#can i get a nice neutral grey at least

[hatsukeii]

ring pop! / bsf!ushijima wakatoshi x reader

genre(s): heavy on the crack and fluff, dumb and dumber, ushiwaka is dense but loveable! childhood bsf to lovers! yay! sunshine! rainbows! candy!

warning(s): nothing, implied fem reader for fluency's sake, but please interpret this as you'd like!! i myself am non-binary, so at the very least you know the person who's writing has you in mind!! i still tried my best to keep everything gender neutral to the best of my ability!!

wc: 1490

tldr; “boyfriend? but i thought we were already dating?”

“Wakatoshi, can I have your second button?”

Petals of blooming sakura flowers replace the grey pavement beneath your shoes with a mosaic of dusty pink as you stand beneath Shiratorizawa’s famous confession tree. It’s a ritual that has been done for many graduations before your own, students would act nonchalant as they drag their romantic prospects beneath this very tree, all to ask for their second shirt button. This year, it’s your turn, your hands clenched behind your back as you rock forward, backward, forward, backward.

“What do you mean? My second button?”

“Yeah, your second button.”

Wakatoshi’s nose twitches in confusion and under the blanket of pollen from the flowers above. What’s so special about his second button, that you’ve dragged him under the Shiratorizawa tree for? His hand shoots up, picking at the thread sewn between each hole in his second uniform button. It doesn’t budge as he picks and pulls, until finally, he rips it off with force, handing it to you between pinched fingers.

“Here.” He reaches for one of your hands, linked with the other in anxiety and anticipation, and pushes your fingers apart, before dropping the button into your palm unceremoniously. You stare blankly at the small round in your hand, then at Wakatoshi’s deadpan expression.

“Toshi, that’s…that’s not how it works.”

He tilts his head in confusion, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to search your head for clues. The petals shuffle beneath your feet as you mindlessly grind your shoe into the ground, not sure what to make of this situation.

“I’m not sure what you mean. I gave you the second button, like you asked. Did I do something wrong?”

“Wakatoshi, I’m asking you to be my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend? Do you hear yourself? What nonsense, what has he been to you for the past six years, if not that?

“Boyfriend? But I thought we were already dating?”

You mind empties its contents as your jaw goes slack, a dumbfounded hum escaping your windpipe. You’re not too sure- no, you have not a single idea when that idea planted itself into his head. You’ve been subtle enough, right? And careful too! No love letters, or secret gifts, or bento boxes, just day to day, regular best friend interactions between the two of you. What could have possibly gone wrong?

“Dating? Where did you get that from??”

Wakatoshi frowns, hands moving to his pockets. A spring breeze whizzes by, filling the stale air between himself and you. That’s not very nice of you. Wakatoshi knows close to nothing about relationships, but he does know one thing: You probably should remember how you got together in the first place.

“You…forgot?” After all these years of tailing behind you at grocery stores, and weekly dinners at your house, and running to your place at a text’s notice, only to end up watching dramas all night and crying with you, and you forgot that you were dating? His voice quivers, a rush of betrayal in the gleam of his eyes stabbing at your chest as he grimaces at your confused expression, then back at the second button he just ripped off his chest that sits in your hand.

“I think I would remember if we‘re dating…but we aren’t.”

“How could you forget? I still have the ring pop from that day!”

What?

“Wakatoshi, the ring pop? From sixth grade?” At the mention of the ring pop, the fuzziness of an afternoon six years ago is wiped clean. You can almost taste the disgustingly artificial grape flavour that tingled and fizzed on your tongue, before sending you into a sugar high for hours, feel the cheap plastic ring that hung a size too big from your ring finger. You’re fairly certain that the company had discontinued that line of ring pops by now, the two pack too costly of a production for the cheap price they sold for in convenience stores.

“Yeah! I asked you to be my girlfriend with the second pop, and you said yes! You even wore the ring on your ring finger!”

His hands leave his pockets now, pointing accusingly at your ring finger that lacks a humorously large plastic ring. You’re not sure whether to be shocked or to laugh hysterically, not when Wakatoshi’s accusations of your…infidelity? are rooted in the sanctity and candour of a discontinued ring pop, until it all hits you at once. All the nights that he would drop off bags of groceries at your doorstep, your mother gleaming at his persistent service, and the afternoons of watching his volleyball trainings, his eyes glancing at you for approval at every legal point he makes, all the little times that led up to your eventual confession weren’t “best friend interactions.”

They were the actions of a boyfriend. A boyfriend, who (rightfully so) thought he was dating his girlfriend.

“Toshi…did it never occur to you that we’ve done absolutely NOTHING in all these years of ‘dating’? I mean, wouldn’t you have wanted to, I dunno, hold my hand? Or like, kiss me?”

Wakatoshi jolts backwards by an inch, hand travelling towards his jaw as he rubs it introspectively, trying to fan off the heat that is crawling from his chest to his neck. You stifle a giggle, before clearing your throat guiltily. No, you shouldn’t laugh at him. He’s trying his best to process the past six years of unrequited ‘dating’, how could you interrupt him? Do you have no heart, or shame?

“W-well, my dad’s always taught me not to do anything with anyone, partner or not, unless they asked for it first… and you never asked to. So, I never did.” He finally responds, as confidently as his stuttering voice could seem. “Besides, I assumed you weren’t the type of person to be into super-romantic dating, so I just never questioned it.”

You shake your head, smiling at the ground as you take a step towards him. Your hand grips his uniform button by your side, afraid that it might get lost in the petals if you drop it. Wakatoshi’s head darts from left to right, as if piecing together red herrings on a cork board, pinning down every interaction from sixth grade to now with thumbtacks as the strings tangle and twist.

“What about our drama nights? Was that also just being best friends?”

“Yes, Wakatoshi. That is what best friends do.”

“The grocery runs?”

“You offered to do them, and I assumed it was because you were always training late and wanted to help a friend out on the way home.”

“And the weekly dinners at your place?”

“We’re neighbours!”

You watch him groan, his face shoved into his now clammy palms. This is information overload, and Wakatoshi’s processor is melting down in front of your very eyes. He shakes his head frantically, his hair becoming disheveled. His hands run through his green locks, and land on his hips as his feet tap at the petal-covered ground.

“So, we have not been dating for six years, but you want to start dating from today onwards?”

"That is exactly what I'm asking."

Finally. He’s finally got it. The button weighs heavy in your hand, and you duck beneath his face to look him in the eye. He glances away, visibly repulsed by his embarrassment. He should've caught the signs...well, earlier. It somehow has never occured to him that a ring pop proposal might not be the most legitimate way to one's heart, and it certainly has never occured to him that it might have come off as an ingenuine attempt at securing a relationship.

"I meant it when I gave you the ring pop though."

Your face morphs into an effortless smile, the towering boy looking more timid than he ever has before. You haven't changed one bit since the day he's 'proposed' to you, from the smile lines that adorn your face, to the little pout of your lips when you grin. And as you look at him, eyes shimmering under the shade of the infamous Shiratorizawa confession tree, Wakatoshi is twleve years old again, missing a canine tooth on the top right side of his toothbed. He's pinching a long discontinued ring pop between both thumbs and index fingers, getting down on one bandaged knee earnestly to pop the big question.

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

And suddenly, you're twelve years old, standing right there, in front of him, tiny hands covering your mouth as you gasp and tell him yes, a million times over and more. Wakatoshi is 5'2 here, a whole foot shorter than his now eighteen year old self, slotting a ring pop that's two sizes too big on your ring finger, the candy diamond shimmering in the sunlight on the walk home. Except now, the ring pop has transformed into the second button of his soon to be forgotten Shiratorizawa shirt, residing in your clenched fist.

"I know. I know you did."

His eyes refocus as he snaps out of his thoughts, and he wonders if you still have the plastic ring from the ring pop, the one that means to him doing groceries for your household before his own, and showing up at your door to watch dramas all night in your bed, and helping your parents with the cooking before your weekly dinners. His eyes soften, the probing frown long gone from his face as he returns your smile with his own, cheeks pink and teeth threatening to show through his suppressed grin.

"Does this mean I get to kiss you now?"

"Yes, Toshi. Yes it does."

His hands spare no time to cup your face, pulling it up to his own as his fingers draw lines across your cheekbones. Wakatoshi's brain bursts in sparks of gold and red, and he genuinely ponders how he has lived until now without ever doing this once. He pulls away, unsure what else to do after, before sneezing in your face.

"Sorry, pollen, gross."

"Let's get out of here then, quick."

You grab his hand in your own, another sensation he isn't sure how he's lived without until now, and pull him away from the tree as you run to the school exit. He jogs behind you, and you turn around, your fingers interlocked with each other's.

"By the way, happy sixth anniversary, Toshi!"

author's note:

@catsoupki here's your long overdue ushiwaka prompt baby i hope you like you like ;P i had so much fun writing this omg i cracked myself AND my sister up like twenty times running her through what my plan was LMAOO

i too need ushiwaka btw i actually love him SO MUCH it's not funny anymore I NEED HIM SBSBSBSBSB the only other fic i have of him is genuinely some of the worst situations i've put any haikyuu character in recently so i have to treat him to a good one here ofc

anyways tags!!

@starlysama @chuuya-brainrot @fiannee @bailey-reeds

ok love u guys see u next fic bye bye

[reneesghostinthelivingroom]

Just a little ask- can we get a Regina George x basically a masc lesbian version of a himbo reader?

I don’t know about you but I have to climb Mount Everest to find any masc reader fics 😭 it’s hard out here!!!

Truth or Dare ||

|| Regina George x masc!fem!reader

|| Warnings: heavily implied smut, house party, underage drinking, Regina being Regina, sex mention, reader being slightly peer pressured in Truth or Dare, swearing, Regina being possessive over reader

|| Summary: Regina gets reader ready for a house party, they get a little distracted by each other. At the house party, reader ends up having more fun than she thought she would.

Requests open!

Started: May 10th

Finished: May 13th

~~~

The only reason you were popular was because Regina George was your girlfriend; if you hadn't been associated with her you would've been a complete outcast. You didn't fall into the femme social norms society had created. You leaned on the more masc side. Backwards hats, baggy pants, oversized shirts and sweaters. How you ended up with Regina you had no idea, but man you loved every minute of it.

You sat with her group during lunch, it was Wednesday so all of you had at least some type of pink on. For you it was your backwards flat cap, coloured a soft pink. Regina had bought it for you since prior to dating her you had absolutely zero pink in your wardrobe. Your clothes were mostly neutral colours, except for the few pride merch pieces you had.

The rest of your outfit was what you would typically wear. It was Fall, so you had a brown oversized hoodie; the sleeves and hood were a soft cream colour. Your pants were a pair of grey-ish green cargos. The way you tended to dress was mostly just grabbing whatever from your closet since you were always rushed in the mornings; sleep was priority. Looking good came after.

Regina hated that you did this. There was definitely a few times where the outfit you ended up showing up with was so mismatched that she would make you go back and change.

"Have you been listening?" Regina looked at you, eyes narrowed. You blinked and stared at her in confusion.

You definitely hadn't been.

"Uhh..."

Regina groans," Pay attention, dumbass. I asked if you had an outfit planned for the party tonight."

You had completely forgotten about the house party Regina was dragging you to, so you didn't have an outfit." I can't just wear this?" You looked down at what you already had on.

Her face scrunched up and she rolled her eyes," Absolutely not. After school you're coming to mine and we're giving you a makeover."

"Great..." You muttered, not really wanting the makeover but you knew Regina wouldn't let you say no.

The rest of the school day went by pretty quickly and at the end of it Regina had driven you to her place to work on your party fit.

As you walked into her room, she grabbed you by your waist and pinned you to the wall. Trailing kisses along your neck which got a soft gasp out of you.

"Regina- I thought-" You were confused why she was she doing this, not that you minded but you thought you were here for a makeover... not make out.

Her hands gripped the bottom of your hoodie and slowly pulled it over your head.

"Well, I have to undress you first. Don't I?" She whispered into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded your head and let her continue with what she was doing.

She smirked as she watched you easily go along with what she was doing. Once your shirt was off, she unclipped your bra and let it fall to the floor as she pushed herself against your body. Her kisses went from your neck to your chest, pulling away from you just moments before she would've reached your breasts.

You made a soft sound when she pulled away, Regina smirked and gripped your hand; leading you to her closet. She loved teasing you like this. Her favourite thing was watching you get worked up, then pulling away from you last minute.

She dug through her clothes, trying to find a nice shirt and pair of pants to go with it. Something that would both match your style and fit what she was going to wear.

When she found the right combination of clothes, she handed them to you and gave you a deep kiss. You melted into it, kissing her back. Her hand rested to the small of your back as she pulled away; eyes slowly trailing your figure.

"Change into that."

You looked down at the clothes she picked out for you, raising an eyebrow as you looked back at Regina again. "Do I have to?"

She narrowed her eyes," Yes." Her hand trailed down further before slapping your ass, making you gasp at the suddenness," Don't argue."

You rolled your eyes but got changed into the fit, Regina's eyes never leaving your body as she stood with her arms crossed.

The outfit she had given you was a little more out of your style than she planned for; she had given you a black lace corset with a fishnet long sleeve that went down to your hands and made fingerless gloves. For the bottoms she'd given you a pair of red jeans and one of her louboutin boots that had just a bit of heel. Okay, it was seriously out of your style. She just wanted to see what you would look like in it and man she wasn't disappointed. When you were dressed, you looked at her then down at the heeled boots.

"I'm so going to fall tonight." You muttered, she laughed at that and a smile tugged the corner of her mouth.

"And if you do, tell me so I can get it on video." Regina winked at you, you huffed.

"Love you, too." You muttered, she ignored your comment and grabbed you by your hand. Pulling you helplessly over to her makeup vanity. Your worst nightmare.

Regina forced you to take a seat before she sat down in your lap, a smirk on her face as she went through her makeup supplies.

"Regina..." You tried to protest, but her hand went to your mouth to stop you.

"Don't start. A little makeup won't hurt you." Regina whispered, grabbing her moisturizer cream and beginning to put some on. You cringed as it touched your face and closed your eyes, reluctantly letting her do what she needed to do.

Nearly twenty long minutes later, Regina was done and satisfied with the look she had created. She grabbed you by your chin and made you look in her mirror as she raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"It's... not my style. But it's fine." You replied, at least being honest with her.

She rolled her eyes and let go of your face," you look better than fine. Now move so I can do my own makeup."

You moved out of her way and headed over to Regina's bed, laying down as you scrolled on your phone and waited for her to be done. Hers took much longer than yours, since she was doing a whole lot more than what she had done for you. You wouldn't even begin to be able to describe what she was doing because you had no clue what half the products even were.

Once Regina was ready, she pulled you from her bed and began walking to her jeep.

"Do we really have to go? I mean, it's a Wednesday night, G. We have school tomorrow." You weren't thrilled about a late night party. Regina's dragged you to multiple parties before, they weren't your scene.

"We're going. We just spent almost two hours getting ready and that time is not going to waste." She looked back at you with narrowed eyes, you sighed deeply but got into her jeep with her and she drove the two of you to go pick up Gretchen & Karen.

When they got in the jeep, you held conversation with them until you finally arrived at the party. You dreaded stepping through those doors but you didn't have much of a choice as Regina dragged you along.

As Regina dragged you along, you did your best to avoid making contact with anyone. One girl nearly threw up on you but Regina pulled you closer to her.

"You're not ruining my clothes tonight." She mutters, hand gripping you tighter as she found her way to the kitchen.

Now in the kitchen, Regina goes through the fridge. Pulling out orange juice, vodka and some ice to make a Screwdriver Cocktail. She pours one for herself than one for you, handing you your drink.

You take it, grateful it wasn't some shit like bud light. You weren't big on beer, you preferred the simply stuff with vodka. Which Regina knew. Sorry bud light fans.

You took a drink as she walked back over to you, hand wrapping around your waist as she trails it along your body. You look at her with a soft smirk, raising an eyebrow as you see the look in her eyes.

"Yes, baby?" You ask in a whisper.

"Shh." She mutters, giving your lips a soft kiss before kissing your neck a few times. Earning some soft sounds from you.

She pulls away and chugs back some of her drink before setting it down on the counter," I'll be right back. Watch my drink."

Regina tells you, you nod and keep your eyes on her as she leaves the kitchen. You then lean yourself against the counter, taking her drink in your hand so you could keep an eye on it like she asked.

You're alone for no longer than a minute when some girl you thought you vaguely recognized came into the kitchen. You weren't sure where you'd seen her, but it was somewhere. Maybe just passing her in the school halls?

She didn't stand out all that much, at least in your opinion. Her eyes locked to yours and she smiled, walking over to you.

"Y/N! Hi!" You weren't surprised she knew your name, many people knew your name when you didn't know theirs. Being Regina George's girlfriend will do that.

"Hi." You reply simply, hoping she would catch on to the fact that you weren't interested in conversation. Not with her, anyway. You took a big sip from your drink, but she pulled it away from your mouth. The suddenness of it nearly making you choke. She grabs both drinks from your hands and sets them behind you, pressing herself against your body.

"Wouldn't you rather... have something else on your lips than a glass?" Her voice was low, she was clearly flirting with you and clearly drunk. You were about to push her off when someone very loudly cleared their throat from behind you. You looked over and saw Regina in the door way, arms folded and glare intense as ever as she stared down the girl. You felt yourself relax. Thank God.

"I'm feeling nice tonight so you have three seconds to back off before I end whatever pathetic social life you have." Regina's voice was scary calm, laced with fake kindness that sent a shiver down your spine and the threat wasn't even directed at you.

The girl flinched when she heard Regina and quickly stepped away from you, though her hand lingered for a moment longer than you would have liked.

"Regina-! We were just-!" Regina cuts her off before she could explain, marching right up to you and positioning herself where the girl had been against you moments before. Her hand grips your chin as she pulls you in for a rough kiss. You made a soft sound, melting into her lips as you easily kissed her back.

When you parted, the girl was no longer in the kitchen. You smirked as you looked at Regina.

"Thank you, baby." You whisper, she narrows her eyes and shushes you with her finger.

"Don't think you're off the hook." Her other hand grips you at your waist, nails digging into your skin. Hard enough to leave a mark on you.

Your eyes closed at the feeling, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you leaned back against the counter.

"Guys! We're starting a game of Truth or Dare!" Gretchen's voice rings out from somewhere in the living room, catching both yours and Regina's attention. Your eyes flutter open, a hint of disappointment in your features at the thought of ending whatever it was that Regina had started.

"We're so playing." Regina tells you, you nod in reluctance and hand Regina her drink from the counter before taking your own and following her into the living room.

You could see your guy's friend group seated on the couches plus some others who had joined. Faces you recognized; Gretchen, Karen, Cady, Aaron, Shane. The rest you didn't exactly know but you had definitely seen them around before. the backup dancers from Stupid with Love.

Regina took a seat in the open arm chair and motioned for you to sit in her lap, you easily followed the silent order. Leaning back against her with a soft, contented sigh.

The game went through a few rounds before it circled over to you, Shane being the one to ask you Truth or Dare. Since it was Shane, you went with the hopefully safer choice of Truth. You knew his Dares could get messy.

Shane smirked," What's your most embarrassing sex story?"

Your face flushed at the question, you should've known Truth would be just as awful." Drink." You stated, opting to skip it by drinking since that was a rule you guys had added. You only get three drink skips.

You felt Regina's hand on your waist, her chin coming to rest on your shoulder.

"No, I wanna hear this. Say it." She has a feeling she knows which one you're avoiding, but she wants confirmation.

You rolled your eyes, looking longingly at your drink in your hand. Knowing Regina wouldn't let you skip this one. You could feel everyone watching you expectantly.

Groaning, your free hand came up to loosely covered your mouth." I once leaned too far back and fell off the bed. Broke my arm."

"Oh my God! That's how you broke your arm?!" Gretchen grinned," You said it was a skate boarding accident!"

"Well I wasn't about to say it was a sex accident." You rolled your eyes again, Regina laughed from behind you and gave your hip a squeeze.

"Watching you scramble to come up with that lie to your parents was so fucking funny." She smirked, you gave her a glare.

The others laughed and you stuck the middle finger at them as you took a drink from your cup anyways.

The rest of the game continued, lots of the classic questions were asked and dares were done. Overall it was pretty fun, this was probably the most fun you've had at a party in a while.

[jackalopesao3]

HCs For What The Obey Me Cast Smell Like 🌹🌼

Characters: everyone that has had a face reveal

This has been in my drafts for over a year. I finally finished it. Enjoy!

Lucifer

A cologne with a signature mix of fresh scents with some notes of leather. When he’s tired, he’ll occasionally switch to a cool cologne with minty notes to perk himself up. There’s also a faint aroma of tea or coffee in him depending on what he’s brewing to stay awake to burn the midnight oil to finish his endless work.

Mammon

Money Hmmm…a luxury cologne for sure! We all know he has a taste for high end items. I think he’d go for an old school fragrance, maybe something citrusy with a hint of tobacco.

Leviathan

Say it with me: Axe Body Spray

When Asmodeus yeets his axe into the void like the good little brother he is, he will gift Leviathan with cologne he thinks he will like. This means anything that comes in an anime-style container. So Leviathan’s scent will vary.

Satan

New book smell, old book smell, catnip - it depends on what he’s up to. I don’t doubt for one second he always has at least one pouch of catnip on him. He probably has some nice cologne too courtesy of Asmo or his various connections in his social circles.

Asmodeus

He likes to burn vanilla, sandalwood, and amber scented candles and incense so he has those scents on him. Asmo also has a variety of colognes and perfumes so his scent changes almost daily.

Beelzebub

Beel could smell like the most heavenly cupcakes ever baked or the greasiest burger ever fried. It all depends on what he just ate. Because of how much the boy eats he tends to smell like the food he ate.

No one is to give him food-scented cologne because he will just eat the bottle. He uses neutralizing scents to bathe so the scents don’t get in the way of him enjoying his food later.

Belphegor

Fabric softener with notes of lavender. He needs the softest of sheets with the most relaxing scent possible. Sometimes he’ll opt to use a lavender and eucalyptus scented pillow mist too so that scent will cling to him.

Diavolo

A woody cologne to go along with his naturally smoky scent from his constant use of fire magic. Sometimes he changes it up with warm scents like cinnamon and ginger or something lively like citrus.

Barbatos

If he were to wear cologne at all it would be something very subtle with notes of bergamot that closely matches earl grey tea. The notes are calming yet revitalizing at the same time. Sometimes it’s whatever pastries he’s just baked. He smells sweet and warm. Barbatos can also smell very clean like tea tree oil with notes of mint. It just depends on what he’s doing at the time.

Simeon

Most mornings he smells like pancakes since he’s constantly making them for Luke. Simeon also likes refreshing scents with minty notes or anything with an “ocean” or “sea” label as it helps him to relax and focus on writing.

Solomon

He is constantly burning sage, patchouli, nag champa, or frankincense to cover up the smell of his various potions and experiments so he smells like an incense hippie shop. (I highly approve btw!)

BUT I could also see this weirdo quickly spritzing Old Spice on himself as well.

Luke

Little angel baby bakes a lot so he smells sweet with notes of whatever it is that he’s baking or like the pancakes he loves to eat!

Thirteen

It depends on her mood! Some days it’s strawberries like her favorite strawberry shampoo and body wash. Other days she goes for something different like amber or a floral scent.

Mephistopheles

On days he pulls all nighters working on the newspaper, coffee: black, medium roast. Besides that he wears a posh cologne brand with notes of rosewood and tobacco.

Raphael

Pine trees and woody notes with a hint of spice. Is it cologne, his body wash, or his natural scent? You’ll have to ask him!

[zaimta]

彡PAINTING HIS NAILS

parings: laxus, gajeel, bickslow, bacchus x gn!reader

zai's notes: rewatching fairy tail for the 100th time n i remembered bacchus he's so yea <3, n i'm getting back to requests after this one!!

˗ˏˋ«────── « 𓆩♡𓆪 » ──────»

˗ˏˋLAXUS DREAYAR

the hardest to convince, you could ask him over and over but he never gives in, he only gives in because you "annoyed him" which obviously ain't true he's just whipped

doesn't even let you pick the color either, he just tosses you the black nail polish because he's aware it's a neutral color

killjoy!!

the two of you lounged on some couches on the upstairs area of the guild, his arm was around your shoulder as he talked to the thunder legion. while he talked to them your mind was elsewhere, you glanced at his hand. you remained silent while you stared at it you didn’t even notice how focused you were, you didn’t even notice the thunder legion going downstairs for a quick bite to eat.

you held his hand in yours as the two of you sat side by side on the upstairs level of the guild. you noticed how rough his knuckles looked from all the punches he would through, and small scars littering his hands. your gaze game down to his nails and you gazed down at your own painted nails and you got the best idea.

“you should let me paint your nails.”

with in a heartbeat he responded “no.”

you groaned “come on it’ll be fun and it’ll look cute!”

“no.”

“i think you should let me paint them, they’ll look so nice too! besides your hands could use some tlc” you looked down at his hands and rose a single brow, a manicure was clearly needed for him. even if you couldn’t do anything about the scars the nails would at least spruce them up a little.

“i’m good.” he rolled his eyes at you but made no effort to remove his hand from your grasp.

you stared at him and he sighed feeling your eyes on him “tell me why i should let you paint my nails?”

“because i’m your s/o and you love me and you would do anything for me” you flashed him a grin and he rose a single brow in return “pleaseee.”

he sighed finally giving in, he his free hand down his face knowing he was going to regret his decision “fine.”

you led him out of the guild abiding “knowing” glances from some guildmates. you walked back to your house and gladly led him into your bedroom where you were going to paint his nails. you walked over to him with your box of nail polish clearly excited

“we can try any color you want maybe we could-”

he cuts you off tossing the black nail polish at you, you catch it easily and sigh “you’re so boring, i was hoping we could do a blue or something.”

“the second it chips you’re removing it.”

"killjoy."

˗ˏˋGAJEEL REDFOX

another hardheaded one

tell him it’ll make him look likea rockstar and he’ll be willing to hear you out

he’ll only go for black you could talk him into grey to match his metal magic but only if it’s a dark grey

you sat across from where he sat in the guildhall leaning close to him with a grin “i just had the best idea ever, you should let me paint your nails.”

he looked at you annoyed “im still waiting on your ‘best idea ever’.”

you rolled his eyes used to his attitude by now “im serious it would be fun! plusss you’ll look like a rockstar, a real rockin' one with a stage presence.”

he rose a brow "what kind of rockstar wears nail polish?"

"a color-coordinated one. come on don't you wanna look nice for your next performance? if you don't like it we can take it off i promise." you silently begged with your eyes.

he sighed "fine if it gets you to stop your whining."

you cheered and grabbed his hand leading him to where you lived, he got comfortable in your bed while you rummaged around for some nail polish in your bathroom. you debated on shades of black and grey but you ultimately decided to bring all of them so he could have some options.

"okay so i have a few colors here which one are we feeling. maybe this one?" you held up a dark grey nail polish "or maybe this one?" you held up a light grey nail polish resembling the color of iron "or maybe-"

"well do this one" he cut you off and picked up the black nail polish

you took the black nail polish in your hand you couldn't complain much since the color would match his overall vibe, but you can't deny you were hoping to at least use some grey tones to match his iron.

"okay we can do black it'll look cute too." you take his hand in yours and smile at him, you focus intently on his nails. you knew the chances of him letting him do his nails again were low so you made sure to make his nails look perfect for the first and unfortunately the last time you'll be painting them.

he watched as you concentrated on his nails, you took great care in making sure you wouldn't mess up some nails it was honestly cute to him he couldn't help but snicker "you're really putting a lot of focus into some nails doll." he rested his free hand on his cheek and smirked at you.

"well duh, i have to make them look nice who knows when I'll be able to paint your nails again. if this is the first and last time i'm painting your nails they're gonna look cute ya know." you spoke while completely focusing on his nails.

he offered a hum as a response and let you finish working on his nails. once you finished his nails he gave you a kiss as payment.

a few days have passed by since you pained his nails, and once he saw them getting old he immediately walked over to your house and barged in "hey." he walked past you lounging on your couch, ignoring your confused expression, he walked into your bathroom then flopped down onto the couch next to you with nail polish removal and the black nail polish in his hands.

"they're gettin old wanna fix 'em up for me doll?"

˗ˏˋBICKSLOW

he’s down for it the second you suggest it

he mainly prefers colors that would match his whole theme any colors that he thinks would throw it off he won’t mess with em

he asks you to do it again once they start looking old he makes you redo them

the two of you were hanging out at your house, he’s at your house more than yours it was like he lived there at this point. you were lounging on your couch mindlessly talking about everything and anything. you looked down at his hands and a light bulb went off in your head

“you should let me paint your nails, we could make them match your babies too.”

he shrugged "okay let's do it."

you flashed him a smile and gently kissed his lips "I'm gonna get the nail polish i'll be right back." you padded off to your bathroom and went through your nail polish basket, you couldn't decide between purples, greens, and some oranges, although you felt like the orange was a stretch. you shrugged and brought him all the colors you walked back to the couch with various nail polish colors in your arms, and you dumped them on the couch in between the two of you.

"i couldn't decide on one color so i brought multiple! you can pick which one you want though."

he looked down at all the colors you bought and settled on a dark purple "this would match my helmet wouldn't it?" he grins and handed you the purple nail polish.

you took his hand in yours and took care in painting his nails, he watched as you painted his nails his great care "you're really focused there babe."

you snickered "well yeah i don't want your babies making fun of your nails because they're sloppy." he laughed along with you and leaned to gently kissed your forehead.

"i can't focus if you're kissing me bix" you smiled and spoke without taking your eyes off his nails.

he laughed and smiled at you "and what if i don't want you focused?" you looked up at him and sent him a playful glare "do you want your nails to look like a mess or do you want them to look nice?" he leaned in closer to you "whatever gets your attention onto me."

"so needy" you teased while giggling and gave him a soft kiss on the lips "i'm almost done with your nails then I'll be all yours."

˗ˏˋBACCHUS GROH

he was drunk and he was just talkin

he was the one who suggest you even painted his nails when he was playing with your hand and noticed your nail polish and randomly suggested it

he traced along your hands giving them great focus despite his drunken state "let's paint our nails to match it'll wild baby." you giggled at his state "are you sure you want me to paint your nails? you're pretty drunk right now i'd doubt you'd even remember this."

he laughed loudly "do y'a know who you're talking to baby? bein' drunk is my magic." he pulled you off to the stool you were sitting on at the bar and led you home, or he assumed he was the one leading he started wobbling within a few steps so you had to lead him instead.

once you made it to your house you lead him to your bedroom where he could sit on your bed so you could paint his nails "i feel like a nice purple would suit you." you spoke to him from the bathroom raising your voice slightly so he could hear you, he hummed a response.

you hopped onto your bed with the nail polish in hand and took his hand in yours "make em look nice baby i wanna show the guys how wild i am" he emphasized his guilds motto with a small yell and a grin on his face causing you to laugh "hold still so i can do em right."

he grinned at you "come on say it with me baby these nails are gonna be" you playfully rolled your eyes at him but spoke his guilds mantra in unison "wild!"

you laughed and brought your focus back to his nails, while you did his nails he spoke mindlessly. it was becoming obvious that he was just talking so he could stay awake all the drinks he had was catching up to him. once his nails dried he carefully laid down not wanting to ruin your handiwork.

he woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and newly painted nails, he slowly sat up groaning when he noticed you sleeping by his side he froze. you stirred in your sleep and slowly opened your eyes.

he leaned down to kiss your forehead "mornin' baby. did we paint my nails yesterday? i don't remember much after the bar." he squinted in thought "or was it before the bar..."

you giggled "yes i did paint your nails bacchus you asked me to do them."

he looked down at his nails and smirked "they're wild baby."

[pinkandpurple360]

Hey pink did you saw the new 4chan leak?

https://desuarchive.org/co/thread/145383112/#145394767

But the main thing for me was that Leviathan is a queen obsessed with fashion, and in principle, Envy is based on fashion(i already love her omg slay queen 😔)

We can’t assume these are real. So let’s talk in hypotheticals.

Leviathan sounds like “Him” from PPG. Using a drag queen who is evil, to embody jealousy is…a choice. A choice that could become queer phobic at light speed. I think the sins are more important to the story and world building, than stolas and his entire Bridgerton family bullshit only a few stolitz stans care about. And really, everyone is gay in hell? Everyone?

I think the idea of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ sins is childish. But especially sin embodiments who are pure good and didn’t at least work to get that way, is plain oxymoron. Sloth Lust and Gluttony are not better than Wrath Envy and Greed. One half is focussed on self indulgence, the other on harming others directly. BOTH are bad.

I wish she did a little more research into how hierarchy and power works. But this is a millionaire we have to remember …

There are no good monarchs, drug lords, and factory owners, if there is an oppressed working class and caste system. Even ‘nice’ gentle personalities can be part of the supremacist caste.

It makes a lot more sense to me if they are all morally dubious. Beelzebub and Asmodeus are both favourites, making them “nice” just because they’re faves, requires explaining their role in oppression as “they can’t help it” that writing is cowardly?!

“Asmodeus didn’t have a choice but to build fizz robots in his factory, and didn’t profit off it!” -> but that’s ridiculous. He’s not a helpless woobie. He should’ve had agency and decide to willingly work with mammon and sin openly, then changed when he grew close to fizz.

“Beelzebub hates the caste system and pounds but she can’t change it!” -> she feeds off of her subjects, keeps them happy and drunk, can’t handle negative emotions. She caused Ver to become an addict and enables her. The hell pounds is the same as a government leader not understanding how bad the foster care system and not prioritising it. She was the biggest potential for a morally grey character.

Why are you throwing out moral ambiguity and extremely interesting story elements??? !!

The only one that does make sense is Belphegor. This demon has been described throughout as an inherently neutral entity. One that refused to pick a side in the hell vs heaven conflict.

If I can add alternative.

Lucifer - a deadbeat leader too obsessed with himself to see the damage he has done and how his nation is suffering. he becomes malicious if questioned. Callous Neglect. He is malicious.

Beelzebub - The epitome of an addict. She is too engrossed in feeding off of energy like a parasite to enact her duties as a leader. She ‘cares’ about her subjects when they foul her mood and don’t feed her. Her addiction causes her to blackout frequently and forget years of memories. Her nature prevents reel growth. But she quickly removes and discards them. Like most government leaders she doesn’t prioritise having any improvements made to the foster care system, or more closely hells equivalent to puppy mills. She likely allows the system because she has no idea how to handle hellhound overpopulation. Think of her as being a teenager in charge of a bunch of babies and children. She lacks the maturity required. She’d rather sneak out to the club and give her baby a piece of bread to gnaw on while she’s gone.

Bee is the sin with the most gray morality potential but Vivienne medrano is terrified of moral greyness, the closest attempt is Alastor and Blitzø/imp. Bee is not malicious and dangerous. But she is not good either. As she is immortal, she doesn’t understand mortality and the fear around it. Marie Antoinette is actually a perfect figure to invoke, she was interested primarily in indulgence, while not the most malicious of the royals, not pure evil, but she was complacent and deeply classist in a polite seeming way.

Asmodeus - Because lust is a social sin, requiring interaction, it makes perfect sense that Oz would want his citizens to mingle with each other beyond castes and with himself for maximum pleasure. Lust also thrives off subverting power dynamics. I think him being non malicious but obsessively lustful and defensive of his sin, makes perfect sense to me. Like Bee, he cares only about having a good time. Any malice is hidden so the citizens don’t flee. But like porn does to the mind, it numbs it, erodes someone’s integrity emotional intelligence and their decision making skills. It really irks me that the Vees are a far better “sin of lust” symbol than Asmodeus who has become quite pathetic?

Basically, his “Ozzies” characterisation would be perfect if it wasn’t a facade.

Beelzebub - She’s a drug Lord. Enough said. She’s the embodiment of the evils of the Pharmaceutical industry. She’s also too lazy to be confrontational and violent. The real bel is like this.

[nuclearpoweredsniper]

to know a gentle body

nobody asked but ur getting it anyways, sniper/reader ficlet that'll probably get a +18 sequel, but for now, yanno (gestures broadly)

gender neutral reader, 2nd person POV, cw for weed and cigarettes, there'll definitely be more tags added when i post the second part

---------

The nights have been going like this for a while. You and the team have dinner, and Mick waits until everyone has left the room, and he asks you if you'd like to hang out with him in his van.

The first time caught you off guard, you'll admit; the Sniper was a quiet man. The longest sentence you'd ever gotten out of him prior was a whopping three words, but you were sure it wasn't shyness. He never seemed uncomfortable in a room with the others, but he stayed at the back and he stayed quiet - and if he could get away with it, he wouldn't be there at all. Always carrying his kukri, always wearing that hat and those shades, all the signs of an animal silently telling you to keep your distance, and so you did. You didn't think he'd approach you first.

He waited until you were alone, washing dishes; he kept a keen ear out for invisible flies on the wall of the French variety, and when he was sure only the breathing of 2 people were present, he cleared his throat.

"So, Jeremy told me you smoke." His voice reminded you of the stroke of an old cello, in an abstract way - low and almost meandering. It startled you but it was nice to hear, for once, not in monosyllables.

"...Yeah. I, um.." You scratched your neck, making a mental note to throw a boot at the Scout later. "I do. Why do you a-"

"Wanna come smoke with me? I have a fuckton of vinyls we can listen to."

You felt like you were making first contact with a different kind, but it was nothing like the movies.

"Uhm... y-yeah? Sure. Why not?"

And so a nightly ritual began.

It was in this way you became close friends, lounging in his little van, the air full of smoke and Pink Floyd, giggling and munching on homemade jerky. You waded in each others shallows, picking up pretty stones in the shape of favorite colors and childhood memories, the time he fought a saltwater croc for 20$, the time you mistook a wild skunk for a dog and almost got sprayed, until slowly the shallows weren't so shallow anymore. Before you realized it, you were sharing first kisses, first heartbreak, traumas, fears, desires.

It turns out you were right - Mick wasn't the least bit shy when it was just you and him. He explained in quite simple terms why he kept his distance from everyone.

"Wankers, the lot of 'em. Tavish 'n Jeremy are just 'bout the only ones I can stand, and even then.." You interjected with a snort - you knew exactly what he meant. He smirked and continued.

"Can't trust that fuckin' spook as far as you can throw him either. Damn stalker." He injected a bit of venom into that point. He was right too, the Spy loved blackmail.

The water was up to your chin when you realized you were looking at him differently - no, seeing him differently, knowing him differently. The tide was rolling in.

His earthen brown eyes lay deep in his skull, which was constructed of sacred, sharp geometry; lines and valleys and rises chipped out of sunkissed marble. Mahogany hair hung just at his shoulders, which were wide and strong; and just peaking out of the collar of his white undershirt, was greying chest hair. When he smiled, his lips pulled back and revealed teeth that almost should've been in the mouth of a wolf, not a man. It split his face in two, it was intimidating, and it was beautiful.

Tonight, you're sitting on the small couch in his van, passing a joint back and forth between you, The Mamas and The Papas crackling softly on his record player. He breaks the near silence with the crunch of the joint being put out in the ashtray, and pulls your legs into his lap. You don't mind, he does this sometimes, he seeks comfort in touch and soft skin - just wants to know a gentle body, and so do you. It's rare in your line of work.

Calloused fingers are tracing nervous lines into your calf, antsy little dots and dashes like frantic morse code and it's noticeably different from how he normally touches you. He's staring at a particular square inch of your flesh and his thick brows are furrowed; he's thinking hard about something. You know by now to just let him brew until he's ready, so you stay quiet, happy to admire his strong profile while he's distracted. You reach down to the floor to grab your cigarettes, pull one out and light it, and he watches you with a strange look in his oaken eyes, but not an unpleasant one. It's a look of complicated depth, of things unknown to you besides a tangible warmth. You stretch an arm abover your head, a few joints popping as you do, and stretch your legs out across his lap, not unlike a cat. As you stretch, you tap the glass.

"What's up?"

He looks away quickly, he didn't realize he was staring.

"I, um... I wanted to, um.."

He's never been nervous like this before.

"I wanted to ask you something." He's gone back to staring at your legs. You sit up on your elbows, a touch nervous yourself, now.

"...Yeah?" You try to take a gentle tone, but it just comes out as timid and small, seeking its own reassurance.

He pauses, he seems like he's rolling the words around in his mouth before saying them.

"You get lonely too, right?"

He's hushed now, his hands deathly still. It's rattling to see him actually nervous like this.

"...What do you mean? We're hanging out right now."

"That's what I mean. You come over, and you stay for a while and it's...." His mouth hangs open for a second like the words are scared to come. "I-I don't.... I don't want you to. Leave.... tonight."

There's a rush in your thorax. You're speechless for a second, almost thoughtless, and you sit up to face him. His lips are tinted red by his teeth worrying at them, those wicked teeth like something out of Dracula.

"Only if you want to, of course. It gets cold out he-"

"I'd really like that, Mick."

When he looks at you, it almost steals your breath. Damn his eyes, full of sepia-tinted expanses, dilated pupils pulling you in like supermassive black holes; you might as well have told him you'd marry him with the hearts and stars dancing in them. He blushes, actually blushes at you, and it'll be a long standing argument in the future about who kissed who first. All you know is that now, you're in his arms.

[captain039]

PART 3 The 2029

Old man Logan x reader

Warnings: AOB dynamics, age gap, angst, swearing, mutants, intimacy, eventual smut, claiming, heats, ruts, needles, drug usage, dystopian world, plus size reader, sexual assault,

Sorry it’s a bit messy xD

Mutation: Telekinesis, energy manipulation, telepathy

previous part <-

There’s another that joins you, an old beta, he’s got a bald head and he can’t walk, he looks frail and dazed but he smiles kindly at you and says everything will be ok. You’re gone within an hour, on the highway by morn where you’re in the backseat exhausted. You’ve fallen asleep a few times woken up to the alpha at front cursing the automatic trucks on the highway. When you see the sun you give up trying to sleep and look out the window the world you don’t know.

The limo swerves suddenly an angry yell and beep before the car stops. You look outside you see horses on the road scared, four of them big beautiful beasts, you’ve never seen them before.

“Logan they need help” the old beta, Charles you found out says.

“Someone will come along” Logan ignored his words.

“Yes they have” Charles says and Logan growls getting out the car. You watch the horses walk back to the trailer and the family frowning at it you glance to Charles seeing him with his eyes closed before he smiles and opens them.

“I’m like you” he says voice echoing in your mind before he closes his eyes exhausted.

You want to step out of the car, help but you know you’ll only cause more issues, so you wait as Charles rolls the window down and calls.

“We’d be delighted to join you” he says and you frown a bit keeping yourself hidden. Logan comes back in the car growling and annoyed as you follow the car and trailer to the family’s house.

Logan’s tense, you’re tense, they’ll smell you on Charles and Caliban, hell probably Logan too. As the limo pulls up to the house you look around admiring it and the large farmland behind it. The family steps out their car, a woman a man and a son, probably in his teens maybe. Logan steps outs too as Charles opens the door. Logan growls making the family tense as he walks to the passenger door.

“You two need to stay here” he whispers to you and Caliban and you nod.

“Hey- it’s ok” the woman calls as Logan snaps back to look to her.

“I’ve got friends who are mutants, they can come inside” she smiles looking Caliban then you.

“You’re so kind, thank you” Charles smiled warmly as Logan sighs and goes to the boot. He pulls out Charles wheelchair while Caliban gets out making sure he’s protected from the sun. The drive took a while, couple hours at least but you’re far away from the facility now.

“Hey” the woman smiles peeking in through the door.

“You can come out, it’s pretty rare to see an omega, but we won’t tell” she’s a beta, her scent warm and welcoming but neutral. You gulp but crawl out the back and into the sun looking around the farm.

“This is a lovely place” you whisper to her and she smiles thanking you. The family is welcoming, Logan sets Charles on the couch and Caliban stands awkwardly by him. The family unpack their grocery’s while the son gets everyone a water before heading up stairs.

You’re tense, feeling exposed in such a nice house and with such a nice family. The grey shorts and tank top too tight and leaves nothing to the imagination. You try to stand so you’re covered up but fail horribly. You flinch when somethings draped around your shoulders till you get an overwhelming scent of alpha. You glance to the old alpha as he laid his flannel over your form. You thank him quietly and he nods heading to the kitchen.

Dinner time rolls around and you’re sitting at the table, having a proper home made meal it makes you want to cry. The family smiles as they pass the food around before saying grace and eating. You stare at your food with overwhelming emotions and take a shuddery breath.

“Could I use your bathroom please?” You say quietly barely managing to get it out. The woman smiles and nods, Jessica her name is and her mate Liam and son Jacob. You head upstairs, they gave you a tour of the house before dinner. You head into the bathroom with shaky hands and almost fall on the floor. You sit down on the cold bathroom floor body shaking and emotions haywire. You know you probably reek of anxiety but right now you don’t care. You hug the alphas flannel closer taking in his scent trying to focus on that but it’s quickly covered by your anxiety filled omega scent. You think about everything your hand scratching the side of your neck again. You sit for a few minutes till there’s a knock and you know who it is.

“I’ll be out in a minute” you call shakily.

“No you won’t” the old alpha calls back before stepping inside. He frowns not finding you level before looking to your form on the floor. His eyes flicking down to your hand at your neck. He begins sits down and you go to protest but he gets down slowly and sits by you moving your hand from your neck looking at it in silent question.

“The- alpha… the one at the facility he licked my neck and I-“ you trail off shuddering a bit.

“When you called out to me” Logan says gruffly and you nod in answer.

“Why’d you come?” You ask looking to him as he looks to the floor fist clenching.

“I don’t know” he answers with a sigh and you nod going to rub your neck again, but he catches your wrist quickly. It’s not hard but it makes you flinch a bit in surprise as he lowers your hand keeping his hold on your wrist.

“Dinner will get cold” he says removing his hand and you sigh softly nodding. The old alpha gets up slowly before holding his hand out to you. You take it standing up also.

“I smell like anxiety” you grumble and he raises an eyebrow softly his nose flaring and you watch his eyes narrow and his pupils dilate. He doesn’t say or do anything just opens the bathroom door and you sigh softly heading back downstairs to finish your meal. You’re thankful the family don’t question, continuing their small talk with Charles and sometimes Caliban. After dinner Logan takes Charles upstairs to the spare room while you help Jessica with the dishes.

“You doing ok?” She asks you as you wash.

“Yeah” you nod not really sure how to answer.

“The alpha, Logan he’s not forcing you?” She says quietly and your whole body goes tense.

“Forcing?” You mutter confused, all alphas force one way or another, you think before it clicks in.

“No- no he’s not, I’m here willingly” you confirm and it relaxes the beta a bit. You offer a smile jolting when a voice fills your head.

“What happened?” The beta asks as you apologise softly.

“My mutation” you mutter and she nods understanding. After you wash the dishes you’re getting antsy, you take the offered shower by Jessica but suddenly you’re hearing her son’s thoughts, her mates and hers. You hear Caliban’s, Logan’s and Charles, snippets overwhelming snippets of each persons thought. It’s overwhelming, even under the warm water you can’t control the voices and it’s getting to much. You cover your ears panicking, crouching down in the shower hoping it’d go away. There’s a loud knock on the door, a worried alpha scent flooding in but you’re too scrambled. The door opens quickly you hear Logan force himself in while you wince and cry at the overwhelming voices. He pulls back the curtain uncaring of the water and your nakedness as he’s suddenly down there with you tugging you to him. You keep stiff, your ears covered as tears roll down your face the warm water still spraying on your bodies. The old alpha sits down in the shower long legs barely fitting as he holds you in his lap, he’s forcing you to look at him his scent filling your senses as you do.

“Look at me, focus on my voice” he says eyes stern as you sob softly. You feel pathetic, but it hurts in your mind as you close your eyes again.

“No, look at me” he holds your face and you look to him seeing the water spraying on him soaking his clothes. The voices go quiet focusing on his, his panic. You frown at him listening to his thoughts as he nods.

“Just focus on me” he says gruffly one hand holding the side of your neck gently the other on your cheek. You focus on him and his thoughts trying not to filter through them but it’s hard.

You see what happened to him, in this world before this government, the school being taken away by the government, Charles’ outbreak it makes your lower lip shake. You push past it going further back, the school up and running a woman, another alpha named Jean he fell in love with when he was younger, then had to kill. It makes you flinch. Then it’s further, a man named Stryker, the experiments done on him and that makes you sob and break. Before that, the wars, before that the first time his mutation showed, the scared look on his mother’s face his claws in his father’s stomach.

“Alpha” it’s broken the way you say it, the way your body gives up on holding you up as you fall against his chest with a wet thud.

“I know sweetheart” he whispers his arms around your naked shaking form. You feel how he hurts, feel the slowness in his body the pain mentally and physically.

“Life was different before the government” he says quietly gently moving his hand up and down your naked back. It makes you shudder as you calm down and only focus on his thoughts. You jump between them not focusing on one too long.

“I’m gonna turn the shower off ok?” He says leaning up turning the shower off with a soft squeak of the handle. The water stops and you sigh a bit.

“You’re wet now” you mutter against him. Your heads leant against his shoulder cheek pressed into it, face facing away from his head.

“And I’m naked” you mumble to yourself feeling him tense under you like he too just realised. A knock comes and you smell worried beta.

“You two ok in there?” Jessica asks.

“Can you get a towel please?” Logan asks voice surprisingly soft. The beta leaves then comes back walking in with a few towels. She looks down at you and Logan briefly and you grow embarrassed.

“It’s ok” she smiles lying the towels down before leaving quickly.

“I’ll fix your door” Logan grumbles out.

He picks up one towel lying it around your shoulders. You don’t dare move your chest from his, your breasts pushed up against his chest. You don’t know what’s worse that or needing to lift your top half up to wrap the towel around you to preserve some dignity. You peer into Logan’s mind body tensing as you suddenly see images of you and him doing other things in the shower. The old alpha tenses too stops his movements and you dare to lift yourself up to face him. You tug the towel around you to cover your chest as you stare at him, his wet hair and beard, his wet face, the wrinkles and old sad angry eyes.

“I’m gonna-“ you don’t know what to say suddenly enjoying the close proximity to much, your inner omega wanting to purr like a damn cat. His scent, god his scent it’s over your naked body, you can smell him on you and it’s the best thing you’ve ever smelt. He’s still tense a soft growl leaving him that makes you want to submit and present like a good omega. Reality kicks in though and you lift yourself off his lap on shaky legs keeping yourself covered. You shuffle a bit and Jessica appears again.

“I got some clothes for you” she smiles, you look to the clothes and thank her and thank a higher up for her being a larger woman like yourself. She glances to Logan who’s still sitting on the shower floor and smirks at you giving you a wink before leaving making your cheeks go red.

[jermer10]

Hello👋 i dont know if you can but, can you do a drabble of yandere Sniper [tf2] stalking and kidnapping the reader[gender neutral]? And that he keeps them locked up in his camper van?

And uhhh, if you can the reader loves him right back?👉👈

If you cant do the stockholm syndrome thing, i get it. But at least do yandere Sniper please.

TF2 yandere sniper drabbles

suggestive, gn reader | this prompt was so fun!! tysm for the ask :)

tw: stalking, kidnapping, obsession, depictions of wounds and blood, drugging, abusive relationship, reader falling in love with yandere

drabbles under the cut :P

- you were aware of his existence a long time before meeting him, and whilst you had dealt with creeps and weirdos before, this guy was....different... - waking up during the night and feeling a presence in the room, yet finding no one once the lights were turned on; catching a glimpse of someone from the corner of your eye, and turning around to see nothing - for the longest time you had felt insane! "you're just paranoid!" you'd hear from friends and family - and then you had your first encounter with him at your local cafe whilst in the lineup ordering your coffee - okay, well, you weren't certain that it was him, but the way his bluish-grey eyes bore into yours with such an obsessive, aching, needy want caused you to put two and two together - and much to your dismay, he had realized that you knew - you brushed past him, hoping he wouldn't follow you, hoping that you could make it home in time to pack a bag or two so you could stay with a friend for the night - but you only made it half way down the street before being pulled into an alleyway and feeling the sharp jab of a needle in your shoulder

- you must have fought for several minutes before finally passing out, because upon waking there were bruises and scuff marks littering your skin - the second thing you noticed once you gained consciousness was the leg of camper van pull-out table you were tied to - if you had the strength, you would have kicked the table upwards and slid your ducktaped wrists off of the leg, yet your drowsiness and the numbness of your legs told you that trying to escape would be futile - for a second you considered screaming out - someone, anyone must be able to hear you, you couldn’t have gone too far out of town - you hear the stifled laugh of a man from the other side of the van - you turned sharply to look at the man, when an overbearing wave of nausea and dizziness rushed over you. “fuck!” you hissed, squeezing your eyes shut - the man chuckled, and from what courage you could muster, you glanced up at him. he was….handsome? - ‘fucking gross y/n! don’t think that about this guy! he KIDNAPPED YOU!’ the reality of the situation had finally set in - “who are you?! where am i?! please, please just let me go and I wont tell anyone about this! I’ll give you whatever you want! please don’t kill me!” you had started to sob - through the blurry tears you saw him get up and walk closer to you, his brown boots clacking against the floor rung in your head like gun shots - “shut up. I took ya because you’re the thing I want. I’ve been followin’ you for a while and I know you know about it. I got tired of waitin’, so I made myself known, that’s all.” his face was serious, his voice condescending, as if it were obvious - you felt hopeless, pathetic, and manic. you started to scream, cry, thrash around pathetically whilst he stood over you. he lit a cigarette and blew some smoke down at you - “we are a looooong way away from any people darl’, so it would be easier for both of us if you played nice” the man spat, and walked towards the exit of the camper van, grabbing a sniper rifle out of a locked compartment in the wall - “if you’re not here when i get back, i will kill you, y/n.” and with that, he left.

- months had gone by, and eventually you had grown placid, sitting under that table on your makeshift bed day in, day out while the man you had eventually grown to know as Mundy monitored you, fed you, bathed you, and clothed you - you had gained his trust, therefore he decided it would be best to remove your constraints - while he was at work you would rummage through his belongings to find out more about him; what hobbies he had, where he was from, his likes and dislikes - you found a photo of his parents and casually asked him about them one day. he was taken aback by your curiosity, yet he told you stories about his childhood and you shared some of your own - you couldn’t even hate him anymore, you had actually grown fond of the man in your time spent with him, but there was no fucking way he could know that. you still wanted to escape from this sicko and return to your old life - but what even was your old life? your 9 to 5 job, coming home to an empty house every day, the constant feeling of being watched with no one to believe you - suddenly your situation seemed a lot better than what you were previously stuck with - that night you had awoken, startled by a wounded and bloody Mundy stumbling through the camper van doors. “holy shit, are you okay?” you hated how it came out so earnestly - luckily for you, the concern had seemingly gone unnoticed as he had sat himself on the floor next to you, peering into your eyes for some kind of permission with a guilt and bashfulness you hadn’t seen from him thus far - you didn’t know what to do or say, so you nodded slightly, and on cue he pressed himself into your side, burying his face in the crook of your neck - he smelt like cigarettes, dirt, and gore - you didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell, but you knew he had a hard day at work. no matter what his job was, you knew all too well the feeling of coming home after a shitty shift and sobbing into your pillows. you often wonder if Mundy ever saw that side of you, sides you hadn’t shown anyone - you held each other in this awkward side hug for what felt like both hours and seconds, you honestly didn’t want to let go, but he was still bleeding out and you had been dirtied - “wanna shower?” you asked chastely. it felt uncomfortable asking your captor for something so….sweet? he glanced at you, attempting to hide the shock in his face - “yeah, okay.” he mumbled, slowly letting go of your warmth and standing up shakily, you followed in suit and head into the cramped bathroom

- by this point you had already been naked around Mundy, he refused to let you shower by yourself and most days you had been so exhausted you had looked forward to him washing you - but you had never caught a glimpse of what was under his work uniform or the red plaid pyjama slacks and white t-shirt he wore around the van, and a small part of you was nervous, but a huge part of you anticipated the reveal - you stripped yourself and climbed into the tub, chin resting on your knees, hugging your legs, and staring up at the tall, lanky man - a red tinge glossed his dirty face, clearly this was a vulnerable spot for him, and you couldn’t help but respond with your own red cheeks in turn - “….are you jumping in or what…?” you couldn’t look at him, the only sound louder than the thumping of your heart in your chest was the water spilling from the tap filling the tub - “ah- yeah just uh, gimme a second,” he murmured, removing his jacket and unbuttoning his top - his chest and back were scarred, some old, some new. you felt a pang of sadness. the irony of this situation was not lost on you, feeling more remorseful over hating this man than he does for kidnapping you, but you couldn’t help it. he was so raw, so genuine - he had stripped bare, and climbed into the tub facing away from you, handing you a bar of soap, you absentmindedly washed his back, it felt all too natural to you, maybe it was the steam of the shower, maybe it was the exhaustion that came from sleeping on the cold, hard floor of the camper every night with nothing but a blanket and pillow to keep you comfortable, but something about being here now, with Mundy, felt so right - “I think I’m in love with you,” you spoke softly, so softly you were sure he couldn't even hear the whisper, and before you could react, Mundy turned and pulled you into a rough kiss. you melted into it, running your soapy hands through his auburn hair. eyebrows furrowed and face burning, he pulled away - “wanna sleep in my bed tonight?"

[esther-dot]

I'm sorry, that's gonna be a really weird ask from one jonsa stan to another but I'm genuinely curious - is there any anti jonsa argument/claim that actually made sense to you? I'm really asking for the sake of, well, civilised discussion - because if there are arguments there ought to be reasonable counterarguments. And all that I see is the same tired old crap - "she's not his favourite sister" and "but they are relatives!" and all the other stuff. Given, of course I'm not hanging around jonry@ and jon@erys side of this fandom (dark things happen to any sansa and jonsa stans there) and have no idea if they have any reasonable metas. Or maybe if there was a moment that made you actually question possibility of jonsa happening in books? (once again - because I'm anxious like that - I'm not asking this to disprove something or make people question jonsa but because I wonder if you personally had this sort of experience).

Thank you and hope you're having a nice day!

No worries! I enjoy looking at things from different angles, so I don’t mind at all. Unfortunately, I haven’t read anti jonsa stuff that isn’t exactly what you described, so I can’t actually have the convo you want about this. I tried to go to some jonerys blogs but their anti tags weren’t what we’re looking for. There’s a blogger people view as neutral who other Sansa fans/Jonsas put on my dash, and a BNF who people I follow also reblog from, so I went over to their blogs to look around and they’re less rabid, but I can’t say they offered though-provoking pushback. I’ll share some snippets though, in case you’re interested.

There was the old "but their siblings" argument:

I, ah, I do not think Jon marries Sansa in any scenario. Regardless of biological relationship, they think of themselves as siblings. The people around them are also quite likely to consider them siblings or as good as, having been raised as such (see also Theon being accused of kinslaying over his apparent murder of Bran and Rickon). Nor do I think either would be in a rush to go back to the traditional “but the Targaryens practiced incest,” again considering that their society is strongly anti-incest. Jon and Sansa were raised together, in the same house, as brother and sister, and that makes a material difference.

But you know, raised as siblings and please nobody try the “but they weren’t close” with me, that’s so not true.

It’s interesting to see someone say they were close, that’s not something I’ve seen before. I suppose my biggest issue with this line of thought is that it feels true for a generic fantasy maybe, but hardly convincing when talking about ASOIAF? Martin wants to talk about incest. So far, we have all the bad, abusive variations covered. I think he’s gonna work some shades of grey into it the same way he tries to do with everything he discusses, and to pretend like he would never feels disingenuous to me. Even if he ultimately abandoned the initial draft, from the author’s mind came the idea of a Jon / Stark girl romance. He has entertained it. Secondly, Jon is a Targ and it’s reasonable to expect that to manifest somehow, or at least, for Jon to experience the fear that there’s something latent there. And third, if we’re gonna get a romance, I think Martin would write it with the complexity and inner struggle that he writes everything and fauxcest offers him that opportunity, not to mention all the parallels it would allow as well.

Let's see...I also saw that they object to the Beauty and the Beast reading of Jonsa:

And I've been searching but apparently I never posted the rest of my "Bear and the Maiden Fair" thoughts, but that's the in-world Beauty and the Beast story. Through that and looking at bears elsewhere in the story, you can track this idea of the beast not being a monster, but being perceived as one by society, an outcast, which is why the Hound, Tyrion, and Jon all fit the role/are related (in a way), and why Jon will be the final suitor or real bear/beast.

The next one, I’m just gonna post the whole thing:

I’m not sure if the best part is the implication that Jon/Dany (which they believe is inevitable) have what’s required to allow for “quick deep emotional connections” or if it’s reading the Hound insult and threaten and then finally put a knife to Sansa’s throat and deciding “romance! chivalry!” The Hound may be disillusioned, but the fandom has got to stop pretending like some of his espoused beliefs aren’t self-serving, a defense because he is a monster. We have Brienne and Jon showing us different versions of knights, true knights, so acting like the Hound is in the right is just bizarre.

Anyway, no, I’ve not read an anti argument that made me doubt it. I do doubt what Martin is aiming for at times, so I’ve vacillated between potential paths/endgames for them over the years, but the anti arguments generally are coming from a reading of characters and dynamics that’s disturbing to me which means I’m usually alienated, not compelled.

[adobe-outdesign]

Could you review the ixi?

Briefly limited edition for a very short period after their release, Ixi are mostly just goats, and there's really nothing fancy about them beyond being goats (unless you want to count the collars). They are pretty nicely designed goats though, with distinct eye shapes, lots of black accents on the hooves, eyebrows, and horns, and some nice markings around the face and muzzle that really help to break up the body.

I also like the personality Ixis have, being mischievous and sort of sassy. This was more obvious in their old circle art, but you still get it a bit from the converted version as well. It's fun and helps make them stand out.

This might be a controversial Hot Take(TM), but I'd argue that Ixis mostly benefited from customization. The old art was just a bit janky all around—the circle pose mostly looks good, but the default happy poses could look kind of off. The converted version cleans up a lot of that, removing things like the second fur tuft on the head that's too close to the horn to be noticeable, the unpleasant lines around the mouth, the shaggy fur lines, etc.

It also refines some aspects, like giving the lighter tail tip an outline to match the rest of the lighter areas and fixing the hind torso, which was all kinds of screwed up on the original art. It also improves the eyes so they're closer to being the same size (it still looks a smidge off to me, but it's at least better). The shading is also less messy (what was up with that pink reflective light on the tail?), the eyebrows have been thickened to match the other black areas more, and it's easier to make out aspects of the design.

Another benefit is that the collars can be removed. I do think Ixi collars look better than Aisha collars (mostly because they can be interpreted as chokers when anthropomorphized, and they at least match the color of the eyes), but it's nice to have the option to remove it if one wants to.

However, there were a few things that don't look as good—namely, the head is both a bit too big and too wide compared to the original, giving it a weird rectangle shape that doesn't quite feel right. Here's a super quick edit of the converted version to try to get the point across:

Also, for some reason the chest fur also stops below the collar instead of under it, and the red Ixi's mouth is no longer the lighter shade like it is on every other Ixi. The sideways hair ruffle at the top is also weird due to them adding a line underneath. So overall an improvement—but not perfect.

Favorite Colours:

Mutant: What a great color! It's just messed up enough to look properly mutant-y, with the fangs, mismatched horns and ears, bipedal stance, spots, and a long, drooping tail. The color palette is subtle and muted, and it's detailed but still completely coherent as a whole. This design also didn't change with customization at all, so it's still as enjoyable as it ever was.

Grey: I already covered this one a bit in my grey color review so I won't get into it much here, but this color is great. The customized version is so-so (good as a neutral base, but the eyes look a bit weird due to lack of top lids), but the UC version is beautiful with its forlorned expression, huge droppy ears, and pretty dull red accents. Even the collar is drooping!

Robot: Converted robot Ixis unfortunately aren't very good—yes, they have to proportionally match the default base, but the chunky round legs, overly large head ridge, and completely botched shading look pretty bad. It looks weirdly rubbery in a really unpleasant way. On the plus side, the unclothed version is terrifying, so it has that much going for it.

However, the UC version is fantastic! It has a super sleek design that manages to look unusually elegant and cute for a robot pet, with a subtle dark green and black palette and high-contrast red eyes. There are lots of good details in there too, like how the neck matches the legs and ears.

[birdsaretoddlers]

okay everyone promised to be niceys about it so here's a snippet of the first chapter of the neo-noir whatever the fuck i'm writing. everyone be nice or else i'll explode into a puddle of tears ok?

Red Vixen Returns! After what appears to have been a two year hiatus, famed cat burglar ‘Red Vixen’ has struck again, this time taking a stab at Overeasy Industries! Newest reports claim that the Phosphoril Rose was stolen last night out of its exhibit at the Museum of Earth Sciences. The CEO of Overeasy Industries has promised that any credible claim to it’s whereabouts that lead to the recovery of the artifact will be rewarded handsomely-

“Turn that off, would you, Vette?”

The television cycled off the news and on to a different news station, then more news, and finally, a gossip tabloid that, again, was covering the news. With a disgruntled hawk in her throat, the bartender tossed the remote onto the countertop, unable to escape chippy newscasters with dead eyes and fake cheer. “If you can find any channel not showin’ that, you’re welcome to it.”

The remote slid, spinning, over the scarred, heavily-lacquered wood. The man at the bar stopped it with the hand not currently holding his glass, tapped the channel buttons a time or two, and eventually settled on golf. The tournament lasted for all of fifteen seconds before the breaking news bled overtop of it, too. He finally turned the whole system off instead.

“Don’t know what you were expecting, Mars. It’s Overeasy. They’ve bought every station we get out here.”

“Mm,” said Mars. “Can’t hurt to try.”

“Awfully hopeful, coming out of you. Careful, someone might just try to steal that off ya.”

Knocking back the remnants of his drink, he set his empty glass an inch over the invisible line that begged for a refill. “Welcome to it. Not sure who I lifted it from myself.”

Vette smirked and pulled a pair of dirty bottles from the rack behind her, grey hair tied out of her face with a black leather cord. “Probably the Valentines, if I had to guess. Julio’s always got some to spare.”

“Julio’s full of spare parts. His brother and his sister in law aren’t much better.” Mars waited patiently as Vette offloaded old stock into his cup, then took it back with two fingers. “Dunno why you let your boy run around with ‘em. Gang types, through and through.”

Vette shrugged her shoulders and replaced the liquors to the shelf, sending up a puff of dust as she did. “Who cares where they came from? Keeps Tommy out from underfoot. Better he go knocking over trash cans with them three than the neighborhood boys. At least the Valentines know how to handle a weapon.”

Mars gave his head an acquiescing little tilt. “Just thought you’d stay away from cats that reek of a family, that’s all.”

Vette leaned over the bar with one arm, gesturing at the establishment, as much as it could be called that, with the other. “Hey, here at the Dog, everyone’s family as long as they leave their guns at the door. Doesn’t matter who killed who, what corp fucked over the next, anyone that wants a drink or somethin’ to eat can get it as long as they have the money to pay and don’t spill bad blood within two feet of the doorstep.”

That was true. This dive was the only place that was truly neutral in the entire town. The bartender looked and acted like she’d shoot you, along with her husband and the entire waitstaff, so nobody dared cause any trouble within the doors of the Sighthound. Otherwise called ‘the Dog’, by anyone who had been here more than once. The walls, floors, even the tables were stained with the arguments of generations of enemies who had come together to dine as strained equals, along with a hefty dose of grime. Smoke hung low in the air, mixing with the rank scent of desperation. The opened front door only did so much to clear it out, but hey, if having health insurance was mandatory by law, why not make good use of it?

Mars removed his hat to fan it under his nose anyway. He couldn’t smell the ethanol of his drink through this haze. Vette rolled her eyes, made a comment about his failing constitution, and wandered off without waiting for him to bite out a retort. “Sure, sure. Have to be the one born this minute to start anything here. You’d have ‘em sharing a scientific classification with a colander in a second.”

“Damn right.” Vette turned the television on again, though Mars hadn’t seen her swipe the remote out from under his sleeve. The news bulletin had faded, golf proceeded apace. She pulled a face and started looking for anything else. Mars sipped his highball and did not pull one, though tequila rose was not a proper ingredient no matter what old swill Vette was trying to cycle through the inventory tab. “That’s why we say two feet away from the door. Gives us enough time to close it before we start gettin’ stains on the hardwood.”

With a subtle glance behind him, Mars studied the floors. It was hard to tell there was wood under the inch of grit and mud, but he’d take her word for it. They were almost alone here. The ‘enforcers’ that were the Valentines were playing babysitter, the owner of the bar was up in his office, and who drank at two o’clock on a Tuesday?

Other than him, of course. And the guy that just walked in the door.

Vette looked up, blue eyes a-blinking. “Oh, that’s gotta be the lunch order. Hold that thought, Capone.”

[what-the-fic-khr]

Hello I hope this ask finds you well! Happy to see the tea prompts again bc they’re so so so cute 🫖🥹

I have a fewww ideas.. bc I just love everything about your writing and I’m curious about your take on rooibos tea w/ Squalo orrr earl grey w/ Hibari (I absolutely adore the way you characterize himshdnshdjdh)

If neither of those suit your fancy, matcha tea with any character that comes to mind for ya? I’m excited to see your posts floating around again and know I’ll continue to love anything you pen for us🫧🤍

waaaaah thank you so much for your kind words, I appreciate it so greatly!!! I chose to do both because I’m in the mood to, and I’m so thankful for the support! I hope these are to your liking!

character/s: superbi squalo, hibari kyoya, reader-insert (gender-neutral)

word count: —

warnings: huh. nothing for once

prompt: tea prompts (rooibos tea, earl grey tea)

rooibos tea; what’s their favourite thing to do with their s/o?

Squalo’s either a huge fan of resting or hates it entirely. for the sake of this, it’s not resting per se, but… he likes to relax with you, very specifically. even if he’s working; being able to actually relax is rare, and nice. watch for if he removes his sword with you around; he likes to do maintenance on it with you around because it’s not stressful, not work, and with you. it’s a sign of comfort and vulnerability

You were complaining about something, rolling around on the floor beside him as you went on and on. He didn’t care much about all the movement; you maintained a good distance so you wouldn’t knock into him.

“Besides, it was stupid to begin with and if they’d listened to me in the first place it wouldn’t have happened at all!”

“Mhm.”

You glanced over at Squalo, stretching your arms out to rest your head on. He glanced up at your silence, and his shoulders slumped. This didn’t stop him from polishing his blade, the action repetitive, calming, like habit.

“What?”

He huffed when you smiled in that silly, dreamy way you did when you were enamoured with something. It still had to take some getting used to, seeing it directed at him.

“Nothin’. You look so nice and relaxed for once. Boss is gonna kick that out a window once you’re done.”

He grumbled something under his breath at this. It wouldn’t last very long, but still. He felt relaxed, for once. The soothing motions of sharpening and polishing his sword was a comfort to him. You rolling around on the floor like a kid was a comfort to him.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere for at least another half hour.” Your eyes started to light up at this, and he almost laughed at the way you started kicking your feet back and forth in the air. “You’re stuck with me until then.”

“Favourite thing to be stuck with.”

early grey tea; how did they court their s/o?

if he’s an adult, he’d be… a bit more normal lol. I think he’d be very careful while getting to know you, but he’d like to show you how strong and reliable he is. y’know, adult in the mafia kind of stuff. younger though, he’d be a lot more… of a loser about it. he’d want to make sure you can also look after yourself in the future with him! so he’d stick to you like glue at school, be suuuuper annoying and stuff. fight, probably.

“Can’t you go easy on me or something at least?!”

“Doing that won’t keep you alive in a real fight, will it?”

You made a loud noise of complaint, but you still got back onto your feet to return to your original position. Kyoya gripped his tonfa a little tighter, nodding to himself.

If you could not even get up and keep training, there would be no point in trying.

There was potential in you he knew was there, and he’d be damned if the one he’d grown attached to would get killed because you didn’t try to get stronger. It only made sense to him that the one who put you through this was him and no one else. No one else would take it seriously.

“Get ready, then.”

You whined, but steeled your shoulders. Your gaze on him sharpened, eyes narrowing, and he felt his lips twitch up into a smirk.

Exactly the spark he wanted to see.

[usmsgutterson]

Achilles Heel - Givenson

okay!! I posted an excerpt from this initially more than a week ago now and it's just evolved ever since. I was gunning for angst and landed somewhere in hurt/comfortville instead but I'm happy with that so I'm posting this!

Fic type - the tone of this one is kind of hard to explain--it's like if angst and comfort had a child of neutrality

Warnings - there's a couple things--alcoholism and it's adverse affects are discussed a bit (for context, heart attacks, seizing and liver failure are mentioned, with heart attacks being a focal point in every single chapter of this fic and also just generally) and Tims time in the military is discussed at least a little. There's one offhanded mention of a psychotic break, and cigarettes and smoking are also semi-present in this chapter and will make a few minor reappearances throughout the fic in it's entire. This bad boy is also really long (with a word count of a bit more than 5k for this chapter and a minimum of such in the other chapters as well.

When Tim hears the words: "I never woulda pegged you for a smoker. When'd you start?" it's 7:30 am on a morning in early October. Kentucky is falling into autumn while simultaneously riding out the last coattails of summer, and he's sitting in a coffee shop parking lot with fifteen minutes to go until Rachel wants him in the office on a new case.  

He recognizes the voice instantaneously without meaning to, but—how could he ever forget that voice, really? Even a little more than a decade gone by, that voice is one of the most distinctive voices Tim has ever heard.  

"When the fuck did you get into Lexington?" he asks a Raylan that is eleven years older than he was when he left. His hair is a lot lighter than the medium-dark brown Tim remembers, and the beard he's sporting is a shade of grey that looks almost white, but he looks good. Too fucking good for a guy of 56. He asks the question while he taps out the last of his cigarette, takes the last drag of it before flicking it off into the nearest empty parking spot with a nature so careless it almost seems natural instead of practised.  

The remark makes Raylan laugh. "Last night," he says. "Rachel wanted me in nice and early. I’ve never much made a habit of waking up before even the sun, but—”  

"She's Rachel," Tim nods. He's worked with her since he started with the Marshals. They've been working together for a whopping sixteen years now, and Tim loves her more with every day that passes. She’s like a sister to him at this point, which does come with working with someone for more than two thousand days, but she knows him as well as Art does and she's always just been innately good at her job and easy to work with. Letting her in was easy and he's not lived to regret it yet, doubts that he ever will. “I get it.”  

He remembers, and does not miss, the early mornings that came with being the office newbie, but he’s been a chronic morning person since he first got out of ranger school. The only beef he has with early mornings in correlation to his work is that he doesn’t really have time to go for a run, unless he plans on skipping breakfast or waking up earlier.  

He’s up for six thirty, has been every single day since ranger school, no matter how much or how little sleep he’d gotten the night before, and he usually just goes for his runs in what he sleeps in—a pair of sweatpants and a shirt that’s not usually more than a size or two too big. He runs for five or so miles in the usual half an hour-ish it takes and then runs back from whence he came, showers, gets dressed, has coffee and a decent breakfast in him by the time he’s leaving the house at 8:30 so he can start for close to nine.  

He’s been up since 4:30 on the dot today, though, and the coffee is such a necessity that it hurts somewhere deep in his chest, although coffee has tended to bring out chest pain lately anyway.  

“You doin’ all right?” Raylan asks. “You’re lookin’ a bit faint there. Late night?”  

A smirk crosses Tims face in the last half a second before memories of one of the only gay bars in the area and a guy that looked like Raylan but was so painfully mediocre flash across his minds eye.  

“Somethin’ t’ that effect, sure,” Tim shrugs. It hadn’t been a late night, per se.

He’d gone to the bar after getting off work at nine even though he’s spent the last six weeks sober as a nun. He had a few cokes and a club soda and eventually softened up enough to let a Raylan lookalike by the name of Mitchell flirt his way into getting Tim to agree to going back to his place. A tad more of the flirting and some off-kilter sex that just left Tim wanting later, it was 4:30 and Tim was waking up after having slept only three hours because he can’t--won’t--let himself let anyone else in, and especially not someone who could, rather convincingly, play Raylan in the lifetime movie about his existence.

He slipped out of Mitchells apartment without leaving his number, or his real name—he'd told Mitchell his name was Justin, for anonymities sake, if his stone cold sober memory serves him right—or much of an otherwise trace behind. He went home, changed out of the jeans and t-shirt he’d worn to Mitchells place and into a pair of loose fitting gray sweats and a black long sleeved shirt before making himself his first coffee of the day and going for his run.  

The run that usually lasted an hour both ways ended up lasting him an hour and a half—he loved to run to clear his head and he ran an extra mile and a half before turning around and running the same distance back home. He made it home for six thirty, took his time with his shower and decided to treat himself to his second coffee from the coffee spot he liked that was close to the office both because he needed more caffeine and because their bagels were cheap but still delicious.  

“Never thought you the type,” Raylan says. “I mean—”  

“it’s been over a decade,” Tim nods. “You probably don’t know me as well as you used to anymore.”  

The only person who he will ever let know him as deeply as he can be known is dead. He died when Colton Rhodes pulled the trigger, and the one person who got as close as Mark did was never meant to have gotten that close to begin with.  

Tims words seem to touch a nerve, almost, but Tim decides to be nonchalant. He takes a sip of his coffee and looks at the parking lot through the front of his car.  

“I hate it, but you’re right,” Raylan laughs. “Sorry I didn’t keep in touch.”  

Tim looks at Raylan—really looks at him, studies him like he used to study his targets whenever he had an assignment, and sees what appears to be anguish masked poorly by indifference, covered up with a laugh so false that it almost feels like a bullet to the gut.  

“So am I,” Tim says. “How’ve you been? Hows Miami?”  

“Its Miami,” Raylan shrugs.  

“You and Winona work out?” It’s more of a sore spot than Tim would care to admit on an ordinary day, but Raylan Givens is in Lexington. This day is not ordinary.  

Raylan laughs nervously. “You were a sniper in the rangers,” he says. “Tact should be a talent of yours.”  

“It is,” Tim shrugs easily, grins just a tad. “Just not with you.”  

“Well to answer your question, no,” Raylan says it like it doesn’t hurt him to admit, but Tim knows that it bruises his ego just enough to make him close to humble. “What about you? Any prospects?”  

“Never,” Tim says. “I’m not really one for relationships. They never work out.”

“They do on occasion,” Raylan rebuts.  

“Did becoming a father make you inherently more optimistic or just inherently more stupid?” Tim asks, the sarcasm dripping in his tone in such a way that allows the question to seem like sarcasm was the whole intent of the question, rather than for it to be an insult, which Tim knows it is somewhere deep.  

“Ah,” Raylan sighs easily, smirking that smirk that Tim will never cease to find incredibly difficult to even so much as mildly disdain, let alone hate. “You’re still an asshole? Oh, some things just never change much, do they?”  

Tim flexes his hands to stop himself from reaching for his pack of Marlboros and his lighter.  

He checks his watch, takes another sip of his coffee. “See you at the office, dipshit,” he says. He hears Raylans laugh as he pulls out of his spot and drives away, needing to breathe the air he’s had more than a decade to get used to—air absent of Raylans presence.

He gets to the office a whopping total of two minutes earlier than necessary, heads straight for Rachels office.  

“Let me guess,” he says. “Boyd Crowder has escaped the lovely Harlan County Penitentiary and we’re charged with finding him?”  

“Precisely,” Rachel says, heaving in a sigh. “Only if he comes down this way, though, which he might if he thinks Ava is still here.”  

“Why the fuck would he ever--” Tim starts, pausing to think and just long enough to enter her office fully, shut the door and sit down on the couch across from her desk “It’s Boyd. Even if he’s smarter than to think she’d ever come back ‘round these parts as a goddamned fugitive, he’s at least considered the possibility.”  

Rachel smiles, tight lipped, professional but just a touch sarcastic, like always. “I like it when you use that brain of yours to actually think,” she says. “You’re on the lead, Raylans takin’ second.”  

Tim can’t help his facial expression—he and Rachel have worked together for a decade and a half now, with Tim having joined the service when he was almost thirty and her having been in the service for fourteen years by the time he was joining. He doesn’t try to hide the mild discomfort he feels at the thought of taking lead or working with Raylan again and she, in turn, has the decency not to stifle her sarcastic chuckle or soften the hardened glare that she sports in his direction for the following fifteen seconds.  

“I know you don’t wanna do this,” she says. “I dunno which part you hate more—takin' lead on this case or workin’ with Raylan again, but c’est la vie, Tim.”  

Tim shrugs, defensive air coming to him before he can stop it. “I don’t hate takin’ lead on a case,” he says. “Actually--I love it. If you want to put me on lead for the next several task forces we have to pull out of our asses, be my motherfuckin’ guest, I just don’t understand why you’d make me lead and Raylan second when Raylan is the one who knows Boyd the best out of just about anyone in Kentucky.”  

He and Boyd have had a limited number of interactions, all things considered—the time where Boyd used Tim and Rachel to save his own ass and then shot a gun while his hands were cuffed behind his back, as well as the time Tim played Scrabble against him and was about five minutes out from losing when Raylan walked back in are the first of their interactions to come to mind—and it makes very little sense to have him on lead when Raylan and his “we dug coal together” shtick know Boyd better than Tim ever wants to.  

“I was given a very strong suggestion not to make Raylan lead,” Rachel shrugs. “Manpower in Miami is stretched so thin that losing Raylan to this taskforce is the Miami equivalent of losing 1/3rd of their damn population, apparently. Dan was hesitant to send him down here and doesn’t want him gone longer than a month or two.”  

Tim shrugs. “Boyd is a hell of a lot smarter than to risk his own skin comin’ down here, even if he thinks Ava’s somehow holed up here without gettin’ caught,” he says. “Ava is smarter than to come down here, too. She wouldn’t risk it, I don’t think. Too afraid Boyd’d come lookin’ to bother.”  

“You might actually be right on that front,” she says. “I hope you are. You remember how much of a damn fuss those two kicked up back in the day?”  

It’s not often that Tim reminisces—he hates thinking about the past that is riddled so much with Raylan and Mark that it can induce a hangover unlike anything he’s ever experienced, even absent of booze—but he lets himself reminisce a little bit. The Boyd Crowder case had been a long time coming by the time they finally put Boyd away and Raylan didn’t have a means of screwing it up.  

He and Rachel have been getting along like a house on fire since they started working together, back when Art would pair the two of them up before Raylan had even come around, but their bond had strengthened throughout the six years that Raylan and his reign of terror masqueraded about Kentucky. It’s easy to let her see bits and pieces of who he is because she is the closest thing that Tim has to family worth their salt.  

“I do,” he says. “Damn it—the Crowders and associates and the fuckin’ Bennett clan. Part of me yearns for those days on occasion.”  

Rachels lips upturn in a reminiscent smile. “What, you miss when they were shootin’ people left’n right? I don’t.”  

“I miss being busy all the damn time,” he confesses. “Our criminals nowadays ain’t like they were back with the turn of the 2010s.”  

“You’re sayin’ you want a Boyd Crowder wannabe runnin’ around Harlan like he owns it?”  

Tim shrugs. “This Boyd Crowder wannabe had better be more efficient at blowin’ shit up than Boyd was,” he says. “Or at least do it more often. I miss bein’ so busy it was hard to sleep at night, mostly, but bickering with Boyd was entertaining on the rare chance he wasn’t directing all of his verboseness at Raylan.”  

Rachel laughs, dry and easy. “You’re so lucky I love you enough not to transfer you down to Arlington,” she says. “I don’t blame you for it—we had very different versions of Boyd Crowders heyday, but I miss it on occasion too. Mostly late at night, after a few too many.” 

Tim knows the six years they had with Raylan were vastly different—Tim was drinking his liver into a premature death every night, going to see Dave Alvin with dates or guys from his military days who’d turned into such, then later fucking around with Mark and Raylan and knowing full well his heart would probably not make it through the ordeal.  

Rachel was repeatedly hurt—first her ex brother in law turned into a fugitive and had to be arrested while in a pizza joint, then her marriage fell apart and she had to keep it together without losing her entire goddamned mind just so that Art wouldn’t walk back his decision with regards to having her be the chief once he retired, and in between that whole mess, Boyd Crowder and those he kept in his employ or worked with shot at her repeatedly. Even if they missed, being shot at still fuckin’ sucks.  

“Yeah?” Tim laughs. “I thought since you became the chief, you’d be like all chiefs before. Take up a taste for Pappy Van Winkle.”  

“I’ll take my fridge cold Modelo over Pappy, thank you,” she says. “Time check?”  

Tim glances up at the clock, high up on the wall behind Rachel. “Time check says quarter to eight,” he says. “You see Raylan?”  

“Late, as usual,” she laughs. “Missed him, but I didn’t miss that. Assuming we’ve got at least two more minutes til he graces us with his presence, if you don’t tell me you’ve been to the VFW this week, I will use my gun and shoot you my-fuckin'-self, right here in this office.”  

Tim hasn’t been in a few weeks if not a full month, but Rachel, decidedly, does not need to know that. He nods.  

“I’ve gone twice a week since the incident,” he says. “Meet with a therapist every Wednesday and Friday.”  

“Good,” she nods. Tim fights a sigh of relief when he finds she believes him, that she doesn’t see through the lie that several of his buddies from his ranger days would see right through in maybe half a second. “You scared the shit out me, you know that? I don’t want that happening again.”  

Tims lips form a line before he can stop himself. “I’ll do my best.”  

“Have you been drinking?”  

“Not a lick,” Tim says. That, at least, is the truth. “Not since the incident. Too scared to drink after that.”  

“Is the booze still in your fridge?”  

“Yeah,” he doesn’t see the point in dumping it—one day, be it in that week or that month or in the next few months, he won’t be so scared to touch the booze and even if it means going all in right out the gate, it’s an odd little creature comfort that he’s not ready to let go of yet.  

“Tim,” Rachel says, tone authoritative and well meaning. She’s weirdly good at it—finding the balance been friend and boss. Tim finds it admirable. “You gotta do somethin’ with it before it expires—don't you dare drink, though.”  

“I’ll dump it one of these days,” he says. “Just--not yet.”   

“I know you well enough to know you’re not lyin’ to me,” she says. “The minute you start, though? And the minute I sniff it out? You’re going on a leave of absence and you ain’t comin’ back til you’re stone cold sober. I liked you as you were back when Boyd was in the shit with the heroin and the Dixie mafia, but I like you not drunk off your ass or hungover a hell of a lot more than I liked the version of you that drank every fuckin’ night. Don’t make me dislike you, Timothy.”  

Tim smiles, gentle and easy and a little more sarcastic than he really means to be. “Yes Ma’am,” he says. “I promise not to do anythin’ out of line that would affect my ability to work. You have my word on that.”  

“You’re lucky I know your word means somethin’,” she says. “You scared the shit out of me six weeks ago, and while I’ve tried to forget about it, it ain’t happened yet. I don’t let myself do it often—you're a big boy and if you can’t take care’a yourself at forty-five with a decade of military experience under your belt? There is not an ounce of hope left for you—but I’m lettin’ myself do it now because I can afford that. You scared me half to death, Tim, and if I ever find you like that again I’m gonna hold you liable for my psychotic break.”  

“I know,” he says. “Stop worrying. I’m okay now, and I’m going to stay that way.”  

“You’d fuckin’ better, Tim. I don’t take too kindly to being scared like that.”  

Like a curse brought down onto Kentucky, Raylan takes that moment to open Rachels office door.  

“Sorry I’m late,” he greets. “Tell me what’s what.”  

- 

Eleven hours later, it’s seven o’clock on the dot and Rachel, Raylan, and Tim still feel like they’ve gotten nowhere. Apart from the assembly of the task force—which includes the likes of Rachel, Raylan, Tim, Dunlop, and a few newbies that joined the Marshals after a good and long half-decade or so in the Marines—and coordinating a press release that Tim will have to talk in during the following day informing locals about Boyds current escapee status, they have nothing.  

No leads as to his whereabouts, no confirmed information from the CI that used to work closely with a few of Boyds buddies, nothing. They’re at a dead end and Rachel tells them to go home, to come back in no later than half past eight, and Tim is grateful for it as he leaves, his thoughts blurrying somewhere between the ride in the elevator and the short walk between the bottom floor of the courthouse and his truck.  

He sits in his truck for a long couple of minutes, drums his fingers against the steering wheel because he doesn’t want to go home but otherwise doesn’t know what to do with himself.  

He could grab dinner, but grabbing dinner completely alone still feels more pathetic than not. He could go home even though he doesn’t want to and make it worth it by stopping at a grocery store on the way and picking up a pint of Ben and Jerrys, and then eating it in one sitting whilst some western he’s seen a thousand times before plays monotonously in the background.  

He could go to a bar, just like he did the night before. He could order a coke or a water and then let someone flirt their way into seducing him, just like he did the night before, but he’d really rather not.  

He realizes, as his eyes move to his hands and he finds his fingers still drumming against the steering wheel, that he effectively has nothing.  

So he drives for a bit, takes a left turn and then goes straight only to take right and somehow, he finds himself at home anyway.  

He checks the landline that he’s had for fifteen years and will probably never give up, is unsurprised to find a message from the counselor he used to see at the VFW twice a week.  

“Hi, Tim, this Alexander calling again, just to check in,” the voicemail starts. “I just—your number is still listed and you haven’t come around in a month. I’ve been wondering about you, is all. The VFW will always have your back, as will the people in it. I’m not saying you have to come back, per se—you're a lawman, I can’t force you to do shit—but I’m saying that we’ll be here for you, if you let us or want us to be. Call me back whenever you feel like it, okay? If you ever feel like it at all. If you don’t, that’s just fine, too.”  

He doesn’t call back even though some part of him kind of wants to. Instead, he goes to the bathroom, pulls his jeans off of his body and lets the Henley he wears follow suit. He tosses them into the dirty laundry basket that’s been building for a week and bends to get to the dryer so he can pull out a pair of joggers and a Carhartt sweatshirt that’s as old as his time in the Marshals service.  

He grabs a towel and a fresh pair of boxers before finally taking his boxers off and tossing them into the dirty laundry basket just as he'd done with the rest of his day clothes.

He showers, keeps the water so cold that it almost turns the tips of his fingers purple and lingers in the shower a little longer than what’s necessary. He stays under the water until he gets sick of it and only afterwards does he step out, reaching for the towel he’d grabbed and using it to towel dry his hair before he wraps it around his waist.  

He gets dressed faster than he means to, slipping his boxers and sweatpants on at the same time and not even bothering to grab a shirt to wear under his sweatshirt, just slipping it on over his torso and rolling the sleeves up to the elbows.  

He heads back to his living room, checks his voicemail again.  

“Hey, Tim—it's Raylan. Are you okay? Rachel seemed on edge with you today, and she told me about an incident,” Raylans voice comes through the speaker and Tim almost hates him for it. “Refused, vehemently, to give me specifics though. I hate it when she does that, but—anyway. Are you doin’ all right? I think we’re due in to catch up about now, how’s dinner sound?”  

There’s silence for a beat, one breath in and another out before Raylan sighs. “Look--I know you’re not answering this landline is probably because you’re busy but if you aint, meet me at Magdelenes for eight on the dot.”  

For a few seconds, he considers it. He even goes so far as to check his watch, sees that it’s barely half past seven.  

He flops onto the couch that is so old now he’s surprised the legs haven’t sccumb yet to dry rot, stares at his ceiling as he considers.  

The way he sees it, he has two options. He can go and suffer through a dinner with Raylan for an hour, pointedly avoid the questions about the incident and narrowly beat around the bush by giving Raylan enough non answers that he takes it back to Rachel.  

The other option is that he makes the ten minute drive down to the VFW, which is always open til midnight on Fridays. He can see if Alexander has a slot at the time or wait it out until he has one, go to one of the AA meetings across the road in the meantime and then after he’s done at the VFW, he can treat himself to a greasy pizza from Antonios and eat it while he watches a western before he goes to bed a little earlier than normal.  

He gets up into a proper sitting position, sighs and puts his head in his hands. “Damn you, Alexander,” he says. 

He gets up, shuffles his way into his running shoes and grabs his car and apartment keys.  

Between the company of Raylan Givens and a trip to the VFW, for the first time in his life, Tim has chosen the motherfucking VFW. If Art could’ve seen it coming, Tim is sure he’d’ve died on the spot.  

- 

“You still drinkin’?” Alexander Moreno is a guy that’s fifty-three, tops. He’s starting to go grey on the sides of his head and his skin is very clearly weathered by the sun, but he’s only therapist that Tims gotten through the VFW that has actually understood him. “I mean—you look sober, and you’re actin’ it, but—answer the question for politeness sakes.”  

“Negative,” Tim says. “I haven’t touched booze in six weeks, one day and about fourteen or so hours, even though I do think my math might be a little off.”  

Alexander laughs. “Why the fuck’re you countin’ for?” he asks. “Sobriety is usually a choice, but for you, doesn’t seem like it is--no sober person would keep a count that specific. Days, months, weeks, yeah. Hours? never, unless they're at the very beginning. Is it a choice?”  

“No,” Tim confesses. “It’s not. I had—well—my boss and I are calling it The Incident.”  

“What happened?”  

“Oh, you know, normal shit,” Tim shrugs, defaulting back to sarcasm. “Up until six weeks ago, I was bein’ real reckless. I didn’t care about my liver, my kidneys, my heart—none of it, and so I was doin’ as I’ve always done.”  

“Drinking your vital organs into the earliest grave you can manage,” Alexander nods. “You’n the booze, Timothy. You have the worlds most devastatingly one-sided love affair. What did all this drinkin’ lead to?”  

“Rachel and I were going to do a stakeout the next day, and she’d agreed to come’n grab me from my apartment because my truck was in the shop for the week,” he says. “She found me on the tail end of a bender so bad I’d had a heart attack, seized and gone very briefly into acute liver dysfunction. She found me layin’ in the bathtub with vomit all over my mouth mid seizure. Made me promise to stay away from the booze and to go to the VFW for therapy and meetings.”  

“How long had you been drinking when you passed out?”  

“I got off of work late—eleven, if I’m remembering right. I thought I could have a few’n then go to bed, but I had to eat and didn't feel like cooking so I had to stop for half an hour to grab food from the pizza place that just opened up. I’d been drinking at midnight and she’d said she come get me for 6:30. I was still drinking at five that morning because I couldn’t fall asleep.”  

“What do you think triggered the bender?”  

“The--the anniversary of my first kill in the rangers is next week,” he laughs tiredly. “Six weeks ago it was the anniversary of when I first took the ASVAB. Any of those dates trip me right the fuck up, make my PTSD do something awful.”  

“Have you been on leave ever since?”  

“No,” Tim laughs. “Took a few days’n I was back in the office, but it was really difficult to convince Rachel to let me. I don’t do well with time off and I never have, and recovering from the closest to death I think I’ve ever gotten outside of an active zone of combat is apparently no goddamned exception.”  

“Figures,” Alexander says. “Are you okay, since?”  

“My liver is workin’ normally again even though drinkin’ coffee makes my chest hurt now,” Tim sighs. “Can’t drink the booze in my fridge but every time I think about it I think about just chugging all of it and then leaving the rest to nature because dumping it feels like a waste of money, and I just—shit, Alexander. Where have I been going wrong?”  

“Before I speak my mind, do  you want me to sugar coat this or be blunt?”  

“Blunt,” Tim says. “Hate it when people sugarcoat shit.”  

“Okay,” Alexander nods. “You’re screwed by nature a little, I think—your father died when you were what, eighteen? Because he got so drunk that he’d gone through every single half full bottle of booze in his collection, and then he went and did a goddamn wheely into a ditch. Your mother is currently in a nursing home dealing with dementia and she left the house to you because your brother is just as bad as your father was, and your sister is a criminal defense attorney livin’n working in Miami who hasn’t seen or talked to you or your mother in well over a decade. Alcoholism runs in your family by nature, and yeah, you had a heart attack, sure, but at least dyin’ of a heart attack is less embarrassing than doin’ wheelies on a busy street’n getting your car into the bottom of a ditch, Tim.”  

He makes an annoyingly fair point and Tim hates it.  

“There are worse ways to die,” Tim says.  

“And better ways, too,” Alexander nods. “Yeah. The good thing is that just like death, there are better ways to live than using alcohol as a crutch and I’m thinkin’ it’s time you realized that.”  

Tim glares at him, though the gesture is so half hearted it’s obviously so, and it makes Alexander laugh a little.  

“Glare at me all you wish,” he says. “You know that I’m right about this. You know you need to keep comin’ to these sessions because you ain’t been in the military for seventeen fuckin’ years now but you walk around with all that trauma fresh as a daisy in your head.”  

“It ain’t trauma, Alexander.”  

“Fuck me if it ain’t trauma,” Alexander laughs dryly, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “You worked infantry from the age of 18 to 21, correct? Then you were a ranger til ya hit 26, then you went through the sniper school and were a sniper til you left at 28. That there is a decade of seein’ combat. You don’t do what we did and come out untraumatized, Tim. That ain’t how it works. You kill as many people as you did, no fuckin’ way to leave without at least a little bit of scarring.” 

Tim heaves in a sigh, lets his shoulders slump. “You, Alexander Moreno, are no fun,” he declares.  

Alexander laughs. “I had a drinkin’ problem too,” he says. “After I drank, I transitioned from booze to ciggies, which, judgin’ by the pack I can see pokin’ out the pocket of your joggers, so have you. After I got over cigarettes I left that shit behind entirely. You ever take up reefer, though, I ain’t gonna judge you. Lots of the guys here have prescriptions that they get filled because of chronic pain or other issues.”  

“That’s comforting,” Tim says. “I just—fuck, you know?”  

Tim checks his watch. He sees that it’s quarter to nine and realizes that he’s somehow been sitting across Alexander for a full hour when it barely feels like it’s been fifteen minutes.  

“When you were comin’ down here at first, you came down twice weekly,” he says. “I’m gonna do the nice thing and assume this ain’t a one-time visit.”  

Tim heaves a breath in. “I’d very much like to stop lyin’ to my boss, so it’s not,” he says.  

“All right,” Alexander nods. “Instead of Wednesdays and Fridays like we used to, we’re gonna do Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Forty five minutes Monday because Mondays are inherently disgusting and an hour and fifteen Wednesday and Friday, though I’m gonna put you in my last two hour time slots so that if you need more time, we have it. You finally comittin’ yourself to mental wellness?”  

He has a general hatred for that kind of language—therapy language feels superficial, at best, and is agitating at worst, but he nods. He lets Alexander use that language because some part of him believes maybe it does play a role in getting better somehow. 

Alexander stands and naturally, Tim follows suit. He extends a hand and Tim takes it assuming he’s just going to shake hands, but Alexander pulls him into a bro-hug instead.  

Tim has never really been much for physical contact but he decides that it’s fine because the idea that he wants to get better is sticking for the first time in his life. He’s not just saying it for the sake of saying it but instead is saying it with the intent to keep to his word.  

“I’ll see you Monday,” Alexander says. “Eight on the dot, right?”  

“Eight should work best with my schedule,” Tim nods. “Thanks.”  

Alexander smiles as Tim makes his way to the door, fully intending to go home and knock out until four so he can run for longer than he usually does and get to work on time.  

“Yeah,” Alexander says. “You take care of yourself in the meantime, all right?”

“Either get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’,” Tim rebuts, some part of him hating the way that the words sound when they come out of his mouth. “I’ve committed and I really don’t need to piss my boss off again, so I don’t have much choice.”  

Alexander barks a laugh and Tim hears it as he leaves, the sound echoing in his mind even after he's left.

[darkwing-katy]

The Spider and the Fly Part III

Pairing: Eventual Leland x Reader (sorta? You’ll see what I mean)

Word Count: 4,737

Summary: All you want to do is get through your online courses and keep your best friend from making bad choices in men. But there’s this creepy therapist who is absolutely insisting on you making an appointment with him. Who the hell is this Leland Townsend, and why won’t he leave you alone?!

Part three of seven. Takes place sometime around seasons one and two.

The series is inspired heavily by my favorite poem, “The Spider and the Fly” (1829) by Mary Howitt. This poem is in the public domain.

Tagging: @primosflowergarden; @vi-er

Part One

Part Two

——————————————————————————————————

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend, what can I do

To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?

I have within my pantry good store of all that’s nice;

I’m sure you’re very welcome—will you please to take a slice?”

You stare up at the brick building in front of you, a scowl etched onto your face. This is ridiculous. Why the hell are you here? Just because of a measly threat?

You flash back to that day in the kitchen, the cheeriness of Leland’s voice as he talked about how easy it’d be to flat-out murder Betty and hide the body. The memory of it makes you shudder. As upbeat as Leland had been, he had left little doubt that he was capable of doing such a thing. You couldn’t risk it…at least, not yet.

But Betty’s leaving this weekend to go to her parents. So all you have to do is fake it through this single appointment, make Leland believe you’ll be back, figure out why he’s so obsessed with you in the first place, and then you can be out of here. Easy enough, right? 

You’d done so much research on him but turned up nothing. He set up his practice a few years ago, but there’s nothing else on Leland Townsend. No court records, no social media, no newspaper articles. It’s like he didn’t exist until a few years ago, and that bothers you in a way that you’re not quite sure how to articulate. Who the fuck is this guy?

The mental image of him licking his blood off of his finger pops into your brain, and you feel yourself flush before you can banish it. We are not attracted to that, you tell yourself. He’s a psychopath and we’re gonna get the hell outta here the second our stupid appointment is over.

You suck in a deep breath, glance down at your green shirt and blue jeans, and head towards the door. Your breath quickens with each step closer the door, and you despise the trepidation that fills your veins with adrenaline. You have your phone ready to record in your pocket, and you’ve got a bottle of pepper spray easily reachable in your other pocket. You’ve timed yourself to see how quickly you can get to it and spritz it right in the bastard’s face if he lunges for you again.

It occurs to you that you’re willingly putting yourself into what could be a very, very dangerous situation, but what else can you do?

Besides, you can’t deny that you’re intrigued to know why he’s so fixated on you, so desperate to have you as a client. 

The interior of the building is white. Very white, almost blindingly so. It makes you feel exposed, naked. Would a painting on the walls really be so bad?

Then again, you suspect that it’s intentional, meant to evoke that feeling that you’re being watched. You wonder if you should’ve worn something more neutral to lessen that feeling. Maybe next time, you think, then shudder. No, there won’t be a next time. Where had that come from?

You’re led down a hallway with glass windows, all of which have blinds hiding their interiors. You stop when you see the brass plaque on the door that says LELAND TOWNSEND. You glower at the name before stepping into the room, your heart racing. Leland isn’t in there; you’re left alone. You glance around. It’s just as white as the rest of the building, save for the grey couch, the grey chairs, and the black desk. Even the carpet is grey and bland. There’s a painting on the wall behind Leland’s desk, an abstract of blue, black, and white with splashes of red that adds to your internal disquiet, though you’d be hard pressed to explain why. In one of the corners of the painting is a strange symbol that you study for a moment before turning back to the rest of the room.

The couch is probably where Leland expects you to sit. Like hell. Then there’s the two chairs that face each other, but which one? They both look the same, so you can’t make a guess as to which one he prefers. 

There’s another option: his desk. It’d be a hell of a power move, wouldn’t it?

You sit in the swivel chair behind his desk and, after a few seconds of consideration, prop up your feet on his desk as well. There’s a closed laptop that you’re tempted to open, but you have no clue when he’s going to appear, and it’s best if you don’t do anything too suspicious. Your palms are sweaty, and you hate how your body is betraying your nerves. You wipe the clammy digits onto your jeans and take in a fortifying breath, counting the beats as you breathe in and out. You will not allow this man to scare you. You are the one who scares, not the other way around. You will not be afraid of Leland; it is Leland who should be afraid of you.

The seconds tick by, then minutes. You don’t allow yourself to think of how long you’ve been waiting—you’ve employed this strategy before. Making people wait to catch them off guard is an old trick, one that has often given you excellent reactions when done to the right people. Instead, you study the space, memorize every detail of it, no matter how pointless it might seem. You make plans for what you’ll do if Leland tries to physically attack you, how you’ll use the sparse furniture to take cover, how you’ll use the lamp to knock him unconscious if you need to. He will not get the best of you.

You also go over the possible ways you can scare him. You have little information, but you’ve made that work before. How many times have you gotten back at Betty’s exes, or Taylor’s, or Marina’s? In college, you were a pro at this, and you’ve only gotten better with practice.

You still jump when the door opens at last, and you mentally chastise yourself for it. Leland walks in, an apologetic look on his face. It falters momentarily when he sees where you’re sitting, and you wonder how he’ll react, but all he does is blinks before striding forward. “(Y/N)!” he greets with a smile. “I’m glad you made it this time!”

You return his smile with one of your own. “Yeah. It’s amazing how well threats work at motivating people to be on time. More people should try that,” you deadpan as you raise your eyebrows at him. 

Leland steps further into the room, the door closing loudly behind him. He eyeballs you in the chair. “That’s my desk,” he comments. 

You flash him a smirk. “I don’t see your name on it,” you reply as you shift so that your legs are pointed at him. It’s not the most comfortable position, but it says what it needs to. You see a flicker of annoyance cross Leland’s face as you fold your hands over your stomach and fix your eyes on him. “Aren’t you gonna sit, Doctor?”

He angles his head at you, considering his options, then he rotates the chair nearest the desk so that he can face you and sits in it. “Whatever works for you,” he mutters, and you feel your smirk widen. He’s not on edge or anything, but you’ve managed to mildly inconvenience him, and you’ll take that as a small win for now. “So…(Y/N)…let’s talk.”

“About what?”

Leland shrugs as he leans back into the couch. “Whatever you want,” he replies.

“Why am I here?”

“Except that.”

You purse your lips at him. “Are you stalking me or something?”

“I just said we’re not talking about that.”

You sit up in the chair in annoyance, moving your feet back to the floor. The chair squeaks with the movement. “Yes, we are,” you insist. “You went through all the trouble of getting me here, so you’re gonna tell me why the hell you care so much.”

Leland scoffs as he looks away from you in derision. “I don’t care about you,” he replies snidely. “I care about what you’ve done, what you’re capable of, but not you.”

“I seem to recall you saying we could do great things together.” You don’t look away from his face. “You were pretty damn adamant on that particular detail.”

His lips come together in a pinched smile as he looks back at you, but he’s not really looking at you as much as he is sneering. “And I maintain that position. But make no mistake, it doesn’t mean I care about you. If you wanna jump off a building or shoot yourself in the head just to spite me, I won’t lose any sleep over it.”

Well, that’s a bit extreme. You hate the guy but that just seems like giving in too easily. You value yourself far too much for that. “Alright. Guess we’re not talking, then, and this is a waste of time.” You don’t rise from the chair, though. If he wants to waste your time, then you’ll waste his by sitting here and saying nothing. This appointment should end at 6, and you’ll get up then. You put your feet back up on the desk, though you’re careful not to knock any of his things over.

Leland allows you to sit in petulant silence for a grand total of one minute and fifteen seconds before he starts again. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Nope,” you reply, popping the ‘p’.

“Why not?”

You don’t deign to answer. He’s goading you, and you’re not gonna fall for it. You look away from him but keep him in your peripheral just in case, your hand lingering near the pocket with the pepper spray.

“Oh, come on, (Y/N). Talk to me. Tell me about yourself, who you are, what you want in life.” He gives you a toothy grin. “Tell me your desires.”

You hate the way he drags out that word, mainly because it once again reminds you of him licking the blood off of his finger. “I desire to get the fuck away from you,” you snap before your traitorous body can blush at the memory. “I desire to leave this place knowing you’re gonna leave me and my friend alone.”

“Come on, there must be something you want to talk about. Something that’s weighing you down, something that’s pissing you off, something that’s making you feel…something.” Leland makes a little motion with his hands.

“I believe I just told you something that I wanted, something that makes me feel something,” you reply, irritated. “I want you far away from me and Betty.”

“Why?”

“You know why!” Dammit, he’s managing to pull the words out of you. You gotta shut up now before he gets anything else. “

“We could talk about Jordan.”

“Uhm, how about fuck no?”

“Ryan? Matthew?” He leans forward. “Brittany?” He raises an eyebrow at your ex-girlfriend’s name, but you have decided that no matter what names he drops, you’re gonna remain impassive. You’re the one with the power here, not Leland. It may be his space, but you can control how you react to him, and if that’s the only thing you can control, then by God, you’re gonna act nonchalant.

He blinks and purses his lips, clearly annoyed that you’re refusing to respond. Good, you think. Maybe he’ll call it quits early.

This time, the silence lasts a little bit longer. Maybe as long as four minutes—Leland seems like he’s content to let you sit, and you’re content to let him marinate in his annoyance. The next time he speaks, he says, “Maybe we should start on something simpler. Find some common ground. Liiiiiike…what’s your favorite scary movie?”

What is this, Scream? you think with some amusement. You’re tempted to respond, but you know that if you do, he’ll just ask you another question. And another, and another, and then the next thing you’d know, you’d be talking up a storm. 

“I’m personally prone to movies with the occult. They can be a little unrealistic at times, but sometimes, they get their stuff right! I mean, just look at Event Horizon! I hate when they try to make horror movies some sort of commentary on morality, though. Look at Saw, for example. Great moments. And what kinda movies do we have nowadays? A Quiet Place. That new M. Night Shyamalan movie.” He sighs. “We’ve forgotten what it means to really scare people, what it means to keep them up all night.”

Okay, this is weird, because you kind of agree with him. Some of the latest scary movies haven’t been meaningfully scary—they’ve been gory, but gore is pointless when it’s used for shock value. But there have been others in recent years that you enjoyed, and you open your mouth to point those films out, but then you catch him watching you, the light reflecting off of his glasses, and you slam your mouth shut.

Dammit, he almost got me there.

Leland looks like he’s waiting for your response, but you bite your tongue to hold back from everything you want to say, and you’re rewarded with a look of disappointment. You wait just long enough for him to look away from you in exasperation before you finally talk.

“What do you want from me?” you try again. “Why are you trying so hard to get to me? I’m not special.”

“No, you’re right. You’re not special at all,” he agrees lackadaisically, and his words are like a stab in the gut. For a therapist, he has no bedside manner at all. Then again, can you really be surprised by that? “I’m…investigating, I guess. Evaluating.” His face twists into a sneer. “Though I have no clue why they’d choose you when there’s much better candidates out there.”

“Who are ‘they’?” you ask before you can stop yourself, and you grimace because you know Leland wanted you to ask that.

He gives you a strange smile. “You’ve been noticed by some very important people, (Y/N). They’re intrigued by you and no matter how much I’ve tried to tell them otherwise, that you’re just a regular ole human, they insisted on this…” he waves his hand at the office. “And I’m not gonna defy them and risk the consequences just ‘cause some stupid little bitch wants to try and make me miserable.”

“You suck as a therapist, dude,” you reply as you cross your arms. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to refer to clients as bitches.”

“I call it as I see it,” he says with another shrug. His glasses slide down his nose just a hair and you can see the remnants of the cut from your headbutt. The sight makes you smirk without meaning to, and he notices it. “What?”

You shake your head, but the smirk remains steady. “Nothing,” you say. 

Leland gives you a thoughtful look, then reaches up to his nose, his finger lightly tracing the cut. “You know, I think we got off on the wrong foot. This isn’t working.” He stands, and you tense as he takes a step towards you, towards his desk. “Get out of my chair.”

“No.”

He glares down at you. “Get. Out. Of. My. Chair.”

You don’t take your eyes away from him. Your fingers dance over the pepper spray, ready to whip it out and spray him right in those beautiful eyes of his. “Make me.”

He’s closer now, right at the edge of his desk, his knuckles grazing the smooth wooden edge. “Is this really the silly hill you want to die on right now?”

You raise your eyebrows innocently. “Someone’s dying on this hill, and it isn’t gonna be me.”

There’s a flash of amusement on his face before he places his palms flat on the desk and leans down, possibly hoping to convince you to move by invading your personal space. He hasn’t done anything aggressive, but he’s almost close enough that you’re willing to spray him anyways. You just need to egg him on a liiiiiittle bit more. “Do you really think you can take me on?” he asks. The words come out slow, dramatic, a challenge.

You bat your lashes. “Hell yeah,” you reply, and when he inches his face closer, you’re ready. You practiced for a reason, after all, and he needs to learn a lesson about messing with you. You flick the cap off with your hand, suck in a deep breath, and raise the other arm to block your own eyes from any spray-back, and then you hold the trigger down, blasting him with a solid jet of the stuff.

Leland jerks back, but it’s too late—your aim had been pretty true due to his proximity, and his eyes squeeze shut immediately as he lets out a strangled yelp of pain. He gropes at his eyes with one hand while reaching for you with the other, but it’s easy enough to avoid his flailing hand and duck under the desk as he thunks into it. You dive around his legs, giving him a kick in the back of the knee for good measure, which sends him into the table again. The table flips, everything on it sliding off and crashing to the ground, including Leland.

You should make for the door, but you linger, wanting to relish the angry pants coming from him, the rapid floundering as he tries to grab you again. He can’t see you, which only makes it more fun as you tilt or skip away from him. He’s pulled himself back to his feet now, but he can’t still see you at this point. It’s kinda hilarious, in all honesty.

Your throat burns with the taste of the pepper spray, but the Internet had warned you about that, so you’d been wise enough to hold your breath for as long as possible while you got away from Leland. Your reaction is minor compared to his, even if your eyes are stinging and watering as well. At least you can still see. You’re backed against the wall opposite the couch now, the door in easy reach when you’re ready to ditch the scene.

“God! What the hell was that for?!” he yells at you as he spins around in search of you. His face is red and puffy, his eyes are swollen shut and streaming, and his glasses are propped up as he angrily swipes at his face. 

You’d feel a little bad for the guy if he hadn’t, you know, threatened to murder your best friend a week ago. 

Your throat is irritated, even though you’re away from him, and you can’t conceal the cough that’s scratching at your throat. It escapes, and Leland’s head whips towards you. “You little bitch!” he growls, and you actually feel a pinprick of fear at the fury in his voice. “That was extremely fucking uncalled for!”

You shrug, even as you cough again. “Then maybe you should leave me the fuck alone!”

“I can’t!”

You roll your eyes, causing a tear to trickle down your face, but you ignore it. “Can’t or won’t?!”

His mouth is wrenched into a grimace, but he’s facing you, even if he’s not able to look at you. “Alright, so it’s a little bit of both,” he admits, and his honesty is so startling that you snort.

You’re about 90% sure he’s not a threat to you currently, which is the only reason you’re still here. It’s also strange how much the pepper spray doesn’t seem to really bother him. If anything, he seems humored by it. “Well, I don’t give a shit about what your bosses say or whatever. Leave me alone.”

Leland takes a stumbling step towards you. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” you warn, retrieving the pepper spray again. “You can’t see it, but I’ve got more spray and I’m not afraid to use it.”

He freezes. Cocks his head at you. And then he laughs, of all things. “Oh, (Y/N), you’re feisty. That’s fun. I am definitely gonna enjoy breaking you down.” He forces his eyes to open. They’re red and squinty, and there’s still fresh tears dripping down his face. His glasses are off, and he’s cleaning them as best as he can with a microfiber cloth that he produced out of what seems like nowhere. It’s a bit scary to see him still up and moving and so calm. “Starting with your little friend Betty.”

You glare at him. “You stay away from her.”

“Oh, I’m gonna have such a good time with her, too. You know, I think she was kinda into me when we met last week.” Leland’s voice has a mocking tone to it, dangerous and almost…seductive. “She was batting her eyelashes and shoving her breasts in my face every chance she got. No wonder she’s got all those guys coming after her—she’s a hottie ripe for the picking, if you know what I mean.” 

The hairs on the back of your neck rise, but you’re not focused on that right now. It’s hard to be scared when you’re angry. “Don’t fucking touch her,” you hiss.

“I’m gonna seduce her just to piss you off, and then after we’ve had wild sex—‘cause you just know she’s into that kinda stuff—I’m gonna strangle her in her sleep and leave her naked body in the bed for you to discover in the morning.”

You’re seeing red now. How dare he talk about her like that—about sleeping with her and murdering her—how darehe! You lunge at him, forgetting the spray is still in your hands, but he’s ready—he grabs you by the shoulders and slams you up against the wall before you can remember the spray even exists. You cry out as your back and head hit the wall with enough force to make you dizzy. Your hand struggles to get to the nozzle again, and he uses one arm to pin you in place while the other grabs your wrist and twists it until you drop the canister. Then he twists it a little more until you cry out again. “I’m only gonna say this once, (Y/N),” he says, his voice low and menacing. “You’re not in charge here—I am, and you’d better realize it if you want your friend to stay alive.”

“Fuck you,” you spit back at him. You try to shove yourself at him in a poor attempt to knock him off-balance, but he just chuckles.

Your ears are still ringing from the way your head slammed into the wall. You fight the pain, but he’s won and he fucking knows it. “You know, usually this kinda thing is a turn on for me, but right now, it’s just plain irritating.”

That bastard, you manage to think through the haze of agony. Your face is hot with embarrassment. You want nothing more than to punch him, slap him, bite him, but you’re stuck. “What the fuck do you want?” you snarl.

“Cooperation,” Leland purrs. “I want your cooperation.”

You want him off of you, but he’s bigger and he’s still pinning you in place. “Let me go.”

“Are you gonna try to hit me?”

“No,” you lie.

Leland scoffs. “Make me believe it.”

You gather everything you have, using pain and rage as fuel. “I won’t try to hit you,” you say through gritted teeth.

Leland squints at you, then takes his weight off of you. You don’t give him a moment to react before you’re swinging at him, your fingers curved to scratch his cheeks. All of that agony, all of that fury propels your hand forward, but he must’ve sensed that you were lying because he side-steps your hand and you stumble forward. He spins, one hand on your shoulder and the other on the small of your back. In a frustratingly fluid movement, he shoves you and sticks out a foot at the same time, sending you crashing to the floor. “Fuck!” you exclaim as your forehead smashes into the edge of the couch, winding a fresh wave of pain across your head.

You roll yourself over to fix your eyes on Leland, who’s now towering above you and chortling. “That’s more like it!” he says with a wide grin.

You sit there in a heap on the floor, staring up at him, flabbergasted and scared. Good God, why the hell is he laughing?

Unexpectedly, he extends his hand to you. You’re not sure if it’s because you’ve got a concussion or you’re afraid of what he might do if you reject it, so you reach up and let Leland pull you up. Your forehead is gonna have a bruise later, your ears are still ringing, but he looks just as bad—if not worse, after tumbling into his own desk. His face is still red, though it’s fading fast, and while his eyes are still puffy, they’re focused on you with enough intensity to make you squirm.

“How come you never fought off any of the exes like that, huh?”

“What?” you ask dumbly.

Leland shrugs like you didn’t just try to attack him. “You never attacked any of the guys like this. You used other methods instead. How come?”

“Uhm.” You don’t know what to say. You two just had a scuffle and now he’s chatting amicably, like the fight put him in a better mood? “Because it’s not as fun?” It’s the only answer that comes to mind right now.

“You’re gonna tell me that none of that was fun?” He waggles an eyebrow and you’re even more confused now than you were five seconds ago. “You wanna tell me that you didn’t enjoy any of that? You didn’t like lying to me and then lunging at me? You didn’t like letting that anger, that temper of yours take over?”

You feel your forehead scrunch. It hurts, provoking a grimace from you. “I mean…no?” But that’s not entirely true, is it? You did enjoy it. You liked striking out at him, liked the feeling of submitting to your rage and letting it take hold of your body. It was almost freeing. Usually, you channeled your anger into the psychological attacks, but this physicality was…satisfying in a completely different way.

“Oh, come on, don’t lie to me.” His face is more pink than red, and he doesn’t seem bothered by the residual pepper spray at all anymore. “This is a safe space, after all. You can tell me how it really made you feel.”

“I—,” but you’re hit by a wave of embarrassment and shame. This was not how you worked at all. Everything that had just happened was a direct result of him goading you, nothing more than that. You weren’t a physically violent person. “It’s not my style,” you say instead.

God, your head hurts. 

“Stop worrying about how you’re supposed to feel and start acknowledging how you really feel,” Leland says, and there’s just something about the way he says it that chips at your resolve.

You want to tell him the truth, tell him how much you liked it. How much you wanted to watch him bleed again. How much you wanted to bite his hand until you broke the skin and then lick the blood off of him and—wait, what? Where the fuck did that come from? you wonder. Can concussions alter personalities?

“Tell me, (Y/N). How do you feel right now?”

“I feel like…” the words are slow to come out. You don’t want to admit it even though you do. “I feel like hitting you again,” you say at last. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s the closest you’re willing to say for now.

Leland’s face cracks into an eerie grin. “Good.” He looks behind him, his eyes no longer streaming, then sits down in the chair next to him and motions for you to sit on the couch. Stunned, you do so, unsure of what else you can do. “Let’s talk about that some more.”

“Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, “kind sir, that cannot be!

I’ve heard what’s in your pantry and I do not wish to see.”

Part Four

[onesidedradiostatic]

Re: the black and white morality of Heaven vs hell: I cannot state enough how much I need that criticism to come up in show. If they don’t do it at least I have an OC who will do it for me lmao but anyway. I have the theory that a lot of the sinner demons that end up in Hell didn’t even do anything that bad when they were alive but because Hell is such a survival of the worst kind of environment, people who were barely bad at all just become the absolute worst version of themselves, doing things they never thought they would have even considered before. Plus the fact that nobody can truly die unless killed by angelic weapons means they’re more likely to engage in behaviors that either would’ve killed them before (“it’s not like it’ll kill me again”) or do things that would’ve killed others without remorse (“they’ll heal it’s fine”). And what if Heaven’s restrictions are stricter than 50/50? What if it’s more akin to passing grades in school, where you have to make a C or higher so at least 70 out of 100? Plus, given that Heaven doesn’t know what it takes either, what if some of the “sins” people think are sins are actually neutral? What if there’s sins people think are neutral or even good? Does context factor in, or would a young child being fed human meat unknowingly end up in Hell even if they lived the rest of their life as a good person? You see how easy it is to activate the analytical part of my brain but ougfff I need answers and if I don’t get answers I’m gonna keep bitching by proxy with my little guy I made in my head

(reference to this ask)

yeah it would be nice for it to be criticised in the show, considering episode 6 already did some criticising of it about how the rules are shades of grey, it would be cool if they went further into it. because heaven and hell being 2 extremes that are black and white is such a huge flaw in the system. being 50/50 is already bad tbh but if it was higher it’d be WORSE. but yeah honestly this is an interesting topic to think about and honestly doesn't just apply to hazbin but the very concepts of heaven and hell themselves

[its-callum-everybody]

I CANNOT DRAW. That’s how I’m starting this off. So I, sadly, cannot give you all the visuals for this lovely woman. However! What I can give you all is a In-depth analysis of her character and Creation! Of course, we’ll be breaking this into parts.

Part 1 — Basic Character Information / Relationships

Part 2 — Everything to do with her Unique Magic

Part 3 — Lore

Part 4 — Appearance

PART 1 ➤

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Name: Cyrielle [No Known Last Name]

Name Meaning: Lordly

Nicknames: Ce-Ce [Cater], Killifish-Chan [Floyd], Madame Profiterole [Rook], Yam [Vil], Henchman/Second-in-Command [Grim (she got ranked up)], Little Imp [Sam]

Age: Presumably 17

Height: 5 foot 8 inches or 173 cm

Weight: Never ask a lady this [146 lbs]

Gender: Female

Birthday: 8/18

Star Sign: Leo

Hair Color: Charcoal Black

Eye Color: Dark Grey

Sexuality: Undetermined

— (•) —

Dominate Hand: Right

Favorite Food: Breakfast Sandwich

Least Favorite Food: Pickled Eggs

Likes: Aesthetically pleasing things, being right

Dislikes: Dark Chocolate, amnesia

Hobbies: Dancing

Talent: Sword-Fighting

— (•) —

Year: 1st

Dorm: Ramshackle

Class | Student No.: 1-B | 34

Best Class: History

Favorite Class: Practical Magic

Club: N/A

Favorite Teacher: Sam (If that counts)

— 1st Years

Ace: Best Friend #1

Deuce: Best Friend #2

Jack: Mutual Respect. Don’t say their friends, understood to be friends.

Epel: He goes to her to get Junk Food and she happily feeds him. Friends.

Sebek: Begrudging Friends. She takes care of him like a stray cat and he complains while accepting it.

— 2nd Years

Riddle: Friendly Divorced Co-Parents of ADeuce.

Azul: Would smite him on sight with the sweetest smile on her face. He fears her. Slightly calmer after his over-bolt. Slightly.

Jade: Neutral. Can have decent conversation.

Floyd: Try to kill each other while smiling and laughing. Friends.

Ruggie: Hated him during Book 2 but they’re actually pretty chill afterwards. If they see each other in the halls, he tries to make her laugh by making someone do something weird with his magic.

Kalim: She’s number One sunshine protector. Was one-hundred percent ready to fist fight Jamil during his over bolt if she had too.

Jamil: Pre-book four, they were at a neutral standing. During his overbolt she was fully ready to just rock him. Post-overbolt, they’re very quiet around each other but nice. She sometimes just goes to Scarabia to sit there while he cooks.

Silver: She’s very nice to him and he doesn’t understand why. He woke up from a nap one day with his hair braided and a blanket over him. The only reason he knew it was her was because some birds told him. So he tries to be polite back but genuinely has no clue why she’s so nice and it freaks him out. She likes him.

— 3rd Years

Cater: Made a Separate Magic-cam account called ‘Cyrielle’s Adventures’ which focuses on him introducing Cyrielle to TWST pop culture and its a hilarious mess. Cater proclaims them BFF’s.

Trey: Dorm-Dad TM. She may not be in Heartslabyul but she’s always a welcome guest. When she comes over, she sits on the counter while Trey bakes. He lets her stir and eat the leftover batter.

Leona: One she actually did end up punching during his over bolt. She couldn’t stand him before or afterwards. During book three when he begrudgingly helped her and Grim though she loosened up. She can respect his intelligence though. Kingscholar would be more admirable if he had a bit of tenacity.

Vil: He kind of annoyed her pre-overbolt, after the over-bolt she did felt some level of sympathy for him. To always be the villain. That fact alone resonated with her for some reason those she can’t recall why.

Rook: He makes her uncomfortable. She can put up with him, but whenever she knows he’s nearby she can’t seem to let her guard down.

Idia: She didn’t really have any sort of feelings towards him before book 6. After book six though he ended up getting punched, then an awkward head pat. Needless to say He’s awkward around her and she ends up trying to nicer in the end. Even if he just runs away from her half the time.

Lilia: He caught her when she was covering Silver with a blanket and was sworn to secrecy. He knows very well about her crush and casually likes to drag Silver into spending time with him, find her, then leave them together.

Malleus: She invited him in to have tea one day and he ordained her and Silver’s wedding at that moment (because of course Lilia told him everything). Both can be the Yapper to the others Listener. Lilia forces him to play matchmaker too. So he casually tries to tell her about what Silver likes. He’s not good at trying to hint at it but he’s trying.

— Other

Grim: Her son. Will defend him with her life and soul. Do not touch her boy.

Ortho: She gets sad when she looks at him, even before book six. Something about a child that isn’t fully a child because they aren’t a person… it reminds her of someone she can never seem to remember. So she likes to treat him like a little kid even if he can do almost anything with his robotic abilities.

— Staff

Crowley: Fresh-out-of-Jail Uncle and Put-him-back Niece.

Crewel: There is blatant favoritism towards her and Vil. He does not hide it.

Vargas: Takes it easy on her in gym class because she’s one of the only girls; he watched her pick up Jack one time with no struggle and still does this.

Trein: She stays after his class sometimes to ask more questions about history. Lucius likes to chill in her lap during this time. Grandpa vibes.

Sam: Literally her adoptive dad.