be safe in case Sarah tried to go out again. Much to my relief Sarah didn’t bug me to go back out again, she seemed content to stay in and play with Tod. At one point I caught her showing him her rock collection, getting each one out on the coffee table and giving him a lecture about them (much to his disinterest.) She had the bee and the cat face out when I walked in, but it was when she took out the weird yellow one that Tod decided he’d had enough. He shook his head side to side as his face went red and scrunched up. I had to act fast or else he’d start crying. Desperately looking for a distraction I grabbed the crayon tub and paper pad from the kitchen side saying “Hey, why don’t we sit outside and do some drawing?”

Sarah was reluctant at first, but when I sat Tod down at the table on the pool deck and put down the big crayon tub she came out and joined in. He was happily rushing random colors all over and I really wasn’t surprised that Sarah just drew her rocks. I lazily sketched out some band logos for a little bit too. They weren’t bored, so as far as I cared my job was done. When Joe came home with donuts and chips they both dropped their crayons and ran to the kitchen. Glad to be free, I packed up the art supplies, gathered up the drawings and put them in the kids' rooms. Tod had tried to draw blue-sky green-grass landscapes and I think one was supposed to be the lake with an alligator in it, and Sarah’s were mostly different interpretations of the patterns on her rocks. One page was her whole collection together but the rest were mostly rough recreations of the weird symbols from the boring ones, especially the spiky-leaf and the yellow question-mark. It seemed to be her favourite, but I didn’t understand why. The bee was a lot prettier in my opinion.

With my babysitting officially done for the day I retired to my room like an average bored teen. I stuck my headphones in and made a point of trying to avoid my step-siblings for the rest of the day. My peace was broken at about 4pm when Sarah came stamping into my room demanding that I go outside with her, insisting that “Daddy is too busy and says you’ll take me” Huffily I told her “Oh yeah? Well I’m busy too.” “No you’re not!” she insisted, but I wouldn’t let her have her way. She stormed back out again threatening to “tell her dad” amongst some other mumbling, but she didn’t come back at me again. I could hear her shrieking and arguing at Joe, but he must have taken my side and made her drop the issue because that was the last I heard from either of them until dinner. That night it was heated-up pizza and some salad, which is pretty bland but filling enough. When I got to the table Tod was sat there being served a slice by Joe, and Sarah looked considerably mopey as she stamped her feet all the way to the kitchen followed by mom. She aggressively folded her arms and stuck her bottom lip out as her dad put a big helping of salad and a slice of Classic Margarita on her plate.

“What’s wrong honey-bee?” He asked, “Don’t want pizza?” She shook her head, smushed her face with her hands and only just audibly grumbled “She said I couldn’t bring my special rock.” Joe sighed and said “It’s only while you have dinner, tables are clean and not for dirty rocks.” Sarah opened her mouth to talk back, but mom sat down at the table just in time to interject, “That thing is not coming to the table Sarah. Now eat dinner!” I finished my meal as quickly as possible while Sarah took small, forced bites until she’d eaten enough before dashing back to her room. After one and a half slices of pizza and a small handful of salad (as forced by Joe) she was shuffling away as fast as her little feet could go.

After dinner that evening I settled down into bed and flicked through whatever late-night channels I could get on my bedroom TV. There was rarely anything of interest but sitcom reruns were pretty nice to fall asleep to. I’d just started to properly drift off when Sarah came shuffling in holding a purple purse-bag. “Jess…” she started, sounding as if she was hesitant to talk to me, “can we go looking for rocks again?” I thought she’d forgotten about that dumb game by now. “Are you kidding?” I snapped at her, “It’s nine o clock, get to bed.” She gave me a faux-sad look with her teeth over her bottom lip and wide eyes. “But Jess” she tried again in her wavering tone, “I want another Yellow Sign.” Raising her hands up I saw that, of course, she had a rock in her bag. I didn’t give it a proper look but that black-out scribble made me think it was the one from her desk. She fumbled to get it out but I cut her off, “No more rocks Sarah! Go to bed!” Before she could bother me again I switched off my desk light and threw the duvet over my head. I could make out her muffled complaints of “I gotta go get another one” until mom came in and made her go to bed. There was foot stamping and shouting, a door slammed and I could hear Joe pleading for her to “calm down and go sleep.” The arguing must have gone on for at least half an hour, and it took me a while to settle down and get comfy again.

I switched back through talk shows and teleshopping before finally dozing off. I wasn’t asleep for long though before I was woken up by Mom shaking me and screaming, “We can’t find Sarah! She’s not in the house!” Her face was a mess of tears and bed-hair. Tod was crying and hugging her leg like a leech.At first I thought I was dreaming, but seeing the panic in mom’s eyes let me know this was really happening. Suddenly I was fully awake, in my nightgown and running out into the dry night air. Joe was outside with a flashlight looking for her already. We kept calling out “Sarah!!” but got no answer. Our shouting only managed to wake up the neighbors, and before long they were joining in our frantic search too. I remember the police showing up, two officers got out on the driveway and tried to ask mom and Joe about what had happened. Joe tried to keep calm, but mom was a wreck and unable to speak. I told them about the Polk County Rocks game, and where we might be able to find her. Joe and the neighbors looked all over the golf course, the community pool and the gas station while the police scanned the area around the lake.

She wasn’t found on any of the piers or boat docks, or along the water’s edge. She wasn’t at the tennis courts, or the picnic benches. Our make-shift search party checked all over the three estates to no avail. The regular ambience of cicadas and the rush of cars from the highway was drowned out by sirens and the echoes of people shouting her name. My bare feet were cold on the asphalt and my throat was sore from yelling, but it wasn’t my physical wellbeing that I cared about. I didn’t stop running across the roads and lawns until I was physically collapsing with exhaustion. The sun was coming up by the time Joe had to drag me back inside. She might have fallen in the lake, or wandered into the woods, but we didn’t find Sarah that night.

We posted her photo to all the local Missing Children’s pages, we even made Lost Child flyers which we spent the next few weeks posting in as many store windows as we could. I asked the Polk County Rocks group to look out for her too. There was a wide scale search carried out over the following weeks and she was in all the local papers. Her real mom was even investigated but they still didn’t find her. I can’t stop blaming myself for what happened. Had we gone to the pool that day like we’d set out to she’d not have become obsessed with that silly game. Living at the house in Florida eventually became too much for Joe and mom. About four months later they made plans for divorce meaning that she had to move back in with her sister, and I was stuck with dad in Washington all year from then on. The case for Sarah is still open, but I doubt they’ll find her after all this time. For a good long while I held onto her pretty rock collection, but I think they’re still in a box back at dad’s place now. I made sure to keep all the pretty ones, and the lazy ones too (all except for Tod’s, I let him keep that one.)

Even though I tried to make sure I took them all with me, there was one that I couldn’t find when I was bundling them all together. Her favourite, the one with the yellow-symbol. Sadly the Facebook group closed not long after Sarah went missing so I couldn’t ask who made that rock. I still haven’t found out if that symbol was from anything either. For some reason I feel that it might hold some sort of an answer, but I’m yet to find another one. I was wondering if there’s someone out there who could help me on this. Have you seen the Yellow Sign?

Cookies To Humans: Implications Of Identity Systems On Incentives!

A story where data is the hero, followed by two mind-challenging business-shifting ideas.

At a previous employer customer service on the phone was a huge part of the operation. Qualitative surveys were giving the company a read that customers were unhappy with the service being provided. As bad customer service is a massive long-term cost – and short-term pain –, it was decided that the company would undertake a serious re-training effort for all the customer service reps and with that problems would get solved faster. To ensure customer delight was delivered in a timely manner, it was also decided that Average Call Time (ACT) would now be The success metric. It would even be tied to a customer service rep’s compensation creating an overlap between their personal success and the company’s success.

What do you think happened?

There is such a thing as employees that don’t really give a frek about their job or company, they just come to work. You’ll be surprised how small that number is. (Likewise, the number of employees that go well above the call of duty, look to constantly push personal and company boundaries is also quite small.) Most employees work diligently to deliver against set expectations.

Reflecting that, in our story, most customer service reps, re-trained, took the phone calls with the goal of driving down Average Call Time. They worked as quick as they could to resolve issues. But, pretty quickly customers with painful problems became a personally painful problem for an individual customer service rep. They hurt ACT, and comp. Solution? If the rep felt the call was going too long, self-preservation kicked in and they would hang up on the customer. Another issue. If towards the end of the week/month your ACT was going to look terrible on your Manager’s dashboard, calls were picked up and hung up right away.

Result?

The success metric, ACT, did go down. The qualitative surveys measuring unhappiness went down even more than before. Likelihood to repurchase, took a painful hit.

What you deem as success creates an incentive for an individual employee, the group/division, your company’s partners, to behave in a certain way. When you choose unwisely, the long-term consequences can be dramatic.

Epilogue: There were lots of reasons for the fiasco above. ACT goals were set imprecisely. Too much emphasis was on Averages (remember averages suck, distributions are better). Reporting/dashboards were terribly created (CDPs anyone?).  That ACT was an activity metric was terrible – if you have a The success metric, it should always be an outcome metric. The closed loop with customer was too slow and loopy resulting in a slower understanding of impact. And, you can’t discount a contribution the quality of leaders. Company did recover, their stock is doing fine. Now.

Humans are pavlovian. Incentives matter. Metrics matter. A Key Performance Indicator (KPI), our industry’s lingo for what becomes The metric, has massive influence.

Let me share a real-world story with you about this phenomenon, how I end up simply framing the problem above, and the solution for my clients.

An amazing blessing of my professional life is the opportunity to work with influential companies around the world. At one such recent opportunity, I wanted to communicate two simple but powerful elements.

1. You are what you measure.

Set better incentives for the org, see above life-lesson. Additionally, I passionately believe that optimal metrics help solve for more than an individual’s behavior. They help incentivize the elimination of siloed thinking amongst teams/divisions, politics, and self-serving execution that naturally creeps into every organization of every size.

If you pick the right metric, you can get people to care about the goals of their neighboring team/division. You can even get them to care about the long-term interests of the company.

2. Obsess about individual humans.

Zeroing in on digital specifically I wanted to create an north-star for brilliance to emanate through solving of tough problems over time.

My solution was two fold: Bring two lovely things into the equation: Profit & Humans!

I encouraged a ladder of awesomeness type shift from third-party cookies to first-party cookies to browser based persistent-id systems (in place today) to cross-device digital ids to a unified online and offline id (I call it nonline id) to finally a named human id pan-all-existences. Truly omg coolness.

Identity is key because currently targeting capabilities far out-strip any organization's ability to take advantage of it. Throw in Machine Learning and I weep at how many glorious sales, marketing, deep relationships initiatives are impossible because companies have not solved identity. (You, I’m talking about you!)

It is not easy. But, it is solvable. See where you are, go up one step. Then one more, then one more. Obsess about identity.

Great ideas are nice. Being able to communicate them simply is hard. As you’ve read in the Forbes article, I love storytelling.

I attempted to communicate the complexity above in a single picture.

Here's what came out of my doodling with crayons…

Like perhaps most large organizations, this one was a bit more focused on Cost. While not optimal, it was understandable given the evolutionary stage they were at.

I tried to incorporate their reality, and my picture starts with the metric they used to measure success and quickly moves to the right to metrics I believe are more impactful to the one on the very right that is an impossible dream at the moment (the north star).

Here are the definitions…

Cost Per Impression. An almost, if not entirely, useless metric no matter where it is applied. No one should use this for anything ever. World peace will be hastened by a millennia.

Click-Thru Rate. A little more interesting. Helps shine a light on the ability to do clever targeting, the content in the messages/ads, and smartness in bidding strategies. Good tactical wholesomeness.

Cost Per Lead. An outcome! Yes. In this case this was technically a micro-outcome in this case (conversion is offline). Still, very nice.

Cost Per Human. See the pivot? Per Human. In my definition, this is also online to offline, offline to online or whatever the heck to whatever the heck. It is very hard to do, you have to solve so many tough problems. It also has massively delicious implications in your data, acquisition and retention strategies (ignoring the sweet, heavenly, implications on your customers).

I realize that between CPL and CPH you go from crawling to flying. But, that is what north stars are all about.

Profit Per Human. What every company and non-profit really, really, really need. Why care about something as lame as cost? The only thing that matters is profit. Per. Human.

[Bonus: Remember, you can measure profit everyday in Google Analytics!]

An incredibly complex story, with implications up and down the organization, with smarter tactical and strategic choices, and a long-term hard problem to solve, all wrapped into one simple slide. When you communicate, that is all you need, after all you are the story and not the thing on the screen.

I of course built the story out piece-by-piece, when I was done, this is how it looked…

Imagine for a moment the behavior of your Acquisition team (call it Sales, call it Marketing, call it Tony), if you measure them based on CPM or CPL. Each incentivizes such a different behavior, right?

Applying it to digital advertising…

Shove ads up people’s faces like crazy, who cares if there are 300 words of content surrounded by 18 ads? CPM baby! These Marketers write articles and give conference keynotes that obsess about “viewable above-the-fold ads.” A heartbreaking obsession, but remember it is what they are being incentivized to care about.

Or, worry a ton about the three ad levers you can pull, Content, Targeting, Bids, to ensure you are optimizing for the max leads you can get. Will this marketer give two hoots about “viewable above-the-fold ads”? Only to the extent that their three levers might be influencing less clicks. Instead, they shift that problem to the ad-network (yes!). Let them ensure the ads are showing up in non-crappy-more-relevant sites/apps where the Content and Targeting results in a click to a lead. Good behavior shift.

Extend the above incentive purification and imagine the day-to-day behavior of your Acquisition team if you measure them based on CPH. Or… PPH. See, how dramatically different their execution strategy, their obsessions will be?

Can you imagine why I say team and organization and online-offline silos will be broken as you go further to the right? No one person can succeed without active collaboration, and empathy, with rest of the teams!

That's what you want for yourself or teams that you lead. PPH.

One more thing.

Taking this out of the confines that define the reality of the client, you know that I don’t obsess about Cost this much. It tends to have other unintended consequences (especially lower down in organizations).

Hence.. Here’s an important switch to one of the five metrics to better reflect my worldview…

Revenue Per Human.

Subtle change. But, you want people to obsess about Revenue and not Cost. Else people do frustratingly short-sighted things. This is real, from last week: "Our 2017 goal is to reduce the cost of your display campaigns by 20%."

I wanted to die.

Who gives a small kiwi if costs are down by 20% or up by 40%? Are you making more money every day? Are you taking advantage of the complete opportunity to win in the market? Is your competition stealing share by the bucket load while you obsess about cost?

If 10xing your revenue requires that you quadruple your costs, what's the problem?

Remember, we still have PPH to ensure that the revenue we are driving is driving a positive influence on the bottom-line of the company.

Yet, most senior executives in the world incentivize their organizations to solve for cost. Then, they are surprised that they are losing market share or a new competitor crushes them. Hey, costs are lower this year! #winning #not 

But wait, there’s more!

Since I’m now solving for all of you, one more critical evolution to bring this baby home.

If you have read anything I've ever written, you know that I obsess about ensuring every view I have, every portfolio of segments I have, every dashboard I create, every incentive-structure conversation I lead, every business strategy I help craft has to have the three elements that form an end-to-end view: Acquisition, Behavior, Outcomes.

In the picture above, you'll notice I have Acquisition metrics, Outcome metrics, but no behavior metrics.

Not nice. Let's fix that.

There are many candidates, I wanted to have something that _flows_ with the story I was trying to tell… Something that would still incentivize optimal behavior… Something a little unorthodox to push your thinking… Here's my recommendation…

Cost Per (unique) Page View.

I said orthodox, did I not. :)

Measure what it cost you to drive every page view (unique). It gives you a sense for content consumption. It will include all the bounced sessions (pain). It will get you to dive deeper into what site/app sections people visit, what they are not reading, what they do read, how many unique page views does it take to get a Lead, what about freshness of content, anything about layout and experimentation, so on and so forth.

Not quite perfect, but an unorthodox start to demonstrate the creativity you can bring to this.

Regardless of the version of the story you use, it is important to create an end-to-end picture for your own company, your own work.

You will matter more to your company as you personally shoot for the right side of the picture. It will be simply because you are solving for a KPI that actually matters when it comes to the fundamental existence of your company.

Got PPH?

Inspiration: The Identity Spectrum, Ideal Solution.

So much of my solution for your huge success (imagine that being said as: yuge success ;) is dependent on identity. That last bit I added above, Human, has meant many different things over the evolution of the web. There are so many different identity mechanisms out there.

To help you traverse through them, and to get you to Human as in an individual warm body, here’s the identity spectrum we have access to today…

Cookies 3rd.

Most advertising networks use third-party cookies (cookies they set inside mobile and desktop browsers on your behalf – but not as you). These cookies tend to be fragile as they are not accepted in many browsers and are more often deleted – by choice or default. In the past they were roughly equivalent to a person as we all had one computer with one browser. They are not the most primitive form of any measurement (though if you only rely on your ad-network for success metrics of any type then you don’t have a choice, you are stuck with this fragile thing, and I offer a heartfelt sorry that your world is sad).

Here’s one metric you might have heard of that relies on 3rd party cookies: View-Thru Conversions. (Cue sad music.)

What can yo do with third-party cookies? Hold yourself, your ad networks, accountable in a narrow silo.

Cookies 1st.

These are set by existences you own. You’ll recognize these most commonly as being set by Adobe or Google Analytics on your site to better track metrics like Sessions and Users. They tend to be a lot less fragile because most personalization and authorizations except this capability. There is still a decay, if you want to get a sense for it checkout the Recency reports in your analytics tool. They are terrible at identity now as we all use multiple browsers on the same machine, and of course we use laptops, desktops, tablets, and phones (sometimes all at the same time with the same digital company!). It is imperative that you get off it as soon as you can.

Pretty much every metric in your Google Analytics reports uses first-party cookies as the identity mechanism. Conversion Rate. Bounce Rate. Visits to Purchase. Pageviews Per User.

What can you do with first-party cookies? Create better experiences in individual browser (as in Chrome) silos. Leverage advertising solutions like RLSA.

Login-ID 1st.

I’m a paying subscriber to my beloved New Yorker magazine. I’m logged into it’s site on my desktop, laptop, tablet, and phone. I’m logged into the browsers and the mobile application. This empowers the people at Condé Nast to dump cookies and use any digital analytics platform to rely on my login-id as identity to stitch my experiences and truly understand my Acquisition, Behavior and Outcome touch-points.

Login-ID is not fragile (for me the site/apps won’t even work without it). For The New Yorker they can easily tie to my name, address, credit card and a more. I know Condé Nast does not  leverage any of this because none of their platforms show any level of personalization, none of their offers for upping the subscription, none of their ads I see anywhere around the web, etc. show any intelligence related to me as a person. Sad. But. At least the possibility exists, and hope that Condé Nast will wakeup one day to the deeper loyalty and delight they could create using this identity.

For most of you, Login-ID might just be an account someone created on the web or a email address that someone used to sign up for your mailing list. In these cases of Login-ID you don’t have the tie to a human like above, but it is still better than cookies! Switch to 1. using an identity system that relies on Login-ID and 2. create meaningful incentives for people to login to their account.

Cookies as an identity are now only for those who don’t care about their digital business. Login-ID (the New Yorker variety or the signed up for an account) should be default.

For the most glamorous amongst you (I of course mean all of you!), you can stitch the third-party and first-party cookies littered around for your individual Login-IDs and paint an even more robust picture. I recommend this not as the default (because it is a lot of work), but rather as something you can do when *all* other business problems have been solved.

[Bonus: Here’s how to use Universal Analytics to implement Login-ID identity on your digital existences.]

What can you do with Login-ID identity? See above New Yorker example. Summary:  Personalized experiences via intent inferred from expressed behavior. Smarter Search, Display. More interesting understanding of Profitability (it will blow what you do with default first-party cookies with Adobe/Analytics out of the water on day one!).

Login-ID 3rd.

For people who can’t do above sometimes tend to rent an identity system from a third-party. This would be you implementing the Facebook identity system on your site, or one from Google or someone else who currently has most of the internet as it’s User.

So, people can log into your website using the Facebook identity system. With it comes the reduction of the pain of getting people to signup, and also additional behavioral data that the identity platform (say Facebook) would like to share. With it also come limitations related to how much of the customer data and relationship with the customer you own, as well as how much of this can you tie to your online, offline systems.

If you simply can’t do Login-ID on your own for any reason, this is a compromise is less worse than simply relying on cookies.

Nonline Customer-ID.

An improved variation of Login-ID 1st strategy. Most companies (think any retailer for example) still operate their identities in a silo. There is one for online (the one above), there will be another when you call on the phone (it might be your registered phone number), there will be a different one for when you walk into the store, and depending on if they own the store or if it is a channel for them, there might be one more.

Nonline Customer-ID is an identity platform that allows you to tie all of the above experiences down to one.

It could very well be my phone number. If I’m on your website, mobile app, call your phone center, walk into your store, or anything else, you use my phone number to know it is an individual. In this case, you come very, very close to Human.

Soon it could also be a BLE device implanted in my body that, in close quarters only, allows you to identify me when I am on your site (using a reader on my laptop), in your app (reader on the phone), in your store (readers in your ceilings) and so on and so forth.

It could be other things. I’m not opining on the pros and cons of doing this, I’m leaving out how you feel about this. That is for governments, companies and you to decide.

What can you do with Nonline Customer-ID identity? The ultimate deep level of understanding of customer behavior (as in customer), effectiveness of your marketing and service strategies, profitability, and everything else. If you want to imagine how insightful this can be, close your eyes, think of your business, imagine you have a Nonline Customer-ID platform, think of your current marketing data-driven attribution report. You realize how much this current holy grail sucks, right? That’s what I mean. Times 1000.

Nonline Customer-Id is an identity system will finally allow you to behave as one company and understand one person. B2B. B2C. A2P. DJT.

Nonline Customer-Name-ID.

This won’t apply to all companies, but as I’m deeply passionate about delighting every single individual human I wanted to share this purer version of Nonline Customer-ID.

Let’s take the most famous example: Amazon.

Today, Amazon is as close to Nonline Customer-ID as an identity system as you can get. Every touch point from site experience to mobile app to chat to phone (yes, they have that!) etc. play off the same identity.

But, in my family, like perhaps yours, my spouse and I both use the same identity (and both buy and ship things under my name to our home).

Amazon does not understand us individually though. From the recommendations it gives us to greeting her with my name everywhere, it is stuck with just Nonline Customer-ID identity.

But. Amazon has cookies. It has access to device-ids for mobile. It has access to pages viewed. It has access to products shopped from various browser IDs. And more.

They can easily use two or more of those to assign a Nonline Customer-Name-ID to my wife and to me. In one amazing instant, it would understand us individually and be able uniquely deliver deeper personalization, offers, support, and more.

It won’t be perfect. Perhaps it is off by 5%. But, it would be exponentially better than what exists today (which honestly is already better than 90% of the companies on the planet). And, Amazon needs it’s customers to do nothing new.

Additionally, Amazon could understand Home and understand Avinash and Jennie. Imagine all the possibilities that that unlocks.

What can Nonline Customer-Name-ID do for you? Cross-device intent customized smarter experiences that power relationships and not just shopping. Nirvana.

Now you know what it takes to truly get to Human. To real PPH. The only metric that matters (even for a non-profit). And, we’re not just talking about digital.

Got Human?

As always, it is your turn now.

Considering our metrics incentive spectrum pictures above, where is your company in terms of incentives for it’s employees? Are your little team, or your giant division, solving for the global maxima? If you are a leader, what incentives have you created for people who work for you? What element represents your company’s current identity system? What roadblocks do you see in front of you to get to Nonline Customer-Name-ID?

Please share your ideas, struggles, criticism of my ideas, worries and joy via comments below. I’ll be most grateful for the conversation.

Thank you.

Cookies To Humans: Implications Of Identity Systems On Incentives! is a post from: Occam's Razor by Avinash Kaushik

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