#Gift Box Mart

[ruinix]

Quinn with a girl who is obsessed with labubus like them standing in line waiting for the new ones to come out?

Hello, lovely. I love popmart or any blindbox figurines. The rush. The cuteness of the little figurines. I love all the trinkets. Just sharing: As a proud (co-)owner (shared custody with my youngest sister) of the labubus, the rush of having that little monster trinket is so nice. I won't take any hate on my lovely Labubu. She's just a gorl. She might be ugly but it is why I love her. (I am scared of her tbh) I fear I have lost many times in the checkout battle for V3. Truly, my family is only trying to get one so that my sister has one. Oh, to be the youngest. For blind boxes, not just pop mart, Make sure to spend wisely! Manage expectations. If all else fail, we cope and enjoy. You bought them, they're your babies now 😆End of my little yapping. We got a bonus in your POV here. Again, optional. yesyes. Hope you enjoy this, lovely!

Lines plus Chances

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content (omitted / only kisses), Suggestive tones (Quinn and you got a bit horny in POVs), Mentions of blind boxes (specifically pop mart’s but more on in general i think)

Count: 2171 + 1044 words | Masterlist | Taglist

You’re still sleepy. Quinn wraps your thin scarf around your neck, adjusting your hood. He grins when you yawn, looking absolutely cozy on your camping chair which he had set up the moment you two arrived. He scoots closer, so you can get cozier by leaning your head on his shoulder. You do, sighing and mumbling incoherent things about the early spring morning which is still cold but warmer compared to dawn. You are incredibly cute.

You two have been in line for two hours now—since 4:30AM—but it is still hours away from the mall opening. Fortunately, though, you two manage to get the fourth and fifth spot in the line, especially when half an hour later, people suddenly appear, the queue snaking beyond his line of sight. It’s still unbelievable that people line up this much for blind boxes. That’s right. You two are here for a specific restock of a new plush keychain. If not for you, he doesn’t see himself lining up this early for toys.

How did this come to be?

Well, a week ago, in two occasions, he noticed how frustrated you were getting whenever you got your laptop, tablet, and your phone—sometimes even his—laid out in front of you. You were so quick typing or clicking away. Your eyes shone with hope and determination, like how you would whenever you’re making your reports or acquiring concert tickets of your favorite band. So much hope, only for you to crash down in a silent pout. He tried to ask you about what happened, but you turned away from him, sulking in your reading nook.

It took him quite an effort to comfort you, especially when he was so fucking clueless on why you would sulk that much. He even tried to bribe you with your favorite cookies and ice cream. He tried and tried, but you ended up with tear-filled eyes, muttering, "Not important."

That was a lie. How could it not be important when you are so dejected like the whole world suddenly turned its back on you? It hurt to see you sad, but then you sprung up, announcing that you needed to go out, huffing about the need to be alone to shop. You said it with so much fervor that he let you go after he received a sloppy kiss on the cheek. For the time that you were gone, he was pacing in your home, absolutely wrecked in worry, until you came home with huge shopping bags.

The bags were familiar to him. He had seen them folded in your stack of paper bags. You bought that stuff again. Those toys from a particular store. Only at that time, you purchased more than you had ever. For you and him. You taught him the ways of unboxing, making him pick his favorites—your favorites because he copied you—and how to open it. Honestly, Quinn never cared for these small trinkets, but he loved you happy for gifting him. You got excited for him when he got what he "wanted". You were so happy. Your grin was so wide that your cheeks flushed. You made space for him on your shelves. Everything you did caused his heart to lurch out of his chest.

It almost made Quinn forget how you sulked earlier. Almost. The memory of your sadness—your shoulders caving forwards, your pout, your glassy eyes, your grumbles—haunted him. He didn't like it when you felt sad. He needed to do something.

Thus, he did his initial research. He saw the brand of those boxes. He found the website and saw several other figurines there. Although, he was confused. So, when you took his phone again, holing up in your home office, Quinn followed you. You didn't notice him at all. You were so focused. From livestream to websites. You looked like you were going to battle but when the timer hit zero, the item you were scrambling for, a mischievous-looking plush doll, was sold out. Just like that. In a single blink.

"No. Not again." Your voice sounded so quiet.

"What's a Labubu?" He asked.

You jumped, screaming, clutching your shirt. You started scolding him for sneaking around, going on about knocking and announcing himself. He took it, listening with a silent smile on his face, because you didn’t sulk even if you were irritated with him instead. After minutes of that, you started to explain about the figurine, giving him a little backstory of it, complaining about the obnoxious demand for it, ranting about the livestream and easy-to-crash website. Quinn listened, humming and nodding, while he scrolled and saw an announcement you may have missed. There would be a restock in a nearby mall.

"Why don't we go to their store instead?" He offered as soon as you deflated beside him, burying yourself in his arm. His words brought you up, your head slightly tilting to the side. "It says there will be stocks in a couple of days in—"

"The lines are insane, Q," you sighed, your hands tightening around his arm, resting your head against his shoulder. “They’re currently a thing now.”

"Have you tried to go there?" Quinn softly asked, reaching to tuck your loose hair behind your ear. You shook your head, sighing again. "Is there another way to buy those things?"

"I refuse to buy from resellers," you huffed. Disdain laced your voice. "They sell them at outrageous prices!"

Quinn had no idea what to do. You looked worked-up at the mere mention of buying somewhere else. It did make sense to him. He was not that clueless not to know about resellers. They were all such a pain in the ass no matter what kind of goods to buy. You were mumbling into his sleeve when an idea dawned at him. He checked the date, making sure he had nothing important planned for that day. Even if there would, he can easily take a rain check on them. You always preceded everything.

Pressing a kiss on your head, he said, “Let’s go early. We can camp out there.”

He saw your protests, but also how your eyes sparkled with excitement and mirth. You mounted his lap, your hands grasping his cheeks and jaw, craning his head up. You said in quick succession that your words almost melted together, "Really? You'll accompany me? What if we need to camp out before sunrise? Are you sure? I’ve always wanted to try camping outside to buy something!”

All Quinn saw was you and you and you.

You were happy. He made you happy. Butterflies tumbled and flied and wreaked havoc in his stomach. He nodded, his breath stuttering.

"Okay, okay," you squealed, pressing kisses on his lips. "Promise me, Quinny," you demanded, giggling to make it known you were just kidding.

With his hands holding your waist, his eyes dropping to your beautiful lips, he still muttered, "I promise."

Your grin slightly eased. The atmosphere instantaneously shifted as your eyebrows curved, your breath hitching, your skin erupting in goosebumps. Quinn took his time watching you. His eyes roamed over your face—from your lips to your cheeks, to your nose, to your eyes. You’re so magnificent. When your tongue darted to swipe over your lower lip, only then he pulled you for a kiss. He gripped your waist tighter, tugging you closer so you sat over his growing erection. He made a promise to himself that you would get one of those plush toys that you wanted so much. Whatever you wanted would be yours.

Quinn can still taste you even after days. The taste of the sweet candy you munched on before you had tried checkout. The taste of your—He needs to stop being a horny fucker. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He swallows his groans, because he truly can still taste you on his tongue, and he can’t fucking lie to himself. He forces his urges down, knowing he can’t just leave you out here to take care of his growing problem. Removing his cap, he runs his hand through his hair, inhaling deeply, exhaling as slowly as he can. He calms down further by looking at the bright skies.

“Hot!” You abruptly complain, parting from him to take off your scarf. You are suddenly so awake that it distracts him further from his dilemma. “Is it 10AM yet?”

Quinn barely contained his laugh. It’s obviously not. "No."

"Kill me now," you groan which draws his chuckle. You huff, pouting at him. “I’m bored.”

"Maybe you should've brought your book," Quinn teases. He knows the contents of your little purse. Just your wallet and your phone. He’s prepared for this campout. He’s the one holding a bigger bag with a packed breakfast and lunch, water bottles, and especially your e-reader and his. He takes the last essential to a campout from the bag and hands you yours. “Here.”

Your ‘oooh’ is so adorable that he’s not prepared for you to peck him on the lips and cheeks. Your ‘thank you’ is lost in his ears as heat streak down his body. He groans, looking away. Great. Now, he’s horny. Again. He grits his teeth, focusing on the scent of the city waking up. The smell of the pollution from cars helps.

He hears a rumble. He turns to you, seeing you avert your gaze, blush tinting your cheeks. He doesn’t comment or tease. He simply hands you the breakfast sandwich he prepared—a simple egg, bacon, and cheese combo in brioche bread. You grin is enough to make him blush too. He eats with you, listening to you ramble about different things. At some point, you start to people-watch, your eyes moving among the crowd. He does the same. He likes doing the same things as you.

“I want to have at least one box for each version, Quinn,” you whisper after he takes the sandwich wrapper from your hands, replacing it with a water bottle. You sip, blinking at him. “You know which ones to buy, right? You also need to one each. Please.” You squirm, looking worried. “Or maybe not. If you don’t want one—”

“I do,” he asserts, stopping you from spiraling, then he shows you the list where the top priorities are The Monsters plush dolls—Big into Energy, Have a Seat, and Exciting Macaron—then the rest should be other Labubu that are not blind boxes, because his research told there are other stuff, plush or not, there. “See? I had them all listed. I even crosschecked with the potential restock list. I want one too.”

Quinn still thinks he doesn’t care for those creatures, not realizing that he even listed his priority pulls which are his favorites for every series, which may or may not be a small indicator that he wants one now. He’s adamant that he’s only done that so you will be happy with him. And you are. You look so excited while your lips part as you gaze between him and his phone. That’s all that matters to him.

“I hope we get what we want.” You grin, scooting closer, opening your e-reader to resume reading your current reads. Again, he does the same.

You have no clue what he’s planning. Despite you telling him that you don’t want to purchase from resellers, he also has a list of them. He may or may not be talking with some, trying his best to determine if they’re legitimate or not. It’s hard, so he hopes the store has everything you need.

You two continue. There are times when Quinn stands up to talk with the staff that comes down to hand over entry stubs and when he gets rope into conversation of the ones next to you and him. However, he keeps his head low, not wanting to get recognize and cause unnecessary chaos. Even if you don’t mind him getting stopped for pictures, he does because you might get included in them. Despite wanting to be seen with you, he cares more about your privacy. Regardless, he goes undetected.

Soon, after you two somehow eat your lunch boxes before noon, after you two watch TikToks in your phone, after he has secretly taken a photo of you that he will print and frame, the mall finally opens.

He folds your chairs when he spots the staff coming. He hooks their straps and his bag on one shoulder. He smiles at the way you are bouncing on the balls of your feet. When he offers his hand, you immediately take it.

It makes his heart flutter. You make his heart flutter.

Your warmth feels nice in his hand.

He can’t deny the giddy feeling that buzzes his body, especially when you two arrived in the shop, when you snatches two baskets for him and you, when you dash to get your long-awaited plush.

You prove it again.

Prove that when you’re happy, he’s happy.

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ Bonus: Your POV ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

You gape at Quinn when he takes your basket with only three boxes, one for each set, because you don’t want to be greedy. You wonder where his basket is—maybe he doesn’t want to buy anything after all—but he basically push you to pick more.

“My treat,” he says. Before you can retort that you have your own money, he continues, “Dinner is on you.”

Just like that, he appeases you. Sometimes you wonder if you’r easy, but you really like the thought of treating him to dinners. “Deal, Quinny. Don’t you dare try to pay later!”

He chuckles, shaking his head. The sound makes you feel things in your chest and between your thighs. It just sounds so rumbly and the grin that always accompanies his laugh is so beautiful on his handsome face. It’s almost unfair.

You pick out a few more stuff, telling him about the lore of some. You’ve only learned it from TikTok. Someone really needs to take away that app from you because it’s the reason why you got obsessed with these.

“There, all done!” You beam, walking with Quinn to the counter. Your hands already itch to open what you picked out—

You find yourself gaping again, because you finally registered his words.

“I’ll take these three.” He points at the Labubus you have thoroughly inspected and tried to feel a pull of whatever’s inside to you. Then he points at the rest. “I need sets of these other ones,” he smoothly says.

The store clerk moves so quick that you can’t get a word in.

“Quinn, what are you doing?” You grip his arm, digging your fresh nail set into his muscular arm, biting your lip at the feel of his arm hairs under your touch. The man glances at you, then all at once has his arm on your waist, securing you to his side. “I don’t need sets! That’s overconsumption…” Your voice trail because you realize the new items are being placed into paper bags and next to already filled bags. “What did you do?”

“They got everything in my list. We’ll share them. You will share them with me, right?” He frowns. “Should I buy another set for myself—”

“No!”

“Okay. After this, we need to buy more shelves. Maybe a display cabinet?”

“I already have some of them at home! We’ll have duplicates. Duplicates.” You cross your arms and glare. “I got my shelves.”

Quinn doesn’t look fazed at all. He’s amused, his eyes shining with mischief and even pride. So smug. Your boyfriend is crazy. Quinn is crazy.

“I don’t think your shelves are enough. Maybe we need to move some of your plants—”

“Don’t touch my plants, Quintin,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “I’ll make space.”

You silently glare at the price projected on the screen. How can someone just spend that much amount in one transaction? For figurines? He’s worse than you. You may have created a monster. He almost gets rope into buying more but you simply say that you’re tired. No more questions. No more dilly-dallying. In less than ten minutes, you two are in his car.

“I will be giving away our duplicates, Q,” you grumble, worrying if both of your moms will like a random figurine. You hope they do. You browse your phone for restaurants for your dinner. You want to ask him what he prefers to eat but his eyes are burning a hole in your side. You gulp, trying to shake the feeling off. “Next time, don’t spend too much.”

When you finally look at him, you see a smile on his face. His eyes are trained on the road now.

“Our,” he echoes in a breathy voice. “Our duplicates, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s ours.” Your tone is firm, and it only makes him smile wider. You repeat his words in the store, “We’ll share them,”

“I love sharing with you,” he says, glancing at you.

His eyes look so warm, promising you more than you can understand. His words sound so gentle, filling you with so much love. Sometimes it hurts you to look at him. Every positive feeling in your body feels intense. Your heart is leaping, threatening to spill out of your chest. With your hand slightly shaking, you softly reach over, running your knuckle over his stubbles.

“Same,” you almost stumble with the word, because a lump forms in your throat.

Quinn takes your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. He pulls them closer, pressing electrifying kisses on your fingers, on your knuckles, on the back of your hand.

Heat travels down your spine. An ache forms between your thighs when his lips linger on your skin, when he takes a deep breath as if he is breathing in your scent, marking it in his memory. You wonder if he likes the hand cream that you rubbed over it hours ago. Can he still smell it?

“Maybe we should do our unboxing after dinner or tomorrow.” Your voice rasps, sounding breathier, as you pant like you are being chased. No, you are being chased. Only Quinn already has you in his hold.

You bite your lower lip when his grip firms. His eyes slams on yours, his pupils blowing out, swallowing those light-colored irises of his. If he isn’t driving, you know that he will be on you. He simply gets you. Not a single hint in your words yet he knows. How can he see through you so easily?

He takes your hand to your lap, flattening his palm over it, reaching past to touch your thigh, prying it so you’re not crossing your legs anymore. You swear you can feel his heat through denim. A pathetic sound comes out of you, making him squeeze.

“Behave.” His voice drop an octave lower. Shivers race down your whole body at the delectable rumble. “I can’t drive faster than the limit.”

“Maybe you should,” you softly challenge.

You gasp at the sight of his jaw clenching, his stubble creating the perfect contrast that highlights the movement. So handsome. You can see the gears in his head turning, eyes glancing expertly between his mirrors, looking beyond.

Then he nods.

His foot presses down the gas pedal.

Lovelies @dancerbailey3 @loser-pretty-girl @r0wdymaize86 @tiredallthetimex @quinnintheabyss

[mrs-johnson]

“The Hunt for the Bunny Beast”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff, soft domestic feels, protective boyfriend energy, and Tangerine vs collectible culture.

Summary: Tangerine proves yet again, he’s got a soft side — especially for his girl…even for a bloody Labubu Doll creatures.

You had been dropping hints about Labubu dolls for weeks.

Not loud ones — just quiet, wistful mentions as you scrolled through your phone on the couch, a little “look at this one, he’s got teeth like a gremlin but he’s so fluffy,” and “they’re always sold out in Australia, aren’t they?”

Tangerine, lounging beside you in a crisp button-up with his arm lazily draped around your shoulders, would glance over with a grunt, pretending not to notice how your eyes sparkled whenever you saw a new variant.

Pretending. Because the moment you fell asleep that night, curled up in his shirt with one hand resting on his chest, he was already texting Lemon.

TANGERINE:

Where the f*** do I find a “la-boo-boo” rabbit doll thing?

LEMON:

😂😂😂

First off, it’s Labubu

Second, good luck, bruv. Them things are like gold dust

You tryna win “Boyfriend of the Year” or something?

TANGERINE:

Already am. Just need the f***ing toy.

⸻

Which led to this: Tangerine, standing in the middle of a boutique toy store two suburbs over, surrounded by gacha machines, vinyl figurines, pastel walls, and soft K-pop playing in the background.

He was very much not in his natural environment.

“Can I help you?” the teenage shop clerk asked, barely looking up from their phone.

“Yeah,” he said, slipping his sunglasses down. “You got one of them Labubu rabbit things? The fluffy, gremlin-lookin’ one?”

They blinked. “Those? Uh, yeah. We have like one left. They’re in blind boxes though, so—”

“I’ll take five.”

⸻

When you got home from your late shift, the first thing you noticed was the little gift bag on the coffee table. Inside: a pastel-colored box. Pop Mart branding. A tiny bunny silhouette.

Your heart jumped.

You gently opened it, and there it was — the exact one you’d shown him days ago. Creamy fur, sleepy grin, mischievous teeth and all.

You turned around slowly to find Tangerine leaning in the doorway, arms crossed but smug as ever.

“Don’t say I never listen.”

Your eyes welled up as you cradled the doll, looking up at him with a soft smile.

“You like it, yeah?” he asked, stepping forward and wrapping an arm around your waist.

You nodded, cheeks glowing. “You got the exact one.”

“Luck of the bloody draw. Or maybe,” he added, kissing your forehead, “that Labubu thing knew it’d get spoiled in this house.”

You giggled, nuzzling into his chest. “You’re the best.”

He snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to collect the whole bloody set. You want the ninja one next, don’t you?”

You looked up at him innocently.

Tangerine sighed. “Course you do.”

[magiturge]

sorry that I'm sending a lot of asks but is there any silly headcanons you have for elliot and mafioso that you haven't shared yet? I could listen to ur explanations for hours I love ur ideas for them they're SO cute

I know I've said this before but thank you for the art you make your such a wonderful artist and seeing your art on my feed makes me SO happy

since i saw this, i've thought of a few.

i think i've atleast alluded to the fact mafioso does not like to show him being ungentlemanly / too emotional / too overbearingly affectionate to elliot. however i have also mentioned that his bunny coat collar is semi-sentient / an extension of his own will.

this brings conflict to how he presents his affection, since he tends to try to not be super overbearing even in just a hug, his bunnies betray that front. those bunnies will often go on to expose how much affection he actually feels in the act of giving elliot kisses to the face via little licks.

other cases of the bunnies betraying his front is when they escape his coat to pursue elliot. think of it in the way of the heart in "in a heartbeat".

elliot is aware that mafioso holds back in smothering him with affection and he appreciates that, given sometimes being greeted with too much sensory after work is.. overwhelming. he does find it quite adorable when mafioso is visibly embarrassed or struggling to maintain a composed front.

mafioso also tends to spend lots of studs now to gift things to elliot, specifically items he thinks are not available to people outside of the dreamsphere or who have difficulty getting around the dreamsphere. in the drawing, he's specifically giving a TakeThis candy bar.. a gift item.

it's not limited to food, but also includes silly merchandise from the great center / dying mall as well as his own cuts of meat and pecorino remano from the meat market.

he observes that elliot's world is rather simple and doesn't seem to extend that far out, so he believes these gifts in excess is something worth giving to elliot.

-

ive also been trying to write how they actually meet each other / the grittier details about it. i came to the decision that the mafia usually ordered pizza from here :

pictured is a pizza box found in frozen edge.

i think that they usually ordered from dignity's pizzeria as well as purchasing food from the mart on the first floor of great center but on some day, in a weird cross of worlds ( i see the pairing as an absolute crack / cross. i ignore forsaken's context altogether. ), elliot delivers a pizza to the meat market.

it's sort of an.. accidental "sleepwalker" incident but elliot isn't truly a sleepwalker, it's like game logics colliding and not making sense, but to elliot, the delivery of the pizza is like a dream to him and completely not real ( he has no idea what the dreamsphere is ).

so when he appears in great center / dying mall, he thinks its a surreal thing of the crazy dreaming mind colliding with his work life of delivering pizzas rather than perceiving it as an actual thing happening.

when mafia try builder brother's pizza, its a pleasant surprise how good it tastes which spurred the desire to actually find themselves at build brother's pizza in person. that is how they properly meet and how mafioso comes face to face with this supposed daring delivery guy that somehow made his way to the top floor where the meat market was.

further headcanons will come and go.

[corroded-hellfire]

Time For Toys and Time For Cheer - Eddie Munson x Reader

An As You Wish story

Collaboration with the El to my Max, @munson-blurbs

Summary: When Brittany’s Christmas presents for the boys come in, it’s evident that “it’s the thought that counts” doesn’t apply.

Note: Jingle bells, Brittany smells, please enjoy this fic today!

Warnings: mild violence, Eddie being a perv, Brittany being Brittany

Words: 2.3k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me.”

Eddie lets the scissors drop down onto his mattress as you peer into the box he just opened. Seeing Brittany’s name on a box when you picked up the mail for your boyfriend was enough to irk you for the rest of the day—especially since Eddie wouldn’t open it until after the kids were in bed because it’s probably their Christmas gifts. The silver lining though, was that you saw Brittany is going by her maiden name again. You hope to God she changed it legally; she doesn’t deserve to be a Munson. 

The box did contain gifts for the boys but as you look inside you see what pissed your boyfriend off. You reach in and pick up a box of Legos that were made for a kid half Ryan’s age. The Blue’s Clues coloring book that Eddie takes out is just as insulting. Should she get credit for knowing Ryan likes Legos and Luke likes coloring books? Not in your opinion. Not when she lived with them for most of their lives. Not when she gave birth to them and should know how old they are and that these presents are not age appropriate. 

“Is this really a bunch of Lego kids on a bus? Oh look, they’re soccer players on a bus.” You scoff and roll your eyes as you set the gift back in the box it was shipped in. “Yeah, ‘cause Ryan loves sports so much.” Eddie’s eldest was in agreement with his father that sports are stupid. You think his mother would’ve known that. Then again, his mother is Brittany. 

“He’d put that together in less than five minutes,” Eddie says, nodding towards the Lego set. He sets the coloring books back inside as well and pulls out a small white paper that got stuck to the bottom of the box. “Looks like they’re from Wal-Mart. Nice of her to send a gift receipt. Almost as if she knew her presents were shit.” 

Any irritation you feel for Brittany doesn’t come close to the love you have for Luke and Ryan, and you’d do everything in your power to make sure they have a wonderful Christmas. 

“Think Wayne will watch them for a few hours after dinner one night?” you ask, eyes scanning over the gift receipt before meeting Eddie’s deep brown ones. 

“If we buy him a mug, he might watch them for the whole weekend.” Eddie puts the gift receipt back in the box and closes it. He looks over at you and an adoring grin grows on his face. “I fucking love you, babe.” He takes your face in his hands and presses a wet, smacking kiss to your forehead. 

Eddie falls a little bit deeper in love with you every time you do something for the boys without any hesitation. And since it’s a frequent occurrence, it’s safe to say that he’s head-over-heels for you. 

A few nights later, Eddie brings the car to a stop in front of his uncle’s trailer. He puts it in park and looks over his shoulder at his sons in the backseat. Ryan doesn’t seem bothered one bit that he’s being dropped off at his grandfather’s. Luke, on the other hand, looks like you and Eddie just told him he’ll never be able to eat another cookie again in his life. 

When Eddie’s eyes meet Luke’s blue ones, the little boy groans and drops his head back against his seat, curls smooshing around his head like a halo. 

“Why can’t we go with you?” he whines. 

“Luke,” Eddie says with a chuckle. “You hate clothes shopping for yourself. Let alone anyone else.”

“Yeah,” you say as you turn to face him as well. “And I can take forever in dressing rooms. I can never decide what I like better.”

“Plus,” Eddie adds with a smirk, knowing a foolproof way to get the boys out of the car, “you really wanna come with us and watch us kiss the whole night?” 

The moment Eddie leans in towards you, both boys groan and Ryan slaps his hand over his eyes. Checkmate. 

Luke is quick to scramble out of the car, his older brother right behind him. 

“Go!” Luke practically shouts. “Take your time! Make sure you get a nice dress.”

“Yeah,” Ryan adds. “Has to look nice for your work party.”

It’s hard for both you and Eddie to keep a lid on your laughter while the boys are all but pushing your car down the road to get you away from them. 

“Be good,” Eddie calls out the open window. 

“Yeah, yeah…” Luke mumbles as he trudges up the front steps of the trailer. Ryan follows behind him and gives you and Eddie a wave before they head inside the house. 

The moment they’re inside, Eddie turns to you and raises his eyebrows. 

“Can we buy you a new dress?” he asks. 

“Why?” you ask with a laugh. “You’ll want me to buy a sexy one, then not want me to wear it out anywhere and let people see me in it.”

“Ah, fuck,” he mumbles as he puts the car in drive. 

“Maybe after we return the baby-fied toys that are in the trunk and get the new ones, we can look at some lingerie, though?” you tease.

“Deal.”

The Wal-Mart parking lot is a madhouse; Eddie circles it three times before finally snagging a spot all the way at the back. He scoops the presents from the trunk and the two of you make a beeline for the return counter, with you holding onto his jacket sleeve to avoid losing him in the crowd. 

“Okay,” Eddie says, once you’ve secured the gift card that contains the store credit. He looks at you with sheer determination. “We gotta divide and conquer. You shop for Ryan, and I’ll shop for Luke.”

You make your way to the Lego aisle; Brittany had the right idea, but the wrong execution. After perusing the shelves for something more age-appropriate, your gaze lands on a kit to build a Statue of Liberty replica. 

Just as you grab it, you feel someone tugging on the other side. “Um, sorry, I’m taking this one,” you try to explain, willing your voice not to waver as it often does during confrontation. 

The man who’d reached for it as well scowls at you. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” He yanks it from your grasp triumphantly. There’s a nasty sneer on his face as he looks down his nose at you. He’s around Eddie’s height, bald as a cue ball, and has a beer belly that’s larger than most pregnant women’s bumps.

“Hey! What the hell’s your problem?” The words slip from your mouth before you can stop them. 

The man smirks menacingly. “What’re you even doing in this aisle? The Easy Bake Ovens are down that way.”

When he points to his left and lets his guard down, you seize the opportunity to pull the Lego set from him. 

“What d’you think you’re doing, bitch?” He reaches out a meaty hand to snatch it back, but he’s jerked back by his collar. 

“You calling my wife a ‘bitch’?” Eddie growls, eyes blazing with fury. You can’t remember the last time you saw him this angry. He shoves the man, now wide-eyed and fearful, into a display of Tonka trucks, which catches the attention of a security guard. 

He marches over to the men, waving his hands and shouting. “Hey, break it up!” The guard pulls Eddie away from the man. “You two,” he looks between Eddie and the guy, “get outta here!”

Eddie sputters. “Wha—no, he called my wife a bitch!” he tries to protest, but the guard just pushes him toward the exit. “This is bullshit!”

Despite the gravity of the situation, you can’t help but feel butterflies at the way he said, “my wife.” It has a much better ring to it than just, “my girlfriend” or even “my fiancée.”

Your awestruck demeanor vanishes as you stare at the back of Eddie’s head in disbelief while the security guard leads him away. You’re left hanging in limbo, unsure if you should follow him out or buy the toy—he is going through a lot of trouble for it, and you’d hate for his efforts to be for naught. 

As if he can read your mind, Eddie looks over his shoulder and gives you a wink. “You know what Luke likes, baby,” he calls out. 

You can only nod as you hold onto the Lego box for Ryan. 

“Meet you in the car,” Eddie says before turning back around, wincing when the guard shoves him out the door. 

It’s hard to shake off the fact that Eddie just got kicked out of the store and proceed to shop as though nothing has happened, but you know you need to find something for Luke. Something that isn’t made for a preschool demographic. 

“Okay, Legos for Ryan. Luke still likes coloring books. Just not Winnie the Pooh ones.” Brittany was at least on the right track with her gifts for the boys—just a good number of years behind.

The coloring books are a few aisles over and you chew on your bottom lip as you check out the collection. There are lots of Disney ones full of princesses and mice, but Luke only really enjoys the movies made by The Mouse, not any toys or games.

Scooby Doo catches your eye and as soon as you pick that one up, you see a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles book.

“Hmm…” you hum, but then chuckle to yourself. Of course he gets more than one.

You cradle those two books in your arm with the Lego set and also grab Pokémon and a monster truck one.

You’re welcome, Brittany, you think. You sent three but now he’s going to think you sent him four. None of this is for Brittany’s sake—both you and Eddie know that. The boys would be the ones disappointed, not their mother. There will come a day when they recognize her absence and carelessness, but you don’t want to help point it out; you just want to show them love and support.

On the way to the register, you do a double take when you see a mostly empty shelf of wrapping paper. Brittany didn’t bother to wrap the presents before she sent them, but that’s something else the kids don’t need to know. 

Making sure to get a paper that’s very different from any of the ones back at the apartment, you add a Frosty the Snowman roll to the pile in your arms. This way, they’ll differentiate these from the presents left by Santa. 

Most of the registers are crowded, which makes you huff, but you’ve had your share of fighting for the evening. Instead, you wait silently until the woman behind you in line starts speaking to you. “Last minute shopping for your kids, too?” she says with a laugh. 

You nod. “Yeah, it’s been quite the adventure,” you offer, not wanting to relay the near-WWE match that occurred in the toy section. 

“I’ll bet,” she chuckles, hoisting a toy Batmobile. “Boys or girls?”

The question catches you off-guard for a moment. “Boys. Two of them.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t imagine having two sons. I have one, and he’s a menace.”

You smile. “Yeah, but they’re my menaces.”

On Christmas morning you’re not entirely sure what’s up first: the sun or the boys. Eddie looks like a zombie as the two of you initially follow the boys out to the living room. Once they see the tree and the mountain of presents scattered about, their joy and excitement are almost as good as a cup of coffee in waking you and your boyfriend up. 

Heaps of wrapping paper pile up as they tear open their gifts: action figures and Hot Wheels for Luke, books and science kits for Ryan, and a handful of VHS tapes for them to share. 

Once the heap of presents begins to dwindle down to the last handful, Eddie stands up.

“Don’t wanna forget the gifts from Mom.”

The boys instinctively glance at you before they realize that their dad is referring to Brittany. 

Eddie hands them the carefully wrapped packages, assessing their expressions to gauge their excitement. 

“No way, this is the Lego set I wanted!” Ryan cheers, beaming at the toy. 

Luke is equally impressed with his gift. “Yes! New coloring books!” He stands up and does a little happy dance that looks very reminiscent of something you’d see one of The Peanuts characters doing. 

Eddie smiles, knowing all the bullshit of dealing with Brittany, in the past, present, or future, is worth it to keep his boys happy. 

“You guys wanna call Mom and thank her?” Eddie asks.

They nod, racing each other to the phone so they can get back to playing as soon as possible. There’s a part of you—a petty part—that hopes their phone call wakes Brittany up from a peaceful sleep. Just because you play nice for the kids doesn’t mean you can’t have small moments of joy at the thought of that woman being inconvenienced. 

“Your kids are crazy,” Eddie says to you, plopping back onto the couch and flinging his arm over your shoulder. “You should really rein them in.”

You give an exaggerated sigh and shake your head. “I’ve tried, but their father is even worse. Just enables the insanity.”

Eddie laughs, kissing your cheek before tilting your chin towards him so he can press his lips to yours. 

“Merry Christmas, my love.”

“Merry Christmas, Eddie.”

[604to647]

Barón Tovar Takes a Wife

Second Movement (Allegretto)

6K / Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader, a childhood best friends to lovers story

Summary: Pero continues to be a source of encouragement and support as you navigate the marriage mart.

Warnings: Some pining and light angst. Soft!Pero warning. Liberal use of Bridgerton characters and canon.

A/N: I'm sorry for any historical inaccuracies/liberties taken! Bridgerton inspired dividers by @saradika-graphics 🥰

Series Masterlist 🎼 First Movement 🎼

You think you should have been warned that the days following season events are somehow always busier than the events themselves.

The morning after the Danbury ball, with hardly enough sleep and exhausted almost to the point of delirium, you find yourself yawning through Daphne’s chipper recitation of your schedule for the next few days.  You must have agreed to it all while inhaling your breakfast, because you’re now dressed in a prim and proper powder blue frock, sitting prettily in the Bridgerton’s upstairs drawing room, waiting for what feels like the millionth young man you must have met last night to make your reacquaintance.  Although there was no one who had caught your attention particularly at last night’s ball, you do recall several gentlemen being very pleasant and look forward to getting to know them better.  Every visitor and potential suitor that waits for your audience today is afforded your full consideration and open heart, even if you are still very, very tired.  And though the conversation gets repetitive and the gifts are slightly impersonal, you appreciate everyone’s efforts and invite them to return all the same.

---

It’s well after lunch by the time Pero steps into the front hall of Bridgerton House and is shown into the waiting room where he finds you and all the Bridgerton women in various states of exhaustion, draped over chaise lounges and chairs, while the Bridgerton men chat merrily and sample from various boxes of candies and treats that had been brought as offerings by your, Eloise and Francesca’s suitors this morning.

“Pero!” Though you are delighted to see him, you’re so worn out, all you can muster is a small wave.  You return the bemused expression he has on his face as he takes in the room and the collection of gifts and offerings piled high with a soft smile of your own.

“No peonies,” Pero observes readily.

Daphne chirps, “No, but lots and lots of flowers.  Expensive ones.”

“But peonies are your favourite,” he says pointedly to you.  You nod, heart swelling with fondness, “You remembered!”

“Of course, Dulce, I remember everything about you.”  You feel warm at his affectionate tone; you remember everything about Pero as well, but would never have expected him to do the same.

“How did this morning go?” 

The Duchess answers for you and runs through the list of suitors that called on you this morning, including tidbits on their pedigrees or impressive accomplishments.  Pero half listens as he looks over the table of gifts; refusing a biscuit when Benedict extends a box in his direction, he murmurs, “Busy morning.”

You and the women nod.  Eloise yawns.  Francesca closes her eyes.  You sigh.

Pero kneels before you, comforting hand on your leg, “What’s the matter, Dulce?”

Sighing again, but this time a little less weary, “I don’t know?  I suppose it’s that there was no spark.  I didn’t spark with anyone.”

Daphne is quick to reassure you, “It can take time!  Simon and I did not spark right away.  In fact, we hated each other.  But as we spent time together, our feelings emerged.”

You nod in comprehension, but joke, amiably, “Well now I do not know if it’s a good thing then that I did not hate anyone either.” When you see Pero still looking at you with an apologetic expression, you smile sheepishly, “You must think me very naïve.”

“No, not naïve.  Very, very sweet, and even romantic.  There’s nothing wrong with being hopeful, Dulce.”

Nodding gratefully at Pero, he smiles when he sees that you’re taking solace in his words and decides now is a good time to produce a tin from behind his back that you hadn’t notice he was holding, “I know you have received a lot gifts already and the day itself has been quite overwhelming.  Perhaps you do not have the energy for one more?”

There’s something familiar about the container Pero is holding out to you; when you open it and see the delicate wafer cookies contained within, you’re instantly transported to a small Italian bakery that you and Pero used to visit daily in Florence. “Oh Pero,” you breathe, your eyes bright.

“I was in Florence recently and could not help but revisit our old haunt.  Did you know Signor Russo is still there?  I’m embarrassed by how many tins I purchased.  I remembered last night they used to be your favourite and it just so happened that I had one tin left in my luggage,” grins Pero; all he has wanted to do since he said good night to you after the ball, is to draw out the smile that’s currently on your face.

“Thank you so much, Pero,” you close your eyes and hum in contentment as the familiar sweet flavour washes over your tongue.  “This is the best thing I received today,” you grin, “May I share?”

“Of course,” Pero isn’t the least bit surprised by your display of generosity and he watches with satisfaction as you excitedly pass around the tin to your friends, sharing with them its origins and small snippets of the time in your life when these cookies were a daily treat.

Invigorated by the nostalgic treat, you and Pero spend the remainder of the afternoon catching up and recalling fond memories of your childhood together.  You learn that after completing his studies, Pero embarked on the customary grand tour before returning to Spain to help his father with the Tovar estate.  Subsequent to his father’s passing, at his King’s insistence he resumed his father’s former diplomatic duties and has spent the last five years travelling under the same charge previously entrusted to the old Barón.  When you tell Pero about the many places you have travelled with your father since you saw him last, you delight in the discovery that you’ve been to many of the same places, sometimes missing each other by only weeks.  Your never-ending conversation comparing new and old favourite discovered delicacies and sights runs all the way until dinner; you can’t remember the last time you’ve had so much fun just talking.

It’s exactly what you had wanted to do since the moment you saw Pero last night at the Danbury Ball.  Your grateful heart overflows with joy that you’ve been allowed the grace of closing out this whirlwind twenty-four hours in the laughter-filled, carefree manner that can only be possible when catching up with an old friend.

When you enter the Ramsbury Ball the following week it’s with Pero as one of your party.  His inclusion the most natural thing given that he’s become a regular fixture at Bridgerton House, often joining Colin in the morning for breakfast and returning in the afternoon to check in on how you’re doing and how the day’s suitors have treated you.

You can hardly express your appreciation at having your old friend’s support while you endeavour on the daunting undertaking of your first social season.  Though you remain a popular fixture among the ton, you must admit that socializing so much does not come without effort, being used to much quieter and calmer company.  It does not escape you how lucky you are to have a group of friends and supporters such as Pero and the Bridgertons with whom you can momentarily relax and jovially chat in between dances and some of the more awkward attempts at flirting by your suitors.

“Wait, wait!” laughs Colin, “You mean to tell us that you were actually there when our good Barón got his scar?  Please, pray tell, how did it happen?  I have tried in vain to get Tovar to reveal his dark secret!”

Pero catches your eye and you see his own twinkle in mischief.  “I’m afraid my lips are sealed,” you proclaim, falling easily into conspiracy with your friend, “and on any account, the tale is not suitable for polite society.”

Eloise, Colin and Benedict all groan and try various tactics to convince you to give up your story, but to no avail.  You simply will not tell them that the fearsome scar over Pero’s left eye is the result of a boy falling off the dock after running too vigorously towards the lunch bell and slipping on a wet fish.  Though you can laugh about it now, at the time you had been scared witless when the sailors from your father’s fleet lifted Pero’s wet, limp body from the water; you had cried by his bedside all three nights he was unconscious, praying he would be alright.  Even now, Pero remembers the force with which you had punched him in his uninjured shoulder when he woke, scolding him for scaring you so and making him promise never to do it again. 

Later, when you’re once again gliding across the dance floor in Pero’s comfortable but firm hold, he grins down at you, “Thank you, Dulce, for keeping my secret and upholding my reputation as a dastardly rogue.”

“My pleasure!  Have you been telling people that your scar is the result of some great feat of bravery?  Perhaps you fought off five pirates in order to protect the virtue of a young maiden?”

Pero laughs, “Sadly my imagination is not as inventive as yours.  I have simply been saying the details of the incident are difficult for me to recall.”

You nod, knowingly, “Ah yes, on account of all the injuries sustained.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I will be sure to drop enough vague hints to satiate their curiosity and raise you in their esteem.”

“Thank you, Dulce,” Pero says, amused as always by your good humour.

But you haven’t finished teasing, “... and perhaps they will be more forgiving of when you are dull, if they understand that you suffered a great many head injuries in your past.”

“Why you…”

Luckily for you, the dance requires you to spin away from Pero at this exact moment so you never hear what he says; by the time you turn back into his arms, he has already forgiven you – he’s never been truly upset with you before and has no plans to start now.  As the two of you continue to dance, your happy banter floats over the quickness of your steps and the laughter Pero pulls from you rings loud and clear across the dance floor.

---

Pero watches as you dance yet another dance with some seemingly upstanding gentleman from the ton.  A Lord something-something-shire.  Though he stands stiffly next to Benedict, scowling, inwardly he smiles and admires your graceful form.  You really have grown up to be a lovely, beautiful young lady, and yet – he finds in many ways, you’re hardly changed from the spirited, kind, and funny girl he knew in his youth.  You’re elegant and poised, but even as you extend your arm to your partner, the lilt of your fingers denote a playfulness that he remembers, something he does not observe in the other girls of the ton.  When not dancing, your pretty smile and witty remarks, coupled with the way your entire being lights up during the energetic story telling of one of your anecdotes, charms the entire room.  He’s exceptionally proud of you.

Still, he can tell you’re holding back, that you’re not entirely comfortable to be yourself in this setting.  Perhaps it’s modesty that begs you not to draw the attention of the entire room.  Or you’re following some outdated tutelage to conform with the subdued formality of such events.  All he knows is that to him, you’re radiant, a beacon of light, but he has yet to see you unleash the full extent of your charisma on the ton.

A weird, inexplicable part of him is glad that you don’t.  Something in him oddly akin to possessiveness wants to remain the only man at these events that knows you the way he does; knowing the depth of your wry humour, your never yielding compassion, and your unique perspective on the wide world that only a handful of people in this room have seen.  This same part of him leads him to spend most of the balls and societal events with his face set in a deep, glowering frown, standing apart from the other members of the ton, needing to be alone in order to wrestle with his thoughts.

Since the day following the Danbury Ball, Pero has brought you a single stemmed peony every single day, reasoning that if nothing else, you will have at least one of your favourite flower if none of your suitors sends any.  You come to look forward to the quiet meditative minutes you spend carefully clipping and arranging your one peony every day; it’s as if Pero has not only given you the flower, but also permission to take some relaxing time to yourself amidst the hustle and bustle of your social obligations.  By the time the Somerset House Gallery viewing arrives, you have yourself a fairly impressive bouquet that brings you peace and joy every time you look at it. 

As usual, Pero joins your group for the outing, but to your surprise, Eloise does not.  The reason for this is soon clear when Colin announces that he will be escorting Penelope Featherington as part of your party today.  You haven’t broached the topic with Eloise, but it’s clear that something has happened between the two women.  For as long as you can remember, Eloise and Penelope were thick as thieves, the very best of friends – when she thinks no one is watching, you’ve seen how this rift has affected her, but you can also tell Eloise would rather not discuss it.

Although you do not know her as well as you do the Bridgertons, Penelope has always seemed to be a lovely and friendly type of person.  Spending the afternoon with her today, you find her to also be witty and observant, direct in her comments and transparent in her thoughts and feelings as your group wanders through the galleries and enjoys the art on display.  Periodically, a friend of the Bridgertons or a suitor will join your small group as you move from piece to piece, making small talk and asking you or Francesca what you thought of this painting or that. 

When your party gathers around the refreshments table, Mr. Barnett, a young man you recall dancing with once at a recent ball, joins the conversation and remarks that the entire event is too dull for his tastes.

Met with polite but awkward looks and a light scoff from the Duchess, he apologies and tries to explain himself, “I simply mean that a sporting event, say a boxing match might provide more excitement than simply standing around and looking at pictures.  Although, I’m sure, Miss Featherington, you and your family might find this banality preferable to the type of action that typically surrounds the boxing ring.”

You’re absolutely shocked.  Even having not returned to London for several years, you had heard the rumours surrounding the late Lord Featherington’s untimely death.  Although certainly scandalous, as far as you knew, it was all speculation and you can’t imagine any reason to bring it up in polite conversation, never mind the gall of doing so directly to the poor deceased man’s daughter.

Colin looks murderous, his hands flexing, clearly battling himself on how he’d like to handle the situation without creating too much of a scene.  Next to him, Pero glares menacingly at Mr. Barnett, ready to follow his friend’s lead and provide whatever backup is necessary. 

Your candy laced voice snaps all three men back to the present, “I’m honestly so astonished, where do the men find their courage nowadays?” directing the question at Mr. Barnett who perks up at your attention.  You continue, all smiles, “For the life of me, I don’t think I could ever be brave enough to voice a thought like that out loud.”  Mr. Barnett turns bright red and mumbles something that sounds like “Right,” before bowing slightly and scampering away.  Pero finds himself smirking and filled with pride.  He remembered this viper-tongued hidden side of yours – you, who was always so sweet and good-natured, but irrevocably intolerant of cruelty or injustice.

Once in a small town in Greece, he had watched you chase away a group of boys bigger than you who had been stealing candy from a local girl, with nothing more than the ferocious spitting of admonishments and a small stick.  That the bullies probably didn’t even understand a word of English did not apparently leave your harsh rebukes lost in translation; the fury in your face and the conviction in the stance of your small frame doing all the talking for you.  After comforting the little girl, you had then given her all your candy and seen her safely home.  Later when Pero had offered to buy you more candy, you had been surprised that he knew you had run out, embarrassed he had witnessed your display of ferocity.  That was the day he bestowed the nickname “Dulce” on you, telling you as he refilled your candy bag that he was proud of you; the same way he’s proud of you now.

Unsurprisingly, Penelope excuses herself shortly after and when Colin follows her, your group breaks apart and you end up walking through the gallery with just Pero.  You wait as long as you can, making sure you’re out of earshot of others before putting your heads together the way only close confidants do, recounting what had happened.

“The audacity of that man, if he can even call himself that!” you practically hiss, still so incensed at the lack of civility that you had been witness to.

Pero chuckles, he’s always quite liked it when you would get riled up and vent to him; it was like watching a soft kitten bare its claws, “Well you certainly put him in his place, Dulce.”

Sighing, you certainly hope so, “I hope Penelope is alright.  And I hope Mr. Barnett at least has enough sense not to approach her ever again.”

“Well, if he does, I’m sure he will have plenty to contend with, including another fearsome tongue lashing by the prettiest lady of the season.”  While you feel your cheeks flush at his compliment, Pero continues, “My guess is that you won’t be seeing him in the suitors line at Bridgerton House.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, “Pity.”

“But what if he would have brought you peonies, Dulce?” teases Pero.

You take Pero’s arm, leading him back to a painting you’ve been wanting to revisit, “I’d throw the bouquet at his head.  Besides, I already receive the most beautiful peonies from someone I actually want to spend time with.  You can tell the men of the ton that peonies are taken, they need to find their own flower.”  You chuckle cheerfully and Pero finds that the sound lands deep in his chest and makes his heart expand.

If you thought the Italian cookies or the peonies were thoughtful gifts, Pero renders you absolutely speechless when he presents you with a breathtaking necklace before the Crawford Ball.  When he sees you, he’s secretly pleased that the necklace will compliment the cream gown that you’ve chosen for the evening, but he also can’t help but notice the way it shapes to your curves and accentuates your pretty features.  He waits with bated breath as you open the black velvet box and triumphs at your gasp and the way your eyes grow wide as you lift the delicate ruby necklace from its soft resting place. 

“Oh Pero, are these…?” you whisper, so full of awe and disbelief that you’re unable to finish your sentence.  It’s not often that something or someone renders you speechless.

“The rubies from India?” he finishes for you softly, “Yes, they are.”

Your eyes shine bright at the recognition of the rubies that had been gifted to Pero’s father by Indian dignitaries; when you were younger, you were so entranced by their beauty that you would often ask the old Barón to show them to you, and the kind hearted man had always indulged you with a chuckle.

“May I?” asks Pero gently, and you turn to let Pero drape the necklace around your neck, letting it rest delicately over your collar bones before he clasps it securely.  Hand gingerly touching the precious jewels you turn to Pero, still stunned, “Pero, this is too much.”

“Nonsense,” he smiles generously, “it always amused Father how much joy these rubies brought you.  I think he would have loved to see you wearing them.”  Your eyes well up with emotion, remember the gentle man whose sweetness you see shining so brightly and clearly in his son before you.

That night, when your necklace attracts the inevitable compliments, Pero watches with a full heart as you proudly talk about his father with love and generosity, regaling your admirers with tales of the far-off lands where you knew the man who raised him best.  Unavoidably, heads would turn in his direction during your stories, and Pero finds himself grimacing at the attention; choosing to turn away and move out of your audience’s line of sight to somewhere where he can once again admire you from afar in peace.

It doesn’t escape the ton’s notice that Pero only ever dances with you at balls; though your dance card is always full, the second and sometimes even third dance are permanently reserved for him.  Your smile is the brightest for him and ever present whether you’re together, on the dance floor or off.  There is no politeness or restraint with the two of you, only lively and animated conversation - the cheerful and melodic harmony of your joint laughter often carrying above the noise of the room.  He only ever smiles for you.

In between dances, if you’re not engaging in small talk with other young ladies or your suitors, you can always be found chatting happily with Pero and the Bridgertons; the other ball goers looking over in jealousy that your little corner of friends might actually dare to enjoy yourselves at an event meant for the very serious business of finding husbands.

Mornings at Bridgerton House include the usual parade of suitors waiting with gifts and flowers to have an audience with you or Francesca, and to Eloise’s extreme mortification, sometimes her as well.  If he doesn’t stay after breakfast, Pero generally arrives mid-morning to visit with Colin, but spends the majority of his time scowling at the young men waiting patiently in line, making no secret of the fact he’s scrutinizing them as he passes by.

The Duchess cannot decide if the Barón is a help or a hinderance to your marriage prospects.  On one hand, his fearsome glower and imposing figure have been enough to scare off any potential suitor who either had less than honourable designs on your fortune, or, via consensus with the Bridgerton brothers, was deemed to be a rake, or worse.  On the other hand, it was clear to any person with eyes that the two of you have a deep friendship - your company the only one he sought out, and his always cheerfully received by you.  Daphne could only imagine that it might intimidate even the most strong-willed, unwavering of suitors.  She wonders if any of your suitors ever question if your friendship with Pero masked a deeper affection between the two of you; she herself having started to wonder the same.

Convincing herself that it’s for your ultimate well-being, she endeavours to talk to the Barón about it. 

The morning after the Crawford Ball, when the line of suitors is the longest its ever been, Daphne waits for Pero to make his usual appearance mid-morning, and when he is seen in, she’s already anticipating him at the bottom of the stairs.  After he greets her courteously, she asks, “Barón Tovar, may I please request a moment of your time?  There is something with which I need your assistance.”

Following the Duchess into a room off the main hall, Pero asks with curiosity, “What may I do for you, your Grace?”

Daphne starts by thanking him for his support during the season, acknowledging that his presence has meant so much to you and helped you tremendously in conquering any nerves you may have had about debuting.

“Of course.  The pleasure has genuinely been all mine; it sometimes feels almost unbelievable that it has been over ten years since we last saw each other.  I have found it remarkably easy to fall into old patterns.”

“Yes, it is evident that the two of you are very close,” Daphne hopes that her comment comes out as the compliment she intends while at the same time hinting to Pero why she may have asked to speak to him in the first place.

Countenance faltering a little but still keeping his tone kind, Pero queries, “Is there something you wish to ask me, your Grace?”

Daphne decides from the limited time she’s known Pero that he is the type of person to appreciate transparency and directness, and so she ask with what she hopes is an impassive look on her face, “Do you intend to court her, my Lord?”

Pero nearly stutters, so caught off guard by the question.  He contemplates the implication of the Duchess having asked this question, and then, more seriously, his answer; after a few moments of silence, Pero responds truthfully, “No.”

Daphne nods in response, “I see, my Lord.  Please do excuse me for asking what you may have found to be an impertinent question.”

“Not at all, your Grace.  I rest easy at night confident that you always have your friend’s best interests at heart.”

Daphne nods, “Yes, always.  That is my highest priority.  Please consider with me: if I have wondered, do you think it is possible that some suitors and potential suitors have pondered the same question?”

And there it is, a perfectly reasonable question that Pero knows if he were to answer, would expose a part of his heart that he’s been keeping hidden, maybe even from himself.  Pero was telling the truth when he said he would not court you, but he is not so selfish to wish to keep you from another if he cannot have you for his own.  Truthfully, he is aware that he presents an intimidating and imposing figure, the mettle of which might scare off any number of gentlemen interested in pursuing you. 

“I should step back,” he announces abruptly and with finality.

“No, no!” protests Daphne, “I do not think that is necessary!  Your presence and attendance with us at the season’s events have been most welcomed and to be honest, a comfort.”

“I do not wish to do more harm then good, though,” Pero says, resigned, “If my presence deters someone who might be her match, I could never forgive myself.”

Again, though Daphne has only known Pero for a short period of time, she somehow knows that he’s made up his mind, and that even she, a Duchess, does not have the power to change it.  Pero thanks her for all her continued kindness and attention towards you and bids her goodbye with a bow.  Heading to leave out the front door, he looks up, as if looking through to the drawing room where you’re currently sitting, one last time before exiting Bridgerton House with a heavy heart.

You haven’t seen Pero in a week and a half and you’re worried sick about him.  He hasn’t been by Bridgerton House at all and he missed the Trowbridge Ball last week.  He, of course, does not owe you a tally of his coming and goings, but you feel unsettled at having not seen him for such an extended period of time after having seen him nearly every day for the past two months.  Your days, though full of engagements, feels empty when he doesn’t make an appearance.  You miss him.  You miss his gentle teasing, his reassuring presence and the way only he can make you laugh.  You have not really laughed in nearly ten days.

You convince Eloise to show you how to sneak out and traverse the alleys that run behind the houses of the square safely and quickly, the way you know she used to in order to visit Penelope, so you can secretly pop down the street to check in on Pero one evening.

You follow Eloise’s instructions exactly as you hurry along the pathways that weave behind the grand houses and it takes you only five minutes to reach the house Pero is staying at.  Standing in the small courtyard, you spot one window with a light on; hoping Pero is in the lit room, you find a few stones on the ground and launch them upwards.  Your aim could be better, but you do manage to hit your target a few times, ricocheting a few stones against the glass with the lightest of clinks. When you see Pero’s face appear in the window, you’re more than relieved – he doesn’t look so ill that he can’t move about and that’s good news.  You wave at his confused face and watch as he leaves the window; it’s a minute before the back door opens, “Dulce, what are you doing here?  Is everything okay?”

Pero is looking around into the courtyard, concerned for why you would appear at his door in the middle of the night, alone.

“I could be asking you the same thing, Pero!  I am so relieved to see you up and about, I’ve been so worried about you!”

Pero melts a little at the concern written across your face, “Me?  Why?”

“I haven’t heard from you in… well, it has been ten days now!  You haven’t been by Bridgerton House, Colin did not know where you were, and you missed the last ball!  I thought you must have taken ill!” your voice sounding a little shrill as your finish in a huff, as if why you might be worried was the most obvious thing in the world.

Pero laughs a little at your theatrics and his jovial manner makes you laugh as well, “I am very glad that you are not.  I mean, you’re not ill, are you?”

“No, I am not, Dulce.  Thank you for being worried about me.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, “You are very welcome.  Well!  Now that I am convinced you’re not at Death’s door, may I ask where you’ve been?  Why have you not come to see me?”

Pero scratches the back of his neck and looks mildly uncomfortable, “I had some business to take care of over the last few days that took up a lot of my time.”

“Oh!  Well, I hope it has all been settled to your satisfaction!”

“It has.”

You’re glad for him, “Good.  Then things will be back to normal?  You will be able to come to the Queen’s Luncheon this week?”

“I do not think so, Dulce,” his chest tightens a little at the way your face falls, “I think it is probably better if I stay away for a while.  I don’t think I am helping your marriage prospects very much.”

You’re so confused, what does Pero have to do with your marriage prospects? “Pero, I’m not sure what you mea-” but you’re cut off from finishing your thought when you hear a distinctively feminine laugh ring out from inside the house, followed closely by a response from a second, also feminine voice.

Your hands fly to your mouth to cover your gasp of shock upon realizing that Pero has company.  Female company.  And for some inexplicable reason, your eyes start to fill with tears, “Oh Pero, I’m so sorry!  I did not realize you were not alone!  I am so sorry to interrupt!”

You’re babbling and you’re not sure why nor can you seem to stop yourself, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” It’s not from embarrassment.  You’ve known Pero far too long to be embarrassed by anything with him; the two of you have always been able comfortable enough with each other to laugh off most things.  No, this is something else - an uncomfortable, sharp feeling right in the middle of your chest, “I just thought you were sick and I am so very glad you’re not.  I’ll go now!  I am sorry, so sorry!”  You fight back tears as you turn and flee back to Bridgerton House.

Eloise is waiting for you as she promised she would; she freezes when she sees your tear-stained face but to her credit, doesn’t pry – she just asks if you are okay and ushers you back into the house when you nod.  By the time you’re tucked into bed and your lights have been blown out, you’ve been able to name the dreadful feeling that’s made a home in your heart.  It’s devastation.  You’re devastated.  And plenty confused and angry at yourself for feeling that way!  It’s selfish, you think, selfish and childish.  You have become so accustomed to being the only woman Pero ever paid attention to, you realize that you had somehow come to think of him as yours, and having been confronted tonight with the fact that he decidedly is not, you’re now feeling foolish and plunging headfirst into a sense of loss for something that was never yours in the first place.

But… was that all it was?  No, it wasn’t.  You had liked it.  You liked being the only one he danced with.  The only one who he seemed to smile for.  The only one who could make him laugh.  Oh, his laugh.  Deep and booming - you lived for the way it shook all the way from his belly and crinkled the little lines around his eyes.  You harboured pride in being the only one who could pull it from him and you liked all the other ways that his countenance would seemingly soften just for you. He made you feel special and so worthy.

And that wasn’t the only way he did so.  He was so thoughtful and considerate; remembering even the littlest things about you: what you liked, what brought you joy.  He knew you so very well; always knowing the exact thing they would make your heart sing and taking every opportunity to do so.

You think about how Pero had let you lean on him this entire season - every request for reassurance or support met with kindness and words of praise for your wit, your mind, your sweet nature that you couldn’t help but believe based solely on the earnest and genuine expression in his eyes.

He had been there every step of the way with you, shouldering some of the pressure of the season so you wouldn’t have to; being your reprieve and relief, a shelter where you could laugh loudly and unabashedly be yourself.

He made you feel free and cared for.

And Lord, was he handsome. Closing your eyes, you think of the distinct slope of his nose and the strong cut of his jaw, covered in that scruff of his - unkempt but somehow still so distinguished.  You think of Pero’s deep brown eyes that would fleck with gold when he laughed, and wonder how you haven’t fallen into them every time he looked at you. And his hair. Oh, his hair. Your fingers actually itch just thinking about the soft curls that frame his face so perfectly; how you wish you could run your hands through them.

The thought that there is another woman who might be doing exactly that right now shatters your heart so completely.

You love him.  The realization is both a relief and a complete shock to your system.

The unexpected admission to yourself that you’re in love with Pero, followed closely by the certainty that your feelings are undoubtedly unrequited, is a one-two punch to your heart.

You cry and cry until sleep overtakes you.

I've never done a tag list before so please let me know if it doesn't work, or you don't/do want to be on it, or it sets your phone on fire 😅 @drewharrisonwriter @inept-the-magnificent @tuquoquebrute @stcrrjoon @anoverwhelmingdin

@callsignmedusa

[bunniemoth]

[Fic] Beware of farmers bearing gifts (F!Farmer x Shane)

Rating: Mature Pairing: f!Farmer x Shane Words: 1,245 CW: Alcohol, references to depression, self-hatred, aggressive!Shane, enemies to lovers tropes, a little groping Summary: The recipe for something that's not-quite-friendship starts with an unwanted pizza delivery and a messy makeout against the Saloon's siding in the dark.

Or, "How to win friends and influence assholes."

Spoiler: The secret's in the sauce.

Ao3 or Read below

“Can you stop?”

“There’s no one else here. You don’t need to yell.”

Silence falls, the Saloon door’s final slam a punctuation mark on the noise. It’s Friday, you think.

Shane stalks after you, running into your space and backing you up. There’s a hard gleam in his eye when he stares you down, the scent of spilled jam and musty sweatshirt and beer all wrapped up to hide the soap smell clinging to his skin.

He’s frowning again.

Yoba, you hate that he can’t seem to smile.

“I have never been nice to you. Not once. What is this?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“Answering a question with another question is rude.”

“You would know.”

He doubles down, crowding you with the box. It dents in his hands, but he can’t manage to let it go. “What. The fuck. Is this.”

You don’t know why your eyes are burning all of a sudden, the world shimmering at the edges.

“It’s a pizza.”

He stares so long and so hard that you want to whither under the scrutiny; like he’s trying to figure the intricacies of how you could possibly use food to torment him further.

“It’s vegetarian,” you croak.

His voice is soft with menace. “Gus doesn’t make vegetarian pizza for the bar.”

No, of course he doesn’t.

Shane barrels on, “He buys them frozen from the Joja Mart. I know that because I’m a connoisseur — a savant of the shitty processed pepperoni, and the way the edges get soggy if you microwave it too long. ”

“Don’t eat it, then —” you start.

He cuts you off, “This is not that pizza.”

You’re not sure what he’s accusing you of.

“I didn’t know you were so sensitive to your fast food selection —”

“This isn’t fast.” It sounds like a condemnation.

You take a step sideways to get around him, but Shane mimics the movement — a waltz between the garbage can and dog pen that hems you in so you can’t escape his scrutiny.

“There are green things on it,” he hisses.

You hate that it sounds like he’s calling you out. Like you’ve done something wrong.

Like a pot boiling too long, the explanation pops and rattles out:

“It’s kale. And the tomato sauce was simmered with hot peppers for two hours because I know you like it spicy — just like those stupid poppers you like so much. And the cheese came from Betsy’s milk and I milled the grain and learned how to make the dough myself, and I baked it for exactly twenty minutes while watching the cheese bubble so it would still be hot when I got here to give it to you.”

There’s a little vein in Shane’s temple that pulses in time with your heartbeat. That’s how close he is — close enough for you to be fascinated and repulsed at once, and helplessly, impossibly rooted to the spot because your determination to befriend him is greater in strength than even his relentless, repeated, awful rejection.

“Why.”

It’s not phrased like a question. It sounds like a challenge.

But there’s that flicker again — a hesitation that he can’t hide between those hard, bright green eyes… like emerald from the mines, you think — encased in ugly ore, but still glittering, and fragile, and so hard to find.

Your gulp is an audibly strangled thing, the horror of the confession choking off your frustration that he can’t accept anything nice from anyone.

“It’s not like I’m trying to poison you,” you hedge.

Shane’s standing so close you can see the slightly purple sheen of his stubble, his jaw ticking as he searches you a little too hard. The ghost of a smirk makes a too-brief appearance, and evanesces.

“Yoba knows I’m not that lucky,” he says.

He looks like he’s going to walk away, his gaze slanting off to a place past your shoulder where only memory can drag someone away. You need to keep him here a minute longer. You’re not sure why, only that it feels significant.

“I tried a slice,” you blurt. “There’s a slice is missing. From the pizza. Sorry. I had to be sure it wasn’t — I’ve never made one before, because I only just got the recipe, and —”

He stares at the box, his frown etching hard lines around his mouth like he’s trying to reconcile the odd angles of your bodies and the distance measured between them in a single pizza box, and you’re looking at a single thread loosed from the shoulder of his shabby sweatshirt wishing you could pull it, but not knowing what damage it’d cause if you do.

“That’s really nice of you,” Shane says. He doesn’t sound happy about it.

His hair flops into his gaze, and while your fingers itch to push back the strand, to pull the thread or smooth it down, to do something — anything at all — to make even a little bit of it better, your insides tremble with the unsaid.

Grandpa would want you to be brave, you think.

Everything twists under Shane’s scrutiny, and you remember: he doesn’t want your pity.

You lift a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I thought you deserved something —” nice. But you don’t finish.

The box drops, forgotten. The slap it makes comes a second after you realize Shane’s stubble is as coarse as the rest of him, his large hands under your ass lifting you up to wrap your legs around his waist, the broad expanse of his chest under your hands solid, and not too hard, and warm as his tongue fills your mouth. You can taste the beer he was drinking earlier, but beneath it, you can taste him.

Your gasp is the only audible thing in the alley, the saturation point of desire and surprise bubbling over into a debilitating concoction that floods your body with pleasure all at once, and you’re drowning in it, unable to breathe, letting him carry you back a step, then two as he kisses you.

Yoba.

You can feel him — notched against your centre as he pins you against the Saloon’s brick siding and he licks into you with hot, wet strokes that leave your toes curling in your boots. The whimper in your throat turns into a moan as you clutch at him, fumbling and too slow to process the demands of his touch, his scent, the breathless rush —

Only that it feels good.

He pulls back, tugging on your lower lip with his teeth, his breath hot.

Shane makes a noise in the back of his throat.

His eyes are lidded — glossy as his attention flicks from your mouth to your unravelling expression — and he smirks, giving your ass a squeeze that makes you writhe against him, the gush of heat a flood that fills you from toe to tip threatening to drown you in the feeling of his body against yours; how real he is all of a sudden; how fleeting that smile he offers is.

“Thanks, farmer,” Shane says.

He sets you down and picks up the pizza. It steams when he flips the lid, and you aren’t quite processing the that those same thick fingers that edged along the seam of your overalls seconds before pull out a slice. He grunts, grinning as he leaves you sagging against the alley wall.

“Mm,” you hear him say as he retreats into the night, “Pizza.”

It takes a second for you to realize: he hadn’t yet taken a bite.

[bitumz]

Title: A withered Rose still has its thorns

Pairing: Cooper Howard / Lucy MacLean

Word count: 4k+

Rated: T [angst, depictions of past violence, hurt/comfort, mentions of death and loss, happy ending]

A/N: this was written for the incredible @valeriarts for this beautiful fanart they made me, and was heavily inspired by this insane Beauty and the Beast Ghoulcy Fanart they entered into the Ghoulcy Atomic Blast Event! As such, this responding work is absolutely riddled with BatB references, but is lovingly set in the Fallout canon world because I am an absolute goon for the old music and wasteland setting. A tale as old as time... Ao3 link

~~~~~

One year has passed since Lucy pulled the trigger on her own decayed mother, withered away and rotted from the inside out by the inevitable cruelty of the wasteland. A necessary evil she still tries to console herself with on such a gruesome anniversary, though these days the grizzly voice chiding her in her mind doesn’t sound like her own anymore. And Lucy thinks she's starting to realize exactly how decay feels.

One year of failed leads. Shattered expectations. The growing pains of being remade into a woman more familiar than she should be, even well beyond the reflection of a mirror. 

The old shopping center she and Cooper find themselves in that evening is almost painfully similar to the Super Duper Mart, old clothing and clocks, and half burnt candles and varying arrays of other decorative knick-knacks scattered about like hastily flung debris across the rotting floors. But unlike the mart, high walls divided large sections of the space, reminding her even harsher of the vault rooms back home, centered just so by a long, splaying hallway that seemed to go on for miles into the shadowed corridor. An old mall Cooper had called it, but to Lucy that meant nothing. 

She'd done what she could to keep her distance from him that day, him never being one to appreciate her foul moods, and instead of calling out the blood curdling hypocrisy of that whole idea (and the inevitable fight that would follow), she bit her tongue and did her best to sulk alone, in only the company of a few blessedly silent clothing displays and dusty bedroom furniture. 

One of the former caught Lucy’s attention more than the others, a headless mannequin donned in a flowing silk gown, royal blue cut through the middle with a bright yellow sash that drew in the curves of the waist and cascaded floor length at the rear with the rest of the flowing hemline to trail like a river of molten gold across the moldy tile. 

Her mother had always disliked her in dresses. And Lucy can't help but remember the hazy bits and pieces of her fifth birthday. Of her father presenting her with a beautifully boxed up gift. Her mother's disbelieving scowl over at the man as Lucy held the soft floral material up against her chest and beamed at her own reflection in the vault bathroom mirror. They way her father twirled her around the room in it for many a birthday after that, with only Norm, a few aging Cooper Howard movie posters, and blinding fluorescents overhead as audience, pride already flashing even brighter in her father’s eyes as every year she grew more and more into the perfect daughter she was expected to be. And though Lucy had been too young to consider yet just where that gift could have come from, those memories now scathed in the shadows, somewhere deep beneath her bones like a bustling city of thousands of people being blown to nothing more than ruin and ash. 

And at this point, after fighting through all the many foul factions of the wasteland for just over a year and searching for a sense of fairness and freedom for so long before, she was so so far beyond sick of monsters masquerading as man. 

It was why slipping from the confines of her vaultsuit and stepping into the rolling blue and gold layers of silk felt something like lying. Like putting on that ill-fitting wedding dress again and continuing to do as she was told. Adding her name to the list and filling the role set upon her from the very moment she came out screaming like a wild beast into her mother's arms and a carefully crafted existence. 

She tugged her own suit up the slender plastic hips of the mannequin in trade. Zipped it securely closed with the final brush of her hands tenderly across the shoulders.

The worn leather slacked too big around the petite figure, and Lucy felt her own muscles clench the slightest bit in her newly exposed chest and upper arms. Her time away from the vault had made her only stronger. She could feel it in the easing of their long days trudging through the sand and restless nights with Cooper beneath the stars. In his harsh lessons and even harsher truths. But looking back at her mother’s last little hand-me-down gift as it sat wrong on the headless figure before her made her feel a bit like a child again; lost and alone in a world that was still so very much too big.

So she did just as she would when she was little. Turned the oldies station on low on her Pip Boy. Sat cross legged upon the cold dingy floor. Sought out her mother’s advice.

“I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do here.” Lucy said, eyes falling to her mismatched fingers in her lap. She curled them loose into the soft pile of golden fabric. “I wasn’t so sure I was going to make it through mourning you the first time around…” she admitted soft, swallowing at the pain rising heavy in her throat. “But this… now… knowing everything I do… I- I understand why you left. And I’m sorry I couldn’t help sooner… I’m so sorry…” And Lucy had long run out of water to waste on tears so she only clenched her fists tighter over her thighs. Waited quietly for a reassurance that would never come again, receiving only silence in answer apart from the lilting voice of Skeeter Davis softly reminding her from her wrist that the end of the world had already long since passed. 

Lucy could only blame her time above for being able to sense him well before she heard Cooper’s spurs clanging softly up the hall. And had it been even just a few months ago, she would have moved. Rose from the ground and stuck on a fake sunshine smile to avoid his prodding. Stood tall and still in the shadows like a predator in wait. But if he was going to continue to track her down every time she sought out solace, he was going to get what he got. Real and raw and just so very tired. 

“There ain’t shit for supplies,” his rumbling voice started before rounding the corner, “but I did find somethin’ interestin’ you may wanna have a look at wh…” Cooper stilled like the dead in the shattered frame of the once glass door. Rendered entirely silent, though she could feel the burn of his eyes across her newly bared arms, the curves of her shoulders, her dark hair falling loose and wild down her back. “What the fuck are you doin’?” He finally managed, sounding much farther away than he actually stood.

“Oh you know, just talking to my mom.” Lucy spoke flat to the mannequin, unmoving. “You’re interrupting.” She added in dismissal after a long dead-silent moment, but she only heard his boots close in closer behind her. 

So she held her breath and waited for the snide response to drawl from his lips. Something like ‘radaway’s losin’ its touch huh?’ she imagined first, or ‘Rose musta not took all the crazy with her when she left that fuckin’ vault...’

But as the pair of taunts grew hotter in her temples, nothing of the sort actually came from him... Which was odd enough in itself to make her finally look back over her shoulder. 

What she found was a world weary man who looked as lost as she felt. The darkness of the decaying building clinging to the protective cloak of his duster like a long drawn curse that was pained to let go. He carried the weight of his own deep in the lines of his scalded face, wearing his own many anniversaries of suffering in scattered jagged scars, jaw tense as if he fought not to set free a rising snarl at the sight before him, browline drawn beneath the shadow of his hat like she’d spoken a foreign language he couldn’t quite grasp. 

He eyed her hallowed vaultsuit as if personally affronted… Looked back down right at her, dark eyes sparking with something near that impenetrable mask of anger he so easily slipped on as they trailed slow down across the gathered yellow silk she fidgeted with at her waist, to the elegant tendrils of blue haloing in a wide puddle around her on the floor, shielding nearly as much of her body as the suit had, but still leaving her feeling so incredibly exposed to his studiously searching eyes. 

“What is it?” Lucy asked after a moment, unable to take the scrutiny any longer, heart rate rising as she shifted where she sat.

And Cooper blinked as if hearing her for the first. “What’s with the getup?”

Lucy forced the breath from her nose, long and heavy. Tugged a bit of the fabric up in a false curtsy. “Oh this old thing?” She tried to tease but fell flat. “I've never had a dress of my own, you know? Always something borrowed… and Mom used to say blue was my color.” Lucy smoothed the silk back down over her hips, missing the way the claim struck Cooper’s expression like the hail Mary of a well aimed brick. “My eyes, I guess.” She shrugged away.

“No.” Cooper disagreed low after a long beat. “It ain't your eyes.” Then he took the two last steps to stand near her side. Reached down a hand. “C’mon I wanna show you somethin’.” And for a moment Lucy sat unmoving, glancing away from Cooper’s gloved offering up to the plastic shell of her mother one last time. “She ain't goin’ anywhere.” Cooper promised soft after a while of watching her struggle, in a way Lucy now knew that only he had every right to vow. And it's what finally drew her hand out slowly into his. 

“Alright,” she breathed. And she rose.

—

The shop Cooper led her into was stacked floor to ceiling with disheveled shelves of books. Old wooden tables and chairs lined the front walls. Rows of cabinets had once cut lines through the center, now tipped and scattered by previous scavengers who must not have appreciated the incredibility of the rare bounty before her. But Lucy, however, was already mentally sorting through the contents of her pack and deciding what could be left behind to make more space.

It was the candlelight that eventually distracted her from the task. Lit aglow and sparsely set across the floor and on a few of the sturdier looking bookshelves all around the room, burning just bright enough to clear the murky darkness from the space…and it was the consideration of such a thing that emptied her chest, had Lucy steepling her hands over her mouth and gaping wide eyed all around her at the beautiful sight, the sheer number of books alone putting the vault’s ample collection to shame. But it was the man stood behind her in the darkened doorway that stopped her eyes. Silhouette framed in the soft glow of fire, features hidden almost entirely from view, but like the constant pull of the moon on the tide she could feel the weight of every ounce of his attention on only her. 

“Cooper,” Lucy called low, letting her hands fall slow to her sides. “This is incredible. I've never seen so many books in my life.”

And he ambled forward at his name like a bloodbug drawn to the life pumping quick through her veins, sharp features softened by the warm glow.

“Really?” He drawled in that way that preambled the rudeness she'd so long been awaiting. Downplaying the situation every time it got too close to - something. And he was never one to disappoint. “I thought all that Vault Tec propaganda down there would at least rival a two bit bookshop.” 

Lucy raised her eyes and turned away. Took another look about the room. Made her way to the closest shelf of books and let her fingertips brush lovingly across the dusted spines. Stacked a few aside that she had every intention of not leaving without. 

“It wasn't just propaganda,” Lucy informed, his jab unable to reach her properly through the soft flickering of flame. “Vault distributed media was delegated and traded by the overseers.” She sought him out again with the turn of her neck. “And as you know, ours was particularly fond of fairytales and cowboys. Villeneuve and Wister. That sort of thing. Not to mention the movies…” her smile was mean, a brazen curve of her lips.

And Cooper said nothing in riposte, instead simply closing the space between them with slow, lazy steps. Rested a hand against the shelf on either side of her head as she turned to face him, closing in and casting his shadow across her in a way that once would have made her feel small. 

Lucy only raised her chin, held his eyes above with the fire flickering hot in her own.

“Is that really what you wanna be doin’ today?” He asked her, a near growl as it rolled so close from his chest. “Defendin’ your daddy?” 

And the reminder twisted in her ribs like a spike, aimed and true; memories of laughter and life and being twirled around in loving arms slowly, agonizingly morphing into something more fowl in her gut like her father's guiltless eyes as he'd finally confessed aloud his many many sins down the barrel of a gun… Her mother's meatless corpse sagging gaunt in a chair nearby…

“Dance with me.” Lucy blinked, only truly registering the words as they settled skewed into her own ears. The violins dipped and drew out the start of Billie Holiday's, Crazy He Calls Me from her Pip Boy between them like a taunt and there was no better title for the way Cooper’s sharp eyes searched her face.

“Do what now?” 

“Dance with me.” Lucy repeated, just as unshaken. “You're right.” She nodded in truce. “I'd rather make new memories today than dwell on the old ones and my options are you or the mannequin.”

Cooper gauged her expression from mere inches above. Looked as if he awaited the splintering of her sanity beneath his glare. For the flinching call of her bluff as he raised his chin and thinned his eyes in a move she’d watched him use on countless others to sweeten a deal or seal a sentence. But Lucy only popped open the latch of her Pip Boy. Sat it nearby on the shelf. Held her hands out to him palms up in the dwindling space between them…

And Cooper took a step back and away. Squared his shoulders as if she had thrown a fist instead of anything near the beginnings of a dance. 

“Mannequin would suit better.” He said in faint protest, stilling only a moment longer to meet her unyielding eyes before sighing, shrugging his duster from his shoulders and draping it over the back of a nearby chair. Pulling his gloves off and dropping them unceremoniously into the splintering seat. 

And Lucy felt an altogether new sort of apprehension as he neared this time, sturdy arms straining against the worn fabric of his rarely seen sun-bleached undershirt. His bandolier of hastily crafted bullets glistened like sharp teeth across the visible rise and fall of his chest. He held a single bared hand out to her in offering, allowing her to take either that last fateful step forward or a silent final out…

And the thrill of it all was the best distraction she could ever ask for.

The fine hairs at the back of her neck rose in warning as she took this newest challenge in stride, just as she had the many before. “I don’t doubt it.” Lucy returned, resting a ruined-fingered hand over the solid curve of his shoulder. Cooper slipped her left into his and she couldn’t help but stare at that way her own something borrowed still looked pale and small against the rest of Cooper’s hand, wrapping warm and rough around her own. His other burned like a brand against her waist just as Billie sang of her own willingness to walk through fire and with it they were moving.

Cooper was a startlingly natural lead, sure in step and direction, guiding her along in soft curves of motion as if on instinct alone, whereas she stepped between his boots in thought absorbed angles, and it was a pre-war skill Lucy would not have imagined he cared to retain until that very moment. He’d always spoken so little of that time of his life, apart from Janey. And even if they weren’t spending an evening attempting to forget, she at very least knew better than to outright ask why. 

The thought brought her foot down hard on his for what she guessed was the second or third time judging by his growl.

“That supposed to be a two step?” Cooper rumbled over her instead. “‘Cause you’re movin’ like a goddamn sheet of plywood down there.”

And Lucy laughed a breathy thing at the very real exasperation in his tone.

“I’m distracted is all.” She forced herself to meet his eyes, so close and scalding in the candlelight. Reminding her even more of the last time she’d seen him display such a talent. The same way her father had taught her so many years ago… and she just couldn't help herself. “I remember this from the scene right after you killed Joey… Where you went back to town and danced with the widow in -”

“Deadhorse ya,” Cooper scathed in answer, spinning her silent in an almost violent twirl out to arms reach before snapping her back, her spine pressing flush against the buttons lining down his vest so that the “don’t start,” was hissed directly into her ear. It effectively scattered her thoughts and sent gooseflesh rising down the exposed skin of her arms for a much different reason than she knew was intended. But then he stilled them. Kept a forearm wrapped firm across the front of her waist. “Kick them boots off so you don’t take my fuckin’ toes too.” He nodded down over her shoulder, the brim of his hat brushing against her scattered hair. 

And she continued to follow his lead, shaking off one and then the other. Turned around again with minimal restraint as he took notice of her intention to face him once more. Lucy filled her lungs with the faint scent of old leather and smoke as his coarse fingers dragged slow patterns across the soft silk gathered at her hips. This time she brought both hands up to his shoulders. Felt his own slide home in a near perfect fit into the soft curves beneath her ribs. 

Then they were moving again, easier, a more natural sway that brought him the slightest bit closer. Allowed her to truly see his features painted warm beneath his hat in the firelight. Those most others would deem ugly, the proof heard often enough in wretched slurs and slithered curses from near every small bit of civilization they passed. But here in the safety of their solitude, the candles flickered deep against the rugged hollows of his face and brought somehow more life to his hazel eyes. And though they had always been so incredible to her, those eyes, something about the way the glow sparked in them now, subdued and scorching back at her in equal measure, was almost another distraction worthy of misstep. 

And she’d been doing so well until her eyes dropped to the side. Focused on the scattered splotches across his shoulders that proved his threadbare shirt had once been blue…

The music built and curled around them unimpeded by the realization, trumpets joining in with the strings to round out the repeated claims of being insane for all a number of reasons and Lucy couldn’t help but look down at her own feet again, strained and self deprecating as she focused on not stepping down onto his with the way her heart sped and cheeks flushed. His hands flexed at her waist.

“Relax.” Cooper bid low, undoubtedly sensing her struggle in her missteps and the growing tension of her muscles. “I ain’t in the mood for sparrin’ today and my drawin’ hand’s otherwise occupied, so you’re only fightin’ ya self.” 

The upward curve of his bowed lips and drawl of his words spoke only truths, something almost sad touching his eyes, and Lucy found trusting in him still came all too easy. She watched as the rise of his browline painted a told ya so look across his face while she focused only on her own breaths and the warmth of his tender hold about her waist, her movements growing more and more fluid between those very same hands that she’d seen reap death and destruction with ease for just over a year now in search of her father and the answers they were owed. Coming up just short on near every lead and tumbling almost as violently into each other's arms in one way or another so often now that it seemed only necessary for survival. 

“Perceptive.” She said finally. 

But this was something else… It was just so…

It was simply different, Lucy decided, rising up onto her bare toes to press her lips against Cooper’s just because she wanted to. Taking unapologetically in a way that he had been forcefully tearing into her from the beginning. And she softly parted her lips over his unmoving ones. Waited for the beast to surface and rear its fangs or draw its claws. To push her away with a shove or back her forcefully against the nearest surface in a deliciously dizzying coin toss of chance. Because, yes the beast was in there somewhere she knew well enough, but it was Cooper who had pulled her up from the floor of her vigil. Cooper who’d lit the candles that warmed the air around them; of a bookshop of all places. Cooper who still distracted her from her woes now in dance… 

And it was Cooper who kissed her back. Took her face into the sanctity of his hands to tilt and deepen it, his lips a hot brand across her own as he held her steady and tasted her slow in languid shallow swipes of his tongue along her lower lip. He parted from her just long enough for Lucy to draw a greedy breath from the shared air between them. Then he kissed her again, another sweet short press of his mouth over hers before he whispered “I gotcha somethin’ else,” near voiceless into the corner of her moony grin. 

Then he leaned back just enough to meet her eyes, his own expression sobering like he stood on the precipice of some great divide, and Lucy dared him to jump with the slight tilt of her head in question. 

Then he pulled out a drooping flower from the pocket of his slacks. A sun-bleached plastic rose that must have once been red before the end of the world and the crushing hands of time; petals welting and half melted... And her heart did a funny painful pair of skips in her chest at the sight of it held out to her in his own repeatedly scarred and sewn together hand. 

“What? It ain't enchanted or some shit.” Cooper said harsh, shifting an inch on his own two feet. A first misstep since they started this new dance. “I just know what it's like to not have a grave to mourn is all.” He tried again. “Don’t read too much into it.”

And what a feint it was to reach for in a room set aglow, filled to the brim with warmth and music; bound leather and parchment... 

Lucy’s smile was all straight white teeth.

“Of course not,” she succumbed, taking the rose from him carefully and tucking the stem safely away into the sash of her dress so that her hands were free to reach back out for what she really wanted. “I never really liked reading anyway,” she soothed, wrapping her wrists loose about the back of his neck and looking past him at a few new titles that would be soon added to her pile. “Though my bag has been feeling awful light lately.”

And Cooper chuckled soft, a deep rumble from his throat. 

“Fuck the books,” he said, breath ghosting warm against the sensitive skin at the side of her neck. Then his hands slid heavy through the silk pooled low at her back, drew her in close against his chest. “Pack the dress.” 

And for a long long while they danced together and forgot. 

[mynamesaplant]

Just a Dragon in its Den

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Just a little short story about @critterbitter's submas hc. Please go take a look at Critter's work, it is beautiful in every sense of the word. This particular story looks more into Drayden, the twins, and the tension that has built between them. This takes place right before they make it to Opelucid. Enjoy another bad phonetically written accent! One other thing to note: Kaita is called "mother" by her sons and Lucielle is "mom".

Little piece of my own hc: The particular Haxorus that helped raise Emmet and Ingo is informally known as Darling by everyone bc they heard Drayden referring to 'darling' after battles and thought it was her name.

Thank you to @ingo-ingoing-ingone for being my beta reader. I appreciate you immensely, my friend.

You can find my series of Critter inspired works on AO3.

Don't like to read on Tumblr? Find the stand alone piece here on AO3.

Enjoy!~

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 Sunlight still managed to get into his eyes even with the canvas canopy over their heads…

Ingo pried open a bleary eye, scanning from his left to his right. A moment ticked by before he flopped his head back down.

It was just him, and his waxy partner half-way fused to his sleep shirt.

He could hear his best friends talking just outside the tent flaps, the sizzling of oil in a pan which made him jerk upright. Litwick was launched as he was quick to change and get outside before they burned a hole in the tent… again.

Ingo loved Emmet and Elesa, but they couldn’t cook without supervision. They could barely cook with supervision.

“Make way!”

Emmet and Elesa jumped out of the way as Ingo barreled out from the dark interior of the tent. Quick to relinquish stove duty to his twin, Emmet shot Elesa a smug grin that she merely harrumphed at.

“Told you that would get him up.”

“You two are cruel,”  Ingo tried to say through a yawn, but it only came out as a garbled noise. However, the intention seemed to come across just fine.

“We’re not cruel! You sleep like a log!”

He ignored Elesa, groggily shifting the bacon that was just starting to spatter and hiss in distress.

You jerk! I was sleeping!

A displeased crackle and spark came from the tent flap, Litwick's wax running with the intensity of her lavender inferno.

“Apologies, Litwick. I was terrified our tent would turn to cinders if these two were manning the camp stove any longer.”

The flame atop Litwick’s head, at the moment burning high and hot, slowly began to whittle down into a manageable flicker. Ingo stooped, scooping his Pokémon up carefully, and setting her near the small propane tank that fueled the stove, the Ghost Pokémon grumbling the whole time as her eyes fluttered shut. This was a new gift. Their mother heard from Uncle Drayden that they were on their journey through Unova and she had purchased this from a camp store in Galar; in her letter she suggested that it might be useful. Camping was very big there apparently; she had seen many people using this model of stove, and she saw no issues with twelve-year-olds using flammable materials like propane.

Their mother, Kaita, rarely sent them anything and, when she did, it was usually impractical or downright dangerous. The boys had stared at the box waiting for them at the Poké Mart in Lacunosa Town, perplexed when they saw their mother’s name with the return address for a hostel in Galar. How she had even known that they were going to be in Lacunosa before heading to Opelucid was anyone’s guess, but they took the package and attempted to call the number on the postcard, stuffed in hastily judging by the torn edges and messy scrawl, but the man with a thick Galarian accent told them she had left just the other day.

Somehow that was unsurprising to Emmet and Ingo.

“So, what’s on tap for today?”

“We should reach Opelucid by noon,” Emmet said, pulling his knees to his chest as he watched Tynamo flitter around the Dwebble that had been following them since they had departed from Route 18.

The little crustacean had been tottering after them at a distance, disappearing into its shell when anyone was close, but joined in on the fun with the other Pokémon on occasion.

“That’s where Drayden works, right?”

“Correct, we will be visiting him.”

That seemed to give Elesa pause, looking from one twin to the other.

“Are you sure?” Emmet shifted, throwing a glance toward Ingo who minutely shook his head. Though the motion was subtle, Elesa didn’t fail to catch it – she was used to their rhythms and motions. For whatever reason, they were uncomfortable. “We don’t have to stop by the gym if-”

“That is very much appreciated, Elesa.”

“Yup, verrrry nice of you.”

“But everyone knows us in Opelucid. Even if we don’t go to the gym, he’ll know we’re there.”

Against her side, Elesa felt Emmet shudder and mutter something about old ladies. She wasn’t sure what that meant either, but she assumed it wasn’t good.

“What about old ladies?”

“All of the octogenarians like to sit in the plaza by the gym to read their papers, feed the Pidoves, gossip, and play chess. You must pass by them if you want to get to the Pokémon Center. They like to joke that they are Opelucid’s stalwart sentinels and they… tattle on us to uncle when we got into mischief. It is why we asked to stay in Anville Town most days.”

Ingo did not add that by that point, Drayden had stopped asking and would be gone for most of the day. It had only been when they were very young, usually following hand-in-hand in their uncle’s wake and scurrying behind his Haxorus when strangers got too close to them.

“They pinched our cheeks… Fingers like Kingler claws.”

Emmet was the one to actually answer their friend’s question, subconsciously rubbing his cheek as if it had just been pinched. After the first few times that had happened, Darling realized that the twins did not like being touched without permission, and the Dragon Pokémon would insert herself between Emmet and Ingo and the elder men and women. She would rumble out a warning when people got too close, flashing her glinting tusks despite the fact that they were covered with thick Bouffalant leather to prevent any accidents.

Only until Drayden commanded her to stop, she was aggressive with any strangers or anyone that the twins seemed uncomfortable with. At the very least, Emmet and Ingo were convinced that Darling would be happy to see them.

Breakfast was a drawn-out affair. Each bite seemed to be smaller and smaller as if to prolong the inevitable meetup. Packing up and hiking to the city was also glacially slow, Emmet and Ingo dragging their feet as they neared the dragon’s den. Elesa stopped them just as they passed the first few residences, looking them over with steely eyes that the twins shrank away from.

“We can turn back now.”

“No… We mustn’t delay any further.”

Ingo insisted, forging ahead, and chewing his bottom lip to shreds with the all-consuming anxiety that he and Emmet collectively felt.

Opelucid was an overwhelming place. It radiated an unexplainable energy that seemed to loom over all those who entered her walls. They remembered the streets well. Ingo’s eyes fixed on the place where Emmet had tripped and scraped his knee, crying and oozing blood on the whole walk back to the gym. Emmet nervously flicked his eyes to the place where a mother yelled at him and Ingo when her teenage son had been bullying them – he’d called them oblivious, creepy, unsettling… Emmet swallowed hard, reaching for Ingo’s shirt tail, and gripping it tight, rubbing his thumb over the fabric methodically.

 Ingo’s hand reached back and offered his brother’s wrist a light squeeze, trying to reassure him even if he didn’t feel so sure himself. 

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Despite doing everything in their power, the trio could not avoid the parties of the elderly that seemed to stalk the streets of the city. There was no escape from the simpering words and the ruddy cheeks from pinching fingers, the kids barely escaped with their cheeks and dignity intact.

The doors to the gym hissed open, sounding more like an angry Zweilous bickering over a meal than the squeak from the friction of the moving belt. They moved into the atrium tentatively, the twins bunched together while Elesa stood off to one side, eyeing them worriedly as a young woman leaned over the counter. Thankfully, Emmet and Ingo didn’t recognize her, which must have meant she was new. Her accent confirmed it.

“Welcome ta the Opelucid Gym, are ya here ta challenge the gym leadah?”

“Ah, no. We, uh, we are here to see him.”

Ingo tried hard not to stammer and failed miserably, somewhat baffled by the heaviness of the Castelian accent rolling off her tongue. The young woman pursed her maroon-stained lips before turning her gaze to the computer before her. There was some clicking, some squinting between the monitor and the two boys, and she finally picked up a walkie-talkie that Emmet and Ingo knew was there.

“Mista Drayden, there are some… youts here ta see ya.”

There was a pause.

“Send them in, Audrey.”

They tried not to think about how irritated their uncle already sounded, instead choosing to focus on the awe on Elesa’s face as she looked around the gym. Her blue eyes quite nearly bulged out of her skull when they walked under winding bridges, gasped at the beautiful carvings of dragons that adorned the whole facility, and she oohed and aahed at the way the placed made the perfect mechanical maze to make every challenger prove their mettle before squaring up to the dragon master himself.

They traveled up the ramps without hesitation, Emmet and Ingo giving appropriate responses to the gym trainers who recognized them. A few of the older trainers stopped the trio, cooing over the twins who tried not to cringe at the unwanted touches and comments that only served to make them more anxious about their inevitable encounter.

The last ramp up to the arena was just ahead and Ingo took a deep breath, Emmet being the one to release – a frankly inadequate coping mechanism when faced with something like this. Before either could begin the ascent, Elesa leapt before them, and gave them an appraising look, the fierce blue tinged with a soft concern.

Her best friends did not act this way.

“Spill. What’s the matter?”

She didn’t give them a chance to look at each other as she inserted herself between them, there would be no silent agreement on how they would deflect her questions. Emmet flinched back, finding the seam of his bandana, and running over it with the flat of his thumb; Tynamo buzzed softly below his chin which was just as comforting for the young man. Ingo, the one directly under Elesa’s scrutiny, was standing firm – although, if one looked closely, they could see his knees shaking beneath the cuff of his shorts. He could feel it in his back and shoulders, so heavy from the anxiety that it was dragging him face first towards the ground like it was the planet’s gravitational pull.

There was no lying to her. She would wheedle it out of them before they took another step.

“The situation is… precarious. It has been more than a fortnight since we have spoken to Uncle.”

Elesa, nose scrunched in confusion, looked to Emmet for a translation.

“More than a month.”

Now he was fiddling with his hair, tugging and twisting his gray locks that framed his face rapidly between his spindly fingers. Tynamo offered another buzz, the tingle felt familiar and comforting.

“So? I haven’t spoken to my father in even longer.”

Behind her, Ingo pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. The situation is not the same. Elesa wanted nothing more than to go on her journey to be away from her father. Emmet and Ingo…

“Lesa…” There was more to their story in the city of Opelucid, but neither twin had the heart to delve into it. “We should not dillydally, uncle is waiting.”

Without another word, Ingo brushed past her, and Emmet was on his heels, both practically running up the ramp, which just felt like such an odd juxtaposition to earlier this morning where they seemed intent on moving slower than Slugmas.

Elesa tried to keep a close eye on her friends as they greeted their uncle, the three of them shifting uncomfortably like the idea of a hug seemed impossible. Drayden’s face was usually hard to read thanks to the copious amount of facial hair, but there was a pinched quality to his expression.

That detail was quickly replaced with exasperation as a large, leathery Pokémon tore across the arena at a breakneck pace. Skidding to a stop just before them, the beast lunged forward and -

“Haxorus!”

Ingo spluttered, his front coated head to toe in slobber that he was wiping from his eyes. The other two kids weren’t spared from the assault, not even Blitzle, who shook out his striped coat of the sticky saliva with an indignant snort. The bubble of tension seemed to ease a little with this interruption, but it was still palpable.

Tynamo remained close to Emmet, nestled in his bandana, and offering soft nips to his jaw and chin. Litwick was doing the same, unable to conjure up witty dialogue when Ingo’s soul looked so withered and violently flickering with each interaction with his uncle. Even Blitzle, who was first and foremost Elesa’s Pokémon, was sticking close to the twins. His training as an aid Pokémon was kicking in to shove his snout into the boys’ floundering hands so they could have an outlet for their pent-up anxiety.

Elesa attempted to catalog each word, each expression, each vocal fluctuation – but they seemed so… normal? What were her friends so worried about?

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Drayden was across the arena with Elesa and Blitzle, introducing her to his large, and very fluffy, Altaria. Emmet watched over the top of his magazine; this issue was dedicated to Dragon Pokémon found in the Alola region, and he elbowed his twin when he saw Drayden cast his gaze in their direction. Although Darling was curled around them, her tusks bound to prevent injury, Emmet and a groggy Ingo sank into her flank to make themselves as small as possible.

Darling woke up with a rumble, nudging her snout against them before lightly nibbling on their hair to put them at ease. Drayden seemed to take a deep breath as he approached, taking a seat on the bench beside them, and looking at his nephews out of the corner of his eye.

“Your friend likes Altaria.”

“Altaria is nice.”

Emmet’s reply was more like a squeak than anything. Ingo had taken interest in the skin on Darling’s neck. There it was again, the pressure on that bubble of tension becoming unbearable once again. Without Elesa there to deflect, it was like back all those years before.

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All of them were thinking the same thing: Kaita not so quietly arguing with Drayden, the twins covering their ears because they didn’t like the shrill tone their mother’s voice had taken. The four-year-olds didn’t really understand what was happening, but they were used to the yelling.

Mom and mother had been doing it for weeks.

“I can’t handle them on my own!”

Kaita had snapped, her eyes bright and her mouth curled into an awful snarl. Drayden offered her an equally ferocious growl, too much like their draconic partners than either of them cared to admit. He and his fraternal twin never saw eye to eye, but this?

He wanted to tell Kaita that that was too fucking bad. She and Lucielle should have thought this through a little longer. Kids were not marriage savers. Now she was trying to dump them on him? No fucking way.

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Drayden blinked hard, allowing the blessed dark to cool the bubbling anger he felt toward his sister. This was not Emmet and Ingo’s fault… He had never addressed this incident with them before, had he? Of course, they had been old enough to remember. The Dragon Master picked on their discomfort quickly and he was just as happy to leave them home than he was to take them on his hour-long commute to Opelucid.

In that moment, it occurred to Drayden just how awful that sounded. He had never really thought of his nephews as being lonely, not when they had each other. He left them at home with Darling when they were still young, but that had only been a few years. They had been abandoned by their mothers and then again by him.

This knowledge felt like bile stinging the back of his throat.

“I love you boys.”

Whatever his nephews had expected him to say, it hadn’t been that. Drayden propped his elbows on his knees, not unlike Emmet did when he was chatting with his brother and looked at them with something akin to a pleading look.

“We love you too.”

Ingo’s response was so… Mechanical. A reflex. Drayden seemed pained and they both cringed, waiting for their uncle to adopt that tone of voice they were so well acquainted with by this point – that horrible concoction of disappointment and frustration that was all too familiar to their ears.

“No, Emmet… Ingo…” He got up, stepping toward them and crouching down, Darling temporarily swinging her head around to butt her snout under his chin affectionately before resuming her doting on the twins. He hated how they shrank away, cowering like they expected him to yell – had he ever yelled at them? No, not as far as he could remember, but perhaps his silence spoke volumes about his bitterness. “Boys,” he croaked, schooling his expression into something softer (which he only just realized was something he and Ingo had in common), “I am very proud of you. I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished.

Two sets of gray eyes blinked, a staccato of confusion at this admission, as if unsure how to process that compliment.

“… Thank you.”

Ingo said, a gravelly quality to his voice that made it quieter than its typical boom. Emmet’s hand was shaking, but Drayden recognized that a precursor to a form of stimming. It was something that evolved from learning sign for Elesa for both twins; Emmet used to snap his fingers and his brother hummed (usually quite out-of-tune and loudly).

“May I join you? You look quite cozy there.”

Emmet and Ingo scooted over, leaving room between them so their uncle could sit. They were still a little confused by the unexpected behavior from him, but Drayden asked for permission to put his arms around them, and they didn’t reject him. The aversion to touch made unprompted touch nearly unbearable for all except themselves and more recently Elesa, but Drayden seeking their acceptance felt… different – it felt nice.

“Your Pokémon’ve gotten a lot stronger. I can tell these things, you know.”

Gradually, Drayden felt Emmet and Ingo relaxing into him while they told him all about their adventures. They showed off Tynamo and Litwick, the latter looking a tad smug when Drayden said she had a menacing aura.

“We also have this Dwebble… Well, perhaps that is not quite accurate. He shares the same carriage as us and travels the same tracks, however, he insists on remaining unaccompanied.”

The Pokémon in question was observing from under the bench Drayden had vacated – oh my, nearly an hour ago, those boys really knew how to fill in the time. Dwebble’s eyestalks twitched, its body cautiously retracting into its shell now that it was the center of attention.

“He is shy, yup!”

Drayden offered a nod, crooking his finger at the small, shelled Pokémon. Dwebble, body still half hidden, obeyed the unspoken command and skittered forward.

“See, he has a magnificent specimen on his back. I have not looked into the logistics of whether sediments found in or on Crustle and Dwebble affect their battling, but he has a King’s rock. It is spectacular!”

Their uncle nodded with agreement, Darling grumbling encouragingly at the smaller Pokémon with his approach.

“I must agree. He’s spectacular… Have you asked him if he’d like to join you?”

Drayden listened carefully as Ingo explained the fiasco that was Route 18 – Frillish and all - and, although he was tempted into chastising Ingo, he held his tongue about his nephew’s so-called inside voice. In fact, Ingo parroted some of the lessons that Drayden had attempted to instill in him. He was trying to work on his “volume output”. The Dwebble seemed to be quite used to them now, scraping a claw against the sole of the Gym Leader’s shoes, which inexplicably reminded him of his nephews yet again.

“Such a shame. Ingo really likes rocks, too,” Emmet said with a sympathetic shake of his head when his brother sighed much too heavily for someone of his age. Drayden’s brow was furrowed, watching as the Bug Pokémon’s eyes darted to Ingo, and he said,

“Ask him again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ask Dwebble to join your team. Pokémon, just like humans, can have a hard time saying what they mean. Sometimes they need help or a little nudge. He’s come this far with you, hasn’t he?”

Ingo seemed to contemplate this for a moment, they certainly had gone the distance with Dwebble at their side…

Ingo leaned forward, trying to tamp down his excitement – just in case his uncle’s instincts were off.

“Dwebble… Are you interested in... Would you join me on this journey?”

 The Pokémon blinked up at the boy, eyestalks tilting to one side and then the other. In that moment, it felt as though all the air was sucked out of the room, the anxiety unwittingly rocketing up with each second that ticked by where the Pokémon before them didn’t answer.

Dwebble raised his pincers tacked against the ground, his eyestalks swaying to a music that only he seemed to hear, only for the Pokémon to instantly shoot back into his shell when a sonic boom shattered the silence.

You better get used to the human Exploud if you wanna be a part of this team.

Litwick groused, her annoyance was mostly for show at the pure joy in her trainer’s eyes when he picked up Dwebble. Spinning around in tight circles, Ingo wasn’t even able to say anything, only a mix of laughter that verged on happy sobs, as he held his new Pokémon close to his chest.

Emmet watched on with a bright smile, happy for his brother’s first genuine catch, allowing the bright glow of the moment to not be stymied by the fact that they had no money for Pokéballs and were fresh out because they lent all theirs to Elesa to catch some Plusle and Minun on Route 6 (with no resulting captures).

“King! You shall be called King.”

How does this walking pile of rocks have a name before me!?

Litwick shrieked, batting at Ingo’s ear in aggravation to no avail. Drayden watched on, beard obscuring the placid smile on his face.

Good. It was time to make better memories here in Opelucid.

[toffeebrews]

you're the last one to receive the gift i hope you know......... 🪨🪨🪨💥💥💥

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It is just another boring Tuesday. T-Mart, the only convenience store in the whole two-mile radius, is empty at this time of the day where the sun is at its highest and almost everyone is at work. There are no customers, only the three workers loitering in boredom, waiting for the shift to finish. Murder is flipping through a tabloid magazine, Horror is manning the register, and Killer is doing her nails – all of them periodically glancing at the clock to see when they will be released from this hell.

“huh, have you heard the new scandal of dream yet?” Murder asks out of the blue, breaking the stale silence among them.

“dream… like our ceo’s brother? that dream?” Horror perks up.

“yeah,” Murder says, her mouth curved into a devious smirk. “apparently she got caught sneaking out of the hotel with ink. you know… the famous musician.”

“wait, isn’t ink married? to that wwe performer – crux or something?”

“cross, yeah. here, look at this.” Murder flips the magazine to show Horror the salacious photo: Dream in a trench coat and Ink in an oversize hoodie, both looking like deers caught in the headlights.

Killer snorts from across Horror, which is as close to a laughter as she gets. “that is the least stealthy thing i’ve ever seen. trench coat and sunglasses? that’s one face mask away from announcing to the world that you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing.”

Murder smirks back. “apparently her publicist is saying this is a business meeting.”

“at 2 am?” Killer grins, propping her chin on her hand. “they should’ve met in broad daylight. no one suspects shady business at brunch time.”

“they’d get caught anyway,” Horror muses. “the universe really loves to create chaos.”

Yep, just another regular Tuesday.

Until the wall explodes.

“oh, come on,” Horror groans, ducking under the register as chunks of drywall fly all over the place.

Through the dust strides a figure in a long black coat, slightly floating off the ground. A web of strings shoots from the figure, quickly covering the whole area with glitching patterns and noises of a dying Wi-Fi modem. The air hums with electricity as the apparent villain points at the three unfortunate minimum wage workers.

“fear me, you abominations – for i am error the destroyer! surrender your worthless lives to me, or face your deletion off this world!” The villain proclaims, her voice crackling like a compressed MP3 file.

The trio exchange unimpressed glances.

“seriously?” Horror raises an eye ridge at Error. “that’s your line? that’s so corny. where did you get that from? straight-to-dvd trash bin?”

Error’s fingers glow ominously. “do not dare to underestimate me, you-”

Murder interrupts whatever is about to come out of the villain’s mouth. “oh, we’re shaking in our boots,” she deadpans, glaring at the destroyed wall with a twitch in her eye. “every week there’s a new evil overlord wannabe around these parts. blah blah world domination blah blah you’re gonna be my minions – we get it already. take the cash. or burn the place down. we’re not getting paid enough for this.”

“keys are under the fire alarm box,” Killer chimes in. “just don’t take the slushie machine though – it’s the only thing keeping us alive here.”

Error’s face glitches. She clearly doesn’t expect this level of apathy from her soon-to-be hostages. “insolent worms! you will submit!” she screeches.

“big words for someone who looks like a tiktok filter,” Killer quips, now holding a boxcutter and spinning it in her hands. “also, that’s just a horrendous costume. Where did you get it? The bargain bin?”

“how dare you- this is a custom design!”

“yeah, it shows.” Killer tilts her head, grinning. “and not in a good way.”

“well,” Horror says to the side, squinting at her phone. “according to chirper updates, the starlights should be here in three minutes. so if you’re gonna finish your monologue, you should probably do it now before they haul your ass to who-knows-where.”

Error splutters, her glitches spreading to the rest of her body as she’s incandescent with rage. “you- all of you insolent freaks! you will regret this!”

“not more than this job, i wager,” Murder says, her voice bored. “you know, if you want to be an evil nuisance, you can just go to business school. like our blood-sucking ceo.”

Error looks like she might implode on the spot. “you can’t just- you can’t-”

“aww, what’s the matter, glitchy?” Killer drawls. “the school of evil didn’t teach you how to deal with a little bit of criticism?”

Before Error can say anything in response, another wall explodes, showering people with even more debris.

“STOP RIGHT THERE, ERROR!!” a chorus of voices exclaim. The local magical girl squad – the Starlights – have arrived in all the pastel and frilly glory, posing dramatically in the rubble. There’s Solar, the leader of the group holding a bow in her hands. Prism, who brandishes a giant calligraphy brush. And Aqua, who wields two billy clubs. Any villain would hate to cross their paths, and Error isn’t an exception.

The customer service trio quickly hides somewhere when the fight starts, but still peeks in to see what’s happening. The Starlights launch into their usual spiel about love, righteousness, and protecting the innocent, while Error’s glitching presence seems to falter even more. Murder leans toward Killer.

“10g saying that villain will break in five minutes because of the speeches instead of the fighting.”

“pfft, should be three minutes max.” Killer counters.

Three minutes later, Error is wrapped in sparkly ribbons, courtesy of the Starlights, and hauled away as the squad strikes yet another triumphant pose. The day is saved, but the store is probably not. The workers exchange another look with each other.

“thanks for cleaning up the mess,” Horror calls out sarcastically as the magical girls prance out of the store through the hole they created. “urgh, can we go home now?” she asks, slumping even further onto the counter.

“nope. still got four hours left,” Murder replies, uncaring as she picks up the discarded magazine and continues reading it.

Killer sighs, flipping the boxcutter back into her pocket. “i’m gonna break the slushie machine.”

“do it,” Horror says, completely deadpan, her eye staring straight at Killer. “i dare you.”

Just another Tuesday.

YAYAYAYAYA I BREEEZED OVER IT I GOTTA REALLY READ IT BUT ITS SO FUNNY. The way they're so nonchalant is the funniest thing ever, they're just trying to survive their shift bruh 💔

[miawells-x]

In Defense of the Labubu:

Love it. Hate it. Abhor it. Covet it. The Labubu is everywhere and becoming a seemingly polemic figurehead. What is it? And why does everyone and their mum have it on their bag? “The Monsters” was a series created by Chinese Hong Kong Artist Kasing Lung and subsequently released by Pop Mart as mini figures, key chains and of course plush bag charms. Blind boxes aren’t anything new to me, as someone who’s BEEN obsessed with them, I found the growing public interest in what I viewed as a niche community as both a blessing and curse. Of course my fragile individuality complex took a HUGE hit but I also nurture a growing resentment for the lack of genuine respect or appreciation some people have towards this hobby.

The Labubu bag charm has infamously ceased sales (temporarily) due to growing violent behaviour and misconduct surrounding the wide smiled creatures— from literal fisticuffs to jaw dropping queues and shameless resellers. The poor mascot has become a cog in the ever speedy trend cycle of the 2020s and victim to the TikTok machine. There has long been discourse surrounding the fact that people no longer have personal style and the individual is now simply spoon fed accessories, music, clothes, food, even pet products from an algorithm that serves to ensure the risk of FOMO outweighs any semblance of real self concept… The Labubu becoming symbolic of the fact as it adorns endless bags by people who couldn’t give a shit about blind boxes or supporting independent artists but god forbid you miss out a single trend, lest you fall behind the curve. There’s more to be said about that but perhaps I’m too jaded for that conversation.

Anyway, circling back (#corporateslay) to the Labubu, do I love them? Not feverishly but I own three and care for them dearly- akin to a stray animal that wanders into your garden and domesticates itself. I also have an overbearing-ly contrary personality so if I see someone shit talking Labubu suddenly I act like they’re god’s gift. I guess I mostly feel bad for the Labubu and what it’s come to represent in the current trend cycle when at its core, they’re just funny little guys (with a side of gambler’s high) and I think the hate is unwarranted (with undertones of misogyny and Sinophobia in some posts I’ve seeing but that’s another discussion entirely). To my Labubu girlies, wear them proudly and maybe in a case or with extra key rings. People be stealing them these days…

[kyannnite]

i’ve decided to keep a record of my current phantom of the opera-related collections… so. in order (under the cut):

1. my bookshelf, left to right:

- my first ever copy of phantom of the opera (de mattos, but also including a bunch of other gothic stories)

- a copy a friend gifted to me which is abridged in a very peculiar way where it completely leaves out the first chapter (de mattos, but without the first chapter)

- another copy of the de mattos translation that i used for my “intro to phantom of the opera” night with my boys (my friend group)

- lowell bair translation

- mireille ribiére translation

- david coward translation

- phantom by susan kay

- the phantom of manhattan by frederick forsyth (for those unaware. what love never dies is based on)

- dvd copy of phantom of the opera 25th anniversary performance live at the royal albert hall

- dvd copy of the love never dies proshot

- dvd copy of phantom of the opera (2004) movie adaptation directed by joel shumacher

- dvd box set + photobook of Studio Life’s stage adaptation of phantom by susan kay (is it entirely in japanese? yes. do i speak japanese? no. but they’re very good regardless)

2. a postcard a friend (pio thank you) bought me in paris that i have since framed and look at every day

3/4. POP MART universal monsters erik figurine (comes with a little rose and magnetic mask that you can take off and put back on)

5. incredible erik ornament that pio was also able to grab in paris at the palais garnier gift shop. he looks so silly (according to them they were very low on erik stock but the christine stock looked like no one had bought any. fucked up honestly)

6. i do have a few more things that pio snagged for me that i haven’t found places for yet. but i Will. and i am also going to try to track down my tickets/playbill for the LND US tour that i may still have lying around in my childhood home somewhere… a time before i realized how important seeing that performance was…

i’ll update this post with reblogs as i acquire more which is at this point inevitable. i’m in too deep. if you’ve read this far thank you for indulging me this was very fun to write

[mollywog]

WIP tag game

Thank you for the tag @thelettersfromnoone @thesunpersists!!

The first snippet from the Christmas Market prompt

Katniss cranes her neck down the aisle of stalls as she straightens jars for the sixth time in the last ten minutes. Madge had gone off to mingle and ‘network’, leaving her behind to guard the booth and fret.

This event could make or break them.

They’d been doing the local small business mart circuit for almost a year now, but nothing as big as the Capital City Christmas Market. The vendor fee alone had been nearly four times the usual cost, but with a much broader audience than the ones they’d been doing around their rural hometown, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

However, although they were relatively new to the scene, they were seasoned enough to know location was vital.

‘Praline et circenses’ sold paper cones of warm spiced nuts, but the real money, of any was to be made, came from the prepackaged mixes, boxes of brittle, and jars of praline sauce - perfect for gift giving during the holiday season.

If she and Madge had it their way, they would be among the craft vendors where shoppers would be enticed by the smells of brown sugar and cinnamon and stay to purchase a bag to give or to save for later.

Unfortunately the odds were not in their favor.

The market’s organizer, one Effie Trinket, had placed their stall in the Cornucopia, the dining section of the market, and when they’d inquired about a transfer, Mrs. Trinket had been polite but firm in her refusal: all the designated snack booths outside the Cornucopia were claimed by returning shops with more seniority: better luck next year!

It was a blow.

Even the specialty foods section, with its salsas, honey, and bags of homemade pasta would have been preferable. Afterall, If you were committed enough to venture into the food court, why would you settle for a snack?

It’ll be fine, Madge kept saying and Katniss wanted to believe, but as much as she loved her business partner and friend, she couldn’t help feeling Madge was too quick to dismiss her concerns. The stakes just weren’t the same for them. No matter how much Madge protested, she’d always have the safety net of a college degree and Senator father with money and connections. Katniss, on the other hand, would have nothing if their business went under.

Katniss tried to think positive as she surveyed the other booths. They seemed to have the market cornered in terms of nuts; that was at least true. And there were some familiar faces here too. Rue with her Ren faire style whole turkey legs was three booths down and though she couldn't see her, the smell of a Sae concoction was unmistakable in the air. They might suggest Pralines to customers if promoted: word-of-mouth was invaluable... This could still work!

Katniss was just coming around to the idea that they might not be completely screwed when the bakery booth directly across from them put out their kiosk. The top of the board read:

~ Praline Pound Cakes ~

[dumbgirlblogs]

4/28

Off track and bummy week but starting fresh today. 🥹🥲

Woke up late because palmetto roaches attacked me at night and gave me insomnia.

Showered.

Had breakfast.

My dad, bullets grandpa, came to fulfill his duties and take us to the park lol. Bullet likes that.

Came home and I was still sick.

Had multi grain edamame rice + egg + nori for dinner.

Went to sleep early.

4/29 🌞

Woke up & showered.

Put a beef pot roast in the instant pot with lots of garlic, onion, carrots and one tiny tomato, seasonings.

Left to go run errands with my cousin Michelle.

Got a couple things at the Asian Mart & small treats for my love's upcoming birthday

Went to Costco

Got home & put away everything and reorganized our pantry a bit to be able to store a huge box of potatoes lol.

The roast was done so I shredded it & began working on the side dishes: pearl potatoes with garlic and parsley, and caramelized onions with green beans.

I also made a second entree to go with some multi grain rice with edamame I made last night: ginger braised spicy chicken with potato.

A friend also gifted me a fruit basket and I wasn't going to be able to eat it all individually before it turned soft (I like fruit crispy lol) so I sliced it up and blended it with unsweetened nonfat very strongly fermented kefir. (Apples, plums, kiwis)

I have a basket of grapefruit and oranges I have to get through (I take iron so I eat a lot of citrus) and I couldn't resist buying this perfectly ripe golden pineapple from the Asian Mart 😭🍍

I'm tired from all this cooking and dishes but I'm gonna relax a bit then head off to work.

[haveyouseenthisg1rl]

K-PROFILE

Rina (리나) is a member of the South Korean girl group NYMTH formerly known as SELENE, singer and musical actress under Ninety9 Creative.

stage name: rina (리나)

birth name: lim jisoo (임지수)

position: vocalist, dancer

birthdate: january 10, 1998 (1998년 1월 10일)

zodiac sign: capricorn

chinese zodiac sign: tiger

height: 164 cm (5’4’’)

weight: 40 kg (88 lbs)

blood type: b

mbti type: infp

nationality: korean

representative color: eden green (#266255)

representative animal: ️🦊

sub-unit: selene/nymth eve (disbanded)

instagram: @frommeden_ (public), @_cjs98 (private)

rina random facts:

– she was the seventh girl to debut in the group, and is represented by the number 7.

– her representative flower is a korean daisy.

– she was born in mokpo, south jeolla province, south korea.

– having been born in a coastal city, she loves eating seafoods such as: braised hairtail, raw croaker, and seasoned crab.

– she is an only child.

– her most prized possession is a music box that she received from her father as a birthday gift.

– she knows how to play traditional korean instruments.

– was almost a member of marionette before the change of plans happened.

– trained for six years and one of the first few trainees considered for nymth.

– she’s known to be close friends with angelix’s ban hyorin.

– fans consider her as the group’s moodmaker.

– one of the best english and nihongo speakers in the group.

– she likes dogs very much and she is raising a dog named joey.

– she has a motorcycle license and currently drives a 2018 hyosung gt250r.

– collecting designer toys from pop mart is one of her hobbies.

– she’s known to have a green thumb and it’s her dream to have her own greenhouse someday.

– has lent her voice to multiple webdrama soundtracks. fans dub her as the “ost princess” of nymth.

– in a past interview she said performing on stage musicals is her first love. so far she acted in the musicals “dorian gray” (2021) and “midnight sun.” (2023)

– her ideal type is a guy who is just like her father, responsible, honest, loving, and kind

[songue85]

I've made a small list of Rules for Nuzlockes, ideas and suggestions I sorted from other sites - and a couple that I made myself - to help guide future Players.

This is in no way a complete and exclusive list, many other ideas and suggestions may be added/altered later on.

Also, I made them as a checklist to help future Players to better plan their own future challenges.

DA MAIN RULES:

1 - Only the first wild Pokémon encountered in a route or area can be caught. If the player fails to catch it (ie. it flees or faints), their opportunity to catch a Pokémon in that area is lost. 2 - Any Pokémon that faints must be released or boxed permanently. It is considered “dead” for the rest of the challenge. 3 - The player must nickname all Pokémon they catch or obtain.

Bonus Conditions:

( ) PokéBall Clause: The run effectively only starts after the Player can have Pokéballs to start captures, disregarding Rules 1 and 2. ( ) Duplicate clause: If the first Pokémon in an area is one the player already owns, or its evolution or pre-evolution, they MAY capture it or skip to one they do not own yet, and then attempt to catch it. ( ) No Legendaries in Play: The Player may capture a Legendary Pokémon, but not use it in the run.

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

Now, for the main show:

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

Softcore Rules:

( ) First Mon Out: First Death in the Run is ignored.

( ) No Full Wipe: A loss of a whole Team is not a loss. The Player can choose to make a new Team out of stored/benched Pokémon

( ) Friendly Rivalry: Rule 2 is disregarded in Rival Battles.

( ) Shiny Clause: If the player encounters a shiny wild Pokémon, they MAY catch it, disregarding Rule 1. A shiny Pokémon won't count as an encounter for that area.

( ) On Safari: each area of the Safari Zone is considered its own Route/Area, for the effects of Rule 1.

( ) HM Slave: You may ignore Rule 1 to catch Pokémon SOLELY for teaching HMs. Said HM users cannot be used for battling - if they are your last member(s), you must consider the Team whited out

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

Hardcore Rules:

( ) No Escape: The player can not flee from wild battles/

( ) Caught Only: The Player cannot use any Gift/Found/Bought/Traded Pokémon, only the ones they capture. Eggs are consider Gifts. The Starter Pokémon, which is a Gift, must be stored/released after your first catch in the run is Level 5 or above.

( ) Monolocke/Monotype: All Pokémon in the team must share one same type, to be decided at the start of the run.

( ) Monocolor: All Pokémon in the team must share a color, to be decided at the start of the run.

( ) Uniquelocke: None of the team's Pokémon may share a type.

( ) Set Battles: The game is on Set Mode, instead of Shift. The Player change Pokémon only after the Foe puts a new Pokémon into play.

( ) No Day Care Center: No use of Day Care Center during Run.

( ) No Child Support: Can't use the Day Care Center to breed Eggs nor have Pokémon that can risk Eggs to appear.

( ) No Held Items: The Player can't have their Pokémon hold items. Pokémon with Pickup are prohibited.

( ) No X Item: The Player can't use the item "X" during the run. Pokéballs, Move Learners and Key Items are Exception.

( ) No Modern Medicine: No healing items for HP, PP, or status other than Berries, Roots, Powders, Herbs, Drinks and Foods. No Potions, Restores, Elixers, Ethers, status heals or variants are allowed.

( ) No Legendaries: The Player cannot capture any Legendary Pokémon, either defeat or flee them.

( ) Level Cap: Player’s Pokémon may only be trained up to the level of the next Gym leader’s Highest Leveled Pokémon. After the last Badge, Level Cap is the Highest Leveled Pokémon in the Elite Four.

( ) Limited Pokémon Centers: Pokémon Centers may only be used a certain number of times per Center, or a certain number of times between each Gym.

( ) Town Keys: The Pokémon Center and Poké Mart of a Town with a Gym can only be used after you defeat that Gym Leader. Towns with no Gym are exempt.

( ) American Healthcare System: Every use of a Pokémon Center demands spending money (Player goes to a Poké Mart, buy items that will cost the set value of healing and then discards bought items).

( ) Limited Poké Mart: Poké Marts may only be used to buy a certain item (Poké Balls, Healing Items, etc).

( ) Apocalocke: The player chooses (or is given) a type of apocalyptic disaster theme. Depending on the disaster chosen, only certain Pokemon types “survive” and may be used. Tsunami (Normal, Flying, Water, Grass, and Dragon-types survive and may be used) Heat wave (Normal, Fire, Rock, Electric, and Ground-types survive and may be used) Ice Age (Normal, Ice, Dark, Fighting, and Steel-types survive and may be used) Nuclear War (Normal, Poison, Bug, Psychic, and Ghost-types survive and may be used) Famine (Normal, Rock, Ground, Steel, and Ghost-types survive and may be used)

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

Extra Hardcore Rules:

( ) Giftlocke: Rule 1 is disregarded. The player is not allowed to catch Pokémon, must use only their starter and Pokémon that are obtained without catching.

( ) Routelocke: Rule 1 is disregarded. The player picks a route or area, and can only catch Pokémon that can be found on that route.

( ) No Items in Battle: The Player can't use any items during battles, like Potions or Antidotes, etc. Pokéballs are Exception.

( ) No Items: The Player can't use any items that affect Pokémon during the run, like Potions or Antidotes, etc. even outside battles. Pokéballs, Move Learners and Key Items are Exception.

( ) Notepad Clause: No Pokémon may be kept in storage or Day Care Center. The player may only own six Pokémon at a time.

( ) Notepad Extreme Clause/First 6 Only: The player may only own six Pokémon throughout the entire run. If all pokémon in the Team faint, then it's "game over", even if the Player have any Pokémon still in store.

( ) No Pokémon Centers: Pokémon Centers may not be used during the Gyms part of the Run. After that and before the Elite Four, you can only use the E4's Center.

( ) No Poké Marts: Poké Marts may not be used; the only items available are those found in the overworld or given for free by NPCs.