#(context: she bit me while i was trying to keep her from eating plastic)

[avinox]

So apparently Tumblr had flagged an image from when my dog bit me and left a cool scar as sexual content, that's why I couldn't find it anywhere

[priestessofspiders]

Howl's well that ends well

(A very special thank you to @arsonsara for feedback and guidance with writing this story) While it may seem surprising in the age of internet storefronts and online auctions, sometimes you do, in fact, need to physically go somewhere in order to purchase things. There are several auction houses which only host their auctions in person, and sometimes millionaires are just too busy to take time out of their hectic schedules of plastic surgeries and cocaine fueled orgies in order to buy some overpriced trinket themselves. That's where I come in.

My name is Mae, I'm a buyer's agent, think of me as a professional bidder. Something will go up for auction, my client will give me a budget, and I'll go try my very best to acquire the item of their desire and keep it in a secure location for a while until it can be safely shipped off to their McMansion. It's not honest work, but it pays the bills, and I've had a lot of opportunities to see some genuinely weird crap in my line of work.

I received a call from a regular of mine, an A-list actress with a passion for old cartoons. She wanted me to get her an original cel from a short by the name of Howl's well that ends well. Evidently she was away on a cruise trip at the time the auction was being held, and thus needed me to purchase it by proxy. I accepted of course, and like I always do I sat down and did a little bit of research on the item I was to acquire.

The cartoon was made right at the end of the era of black and white cartoons, just before that slightly eerie rubberhose aesthetic fell out of style in favor of the technicolor wonderlands of the 40s and 50s. It was a simple story, as such animations usually are, depicting a wolf attempting to catch and eat a rabbit by any means necessary, with increasingly silly results. The cartoon was animated by the rather short lived Crescent Moon Studios, and was one of only two shorts known to have survived the company's collapse in 1939. The other was a mythological themed cartoon known by the title The Shepherd and the Satyr. Both had fallen into the public domain, but nobody had bothered putting up copies on the internet anywhere, after all, they were pretty obscure.

I was given a maximum budget of fifty grand to purchase the cel, which I honestly thought was a little excessive. Sure, it was a rare find, but in the context of an auction, rarity only matters when it is combined with desirability. Technically every toddler's doodle is a one-of-a-kind original work of art, but nobody is going to shell out a million bucks to put it in the Louvre. Unless there was some massive revival in public interest surrounding failed animation studios from the late 30s, I wasn't anticipating needing to spend the full amount my client had authorized.

The auction house was typical of its kind; an opulent temple to the idle rich who have nothing better to do than spend their hoarded wealth on useless garbage. I've never felt comfortable in those sorts of places. While the cut I get is fairly good, it's not enough for me to feel at home rubbing shoulders with CEOs and movie stars. I have this theory that there is a certain stench exuded by those who only own one house, and I can see the pompous plutocrats wrinkle their noses at me whenever I pass by in my cheaply tailored suit.

I settled into my seat alongside the other auction attendees, fiddling nervously with the ends of my sleeves. The rows of comfortable chairs sat before the stage reminded me of vague memories of attending church as a young girl, not comprehending a single word the man in the funny robe was saying when he read out his sermon. Eventually the auctioneer made her way out onto the stage and the song and dance of acquisition began.

It took a while to get to the cel. There seemed to be no end to the parade of antique junk that was available for purchase by my more financially fortunate companions. Jewelry that would never be worn, paintings that would be used to take up space in otherwise artfully minimalist living rooms, and antique weapons to be drooled over by those who view the statistics of mass murder as fun trivia all graced the auction block, happily snatched up by the horde of the idiot rich.

It was by the time I had almost dozed off following a bidding war over some decrepit old tea set that the auctioneer announced the starting bid for an animation cel from Howl's well that ends well at one thousand dollars. Surprisingly, someone immediately offered to pay the opening bid. I was startled to learn that one of these p-zombie nepo babies even knew what a cel was, much less willing to blow a thousand bucks on it. I raised a counter bid, doubling the offer just to see how badly this other bidder wanted it. In turn, they raised the bid to four thousand dollars.

Thus began one of the most baffling bidding experiences I've ever had. This wasn't supposed to be a difficult item to obtain, it should have been a cakewalk, but this other bidder was fighting tooth and nail to acquire it. It was just a bit of cellulose with eighty year old doodles on it for goodness sake! And it's not like we're talking about Steamboat Willy here, I'd never even heard of Howl's well that ends well before I'd gotten the call from my client. Nevertheless, I had been given quite the budget, and it wasn't like it was my money anyway, so I stuck at it until the bitter end. I didn't get a look at the competing bidder at the time, just heard his voice from somewhere behind me. It was a strange voice, there was something wrong about it, something I couldn't quite place.

Forty seven thousand dollars. That's how much of my client's money I wound up paying for the damned thing. That's more money than some folks make in a year, and here I was blowing it on some picture of a cartoon wolf. I was frankly baffled.

I arranged for the payment with one of the clerks and, after everything went through, picked up the cel and started walking to my car. I planned to drive immediately down the storage unit where I keep the items I am paid to acquire until their rightful owners come calling. Holding the cel in my hands gave me a weird feeling, even though it was protected in a rather fancy looking glass case. The older something is, the creepier it gets. You'll never read a haunted house story about some luxury penthouse suite, for example, they'll always be set somewhere ancient and dilapidated. I don't think we like when things get too old for their own good, it reminds us that there was a time before we existed.

The cel itself depicted just the wolf, walking on comically exaggerated tip-toe. There was no backdrop, obviously, the cel would be overlaid on top of the background in order to save time during the animation process, to keep the overworked artists from needing to render every tree and bush over and over ad nauseum. The wolf itself was a typical example of a cartoon character from that era; impossibly flexible limbs, a somewhat lanky appearance, and large eyes with slices taken out of the pupils. It wouldn't have looked out of place in a Fleischer or Disney short.

I found myself staring into those eyes. There was an odd quality to them that I didn't quite like, a kind of intelligence that felt out of place on the exaggerated features of a cartoon. Normally when one stares at something for long enough, you stop being able to properly process it as a coherent image, like when you say a word too many times and it sounds like gibberish. With the wolf though, it felt as though the longer I stared, the more clarity it possessed, the more defined the edges became, the more-

"Excuse me miss, may I have a word?"

The voice caught me off guard, and I nearly dropped the glass case to the floor. I looked up, finding myself in the indoor parking garage where I'd parked my car. In my distracted state, I had nearly gotten all the way to my car without noticing how far I'd walked. Standing before me was a man dressed all in black, with a long overcoat, a thick scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, large dark sunglasses, and a wide brimmed fedora. His hands were firmly tucked in his pockets.

"Um, sure, can I help you?" I responded, a tad nervous. Did he follow me here? I found myself wondering.

"My apologies, first allow me to introduce myself, my name is Arnold Harrison, how do you do?" His voice was faintly muffled from his scarf, but even then I could make out that there was something wrong. There was something artificial about it, fake, like the voice a clown puts on when performing for children. Despite all the cordiality he was expressing, I felt almost as though he were mocking me.

It took me a moment, but I did recognize the name Arnold Harrison. He was a collector, a cartoon enthusiast, I'd never been employed by him myself but I'd heard a bit about him. Unlike the horde of hedonistic cretins spending their time wasting daddy's money on expensive toys, I actually had a certain level of respect for Harrison. I was dimly aware that he'd written a book at some point on the history of the early animation industry, and in an instant I knew who I had been competing against in the auction house.

"I'm Mae, a pleasure to meet you Mr. Harrison," I said, extending my arm out for a handshake. Harrison looked down at it for a moment, his hand still pressed firmly in his pockets. He didn't move to accept my handshake, keeping some distance away from me, and so I lowered my arm awkwardly.

After an uncomfortable pause, Harrison broke the silence, stating, "I would like very much to offer you a deal, Mae. As you probably noticed during the auction, I am very interested in getting my hands on that cel of yours. It is of great personal importance to me, you understand. I've been led to believe that you are, in fact, working for a client, are you not?"

I nodded my assent, cocking an eyebrow slightly as I wondered where he was going with this.

"In that case, I would like to present you with a counter offer; if you give me that cel, I shall, within the week, be able to present you with a virtually identical cel, a near exact copy. For all intents and purposes, it would be a perfect duplicate, and your employer need never know the difference. In order to ensure your silence on the matter, I would be more than willing to pay you a sum of forty six thousand dollars, cash, up front."

I blinked. Forty six thousand dollars, and all I had to do was hand this stranger some antique squiggles on a highly flammable bit of transparent plastic. It felt too good to be true. There was a lot I could do with that kind of money. My gut was telling me to say yes.

But it was something about that voice. I didn't trust it, it didn't sound like the voice of someone sincerely telling the truth. It sounded like someone telling the setup to a joke. We put so much value into way words are spoken, rather than the actual words themselves. One would never be able to take a politician seriously if they went on stage having just inhaled a balloon full of helium for example. I felt like I was going to be made a victim of some ridiculous prank.

"'I'm terribly sorry," I said, "but I'm afraid I can't do that. Good day Mr. Harrison." I turned to leave, heading towards my car.

A hand gripped my shoulder abruptly.

I wheeled around, yelping slightly from shock, and the hand was off my shoulder in a flash. Harrison was still standing some distance away from me, much too far away to have grabbed me like that. His arm would have had to have stretched like a rubber band. I caught a glimpse of his hand being stuffed into his coat pocket abruptly as soon as he saw me staring. I could have sworn it only had four fingers.

"I'm sorry, I just-" I heard him start to say, but I was already running full sprint towards my car. I made it there in a flash, slamming the door behind me as I carelessly tossed the cel in the front seat. I fiddled with my keys and turned on the engine, reversing out of the parking space and moving to leave as soon as possible.

As I drove towards the exit, I faintly heard Harrison's voice over the echoing engine, shouting out "Please! You don't know what you're dealing with!"

- - -

I made it to the storage facility right at the end of sunset, the sky a bloody red as night came to silently murder the daylight. I'd spent the entire drive trying to rationalize away what I'd seen. Perhaps Harrison had some birth defect, or had suffered an accident. He was probably much closer than I thought, or maybe he jumped back a little when I turned around. Maybe it all really was some elaborate practical joke. There must be a logical explanation.

By the time I was typing in the combination to the storage unit, I'd mostly convinced myself that everything was fine. The door swung open, and I fully intended to set down the cel within the sealed room and lock it all up again so I could go about the rest of my evening in peace. Instead, I found myself staring at the image of that cartoon wolf again, looking into those drawn-on eyes, gazing steadily into those pupils with the slices taken out of them.

I felt an intense compulsion to take the cel out of its case and hold it. It's not quite so unreasonable a desire as one might think. While I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit it, I'd occasionally carefully taken some of the antiques I'd gotten for my clients "out of the box" so to speak, just so I could touch something someone would spend so much money on. There was no logical reason for me to believe this wasn't just me acting on my own desires.

I clicked open the case gently, sliding open the lid. The faint camphor smell of old film wafted out, and I reached my hand inside, gently running a single finger over the smooth, transparent celluloid. As soon as I did so, a faint chill seemed to trickle down my spine, and I quickly stopped what I was doing and hurriedly put the lid back in place. I set the glass case and the cel within onto the floor and closed the door to the storage unit in a hurry, briskly walking back to my car.

Urban parking being what it is, it was something of a walk to get back to where I had left my car. Night had fully fallen by now, and while the streetlamps still shone their uncomfortably bright glow in a pathetic attempt to keep the shadows at bay, the blackness outside their radiance seemed darker than usual. There was a disturbing feeling of anticipation in the air, and I felt a knot in my stomach like that of an actor who has abruptly realized they were never given a script.

The streets were unusually empty. It is common knowledge that when a city gets large enough, the notion that nighttime is meant for sleep is revealed as a woeful misconception. Drunkards, workers on the graveyard shift, and petty criminals abound as soon as the sun recedes, and yet I found the streets utterly devoid of human life aside from myself. Despite my seeming isolation, it wasn't long before the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end, and I knew that I was not alone.

It took me a while to notice it, a faint echo to my own footsteps that shouldn't be there. Something was keeping exact pace with me. I altered the rhythm of my stride, abruptly doing a slight skip to switch which leg was coming down, and there was a moment briefly where I heard the sound of someone's own footsteps faltering to try and keep up.

I turned around, shouting out "Alright, come on out Harrison. I know it's you."

I was wrong though. It wasn't Arnold Harrison who was following me.

It stepped into the light of the streetlamp almost sheepishly, hands up in a "you got me" gesture. It stood about six feet tall from head to toe. It was staring at me hungrily with those inky black pupils. Pupils with slices taken out of them.

There's no point in beating around the bush any further, no point in trying to play coy. It was the wolf from the cel. It was a black and white cartoon wolf, standing up on two legs, walking towards me with clearly malicious intent. It wasn't some uncanny abomination, the humorous proportions of the animated world translated with horrific effect upon being brought into this three dimensional existence. It just looked like a goddamn cartoon character had somehow magically stepped out of the screen, and somehow that was more existentially horrifying than if it were some bulging-eyed misbegotten atrocity.

Confronted with this violation of all natural law, this impossible, inherently contradictory being, do you know what I did? I pulled out my pepper spray from my pocket and aimed for its stupid, drooling face.

The damn thing just opened its mouth and stuck out its tongue, tasting the spurt of liquid capsaicin as though I had discharged a can of whipped cream at it. As soon as the spray died down to a dribble, the wolf licked its lips before belching out a burst of monochromatic flame, dabbing its lips with a handkerchief it pulled out from nowhere in particular.

I ran of course. I ran for my goddamn life. I felt myself laughing as I did, a fit of giggles bursting involuntarily from my throat because this whole situation was so stupid. The wolf followed close at my heels, snapping its jaws inches away from me with a sound like a mouse trap closing each time it tried to take a bite.

I took a wrong turn in my haste to escape from my animated pursuer, finding myself in an alleyway blocked off by a chain link fence at the end. I turned around to see the wolf smugly stalking its way towards me, legs like rubber hoses strutting confidently forward. I thought I was going to die an utterly pointless, totally absurd death. I backed up against the fence, looking around for anything that could save me. That's when I spotted it.

A banana peel stuck slightly out of a nearby trash can. It was a stupid idea, it shouldn't have worked, but I grabbed it and tossed it on the ground in front of the rapidly approaching wolf. The instant one of its ink-black feet stepped on the peel, the wolf's legs began spinning like blurry bicycle wheels, its arms stretched out to balance itself as a comical "ooOoOohoohoOOO!" emitted from its slavering jaws. I took my opportunity and ran past the demented cartoon, sprinting as fast as I could towards my car.

Fortunately the alley was quite close to where I had parked, and I managed to hop into the driver's seat and start the ignition fast enough to get out of there. Looking in my rear view mirror, I spotted the wolf hold out its thumb for a taxi cab, but the streets remained empty as ever, and I was luckily saved from the embarrassment of having to indulge in some kind of wacky car chase sequence with my nonsensical pursuer.

I wish that was the end of this story. That my client picked up the cel, I got a good shrink to prescribe me some happy pills, and I got out of this situation with nothing more unpleasant than a lifelong distaste for old cartoons. Unfortunately, the universe is not, despite what some desperate idiots may insist, a kind place. Three things ensured that my life would be far more complicated than I would have otherwise preferred.

Firstly, my client refused to answer my calls. Her voice mail message informed me she was "taking a break from the screens to focus on the important things in life". Good for her I suppose, though I imagine it's rather easy to turn off the screens when you're enjoying a multi-week cruise on a mega yacht the size of Alcatraz.

Secondly, the wolf didn't stop after just one night. No sirree, this was one persistent bastard, and it didn't take long for the canine caricature to figure out where I lived. As for how it discovered my address, I have no idea. Perhaps it checked the yellow pages, that seems to be an appropriately stupid method. Regardless, I rapidly found myself spending each sleepless night fending off the attacks of a cartoon wolf.

The wolf's nocturnal visits were equal parts ridiculous and terrifying. It didn't operate on the same fundamental logic as the universe the rest of us live in, it belonged to a world of falling anvils and comically oversized wooden hammers, a world where the rules of slapstick have more meaning than the laws of physics. The first time it got into the house it hopped down the chimney in a black and white Santa Claus outfit and gestured for me to jump into a similarly colorless leather sack that it held open for me oh-so politely. I fired a taser at it, and I saw its skeleton flash through its unconvincing disguise as the monochromatic menace jolted about spasmodically. Eventually it fell to the ground, inky lines of smoke drifting up from its contorted body, and I ran out the door, hopped into my car, and drove straight down to the police station. I didn't have time to grab my cell phone to dial 911, I didn't want to spend another instant in the house with that stupid wolf.

I didn't tell the police that my home invader was a cartoon character of course, because I'm not a moron and would prefer not to spend the rest of my days in a nice padded room wearing a comfortable straitjacket, thank you very much. Instead I just said there was someone in my house, I thought I had incapacitated them, and I wanted an officer to check it out.

They didn't find the wolf of course, and while they couldn't confirm if anyone had broken into the house, they were at least able to confirm the presence of an intruder by the marks they had left getting out; a cartoon wolf shaped hole in the wall.

I spent two weeks dealing with this wolf. Two. Weeks. Two weeks of desperately trying to contact my client about the cel. Two weeks of fitfully sleeping only during the day. Two weeks of spending my nights in paranoid vigilance against an impossible intruder. I began taking to renting various cheap motels for a single night at a time, out of a desperate hope that maybe it wouldn't be able to find me there. It was a pipe dream of course, it always found me, and I'd always have to find some new ridiculous way to stop it.

The only thing that would even temporarily stop the damn thing was playing by its own rules. Whacking it over the skull with a frying pan would cause it to collapse to the ground with an egg-sized lump on its forehead, chirping birds circling its head as spirals formed in its eyes. Stomping on its toe would make it yowl in exaggerated pain as it hopped up and down on one foot. I once managed to get away from it one night by ducking into a public restroom and pointing at the "Women's" sign on the door, at which the wolf got embarrassed and waited politely for me to finish my business. I stayed there until the sun rose. It never stuck around during the day.

I did say three things changed my life for the worse, and the third is easily the one that has been the most profoundly upsetting. I began to notice... changes. Subtle ones at first. I've always had a faint West Coast accent, but as my encounters with the wolf continued, I found my voice dipping into the tones of stereotypical valley girl more often than not. The pitch changed too, raising from the sightly gravelly vocal fry I was used to into a high pitched squeak.

I used to smoke on occasion, not anything major, maybe a single cigarette a day at the most, but now I was finding myself with one constantly stuck in my mouth. It wasn't a situation of my addiction increasing due to stress, no, I never bought any fresh packs. They would literally seem to appear, already lit, when I wasn't paying attention. My skin began to turn paler too, my hair darker, the dark brown transforming into an inky black.

It was when I looked in the mirror one day and saw my pupils had slices taken out of them that I knew I had to do something drastic. I didn't care if it cost me my damn career, I didn't care if I spent the whole rest of my life flipping burgers on minimum wage, living out of my car; I refused to let myself turn into a goddamn cartoon.

I drove myself down to the storage facility. By this point I had been hopping from hotel to hotel so much that it took me until nightfall to reach it, which meant that the wolf would have a chance to try and stop me. I didn't care, I had a job to do. I wasn't going to let my humanity get stolen just because I was scared of some atrociously abnormal animated asshole.

I parked right in front of the facility next to a red painted curb. They could tow my car away and melt it down for all I cared. All that mattered was getting to that cel. As soon as I began marching towards the front gates, I heard a sharp whistle blow through the nighttime silence, and I turned to see the wolf, dressed in an old fashioned police uniform, writing what looked to be a parking ticket in a notepad. I flipped it the finger and began to run for my storage unit, looking back just in time to see the wolf speeding towards me, the uniform left behind still floating in the air from how quickly it leapt out of it.

But I was faster now, I felt lighter. My every step was bouncier and more energetic, and I found a wild grin growing across my face, perhaps an inch or so wider than it may have been before, a cigarette clenched tight between my pearly white, perfectly straight teeth. I used to have quite the crooked set of chompers, and my dentist always got onto me about how little I flossed, but right now supernaturally enhanced dental hygiene was hardly my biggest concern.

I managed to skid to a stop (with the appropriate sound effect of course) right in front of the storage unit, and rapidly entered the combination. I knew that the wolf was close behind me, because the wolf would always be close behind me. It was in his very nature, as was mine to escape in the very nick of time. Hunter and fox, cat and mouse, wolf and rabbit.

I swung open the heavy steel door and stomped the glass case at my feet to fragments, grabbing the cel with a flourish as the wolf tripped over my extended leg and slid to a stop on the metal floor. Pulling the lit cigarette from my mouth, I touched it to the cellulose image and winked. "That's all folks" I muttered as the translucent image caught fire in an instant.

As soon as the cel began to burn, so too did the wolf, engulfed in white hot flames as it howled in apparent agony. It didn't take long before the howls faded away, and all that was left was a wolf-shaped outline of ash on the floor of the storage unit.

"I'll be honest with ya, I wasn't sure that was going to work!" I said to nobody in particular as I shut the door to the unit once again. I clapped my hands together, partially to clean off the ashes, but more to signify the conclusion of a job well done.

I drove home and collapsed on the couch, exhausted.

And if we lived in a kind and loving universe that is where the story would have ended. But, of course, we do not.

I turned on the TV, desperate to drink in some mindless garbage to distract my brain from the question of how I would explain away the destruction of the cel to my client. Flipping to a random channel, I was greeted with the image of a cartoon wolf sneaking along to a jaunty tune.

Obviously it wasn't the wolf from Howl's well that ends well, that would be ridiculous. No TV channel is broadcasting obscure cartoon shorts from the 30s, not even at that hour. The wolf was in color, the art style was different, it must have been an adaptation of Three Little Pigs or something. But it didn't matter. It reminded me of my wolf, and I felt rage bubble up in my chest. My eyes narrowed, and I felt as though steam was blowing out of my ears. Who knows, maybe it did.

I pulled out a baseball bat and began smashing it into the TV set over and over again, gibbering incoherently and laughing as I did so, sparks flying from the ruined mess of plastic and glass. By the time I finished swinging, the mass of steaming debris was barely recognizable as a television.

As I stood there, hunched over, catching my breath, I looked down at the baseball bat I had used to destroy the TV. I don't own a baseball bat. I never have. Even if I did have one, how could I have gotten it so quickly? It's not like there is room for it in my pockets, and I didn't run off to some closet to grab it, it wasn't leaning against the couch when I came in.

Walking into the bathroom, I confirmed what I already knew.

My skin was still deathly pale, nearly white now, my hair was still black. When I reached up to touch my face, I found that my hand had only four fingers.

As I gazed upon my caricatured reflection in the mirror, a thought clawed at the synapses of my brain, a shock to the system like a firm handshake with a hand-buzzer; I still didn't feel alone. Ever since that freakishly fiendish fleaball had turned my life upside down, I'd felt as though I was being watched, being followed everywhere I went. I just assumed it was the horror of pursuit, the terror of being prey. But I think it's more than that.

The thing about humor is that it's all relative isn't it? If you tell a joke and nobody is around to hear it, well, chances are you aren't going to get any laughs, are you? The whole purpose of a cartoon is to entertain an audience, to make us laugh at the zany antics of those larger than life characters as they go about their impossible, ridiculous existence. Without anyone watching them, they have no purpose, no reason to exist. All of their power comes from the laughs they give their audience.

So I'm asking you now, dear reader; who is watching me, and how do I get them to stop?

[stressfulsloth]

Six Sentence Sunday

(and it's taken me so long to do it that it's actually Sunday again 😂) I was tagged by @findusinaweek thank you :))

I do have six different fics on the go right now because I am terrrible so I will do a bit from each! *More than a sentence because I feel like it's odd out of context!*

1. Kim does not like to be seen as a picky eater. He is a grown man, closer now to 50 than to 40, and certainly not a child who spits out his vegetables because they’re yucky. He will eat food that he doesn’t like, tolerate it in public if he has to, but he has to admit; before Harry, he was mostly subsisting on a diet of plain chicken, rice, butter pasta and fruit. Harry in the kitchen is a whirlwind but he presses up against Kim’s food boundaries gently, gets him to try new things without rushing headlong. This tomato pasta, always with a slightly different blend of herbs every time, is his latest success.

2. Kim sighs imperceptibly and takes another one of your fries. Your eyes follow its path through the air to his mouth. His lips, plush, full. Like a girl’s, a voice in your head chimes in. They look soft. His teeth are enticing too; there is nothing bestial about them. They are neat, flat, human. Slightly overcrowded. His canines are prominent, but no more than any other average Revacholian. Neat and almost-white. You imagine those neat white teeth extending, drawing out, elongating into a lupine snout, all sharp and dangerous and slavering. Out of control for a moment. It’s hard to picture.

3. You lean across as the music swells, builds, and place an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. You hear him sigh-

Is that irritation or interest?

-and tilt his head, allowing you more access. Your nose brushes his ear, and your lips find his pulse. You scrape your teeth over the vulnerable point. His skin in the half darkness is nearly luminous. He’s far more interesting than anything going on on the flickering screen. “Harry,” he says, low and warning, voice swallowed by the soaring strings of the soundtrack. “Behave. Watch the movie.”

4. The glass shards sparkle like diamonds on the tarmac, like a chain of princess-cut diamonds around the throat of some nineties movie star. When Ruby hooks the door open from the inside and the utility light switches on, clambers up and into her seat, mindful of the shards, she sees that her posters have been moved. Laid out on the seat. Tippe Tijonne looks back at her in black and white with big hooded eyes carved out in black shadow. She’s missing a cigarette and a glass of wine, Ruby thinks. Then she crumples the poster into a big ball and drops it out of the window.

5. It's a close fit in here, the waterproofed fabric cocoon keeping in the vapour of their breath. Kim can't sit up all the way; the roof hangs low and when he accidentally touches it it's wet and cold against the crown of his head. The air smells intensely of Harry, of slightly astringent sweat and something murkier, of apple shampoo and those sickly-sweet hard candies that he throws back constantly to keep his mouth occupied. The heat of him, barely inches away, rising off his body. The cold seeps up from the cold clayey dirt and burrows into his bones. There is too much distance.

6. It is early evening when Kim is waylaid on his way back from putting the bins out. It is Thursday, and the garbage trucks come on Friday morning while he sits at the window drinking his first cup of tea and watching the hydraulic metal arm grind and clunk as it hoists up the blue plastic can. He enjoys the levers, the sliding metal components polished clean by years of repeated motion, and he can’t say that he doesn’t see the appeal of watching the strong sweaty guys who come alongside with the truck either. Worker bees bringing back offerings to the hive. He would have liked to have got a chance to work on one of those trucks, their unfamiliar anatomy and their dense, beautiful, complicated...

All that to say that putting the trash out was not a household task that he particularly minded. It was the conversation it entailed that was the problem.

I don't want to put anyone on the spot so if you feel like you want to do this please do!! I'm going to tag @electromelancholy and @lastwave because I think I remember both of you saying you had things you're working on? But if I'm wrong feel free to ignore!! 💜

[watermelonlipstick]

Dreams, Chapter 17

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 17

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2203

Summary: Milwaukee’s finest African dream root gets put to the test.

Warnings: FLUFF, swearing; it’s so nice to finally take angst out of these warnings

           You’re walking up the stairs from the bar basement with a six pack in your hand—it’s a raspberry beer from a microbrewery you’ve only had once in Pennsylvania, years ago. There’s no way you’d be able to stock it in northern Wisconsin, and ironically that makes you realize you’re in a dream faster than hearing Sam and Dean talking at the bar top.

           “Look who decided to show up!” Dean smiles, ready affection spreading over his face like warm butter. He’s sitting on a stool like a patron, a few fingers of scotch in a glass in front of him where Sam stands behind the bar. You can feel yourself beaming as you cross over to them, setting the cold six pack out between you. It feels natural to slip into the space under Sam’s arm like you do so often here serving customers together but you stop short of it, instead grabbing one of the bottles and pivoting so it looks like you were trying to grab the bottle opener out of his back pocket all along. He raises his elbow to give you better access, letting you slip it back into the denim without touching him.

           When you look up, Dean still has those gooey caramel eyes trained on you. “You look good, kid. What’re you drinking?”

           “What’re you drinking, that’s all you have to ask?” you giggle, hopping up to sit on the bar. “No ‘how are you both here, what’s going on?’ none of that?” For your part you’re practically exploding with gratitude that Sam’s long shot worked.

           “We’ve been waiting on you for a minute, Jolly Green Giant over here gave me the scoop. So what’re you drinking?”

           You hand the bottle you’ve opened to Sam and grab another. “It’s a raspberry lambic from Pennsylvania. From what I remember, it might’ve been my favorite beer ever.”

           Dean raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Well, come toast me with that Juicy Juice.” You and Sam both touch the lips of your bottles to his glass, and the smile on Sam’s face is as smooth and effortless as chiffon floating off a tropical cabana. “I got my brother, my girl, my car, and a few fingers of single-malt, this is perfect. To Sammy’s big ole brain and the beauty of dream root.” Something about that rings a bell in an even deeper part of your mind and you don’t take a sip right away until a vision of Dean flashes, holding two plastic trays piled high with burgers and fries. Dean winks as he finishes his glass. “Did you two get any better at pool since I’ve been gone?”

           Playing pool with Sam and Dean in a bar—in your bar, with the dent in the paneling behind Dean where the table is a little too close to the wall—is as comfortable as if you’d never stopped, that there isn’t this giant hole not being acknowledged. Sam ribs Dean when he makes a shot his big brother missed and blocks fast when Dean tries to jab him in the ribs with a pool cue in retaliation, smiling through the horse play. You wipe a stealthy tear out of the corner of your eye and take another sip of lambic; you can’t think of anything more beautiful than watching the Winchesters goof off like this, are already starting to miss it as it happens in front of you, and then you feel stupid and wasteful for being so prematurely nostalgic that you can’t enjoy it. When you look back up having collected yourself, Sam floats a delicate hand to your back. “You okay?”

           “Yeah, sorry, just all kind of got to me for a second.”

           His eyebrows twist in concern and he looks over to Dean, exchanging a look you can’t quite read and even that you’ve missed so much you have to hold your breath for a moment to keep it together. “Let’s, uh, let’s get out of here,” Sam suggests, laying his cue down on the felted table.

           Dean nods almost imperceptibly before grinning wide. “Yeah, why don’t you knuckleheads show me the rest of this town?”

           Sitting in the backseat of the Impala is just right for the mile or two it takes to get ‘downtown’—as far as those 7 businesses on a main street rural enough not to have curbs can be called a downtown—and when Dean opens the back door it’s with an outstretched hand for you to get out into the parking lot of the hardware store. “It’s not really going to be the same without all the people,” you offer, taking his callused fingers in yours and standing up.

           “Babe, you have people in your dreams all the time.”

           “Yeah, but not like real people, not like you or Sam.”

           “You haven’t explained all this stuff to her yet?” Sam asks, incredulous over the top of the Impala as he walks around to you and Dean.

           “We’ve been, uh, busy,” Dean says lasciviously, waggling his eyebrows and not reacting when you shove him in the chest.

           “Dude, gross.” Sam’s little brother reflexes show themselves to be intact once again.

           “That’s not what your girlfriend said last night.” It almost makes you panic with surprise, that blatant acknowledgement of the situation, but neither Dean nor Sam seem to pay it too much mind, already moving on to the next thought. You get the sense—as you always did—that they’re still able to communicate without speaking, but who knows? Their time together, Sam’s dreams, even the time that it took you to find them in this dream, is theirs. If they’re comfortable joking then maybe you should be also; you’re the one who gets to have your cake and eat it too. It conflicts with your current strategy of ignoring the deeper element to both your relationships, pretending like the present predicament is no different than before you started dating Dean, platonic and jocular all around. In any case you’ll be damned if you ruin the unbelievable joy of this moment by harping on awkwardness.

           Sam rolls his eyes at Dean and turns to you. “It’s about how well you know people. Someone you know really well, your mind will be able to project what they would or wouldn’t do in a given situation or context. If you only know them sort of tangentially it’ll be harder for your mind to guess, so you might start to get like, repeat phrases or whatever. Think animatronics.” You probably look as confused as you feel and you can see the cogs of Sam’s mind turning rapidly to try to find another way to explain. “Okay, so take Diane, right? You know her enough that she might show up in a dream, but you probably don’t really know her motivations or mannerisms really well, personal history outside of those pictures of her grandkids she’s always showing? In a dream she’d probably only be there for a while, to get you from one thought to another, so if we go in right now and talk to her for hours and hours, she’ll probably start repeating stuff: sentences, facts, whatever.”

           “Sounds a little Island of Misfit Toys to me,” you grimace, beginning to feel a little queasy.

           “More like Westworld,” Sam suggests, opening the door. “This is, uh, the hardware store? Not really sure what you’re wanting to see, Dean.”

           Dean is strolling down the center of the small shop, head ducking into each aisle like he’s looking for something specific but doesn’t know where it is. He picks up a package of Red Vines, opens it, and tears into one like a lion with a chunk of sinew before continuing his walk. There’s a degree of wonder in his eyes that you wouldn’t have expected; the hardware store is just like any other you’ve ever been in except smaller and with more of the bits and bobs that shops in little towns tend to have.

           “Sweetie, would you like me to ring those up for you?” The voice comes from up ahead, behind the cash register where Diane has appeared. It sounds entirely kind and helpful but you know she’s gently chastising Dean for opening the package without paying. Sam can hear it too and smiles conspiratorially at you before walking to catch up with his brother, grabbing the candy out of his hands and tossing it on the counter to get out his wallet.

           “I can get them.”

           “Oh, Sam, I didn’t see you there! Look at you, Johnny on the spot. How’ve you been, honey?” She’s ostensibly ringing him up but her eyes are roaming all over Sam’s body hungrily, enough to make him blush.

           “Uh, fine. Just hanging around, you know.”

           Dean sidles up next to Sam and shoots out a hand to Diane. “I’m Dean, Sam’s brother.”

           “Pleasure to meet you, Dean. Diane,” she answers, her handshake as warm and no-nonsense as she is, but she only takes her eyes off Sam for half a second to address him. It should be your first hint that something’s up when Dean seems smug at the almost-diss rather than annoyed. Sam finishes the transaction and presses the licorice flat into Dean’s chest as he turns back toward the two of you and the exit. You have to hustle a little to keep up with his long strides.

           “Dude, come on, that’s hardly fair,” he says, low and trying for serious but there’s some playfulness in his tone.

           “I just wanted to see what she was thinking,” he chuckles around a bite of licorice, following Sam down the road to one of the burger joints. “Lucky you.”

           “Diane? Why do you care about the cashier at the hardware store?” you ask.

           “Kid, I want to know everything about your lives. Hardware stores included.”

           Sam rolls his eyes at his brother again and smiles, annoyed and maybe a touch shy. “You, uh, you don’t know Diane well enough to recreate her in your mind, but you know that she, uh, she knows me, right? So the way she acts toward me in your dream is the way you think people must act toward me in real life.”

           You’re getting tired of feeling confused and out of the loop. Dean interjects, “If your projection of Gramma Goodwrench has the hots for Sammy, then you must think chicks are falling all over him.”

           The heat rising in your cheeks makes you sheepish for a second before you realize the futility of it. Yet again, if Sam and Dean are willing to treat this like something to be joked about you can let them lead the way. “Whatever, you guys are a pain in my ass. Are we eating or what?”

           You end up walking through town for a while, going into all the tiny nooks and crannies of the places you spend any amount of time in, decidedly trying to keep the boys from talking to anyone for too long. Dean takes it in like it’s fascinating, a 6 year old at Disney World for the first time, asking all kinds of questions and doing goofy things like trying out different stools, looking into every bathroom stall to really understand the full scope of it all. After a while he gets hungry but wants to go back to the cabin, so you grab groceries that would normally be impossible to find in the local grocery store—there’s a perk—and head home. Sam gives Dean directions to your house, which feels odd, like some kind of reverse deja vu.

           You have an idea. Tapping Sam’s shoulder and leaning forward to put your head between the boys’, you think maybe it’s not something you want to do, that you don’t want to share Sam and Dean together again. But if Dean wants to see your life, they’re the closest relationships you have. “Do you, um, do you think I know the Kaisers well enough that you’re not going to be able to Vulcan mind control me or whatever?”

           Sam looks over his shoulder back at you, curious and sweet as a gentle smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah, I bet you do. What’re you thinking?”

           “Maybe we could go to theirs for dinner? If it’s a—”

           He reads your mind. “They’ll have something, you’re right. Dean, what do you think?”

           “Guess who’s coming to dinner! It’s just past you guys?”

-

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 18

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[five-rivers]

Darkness/Poison

This is part of the ‘Doorways’ series (aka Danny is an eldritch abomination and Jack and Maddie have no normal friends so they decide to go on a road trip to make sure none of their friends from college have become semi-satanic soul-eating holes in reality AU).  

AO3 link to series.

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The Fenton Ghost Assault Vehicle did not have the smoothest ride in the world, but Danny was used to it.  Also, he had driven the Specter Speeder through the Carnivorous Canyon and ridden in Johnny 13’s sidecar.

Point being, if his parents didn’t want him to fall asleep, they should have told him.  Or, at least, not dragged him out of bed at four thirty in the morning (both to get an early start and to avoid the reporters and other undesirables who had taken to circling Fentonworks like vultures).

Look.  Danny might have been an unspeakable eldritch horror, a superhero, and one of the richest human beings on the face of the Earth, but he was also a teenager.  Not to mention sleep deprived.  

Besides, Mom and Dad had said their next Paranormal Research Club friend was miles and miles away.  They wouldn’t reach his town until much later in the day.  Danny had plenty of time to sleep safely.  

Which is why he was so disgruntled when Dad shook him awake with a cheery “We’re here!”

“Where’s here?” asked Danny, rubbing his eyes and noting sadly how far away his portal back in Amity Park was.  

“Breakfast,” said Jazz, voice heavy with sleep.  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one trying to take advantage.  

“’Kay,” said Danny, briefly wrestling with the seatbelt.  He caught Mom staring as he opened the door.  “What?” he asked frowning.  

“Nothing,” she said, unconvincingly.

Whatever.  Danny could figure it out later, when he was more awake.  He jumped to the ground.  

“I think you guys will really like it here!” said Dad, waving at the building.  “The food’s great!  An old friend owns the place.  Your mom and I used to come here all the time before you were born, when we were commuting between Amity and Chicago.”

Danny nodded along, staring up at the neon sign that read ‘Red Flower Dinner.’  Then his brain caught up, and he slowly turned his head to look at Dad.  

“’Old friend,’” he said.  “What do you mean old friend?”

Dad blinked at him, uncomprehending.  Jazz came to his rescue.  

“Dad, we’re doing this whole trip because all of your old friends are lunatics,” she explained.  

“They’re not!” said Dad, defensively.  “Besides, Marianne was never part of our club.  She didn’t even go to U of M.”

“She was a waitress at our favorite hangout,” explained Mom.  “She got enough saved to buy this restaurant around the time we graduated.  She’s few years older than us.”

“Saved?  I thought a relative died, and she got an inheritance?” asked Dad.

Danny groaned.  “Do you not see how suspicious that is?”

“Come on, Danno!  We can have normal friends.”

“No, you can’t.  If a normal thing ever interacts with our family in any way, it immediately becomes abnormal simply because of how unlikely it is for anything like that to happen.”  He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars.  

“He’s got a point,” said Jazz.  “Maybe we could go to a different dinner?”

“But,” said Dad, “she makes the best breakfast. And she really is normal.  She wasn’t involved in any ghost stuff.”

“Are you really telling me you never talked to her about ghost stuff at all?” asked Danny, suspiciously.  

“Well, we did,” said Dad.  “But we talk to everyone about ghost stuff.”  

“Dad…”

Dad inhaled and heaved a huge sigh, shoulders sagging.  “Alright, Danno.  I get what you’re saying.  We can go somewhere else…  Even if it won’t be as good.”

Okay.  Now Danny felt bad.  

Unfair.  

“Well,” he said.  “I guess we could check and make sure she’s not, you know, haunted or anything.  That’s why we’re doing this, I guess.”

Dad brightened immediately, and Danny had to grab the back of his shirt to keep him from running in.  

“But remember, if I say we have to go, we have to go.  That’s the deal.”

Dad nodded.  Danny let go.   He sighed as Dad disappeared into the building.  

“Is the food really that good?” asked Danny.

“Marianne grows a lot of her own herbs,” offered Mom with a shrug.  “Everything she makes is at least decent.  But, well,” she grimaced as she held the door open for her children. “The reason we liked her so much was that she always seemed interested in our research.  We liked talking to someone who took us seriously.”

“Wonderful,” deadpanned Jazz.

The décor inside the dinner was bright red and floral.  The seats and benches were upholstered in shiny, dyed leather.  A long glass counter displayed pies and other desserts under bright lights.  The air was warm and smelled faintly of cherries.  A radio station played quietly in the background, blurring the chatter of the other guests.  

Danny rubbed his eyes again.  Ugh.  He was tired. Sleeping in a moving vehicle was a special kind of unrestful.  Heh. Unrestful dead.  More like unrested dead.  That was him.  

(Someday, he was going to track down the first person to say, ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ and give them a stern talking to.)

“Marianne!” boomed Dad, waving at someone in the kitchen behind the order window.

There was a gasp.  “Jack Fenton!  Is that you?” A woman with greying brown curls leaned out, then ducked away briefly before reappearing through a door.  “I haven’t seen you in years!”  She threw her arms out, hugging first Dad and then Mom.

Danny bristled at the perceived threat to his parents but managed to control himself.  This was nothing.  Everything was fine.  Just because every one of his parents’ friends so far had something weird and potentially fatal going on so far, it didn’t give him the right to police their every interaction with other human beings.  

“Are these your kids?” asked Marianne, excitedly. “Oh, my goodness, you must be Jazz, and you’re Danny?  I’ve only seen you in pictures, but you’ve grown so much.  You’ll be as tall as your dad in no time.”

“Hope so,” said Danny, knowing there was no chance of that happening whatsoever.

Not with his human body, anyway.  

“I hope we’ll get a chance to talk,” she continued, “but I have things on the stove.  Why don’t you go ahead and find a seat?  We’ll get to you soon.”

“Looking forward to it, Marianne!” said Dad, waving again.  

“Is she alright?” asked Mom quietly as they slid into a corner booth.  

Danny wound up in between Mom and Jazz, which was good, because Dad tended to elbow whoever he was sitting by.  In this case, Mom, who could take it.

“I think so?” He rubbed his eyes.  “But I can’t just sense everything. Don’t forget that.”

“Stop rubbing your eyes,” said Mom.  

“They’re itchy,” said Danny.  “I think I got some sleep sand in them or something.”

Mom’s expression softened.  Danny blinked at it and wondered when he’d gotten so used to seeing an edge of suspicion on her face.  

“It could be allergies,” she said.  “It’s that time of year.  Or it could be that you keep rubbing them.”  She tugged his hands away from his face.  “Either way, it isn’t healthy to keep touching your eyes, sweetie.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t have a point, but Danny wasn’t entirely sure he could get sick.  Not anymore.  Maybe if he was far enough away from Amity Park, spread thin enough between his two major physical manifestations…  If his body was human enough…  Maybe figuring that out could be a fun family bonding experience.  Not.  

He yawned.  He wanted to go back to sleep.  Being in here, with the warm scented air and not-quite-white background noise, only made slumber more inviting.  

Still.  His family’s ability to protect themselves was lacking.  Danny at least had to stay conscious in case Marianne decided to channel the spirit of Locusta or something.  Ancients, wouldn’t that be typical?  

A waiter came, introduced themself, and handed out menus.  Danny failed to process most of the waiter’s prepared speech, and his eyes drifted down to the menu.  

It seemed… normal, for lack of a better word. Slightly worn, a couple stains on the paper behind the plastic protector.  The pages had a border of blotchy red flowers.  The items were all typical breakfast foods.  Nothing jumped out at him.  

He wasn’t even hungry.  Actually, if he thought about it, he was a little nauseated. Sometimes that happened when he didn’t eat for a while, though, so maybe he was hungry, after all?

Why did bodies have to be so complicated?

“What are you getting?” asked Jazz, who was morally unable to make a food order until she’d taken a poll.  

“I don’t know,” said Danny, folding his arms on the table and letting his head rest on them.  “I’ll probably just get whatever you’re getting.”

Jazz frowned at him and repeated the question to their parents.

The waiter came back after a few minutes.  

“I’ll have the Variety Breakfast!” said Dad, excitedly.  

“The number five, please,” said Maddie. “Sausage links, not bacon.”

“Um,” said Jazz.  “How about the Red Flower Special?”

“Excellent choice,” said the waiter, smiling. “Marianne grows all the seasonings for that herself, and the presentation is lovely.”

“I mean, it’s pancakes, right?” asked Jazz, nervously.  

“It is, it is.  What would you like for your side?”  It took just a few seconds for the waiter to get the rest of Jazz’s order, then they turned to Danny.  “And what are you having today?”

“Same as her,” said Danny, waving in Jazz’s general direction.  

“Good choice, good choice,” said the waiter.  “We’ll be back soon!”

“Thanks!” said Dad.  He reached over Mom to pat Danny on the shoulder.  “See?  This is just a completely normal restaurant.”

“Mhm,” said Danny, dubiously.  He’d believe it when he got out of here with his questionably mortal coil and squishy, murderable human family intact.    

Okay.  Maybe he was being a bit overdramatic, now.  Was it because he was too far from the Amity portal?  He’d been sure it wouldn’t significantly affect him, though. It wasn’t as if physical distance meant much in this context.  Sure, he wasn’t on his home turf, but still…

Of course, he was a teenager. Teenagers were supposed to be overdramatic.  At least, that’s what he’d heard.  Being a teenager didn’t come with a manual any more than being a half-ghost superhero did, quirky TV shows about middle school notwithstanding.  

Yeah.  That sounded reasonable.  He was a teenager who’d been woken early, and it was still early, and that meant the world was terrible.  Excellent math.  

He sipped at the water the waiter had left him, pleased with himself.  

Which is when his and Jazz’s orders arrived. Danny caught a glimpse of red on him plate, abruptly recognized the prickling feeling in his eyes, expelled the water he was drinking from his nose, and propelled himself sideways across Mom and Dad and out of the booth.  

“Ah!” he said, pointing at the red-tinted pancakes and the pretty little flowers on top.  

The plating really was nice.  Just like the waiter said.  

The whole dinner was staring at him.

“He’s got allergies,” explained Jazz, her voice just a little too high pitched.  “Just—Really horrible allergies.  To flowers like this.”

“Blood blossoms,” said Danny.  He was reasonably certain the things wouldn’t kill him, he wasn’t sure that anything short of something like Gula could kill him, but every encounter he had with them had been painful beyond belief, and he doubted that their being cooked would help very much with that.  

“Right.  Blood blossoms.  The name always slips by me…  Haha.”

“Oh my gosh,” said Marianne, rushing out of the kitchen.  “I am so sorry.  I didn’t know anyone was allergic to them!  It’s just, you guys always talked about how they were lucky, and they got rid of bad spirits, so I thought I’d incorporate them, and they’re red, which is also lucky, and they taste so good—”

“Marianne,” said Mom, poking at one of the flowers, “where did you even get these?  I thought they were extinct.”

“Oh,” said Marianne, “my uncle, the one who died, well I guess they’re all dead, now, but…  The one who left me enough to buy the dinner?  He worked in seed conservation.  I got his personal collection.”  She sniffed, apparently on the edge of tears.  

“Ah,” said Mom, glancing at Danny.  “That’s interesting.  Um.”  She slid out of the booth.  “I’m really sorry, Marianne, but,” she gestured in Danny’s direction.  “Food allergies.”

“He’s had breakouts just from being around them, before,” added Jazz, helpfully.  

“Oh, no, no, I understand.  Um.  One second, let me give you my number, I don’t want to fall out of contact again, oh, dear.  Tracy! Give me your notepad!”

It took several more minutes for all the Fentons to make their way back outside, most of which Danny spent staring into the dinner through the large front windows, keeping an eye on his family. Maybe he didn’t have ‘allergies’ in the typical sense but being around blood blossoms was making his skin itch and prickle unpleasantly.  

Eventually, however, after Dad had shoved most of his order down his throat in a single go, they all got back into the GAV.  

“Oh. My. Gosh,” said Jazz.  “You two have no normal friends.”

[meldy-writes]

Luckiest Girl in the World (Daryl Dixon X Wife! Reader)

Context:So I have an alt AO3 because for some reason I didn’t think a walking dead fic fit with the fanfictions I had under my Pen Name’s account, but at this point, I don’t think it really matters. Anyway, there’s this Daryl X Reader fic I’m writing on this alt account and I’m at the point where I’m writing two ways the story could branch, and there’s this little scene from the path I didn’t take that could work as a drabble. If you like this, or if you want to read the fic for context, it’s here. Be warned, it’s pretty long.

Summary: The Reader has been with the group since the CDC, and along the way, she fell in love and married Daryl Dixon. Now they’re in Alexandria and Aiden, one of Deanna’s sons has begun to harbor a crush. He doesn’t seem to realize that she’s taken. (Daryl’s not really mentioned until the last couple of paragraphs, but I thought those paragraphs were cute enough to warrant this being tagged as an x reader fic.)

Aiden sat at the top of the fence with her, casually leaning back in his seat. The front legs of the plastic chair were off the ground, his feet planted as he rocked back and forth.

“You’re gonna to fall backwards, you know.” (y/n) stated.

“You worried I’m going to get hurt?” he teased, leaning even farther back.

“No. In fact, I think it’d be funny. I just don’t want your mommy to yell at me.”

He let out a snort and put his arms behind his head as he began to rock back and forth. She rolled her eyes, amusement dancing on her features as she eyed the back legs of the chair in anticipation. As she predicted, they eventually snapped, and Aiden promptly fell backwards just as she’d cautioned.

She let out a barking laugh, and a few people passing by stopped to look up at her as the flushing boy tried to shake off the embarrassment.

“All right, all right, it’s not that funny.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, that was the most entertainin’ thing I’ve seen all week,” she argued, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Then your life must be very boring.” He countered bitterly, his pride hurt just a tad from how demeaning her tone was and how promptly she’d always shut him down.

“Oh, no. it’s not borin’, it’s just not fun, either.”

He finally recovered from his little mishap, tossing the broken chair down into the grass below to be fixed later, and choosing instead to sit against the wall. (y/n) kept to her perch, eyeing the expanse of pavement in front of the fence gate.

“You know, if you can’t find fun, you can always make it. There’s a game a lot of us play when we’re on watch to pass the time, want to play?”

She rolled her eyes. “I gotta keep my eyes on the gate”

“It’s a talking game. You can still keep watch. It’s called The Worst. We each share the worst experience we’ve ever had with something, and the one that’s the most terrible wins the round.” He continued, eyeing her with a charming smirk that, despite his best efforts, she hadn’t registered as flirty, yet.

He was an attractive guy, and after she’d saved his life on that run, and yelled at him, they’d bonded. He’d even swallowed his pride and let her train him. They’d gotten close, and they were both attractive, sarcastic, and confident people, so he couldn’t understand how they weren’t together yet. No matter what he did, she always shut down any plans he tried to make to hang out alone outside of the occasional look-out duty, and she always spoke to him like she was talking to a child. A very stupid child.

He didn’t let it deter him, though. No matter how much it hurt his pride. She’d eventually come around.

She turned her nose up at his suggestion, looking at him like he just told her the sky was green, and she was about to gently tell him he was a dumbass.

“That sounds like a game you don’t wanna play with me.”

He asked her why she felt like that.

“Because you’d always lose.” She stated simply, turning back to the scene past the gate.

“Okay, you don’t always have to play the jaded soldier. This world is shit, it’s fucked us all over one time or another, quit acting like you’re the saddest sack in the world.” He scoffed, smacking her shin with the back of his hand playfully.

She sighed, shrugging her shoulders.

“Alright, then. But if this ends up bummin’ you out, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Internally, he celebrated. This was the first time he’d ever gotten her to agree to something she initially said ‘no’ to. Slowly but surely, he was winning her over, he was sure.

“Alright, easy. Worst night of your life. Mine was that time I left that supply run group behind. Usually, we’d go into detail, explaining what happened, but, you already know about that night ‘cuz I told you about it.” He stated sadly. She’d talked a big game, so he was pulling out the big guns. “What about you?”

Let’s see you top that, Debbie Downer.

She smirked, sensing the challenge in his voice.

“A long time before we all came here, we were stayin’ on Maggie’s dad’s farm. One night, it got overrun by a horde, an’ everyone got separated. I was with Carol, an’ a walker fell on top of me, tryin’ to bite into my shoulder. She thought I was bit, so she left me behind, but I was wearin’ a real thick jacket. I was fine, but I had to cut it open and drench myself in its blood so the herd wouldn’t sniff me out and tear me to shreds. I had to slice my way through a sea of those suckers, an’ then stumble through the woods covered in gunk for a whole day and a half ‘fore I found my people again. That was the first walker I ever killed on my own. Damn terrifyin’.”

He was quiet after that, face white as a sheet as he shuttered and coughed awkwardly.

“Y-your turn to come up with a topic.” He finally uttered.

“Worst walker encounter you ever had. Mine was this time at a mechanic shop out in… It had to be North Carolina. A guy tried to--well, it’s not important what his intentions were, the point was that he had me handcuffed to one of those automatic levers they use in autobody shops to lift cars, an’ I was hoisted off the ground. He had the keys in his front pocket, an’ I’d managed to get his head ‘tween my thighs to snap his neck. I was tryin’ to reach for the keys with my feet when he re-animated. I was strugglin’, I couldn’t go anywhere, I couldn’t use my arms, the only reason I got out of it was ‘cuz he accidentally bumped up against the control for the lift, and his head ended up crushed under the mechanism. I’ve had a lot of close calls, but I think that was the only time I ever truly felt like I was gonna die.”

Aiden let out a low whistle, letting her words settle. Maybe she’d been right after all. Still, depending on how she saw things, his might still be worse.

“Mine was right at the beginning. My girlfriend was with us while we were traveling for Mom’s campaign. I left for twenty minutes to grab some lunch, and when I got back to our hotel room, she was a walker. I don’t know if she was bitten, or if she had an accident, or if someone… I don’t know. All I know is that I had to kill her with my bare hands just to stay alive. I... dropped the hotel room tv on her head.”

He shuttered at the memory, and to his surprise, he felt (y/n) place her hand on his shoulder and squeeze comfortingly. He grabbed for it, but she pulled away before he could.

“Let’s uh, choose a more up-beat topic,” he continued weakly, “Worst date you ever went on. Mine was this girl Cierra Mauldry in sixth grade. I kissed her goodnight on her porch, and our braces stuck together.”

She laughed at first, but a long-suppressed memory resurfaced at the mention of dates, and instantly she was somber again.

“A guy I worked with at the CDC,” she started softly.

“He’d had a crush on me for a while, an’ I’d just learned that my dad died, so I was in kind of a vulnerable spot. I said yes to grabbin’ dinner together, an’ takin a walk ‘round the facility. When we got back to his room, he wanted to sleep with me, but I didn’t. I didn’t really like him that way, an’ I didn’t think it was fair to him to string him along, so I told him ‘no’, an’ that we should just remain professional from now on. Next day, he didn’t show up in the lab, an’ my boss sent me to go get ‘im. I found him as a walker hangin’ from his closet.” She took a hiccupping breath, reliving the memory in her mind, and scrunching her eyes shut. “Worst part is I cannot, for the life of me, remember his name.”

They were both quiet after that, and soon, they heard Spencer calling up to relieve (y/n) from her shift. She grinned sympathetically down and Aiden, and gave him the goodbye of:

“Told you it was a bad game to play with me.”

Still, when she got up, he scrambled to his feet as well grabbing her arm to stop her before she made her way down the ladder.

“Well, hey, I still had fun. I got to know you a bit better. I’d like to continue doing that, maybe you could come over for dinner and eat with my family tonight.”

She smiled the smile she usually did; like she was talking to a slow, and simple child.

“I’m sorry, Aiden, but tonight’s not great. Daryl’s gotten kind of close with his recruitn’ buddy, and his husband wants us to come to dinner tonight so he can finally properly meet me.”

Aiden scrunched up his eyes in confusion.

“What? What does Daryl getting close with them have to do with you? If they wanted to get to know you, couldn’t they just approach you without having to go through him?”

She smiled wider like he’d said something adorably stupid, as she clarified:

“I didn’t explain it very well, It’s more like a couple’s dinner party sort-of thing.”

Aiden blinked. What? What the fuck? Was she insinuating that she and Daryl were… she couldn’t be, right?

“You and Daryl are together?”

She nodded as if his statement was beyond obvious, “we’re married,” she corrected.

He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to picture the violent, mean, constantly dirty guy with the long, long hair together with the clever, beautiful, and secretly caring woman he’d been trying to flirt with for the past week and a half, but he just couldn’t picture it.

“How?” he blurted out.

“How do people get married?” she teased flatly.

“No, how did you two end up together? You’re so different!”

She smiled softly, looking down at her fingers as she began to twiddle them. This smile was different than any of the ones he’d reluctantly wrangled out of her. This one was genuine, and bashful, and affectionate, and dazzling. Aiden knew it wasn’t for him, and it almost felt like he was intruding on something he shouldn’t be just by looking at her.

“He an’ I are a lot more alike than people realize. We’re more alike than even he realizes, I think. That doesn’t matter though. These days, it’s not about whether you’re similar, or if you’ve known each other for a long time, it’s all about who you can trust and depend on. It’s about who you’d die for, and who’d die for you. We might not have ended up together in the old world, but in this one, we’ve got somethin’ strong. Somethin’ special.”

She grinned brightly, practically knocking the breath out of her companion as she looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”

With that, his grip on her arm retracted, and she finally made her way down the ladder. He watched her walk down the street and run into the man they’d just been discussing. He watched as she strode over to him, and gripped his leather vest, trying to pull him down for a kiss.

He noticed how Daryl grinned fondly and put his hands on her waist, placing a quick peck on the tip of her nose. He noticed how she leaned into him with her whole body. He noticed how the sun reflected off the ring on her finger, the ring he had not gathered was supposed to be a wedding ring until that moment. He noticed how soft Daryl was for her when no one else was around.

Or maybe, he was always like this around her, and Aiden had just been too absorbed in himself to realize.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Trapped” Part 2

Almost one year ago, someone tried to kill The Joker in a speeding car and Y/N pushed him out of the way, getting hit instead. With a fractured skull and broken bones, she was out of business for 6 months; when she finally recovered, The Queen of Gotham wasn’t the same anymore. Trapped inside her own mind and exhibiting severe cognitive impairment, Y/N’s life switched upside down without any hope of ever returning to normal.

Part 1      Part 3     Part 4    Part 5

The Joker feels your hand searching around and he knows what you’re looking for: the yellow teddy bear.

“Here Pumpkin,” J gives you the toy that landed on the other side of the bed during the night; a couple minutes pass and his cheek is covered in soft kisses. He opens one eye and you instantly pretend to be asleep.

“I’m onto you, Y/N!” The King of Gotham sneers while you giggle at his affirmation. But as soon as he pecks the scar on your collarbone, your attitude changes.

“No…”, you whimper and cover your face with the sheets.

“I told you before I don’t care about scars,” The Joker tries to reason with you because it happens each time he touches the numerous stitch marks scattered all over your frame: some are deeper lacerations perfectly normal after the surgeries you sustained, others are cuts that might diminish in a few months. “Princess, are you listening?” J traces the lesion on your wrist.

Y/N is so stiff though he has to fight in order to pull the covers away from her.

“Hey…hey… See? I have scars too,” The Clown attempts to distract you. “Are you having a panic attack? No need to!”

You try to keep up with what he’s saying and it’s pretty difficult giving the circumstances; at least you do understand J is making you relax.

His cell phone starts vibrating on the nightstand and he reaches for it.

“Perfect timing, Frost!” The Joker takes his frustration on Jonny. “What do you want?!!”

The short conversation ends fast with The King yelling a bunch of angry stuff, including an interesting grand finale: “Next time you interrupt when I’m on a roll struggling to get laid, maybe you’d like to intervene and convince Y/N her scars don’t bother me!!!”

Why is he mad?...

You watch him toss the phone on the floor and crawl by him, intrigued.

“Upset?” you begin caressing his hair with the teddy bear’s paw.

“My throne won’t be ready until June, Princess! I requested that fancy chair for a reason and paid a fortune to have it customized! What am I supposed to use at the club?! I don’t like the old furniture anymore!!”

You already lost track of what he’s saying: something about not having a throne???… … …

Oh, there’s one really close by!

You grab The Joker’s arm and drag him out of bed towards the bathroom.

“Where are we going?” he inquires, confused.

You quickly guide him to the toilet, making J sit on the closed lid.

“Throne,” you point at the porcelain bowl and The King of Gotham frowns, immediately bursting into laughter afterwards.

“You’re brilliant, Pumpkin! Brilliant!” he praises your interpretation as you are pulled on his knees.

“Hm?”

“You’re a clever Kitten and whoever says otherwise is an idiot! Turns out I do have a throne,” he admits and gropes you.

Too much for your brain to decipher all his sentences, yet Mister J seems content and that’s enough for you.

“The plan for this morning is simple,” he continues. “We’ll have sex, then take a shower and whatnot, then eat breakfast. Later I have a meeting; you just stay here and wait for me, alright?”

“Mmm…” you hesitantly process the words coming out of his mouth, opting to agree for his sake. “Ok?”

“You naughty girl,” he pulls down on your tank top spaghetti strap. ”I know you hate me sometimes, but in the end can’t resist my charm.”

“No hate… Love,” you snuggle to J while he walks back into the bedroom carrying the sweet burden of his existence; of course he ignored your statement because why would he pay attention to nonsense?

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

You’re outside the car and sulk when Alice sneaks on the passenger’s seat that literally belongs to The Queen.

“Stay here, Princess. I won’t be too long,” The Joker mutters.

“W-why?” you ask since you are not a fan of the idea of having your boyfriend’s ex riding alone with him.

“You get bored at meetings,” he explains. “Circle the property and let the boys know if you need anything,” J emphasizes and drives down the path leading to the gates, leaving a puzzled Y/N behind: you never liked Alice and that didn’t vanish after the accident.

“Bye, Y/N!” she shouts and you can’t make a lot of sense of what you’re feeling, still one detail is certain: it hurts.

How come you couldn’t go?! Why didn’t he give you a choice?! He always does.

If The Joker thinks you can’t put two and two together these days, he’s very wrong.

“Y/N recovered quite nicely,” Alice smirks.

The King of Gotham sighs and she fixes a rebel strand of green hair rebelliously flying over his ear.

“I was wondering if you’ll call me at one point. I missed you, babe.”

“Did ya’?” he scoffs at her bold confession; but she’s a direct person, one of the qualities J admired when they were an item.

“I can’t image how you two function; I mean… her unfortunate transformation, it must be hard for you to put up with someone fighting to comprehend the easiest tasks.”

“It’s not easy,” The Clown admits and gazes at her: Alice dolled up for their rendezvous. Everything he considers attractive is there: beautiful pair of legs popping from under the short skirt, his favorite perfume discretely lingering on her flawless skin, the tip of the purple lace bra she’s wearing casually showing each time the woman leans forward.

“I bet,” Alice pretends to sympathize with his problems. “A man like you has needs that I’m positive Y/N can’t even remember how to satisfy,” she pats his thigh, slowly working her way to his crotch.

The Joker chuckles, accomplice with her insinuations, also super annoyed when his phone rings.

“Yes?” he promptly answers.

“Sir,” Frost reports, ”we have a situation; Y/N is increasingly agitated and…”

“Deal with it!” he hangs up and strives to cruise straight despite the sexy distraction urging him to do otherwise.

“Why did we split?” she scoots closer to him, pouting.

“Beats me,” J purrs as she squeezes her fingers in his pants’ pocket.

“What’s this?” Alice rattles the small plastic pouch.

“Y/N’s anti-inflammatory drug; there’s not much that can be done now and this is helping with the blood clot pressing on her frontal lobe. The doctors say it will reabsorb; granted it won’t matter regarding her cognitive impairment.”

“Awww,” The Joker’s past flame pretends to be affected by his briefing. “That’s too bad, babe; probably the future is not too bright…” she shoves your pills in the glove compartment. “Why don’t we reconcile? You know I’d do anything for you,” the flirtatious tone makes J reply:

“Would you jump in front of a speeding car like Y/N did to save me?”

“Ha! I would,” she elbows him, snickering at his antiques.

“Prove it then,” J growls. “Get out of the vehicle and don’t flinch if I run you over. If you survive, I’ll take you back!”

Alice opens her mouth in amazement and the SUV halts before The King reprises driving.

“Got cha’!” he cracks up at her baffled reaction.

“For God’s sake, babe! You scared me!” she playfully pinches him and teases: “Are we going to our spot?”

“I was wondering when you’ll notice,” The Joker navigates the unpaved road guiding the automobile towards Clear Sky Summit.

“Pull over,” Alice urges him and he complies at once. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time,” she moans climbing on his lap. “I can tell you missed me too,” the woman grins at his body’s response.

“That’s my gun,” J buries his face in the revealing cleavage, firmly holding her waist.

“I bet it is, babe,” she winks while unbuttoning his silver shirt. “I love you!” she tries to bite him and he violently yanks her long hair, snarling.

“Is that why you tried to kill me?”

Alice cautiously exhales, a bit nervous at the switch in his demeanor.

“What are you talking about?!”

“Who was driving the car meant to hit me, huh? Tinted windows, no license plate.”

“Babe, you’re hurting me,” she winces in pain at his strong grip. “I swear I don’t know anything!”

“Are you sure?” J sniffs her scent.

“Yes I’m sure! I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our…”

“Our what? What exactly our means in this context? We separated more than two years ago!” The Joker crushes her spine against the wheel.

“Babe, let go!” Alice wiggles in his tight embrace.

“Why did you do it? Were you jealous I found a new fling? Took me months to track the culprit!!!” J restricts her movement when she stretches to open the door. “You fucked up my girl!” his hands forcefully twist her neck and the snapping noise of fractured bone halts the argument.

The Joker pushes the corpse off him, numb to the murder he committed out of pure rage: what’s another name added to the list?

Yet… this was personal.

He keeps staring at the trees surrounding the trail without discerning their shape. 30 minutes pass and the phone’s alarm alerts him it’s time for your remedy: The Clown Prince of Crime is so out of it he doesn’t stop it until he’s on the main road.

He speeds up to ensure a timely arrival at the mansion where Y/N will definitely confront him after being abandoned in such fashion: the truth is he doesn’t mind.

What he does mind though is that no matter what happens, Y/N will never be her former self.

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

The Joker parks in front of the villa and hops out of the car, barking instructions at the goons patrolling the area:

“I want this gone!” he gestures at the cadaver crammed under the front seat. “Where’s Y/N?”

“In the garage, boss” Frost indicates. “You should know that…”

“I got it! I got it!” J waves and sprints towards your destination.

Nothing prepared him for the carnage.

“Holy… … shit!!!” he inhales at the shocking landscape depicting all five of his most beloved vehicles mauled to pieces: broken windows, scraped paint, karoseri indents…a whole mess!

Bam!!! You smash the rearview mirror of his favorite Ferrari with the baseball bat.

“What are you doing, Pumpkin????!!!!” J screams, aggravated.

Oh, he’s back!

“Y-you like her??!!” The Queen redirects her wrath. “B-because she’s smart??!!”

“Who? Alice?” he quizzes for no reason whatsoever: The Joker’s aware of the reply.

“Wh-where did you go, hm?” you point the wood weapon at the man taking you for a fool; you try not to stutter but it’s impossible with the strained neurons firing up a storm inside an already troubled brain.

“Nowhere, I killed her.”

“Hm?”

“I killed Alice!” The Joker raises his voice and watches you squint your eyes, a clear hint you’re analyzing his disclosure. “Look what you did, Princess! Are you happy now??” he finds the perfect opportunity to divert the outcome of the mayhem he actually created: J repeatedly learned this is the best strategy.

“U-hum,” you serenely admit since you’re indeed pleased with the results of your rampage.

The two parties glare at each other in silence and The Joker grabs the yellow teddy bear resting on a nearby hood, proposing truce before you bash something else:

“I’ll trade you the fur ball for your bat.”

Yikes, you’re reluctant to his treaty: further distraction is required.

“My collection is destroyed, Pumpkin!” The Joker approaches with the toy he stole for you on your first date. “Who we’re gonna call on such short notice to fix all this crap?!!”

Oh, you know this one! You and Mister J watch the movie on a regular basis.

“Mmm… Ghost Busters?” Y/N innocently suggests.

He puckers his lips at the astonishing proposal and it takes a lot of effort not to laugh.

“That’s brilliant, Y/N! Best idea I heard all week!” The Joker proudly compliments your intuition. “You’re a clever Kitten and whoever says otherwise is a moron!” he swiftly snatches the baseball from your grasp and replaces it with the teddy bear.

He rolls the weapon by the closest tire, signaling you to follow.

“Come on, Pumpkin, it’s time for your med. Why are you limping? Is your knee hurting again?”

“U-hum.”

“Serves you right for going rogue!” he scolds. “Com’ere,” J lifts you up, placing your legs around his midsection. “I expect apologies by the way!”

“No,” you sniffle while dangling the toy with one arm.

“Pain in the ass!” he huffs and you kiss him. “This is not an apology!” The Joker spanks you butt.

“Mine,” you cuddle to his shoulder, totally blocking his grouchiness.

“Yeah, yeah, yours,” J grumbles heading for the elevator. “So this is how the rest of today will unfold, Y/N: I’ll be mad until evening time, then we’ll have makeup sex and dinner, the last two not necessarily in the same order. And you’re not going to freak out when I touch your scars, OK?”

“Mmm…OK?”

“Why is that a question?” The Joker continues bickering. “You have other prospects? Boyfriends I should know about? Are you even listening?”

“U-hum,” you poke J’s star tattoo. “No… freaking out.”

“Fair enough,” he compromises and lifts you higher on his hips when you cling to him: selective perception is infinitely better than none. “Is this Pink Blossoms?”

“Yes,” you nod at the familiar brand you use all the time.

The King of Gotham smells his favorite perfume in the air, reckoning he wouldn’t enjoy it if another woman wears it for him.

Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Wattpad and Ao3 under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[gwoongi]

lovely ᵕ̈♡˳೫˚∗ (02)

jeon jeongguk / reader genre: boyfriend au words: 3744 warnings: crack humour, a liddol bit of fluff, slight suggestive sexual content, jeongguk and y/n being chaotic lowkey & five year old jeno being an actual savage... a/n: happy 2 see such a great response to the lovely couple with part one !!!!!! pls continue to luv and support them (♥ó㉨ò)ノ (pls see series parts on my masterlist!!)

➸ Jeongguk and Y/N play Mom and Dad for a little bit.

Jeongguk could cry. He could quite honestly, genuinely, whole-heartedly cry, right here and right now in the middle of his living room, surrounded by mess and feathers from the bedroom pillows.

He loves kids, don’t get him wrong- my God, he loves kids, and loves how kids can make a house feel like a home, how kids say some really fucking weird things; but, Jeongguk finds that kids are a lot of hard work. He has half the heart to call his parents and say sorry urgently, because children are like tiny spawns of Satan, demons wanting to cause chaos at every corner.

The last time Jeongguk and yourself were given the mission of looking after your niece and nephews, they were much smaller, and therefore easier to look after. All they did was sleep, and cry when they were hungry or needed to pee or poop, and were perfectly content doing absolutely nothing all damn day. Now, three years later, when your sister and her husband are going on a small self-care vacation to Spain, Jeongguk removes himself from the situation to observe the situation, which in description is the view of his living room completely ransacked and bustling with life, crazed children dashing around at full speed, like Mario Kart characters using the star. 

It’s so overwhelming that he actually doesn’t even know what to say. When the fuck did they get so hard to look after?

Whenever your niece and nephews came over to visit, they clung to Jeongguk like moths to lamplight. You never knew why. Jeongguk was fun, and easy to get along with, and perhaps his kind-hearted nature was universally loved by all ages. Even when they were babies and newborns, they settled with Jeongguk, staying silent and googly-eyed whereas in your arms they screeched, like banshees or dinosaurs swinging in trees. You couldn’t fault them; Jeongguk was irresistible, maternal almost in the way his voice changed around the kids, the way he laughed at their weird jokes and forced himself into pretend roles, like the mean villain coming to take over their Playmobil hospital.

Eight a.m, that’s when they arrived. Jeongguk had got up at six, eager and anxious, already cutting up salad bowls made up of apple slices and watermelons. Over an overly bitter cup of tea, you heard him ask, “wait, can three year olds eat watermelon?”, and you glared at him to resist the urge to respond with something that may well hurt his feelings.

“I usually like to put them to bed at about eight, but they won’t go to sleep even if you force their eyes closed, so just be firm with them,” is what your sister had said, frantically trying to detach a clinging boy from her leg. Jeongguk blinked owlishly, standing behind you in the hallway as you followed behind her wordless. Maybe Jeongguk didn’t know what firm meant. Raising your voice and being stern with little tiny precious angelic creatures? Never.

(1)

“Y/N, I’m sorry, but you’re boring.”

Five year olds can be blunt and mean. You now know this to be a fact, because the eldest of the four just said that to you, his hands on his hips with his lips in an unamused pout. He stands by the window, one foot on the Playmobil ambulance and the other on his leg like a flamingo.

“What? Why, what did I do?” you ask, confused and honestly, slightly offended. Jeongguk sits off to one side petting the hair of the youngest, his secret favourite because she’s not quite old enough to ask questions or complain.

“That’s what I mean, you’re not doing anything,” he huffs. “You’re supposed to be the bad police officer.”

“There’s no such thing as a bad police officer,” you try to tell him. You pause, realising you’re wrong but also realising that you’re not advised to get political with a five year old, especially one who still thinks the tooth fairy is a real thing. “I’m trying to be realistic.”

“You suck,” comes his reply. Jeongguk snorts, shrugging when you glance at him angrily.

“Stop, you know I’m your favourite Aunt,” you say to him sweetly.

Your nephew, sassy and honest little Jeno, pulls a face and sits back down with a huff, snatching the ambulance off the carpet to thrust the small man inside. “You’re my only Aunt, Auntie Y/N.”

Right.

The not-so-bad-police-officer gets snatched away from you seconds later and you decide, with finality and assertiveness, that you’re done with playing pretend with them. You lift yourself up off the floor, crouching over to take Yeji away from Jeongguk’s arms. Jeongguk pouts, his eyes blown wide as he watches the baby being lifted away from him and towards you.

“Uncle Jeongguk can be the villain,” you suggest, making Jeno forget how uncool you are as he launches into an enthusiastic cheer, followed by his siblings who are making noise just because he is. Jeongguk stares at you, pleading. “Anybody hungry?”

“No thanks, Auntie Y/N,” Jeno replies.

“Oh, do we have animal crackers?” asks Sanha politely, and you nod, taking his hand as you walk towards the kitchen, where a neatly packed bag sits on the counter where you left it when the four little monsters came by your apartment this morning. 

Jeongguk lets his body slump as he realises he has nowhere to run, no excuses to pull up, and he positions himself on all fours to get the police officer miniature and indulge in Jeno’s futuristic fantasies of a police officer murdering hospital patients. Honestly, sometimes you have to respect a child’s morbid creativity, even when it scares the living hell out of you.

(2)

“Y/N, did you move Jeno’s inhaler?”

“No, why?”

Jeongguk appears in the doorway to the kitchen, scratching the back of his neck out of a nervous, absent-minded habit. His eyes are glued to the four children in the living room.

“They’re running around a lot, I don’t want Jeno to lose his breath and have an attack,” Jeongguk explains, meanwhile you rummage around in your sister’s handy dandy travel bag and search for the tiny blue inhaler. Jeongguk braves looking away from them and instead over to you, “if it’s not in there, it’s fine, I’ll check the bathroom again.”

You hum, searching blindly. “Yeah, it’s not here, baby. Check the cabinet under the sink, I’m eighty nine percent sure that it’s in one of those plastic boxes.”

Jeongguk’s eyebrows push up in amusement: “Jeno’s life is counting on this eighty nine percent.”

“The more you question me, the less confident I get. Check the bathroom,” you reply, shoving a baby carrot into your mouth as you follow Jeongguk out of the kitchen, opting to watch the kids while he rummages around in hordes of bathroom mess. While Jeongguk hurries into the hallway to check the bathroom, you step out into the living room and pause comically.

The four kids seem perfectly happy, loud and obnoxious and covered in a thin layer of white feathers, bleeding from one of the pillows mangled on the floor. Without context, this looks like a murder scene, with crayons broken and split around the floor and the couch throw on the floor next to the Playmobil set, and you’re half praying on everybody’s behalf that those pillows arent the ones from the master bedroom, because you’re pretty sure you don’t have any spares laying around for later.

“Found it,” Jeongguk returns a few minutes later, holding the small inhaler in his hands. After taking a second out of the room, when he comes back he doesn’t quite know what to say. “The mess wasn’t my fault.”

You frown, your hands on your hips. “I know. Maybe you should put on a movie, keep them entertained for a bit so they don’t completely trash our house.”

Jeongguk chews the inside of his lip. “Is it cheating if we call over Seokjin to help? He’s always on kiddie pool duty, he’s better with kids than we are.”

“You’re so good with kids, shut up,” you say to him, gently smacking his arm. “They love you.”

So, he huffs. Stealing a kiss from you, he gently pushes you backwards and then steps across the room, expertly mindful of the landmines of lego on the floor as he grabs Jeno and moves him away from the coffee table, to sit on the couch next to his siblings while Jeongguk retreats to the movie box, filled with animated films that the kids go absolutely bonkers for. You hear the start of an argument over which Disney movie to watch first as you return to the kitchen, chopping up vegetables that, secretly, you know will make you the ultimate uncool Aunt.

(3)

“I hate carrots.”

“You do like carrots.”

A gag. “Vegetables! Yuck!”

With one hand, you rake through your hair, staring tiredly at Jeno and Jaemin as they fuss over the food on their plates. And it’s not even like you wanted to give them carrots! You’re just following the note left for you in the bag, with the instructions of an actual parent being your law. Jeongguk sits at the other end of the table, twirling his fork around his food as he watches, feeling increasingly guilty.

It’s hard being an Aunt, especially hard being the uncool Aunt. He knows it’s just a joke, just something the kids say because you’re looking out for them, and he frowns, looking around the table.

“I’m allergic to carrots,” Jeno says suddenly.

“Don’t lie,” you tell him, aeroplane feeding Yeji who seems to be the only baby present who appreciates your efforts. She laughs and squeals as the spoon of food comes towards her and that makes you smile, animated sound effects as she eats it.

Jeno pouts, “It’s true.”

“Your Mom told me to feed you this, don’t hate me,” you say to him, making your own pout which he, as a stubborn five year old, ignores. “Come on, eat all your food and you can have pudding afterwards. I’ll let you have two slices of cake instead of one.”

He feels tempted. “Can I leave the carrots?”

“No. Carrots will make you super strong,” you explain. “Uncle Jeongguk ate carrots when he was a kid and now he’s real strong, look!”

Jeno glances at Jeongguk, who smiles for effect and encouragement. “Auntie Y/N is right. I hated carrots too, but I wanted to be big and strong so I ate all my vegetables.”

A groan of sadness comes out of Jeno’s mouth. At this point, Jaemin is convinced, wolfing down his carrots that he actually doesn’t hate after-all, considering they’re gone in a matter of seconds. Sanha seems unbothered about the entire thing, quietly eating his food because he knows that he wants that additional slice of cake, even if Jeno is going to refuse it, he is not!

Before you can have a mental breakdown at the dinner table, Jeongguk leans over slightly and looks at Jeno with a gentle and wide-eyed expression, child-like, engaging. “Did you also know that all the good kids on Santa’s nice list eat vegetables?”

Mid-mumble, Jeno freezes, looking at Uncle Jeongguk. “Really?” Intonation, his voice is so high.

Jeongguk nods. “Mhm! Santa said that if you eat your veggies and say thank you to whoever made you the meal, he’ll bring you anything you want on Christmas Day. Don’t you wanna be on the good list?”

Jeno nods furiously. “Yep! Uncle Jeongguk, that’s so cool, you know Santa!”

Eh...If it works. Jeongguk doesn’t argue or disagree as Jeno quickly finishes his plate without protest, seemingly fine at the end considering he just said he was allergic. As he scoffs down the contents of his plate, you look over at Jeongguk and silently thank him, slumping as if suggesting that you were tired. He grins, knowing the feeling.

(4)

Splash.

“Careful, honey, don’t get the floor all wet.”

“Sorry, Auntie Y/N. It was the ducky’s fault!”

Bath time is a chore, surprisingly harder than it was when they were babies and needed extra attention in the water. Sanha sits solo in the bathtub, the sound of Jaemin and Jeno running around in the bedroom an ambience as you crouch by the tub and help Sanha get clean. Yeji is the only child clean and patient, so calm and cute and cuddly and ready to go to sleep the second her bathtime is over. Jeongguk groans somewhere in the apartment, keeping the twins entertained while Sanha finishes up.

“O-kay,” you say, after a few minutes of helping wash away some suspicious chocolate stains off his arms. Most likely super-cool-Uncle-Jeongguk gave them something extra after dessert, and honestly, that wouldn’t surprise you if it were true. “All done! Feel better?”

Sanha nods, letting the duck float away. “Yep. I’m cold.”

“Once you’re dry and changed, we can put on the heating and finish up watching Cars, does that sound okay?”

“That sounds fun, Auntie Y/N! You’re the bestest,” he grins, and you grin too, because honestly, you’re taking coolness points in gasps, and anything to prove you’re not some grouchy unfun Aunt is welcomed and encouraged. Sanha doesn’t make a fuss as he gets dried, shuddering for extra effect and happily snuggling into his duck onesie once everything is dry and ready for him to get changed.

Sanha is a human rocket. He hops into his onesie and races back into the living room, reaching his final destination of Uncle Jeongguk as a loud groan fills the house, likely due to the fact that Sanha has jumped on top of his Uncle, like he always does, just to get the reaction. You sniff, leaning to flush the toilet because apparently they haven’t quite mastered that one yet, and drain the bathtub. The floor sits wet, pooling like an extra tub or the floor of a shower and you sigh, grabbing an extra towel off the rack to soak up the bathwater, the low bubbling sound of the water disappearing briefly out-yelling the terrorsome three out in the living room.

“Need any help, baby?”

Behind you, Jeongguk appears in the doorway, not quite in and not quite out. He hovers, waiting patiently to see if he can find an excuse to stop being a couch for the three kids. You lean over the bathtub, taking out their small toys and setting them on the side with hopes that they will dry overnight.

“Nah, I’m okay,” you tell him, looking over your shoulder with a smile. Jeongguk stands there, having changed, in an oversized jumper and sweats. “What are they doing?”

“Fighting,” Jeongguk says. “I’d break it up, but I wanna see if they’ll learn their lesson once they get hurt.”

“That’s perfect. But fucked. Are we fucked up?”

Jeongguk shrugs. “Worked for me and my brother when we were younger. I turned out okay!”

You look at him for a moment with a bewildered look. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”

The bathtub makes a gurgle, the water gone and you crouch to pick up the bathmat, hanging it over the small radiator for it to dry faster. Jeongguk then takes several steps backwards as you meet him outside, his smile widening as you close the door and turn off the light, falling into his arms with a soft thud and sigh. His arms wrap around you sweetly, warm and tight, like home. Jeongguk likes weekends for the moments he gets to spend with you, but today, he’s barely seen you in his own home. Longing- Jeongguk tightens his arms around you and presses his lips to the crown of your head, gently swaying you from side to side like a waltz. He knows you feel the same way, the same kind of tired and wanting energy, as your arms lock around him tighter.

“Come on,” Jeongguk mutters, pouting slightly when you pull out of his embrace and glance up at him through your eyelashes. He exaggerates it, humming, and then leaning to press his lips to yours. Moments after he pulls away, he comes back in for another, and another, his hands molded behind your back. “Love you,” he adds in between one kiss, and you hum in reply. It’s enough.

There’s a pitter-patter of feet. “Ewwww! Auntie Y/N and Uncle Jeongguk are having sex!”

You pull away from Jeongguk with such speed that it might give you whiplash; Jeno stands looking slightly horrified in the hallway, near the door to the living room, proud of his rising of ews that follow from his siblings near the TV.

“Don’t say that! Where did you even learn that word?” you gasp, moving towards the five year old.

Jeno shrugs. “Heard it at Mommy’s birthday party. Uncle Taehyung said it.”

You sigh knowingly. “Should have known.”

“Please don’t go around saying that when your Mom and Dad come to get you,” Jeongguk adds in, looking flustered from behind you.

That wouldn’t be the most impressive thing to hear when you walk through the door to collect your kids.

(5)

The bathroom light switches off. Jeongguk closes the door and rubs his face, groaning out aches from his shoulders as he approaches the bed, shirtless, his toes curling into the carpet.

“I swear they weren’t that crazy last time we looked after them,” Jeongguk says, sinking onto the bed. “Have they always been like that? Am I the crazy one?”

“It’s this scary thing called growing up,” you reply, sitting back against your pillows with your phone in your hands, the screen lighting up with new messages from your sister. “Can’t believe you got them to go to sleep without any trouble. It’s giving me baby-fever…”

“I’m gonna - I’m gonna have to ask you to slow down,” replies Jeongguk, sounding winded.

“Everytime you hang out with them, it just proves to me how good you are with kids, and how, you know, someday you might be a Dad and- ugh, you’re gonna be great,” you sigh, followed by Jeongguk grunting with amusement and shuffling to lay right beside you, his nose on your arm. You set your phone down, turning to match together against him like a puzzle. “They’re not shy when it comes to picking favourites. God, they really hate me.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, “No, they don't. They love you- you’re so good with looking after them. If I was doing all this alone, there’s no doubt I’d probs forget to feed them at dinner time. I’d straight up order a pizza and forget that kids need certain foods to grow up.”

Laughter suffices as a reply, and that’s that for a little bit. In his head, Jeongguk wants to talk all about how great of a Mom you’ll be, how amazing it would be for him to watch you raise children, his children. He doesn’t say any of these things, because he’s one-hundred-percent certain that you know it all already, and that you’re just modest and insecure about it. So, Jeongguk hums and pulls you closer for a hug, smooching your lips when you’re close enough.

The door is closed. The four kids are sleeping, Yeji so deep in sleep that not even her brothers could wake her up if they screamed. Jeongguk knows this. You know this. So, he moves his hand from your back to your ass, feeling the curve, feeling the smile against his teeth.

“Stop, our niece and nephews are next door,” you warn him, quietly, mumbles against his mouth. Jeongguk smirks, gently nipping your bottom lip with his teeth and pushing his head into your neck.

“And it would suck to wake them up,” Jeongguk replies, worming his way into places hot and inviting. “So, keep it quiet, yeah?”

You huff, rolling to your back and parting your legs as Jeongguk slots in between. “I love when you get bossy on an evening,” you say to mock him and he laughs quietly.

“I love you,” he breathes, and you don’t get time to reply.

He knows, though.

(6)

“And they were good?”

Jeongguk and yourself share a glance.

“Golden,” you say.

Your sister stands in the kitchen, giving you both the stink eye while the three older kids race around the house, excited at the fact their cool parents are home three days later. Honestly, she knows you’re lying, because these are her kids and she knows them better than anybody.

Anyway, she shrugs. “They must always be good for you guys. You can babysit more often.”

Jeongguk tenses in his seat. He loves these kids but, holy fuck, the thought of looking after them again so soon makes him want to throw up. If there is one thing Jeongguk has learnt from looking after three wild rampaging children and one angelic princess baby- but, again, he has no favouritism!-, it’s that it is absolutely harder than it looks.

It’s not enough to put him off though.

When the house is emptied of tiny humans and is left cold and quiet and a little bit messy, Jeongguk stoops to pick up left behind piles of mess on the floor and he finds himself smiling. Now that he thinks about it, it was actually kind of fun. Being a Dad for the day. Then he thinks about being a Dad one day. His eyes find you across the room hauling the hoover out of the storage cupboard and his heart does somersaults.

(7)

[5:45pm] Mean Sibling #1: Tell me why Jeno is talking about how you and Jeongguk had sex [5:46pm] You: OMG THATS NOT TRUE [5:46pm] You: well, i mean… [5:46pm] You: not in front of them !!!! what kind of aunt do you think i am????? [5:49pm] Mean Sibling #1: How does he even know what sex means….how does he know that word [5:50pm] Mean Sibling #1: Hyo is laughing at me. what does my husband know that i don’t [5:52pm] You: that sounds like a you problem [5:54pm] Mean Sibling #1: ok well sorry for accusing you :P gotta give my FIVE YEAR OLD a talk….dear fucking god [5:59pm] Mean Sibling #1: wait a damn second wtf do you mean NOT IN FRONT OF THEM??? [6:00pm] Mean Sibling #1: Y/N ANSWER UR PHONE [6:01pm] Mean Sibling #1: Y/N [6:03pm] Mean Sibling #1: fucker

[moirai-au]

Timeline: Arc 2 - Outside, right after Crash

Warnings: blood, stabbing mention

Taglist: @immabethehero @bupine​ @tabbynerdicat @i-maybe-exist @its-ethan-bro @sandinthetardis @taikeero-lecoredier @idkwheresanti @thebluejaysworld @chainsthatbindthisrouletteofmine

*****

It was a pretty beautiful morning, all things considered. Clear skies with only a few funny-shaped clouds, following a starry night with only a few creeps to beat into the ground. Usual stuff.

Granted, his current predicament was an… unexpected development. Ending up in a total stranger’s house, bleeding all over his very comfy and expensive-looking couch, in his very expensive-looking living room, in his VERY big and expensive-looking house-

I mean shit, could it even be called a house? This place was gigantic! Like, Wayne Manor levels of classy. With a hint of creepy, what with all the covered mirrors. Seriously, what was up with those?

“I called for help. No, it’s not an ambulance or the police, I heard you just fine the first time.”

Ollie closed his mouth, the words dying on his tongue. He pouted at the taller man’s stern inflexion and let out a pained huff, but he stayed put. C’mon Ollie, don’t be a brat- the guy’s helping. Surprisingly.

On top of the sharp pain in his side and arm, and the dizziness from the blood loss, Ollie was majorly confused by the man’s… well, everything. First off, he wasn’t sure if he had been his eyes playing tricks on him, but he could’ve sworn the man’s face had been bare when he’d fallen into his garden. Then he’d blinked, and then it wasn’t. Now, the man before him -tall, very tall, and gangly as all hell- was sporting a curious, sleek black cat mask, and possibly the biggest fucking pair of glasses Oliver had ever seen someone wear in real life. Perfectly round, rimless and red-tinted for some reason, they prevented him from making out the color of the guy’s eyes.

His unimpressed, irritated glare could have been a little intimidating...if the guy wasn’t wearing a tacky hawaiian shirt with colorful birds on it. Ollie wasn’t sure what his deal was, but from his long, messy brown hair, unkept beard and questionable fashion sense, it all gave off the impression that Bird-lover here hadn’t stepped out of his house for a really long time.

Ollie had asked about the mask, but the man had just tensed and stayed silent. That had been Ollie’s cue to stop asking personal questions- which was, y’know, fair, as he’d literally just interrupted his morning stroll by crashing through his ceiling, offering no explanation as to why that had happened.

Come to think of it… yeah, the guy had every reason and then some to call the cops. But he hadn’t. Not yet at least. So really, Ollie was doing great so far.

The moment the young dyed-haired man had made eye contact with the stranger after his fall, he’d frantically asked, if not begged him not to call anyone. Well… that was actually the second thing he’d said, the first being asking the guy to please stop screaming at me, I don’t even understand- is that french?

He’d gotten away with a lot of things, for a very long time. He wasn’t about to get busted for one little mistake. It was just a stab wound! He’d survived those before. And while yes , he might’ve gotten a bit lost on his way back, taking a few wrong turns whenever the pain in his side made his vision go white and his grip on his grappling hook loosen, and then before he knew it the sun was rising and he had no idea where he was anymore and then he misfired and then became acquainted with the glass ceiling of a greenhouse...

“-hear me? Hello? Hey, ça va ?”

Oliver blinked- Mask-guy was kneeling on the carpet next to the couch and snapping his fingers in front of Ollie’s face, now looking more panicked than annoyed. Aw, beans. He’d lost his trail of thought. Also, he was pretty sure he’d been sitting before. When had he laid down? Ugh… his side was pulsing. And his head was all foggy.

“You blacked out,” Kitty Carnaval said, and that’s when Ollie noticed his palms were covered in red. “I stopped the bleeding, but it still needs to be cleaned. Probably stitched.”

The vigilante looked down at himself- his hoodie was gone, his shirt creeping up his chest to uncover his abdomen. A thick patch of gauze had been applied against his wound, tight wrappings around his middle keeping it secure.

Huh. It looked pretty decent- better that what he would’ve managed on his own. His chest felt a bit constricted, he’d probably breathe a little easier if he took his binder off… but he wasn’t too excited at the prospect of doing that in front of a total stranger. So he took it in stride. “Wh… where’s my…”

The man pointed to a clear plastic bag next to the coffee table a few feet from the couch- his trusty red hoodie was visibly bundled inside. Still very much soaked with blood and with one more stabby-hole than how he liked it. But hey- that’s why he wore red. And he could fix the tear. It’d be fine… probably. “Um. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Really, don’t ,” the stranger grumbled, getting up and walking out of the room. Ollie craned his neck, curious, but quickly settled back down when quiet splashing sounds assured him that the man was just washing his hands.

Okay. Things are fine. Everything’s hunky-dory. “So uh. You been to France?” he said lightly in an attempt at smalltalk, remembering the words -probably swears given the context- the man had thrown at him earlier.

“Born there.” the other’s even voice responded curtly over the water-y sounds.

The vigilante let out an excited oh . “...Can youuuu say something else in french?”

“No. Help’s coming any minute to really assess the damage, so please don’t move. And talk less.”

Sheesh. Well, at least that had to mean that this mysterious helper was a doctor, or at least something similar.

“Who’d that be? Friend of yours?”

“Something like that. He won’t ask… too many questions.”

So a doctor-ish person with questionable ethics. This was getting weirder and weirder… but also, really exciting. “Cool beans.” he sighed, trying to exhale the tension out of his body as the sound of running water soothed him somewhat.

After another minute, Gatito re-appeared from the other room, with spotless hands and wet sleeves. “Do you have a way to get home safely?”

Oliver blinked. He hadn’t even thought about that- he usually dragged himself home after a scuffle, but that probably wasn’t smart given the pain still flaring in his side. “Uh, yeah. I can call my roommate so she can pick me up.”

Oh dio, Nana was going to kick his ass into the sun for pulling that stunt. He felt bad for putting her through that, but he knew she’d kick his ass even harder if he hid this from her.

“Good. We’ll patch you up properly, and if you don’t need further assistance, you’ll leave.”

Mh. He seemed real eager to see him go… even for someone having to deal with an unwanted guest. He was jittery, biting on his nails and fiddling with strands of his hair, like he was getting more nervous every minute Oliver spent on his property.

Weird. Maybe he was just a misanthrope? That would certainly explain the grumpy hermit vibes.

Still didn’t explain the mask though… “Fine, fine, promise I’ll get out of your hair soon. Sorry for bleeding out on your couch, by the way.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can replace it.”

Ah. That easy, huh? How loaded was that guy? “Okay then, Mr Wayne ,“ the young man chuckled then immediately winced- ow, ow, right, stab wound, okay. He looked back up at the other, who only blinked in apparent confusion.

“That’s… not my name?”

“You sure? The bigass manor, the mask, all the mystery ,” he wiggled his fingers around, “You kinda fit the part.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ollie rolled his eyes. “Fiiine, keep your secrets then. Can you at least tell me your name? Feels weird calling you like, ‘mask man’ and ‘cat boy’ in my head.”

The stranger went silent once again, a conflicted expression on his face. Like he was being forced to choose between eating a particularly sour lemon, and pouring the juice of said lemon into his eyes. Almost a full minute passed before he opened his mouth again.

“...Mars.” he finally offered, averting his gaze. “If you really have to know.”

Mars expected confusion. Skepticism. Maybe even mocking laughter. But instead, the young spitfire flashed him a million-watt smile. “That’s an awesome name. I’m Ollie.”

Then there was a knock on the door.

[buggaberry]

my miraculous fic recs

These are a bunch of fics that I personally really love and highly recommend giving a read! Most of these are probably gonna end up being angsty, I’ll try my best to put some fluffy ones too, but I will put potential trigger warnings and the sort as needed. Some of them are gonna be old, others new, but I think this’ll be fun in case you’re looking for something to read!!

                ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

whose woods these are (I think I know.) by Reiaji

(Rated T)

Pairings: Ladrien

Cinderella AU, Adrien winds up as a servant in his own home after his mother passes away, he meets a masked huntress in the woods and finds happiness for the first time in a long while. This is such a beautifully written piece, the writing is phenomenal, and the lore is everything. If you haven’t read this already I highly suggest reading this! (Incomplete) //Implied/Referenced Child Abuse//

Chasing the C/h/atwalk. by Inkkerfuffle ( @runningoutofink )

(Rated T)

Pairings: Adrienette

Project Runway AU anyone? Marinette competes in the show and she happens to come across a certain familiar model’s face~ I absolutely adore this fic, it’s the cutest thing ever. (Complete)

Breathe by artisticFlutter

(Rated T)

Pairings: Lovesquare

“While assisting the public during an akuma attack as Chat Noir, Adrien is unknowingly exposed to a deadly disease making one final stand in Paris. He struggles to stay above it, to keep fighting, but he finds it harder to breathe every day.”

This fic is supposed to be a crossover fic with the Trauma Series, which I’m not familiar with, but I love this so much. It absolutely hurts, but it’s written so well and I go back for this one a lot. (Complete) // Graphic Depictions of Illness // Blood // Surgery //

Lucky Us by PrincessKitty1 ( @geek-fashionista )

(Rated T)

Pairings: Lovesquare

They’re aged up in this AU! Marinette finds her life not going quite as planned, she’s stuck working at her parent’s bakery. Ladybug and Chat Noir are aliases for their emails and they’re pen-pals. Adrien starts coming to the bakery after hours. Slow burning ensues. This fic is  s o f t , it owns my heart and it’s asdfhk everything. (Complete)

Ruffled by imthepunchlord ( @imthepunchlord )

(Rated G)

Pairings: Adrienette

This is a Harry Potter AU! Although it doesn’t have any relation to the plot of Harry Potter, it takes place in the same universe. They attend the French wizarding school Beauxbatons, Adrien struggles to fit into the pureblood society because he’s secretly half human and half Veela, a witch catches his eye and hehe slow burn. (Complete)

Pray For the Children You Lost Along the Way by LunarDaydreams

(Rated M)

Pairings: Lovesquare

Silent Hill AU, I’ve never played the game before, nor do I know any of its context, but this fic?? Is so good?? Ladybug, Chat Noir, and Hawkmoth end up stranded in a strange town, Agreste family drama, creepy monsters in the fog, and the town seemingly transfixed on hurting Chat Noir. Ladybug and Chat Noir try their best to stay together and escape. Lots of hurt/comfort. If you’re into horror, this one’s for you. (Incomplete) // Graphic Depictions of Violence // Trauma // Psychological Horror // Horror // Minor Character Death // Temporary Character Death // Silent Hill-Typical Warnings // References to Suicide and Depression //

Phantasmagoria and Late to the Jabberwocky by Mikauzoran                       ( @mikauzoran )

(Rated T)

Pairings: Lukadrien / Lukadrienette

These are both a part of her Springtime in Wonderland series and it’s so wonderful. The writing is absolutely amazing, Phantasmagoria takes place on the anniversary of Adrien’s mother’s disappearance, he rebels and goes to the bar where he runs into Luka playing with his band. They grow closer together, and lots of flirting ensues. Late to the Jabberwocky takes place after the events of Phantasmagoria so I can’t say much about it without spoiling the other so ur just gonna have to go read it :P (Incomplete) // Mentions of Alcohol // References to Depression // Family Issues //

Out of the Rain by ominousunflower ( @ominousunflower​ )

(Rated T)

Pairings: Lukadrien

This one gives me big owies, it hurts like no tomorrow, but I’m hooked on this. This made me tear up because it just hurts that much. Ladybug is killed in battle against Hawkmoth, this deals with the aftermath, Adrien struggles to cope with it. He has to give up being Chat Noir, and his friends try to help him keep it together. Things get worse when he finds himself with a new responsibility he’s not sure he can handle. The author puts warnings at the beginning of each chapter, because it’s pretty heavy. But this really is one of my favorite fics right now. (Incomplete) // Major Character Death // Grieving // Loss // Isolation // Depression // Eating Disorder // Panic Attacks // Thoughts about Dying // Emotional Self-Harm // Mentions of Vomiting //

A Werecat in London by ThornQueen ( @i-am-thornqueen ​ )

(Rated M)

Pairings: Lovesquare

I am a sucker for werewolf -or in this case, werecat- AUs. They’re aged up, Chat Noir has to deal with the consequences of an akuma while on a business trip in London. This is an older fic and it hasn’t been updated in a while, but what’s there is absolutely worth reading. The writing is amazing. (Incomplete) // Mentions of Nudity // Discussions of Sex (not explicitly) //

Back to Us by DarkReyna16 ( @insanitysscribblings ​ )

(Rated M)

Pairings: Lovesquare

Hawkmoth is defeated, but it costs Ladybug and Chat Noir’s friendship. They go their separate ways only to meet up again seven years later, the citizens of Paris are lashing out, and tensions are as high as ever. What could go wrong? This is like enemies to lovers, except they were friends before they were enemies, and it is the ultimate slow burn. (Complete) // Minor Character Death //

Truth and Consequences by siderealSandman( @siderealscribblings ​)

(Rated M)

Pairings: Lovesquare, Lukagami, Nino/Alya/Chloé, Mentions of Lukanette and Adrigami

Marinette discovers Hawkmoth’s identity and she makes a deal with him. Chaos ensues. This really dives into the shows dynamics and almost dissects the lovesquare. It makes u wanna cry and go whYY my poor heart, but you have to keep reading because you wanna know what happens next. (Incomplete) // Major Character Death //

You Don’t Know Me by Ferisae ( @ferisae ​ )

(Rated T)

Pairings: Lovesquare

This was like my first favorite fanfic, it’s written so amazingly, and it’s an older one as well that hasn’t been updated but it owns my heARt. Ladybug suffers from a near-fatal accident and Adrien struggles to keep it together. He has to try and protect Paris while falling apart emotionally and physically. (Incomplete) // Hospitals // Blood // Illness //

Cry of the Siren by SKayLanphear ( @skaylanphear )

(Rated M)

Pairings: Lovesquare, DJWifi

This is so pretty agh, I daydream about this fic. Marinette is a pirate captain, Adrien is a mermaid and finds himself caught with arranged marriage, he leaves his home and gets stranded on human shores after being injured. I love this so much, I love pirates and mermaids, and the society that was built is so amazing and ga h. (Incomplete) // Nudity // Mental Health Issues //

Love Has No Barriers by Scribbling Mama ( @scribblingmama )

(Rated T)

Pairings: Adrienette

Adrien suffers from a rare immunodeficiency disorder which leaves him stuck behind plastic and isolated from the outside world. He’s childhood friends with Marinette, and he wants nothing more than to leave his bubble and confess his feelings for her. This fic was so sad, but so soft, I adore this to bits. (Complete) // Illness // Hospitals // Surgery //

The Two of Us by AnabielVriskaMars

(Rated T)

Pairings: Adrienette

Because this list needs more fluff! They’re in college and Marinette is struggling financially, Adrien offers to marry her until she’s stable again. Totally not romantic or anything… unless??? (Complete)

There’s definitely more, but for now these are all the ones I can name that I really really love. Happy reading!! ♡

[lenademonn]

All This Time - 2

*Summary: Elena used to be closed off and composed, always in control of her feelings and actions. She knew how to survive long before world ended and didn’t need anyone to keep her alive. Because attachments are liability, make you weak especially in this new world where dead are walking and living are more dangerous than before.

A slow burn Daryl Dixon x OC; from season 1 forward, ongoing. Angst, Violence, strong language, sarcastic humour and more.

Chapter 2

Day 44

I was having a dream. I knew that part of my psychological training was to recognize reality from the fantasy. And that was definitely the latter, because there was no way in hell that his strong hands were tracing my calves, his calloused fingers making me shiver, and that his mouth was pressed to my core, licking and sucking giving me the endless pleasure spreading from toes to the top of her head. I moved my hips up, bringing myself closer to his face, which earned me a low growl from his throat's depths.

"Elena," his voice did wonder to me, but I also realized that it came out near my ear, so way closer then it should be. "C'mon women, wake up!"

I opened my eyes and sat up straight, knife in hand, quickly pressed against someone's throat. "Whoa, easy, it's just me!" I blinked rapidly and saw familiar blue eyes in front of me, hand grasping my wrist, trying to ease the knife's pressure off himself. He was crouched next to my sleeping bag, ready for the day, tents fold open, allowing the flow of the fresh air. I pulled away and put my hand over my heart.

"Shit Daryl, this isn't how you wake up people, at least not me! I could fucking kill you!" My voice was still groggy from the sleep, and my mind was spinning from remnants of the dream he interrupted. Seeing him here in my tent just seconds after his image - 'Stop it silly!'

"Ya said to wake ya up when I'm goin' for a hunt. " I closed my eyes, trying to even out my breathing.

"Yeah, give me a ten, and I'll be there." He grunted and gave me one last glance before crouching out of the tent.

It was more than a month since we set up our camp at the quarry and my revelations. We were hunting and sending Glenn to gather necessary supplies, we had laundry and cooking duties and perimeter checks. It was usually myself and Dixon brothers in the woods looking for a game for the whole group. Surprisingly, the older brother wasn't that horrible after closer interactions. Of course, he still called me 'Blondie' and 'Sweetcheeks' or 'Dollface' and looked at my chest every opportunity he could get, but after what I told them about myself, he seemed to respect me a little bit more. Maybe because he was in the military once or perhaps because he has morals even if they are a bit twisted sometimes.

Today Merle was going on a run with Glenn, though, so it was just younger Dixon and me. We planned to make it an overnight trip and hunt for something more than only squirrels or birds. Andrea and Amy offered to take a boat they found by the lake and try to catch some fish, so hopefully, we will have enough food to last us for a few days by tomorrow afternoon. If Glenn will grab all the items from the list I gave him, I would smoke some of the meat and make a nice jerky. About the only thing, I didn't fuck up in the kitchen department.

I quickly changed my clothes, including wet panties, and I smiled, remembering a vivid dream from just a few moments ago. It's only because I spend so much time with him recently and because I didn't have sex for months. No need to read into it. Right?

Once dressed, I put on my reigns and stashed throwing knives inside holders, the gun secured on my waist belt. I checked my quiver and counted the arrows, in the backpack I put all the necessary items for an overnight hunting trip and rolled an extra sleeping bag to attach it to the top of the pack.

"How much longer woman?" Daryl's voice startled me, so I quickly left the tent, spotting him next to the entrance.

"Jeez I'm coming, let me just fix my hair" He gave me a funny look "You don't want me to get grabbed, do you?" It came out harsher then I intended, but I just ignored it and pulled my hair down and run my fingers through it. Blonde curls spread all the way to the small of my back, I could fix it before I came out of the tent, but after my dream, I felt the need to show them to Daryl.

Since that day in the woods, when I was gathering things to make my bow, I wanted to make an impression on him and see how much I can push him, and my hair was the thing I liked about myself the most, well just after boobs. I quickly pulled it into a simple plaid and then twisted it, on the top of my head, securing everything with a hair tie. I could feel man's eyes on me through all that process, but when I finally looked at Daryl, he turned around and started walking towards the woods.

*

We were walking for most of the day, caught a few squirrels and three perky rabbits when we finally decided to set a camp next to a stream we found. Now when I say we caught that game, I mean mainly Daryl. I am good with my homemade bow, but shooting unmoving targets during training isn't exactly this same as using it on animals. One of the rabbits was mine, but that was an accident, but Daryl doesn't need to know that.

We were tracking a deer for the past two hours, but it turned unsuccessful, and we could always pick up its trail tomorrow. Daryl was setting the perimeter with a string and some old cans so we would be notified of any movements during the night. I started skinning the animals putting the guts and useless parts into the plastic bin bag we brought with us.

"I'll run the bag out, circle around, and take the meat to the creek," I told Daryl, and after receiving a nod, I took off quickly and run for about fifteen minutes in the opposite direction of the tracks we saw today. If there is any deer here, the last thing we want is for the dead to eat it. I dropped the bag, dug a shallow hole in the ground, and ditched inside, covering it back up with dirt and leaves, then I circled back towards our night camp, whistled softly while passing why so Daryl would know it's just me and jogged to the water.

I started washing the meat and cut it into the strips, made sure that I cleaned it properly of any spare blood, and put it down on a clean rug on a boulder next to me to cool down. That's the problem with overnight trips, we had to make sure that whatever we caught won't go bad.

We actually worked well together, Daryl was quiet, but it wasn't uncomfortable unless I said something stupid, usually with a sexual context, which made him blush and tell me to shut up. Now that I was thinking about it, I wasn't that different from Merle, when it came to his younger brother, and that thought gave me goosebumps. I scooped the meat and went back towards the camp, bent over the lines to not make any unnecessary noise, and sat down next to a small fire Daryl started when I was gone.

"Pass me my bag, please," I asked him, and he reached towards it and took few steps, so he was next to me, sitting down next to me on the ground to share the work. I took my clean rug from the backpack and set it down on the rock in front of us, and then I passed Daryl a tub of salt. We worked quickly and quietly till everything was done, took a few pieces, and started cooking them while the rest was put into the zip bags and then to into my pack.

"So, how did you learn to hunt like that and using this crossbow?" I asked him and looked in his direction. He was sitting next to me, but with enough space between, and he was turning the meat around. His blue eyes met my grey ones, and his face had a blank expression. I knew that he didn't let people in, but I hoped that the question was innocent enough for him to answer.

"My old man and uncle." He started slowly turning his gaze toward the fire. "Money was tight, and my da usually drank it away, so Merle and I had to learn how to get our own food." Ok, so maybe that question wasn't as safe as I thought. I knew that the last thing he was looking for was pitty over a little boy who grew up in a though home. So I settled for an answer, which hopefully would release the tension.

"Well, sure as hell, it's handy right now. No matter the reasons, I'm glad you learned. I couldn't ask for a better hunting partner" He looked at me again with a slight frown. "'Cause, you know, Merle talks way too much." That finally made him smile. Alright, that wasn't a smile, small side smirk, but I knew I couldn't ask for more, not from him, not yet. That didn't mean I will stop trying.

"What about ya? Were ya really a fed?"

"Really?" I looked at him and slapped his arm. "We don't like that term, just for the future. Yeah, I was. Behavioral Analysis Unit to be precise."

"And what's that?" He side glanced at me, unsure what kind of job I actually did. My nose crinkled as I was thinking of explaining what I did in life before all this shit without sounding like I was bragging.

"Well, basically we were catching criminals, mainly serial killers, based on their behavior. You analyze how the victim was killed and left what was done to them, where was the body left. We were profilers." I was looking blankly in front of me now, thinking about days on the job and all the evil people I've met and spoken to. How many close calls I had with death and yet nothing compared to the nightmare we're living in now.

"Not the most useful skill in zombie apocalypse though. I cannot just talk my way out with walkers by telling them how watching their moma kill herself made them what they are now, right?" I looked at him with a serious face, even if my words were laced with sarcasm.

"Whatever lay down, I'll take the first watch." He stood up abruptly to check the perimeter, and I was looking at him, my gaze following his actions.

"Ok, but wake me up in few hours so we can swap you need your sleep as well, Dixon." It was still early, but I knew we'll be waking up before the first light, plus all this walking around in the woods was tiring, but something didn't sit well with me. Daryl finished our conversation abruptly, even though he seemed interested in my story before.

What did I actually know about younger Dixon? Not a lot, most time we spend together, we were quiet and shared only a few stories before coming back to camp, most of our talks focusing on subjects of hunting or Merle talking his mouth off about nothing in particular. The rest of the information I had was just observation and some comments from Merle, and I didn't know how much to believe in his words.

Alright, so Daryl is in his mid-thirties and lived in Georgia his whole life, most of it with Merle, grabbing some odd jobs before they moved on. I suspected all that moving around was because older Dixon was doing drugs and owed money to many people or was trying to avoid jail time.

But that doesn't explain Daryl's social awkwardness and how guarded he behaves. He definitely is an introvert and doesn't like to be touched even when his brother puts an arm on him, I noticed Daryl goes still and tense. That suggests some sort of abuse, but not from Merle, no, he wouldn't be able to look at him like he does. Daryl actually looks up to his big brother.

I let a low growl of frustration. This new world makes me go crazy; I could separate myself from any personal emotions before all of this, but now we had people to look after, people to protect, and as much as it was flattering, I wasn't used to someone depend on her in that way. I started to care for those people, and my weird fascination with Daryl Dixon was undoubtedly unhealthy. I shouldn't be so invested in trying to get to know him. And for sure, I shouldn't give a damn if I hurt his feelings or stirred something from his past.

"Ya thinkin' so loud, that ya'll attract all the geeks from this woods." His low voice startled me, and I sat up in my makeshift bed. Daryl was sitting across from me, on the other side of our little campsite, cleaning his crossbow, eyes not leaving the weapon, but I could tell that he was alert, ready for anything to make a move in the dark. When I didn't reply straight away, he quickly glanced in my direction, one brow risen in a silent question. I let a small sigh escape my lips as I run my hand over my face.

"What I said before." The words I spoke were quiet and soft, eyes locked on him, watching for any body language changes. "I know that we don't tell each other a lot, but I'd like to think that you don't mind my company. The last few hunting trips were pleasant, and you didn't call me stupid in like a week, so that's progress."

I watched his lips twitch a little making me form my own small smile on my full lips. "But that last comment, about how I'd sometimes talk to suspects..." I stopped when Daryl stiffened, and a muscle on his face twitched while he clenched his jaw. It was very subtle, he was good, very good at hiding his emotions. But I was very good at what I was doing before the world went to shit, so I noticed it even in the dark of the night.

"There, that was this same reaction you have now. Now I don't want to pry... "

"Then don't" He interrupted me, his voice harsh, hands grabbing his weapon just a little bit harder than necessary. I looked down at my hands, thinking on how to play it out. Talking to Daryl was like a long and complicated chess game, one silly move, and checkmate.

"Alright, I just wanted you to know that I didn't mean anything by it." With that, I laid back down, turning on my side, so I was facing away from him, giving a man some sort of privacy.

Next Chapter

[aroworlds]

Fiction: The Pride Conspiracy, Part Two

December isn't the best time of year for a trans aromantic like Rowan Ross, although—unlike his relatives—his co-workers probably won't give him gift cards to women's clothing shops. How does he explain to cis people that while golf balls don't trigger his dysphoria, he wants to be seen as more than a masculine stereotype? Nonetheless, he thinks he has this teeth-gritted endurance thing figured out: cissexism means he needn't fear his relatives asking him about dating, and he has the perfect idea for Melanie in the office gift exchange. He can survive gifts and kin, right? Isn't playing along with expectation better than enduring unexpected consequences?

Rowan, however, isn't the only aromantic in the office planning to surprise a co-worker.

To survive the onslaught of ribbon and cellophane, Rowan's going to have to get comfortable with embracing the unknown.

Contains: A trans allo-frayro trying to grit his teeth through the holidays, scheming aro co-workers, a whole lot of cross-stitch, another moment of aromantic discovery, and many, many mugs.

Content Advisory: A story that focuses on some of the ways Western gift-giving culture enables cissexism and a rigid gender binary, taking place in the context of commercialised, secular-but-with-very-Christian-underpinnings Christmas. Please expect many references to said holiday in an office where Damien hasn't figured out how to run a gift exchange without subjecting everyone to Santa, along with characters who have work to do in recognising that not everybody celebrates Christmas.

There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual" and a passing reference to allo-aro antagonism, but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with and attitudes towards romance and romantic attraction as a frayromantic. Please also expect casual references to amatonormativity and other shapes of cissexism.

This section contains multiple depictions of platonic physical intimacy.

Length: 4, 789 words (part two of two).

I’ll have a pride coat! And nobody will have the least idea what it means!

On the last working day of the year, Rowan staggers into the office holding a plate of homemade shortbread—the top layer of plastic wrap bearing the Sharpie-written words “NOT FOR HOUSEMATES BUY YOUR OWN FUCKING BISCUITS”, his mood sour. On the one hand, he’s free until January (although he’ll prefer that circumstance more should this be a paid break). On the other hand, Christmas and its family awfulness tag-team with the heat to curse him with mind-racing, restless 4 AM wakefulness.

He chose right. Didn’t he?

In six days, he’ll have survived the family dinner and his housemates will be with their people or travelling for the holiday. He can bag up his presents for their customary donating, buy something online and spend the day baking food he doesn’t have to share or hide.

Christmas will be an exercise in endurance, but it’s a known terrible. Better to suffer one day of hell and leave than to poke the hydra in each of its eyes and allow it, enraged, to hunt him across the earth. Right?

“Rowan!” Melanie greets him at the door, today wearing a silky blouse with a poinsettia print, a pendant shaped like a miniature tree bauble, and stocking-shaped earrings of the heavy, dangly kind. A Santa hat trimmed with silver sequins and a large golden bell sits atop her short hair. “Merry Christmas!”

“Uh … back at you?”

“You didn’t wear anything Christmassy!” Melanie flutters her hands at him: she painted her glossy crimson nails with white and green stripes like the fancier sort of candy cane. “Can’t you get anything in your size?”

“No...” Rowan glances at his usual outfit: dress shoes, jeans black enough to resemble slacks on forgot-to-do-laundry days, navy shirt.  

Couldn’t he have worn his cherry-red Docs?  

Her suggestion gives him a convenient out, but isn’t he trying to be honest about his feelings? “I didn’t look. Christmas … isn’t that exciting when you’re enduring family.” He barks a laugh, hoping Melanie understands. “At least being trans, nobody asks me if I’m dating anyone or when I’m going to bring someone home to meet the family, because they don’t want to think about trans people in a relationship.” He steps sideways, hoping to navigate around her, put his plate down and move the conversation towards something less fraught. “I made shortbread. Do you like shortbread?”

He stiffens, trying not to panic, when Melanie envelops him in a bear hug, smushing Rowan’s chest and one arm against her necklace. “You spend Christmas with your family?”

“Don’t most people who celebrate it?” He shuffles out of her embrace to slide his cling-filmed plate onto Shelby’s desk beside a plastic container of pizza scrolls. He slips the ingredients card from his jeans pocket, straightens the creases and rests it by the plate. “Uh … is cling-film better or worse for the environment than biscuits in a freezer bag? I had a set of clip-seal containers, but my housemates left me two condiment-sized ones in the cupboard. I could use a bit of plastic or defrost frozen stir fry, except I didn’t know what I’d put that in if I used the stir fry container for the shortbread...”

Rowan realises he’s rambling and presses his lips together before he rants on how his containers must be growing five types of mould in the bottom of Matt’s backpack.

“Happy Holidays, everyone!” Shelby, both arms burdened by plastic cake containers, enters wearing a red T-shirt with the legend “All I Want for Christmas Is a Unicorn”, a glittery ribbon tied around the end of her braid. Only twice before has he seen her without a blazer. “Mel! Your earrings! Millers?”

Rowan swallows a laugh and, freed from awkwardness, heads for the relative comfort of his desk.

A party day, he soon realises, possesses a distressing lack of work. He acquires plates and spoons from the kitchenette, he works on a few photos from last week, he sorts his emails. He notices Melanie pulling Damien aside to talk about something that requires the waving of candy-cane fingernails, but, before he can start to wonder, the volunteer ropes him into a conversation about a loving family with unusual pavlova-eating habits. Shelby saves him from that oddity only to tell the story of her family’s chipping in to get her granddaughter a four-hundred-dollar dollhouse. “My parents wouldn’t have spent that much on a toy! How can anyone charge four hundred dollars for plastic?”

That seems like a good time to head over to the food table.

Shelby does make a good chocolate cake.

“Rowan.” Damien heads towards him, his approach signalled by a trailing, bell-ringing Melanie. “A minute?”

Nothing good has ever been heralded by this question. Nothing.

Rowan nods and follows them over to the whiteboard, standing in front of the List.

“Do you,” Damien says, at least doing the decent thing of asking straight out, “need somewhere to go for Christmas?”

Oh, god. What provoked this horror? Melanie?

Why...?

“We’d non-romantically love to have you.” Melanie’s smile beams as bright as her nails—her lips a close match for their glossy crimson basecoat. “Me and my daughter and her partner, I mean—not me and Damien together. It won’t be anything fancy, but you’re welcome to come.”

“My wife said my telling her about being recipro makes so much sense, and she’d like to ask questions of someone who actually knows things.” Damien nods, his holiday cheer demonstrated in the absence of a tie, rolled-up shirtsleeves and reflectively-shiny shoes. “And I make beer batter fritters.”

Never has Rowan heard Damien speak in aromantic-identity terms with that much casual fluidity, and he would smile but for two co-workers waiting, expectantly, for his answer.

How does he express appreciation for their kindness while explaining that he can’t not go home for Christmas?

A few moments pass before Rowan’s lips and tongue produce sounds that aren’t “I”, “uh” and “I … uh”. “Thanks? But … well, I’d be fine being alone on Christmas and I'm not doing that because … that’d be bad, so... And, you know, family? And I want to see my dog? So ... thanks, but...”

“But you’re one of us,” Melanie says with unusual solemnity, resting a hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “Just like Damien’s now one of—wait, we need to get you a mug! Why didn’t we get Damien a mug?”

“Well, actually...” Rowan, thanking the Aro Gods for Melanie’s willingness to head down any conversational tangent, darts towards his desk and satchel, the latter housing a heavy tissue-wrapped box. Pinkish-red, of course. “Here. Have a mug.”

“Oh! You should have told me!” Melanie’s lips tremble as she and Damien follow him back across the room. “I would have gotten a mug with you!”

Rowan rests the box on his lap, startled. Why didn’t he think to tell Melanie that he bought Damien a mug? (How else does one welcome another into aromantic kinship?) Why didn’t he wait until Damien was busy and order a mug with Melanie, instead of buying one on his phone on the train home from work?

Rowan owns skill in list-making, cross-stitch, baking, fixing other people’s photos and designing his own leaflets. He’s quietly proud of the many arts in which he dabbles with varying degrees of success. He’s mastered, too, survival on the fringes of other people’s lives, survival in a world where few are worth trusting. That ability though, makes him a man too comfortable in isolation. It makes him, in ways that have nothing to do with allosexual frayromanticism beyond his living in an aromantic-antagonistic world, a man who doesn’t know how to welcome other people into the house behind his five-metre fence.

He keeps everyone at arm’s length, even when—perhaps especially when—he plies his crafts for their benefit.

Does everyone experience acute flashes of insight at inconvenient times, the irrevocable sense that their personhood is one bewildering state of immeasurably fucked up?

“I’m sorry. Really.” He passes the mug to Damien, looking at Melanie. “I’m used to doing things on my own. I should have thought, but I didn’t.”

“We do realise that,” Damien says, tearing both wrapping paper and the box lid in a sharp tug. “You got the green-stripe one—oh, wait, it’s got both?” His hands render the mug’s size almost laughable, but Rowan couldn’t find soup-sized variants from a store willing to custom print aromantic flags on crockery. “Mel, there’s both. The recipromantic-only one and the shared one. Thank you!”

Is Rowan imagining that hint of passive-aggression? “You realise...?”

“That you’re independent, that’d you’d rather suffer alone than risk asking for help, even when it causes problems for you. That you’re only comfortable with people when you’re in a position of knowledge or authority. We learnt early on that you work best when we get out of your way.” Damien sets the mug on the desk with a soft clink. “I’m not completely useless in my job, so try harder to stop rolling your eyes over my photos.”

“They’re terrible,” Melanie says, squeezing Rowan’s forearm—apparently forgiven. “You know that, right?”

“The next person to say they can do better has to prove it—”

“My dog photos prove it!”

“At an event! Not in your backyard!”

For a reason likely tied up in internalised ableism, Rowan thought anxiety his designated, annoyance-causing personality failing. His tendency to overreact, freak out, let things get to him; his tendency to shaking hands and rambling incoherence. He didn’t consider that, in the company of people more inclined to decency and less inclined to avoid criticism on deadnaming and cissexism by casting him as the problem, they may find something else frustrating or difficult.

“Is this...” Rowan halts, thinking better of it, before he says the words “being fired just before Christmas”. Even he doubts Damien capable of inviting someone to join him for the holiday only to retaliate with a firing on Rowan’s refusal, although logic doesn’t still his hands. What’s the good of logic if my anxiety still ignores it? “What is this?”

Damien shrugs, tapping a finger against his new mug. “Yearly performance evaluation, maybe? Shame that I’ll have to write it down. I’d rather just call this sort—”

“What’d you say on mine?” Melanie blurts, clapping her hands.

Damien raises both eyebrows. “As if I’d answer that sober!” He shakes his head; Melanie trills her laughter. “We realise that there’s reasons, Rowan. It isn’t a real problem for us, but it may be one for you. If you find yourself in the company of a therapist at some point, consider mentioning it?”

Reining in Melanie wasn’t the reason Damien asked her to work with Rowan, he realises in yet another dizzying, revelatory moment, but that isn’t the cause of Rowan’s spluttering. “If? You think it’s only if? I’d have more aro shit on my desk if I weren’t paying a psychiatrist and a psychologist!” He sighs and nods. “January. I see them January.”

“I don’t like to assume.” Damien shrugs again; Rowan guesses it his attempt at conveying casualness. “Given that this isn’t quite the … er, situation for this conversation, I should—”

“I’m fine,” Rowan says, thinking Melanie’s heedless interrupting a contagious quality. “Really. It’s good. Like actually...” He doesn’t know how to voice this feeling that, for the first time in his life, someone has voiced a critique that doesn’t feel like he’s being disdained or unravelled. “Melanie … again, I’m sorry.” He thinks the time right for another distraction and grabs the second parcel from his bag—tissue paper tied with strands of aro-coloured embroidery floss. “Here. I’ve been working on this. I got your name.”

Melanie lunges for the parcel, struggling to untie the knot with her long fingernails until Shelby—was she close by?—hands over a pair of scissors. Blades click shut; Melanie pulls away the paper.

Twenty square embroidered patches in the purples and greens of many aro-ace and aromantic pride flags cascade from Melanie’s hands onto the worn carpet.

Melanie has always been given to laughter, but the way she bends over, resting her elbows on her knees as though she can’t hold herself up, has Rowan fearing that he’s given her a heart attack via pride patches.

“Aro-ace! Are these all of them?” She draws a shaking breath and carefully kneels, gathering patches. “I didn’t know there were this many!”

“Aro and aro-ace. The ones I know about, anyway. There’s probably a few I don’t.”

“Did you make all these?” Shelby asks. “You should sell them!”

Rowan considers explaining why he’ll never make even minimum wage selling hand-embroidered patches in aro pride flag colours, but Melanie’s pulling him into another grasping hug has him scarce able to breathe, never mind speak. He doesn’t know for how long Melanie smothers him, just that she, like an eventual retreating tide, steps back, leaving Rowan bewildered and giddy. Perhaps this is too much?

“You’re a liar, and this must have taken forever, and you shouldn’t have. I can’t believe you sew!” Melanie shakes her head, shuffling through the patches. “There’s the aro-ace flag with blue and orange, and a combined one, and one without black stripes—oh, thank you!”

Rowan shrugs, relieved that she seems happy. “Do you have something to put them on?”

“I have a coat. I’ll have a pride coat! And nobody will have the least idea what it means!” Melanie grins, shaking her head, before leaning over to tap Damien on the forearm. “Should the rest of us swap gifts now?”

Damien settles himself down on the closest chair. “Good idea. Do you want to—”

“We’re doing Secret Santa now!” Melanie stands on her tiptoes, waving the hand not clutching a handful of patches. “Find your person and give your gift, and then come here and show me what you got! Rowan made me aro-ace patches! All the aro-ace patches!”

“You know your evaluation says ‘needs to stop interrupt—’”

“Quickly, because Damien’s nattering on about performance evaluations!”

Damien sighs, shakes his head and leans back on his chair, looking up at the ceiling. “Lord give me—is that mould up there?”

“Probably,” Rowan says, hoping that he doesn’t look like a man expecting to open a set of golf balls. Did Shelby get him and lie about Melanie? Does that explain the voice recording? “Does the janitor have a step ladder? It’d be easier to tell if we got up close.”

“She does, because of the lighting.” Damien shakes his head. “Remind me first week back to get someone in to look at that. Or to write it on the whiteboard before we leave.” He reaches inside his left trouser pocket, removes a small card-sized parcel held between thumb and pointer finger, and flips it onto Rowan’s lap with surprising deftness. “I think this will be appropriate? While I didn’t know what you planned for Melanie, I saw you working on the train one evening. You had earbuds in and were too busy looking at your hands to notice, but I guessed then you’d made your bag’s patches.”

“It’s hard to cross-stitch on a moving train,” Rowan says by way of apology, a shade confused: what gift needs this explanation? “Hard to cross-stitch well. Not so hard if you don’t care about neatness.” He peels back the tape—Damien wrapped the card the way he presses his suits, the edges inhumanly crisp—and finds a gift card for his local sewing store. Rowan stares, drops the card on his lap and slides his hands under his legs, doubtful he can say anything comprehensible past this isn’t a gift pack of golf balls.

“That’s what you got him? A gift card?” Melanie shakes her head and pokes Damien in the shoulder with startling vehemence; only Damien’s size and his feet, firmly planted on the ground, keep him from falling. “Did you put any thought into that? I don’t like to be that oldie—” She stops, scowling: Rowan can’t hold back his spluttering laughter. “As I was saying, gift cards are the laziest way to—Rowan’s laughing at me, isn’t he?”

Damien tucks his hands behind his head and leans further back in his chair, grinning up at the popcorn ceiling.

Moments—in which Shelby gives Damien a six pack of fancy-looking artisanal beer—pass before Rowan’s ribcage resumes its regular pattern of movement. Finally, he manages to rasp an explanation: “Buying a gift card for a department store? Impersonal, but okay if they shop there. Buying a gift card for a trans man at a clothing shop where every tag has woman on the label? Hateful, unless you know he wants it. Buying a gift card related to someone’s interests so they can pick what they want? Good. And I need fabric, so … thank you.”

“Did someone get you a Millers gift card?” Melanie asks, her hands raised to cover her mouth. “That’s horrible!”

“That’s Aunt Laura,” Rowan mutters. Melanie’s expression of horror, Damien’s surprising evaluation and the wonder of a good, useful present leaves him inclined to truth: “That’s the most considerate gift I’ll get. One with thought that isn’t ‘outright cissexism’ or ‘you’re a man so we’ll ignore your personality to give you the most generically-male of generically-male items’.” He places the gift card and paper on his desk before nodding at Damien, who continues his overgrown Cheshire Cat impression. “Really, thank you.”

Even though Rowan isn’t standing atop his desk to blather about names, the room falls into an uncomfortable quiet.

Shouldn’t someone rustle some wrapping paper? Bite into a biscuit? Thank somebody for their gift? Why aren’t they making noise?

Melanie breaks into a broad smile, threading her fingers together like a self-congratulatory cartoon villain. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Rowan’s body, ever alert to strangeness in the people around him, stiffens long before his brain concurs that this change in conversational direction is at minimum odd and veering towards confronting with a high likelihood of I’m so not going to like it.

Damien jerks upright, chair creaking. “Didn’t we talk about how to do this—”

“His aunt gave him a Millers gift card!” Melanie grabs Shelby by the arm and drags her towards the meeting room like an illegal firework gone out of control.

Damien isn’t much an arbiter of this office’s brand of chaos, but he’s the closest thing to a pillar of stability inside this mouse-scented bewilderment and therefore the person at which Rowan directs his questioning: “What...?”

“You know how Melanie gets all enthusiastic?” Damien runs both hands through his already-mussed hair. “She comes up with plans and you can’t so much stop her as guide her in the safest direction and hope you’re alive come the landing?”

Does Damien know that is the worst answer anyone can give to a man with more than one anxiety disorder? At least short of pronouncements like “we volunteered you to give year 12 biology students a seminar on recessive genes and you’re starting right now”? Wasn’t that something to do with the monk who grew beans? Hendel? Mendel? Or did he just grow beans at a monastery for some reason? Or was it peas?

“What...?” Rowan croaks, staring at the dark meeting room like a man waiting to face a starving tyrannosaurus.

“She thought we should demonstrate our acceptance of you, after our failures in this. And then she realised Christmas isn’t a great time of year for you, which made her even more … uh, enthusiastic. I made her promise she’d do this after everyone else left, but...”

Melanie staggers out of the meeting room with a large basket held in both hands, a basket covered with glinting cellophane and decorated with a mix of blue and green ribbons.

Shelby trails after her, clasping another pair of scissors.

Rowan will never understand, never mind be able to explain, the thought processes leading to his diving off his chair for the sanctuary underneath his desk—just that one moment he’s sitting on his chair and the next he’s crouching beside computer cables and a lid from someone’s Pikachu lunch box. Some primeval sense of cave as safety, perhaps … but didn’t prehistoric humanity fear cave bears and cave lions? Aren’t large, bright spaces, with visibility and room to run, safer than small, dark places concealing unknowable predators? What about drought, then? Or deserts? Are there any safe places, really...?

Melanie holds no respect for the ancient tenets of let the hiding man hide undisturbed until he’s ready to stop hiding, but she does rest the basket on the ground at the entrance of Rowan’s desk-cave, blocking legs and chairs from sight. “Merry Christmas,” she warbles from behind the mountain of cellophane and wicker. “We hope there’s something there that you like!”

“Happy Holidays!” Shelby echoes, followed by a few more rounds from the rest of the office. “Do you want scissors? Melanie wraps things like she’s paid to use sticky tape by the metre.”

“We only have cheap tape in the office! It won’t stick unless you use heaps!” A thunking sound echoes from above Rowan’s head, and then Melanie’s candy-striped hand reaches around the leg of his desk, offering Shelby’s scissors. “Here. You’ll ... probably need them.”

There’s something to be said for this workplace’s willingness to treat escapades atop and beneath office furniture as normal, Rowan thinks. Breathe. “Than—uh—thanks.” He takes the scissors, staring at the back of shining cellophane; a miscellany of shapes wrapped in green paper sit within like an aromantic dragon’s treasure hoard.

“Damien, can you make them give us better tape next year?”

“We can have good tape if we stop spending the stationery money on good coffee and your fancy teas?”

“The tape’s fine,” Melanie announces before changing the subject: “Rowan? Are you opening anything? You have to tell us what you’re opening if you’re going to do it down there. Oh, do be careful—I think Liam used to shove his chewing gum under the table.”

Rowan shudders, but better his hair brushing old chewing gum over seeing his gift-opening become the focus of everyone’s attention! He draws a steadying breath, tells himself delay won’t help and slits the cellophane until he can draw out a wrapped box, one suspiciously weighty. At least fifty pieces of tape fasten the flaps on each end; Rowan promises himself that he’ll wrap everything in string and tea towels from now on before ripping into the paper. A mug with five horizontal bands wrapped around its body, the trans flag fading into the aro flag—blue into green, pink into green, white unchanged, pink into grey, blue into black.

Shelby, he thinks in disbelief, the non-existent golf balls making their appearance inside his throat. He rests the mug in his lap before reaching through the cellophane with shaking, sweating hands for another box. Another box with the same dimensions and weight...

“Oh, god,” he whispers.

His co-workers got him a basket of pride mugs for Christmas.

Melanie breaks into ringing laughter.

He needs a moment to find his voice, a moment in which he unwraps a mug with a gradient allo-aro design and another with the aromantic flag on one side and the bisexual flag on the other. “Did you  … did you … uh, get me any coffee to go with all my mugs?”

“It’s on the bottom!” Melanie trills. “And it isn’t just mugs!”

“Mostly mugs,” Damien says.

After another couple of minutes, a gradient frayromantic and a frayromantic-and-allo-aro mug join the collection precariously balanced on Rowan’s thighs. He sighs in relief when the next item in the basket feels soft, flat and light, something rustling underneath the wrapping paper, but a second lot of golf balls settle in his throat when he spots the pink and blue stripes, the drape of fabric: a trans pride flag.  

He can’t swallow, can’t lessen the burn in his eyes or ease the stiffness in his jaw and neck; his fingers fight to tear, peel and grasp. Bewildered to the point of dizziness, he finds an aromantic flag with its glorious green stripes, a frayromantic-and-bisexual mug and the expensive coffee Rowan permits himself on special occasions.  

He scoops wrapping paper and boxes back into the basket before hugging his clinking pile of mugs and flags.

Inchoate feeling abounds: a tangle, a knot of emotion with trailing threads of pleasure and overwhelm, surprise and gratitude, guilt and shame ... and something like the shock of being slapped across the face. They shouldn’t have done this! He shouldn’t be like this! Why is this too much? Why can’t he say “thank you” and express a normal, sensible gratitude for these people doing what Rowan’s family can’t ... instead of struggling with the feeling that Rowan, ungrateful and demanding, doesn’t deserve anything from people who have provoked his annoyance, frustration and alienation?

Mugs. Mugs and flags.

Why does something this wondrous have to hurt so much?

After a few moments, the only sound from him the chink of shifting crockery, someone moves the basket. Melanie sits on the floor and wriggles herself backwards underneath the table, grunting, to sit beside him. For once, she doesn’t speak; she rests a hand around his shoulder and lets him be a shivering mass of man clasping mugs.

Finally, Rowan’s rasping, croaking voice manages a few words: “Is this why Shelby recorded me ... talking about my identities?”

“I told you he thought it was suspicious!” Shelby crawls to Rowan’s other side, her braid trailing over the carpet. “Mel said you’d think it was just me being old—no, nobody does that!” She clasps his forearm, squeezing like a vice on wood. “Mel tried seeing if you’ve got a … all those accounts that aren’t Facebook, where you might say what you are? But she couldn’t find you, so I had my granddaughter show me how to record you. We knew we wouldn’t remember if you just said them.”

“I don’t know all the flags yet,” Melanie says in apologetic tones. “And I thought if I made the others check, they’d learn more about us!”

Part of Rowan feels a habitual spike of terror at the thought of offline people finding his social media accounts; part of him feels a quiet pride at Melanie’s using him to educate others in aromanticism. Most of him, fearing a blubbering breakdown, clings to the lifeline of asking questions: “And why Damien started that whole conversation?”

“We had to know where your mug seller was.” Damien bends down to peer underneath the desk and, at Melanie’s brow-arched stare, adds: “I’m not getting under there! You’ll have to call the SES to cut me out!”

Rowan nods and draws a breath. “I … I...”

“You’re very welcome.” Shelby squeezes his arm again. “Can I have your shortbread recipe? They’re good!”

“Yeah. Bag. Front pocket, left-hand side. People ask, so...” Rowan tries for another slow inhale. It’s supposed to help. Supposed.  

His family expects gratitude said clearly and directly, even when undeserving; they’ll never take emotional speechlessness as its shorthand. They want the formula followed, interactions never deviating from the same narrow structure: gift given, thanks provided, everything right in their world where it’s the thought that counts justifies disrespect of another’s personhood. They avoid messiness and honesty; they fear navigating and acknowledging mistakes and missteps.

They won’t see him as a man, or understand the pain they cause in believing his masculinity something he can put aside for their comfort, because they fear a world with unpredictability and fluidity.

Mum and Dad will never conspire to give him a gift like this. They’ll never want to get to know Rowan well enough to try. They’ll never put his needs ahead of their comfort. They’ll never speak of challenges or difficulties with Damien’s kind casualness. They’ll never want to acknowledge their failures. They’ll never give him an awkward, chaotic Christmas that veers from their notions of how things are supposed to be.

Does he want to endure their narrowness, now that he knows what better looks like?

Does he want to endure their truth that Rowan Ross isn’t a real man to them—and won’t be a real person until he remembers his deadname and the stereotypical trappings of the gender presumed to accompany it?

Or does he want to expect and get something else?

Maybe he doesn’t want a world so predictable his erasure becomes acceptable collateral damage for sticking to the pattern.

Maybe, despite his anxiety, he wants a world where people can surprise him.

“Melanie? Damien?” Rowan, shaking, pokes his head out from underneath the desk. “Can I … can I still spend Christmas with one of you?”

[yandere-flower]

This is an idea for a prompt or request. I like the idea of Villain Reader captured by a hero, maybe Aizawa. She at first doesn’t know what to make of his kindness toward her. Oddly enough she finds herself developing feelings for him much to her disgust. Finally she escapes. Sometime later there’s a LOV attack and she’s making an escape until she sees a hurt Aizawa and she is conflicted. She ends up saving him. He recaptures her again but she doesn’t mind at all.

Thanks for the prompt, I had a lot of fun with this one! No NSFW in this one but I liked writing the feelings of the reader so I’m pretty happy with this one!

Aizawa x Reader; Multiple instances of kidnapping y’all

The first time you came across the Quirk Erasering hero you had just started working with the League. You had mostly stayed back, minding your own tasks while trying to get a grasp for the dynamic of the League. There were suppose to be any heroes, at least not yet. When the police and a few pro heroes started to collide with the gang of low life heroes you had hired, you figured you best make your escape. No point in you being in the spot light, and you weren’t about to start advertising yourself as in link with the League just yet.

Thankfully the city in the dead of night provided the perfect coverage for someone with a camouflage quirk, allowing you to swiftly make your escape from the scene. What you hadn’t expected was someone following you.You weren’t certain at first, the sounds of late night drunks and cars filled the air and you stopped to asses your surroundings. You knew you should’ve just keep running, that the chances someone saw you was unlikely. Still, your couldn’t risk leading anyone back to headquarters, and certainly not your own place of residence. You waited, back against the wall and quirk activated in preparation for getting the drop on whoever was making you feel uneasy.

But when you went to case the back alley you were traveling through, you had suddenly found yourself face down on the ground. The loose gravel scrapped against your cheek, yet you were more focused on the fabric that was tightly wrapped around you ankle. Before you could question what was going on, you found yourself being dragged across the rough patches of street. Whoever was pulling you must’ve been strong, as despite your best efforts to claw at the ground and pull yourself up, your attacker was one step ahead of you. You body came to a halt, and for a second you thought you have a chance. Quickly you went to rise, but a heavy boot met your back, smashing you body back into the ground. You turned your head to get a glimpse of your attacker and you were met with the red, steely gaze of what you could only assume was a Pro-Hero.You remember what he first said to you.

“Did you really think you could just sneak away from the havoc you created?” he spat out, his voice heavy with resentment. “Maybe it was my fault for assuming you’d at least try and stay to protect your “employees”, but I suppose it was foolish for me to assume you’d waste yourself on low life’s like them”.

His voice calmed as he went to restrain you further, and you remember feeling unease by the tone of his voice. At the time you thought it was just about getting caught, thinking the League would have to save your ass. But you knew better now.

How you got from point A to point B was a blur, but where you ended up certainly wasn’t with the walls of a prison. At least not in the traditional sense. The man had blindfolded you, and once you regained your vision you found yourself in a small, dull room with nothing more than a bed and a bathroom to the side. Your wounds were carefully bandaged and cared for, who would do that simple scraps and bruises was beyond you. Your confusion overwhelmed you, yet you still hadn’t realized the gravity of the situation until later. You recall thinking that perhaps this was some new prison system, that maybe you made the big leagues in term of villainy and now you got to be one of those special prison villains. Your warden certainly thought you were special, but you weren’t being held here for your crimes. Not fully anyway.

Dinner time was the moment your entire world view had changed. Your ankle was cuffed to the bed, and you couldn’t do anything but sit there and stew in your mistakes. The door creaked open, and the man walked in with a bowl of something that was admittedly good. You remember because it was your favorite, potato curry over rice with lots of carrots. You always got it from the little restaurant across the street from your apartment. You couldn’t be comforted by the notion however, the specificity of the meal only set you more at ease. He watched you eat, silent and unnerving. He was a handsome man, but the face he worse was tired looking, worn by many restless nights. You hated silence.

“Am I suppose to know who the fuck you are or something” you scoffed, hoping to hurt the man’s pride. But this man didn’t feel things like pride or shame, things that would prevent him from his goal. The way he chuckled irked you, like he was mocking your attempt. Mocking you lack of context for why you were here. You were livid. “Is this some kind of new rehab for villains or some shit? Are you suppose to be the good cop? Where’s the hard ass hiding?” your anger boiled to the top as you lashed out at the hero.

“In a sense, sure. You have to pay for your crimes. But you’re not beyond saving” he replied, the calmness in his demeanor serving only to piss you off more.

Saving? You wanted to tell him he was full of shit.

And you did.“You’re full of shit”. Your voice was heavy with disgust, and you couldn’t stand to stare at the man any longer. You fell back onto the bed, surprised by the softness of the mattress and the undoubtedly high thread count linens.

You heard him breathe out, keeping his composure. Light foot steps reached the door, the clanking of the locks loud in the air. Before he closed the door behind him you heard him say,

“You could be so much more”.

That alone made you pissed for the next few days, besides the whole prison/warden complex the to of you had going on. You didn’t under what games he was playing, but you weren’t about to be a part of it. However, as time moved on it became harder and harder to stay mad at him. Every breakfast was homemade, every dinner your favorites. One days you didn’t lash out, you were gifted with pastries and desserts. You never asked how he knew you had such a sweet tooth, but you didn’t ask him about a lot of things he seemed to know.

Days began to blur, and the only knowledge of the outside world you got was what he provided for you. If you were polite, talkative, the two of you would have a conversation. At first it was mostly you asking questions. When would you be released? Weren’t you entitled to a lawyer? Why was he the only one you got to see?. You didn’t get an answer normally, at least one that wasn’t laced with bullshit. But you wanted to the company. You had to confess to yourself, it’s been lonely for a long time. Most social people with great relationships didn’t become villains, and you weren’t some exception. You began to crave these conversations, moving on from yourself and instead wanting to known about him.

His name is Aizawa, and he was teacher at UA. When he told you, you internally cringed at not knowing who he was. But if he was hurt by your lack of recognition he never revealed it. In fact, Aizawa was never harsh or rude to you. His approach to you was always neutral, if not a little bit kind. Even on the days you cursed and ripped into him verbally, he would only respond with respect. He was perhaps the most consistently kind person to you. If you had someone like him in your life before, maybe you wouldn’t have ended up his prisoner in the first place. But you were. Both a villain and a prisoner and this man couldn’t change that you decided.

He was good. He always knew exactly what to say to prevent himself from divulging to much information, to reel you in. He kept a long enough distance from you that you couldn’t get an advantage over him. Your cutlery was always dull and plastic. As much as he began to trust you, to confide in you, you both knew the dynamic. But you wouldn’t have become a villain if you didn’t think good could mess up.

One day, he forgot to fully close the clasp on your chain. You were shocked, both in that he would mess up so badly and at the thought of escaping. You used your quirk and hid against the wall, waiting for him to unlock the door. You were surprised at how much it hurt you, his face when he realized he couldn’t see you. It was a rapid moment, but it was all you need to knock him out before he could use his quirk to keep you down. You ran. You ran through the door and up the stairs into what looked like a house. Fuck, he lived here. At the time you couldn’t stop to think about that implication, busting your way out of the building. He must have been frazzled, distraught at losing you because he never caught up to you that day. Your own thoughts sickened you, disappointed that he didn’t get close to catching you again. Maybe he didn’t believe in you anymore. That thought sickened you more.

You went back to the League, the only group of people you knew that would potentially feel something about your return. You were always on edge about seeing Aizawa again. It took you a while to realize you wanted to see him again. You wanted to see him drop his ambivalent facade and light up when he say you. You wanted him to try and pin you down, only with his body this time. You hated yourself for thinking this, telling yourself that you’d feel this way about anyone who provided your favorite foods. You never wanted to fuck the lady who took your order at your favorite restaurant however.

You began to get angry again. Why wasn’t he trying to ruin your stunts? What happened to your “rehabilitation”. Was his determination just a joke, did he really give up that easily. You found yourself growing to resent him, resent his failings as a hero. So when the League announced they were going to launch an attack on a group of Pro-Heroes directly, you were the first to volunteer. The moment you saw his picture on the board a feeling ignited within you. You were so ready to prove him wrong. To ruin his plan just an extra step for good measure. He was going to have to live with his failure.———————————————————————————————————–

Things didn’t go exactly as planned.

It was carnage to say the least. The Pro-Heroes the League had ambushed weren’t prepared at all. Every move was calculated perfectly, and the heroes were no match for you. The intention was never to kill any of them, to let them live with the public humiliation, yet others had different ideas.

You had spent the whole battle half heatedly fighting and desperately searching for your man. When you found him he looked  dreadful. Blood covering his body and his face littered with lacerations. The villain hovering over him wouldn’t stand a chance in most circumstances. He took advantage of REAL villains, of REAL power. He was pathetic and you weren’t about to let him take away from your victory. He didn’t see you coming. Well, most people didn’t see you coming. You were never one for murder, but you suppose you’ve changed a lot.

You dropped your quirk and quickly ran to Aizawa. His face twisted in what you would assume was confusion, and most defiantly out of pain from you hands moving to apply pressure to his wounds. His breathing got heavier, and while you know it was because of what bad shape he was in, you secretly wished it was because your hands were touching his body. You wrapped him up as quickly and best you could with what little you had.

You knew you should’ve ran away then, make your escape before he regained enough strength to cuff you. He would surely send you to a real prison this time. But you just lingered there. Waiting. The two of you just stared into one each others eyes, waiting for the other to make a move. Nothing. You’re not going to wait and be humiliated, so you retreat with the rest of the League as to not raise suspicions. You wanted to stay with him, despairing at the thought of him injured.———————————————————————————————————–

Another few weeks went by and you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about Aizawa. You saved his life and he still didn’t believe you were worth rehabilitating. Sure, you murdered someone right in front of him but you also saved him. He said it himself, they were low life’s. You missed his cooking, his faint smiles, the way he would drift asleep on the other side of the room so he wouldn’t have to stop talking to you.

You decided to try and feel the hole in your heart by going to your favorite take out spot again. You seldom went anymore, not wanting to be reminded of the man. You waited patiently for your order, listening to the static surrounding whatever radio host was on this late at night. You gathered utensils and grabbed your food you headed out to another lonely night at home. Your walk for the most part was the same as always, except you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching you. You didn’t indulge the little bit of hope growing inside you.

You watched the way your feet moved as you walked, thinking that it would provide a good opening. Nothing. You were to out in the open. You took a detour and ducked into the alley beside your place. The walls of the building were so high that the moonlight barely reached into the dimly lit alley. Your body grew hotter, every little noise setting you off. You were about to give up before you were swiftly tied up from chest to ankles. Instead of being dragged across the ground, Aizawa quickly pulled you tight into his embrace. His scent enveloped you, taking over all your senses. You could’ve sworn you could taste him at this point. He lifted your chin to look into your eyes and that moment you know it was all over for you. Gently he wrapped a soft cloth around your eyes and you shivered at the thought of returning home.

Excitement flowed throughout your body, the trip home feeling much longer than you had remembered. You couldn’t help but smile as you both descended down the stair case, his hand gently laying on your hip to help guide you. You legs shaked as you heard him unbolting the locks. You could’ve sworn there were way more this time, but you couldn’t complain since you were so close. He guided you to stand in front of him in the room, and slowly he removed your blindfold.

You were blown away by the difference in the room since you were last here. The walls painted a blush color from your old apartment, the furniture a bright white color that made the room seem lighter. The linens were plush, piled on with an abundant amount of pillows. Instead of a dainty twin bed, the room was mostly filled with a massive king sized bed, with only enough room for an end table and a lavish loveseat in the corner of the room. His arms wrapped around your waist as he hummed into your ear.

“I wanted it the be perfect, to incentives you”. He was so quiet before that you had already missed his voice.

All this time he was perfecting it for you. Matching it to everything you loved so you would never leave him again. You didn’t want him doubting your commitment, not again. You slide out of his arms, mourning the loss of his closeness. He watched you as you crawl onto the bed, sliding your wrists in the soft padding of the restraints, inviting him to come lock you in and show you your place.

[bubblieywubbliey]

Evan x Reader (SMUT) - Practice Part 2!

So this is the sequel to my smutfic, Practice. Read that first for context, if not, just know that the reader has just started dating Evan and Heidi has come home just after they had sex for the first time. (Also I know she took her underwear off upstairs, but for the sake of the plot, we’ll pretend it’s possible for her to have forgotten them downstairs.

“Okay, um, are we telling her?” You asked hurriedly, still getting dressed.

“W-What no! She can never know we did this, ever, I’d never hear the end of it!” Evan’s eyes widened.“N-No, not that we had sex! That we’re… Together? I don’t know if you want to see where this goes first.”

“O-Oh. Right, that makes more sense, much more… sense… Yes. If you, you want to tell her. This is new, I’ve never, well, dated anyone before. Obviously.

You knew that. Duh… Ha…” Evan rambled, grinning awkwardly. You took kiss hands and kissed him on the nose. He smiled at you and for a moment, you forgot that Heidi was moments away from finding your underwear wedged into the couch.

“Shit! Go, go!” Evan muttered and pushed you out of the door. Evan hid your tights under his pillow as you arrived downstairs, peeping around the corner to look into the living room. Heidi was walking into the living room from the kitchen and you spotted your underwear tucked into the corner of the sofa.

“Heidi! Hey! You rushed forward before she could reach the sofa. She paused just in front of it and grinned at the sight of you. Your hair was messy, to say the least, so you hoped she wouldn’t question it.

“Y/N! How are you?” She pulled you into a hug and you smiled, almost forgetting why you were here. You stood back, blocking her view of the sofa. Evan arrived at the bottom of the stairs and you maintained the conversation with her while you pointed behind your back at the panties stuffed into the couch. Evan came and stood next to you.

“Hey, Mom! You’re back early, that’s, unusual. Y/N’s gonna be here for dinner tonight if that’s okay.” Evan spoke awkwardly, fiddling with his shirt. This was the singular time that he wished his mother hadn’t been around

“I thought you’d be excited! They double booked my shift so I got out of it!” Evan nodded and sat down on the sofa, exactly where your panties were. You sat next to him, feeling uncomfortably bare.

“Do you feel like watching a movie? I just ordered pizza.” Heidi asked the pair of you.“Sounds good!” You answer chirpily and Evan just smiled, you see him slip your underwear into his pocket.

“Also…” You took Evan’s hand and squeezed it. “I guess, um, Evan and I are dating now.” You mumbled to his mother. “Oh?” Heidi raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. “I know it’s kind of, um, sudden and we only really decided like 15 minutes ago but I really care about her…”

“Ev, I don’t care. Y/N will be great for you! I’m gonna go grab some blankets, we can eat the pizza on the couch. “ Heidi smiled at the pair of you and you couldn’t help but grin. Evan looked at you and you noticed him sweating slightly, his anxiety getting the better of him.

“Ev, are you okay? We can head out if you want, I’ll take you for a drive through the forest?”

“N-No, it’s okay, I just, um, I feel a bit overwhelmed. Can we put on a movie? I just need to, to calm down.”

“Okay, whatever you need. If this-” You gestured between the pair of you, “Is too much, we can stay friends.” You gave him an out and his eyes widened once again and he leaned forward, kissing you. You relaxed into it, not realising how tense you had become. Evan’s burst of confidence led him to deepen the kiss.

“Ahem.”

Heidi interrupted and you jumped apart Evan let out a muffled yell. She chuckled at the pair of you and walked into the room. Evan fiddled with the hem of his shirt and you struggled not to laugh.

“Oh come on, don’t worry Evan! It’s fine, you’re teenagers. Just maybe keep it out of my line of sight, huh?” Heidi laughed again, the pair of you were awkwardly silent and you silently thanked God that the doorbell rang at that moment. “This evening is gonna be a bit awkward huh?”

—

It was a month later when you walked through the double doors slightly late. The mid-winter break was over and you had been away skiing with your family and hadn’t seen Evan ever since the night you’d slept together. Of course, you had texted and FaceTimed non-stop and barely left the actual lodge for fear of losing the wifi and not being able to reply. You saw your boyfriend stood at his locker nervously, with what looked like a small bouquet of flowers for you. You couldn’t help but smile as you approached him.

“Y-Y/N! Hi!” He grinned at the sight of you, his body visibly relaxing before he handed you the flowers.

“I, um, I got you these because, well I saw them this morning and I thought you’d like them since your bag has flowers on it…” You smiled again and gave him a small hug.

“Thanks, Evan, they’re really pretty!” You remarked, placing them into your locker before closing the door and turning back to him.

“So. I spoke to Zoe and, well, she said she didn’t mind at all and she’s happy for us. Connor said they’ll meet us at lunchtime.”

“Okay, time for English class?” You asked. You were both in the same classes, barring some of your electives, so you had this lesson together.

“Yep.” He took your hand and you looked down at it. “Oh, I get if you don’t want people to know that’s okay” he mumbled, letting go. “I understand that since I’m kind of a loser and people actually think you’re cool.” Evan rambled. You took both of Evan’s hands, feeling very self-conscious as you kissed him. A chorus of ‘Oooh!’s rippled through the corridor and you disconnected, trying not to laugh, you pressed your forehead to his, looking at the floor.

“You aren’t a loser, okay? I love you. I don’t care that people knew we were friends and I don’t care that people know we’re dating.” You recoiled inside at the general cringe of the words leaving your mouth, but they were true and they seemed to comfort Evan.

“Okay.” He mumbled, kissing you again quickly before letting go of one of your hands to pick up his bag. The pair of you walked into the classroom and sat next to each other. You brought your bottle of water to your lips as Evan muttered something to you.

“Oh also, I still have your um, you know, underwear and the tights. You never got them back from me.” He whispered and you choked on the water that you had just sipped.

“Oh. Okay. I’ll have to come over later and get them I guess.” You tried to play it cool but you had turned bright red and Evan was blushing too. You arrived at Evan’s front door. Your boyfriend opened it before you could even knock, clearly, he was still feeling nervous about the two of you.

He handed you a small plastic bag with your tights and underwear inside. You took them and looked back up at him. "Thanks..." You mumbled. He kissed you quickly before speaking."Uh, I have a lot of work to do tonight- like an essay for History, so if it's okay, could we hang out tomorrow? I really need to focus and I definitely can't do that with you around." He explained. You raised an eyebrow, questioning his statement.

"Why can't you focus with me around?"

"Well, because, I, um. Holy shit. I could barely focus in our lessons today. You're wearing the same skirt as the other night... You know? Sorry I know that’s weird." You tried not to laugh at Evan's reasoning before nodding. "Okay, I get it. I won't wear this skirt again then." You promised and you saw relief sweep across his face. You gave Evan a lingering kiss, his hands moved to your waist and yours cupped his face. You kissed until he finally pulled away, blushing and looked down at you.

“Love you.” He mumbled, his heart swelling with affection for you, how had he found someone who was so understanding, kind and beautiful? Who wasn’t phased by his awkwardness?

“Love you too Evan.” You replied, smiling at his shyness. Evan fiddled with the hem of his polo shirt.

“Bye then, Y/N.”

“Bye, Ev.” You turned to get back in your car and heard the door close behind you. The tension was clear, but you couldn’t tell yet whether it was sexual, or just Evan’s awkwardness. Likely a combination, since he didn’t really know how to handle his more sexual feelings. You started to think over how you could make him more comfortable talking to you about it. You came to the conclusion that the only way to make him more comfortable was to be open. You would go back over there and explain to him that he didn’t have to hide those things. You opened the car door and put the bag that Evan gave you on the back seat. Walking over to the door, you took a few deep breaths before knocking, preparing yourself for what could be a awkward chat. You knocked on the door and got no reply, but he hadn’t closed it properly and it swung open.

You walked into the house and peered around for Evan. He was nowhere in sight, having obviously retreated to his room to write his essay.

“Evan! You called up the staircase. No reply. You ventured upstairs, the steps creaking beneath your feet and the house was oddly silent. Evan usually listened to music while he worked, but maybe he was still getting his stuff out.

You pushed open the door to his bedroom and quickly backtracked at Evan fell out of his desk chair and cried out. “Y/N! What are you, why are you her- I wasn’t doing anything!” You stood, slightly shocked as Evan lay outstretched on the floor, pants around his ankles. He had clearly been masturbating. You cringed, helping him up and he very quickly pulled his boxers and khakis up.

“Holy shit, Evan.” You gasped out. “I, um, I was actually here to discuss that. Shit, I wasn’t actually expecting it to go this way. I wanted to say if you’re feeling things like that it’s okay to tell me. I feel like that too, it’s part of being in a relationship. Sharing that with each other, y’know?” You managed to force the words out of your mouth, cringing and waiting for his response. “I just, just want you to know I don’t do that a lot, like at all, I really don’t. It was just, shit, it was that fucking skirt.” He fiddled with the hem of his polo shirt and stared at his feet. You blushed a little at the idea of him finding you attractive. “It’s okay if you jerk off, Evan!” His eyes got wider and his blush intensified. You took his hands and smiled at him, his eyes meeting yours.

“Okay.” He replied, smiling back at you. You placed your arms on his shoulders and fiddled with the hair at the base of his neck, before leaning in and kissing him.

“So, do you want some help with that?” You ventured, hands still around his neck.

“Um, I mean, you don’t have to, if you’re not in the mood, I hate that you just got back and this is what we’re doing… I can’t help it, I still feel like I’m using you.”

“Evan, I’m in the mood okay? And it’s not using me, I told you I enjoy it and honestly I’ve been so wound up. I was sharing a room with my sister and I kept dreaming about you. That’s a bad combo.” He blushed again at your response and you pecked him on the lips before stepping back and pulling your shirt off. Evan inhaled sharply at the sight of you in just your bra and skirt. You pulled off your tights and your underwear along with them.

“Oh my god.” Evan breathed out.

“What?” You chuckled at his expression, but you knew you had to initiate things until he became more confident.

“Just, wow. How did, how did you become my girlfriend? You’re so pretty…” he trailed off. You blushed and went to unzip your skirt but Evan stopped you.

“Keep it on? Please?” You raised an eyebrow and he looked away, embarrassment clear on his face.

“Okay.” You replied without hesitation, your boyfriend perked up and you reached forward, unbuttoning his polo shirt and kissing the newly exposed skin. He moaned out softly at your touch and you smiled against his neck before sucking on it harshly. He let out a grunt and his left hand became tangled in your hair as he gasped out. You pulled the shirt over his head and kissed down his chest to his trousers. They dropped to the ground with a thud and his boxers followed.

Once again his rather impressive length was before you and you rubbed your thumb over the head. Evan couldn’t help but moan.

“Oh… oh god.” His eyes fluttered shut and you leaned forward to take him into your mouth. You took a little under half of him in, as you began to bob up and down he let out a half-strangled cry before throwing a hand over his mouth. You released him before commenting.

“Don’t you dare cover up those sounds, they’re beautiful.” You scolded him and returned to his dick.

“I- okay….” he mumbled in reply, almost embarrassed at his own embarrassment.

Engulfing him all the way to the back of your throat, you rubbed what you couldn’t reach and he let out a beautiful sound, gasping and breathing out your name. You felt yourself getting wetter and your clit began to throb harder and harder as he gasped out. You bobbed your head up and down a few more times and he groaned out your name again. You pulled your mouth off of him and he looked down at you, disappointed.

“God, Evan I need you to fuck me.”

“I’m not gonna last long though…” he mumbled.

“Me neither.” You replied, sitting on his desk, you undid your bra and he gasped merely at the sight of the exposed flesh.

“Okay, um wow, you’re so hot.” He muttered. You laughed and leaned over to pull a condom out of the bedside table next to the desk. He took it from you and wrapped it over himself. You grabbed his waist and pulled him closer to you, kissing him again. Moaning into the kiss as you felt him press against you. You could see how apprehensive he was and you took his length into your hand, rubbing it gently.

“Ready?” You asked and he nodded. You let go and leaned back, arranging yourself so you were sat right at the edge of the desk. He gingerly placed a finger at you entrance, easing it in. You pushed his hand away and blushed slightly at how dripping wet you were.

“I can’t wait, just go.” You breathed out. You were already ready.

“Oh, um, okay.” He muttered and placed himself at your entrance. He pushed in slowly and you felt yourself stretch slowly, you gasped out at the feeling rushing through you. “Is this okay, are you okay?” He asked worriedly.

“Y-yes, just wait a second. Oh god…” You felt the burning that usually accompanied any initial stretching as he stilled inside you. “Evan…” you gasped as you leant forward into his shoulder. You pulled him forward and he bottomed out inside you. You couldn’t help but let out a small whimper and Evan mumbled a stream of unintelligible words. You shifted slightly as you adjusted to his size once again.

“O-okay… you can move.” Your head was still resting on his shoulder as he tightened his grip on your hips and he slid out of you halfway and pushed back in carefully. He repeated the action and you moaned out his name. Evan gasped again and repeated the action. He continued his thrusts, the pair of you panting in sync, pleasure began to overwhelm you as Evan reaches parts inside you that you’d never reached yourself. Evan whimpered into your ear as you sucked on his neck roughly, forming a hickey before kissing it over and over. His fingers were clenched tightly into the fabric of your skirt as he grunted and whimpered at the overwhelming pleasure.

“Y/N, holy shit, you’re so beautiful, so tight- uh!” He cut himself off with a moan and his thrust became more erratic. You reached down and began to rub your own clit, crying out your boyfriend’s name with nearly every thrust. He began to drill into you and the friction against your g-spot combined with your own ministrations pushed you over the edge.

“I’m gonna… Evan!” You couldn’t help but shout as your orgasm shook you and Evan let go straight away alongside you, your walls fluttering around him and ten clenching around his length. Evan grunted and pushed into you one final time as he rode out his orgasm. Holding onto you tightly.

“Y/N… god you’re so amazing, thank you.” He panted, leaning his head against your shoulder as he recovered.

“Ev, you don’t need to thank me every time we have sex.” You laughed, reaching forward to push the hair out of his eyes when he stood up straight. He blushed and stepped back, pulling out of you, he binned the condom.

“Um, d’you wanna lie down? I’m really tired.”

“God yes.” You replied, attempting to stand but your legs were still wobbly, you fell into the chair.

“Oh my god! Are you okay?” Evan finished putting on his boxers and rushed over and pulled you up, helping you over to the bed.

“Yeah, I just underestimated how strong that orgasm was…” You flopped down on the bed and Evan lay down next to you, spooning you.

“This is nice.” He mumbled into your neck.

“Yeah.” You replied, shuffled so you more of you was pressed against him. Evan pulled a blanket over you and kissed your shoulder.

“I’m gonna go on the pill, mmkay?”

“W-what? Why?” You turned to face him.

“I, well it means we’ll stop having to remember condoms. And we’ll always know when my um, time of the month is gonna be.”

“O-oh, okay, if that’s what you want to do.”

“It is. I’ve done it before, don’t worry about it. Now, tell me about your winter break.” You snuggled into his chest and pressed a brief kiss to his jawline.

Evan began to talk and you smiled, closing your eyes to listen to his voice and feel his arms wrapped around you. After a couple of hours of chatting, you finally both nodded off.

[spooky-scary-imagines]

Just poppin in to say that Chop Top story was 👌 and I���d love to hear a continuation. He’s gotten himself and the reader into quite a mess considering how Drayton reacted to Bubba and Stretch, and now you’ve got me all curious about how they’re gonna get out of it.

((You are very correct. Meeting the family on the first date? Lord knows what he was thinking. AND GUESS WHAT! I saved this bad boy so it’s my 69th post. *smacks lips and looks at the camera* Noice. It’s what Chop would have wanted. Also, I am trying my best to stick to the canon story-line like I did in the first part but like…the canon story-line as is does not allow much wiggle room. I’ve cranked the forced 70’s slang up to 11 so I hope the context clues work. ;P Also, it’s pretty much canon that Chop only listens to shitty “experimental” prog-rock.  In any-case, thanks so much to all of y’all who’ve encouraged me to write the sequel as well as write in general. Your support means a lot to me. TW For Drayton being…the way that he is. Most of his dialogue is straight from the script but if that’s upsetting feel free to skip this one. Tagging: @i-cant-get-with-it

From outside, the abandoned theme park was just an empty husk of long-forgotten family trips and worn plastic over a warped metal skeleton. Inside however, the old Texas Battle Land had found a second life as home to some of the most wanted people in Texas. When the youngest members of the Sawyer clan arrived home, it was just as they had left it. Fluorescent lights casting a dull glow over the filthy environment, made even more unpleasant by the ever-present smell of decayed flesh and dried blood.

As they carried the bodies they’d gotten earlier inside, the older of the two stopped his brother before they entered the threshold. “H-Hey Bubba, I, uh, I’m just gonna take this one alright?” he asked, gesturing to the body whose head wasn’t a gross mess of blood and pulp. The younger, Bubba, looked at his brother curiously, and while it was impossible to tell from beneath the mask, his eyes conveyed that he definitely was raising an eyebrow at this behavior. Chop-Top fidgeted under his gaze, “I-I g-got a, er, project I wanna do with it.” Bubba just shook his head and shrugged the limp body off his shoulders, into his brothers arms. He grinned up at Bubba and turned to walk away before quickly whipping back. “W-Wait!” he held onto Bubba’s arm, “Don’t-Don’t tell Drayton about this one, ya dig? He’s joanin’ on us enough already.” Bubba nodded solemnly and he and Chop parted ways down into the labyrinthine tunnels.

…

When you finally woke up, you had no clue where you were. Your first instinct was t scream but you held it back as you tried to analyze your situation. The room was dark and looked like the inside of the Devil’s Shaggin’ Wagon. The walls were lined in colorful, yet dingy carpets and miscellaneous oddities, ranging from bones, to old and blurry Polaroids, to worn and torn band posters, and age-bleached centerfolds of woman and men, naked as they day they were born. After quickly taking in your surroundings, you groggily moved to stand up, but were cut short as you finally took notice of the rope tying you arms and legs to the chair you sat in. You instantly wanted to panic, memories of what happened suddenly flooding back. But you knew that, whoever these people were, you were at their mercy, and it was in your own best interest to just try and play along. Just thinking like that was frying you, but you had to keep it together, or you didn’t have a chance

.After what felt like ages of waiting for a bomb to go off, the door directly across from you opened up to reveal the pale face of the man from the radio station. His glasses and wig were gone revealing an exposed metal plate embedded into his skull, the edges where it met skin were raw and torn, indicating they had not been allowed to heal. He turned to you, and when his eyes met yours his face lit up. “Y-You’re awake! I-uh, well, groovy!” he said, scrambling over to you. He sat beside you, and started messing with your still-trapped hand, picking at the skin and bringing it to his face. If you remembered right, this man mostly responded nicely to you, so he was probably your best option.

  “Um, hey man, not-not that I can’t dig it but-either I’m tripping or you’ve got some ‘splaining to do Lucy.”

  The man laughed at that and moved away, crossing the room to a shoddy looking record player. “You-You like At-t-tomic Rooster?” the man asked, though the record was in place before you could answer. Distorted keyboarding and some bitchin’ guitar riffs blared through the tinny speakers as the man bared his teeth in a manic grin. “Th-this one’s called Ger-Gershazer,” at that word, he started giggling to himself. Disappointed, you tried again.

  “So is this your pad?”

“Damn straight!” the man yelled before more quietly adding, “Well, I-I don’t live alone…But-But I paid for this place!” He pointed at the metal plate, “What I got for this chrome-dome ‘Nam gave me?”“You…you were in Vietnam?”

The man’s eyes got a weird glint to them and his head whipped back in a loud cackle, “NAAAPALM! FIRE IN THE HOLE! The ole’ AGENT O!” He gripped your shoulders tightly, “It’s the dream baby, Nam Land!” You just stared at him in a mix of shock and horror. Before you could respond, from somewhere outside the door, you could make out the sound of a someone yelling. The man’s eyes narrowed and whipped towards the door. “Just-Just w-wait here. Don’t bug out on me now,” he said before bolting out the door. You didn’t bother to mention that you couldn’t even if you wanted to, well, of course you wanted to, it’s just…it doesn’t matter. There’s certainly nothing you can do right now. Worry about your apparent susceptibility to Stockholm Syndrome later.

  When the trippy hippie finally returned, he wasn’t alone. “Hey sunshine, he crooned, seemingly having gotten over whatever caused him to freak-out last time, “I got someone I want you to meet…” He gestured to the other person revealing a gnarled old corpse wearing a camo army jacket, and you bit back a scream. The thing was on the rough side of decomposition and looked like a prop from the guy who did Dead of Night. The man broke into a near falsetto and reached the corpses hand out as if it were a puppet, “H-Hi my name’s Nubbins! You’re-You’re a r-r-real f-fox.” Despite the horror of the whole situation, you couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. The man swatted at the corpse and turned to you, with a noticeable pink to his cheeks that wasn’t there before, “J-Just ignore m-my brother. He’s a j-jelly brain. 

You decided not to address the obvious taxidermied elephant in the room, “So you two are brothers?”

“Yeah. We’re twins! But I got the good looks.” the man argued. Given the state of the other one, you’d have to agree. “Ya see those pictures on the wall?” You nodded. “Nubbins is the one who took them. He always liked artsy stuff…” he drifted off, lost in thought or perhaps memories, of a happier time you couldn’t picture. You were about to offer some comfort when the door slammed open, revealing the giant from before. “DON’T YOU EVER KNOCK!” the smaller man shrieked, leaping up to try and block the other from you. You heard the masked man mumble indignantly. “SO WHAT IF I DON’T USUALLY CARE!” Despite the hippie’s best efforts the large man pushed past him and was struck dumb when he saw you. He turned to the other and yanked him off to a somewhat separate part of the room. While you couldn’t tell what all they were saying, you could tell it was a heated argument.  Before they could return to you, the yelling voice from earlier called for them both and you were left alone again.

…

Drayton was on one again, this time, he was convinced that there was some intruder in the house and had been yelling at the two of them to FIND THEM DAMN IT. Finally Chop-Top and Drayton caught up to where Bubba had some girl cornered at the end of a tunnel. It wasn’t surprising to find a cave-in or a dead-end and end up lost for hours. “What the hell’s going on here?” Drayton looked from Bubba to the young woman, confused and angry, “Bubba, you nap-haired idiot. Get out of here. Who’s this? I get it. Are you the saboteur that’s fucking up our house? Tryin’ to put me out of business? Thousands of dollars lost. You got that kind of money?” “No!” the woman finally responded, and Chop-Top finally recognized that voice.

“It’s the DJ. My faaaaave.”

“That dirty thing?” Drayton sneered, “Told me you boys got her!”

“Well, yeah,” Chop butted in, “Leatherface killed her once already tonight. But look, she’s red-faced. Bubba’s been playing with her. Bubba likes her!” With a exaggerated gasp, he broke into an obnoxious chant, “Bubba’s got a girlfriend. Bubba’s got a girlfriend! Bubba’s got a girlfriend! Bubba’s got a girlfriend!Bubba’s got a girlfriend! Bubba’s got a girl-BLEAH” he jumped and erupted into cackles again.

  “Is that what this is, Bubba?” Drayton asked, “The old cock-and-cunt swindle, huh? S-C-E-X. Sex. And you had to find out about it, didn’t you? You just couldn’t leave it alone. If you wanted to know about it so bad, why didn’t you ask me? You wanna know about it? Ask me. Ask me! It’s a swindle, that’s all. So don’t get mixed up in it…”

Bubba grunted angrily and pointed to Chop-Top, who had lost his playful expression. “What are you going on about?” Bubba communicated in his own way what he had seen in Chop and Nubbin’s room. “Cheese-eating fink…” Chop-Top mumbled under his breath. Drayton threw his arms in the air, “Are both of you falling for it! What would Grandpa say!” Bubba hung his head sadly and Chop just rolled his eyes.  Drayton sighed, “Alright, Chop-Top, take this one away,” he thumbed towards the DJ and glared at the his second-youngest brother, “Then we’re going to see this little cock-monger of yours!”

…

After a more than awkward first meeting with the eldest of the Sawyer clan in which he called you every name under the sun, you were brought to a large dining table and were sat across from Vanita. She briefly stopped screaming when she saw you and sobbed, realizing the fate she had doomed you and L.G. to. You tried to comfort her but there was only so much you could say over Drayton raggin’ and monologuing his totally square life story. “There’s Grandpa now!” he crowed as the two other Sawyers brought in what appeared to be a decrepit corpse in on a throne like dining chair. As Drayton began rambling again about the man “Grandpa” used to be, you noticed that the thing in the chair wasn’t a corpse at all! “Refracto…” you muttered as you watched the ancient man move, albeit slowly. The man who had captured you, “Chop-Top” you had heard the others call him, kept scrambling around, alternating between taunting Stretch and nuzzling against you. “Get the hammer!” the cook squawked and the hippie scampered off. Drayton ordered them around, yelling to “Just get on with it!” and soon they had a small tub set down in front of the old man.

  “Wait, uh,” Chop spoke up, “Maybe we ain’t g-gotta kill ‘em.” He looked nervously back to you, “I mean, at least n-not both of ‘em. Mine ain’t gonna be an-any trouble. A-And I’m the one bankrollin’ this place! I should decide!”Drayton sneered, “I can’t believe both you shit-heads are gonna pussy-out on me at the last minute. You know the country’s in the shitter when a man can’t even rely on his own family! The plight of the American businessman! Quick fucking around and bring them down!”  The two younger brothers looked at each other, neither moving. Slowly, the larger one, Bubba, hung his head and starting walking towards Stretch who started screaming again, pleading for him to let her go. You were too scared to scream and could only watch as Vanita was dragged from her chair and made to bear her head over the bucket at Grandpa’s feet. Chop muttered something into your ear about “Not tripping” and “Just letting him handle it.” But something told you it was gonna take a miracle to get you out of here alive.

  That miracle came in the form of a disembodied voice singing “Bringing in the Sheaves.” From your position at the table you couldn’t really make out what was happening, but you could hear Drayton talking to someone, apparently some competition in the catering biz? You heard Stretch pitifully say “Lefty…” Wait, wasn’t Lefty the name of the guy you two were waiting at the station for? Before you could even call out to him, everything exploded into chaos. All you could hear was chainsaws revving and the screams and yelling from the whole family. You saw Stretch run past you into the tunnels, Chop-Top hot on her heels. Bubba was chainsaw-dueling with a guy who looked like a love-child of  Sheriff Buford T. Justice and Major Kong. Drayton was nowhere to be seen. 

In all the excitement, they seemed to have forgotten about you. You seized your chance to escape, wiggling out of the ropes Chop-Top seemed to have purposely tied a little loose.

  You made your way through the seemingly endless tunnels, finally making your way outside. As you finally reached the surface, you realized night had turned to day. Exhausted on all levels, you collapsed inside the metal tunnels leading to the main body of the park. You heard the sound of explosions, chainsaws and screaming in the distance, but they barely seemed to break through the daze you were in. You had no idea how long you sat there, but you were suddenly broken out of your stupor by a gangling shadow looming over you. 

You looked up, only to see the grinning mug of that crazy Head you just couldn’t seem to lose. He looked more than worse for wear, blood dripping from his neck and a gaping hole in his abdomen. Despite everything he had put you through, you found yourself still feeling pity for him. “Hey, rock b-bunny,” he crowed weakly, “Figured you’d blown this p-pop-stand.” You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, instead leaning in to look over his wound. He brushed you off, “Don’tcha’ know?” He grinned, “Sawyers are like cockroaches, it’ll take more than a lil’ rough stuff and and a wayward Smokey to take us down. Now c’mon.” He held out a hand to help you up, then started off back towards the park, “Let’s go round up the rest of ‘em.” You took one last glance behind you towards the horizon, your freedom, the rest of the life you had always believed you wanted…then turned back and followed your new life into the caverns. Into his, and now your, hell, or perhaps…heaven.

[anistarrose]

The Gingerbread Shacks (GF Holiday One-Shot)

Summary: Nothing ignites sibling rivalries like a challenge to replicate a tourist trap in gingerbread.

Word Count: ~1500

Warnings: none

(Disclaimer: I have not personally tried any of the baking-related things done by characters here, so if you attempt something like this at home, do not expect this fic to predict your results.)

“Grunkle Ford, what happened in here?” Dipper asked as he entered the kitchen. “Those dessert pixies didn’t come back again, did they?”

It was a valid question, seeing as nearly every flat surface within an eight-foot radius of Ford was covered in flecks of either frosting, powdered sugar, or both — not to mention Ford himself, whose hair had accumulated so much sugar that the stripe of lighter gray was indistinguishable from the rest.

“Nothing of the sort, don’t worry,” Ford replied cheerfully, his attention staying fixated on the object on the kitchen table as he slathered it with frosting from a Sasquatch-themed bowl. “I’m just making a gingerbread Mystery Shack. See?”

Dipper gave the structure a closer look as Ford pressed cutout gingerbread letters H, A, C, and K into the frosting, and then haphazardly tossed an S onto the tray below. It really was quite a good replica of the Mystery Shack, as long as you looked at it from the right angle to actually notice the boundaries between all the white-coated pieces.

“Is there even any gingerbread in there, or is it all just frosting?” Dipper asked.

“Well, that’s a funny story,” Ford began. “You might have inferred from the general state of this kitchen —” He gestured around, and a plume of powdered sugar escaped to the air from his sleeve. “— that I’ve had to make a few different batches. That’s because the first batch wasn’t stiff enough to hold the gingerbread pieces together at the angles I needed, so I had to increase the sugar content. First I tried to simply mix additional sugar into the frosting I already had, but that didn’t work as well as I’d hoped, so I had to make a new batch, but I knocked that bowl into the sink… you get the idea. It’s been an ordeal. And when I finally made a satisfactory batch, there was already frosting all over the gingerbread from my first attempt, so I decided to make one more bowl full just so I could cover the whole thing in frosting and have it be uniform.”

He pulled out a Jersey Devil-themed bowl, this one full of red, white, and green sprinkles, and declared: “Just one final touch left to include. Stand back!”

He swung the bowl towards the gingerbread Shack like he was going to throw it, stopping at the last moment as sprinkles rained onto the icing and leaving the Shack looking like a Christmas tree had exploded next to it. Then he repeated the procedure on all sides, and poured the leftover sprinkles onto the roof, grinning widely and happily as he gazed at his creation.

“Did you and Mabel swap minds or something?” Dipper asked incredulously. “What… what even prompted you to make this?”

“Well, Melody was talking about how she’d wanted to make a gingerbread Mystery Shack but ran out of time before the holiday,” Ford explained. “Then Stanley said that he could make one, and I expressed skepticism that he could — so now we’re competing to see who can make the better gingerbread Shack. He’s been working on his at the table in the living room, I believe.”

Ford paused for a moment, contemplative. “You know, I really hope he’s not making as much of a mess as I am,” he murmured, as if the thought was just occurring to him.

“Oh, you’re competing with Stan,” Dipper said. “That explains a lot.”

He heard the door to the porch slamming shut, and a moment later, Mabel, Soos, and Melody entered the kitchen, having apparently returned from their run to the grocery store to replenish dwindling hot chocolate supplies.

“Ooh, Grunkle Ford, are you done with your Shack?” Mabel gasped, leaving noticeable footprints on the sugar-coated floor as she rushed up to examine Ford’s creation. “I see you took some artistic liberties, but I like it! Very festive!”

“Artistic liberties are for amateurs who can’t pull off realism!” Stan barked from the other room. “I haven’t even seen Poindexter’s yet, and I know it’s gonna look like a tree threw up on it!”

“I recall you saying something very different about artistic liberties whenever your taxidermy work came up!” Ford shot back.

There was a pause, and then: “You get your smartass remarks in now, Ford, ‘cause once you lay eyes on this masterpiece you’re gonna have no choice but bow down to my mastery of the gingerbread craft! Ugh, my back is killing me —”

Stan staggered into the kitchen, carrying his gingerbread Shack on a blue plastic tray. As everyone moved to the sides of the room to let him get through, a few impressed gasps could be heard — even from Ford himself, though he’d naturally deny it later.

“So? Whaddya think?” Stan’s smug grin was growing wider by the second.

“Set them down next together, so we can judge them!” Soos told him.

Stan did as he was told, and placed down his creation next to Ford’s. While both Shacks had almost exactly the same dimensions, and had featured the letters HACK on a sign with the S down on the tray, the differences ended there. Ford’s was mostly devoid of further detail, but Stan’s had gumdrops and other candies lining almost every edge, and additional gingerbread pieces attached to form triangular windows. There was even a tiny question mark weathervane, though it was held together by toothpicks and the letters WHAT were replaced by gumdrops.

Soos stood between them and held up both his forearms perpendicular to the floor. “Let’s check the Gingerbread-O-Meter…”

On Ford’s side, he turned his arm about forty-five degrees, and then just a bit further extra as Mabel chanted “Go! Go! Go!” and Stan yelled “Hey!”

On Stan’s side, he turned his arm about the same amount in the opposite direction, and then a decent amount further as Dipper and Melody cheered. Ford scowled and raised his hands in exasperation as it became obvious who was in the lead.

“Looks like we have a winner, folks!” Soos declared. “Mr. Pines, you’re the first ever Annual Mystery Shack Gingerbread Bake-Off-A-Thon Extravapalooza Champion!”

“Haha!” Stan cheered. “Eat it, Ford! Except maybe don’t literally eat it, ‘cause —”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me!” Mabel piped up. “Gotta make sure it tastes as good as it looks!” With a surprising amount of effort, she yanked a piece of the roof off of Stan’s gingerbread Shack.

“No, Mabel, wait — please don’t —”

She popped it into her mouth, and her expression lit up as she chewed. “Grunkle Stan, that is fantastic! I can’t place all the favors, but I think you might just be a culinary genius as well as an artistic one!”

“Really?” Dipper said. “Let me try some.”

He took a bite from a piece that had fallen loose when Mabel removed hers, and immediately spat it out with so much force that it flew clear across the room and stuck to the wall. After running to the sink and rinsing his mouth, he finally choked out the words:

“Grunkle Stan, did you glue this together? That was nasty!”

Stan gave a slight shrug, arms folded and eyes pointed towards the ceiling. “Uh, maybe. Don’t worry, though, I only buy the nontoxic stuff.”

“Stanley, I trusted you,” Ford told him, voice dripping with the exaggerated drama of feigned betrayal. “And you go and disregard the rules of our competition entirely.”

“Hey, remind me when you said I couldn’t use glue? Oh, that’s right, you didn’t. See, no rules disregarded! I keep track of these things!”

“It was implicitly stated! We agreed to make gingerbread houses, and gingerbread houses are by definition meant to be edible —”

“Glue is edible, you just have to have an open mind!” Mabel chimed in. “Don’t let society’s ideas about food control you!”

Ford sighed. “You know what, let’s compromise. The two of us can split first place.”

“You guys are the only two who even participated,” Melody pointed out. “If you two tie, there’s no first place. That’s the only place.”

“Yes, but we don’t have to explain the details of the competition to everyone who learns that we’re the first ever Annual Mystery Shack Gingerbread Bake-Off-A-Thon Extravapalooza Co-Champions,” Ford replied. “It sounds rather impressive without context, doesn’t it?”

“Now you’re thinkin’, Sixer!” Stan threw his arm over his brother’s shoulders, and started chanting: “Pines! Pines! Pines!” Ford joined in too, raising a mug of hot chocolate in celebration.

Mabel handed Dipper a frosting-covered piece from Ford’s gingerbread Shack, and started munching on another piece from Stan’s.

“I thought you quit eating glue when you were ten,” Dipper said.

In between bites, she replied: “It was out of season for a while.”

“Out of season for three years? That’s not how seasons work!”

Mabel shrugged. “I dunno. Just don’t tell my orthodontist.”

***

Thanks for reading, comments/reblogs are really appreciated as always! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and to those who don’t, hope your day has been great!