#Andre Diner

[pilgrim1975]

Andre Diner, the last convict guillotined at Le Mans.

29 November, 1949 dawned cold and grey at the French city of Le Mans. For convict Andre Diner the weather was of no significance at all. As the old city slowly eased itself into another day in typically relaxed French fashion, Diner’s day would be rather shorter than anyone else’s. Before the sun had fully risen and the traditional coffee and croissants had even been prepared, Andre Diner would…

[yourworsttotebag]

No One is Ever Ready

Pairing: Astarion/Female OC Rating: Teen Word Count: ~3k

Summary: “Well…excuse me while I die of a broken heart.” He tried to say it like another joke they could volley back and forth. He even chuckled but his smile fell away almost instantly. “You know it’s a shame. I really thought we could go all the way, Lady Wimberley.”

Evie laughed softly. “Now that everything is out in the open, you won’t have to pretend to flirt with me anymore. You’re officially free from me.”

Astarion wished Evie wasn’t so good at making people believe anything she said so he could read the tiny expressions hidden in her smile.

“Finally,” he answered, troubled.

[Read now on AO3!]

[kevinfrommoonlight]

"...I'll cook you something. Maybe... Maybe play that song for you..."

[fieriframes]

[AND BURGERS AND CHILI AND FRIES. THEY KIND OF PUT A CLASSIER TWIST ON IT. THANKS TO FORMER FINE DINING CHEF ANDRE GUERRERO. I DIDN'T REINVENT FAST FOOD. ALL I DID WAS JUST MAKE IT BETTER.]

[after-witch]

Check Out Time is Eleven [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Check Out Time is 11 [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're invited to a hotel for a warm meal and a place to sleep by a mysterious stranger. Soulmate AU.

Word count: 7100ish

notes: yandere, kidnapping, mentions of drugging, a really useless and non-philosophical reference to My Dinner with Andre

The red thread on his finger loses slack for the very first time in his life, and for the smallest of moments, Chrollo Lucilfer forgets himself. His steps falter, expensive, stolen shoes nearly scuffing on the sidewalk, and a startled breath quivers through his chest. His mouth gapes, ever so slightly. 

In surprise.

In trepidation. 

In realization.

The red thread was, had always been, attached to you. His soulmate. Whoever you were. The gentle tugging of the thread meant that after years of fruitless searching, you were finally somewhere nearby, close enough to reach. Probably, given the tautness of the thread, even within walking distance. 

How lucky for him. 

How unfortunate for you. 

You were finally discovered. You were finally within his grasp, fingers itching, warm satisfaction blooming through his skin. How often had he ruminated over the fact that you had yet to belong to him? How often had he wondered what you would look like, how you would feel under his touch? And what you might do to him when he had you in person? Would he find himself changed, however slightly, as the others in the Troupe had been? Or would he mold you with his own presence, looming over you like a shadow?

The mere thought of you is enough to get his heart racing, bring a bead of sweat to his neck. It was so unlike him, and wasn’t that a thrill? 

And then, just like that, the moment is over. He recollects himself and his mouth closes and his mind whirs back into focused gear. 

He needed to find you, first thing. The rest of the logistics could come later. 

His eyes track the movements of the thread, and without missing a beat, he turns on his heels to follow the direction of the movement. It was possible--no, highly probable--that you were close enough to reach on foot. Within the city, certainly, and he didn’t mind the exercise. 

As he continues to walk, the cold gleam of the business district turning into rows of glitzy restaurants and downtown attractions, he’s glad that you weren’t too close. It gives him more time to think about what he wants to do with you. 

The Troupe members that had already found their soulmates--and Chrollo feels a surge of pride in his chest, counting himself among them now, fulfilled in that goal--had taken on different approaches. 

Some merely kidnapped their soulmates and kept them in secure locations. Simple, effective in terms of security, but that would ensure it would take him a long time to win you over. And he knows that he will do just that, eventually, no matter how he decides to keep you. Others took their time, attempting to strike up something of an ordinary relationship before revealing their knowledge of the red thread, and persuading their soul mates to come with them for safety (and romance)’s sake. Surely the more appealing of the two options, but it did come with the downside of expended time and energy. 

What he would do with you depended on so many factors. Did you live in some stationary location, or were you prone to travel? What did you do for a living? Were you already in a relationship, some inferior partnership with someone who could never appreciate you the way that he could, as your only soulmate? 

All of these questions circle heavily in his mind as he walks, following the thread that was becoming tighter and tighter between the pair of you. The ritzy downtown buildings were now gone, replaced by rows of old buildings that had seen better days. In place of fine dining were small cafes and diners that practically exuded grease, laundromats with blinking signs, and the occasional busted out window. The scores of people walking, gabbing, waving around fancy handbags were replaced by only the occasional person walking with clear destinations in mind, eyes in front. 

As the thread becomes even tighter, it leads him down an alley that most people would have surely avoided. But he doesn’t worry about the glances of the people leaning up against heavy exit doors, or the people crouching on the ground with needles against their arms. He thinks about you. Will he find you here, perhaps, curled up in the arms of a drug dealer pumping you full of toxic chemicals that flushed you with endorphins and heat? Or you might be on the other side of the needle, pocketing cash and going on your merry way? 

But, no. Perhaps not. Instead of leading him further into the den of seedy dealings, the thread brings him away, feet crunching on broken bottles, towards some type of fenced-in parking lot. Or it had been a parking lot, once

From a short distance through the metal fence, he can see burning barrels, tents, carts. The smells of cooking grills waft over, greasy foods, easy to cook outdoors. It wasn’t a new sight, in this city or otherwise. Chrollo had seen worse. Had lived worse.

And then, there--at the end of the red thread that weaved in between one of the fence’s metal honeycombs: you.

He sees you for the first time and knows, with a burning intensity that threatens to knock him over, that he needs you. He needs you now. He needs you always. You have something that he lacks and perhaps possessing you will give it to him. 

Is this what the others felt, when they first saw their soulmates? Or is it something unique to you and him? Some unfathomable bond that has shaken him to his core? Not for long, of course, never for long. He regains his senses within moments and catalogs the feeling away for later analysis. 

It’s you that he focuses on, now.  And the fact he will have you, as soon as he decides on the where, when, and how. He wouldn’t be the leader of the Phantom Troupe if he wasn’t skilled at taking what he wanted. 

Today what he wants is not a gallery of paintings or a rare gruesome artifact, but a person. 

You.

What to make of you? 

You’re standing in front of one of the burning barrels, rubbing your hands together. They look red and chapped, even from his vintage point. Behind you is a shopping cart filled with odds and ends. On the side nearest the fire, you had clearly laid out clothes over the edge of the cart--wet ones, from rain or maybe you’d had the opportunity to wash them. Your current ensemble is a simple hodgepodge. Clearly, you wore whatever was cleanest, whatever was warmest, whatever you could find. 

He remembers such a living. 

You appear to be on the outskirts, avoiding the groups scattered around the encampment. No one approaches you and you don’t approach them. A loner… by choice, or not? You wouldn’t be alone for long, if it wasn’t by choice, and in time you might be grateful for it. If it was by choice, well, there were ways to tame feral cats. 

It doesn’t take much analysis to decide what to do with you, to decide how best to approach things. He’s glad that he wore something casual today. Just some simple slacks and a nice sweater. If he was overdressed, it might be more difficult. Not that he couldn’t manage it, but he enjoys advantages when he can get them. 

With no hesitation, he walks through one of the ragged gaps in the metal fence and begins to approach you. 

Your head jerks towards him the moment that his steps become even remotely close. He doesn’t mind. It’s only natural, especially for someone who has been living the way you surely have. There’s a tugging somewhere inside him--memory of himself and connection with you.

He smiles, not broadly, but in a way meant to disarm. 

“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away from you. 

You stiffen. 

“I’m Chrollo,” he continues. His voice is undisturbed and calm. As if he was meeting you on a sunny afternoon in the park while you were both buying ice cream from the same cart. That might have been a more charming meeting, he muses, but this one can work to his advantage just as easily. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

You snatch your hands back from the barrel and step, refusing to turn your back to him, behind your cart.

“None of your business,” you say. 

And oh, he thinks, it would be heaven if he could somehow bottle the first time he hears your voice and listen to it on demand. But he supposes, he has the rest of his life--and yours--to hear you speak.

“That’s all right.”  He gestures towards you, the cart, your life. “I see you are in need.” You frown at him, but he continues. “How would you like to go somewhere warm?”

Your lip pulls back in a sneer and you move yourself on the other side of the cart.

“I don’t do that. Fuck off.”

Ah. You thought he wanted you to--well. It wouldn’t be the first time people took advantage of others in less fortunate situations. There had been enough of that in Meteor City. 

“No, nothing like that,” he says, voice going soft. “I should have clarified. I’m a… missionary of sorts. I look for people in need and offer what help I can give. I’d like to buy you a hotel room for the week.” He notices your wary expression. “Or even the day, if that would be more comfortable for you. Somewhere you can get some safe sleep, a shower, something to eat. I wouldn’t even be there.” 

He recognizes the look on your face all too well. Wariness. Suspicion. The face of someone who knows that people are tricky and greedy and cruel. That people will take things that they haven’t earned. Oh, yes-- he knows all of that so well, from both sides.

And he also knows how to get your guard to drop enough for him to accomplish his goal. Sure, mistrust is essential in an environment like this. But mistrust can always be overpowered when there’s something essential within reach. Like comfort. Or food. A warm place to stay, even if it’s just for a few hours. A private bathroom, a toilet, a tub.

“I don’t know,” you say, finally, having given him the appropriate stare down.

He nods his head.

“I understand. I would feel wary myself, in your position. It’s perfectly reasonable.” It is more than reasonable, he thinks, but you don’t need to know that. You just need to believe that coming with him will be worth your while, worth ignoring what he’s sure is a growing pit in your stomach. 

“What I would like to do is accompany you to a hotel where I often book rooms for those in need. It’s a private room, of course. And I will pay for your meals.” He sees the gears turning in your mind at the promise of a bed. The promise of food. “I have my own room in the hotel, but it’s on a different floor, and I won’t have to see you at all,” he adds, and this is how he will make you step over that cautionary line. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Everything is pre-paid on my card, of course, and you’re free to order whatever you’d like. What do you say?”

He lets his words hang in the air, wafting like smoke from the nearby barrels. 

You wet your lips. You glance around at the people around you. A few of them have taken notice of Chrollo, perhaps as a mark, perhaps more; but he pays them no mind. He could kill them in a fraction of a second and whisk you out of here just as easily, if he needs to… But he hopes it will not come to that. 

“All right,” you say suddenly, softly. “If… you’re just going to give me a room and feed me, then all right.”

Chrollo smiles. It is, he thinks, perhaps close to a genuine one.

“Wonderful. Follow me, if you please.”

--

The hotel is expensive, but thankfully not terribly ostentatious. Chrollo would hate to put you off by throwing you into some gilded lion’s den. But the hotel is more reserved, classy. Comfort and luxury without any of the ridiculous trappings that often come with them. 

Chrollo does bring you with him to the front desk, if only to reduce the chances that the security will kick you out for looking out of place. And you do look out of place, but perhaps that’s for the better. It will make you appreciate what he’s going to do for you more, won’t it? 

You’re quiet all the while, but that’s to be expected. You only hold tight to your backpack, where everything you hold dear has been crammed, and let him do the talking. A reservation is easily made under the guise that only you are to know the room number--you certainly don’t need to know that he’ll swing back and reserve the connected room next door--and the key is given without fanfare from the polite desk clerk who gives you curious glances but nothing more. 

Chrollo walks you to the elevator, ever the gentleman, and hands you the key. You stare at it. The uncertain expression on your face is unbelievably precious, he thinks. He hopes he can see more of it before it inevitably morphs into shock and anger and fear. 

“Would you like some new clothing?” Chrollo asks, after he pushes the button on the elevator for you. “I can have some sent up from the hotel’s boutique. I’ll tell the front desk, so they can give the concierge the room number. Ah, and I’ll need to know your size, if you’re willing to give it.” 

“You want to buy me clothes?”

You almost splutter out the words, and he has to restrain himself from kissing you right then and there. You are terribly cute, and there’s a slight disturbing tinge to how much he finds everything about you enticing so quickly. The way you furrow your eyebrows at his question. The slight look of embarrassment, the twitch of your lips. 

He needs you so much, and he’s only known you for a few moments.

You tell him your size, then glance at him before staring at the glossy metallic doors. “Um, I need something warm. No useless stuff.” Your head gestures back towards the hotel lobby, where a few women are walking on the arm of male companions, dressed in sleeveless dresses and likely heading for the restaurant. 

“Of course.” Chrollo does not tell you that he can envision you wearing all sorts of useless things in the future his mind is creating, brick by brick. You would look heavenly in something strapless, something slinky. Something that hangs off your shoulders. He would drape a fine wrap over them, were you behaving enough to go out with him--no one else but him will be privy to such delicacies. 

For now, though, he resolves to send you the clothes he knows you want. Things will be a little more seamless if your guard isn’t entirely raised. 

The elevator doors open.

Chrollo steps aside, and gestures for you to enter. 

“This is where I take my leave. I will let the restaurant host know your name, and you can order whatever you’d like. It’s on my card. Please, don’t feel the need to hold back.”

You take a step inside the elevator and ah, there it is. Just the slightest hesitation. The slightest jerk of your head as you look back at him. Do you feel bad, leaving him in a lurch when he’s giving you charity? Do you feel beholden to him in some way?

“I guess it’s okay if we share a meal. You’re paying for it, anyway. It’d be awkward otherwise.” You stare down at the elevator carpet as you say the words, and Chrollo realizes that he’s perhaps misjudged the gesture. Your sense of shame, maybe, outweighs your desire to be rid of him and his potential alternative motives for assisting you.

That might come in handy.

He nods, as you turn around and make brief eye contact with him. 

“Well, then. How about we meet here in 5 hours for dinner? I can send something dressy to your room, if you’d like.” 

You shrug your shoulders as the doors close, which is as good as assent in his view. The string on his finger rises with the elevator, but now there is no fear that he’ll lose you. The string, something which had been maddening in its slackness for so long, is now something of a treasure itself. A little leash, keeping you to him, wherever you go.

Which, for now, is your hotel room--meaning he needs to get moving. He won’t pick anything too flashy out from the boutique; something modest, something simple. There are delicate steps to take to avoid making you feel ashamed without offending your sense of dignity all in one go.

Thankfully--for you and himself--he’s attuned to such needs. 

5 hours. That would give you enough time to take a shower or bath, to change into the fresh clothing he’ll send up, to take a nap. Perhaps you’ll stare out the hotel window at the view or curl up in the bed, rolling on the fresh sheets. 

Five hours would give you time to freshen up and relax, yes. And it would give him enough time to get hold of Shalnark and procure anything he needs to make your removal from the hotel as smooth as possible.

--

The shower is running again. He doesn’t blame you. He remembers days where a hot shower was a luxury beyond imagining. 

He keeps his side pressed against the door connecting your rooms--not that you know he is on the other side with a key to yours, of course--and holds back a contended sigh as he watches the red string on his finger twirl and shift with your every movement. 

What are you thinking about? He wonders. Are you thinking about how long it’s been since you had a hot shower? Are you thinking about slipping the shampoo bottles into your backpack?

Perhaps more inviting… are you thinking about him?

He knows what’s on his mind, and has been for the last few hours now. You. 

What were you like, deep down, underneath your layers and justifiably guarded stance? Maybe you liked to read, maybe you once had a dream of being a dancer before life went to hell, maybe you were shy, maybe you liked to get drunk and sing your favorite songs at full volume. 

What would  you be like, once you were fully his? 

What do you look like, underneath all of your clothing? What has nature and nurture shown fit to bestow upon you, your skin, all those secret places you keep hidden? 

The thread bobbles again. Are you stepping out of the shower soon, or still scrubbing yourself? You’re so vulnerable, naked and unawares, just a few feet away from him. The water running is a delicious sound to his ears, because he knows that you’re underneath it. 

He imagines what you might look like naked. He imagines what sounds you might make, underneath him, gasping and--

Oh, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He smiles and shakes his head at the rush. He should slow down, yes. Slow down and savor it all.

He clenches both of his hands. In one is the duplicate key, in the other is a syringe. Both go into opposite pockets, awaiting their respective time to shine.

--

The dress that arrives at your door with a prim knock from a porter is not quite what you expected--which is a relief. You expected the stranger to send up something ridiculous. Something slinky and glittering, maybe with only a half shoulder. 

But instead it’s a simple dress with a flared skirt, all made from dark blue fabric. The sleeves are elbow length, the neckline isn’t too low, and there’s a matching black belt to go with it. He’s even sent up a pair of nylons, which are something you haven’t worn since you were a little kid, desperately trying to mimic your mother’s fancy outfits. 

He also--and maybe this is overkill--sent up a few pairs of shoes in different sizes, along with a transcribed note instructing you to call the front desk if none of them fit, or simply wear your own shoes if you are uncomfortable with it. 

This stranger--Chrollo--is awfully accommodating. And kind. And considerate. 

Which is exactly why, when the dress is on and your nylon-clad feet are resting in the shoes easiest to run in, you tuck your switchblade into one of the dress pockets for safekeeping. 

Maybe he is just kind. Or he’s one of those people that makes themselves feel better by occasionally being charitable; he’s harboring some sort of guilt that can be alleviated, however temporarily, by buying a person a sandwich or two. 

But maybe he’s not. You’ve known people who have been hurt or killed or sometimes worse by so-called charitable people. People that lure you in with showers and hotels, meals and clothing. People that slit your throat before or after they have their way with you.

Life was dark and life was shit, and you weren’t born yesterday. If this stranger had any nefarious intentions, you certainly weren’t going to walk into them like a bleating lamb. 

And yet, and yet… some part of you wanted to believe he had good intentions. You’re not sure why, exactly. You weren’t the type to look on the bright side or always see the good in people--or at least,  you hadn’t been that way since childhood. Yet something about this Chrollo made you hope that he was a good person. That you’d have a nice conversation and he wouldn’t do anything more than give you a nice afternoon and a place to sleep comfortably for a bit. 

It was an almost primal feeling, which made it all the more stranger. Your gut feelings usually told you something like: this place is dangerous, this guy’s probably got a gun, that alley’s too notorious to use as a shortcut. 

Your gut didn’t give you silly notions, like wanting to trust someone, hoping they would talk to you during dinner, wondering if they’d be pleasant to be around for longer. 

--

At least, not before today.

“And the lady will have the cailles aux raisins.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Quail,” Chrollo says, allowing the waiter to take the leather-bound menu from his hands. As if your issue was with the choice of food--okay, you didn’t know what it meant, but still--and not that he ordered for you. “Stuffed with shallots, grapes, liver, and ah, I believe, some cognac, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s correct, sir,” the waiter says, not giving you a second glance--you didn’t even get a menu, which irked you, but considering you had nothing to pay with and perhaps the hotel staff knew it, it was a practical snub.

Your lips twist into a frown, although you suppose you can’t complain. The dish does sound good.  Not that you’ve ever had quail. But it can’t be that different from chicken. Or duck. You had duck, once, as a kid. Your mother brought you to a hotel just like this for a Mother’s Day brunch and you sat at a table with an embroidered cloth and wore a pair of your mother’s white gloves, so that you would look extra fancy.

“I apologize,” Chrollo tells you. “I should have asked your preference first.” The strangest part is how sincere he sounds, like he really didn’t want to offend you. Like he actually might be interested in what you want to eat. Part of you can appreciate that, and part of you wants to finger the handle of your knife inside your pocket.

“It’s fine.” You shrug it all off. Because you can, and you choose to--but also because you’re famished and the smells wafting from the other tables is enough to make your stomach growl. “People usually don’t order things like this for me, anyway. If they do give me anything.”

Chrollo tilts his head slightly, looking at you like a particularly interesting painting on a wall. “No?” 

You smile thinly. “Nope. I’m lucky if I get someone’s leftover fries from a fast food shop.” 

“What a shame.” He places both hands on the table, clasping his fingers together. His gaze bores into yours. You look away, briefly, but find yourself wanting to look back. How odd. “I’m sure,” he begins, talking slowly, measuring out his words, “that must be demoralizing--to be treated as lesser-than.”

You can’t help the snort that comes out your nose, or the quick words that follow. “Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Your eyes rake over his outfit, your mind whirls over how much money he’s spent on you alone, as if it was nothing. A drop in the bucket. Some rich man playing with his money. Or daddy’s money, depending on the circumstance.

Of course, you expect him to get offended. You expect him to call you ungrateful and cancel the order and ship you out of here like yesterday’s trash. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gotten angry that you didn’t play into their savior fantasies. Your muscles even prep to stand, your face goes stony, ready to block the anger that he’ll throw your way.

Only... none of that happens.

His face looks--it’s hard to describe, really. It’s almost like it glitches for a moment, and you see something you weren’t meant to see. You’re not even sure if he realizes it. And then his expression gets so remote and so quiet. He looks away from you for perhaps the first time, looking instead, at his hands.

“I know a lot about that, actually.”

It’s not offense in his expression but… sympathy? No, that’s not it either. You know “sympathy face” like the back of your hand, for all the good it does you. 

It’s empathy. Trace, but there. A shared experience between you. Maybe that’s why you’ve felt inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt all day. Why you went with him in the first place, hunger pangs aside. 

“So you’ve been…” You begin, but is there a need to finish. He’s been homeless, or something like it. Downtrodden. On the bottom. 

He nods.

“Sorry.” The word comes out blurted but soft. Well, I’m an asshole, you think. 

He smiles at you, a soft, thin thing--almost like a gloss that covers up his previous expression. “No, don’t be. You had no way of knowing, dear.” 

Dear.

The word hangs between you silently, as if it’s being dangled on some sort of invisible string. He opens his mouth slightly--maybe to apologize--but shuts it when you don’t say anything. Instead, he simply blinks, and watches you.

Perhaps a minute ago you might have bristled at the nickname, might have sought to cut it right down, in fact. But for now, you brush it aside. He’s being nice--he knows what you’re going through. And sure, there’s some sort of guilt relief in his actions, but it’s not coming from the place of a rich man making himself feel better. It’s coming, you think, from a place of not just knowing where you’ve been but having been there himself. 

Before either of you can speak, the waiter returns with your appetizer and despite the guilt in your gut, your hunger practically sings at the sight of the plate of bread and butter. It’s fancy bread, already cut, gleaming with what smells like garlic butter spread over the top. 

The flavored butter is shaped like a rose and it’s only after you childishly dip your bread right into it and take a loud, chewy bite of the delicious goodness that you realize you’ve committed a faux-pas. There’s a tiny butter knife on the plate, obviously meant to delicately smear the butter onto your bread. And here you are, gnawing on the piece like some sort of medieval peasant during a bad harvest. 

A pang of shame tingles over you. It’s a silly kind of shame--inconsequential, really. Who cares how you eat bread at some hotel you’ll never step foot in again in your life? But it lingers terribly. Until Chrollo picks up a piece of brand and dips it right into the butter, too, taking a chewy bite with far less graciousness than you imagined with his sophisticated appearance.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” He asks, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

You smile. You almost-snort. And the shame dissipates like ice crystals on a sunny day, as you and Chrollo both finish off the appetizer. He lets you eat more without saying a word, which you appreciate.

There’s a lot to appreciate about him, really. He’s been kind. He hasn’t been terribly condescending, dinner order notwithstanding. And he seems to know how to approach you with actual empathy and not just the sticky, coddling sympathy that most people do.

And you won’t lie--he is nice to look at. He even smells nice, but with the amount of money he had to spend on the clothing he sent up to your room, he can likely afford to buy expensive cologne.

If he notices you staring, he says nothing. Instead, he half-closes his eyes and appears to be deep in thought. Over… you? Or dinner? 

He hums a bit under his breath, and you realize: it’s the music. It’s a delicate song being played by a small group of musicians set up on a stage in the corner. It’s familiar… your brain strives to catch up with your ears. 

“You like this song?” You ask, because the silence has stretched too long, and the bread is now gone.

Chrollo opens his eyes and regards you with a sober smile. “Yes.” He pauses, then. “It’s--”

“Elgar's Chanson de matin,” you blurt, before he can. “I know it.”

His eyes widen, just a tad. Enough to show that he’s curious. A funny bit of pride thrums through you. It can be retribution for the quail earlier, you decide.

“You’re familiar with his work?”

You feel your cheeks heat up, even though you don’t get the sense that he asked to be cruel. He seems actually interested. Like he wants to know you. It’s nice, and confusing, and a little startling. 

You nod, wishing there was more bread to break up the conversation. “What, you think someone like me can’t be interested in classical music?

“Of course not.” He answers swiftly, resolutely.

 He reaches his hand towards yours and grasps it before you can think to pull away. It seems silly to yank your hand out of his, so you don’t. Even if the way he looks down at your interlocked fingers makes goosebumps dance up your arm. 

His expression is so strange. He looks… lonely. And desperate. And relieved. But why? 

Both of your gazes meet for one electric moment and for that moment, you feel like he sees you. And you see him. Not as clearly. But you see something inside him that is not quite on the surface. Something which does make you pull away, but not with distaste. You withdraw your hand from his slowly, like he’s a wild animal that you don’t want to startle.

The waiter, impeccable timing as ever, arrives with the main courses just as your hand makes its way into your lap. 

And just like that, the spell is broken. Ripples of water dash whatever it was between you, and he’s speaking charmingly to the waiter, who appears swiftly again with a glass of champagne for each of you. You weren’t intending to drink, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt. It could calm your nerves.

Neither of you talk much for the rest of dinner. It’s not tense, exactly, but you can tell there’s something in the air. Questions unspoken, maybe, or just an awkwardness between two strangers who seem to both understand and misunderstand each other in equal measure.

The hotel’s restaurant begins to thin out after your main courses are taken away. A dessert menu is brought, and Chrollo orders a simple slice of cake for both of you. 

Real vanilla bean frosting is on your lips when you ask your question. Quiet, but with most of the other guests gone, he has no trouble hearing it.

“So you were… homeless, before?”

You’re not sure why you need to know this. To confirm that he’s not some rich boy playing with his father’s money? To see how much he can really understand you? Maybe the champagne went to your head. You don’t normally drink, it wouldn’t be impossible.

His fork stalls as the question comes out. He glances up at you and there’s nothing offended or hurt in his eyes. He seems to weigh his answer before he gives it. It doesn’t really surprise you; he could be just as mistrustful of you as you are of him, couldn’t he?

“Something like that.” He rests his fork on his plate. “I suppose you are trying to decide just how much I can sympathize with your… situation.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you’re grateful the water brought another glass of champagne that you can sip from to loosen the tightness in your chest.

If he notices your flushed countenance, he doesn’t remark on it. You like him better for it. He continues speaking, looking at you with a measured expression. Like before, his words come slowly and carefully, given to you with something akin to grace.

“Our situations were not exactly similar. I don’t find it terribly useful to compare them. Better in some ways, worse in others. Like anything.”

“Better?” You dab at your mouth with a napkin. 

“Ah.” He seems to weigh his next words with even more scrutiny before he decides on them. “I had something you didn’t, which surely benefited me.”

“Which was?”

There’s something wistful in his voice now. It makes you lean forward over the table. With most of the other guests gone, it feels strange to talk so openly about clearly delicate matters. Chrollo mimics your lean, and while he doesn’t take your hands across the table into his, you get the feeling he’d like to, if you let him.

“Companionship,” he says simply. The word settles in the air like a brick that seems to land right on your chest. You blink and feel the beginnings of tears in your eyes. You really did have too much champagne, and this is all getting to be a lot. You start to lean backward when he speaks again.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“No,” you lie. The shock of the question does make you lean back fully. Then, to be spiteful. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He only looks down at his hands and the empty spot where yours used to be, and then back at you. 

Nothing more is said on the matter. He pays for the meal and leaves a nice fat tip for the waiter--who has, you think, been lurking nearby either to witness your drama or to make sure no one swipes his tip from the table--before escorting you back to the elevators.

Shame slams back into you while you’re standing in front of the elevator doors.

“I’m sorry.” Sure, he asked it first, but fuck--you hate being rude. If you were rude. It was hard to tell how Chrollo felt about anything. The champagne making your head fuzzy doesn’t help. Not at all.  

He tilts his head a little. “What for?”

Your eyebrows furrow together. “You know, for asking… for being…” You wave your hands around a little. It’s too hard to put into words. You’re tired, you feel out of sorts, and you’re tipsy bordering on drunk. You can give yourself some forgiveness in a lack of coherency in this matter, at least.

Chrollo regards you for a moment before he shakes his head, scoffing a little as he smiles.

“For being yourself? Or at least showing some small part of it to me? I don’t mind.” He holds out his arm and you, unsteady champagne fuzz in your head, take it. “I’ll escort you to your room, if that’s all right. I don’t feel comfortable letting you go there alone.”

You should tell him that you’ll be fine. You should. But the champagne in your brain and the way you feel drawn to him--however slightly--makes “should” fly out the window. So you nod and let him lead you into the elevator, where the ride up makes you dizzy enough that Chrollo has to steady you carefully, and you mumble out another apology. 

He only chuckles a little and helps you walk out of the elevator without stumbling over the threshold. Your room is just down the hall and he keeps a steady grip on you the whole way, even though you’ve told yourself that you won’t stumble anymore. It feels weird, to have someone so close to you; to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin.

It feels weird, yes, but giddy too. He is handsome. And he did buy you dinner. And clothes. And he’s not as shitty as you thought he might be at first. The way he ate the bread in solidarity with you earlier--you can’t forget that, can you? It was… cute, even. If someone like Chrollo could be called cute.

Is it the champagne, the newness of this stranger-but-not-entirely, the rich disarmament that comes with a full stomach and freshly washed face? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s got you thinking too much about Chrollo as he gently takes the key from your hand and opens your hotel room door.

A gentleman, he only sees you just inside before taking his leave, promising to meet you for breakfast in the morning--if you’d like.

You would like, you tell him, and the door shuts and locks swiftly afterwards. Chrollo’s cologne lingers in the air, or maybe it rubbed off on you from all the steadying he had to do. 

The hotel room is just as you left it. Clean and pristine, smelling vaguely of lemon. Your duffel bags and personal belongings are shoved in the corner. Maybe you’ll try to read one of your books tonight, before you sleep? It would be the first time you read on an actual bed in ages. Maybe you could even call for room service? A little midnight snack? It’s not like Chrollo would mind, or at least, he probably wouldn’t. It’d be something small anyway, nothing wild. 

Unless you wanted a bubbly nightcap. 

Full of ideas, you take your giddy champagne self back to the bathroom to change into pajamas that he sent up earlier, humming Elgar’s Chanson, thinking about bread and quail and… Chrollo. The knife in your dress pocket gets left on the bathroom counter. It was silly to bring it, now that you think about it. 

Still humming, you flop on the bed and grab the menu for room service. It wouldn’t hurt to order some extra dessert. And another glass of champagne. Maybe two… 

You’re so out of sorts that at no point for the rest of the night, before your weary head hits the soft pillow, do you stop to wonder how Chrollo knew your room number.

--

There are few things Chrollo truly regrets in his life. One of them, he knows, will be that he couldn’t plant himself in this town for a few months in order to properly court you; to introduce you, gradually, to the concept of nen. To the knowledge that you were his soul mate.

But it can’t be helped. He has to leave tomorrow night, come hell or high water. And he certainly won’t let you drown here a moment longer. It’s for your sake. You’ll come to realize that eventually, just as you will--in time--come to forgive him for what he must do.

You’ll no doubt regret letting down your barriers in the morning. But if you hadn’t been so keen to trust in someone, to trust in him, then he wouldn’t have gotten to see something of the real you underneath all of that built-up survival instinct. And didn’t you see something of him, too? He thinks you did. Just a moment, a spark, but it was there. 

You sweet thing. He could hear you humming through the door earlier; heard you order room service (champagne and desserts) and he regretted not having Shalnark swoop in during dinner to set up some security cameras. 

The key to your room feels heavy in his hand. On this side, he is simply himself, staring ahead as the red thread of his soulmate leads away from him. But once he turns it into the lock and quietly opens the door, there will be nothing between you but sleep.

He opens the door and relishes in the way the thread sags even further downward. If only you could have seen how beautiful the thread looked during dinner, all tangled up as he clasped your hand in his. That’s how the thread was meant to look. Not tight and taut and unforgiving.

You’re fast asleep when he silently enters the room and unlocks the deadbolt so that Shalnark can help him remove you from the premises. Curled up underneath the covers, you look like you’re in bliss. It’s likely the first restful sleep you’ve had in a long time. Months? Years? 

How awful for you, to wake up tomorrow and realize that you’re no longer in the hotel bed. And that he’s the one to blame for it. How awful for him, too, to lose his grasp on the tentatively pleasant and revealing evening you had together. But he doesn’t think you’ll be empathetic on that matter. Not for a while, anyway.

He sits down on the bed next to you and it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to curl up against you. It’s not worth the risk of you waking, although the tranquilizer in his pocket could be jabbed into your thigh early, if need be. 

Besides… you’ll have a lifetime of nights together after this. 

There’s no need to rush what is finally his to keep forever. 

[fierifiction]

We don't have a lot of, like, smokehouses here in south Florida. So to smell that smell, but dasein’s Being in general is one of ‘care. FIERI: That's where Andres Barrientos and James Bowers had heard that— SALIAN: ‘they were the same, was it not, but there you had the other guys. (Laughter) CRESTALOS: ‘I don't know. ‘I think, you know, we always wanted to see the same level as The Devil and have us all get out of here for this Halloween on the night of July 6.

[double-xero]

ZD Headcanons Part 2

TW Its ZD, yk what to expect.

Cal’s favorite horror movies are Black Christmas and Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Andre has awful acne on his back.

If Bluetooth existed back the. cal would be playing annoying songs in Andre’s car to embarrass him.

They have sleepovers like every other week.

Cal’s smartass mouth gets them in trouble.

When Cal got arrested for having weed Andre probably laughed when he called him from the jail.

“Imagine getting caught.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Their favorite place to go out and eat is either Wendy’s or Burger King. Maybe some local shop or diner.

Cal gets genuinely mad when anyone else rides in the front seat of Andre’s car.

Imagine that one audio where it’s like “AND WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE JAPANESE CHERRY BLOSSOM-“

Andre doesn’t have a close/good relationship with his parents.

Cal tends to show the more violent side of depression. He doesn’t think of hurting himself too often, but he does have a desire to hurt others.

This emotion eventually bottles up and results in Cal biting or cutting himself.

The main reason he even started smoking was the feel happier.

Andre is more prone to isolating himself, which is why his relationship with his parents isn’t great.

He also shows a more aggressive attitude, but chooses to act on hurting others wether it be physically or emotionally.

Andre loves two things: Mel and Cal.

Most of their quality time together is spent driving around at night.

Occasionally they park in an empty dirt lot and fall asleep.

Some of Cal’s shirts were Andre’s. He just won’t give them back.

Andre is a heavy sleeper, he snores too.

Mel is so mean to everyone besides Andre and Cal.

If Andre doesn’t let Mel in his room she’ll paw and meow at the door until he opens it.

Even after Andre and Cal followed through with ZD, Mel still paws at the door and sleeps on Andre’s bed.

Cal doesn’t like his siblings. Once his younger siblings were born he was pushed into the background.

Andre holds Cal’s hand while he’s driving sometimes. Mostly when it’s late.

They usually wind up snuggled together at sleepovers.

Cal sleeps in the funniest positions. The man lays like he’s in his coffin. (Foreshadowing 💀)

If things had been different they would’ve ran away together after graduation.

[jasonsknight3]

Part two! @eva-sparda20

Warning: intermediation? There isn’t much in this one.

Passing by

(AK Jason d Sweet waitress reader)

Today was a cloudy Saturday, not raining though which was an unusual thing. There was always rain with clouds but not today. Not on your day off. Not that it mattered sense you weren’t going out anyway. Your day off was spent watching movies, napping, snacking, and a few hobbies you finally had time for. The man you met hasn’t come back to your dissatisfaction. As intimidating as he was, you felt a force of attraction to him. Not just his pretty eyes and face, not just the way he made your heart leap in all kinds of nervousness but, the mysterious air about him. The alluring mystery to his personality. You still hadn’t figured him out. Not that you really had time to when you first met him. He was on your mind near constantly for the past three days and two nights. There was so much you wanted to know, to explore. He had your attention so much, it honestly bothered you how quickly you felt…attached. It wasn’t love but it was something. A connection somehow.

Around 6:00 pm the sky grew a little darker and you put on the second movie of the day, a personal favorite. The 1950’s movie “Scaramouche” with Stewart Grange in it. A dramatic movie with romance, sword fighting, comedy, and so much more. It wasn’t everyone’s favorite but you enjoyed it. Watching. As the movie plays you feel your eyelids getting heavier and heavier. The last thing you remember was when Andre Moreau jumped in the wagon proclaiming his love to Aline De Galvrillac.

The sound of wood dragging against wood against wood woke you up. Opening your eyes you rub them trying. To rub away the sleep from them. Peering behind the back part of the couch, you look into the kitchen. You gasped as you saw a figure standing there next to the open window you swear you locked. The figure slid off his green baseball hat revealing a familiar face. Your body relaxed a little. It was him, he wasn’t wearing his armor though, instead, he wore a red hoodie, gray pants, and some hiking boots. “You’re back.” You said softly trying to hide your excitement for the much welcomed surprise visit. Getting up stretching you walk to the kitchen. “What did you come here for?” You ask stopping to rest against the counter. “I was actually hoping you wouldn’t be here.” He said flatly. That drug a little but you half expected it. You tried to keep it light, ignoring the comment. “Yea, I have Sundays off. Um…” you look around your eyes settling on the microwave. 8:00. Before you could speak he said “you should really lock your window.” You nod “yea, it’s actually broken. It doesn’t actually lock.” You explained sheepishly. “You should fix it.” There was a long pause before you said anything else. “Would…would you like some dinner?” You question. He looked at the floor for a moment and looked back at you silently longer than comfortable. “Fine.” A part of you felt relief at his acceptance but you also felt he had ulterior motives for staying. You didn’t mind though, you felt as though it wasn’t anything bad. “Does spaghetti sound good?” You ask him. “Sounds fine.” He replied unenthusiastically. Grabbing pots, noodle, ground beef, mushrooms and all the seasoning you set all the items out to start.

As you filled up the big pot with water he leaned against the counter next to the stove. “So, what’s your name hm?” Him asking questions was a surprise but you answered happily. “Um, (F/N).” He hummed in response before continuing. “I could tell you worked at a diner the first time I saw you but I just want to know if my assumption is correct.” You smile, “yea, I work at a diner.” You say heaving up the pot of water and setting it on the stove. Turning the knob and pausing til you hear the three clicks to finally turn it up to nine. The fire caught and started to heat up the water. “Which one?” He questioned you. You looked at him for a moment before answering “why are you asking? What’s with starting all these questions?” You ask curiously. He frowns as if his reasons were obvious. “To make sure that you keep your word.” The water began to boil. Putting in the noodles and storing for a minute you respond. “How would asking me these questions keep me in check? Besides, I'll keep you a secret.” You say as you start to brown the meat. He seemed frustrated. “Your word isn’t enough. Secondly,” he stepped close to the way he presented himself was intimidating, making you shiver a little. “I’ve done my research, you know. I know you to a level others don’t. Your name is (F/N) (M/N) (L/N), I know you are (age), dropped out of college, work at Paul’s diner on Maigani island, on grande Avenue, the one that was rebuilt a year ago, I know your medical history, I know you’re originally from (redacted). Escaped your family, now you're here. I. Know. Everything.” Your heart hammered in your chest, your face no doubt reflecting panic and terror. You didn’t really realize the gravity of who this man was. Possibilities swam in your head. Has he been stalking you? Was the night you helped him planned? Stepping back he relaxed. “Calm down, it’s not that hard to find all of that information, not for me. Let’s just say I used to work for the supposed “best detective” there ever was. I’m a vigilante. I hunt criminals down regularly. Hunting down your information was easy. As for your question about how it helps me “keep you in check” by asking questions. Think of it as a test. I ask what I already know and based on your answer I learn how honest you really are.” It was a lot to take in but it all made at least a little sense. Why he was hurt, why he wore the gear, why he knew so much about you. It all made more sense but still freaked you out a little. You quietly start to add the red sauce. You didn’t know what to say, you felt so exposed, you didn’t have a criminal record but it felt as if he knew every sin you committed.

Out of the corner of your eye you see him looking out the window when his body suddenly jolted , his body going stiff, his head slightly snapping to the side before returning to looking out the window. He closed his eyes for a moment before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, putting it to rest between his lips. Taking a deep inhale he then blew out the smoke. You look at him nervously before saying “could you please open the window?” His iceberg eyes shifted to you. Wordlessly he opened the window letting the cool air of the night carry the smoke out. Within fifteen minutes the spaghetti was ready. The final touches were adding rosemary, mushrooms, pepper, garlic, and some basil. Making a plate for him he takes a seat at the table and begins to eat. Even if he tried to hide it you could tell he was really enjoying the home made meal. After making your own plate you lean in against the opposite counter and begin to eat as well. Once you chewed a few bites you managed the courage to ask him “what’s your name?” Pausing just before taking another bite he eyed you down before replying “No need for you to know.” Not really happy with his answer, you add a little pressure. “Well you know so much about me already. Seems fair I should know at least something about you.” He chewed his bite slowly considering. “I don’t play fair (F/N).” I don’t owe you an explanation but…my name is Jason. That’s all you get.” You smile “Jason, seems fitting.” You say, his facial expression changed, he seemed a little weirded out or at least didn’t know what to say to that. It was honestly kind of funny…cute even. “Yea, well, don’t get too excited. It’s just a name.” After eating he thanked you for the meal.

Before leaving he said “don’t forget to, I am keeping tabs on you.” He paused one more time halfway through the window “and fixed that window lock. You're just asking for trouble.” With that Jason left. This meeting felt different. There was so much that happened in one setting, being left with many emotions, fear, attraction and the biggest of all. Curiosity.

[fangirlingfromdownunder]

Comfort Breakfast

Summary - Part 22 in the Comfort series

Pairing - Dean Winchester x Reader, Reader x Sam (platonic), Reader x Bobby (father-figure), Andre (OG Character) x Reader (best friends)

Warnings - none

Series Masterlist | Masterlist 

Once you’re all packed up and checked out Dean drives you both to a local diner. He orders you both coffees, a straight black and a mocha for you, and a tall stack of pancakes with a side of bacon and maple syrup to share. While you wait for your order to arrive you decide to open up about your shower thoughts.

“So, uh, I was thinking…”

“I hope you didn’t hurt yourself,” Dean quips.

“I’m trying to be serious here, asshole.”

“You would’ve said the same thing to me. In fact, you have on multiple occasions.” You shoot him an unimpressed look and he holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, Sweetheart, continue. What were you thinking about?”

“I don’t know if I want to tell you now,” you tease.

He reaches over and takes your hand in his, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Please, Baby, I’m sorry. Tell me.”

“You’re lucky I love you…”

“I know. Now tell me what you were thinking about.”

“Maybe, our wedding doesn’t have to wait until we’re out.”

“What are you saying? You still want to marry me?”

Just as you’re about to elaborate, your phone rings. “It’s Andre,” you say, Dean rolls his eyes and you shake your head at him smiling as you answer. “Hi Bestie, you’d better be calling to tell me you and Danny finally set a wedding date.”

“Not quite. Look, I know you said you’re not hunting anymore after everything you’ve been through recently. But we’ve been doing some venue hunting in Vegas and something feels off. I promised Danny I wouldn’t hunt it but I refuse to let some vengeful spirit ruin our prospects or anyone else’s special day.”

“You have impeccable timing, actually. This is just what I need right now. If you can try to find out everything you can about it we can be there in a day or so. I can’t wait to see you and Danny!”

“See you soon, Bestie! I’ll text you the deets.”

As the line goes silent your food and coffee arrive. Once the waitress leaves Dean takes a sip of his coffee staring at you expectantly.

“How do you feel about Vegas?”

“Gambling, drinking and sex. Sounds like heaven.”

“Good, because Andre caught a case there. But uh, you’re a pledge remember.”

“Biggest regret ever. Can we still go to the casino?” he asks with a mouth full of bacon.

“After we gank whatever it is, sure. I could use a night of gambling and booze.”

You both dig into your breakfast in relative silence. Once you’re full you push the plate towards Dean and lean back in the booth before breaking the silence again. “I don’t wanna get married in Vegas. I want something more classy.”

“Trust me, you deserve way more than a rushed Vegas wedding and I’m going to make sure you get it.”

“I’m not much of a traditionalist, and I don’t need much, but if we’re gonna do it, I want it to be special.”

“It will be, I promise. You ready for an extra long road trip, my sweet?”

“Bring it on.” 

Dean places a few bills on the table under the plate and stands up before holding his hand out to you. You slide to the end of the booth before taking his hand and letting him lead the way back to the car. He opens the passenger door for you and closes it once you’re situated inside, then moves around to the driver’s side to get in himself. You listen to the engine roar to life as he speeds down the highway, then shuffle through his box of cassettes. 

“What do you wanna listen to driver?”

He glances at you and the box quickly before putting his eyes back on the road. He sighs and then says, “You pick.”

“I thought the driver picked the music?” you say shocked.

“Don’t make me change my mind, and don’t tell Sam.”

You flick through your choices again before deciding on one of his favourites: Led Zeppelin II. Once the classic rock fills the car he shoots you a quick, surprised look. “You get a chance to play whatever you want and you pick one of my favourite albums? I really don’t deserve you.”

His free hand finds your thigh and squeezes softly. You put your hand on top of his and then above the music say, “What made you agree to the chastity pledge?”

He nods his chin towards the radio, so you turn it down, and then once it’s quieter he replies, “The prospect of a second chance. Being able to just hit refresh … after everything that’s happened. I really did want that baby, you know … I could picture it so clearly. Waking up to an empty bed in the middle of the night only to find you sitting in a rocking chair in the nursery feeding and singing to our beautiful little girl. I imagined the perfect little princess with your cute nose and sparkling eyes.” 

You look over at him and see the tears running down his cheeks. You slide across the bench seat and wipe them away with your thumbs, trying your best not to hinder his view of the road, then rest your head on his shoulder. “I promise one day we’ll make that dream come true. Well, I can’t promise you a little girl, that’s up to your sperm, but the rest … I want that more than anything. Just not yet, okay?”

He quickly kisses the top of your head before you feel him nod.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It’s just past eight at night by the time Dean finally pulls into a diner just off the highway. You’d been complaining about needing a bathroom for about half an hour so the second the wheels stop moving you jump out. You can hear Dean laughing from behind you but you ignore him as you bolt inside. When you come back out he’s sat in a booth with two glasses of Cola and two burgers with fries in front of him. You quickly join him and take a big bite of the burger, and then say with your mouth half-full, “You have no idea how much I love you!”

Dean swallows his mouthful and then says, “I love you too, sweetheart.”

After washing it down with some Cola you reply, “Huh? I was talking to the burger.” When he shoots you an offended look you add, “But I guess I love you too, you dork.”

After you both finish eating Dean gets up to use the bathroom himself, so you pull out your phone and impulsively start looking up wedding dresses. You know you don’t want anything too fancy or outrageous. You scroll past ballroom styles dresses and mermaid ones that you just know you wouldn’t be able to walk in. Then your fingers stop on a simple, white wrap-up cami dress with a split in the front and simple yet elegant lace look fabric. You could imagine yourself in that dress, standing in a field with a simple bouquet walking towards your handsome hunter. You hear Dean’s breath hitch from behind you; you turn around and see him staring in shock at your screen while carrying a plate of cherry pie. You turn your phone off and take the plate and place it on the table before he drops it.

“So, your serious about doing this soon?” He asks, slipping into the booth opposite you.

“We have to go to Vegas first. But despite everything … or because of everything I don’t want to wait. Our lives are in danger every day, I have faith we can get out, but what if we don’t and we never get a chance? After the baby and the djinn … time is precious and our lives can change in an instant.”

“Then let’s gank this ghost and then I’m gonna marry myself a wife.” He takes a bite of the pie and then adds, “I never thought I’d get to say that.”

“I still can’t believe I’m going to marry the warrior, Dean Winchester.”

“You would look incredible in that dress by the way. You don’t get a chance to dress up much in our lives, but when you do … Even that tight little black FBI dress you wore that time … I swear you’re going to be the death of me, Sweetheart.”

“Just eat your pie, Winchester.”

He takes a scoop and leans over the table, holding the fork in front of your lips until you open them and let him feed it to you. Sitting here like this, planning your wedding and joking together, it’s hard to believe that just a few days ago you were barely talking. Or that you’d suffered such a great loss just a couple of months ago. Once the plate is clean you both get up and head outside. Just before you reach the car you pull him in for a kiss, and then reach into his pocket and steal the keys. As soon as he feels your hand he pulls away and tries to grab you, but he’s too slow. You bolt around the car to the driver’s side and slip in starting the engine. He defeatedly gets in the passenger side. 

“You drove all day, it’s my turn. Get some sleep.”

“I’d argue but it’s so sexy when my girl drives my Baby.”

“Shut up and get some sleep.” You put your foot down and take off into the darkness. Unsurprisingly, he refuses to sleep, opting to watch you and do his best to help you stay focused and awake. 

It’s around three in the morning when you can barely keep your eyes open, so you pull over among some trees and shut off the engine. 

“Come here,” Dean says as he turns to you opening his arms. 

You cuddle for a while, but you know neither of you will get decent sleep like this so eventually you sit up.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, barely awake.

“Go to sleep. I love you.” You lean down and place a soft kiss on his lips before climbing over the bench and laying down on the back seat. 

Little do you know, Dean listens and waits until you stop stirring before finally drifting off himself. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Tag list: (Leave a like or comment on this post or let me know below if you want to be added to the tag list for this series)

@bitchwitch1981, @muhahaha303, @justrealizedimmascifygurl, @mcdowell-123, @leigh70, @marvelsmarauder, @losa12308, @tapedeck-hearts, @luvjaida, @peachtxa, @ambearsstuff, @shadow-of-a-cloud, @slut-for-buck, @iprobablyshipit91, @sassy-pelican, @fallenlilangel99, @heavenlyhopeful0

[writer-ann-artist]

The Devil's Ángel

°•~☆~•°

°•~☆~•°

"Are you sure it's a good idea for me to come down?"

"Of course, mi ángel, besides, I haven't seen my niñito yet."

"Ok Hiram, I'll see you soon. Te quiero."

"Te quiero, mi ángel."

Yes, I am in a relationship with Hiram Lodge. Yes, Harmine knows about me, Veronica, too. The family has accepted me as Hiram's girlfriend, but now he has asked me to come live in Riverdale with him.

°•~☆~•°

"Oh mi ángel, I've missed you." Hiram hugs me and kisses my hair line.

"I've missed you too." His eyes rest on the baby carrier.

"Is he awake?"

"Last I checked, no, but you can still see him." Hiram opens the carrier softly and just stares in awe.

"He has your eyes, ángel." I hug his waist, and he hugs me back.

"I was thinking he looked alot like you."

"What did you decide his name would be?"

"Ronnie Hiram Lodge."

"Beautiful."

"Anna, what a surprise. Hiram didn't tell me you were visiting." Hiram moves to hold my hand in his.

"Actually, I had asked Anna to move here." The look he was giving Harmine clearly said it was no debatable.

"Oh well, I'm sure Veronica will be enjoying your company."

"Speaking of, do you mind picking her up after school?"

"I don't want to intrude Hiram."

"Nonsense ángel, besides me and Harmine have a previous engagement."

"Okay Hiram."

°•~☆~•°

I waited outside Veronica's school deciding to surprise her instead. When I see her I wave and she waves back. She walks over with her friends.

"Anna, what are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry I didn't call, I wanted to surprise you. I even have a surprise for you."

"Oh, is it expensive?" I laugh and open the rear car door.

"Yes, he is." Veronica gasps and awes.

"You can hold him V." She picks him up and cradles him. I turn to her friends and introduce myself.

"I'm Anna."

"Archie."

"Betty."

"Jughead."

"Pleasure to meet you all. Oh, and this is Ronnie."

"Oh Anna, you shouldn't have." We talk for abit and decide on going to a nice little diner.

"Oh, I love this."

"I knew you would." We sit at a booth with Archie, V, and me on one side. Jughead and Betty were on the other side with Ronnie in Betty's lap.

"He's so gorgeous."

"Thank you, Betty."

"Now, I'm curious. Who's the father?" I hesitate, not knowing what to say. V slaps Archie's arm, and Jughead and Betty pay closer attention to Ronnie.

"You don't have to answer that Anna."

"It's fine, though I'm sure you all know the answer already." I look around and see there faces. They definitely know. Betty speaks first.

"We don't want to come off as judgy, but V loves you so we do to right guys." She looks to the boys and they nod agreeing.

"That's very kind of you, I wouldn't want to ruin your group V."

"Anna you could never." We finish lunch and I take V home.

"I'm sorry again for Archie."

"V it's okay, I get it. The boy is pretty but he's not all there." We laugh as we enter the apartment.

"Miss Lodge, and Miss Heart it's good to see you."

"Andre, good to see you too."

"My girls, and boy." Hiram reaches us kissing V's head and picking up Ronnie.

"Your apartment is right beside ours."

"Oh Hiram, you didn't have to. I could settle for a little home in the suburbs."

"But I want you close to me ángel." I can see this comment makes V uncomfortable.

"Let's go put Ronnie to sleep. I had a great time with you V." I kiss V's cheek as we depart.

°•~☆~•°

In the apartment Hiram is rocking Ronnie to sleep as I prepare for bed.

"Ángel, are you okay?"

"I am, I just. That comment you made downstairs made Veronica uncomfortable. I mean, can you imagine how it feels when your dad is bringing his girlfriend home." He had set Ronnie in his crib and came behind me to hold me.

"It's ok, Mia will understand." I turn in his arms.

"She shouldn't have to Hiram. I'm the girlfriend, I should be the one keeping my distance." Hiram holds my hand in his hands and looks into my eyes.

"I don't want that anymore. I want you in my life, ángel. I want us to be a family."

"You have a family Hiram."

"Who says can't have both?"

"What are you doing to me Hiram?"

"It's alright, now let's get to bed. We know you need the rest."

[meggiejolly]

Seven Sentence Sunday

This is from the scene of the RNM RWRB AU that I'm currently working on. The scene is inspired by a trip I took at the beginning of October and I meant to finish writing it as soon as I got home, but then writers blog hit and I'm still not done with it. Hopefully I will be done soon, I have some more ideas for this AU and would love your input. But for now, have a tiny little snipet of the scene. Can you guess what scene in the book it corresponds to?

I think it's actually a little more than seven sentences, but who cares.

Once Andre is gone to get them their first round of wine and cheese Michael nudges Alex. "I'm really glad you didn't bring me here for frog legs."  Alex chuckles "They're not that bad. I'm not exactly a fan, but they are better than oysters or other mussels."  "Good to know. I've had oysters at a fancy dinner once, I thought I had learned to eat almost everything, but I really struggled with finishing those."  "Why do they always serve the strangest things at the fanciest dinners? Who is actually impressed by these things?"  "I wish I knew. Give me good greasy diner food over fancy dinner menus any day."  Alex nods in agreement and they are laughing together when Andre comes back with a bottle of wine and a waitress with a tray of cheese and a basket of bread behind him. 

You can find all the posts about this AU here.

The tag list is under the cut, let me know if you want to be added or removed.

@mimi-and-the-next-20th-century @thekiranzm28 @idealuk @angrycowboy @granfalloontje @dabb444 @dr-lizortecho

[javidleon]

LOCATION — The Teacher's Lounge.

WHO — Rachel ( @rachelhargrove ).

Javi never knew what to do when Andres couldn't sleep. Or, more specifically, when Andres couldn't sleep and none of his usual options of reading to him, laying with him or turning on the TV to lull him to bed seemed to work. For a moment, he just tried to let his son cry it out, but there was only so much of that he could hear close to midnight on a Monday night before he went absolutely mad. Thus, he found himself giving up entirely, googling 24/7 eateries in town in the hopes that maybe a change of scenery will tire them both out. That was how he wound up at The Teacher's Lounge, although it seemed as though his hopes couldn't be farther from reality as Andres had more energy than ever. He cycled between picking at the pancakes on his father's plate and playing with his toy car, until he got bored of both and crawled out of the booth from underneath the table to wander around the diner. Javi hardly noticed, too wrapped up in looking at his phone, until he glanced beside him and saw that the little boy wasn't there, but instead standing at the side of a stranger's table a few feet away, looking up at them expectantly and holding out his toy for them to grab. "Oh my god," he mumbled under his breath, sliding out from the booth to catch up with his son. "Andres, you can't just walk away from me — I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention."

[fieriframes]

[We don't have a lot of, like, smokehouses here in south Florida. So to smell that smell, but dasein’s Being in general is one of ‘care. FIERI: That's where Andres Barrientos and James Bowers]

[adultswim2021]

Metalocalypse #24: “Dethdoubles” | November 4, 2007 - 11:45PM | S02E04

Dethklok are at an event in conjunction with Duncan Hills Coffee when gunfire rings out. This attempt on Dethklok’s life is responded to swiftly by their hooded hench-people, who step in immediately with automatic weapons, massacring an entire crowd of “douchebags”. Never mind that the gunfire was actually Murderface clumsily dropping his sawed-off shotgun; this incident raises serious concerns, causing Dethklok’s manager to hire an entire team of doubles for the band, much like Winston Churchill, Joseph Stalin, and, most topically, Saddam Hussein before them (all but Hussein are mentioned in dialogue and I’m guessing they didn’t want the show to seem dated or that they were treading on Arrested Development’s turf.) 

Dethklok miss the point of having doubles and immediately become emotional attached to them, becoming giddy children at the prospect of having their very own Tommy Twos. They are unwittingly destroying not just the Manager’s plans, but also the tribunal’s. Turns out the doubles are actually double AGENTS working for the tribunal by gathering information. But since Dethklok refuses to stop chumming around with them, they aren’t able to do their jobs. 

The episode ends with a concert at a thought-to-be-dormant volcano. Duncan Hills Coffee is brewing a shitload of coffee in the volcano, which erupts and kills or badly burns thousands of concert goers. The doubles also get scalded and Dethklok have to bid adieu to their guys. They do this by taking them to a diner, where Murderface once again drops his sawed off shotgun onto a table, spraying all of them with bullets and presumably killing them. 

This one’s pretty great; just classic-ass Dethklok being the ultimate dolts. Their childlike excitement of having bros is infectious. This one also contains the memorable scene where they gawk at their own fans and bitterly call them douchebags while commiserating with one another. I feel like this scene was the promo for the episode.

The ending is a mild change of pace; it still ends with a gory spectacle but it happens off camera and has ironic cheery music when it cuts to credits. It feels more like an Aqua Teen Hunger Force ending. Not a complaint at all: This is a really funny episode.

MAIL BAG

I got this a few days back and should have tried to figure out who sent it to me, because it’s probably a two-part mail bag that I only got the second part of:

Oh, and Aqua Teen too. reddick was on aqua teen too i forgot

Absolutely a belated RIP to Lance Reddick, memorably on The Eric Andre Show (which was probably the first part of this mail bag:

[magicwingslisten]

One of the late Andre The Giant’s favorite stories was about the time he and Haystacks went to a diner.

“There was a place next to the arena which was one of those all-you-can-eat-for-two-dollars joints,” Andre said in a 1973 interview. “When Haystacks and I walked in you could see the waitress almost faint. About 30 seconds later the manager comes out, takes a peek at us, and shakes his head and goes back to the kitchen.

“Haystacks and I decided to tie on a real big feed that night and the waitresses were hysterical. They told us the manager was tearing his hair out and practically in tears. But we felt badly, since we must’ve eaten about $25 worth of food for $4. So after it was over we told him we’d pay  the regular price instead of the all-you-can-eat price. He thanked us for that and told us two more like us could put him out of business.”

_ post and courier

Haystack Calhoun

“Rasslin’ was a job and a good job,” Calhoun once said in an interview. “I don’t like nobody saying anything bad about rasslin.’ It took care of me for a long, long time.”

[allthingshorror111]

Cropsey- The real-life Boogeyman

The Boogeyman does exist and he lived in Staten Island, New York City. Now he remains locked up.

Many moons ago, the parents of Staten island and I’m sure elsewhere, would warn their children of the Boogeyman. It was a tactic used to scare the kids into not straying too far from home. Siblings would torment the young ones with stories of the Boogeyman kidnapping children and taking them to a faraway land. That was the general storyline, shared across the world. But Staten Island had their version. They would say that a homicidal man, an escaped mental patient with a hook for a hand, would hunt children. Drag them to the tunnel system under the abandoned Seaview hospital and keep them there. However, it was always known as a campfire-type tale until…1987, when a man made the story come to life.

Andre Rand (photos below) was a janitor at the Willowbrook State school, Staten Island. It was a school for intellectually disabled children. In the 1970’s it turned into a nightmare institution, it was eventually closed down in 1987 after it came out that the children there had been abused. They were sexually abused and practised corporal punishment and there was a major overcrowding issue; the school was also generally unsanitary. The janitor was too busy doing other things… Willowbrook was home to one of the most unethical medical experiments- Hepatitis research. The staff would inject healthy children with the virus, making them extremely ill. The public was not aware of the torment the children were going through, for a while. Most of the children were abandoned by their parents or the foster system. In 1972 the institution was exposed by Geraldo Rivera, a journalist, leading the school to be shut down fifteen years later. The year it closed down for good was the year Andre Rand, the former janitor was arrested in connection with a disappearance.

Jennifer Schweiger was a twelve-year-old girl with down syndrome. She went missing in 1987 and was suspected to have been kidnapped by Andre Rand. She had last been seen with him. At the time, Rand was living in a makeshift campsite on the abandoned school property, not far from the Seaview hospital. There’s a connection to the original urban legend. A month after Jennifer’s disappearance, a body was found in a shallow grave on the desolate school grounds. Rand was charged with murder. There’s a second SNAP with the Boogeyman tale. By this time Rand had a long list of offences against children on him. A few years prior, Andre Rand was sentenced to sixteen months for attempted sexual assault against a nine-year-old. That’s one of his offences, from a very long list of them.

Going back to the year 1987, Rand was sentenced again for the kidnapping of a bus full of children. The police force of Staten Island suspected him of the disappearances of four other people, that go back as far as a decade.

Alice Pereira was a five-year-old girl who went missing in 1972.

Holly Ann Hughes was a seven-year-old girl who went missing in 1981, she was last seen with Rand.

Tiahease Jackson went missing in 1983.

Hank Gafforio was a twenty-two-year-old man with a learning disability, he was last seen with Rand in a diner before he went missing.

These four people have still not been found.

The jury did not have enough evidence to charge Andre Rand with the murder of Jennifer Schweiger, the girl with down syndrome, but they did manage to send him down for the kidnapping of her, for twenty-five years. This real-life Boogeyman was eligible for parole in 2008 but in 2004 he was convicted of a second kidnapping, the kidnapping of Holly Ann Hughes. He was sentenced to another twenty-five years in prison. An inmate noted down a conversation with him where Rand was discussing the abduction of Ann Hughes in much detail, this is how he was charged again.

So there we have it. A harmless urban legend to spook kids turned into a real-life tale of evilness. The photos below show you what Andre Rand looked like at the time of his convictions, missing posters, the abandoned school grounds and a shot from inside the abomination of a school.