#he is lumpy and chunky!

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

CONSUMED by dadsbestfriend!Price rn

He and your dad served together when they were both younger men, boys really, and they fought side by side for years before your dad packed all that in and decided not to renew his contract - leaving for a white picket fence life with your mum and you

You’ve never gotten to meet him before, but you feel like you kind of know him anyways because of the stories you’ve grown up hearing. He’s always been like a kind of figment of your imagination, someone your dads always spoken highly of in all of his tales from drunken weekends and adrenaline spiked firefights, he’s like some kind of mythic hero haloed in beer fumes and musing looks that get shut down when your mum asks if they both got themselves into any trouble on their latest gambit

Sure, you’ve seen pictures, you know what his face looks like, vaguely anyways. Apparently he has mutton chops now, something your dad is ‘always shocked by’ when they meet up now. However the pictures don’t do him justice. You realise that quickly after you do lay eyes on him.

You go over to your parents house, summoned for an early birthday dinner for your dad, and that’s when you see him. The man, the myth, the legend is cosied up on your usual spot on the corner couch, at the end of the short side with the chunky red tartan pillow barricading the hard brown couch arm. He turns when he sees you staring directly at him, meeting your gaze with a raised eyebrow.

The pictures didn’t really encapsulate how big he was, how broad his shoulders were as they took up an expanse of the chair back, how expressive his eyes were as they rover over you, how nauseatingly good he looked when ripped out of the confines of ink and paper and pressed into the lumpy old sofa you’d never been so needy to jump onto before.

Every little overworked neuron in your mind was busy exploding while you pictured tugging on his hair and beard and moaning out filthy things for him.

“You must be the kid,” Price observes, not knowing how much it would sting you, “how’s the head?”

If you weren’t aware of how childish it would be you’d huff that you were far from being a kid anymore.

“How’s my what?” Part of you wants to quip back that it’s ‘great- it comes recommended’ but then the sane part of you kicks in and thinks ‘perhaps don’t get yourself kicked out just as you’ve gotten in the door’

“Your dad showed me that charming little photo you stuck in the family group chat from the party last night. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree by the looks of it.”

Your face would flame up like a radiator in the dead of winter, you were just about spluttering and hissing like one too. You’d forgotten all about the drunken selfie you’d sent while in a full haze of peace love and a couple draws of your friend’s j after countless rum and cokes. ‘Love u guys, see ya tomoz’ you’d typed over it - remembering how you fumbled and squinted at the screen just so that it would be halfway coherent. Now sober, you knew it probably wasn’t.

“Fuck me, it actually sent,” you grumbled, jumping when you hear his earthy laugh tumble out.

His voice is like tree bark and honey, stolen straight from the mountains and imbued into his throat. You hang on his every sound, keen eyes glued to his plush pink lips that Peak out from under his beard.

You hardly notice your dad coming in until he’s all but shouting your name, wrapping you in for a bear hug you weren’t in the slightest prepared for.

Every response form there on out was hazy, as if it had been preprogrammed. For the entire night all you’d be able to focus on was John - He’d tell you to call him that after awkwardly addressing him as Sir, though not before something dark slithered over his eyes and passed in the instant it had come.

You’d spent the whole night fixated on John, hanging on his every word, sighing heavily when he reached back and combed through his hair, tousling it to a point that made you wonder if that’s how it looked after a night well spent in passion.

You were lucky you got through the dinner without making an arse of yourself, though to be fair your mum had gotten a jab in about how quiet you’d been. Better that than being embarrassing.

Though you weren’t to get away unscathed. It’d get late and after spending the whole night before fanatically talking and dancing, you had no energy left for being at your parents - present company included or not. However before you could call a taxi, Price would jump in and offer you a lift, claiming taxis were far too unsafe for someone so precious.

It’d make your parents laugh, but you weren’t even smiling. You’d stutter your excuses, telling him he didn’t need to make a fuss, but he’d be persistent. Being an army Captain and all, he was very difficult to argue with, so of course you found yourself in the passenger seat of his monstrous car, watching nervously as the old beast sputtered to life.

“Is this thing even legal to ride?” You’d mutter, frowning at the persistent choking noise that rattled underneath the engine roar.

“Could ask the same about you.”

It was barely a whisper, almost lost to the growl in his throat and the sound of the engine, but you were so sure you’d heard it said nonetheless. The possibility of it sent your back stick straight and your mouth plummeting to the floor, though in the back of your mind you wondered if you’d only heard him say it from out of the depths of your subconscious.

“Excuse me?” You’d chirp.

“I said: couldn’t get you to pull up some directions, could you?”

He’d side eye you as he said it, smiling to himself as he indicates and pulls out onto the road and out of the cul-de-sac.

Right. Directions, of course. You were just being filthy minded, you’d had a long couple days and you were strung out and tired. Why would he insinuate that he wanted to know if you were the right age to fuck or not. Especially when - even if you were by many measures - he was off limits to you. Forbidden. No go. Like the battle zones he probably waded into through his day job.

“Here you go. It’s not far!”

You’d pull up your phone, placing it on the dashboard so that he could see. He’d tell you to put on music too, shocking you when he’d produce an aux cord (by rights this car shouldn’t have even had the words aux cord uttered in it, but somehow it supported one).

“What kind of stuff do you listen to?” You’d ask, waiting to hear whatever dreary nonsense he was likely to come out with.

“What do you think I listen to?” He’d ask, barely paying attention to you as he made his way down the main road. “I’ll be happy with whatever you put on.”

“I mean i doubt our tastes are super similar.”

“You trying to drive at somethin’ here, sweetheart?”

You’d light up at the name, lighting up from the inside out in quiet awe. It’d be a challenge having to suppress your little firework show off happiness, so you’d hide it by shrugging and saying “figured you’d listen to old man music.”

He’d shake his head and grumble about ‘no such thing’ up until you put on an old Killers song and watched him smile - then you’d sagely nod your head and repeat ‘old man music’ delighting in his playful growl.

“Killers ain’t even that old sweetheart, at least stick some Dylan or Cash on if you’re gonna patronise me.”

“This came out in 2004, dude - I don’t know what to tell ya. It’s old.”

“Dude,” he’d grunt back. “Earlier it was Sir, was it not?”

You’d flush again and face the window, suddenly absorbing yourself in the outside world. The way he said that was far too…inviting. The no go zone was looking like the ‘get right the fuck in here and stomp all over your parents relationship with this man’ zone.

You couldn’t help yourself.

“Sorry, sir,” you’d tease. “Won’t happen again.”

Stupid insatiable brat, you’d inwardly curse, watching as Price’s smile widened again, pulling his whole face into a knowing grin.

It’d be clear to see you weren’t the only one fighting the urge to cross the barrier and take what you wanted. And with two people smashing at the confines…well.

One thing was for certain, you knew it in the pit of your belly, there was no way you were going to stay away now.

[littlefreya]

Before the Storm

Summary: Gus finds way to keep you warm as you both sail on his boat during April.

Pairing: Major Gustav (Gus) Phillips x Reader (no description)

Word count: 2K

Warnings: 18+, romance, fluff and smut, oral sex (woman receiving), a bit of fingering, teasing, a sweater, a pinch of angst.

A/N: Gus is a character we know nothing about only that he is an unhinged gentleman (?) so I just went with what I felt and oh I hope others will enjoy :). Many thanks to the lovely @captainsy-cookiemonster and @agniavateira for beta and emotional support.

Please reblog with comments if you enjoyed 🖤

Before the Storm

Gus. Gustav. Gustavus. 

Such a timid name for a man who was wilder than the seas he sailed. When you first met Gus, you thought that he was the ocean itself; Untamable, unpredictable, a maelstrom of a man. Little did you know, you were wrong about him; if Gus was anything, it must have been the god of the sea. 

The only thing he was missing was a golden trident. 

Resting on the deck of his yacht with a small plate of local sweets and a book by your side, you watched him through a veiled gaze. The tall man stood at the bow, preparing the boat for the evening sail. You knew very little about nautical travel, but you always enjoyed watching him work on his boat.

Liberats - he called her - the only place he thought of as home. 

His large chocolate curls swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, thin threads of sliver-grey rimming each ringlet, though as the April sun began to set, those fine curls were kissed by vivid hues of purple, orange and pink.  

A deep frown line creased his forehead as he held onto the mast. You entertained yourself at the notion that he had the same exact look when he was hovering and grunting above you. Lightly snorting at the thought, you reached for the plate and grabbed a sweet while continuing to stare. 

“Like what you see?” Gus asked without looking away from the mast. His thick English accent rang through your ears in a melodious tone. He had a way of making everything sound either like poetry or sex.

You ogled him gingerly. In complete contrast to you, who lay in undergarments, Gus donned a chunky grey sweater and dark work trousers. You hated that. It hid what you knew was underneath it. The body of a god. 

“Hmm…” you stretched,  “I haven’t seen enough to decide.”

A slanted smirk tugged his cheek, and he threw a side gaze at you, but his smile fell as he noticed the little shiver in your arms. You weren’t exactly dressed for the season, in fact, you weren’t even dressed for a cruise, but for the time being, simple pair panties and bra sufficed. 

Until they didn’t. 

Not saying another word, he let go of the mast and sauntered toward you, mumbling, “oh, darling,” while already slipping the heavy sweater off. Abs and pecs that might as well have been crafted by a master sculptor glistened in the waning sun. Tanned and sweaty, his skin was like honey. Busy appreciating the view, you didn’t notice the lumpy grey thing that headed toward you at the speed of light until it smacked you in the face.

“Gaws!” Your words were muffled by the sweater that covered your entire head. 

Annoyed, you tugged it away, one brow arched with ire, but your expression softened as Gus’ scent poured upon you; seafoam, salt - fresh and untamed - you inhaled it, inhaled him. 

Unable to resist the urge to be enveloped by his presence, you pulled the sweater on and sighed at the comfort it brought, your fingers clutched onto the collar to hold it closer to your nose and with a deep breath, you took him in. For a moment, you felt yourself slipping into delirium, but then the warm shadow that loomed over your face dragged you back to reality. 

Gus stood over, the breadth of him blocking the sun. Head tilted down, arms crossed together, he observed the treat before him, a crafty grin playing on his lips. 

“Looks better on you than on me.” Hand reached up to his moustache, he twirled its edge between his index and his thumb. “I sure like what I see.” 

You smiled sweetly, your bare legs stretching forward in an invitation. “Too bad this sweater doesn’t cover all of me…” 

His marine-blue gaze followed instantly, a flicker of excitement igniting within them. “Cara Mia, need me to keep you warm?” 

Gus was the type of man who never needed a special invitation. Nor did he ever waited for an answer. Simply, because he always got what we wanted. Gently, he sank to his knees before your feet, and reached for your ankles. His hands were roughed by manning the ropes of the boat and things you didn’t wish to think of, yet his touch was as tender as the caress of a wave as he ran his hands up and down the length of your legs.

“Smooth,” he murmured, “it always stuns me how soft women are.”

Half chuckling, half moaning, you laid back onto the deck, casually reaching for the bowl of sweets and grabbing a piece. Gus’ glare darted at you, watching you nibble while the coarse pads of his fingers glided below your knees, his touch sent a stream of shivers that coursed through your skin, making you tremble in his grip. 

It took every drop of strength to remain composed and not give yourself entirely, you were always afraid of him having too much power over you, and Gus knew that and knew just how to bend you - figuratively and literally. 

His palms smoothed higher with each stroke, kneading your thighs, fingertips reaching close to your heat yet not close enough. Every wave of his touch only left you more frustrated. Wetness pooled at your core, the unmistakable bloom within calling for him in yearning, like a flower opening, awaiting to be seeded, yet he took his time. 

“Still cold?” Gus provoked at how wildly you quivered. 

Lips pressed into a thin line, you swallowed a moan and shook your head, clutching onto the sweater as if it served any protection, but all hell broke loose as, without any warning, he pressed his thumb against the wet fabric of your underwear.

“Fuck!”

“Such a dirty mouth.” 

Giving into a shuddering yip, you pushed your pelvis forward, trying to grind into his thumb, only that he pulled back.��

“Gus! Stop this!!!”

“Stop?” His eyes flared comically. “I thought you were enjoying this…”

Ready to throw the book at his stupid face, you frowned, which caused Gus to chuckle before he hooked a finger below the strap of your underwear. “Now…” his voice dropped, and his eyes darkened as if touched by a storm cloud.  “Are you going to say it?”

Already at wit's end, you pouted and let out a breathy, “please...”

He tugged on the strap a little, sliding the garment to the mid of your hips, yet not enough to expose you. “Please, what? Cara Mia?”  

“Please, fuck me.” 

Triumph burnt on his face. Overjoyed that once again he managed to break you, he paused, eyes gliding at every inch of your body while his fangs grazed over his bottom lip. The way he stared at you, you could have sworn that you could feel his touch wherever his gaze landed; your mouth, your breasts, your nipples, the base your belly - he was everywhere, but you needed more. You needed him inside you.  

“No.” 

“No?!” Your cry could be heard across the 7 seas. “What do you mean ‘no’!?” 

“You had your candy, I think I’ll have mine.”

Without any other delay, he yanked on your underwear and threw them over his shoulders. Exposed to the open air, you breathed a shuddering gasp. The chill ocean-breeze blew upon your slit, further storming the tidal-like spasms that swept over you. Still, it was nothing in comparison to the storm that Gus was about to bestow upon you. 

The bearded Adonis looked ethereal as he crawled between your thighs, his curls and brazen bristle tickled your skin. His broad, muscular shoulders flexed in a predatory motion, and his face wore a dark, preying shade to match. Brows knit together, jaw clenched, his fingers dug into your ass, and with a guttural groan, he lowered his head to the valley of your thighs and granted you the sinful kiss of Poseidon. 

Slow, yet not lazy, his mouth drew a languid course between the little pearl above your cove to your inner thighs as if testing the water before plunging in. The touch of his hot lips and coarse bristle was enough to elicit the most desperate yelps from you, and like a siren washed up on the shore, you writhed for your god, begging for salvation.

It wasn’t as if Gus didn’t know every inch of your body, yet still, he revelled at the different cries that escaped you as his mouth marked different parts of your flesh, almost as if it was a game to him, as if you were a toy he examined and coaxed to his whims until you were completely broken and at his mercy. It was only then when you were bent and vulnerable, that’s he would tear you completely apart.

With his breath hot on your flesh, he hummed against your clit. Legs quaking, you prepared yourself for yet another tender kiss, only that instead, you felt the wet glide of his tongue teasing your flesh. Once, then twice, his velvety serpent stroked and twirled. The third time he wrapped his lips around the tender nub and suckled with every ounce of love he felt toward you. 

Inarticulate sounds followed from your throat, your toes curled as the spasming jolts of ecstasy flowed all across your body. He brought you near impulsion, but he wasn’t done playing with you just yet. Grunting, he slipped the edge of his tongue between your swollen petals, pressing just enough to provoke you, yet not enough to bring you undone. 

You wanted to scream his name but found that you had no words. Instead, you heaved and cried breathlessly, your head pressing to the wooden deck beneath you, eyes wide open, staring at the seagulls floating in the air. In the open ocean, everyone could see you. Everyone and no one. You were one with the gods and the sea creatures and you sure as hell writhed as if you were drowning on dry land. 

Appeased by your helplessness, Gus locked his strong arms around your thighs, holding you spread open and in place as he finally dove his tongue inside you. 

“Fuck!” Your back arched against the surface. Tears of joy brimmed in your eyes as Gus fucked you ardently with his tongue. Over and over, he plunged into your cove, groaning and savouring the dew that dripped from it as if it was a feast. 

As greedy as they come, he wanted to devour you; there wasn’t a single patch of skin he hadn’t laved, kissed or suckled. Even while his tongue wreaked havoc on your clenching cunt, his mouth continued to suckle upon your swollen lips with little hums of delight that vibrated through you. 

It wasn’t fair. He brought you on the verge of pleasure on despair. You felt the storm within you rage; violent waves of pleasure gushed and surged, begging to be unleashed. Knowing your body so well, Gus wrapped one sturdy arm around your belly, held your mound to his hungry mouth, and finally, took his fingers and buried them deep inside you to force you into ecstasy. 

Climax shattered through you in several electric currents that continued to hit. Each one stronger than the other  Still convulsing in ecstasy, you lifted your eyes to Gus.  The last rays of sunlight glazed around him in a golden aura. For a moment there, you imagined him as the lord of the ocean, who, in his fury, pierced his trident at the ocean’s bed and split it apart. 

Split you apart.

Spent, you fell back to the deck with a deep sigh, your eyes gazing aimlessly at the evening sky while you snuggled Gus’ sweater around you. The moon had already risen, surrounded by a shy group of gleaming stars resembling precious pearls embroidered on a blue dress. Memories of childhood sprang to mind; summer days in the sun, when you floated carless over the waves. 

“Are you alright?” Gus moved to lie beside you. His knuckles brushed your cheek in a tender caress.

You nodded weakly, your breath still hitched from the intensity of the pleasure he wrought from you. 

“Speak, Cara Mia,” Gus asked gently and, with a small pinch around your chin, brought you to stare at him. "I need to hear you say it."

Quiet, you stared back, your lower lip parted, but no words came as you studied his face. The little wrinkles around his eyes and the silver tainted his beard made him look somehow pure. So pure, it broke your heart to think that once you dock again, you will have to take off the masks and costumes you wore and be who you really were - soldiers fighting to liberate the world and Gus, as spirited and wild as he was, would never be free, never be able to fully commit to anyone other than his cause.

Still, you loved him.

Enough to follow him into hell. 

[skitariiposting]

A rant about roleplaying and taking advice from goblin eratta

Look, look, I get it. D&D is famous for its goblins and whatnot. But trust me when I say, pathfinder goblins are so much better art wise and writing wise than D&D's.

For example:

This is the D&D monster manual illustration for goblins.

Firstly, orange, chunky, this guy's has the aura of "might attempt tactics" about him. He looks more like he'd try and throttle you rather than run in fear at the sight of a large sword. The head is oddly shaped as a goblin's head should be, but it looks more lumpy warrior face than gobliny. The armor is far too organized. The ears are droopy and smooth. This is not goblin, this is a small ork at best.

Yeah they've got a brief section explaining the hobgoblins and bugbear relations, a little bit about goblin language, but not much as far as flavor text.

Now pathfinder goblins...

These are the quintessential goblin.

Green, scrawny, cowardly, chaotic, looks like they scrounge their clothes from local landfills, oblong football head, big ol' perky pointy goblin ears; *chefs kiss* perfection.

Pair that with the tidbits of goblin lore from pathfinder and ough you've got something good going on.

They are afraid of and have a burning hatred for horses. They typically wield 'horse choppers,' basically big cleavers or axes, instead of daggers or shortswords like in D&D.

One of the few occasions they'll organize and come up with plans is if they're pulling pranks or massive attacks under the command of a warlord or leader, of which they will occasionally get on accident.

They don't have to be bound to a leader, though, sometimes goblin bands can manage just with cooperation alone.

Goblins are crafty little buggers, laying traps and building ramshackle contraptions to get the jump on their foes. They prefer going for sneak attacks or surprise attacks over head on combat. They know they can't win a fair fight, so they fight unfair.

If you invade a goblin dwelling, they'll usually retreat on sight, but not always because of cowardice. Sometimes, they do so to lead you into their traps or to get you into a bottleneck. They can come up with strategies, but usually only if it's below the belt and breaks all the rules of engagement.

War crimes and chaos, if they aren't committing one of the two, they must be defective goblins.

There are occasions in the pathfinder modules where it encourages the DM to have the goblins get into antics over attacking the players. One such example is during a fight at a festival, it reccomends having some of the goblins focus on the festival food over the potential threat of the player characters, since they'd find the food much more important.

Some I came up with include swinging from ropes and attempting to grab players' hats, hoods or helmets, having some attempt to crawl into the clothes of the players instead of attacking, or even just crawling and wallowing all over them like opossum babies. My personal favorite and what got a huge laugh out of my players was having one find a big cast-iron stew pot and putting it on its head. It made it blind, but it also gave it more armor, making it sort of run at the characters to attack but not being able to hit them because it couldnt see, and the swords and maces bouncing off the pot due to the additional armor made it difficult to kill him. Pair that with the constant deafening the goblin would endure with the "bong" sounds any impacts would make, causing it to panic and run around more, bumping into walls and people alike.

What I love about these little tidbits of fight modifications is that it exemplifies the "combat doesn't mean roleplaying is over" factor many players and DM's either have never considered or just miss entirely. Many people complained that "man, if only combat in D&D was like the movie," and to that, I say: it can be, if you stopped being boring and made it that way! Describe what your character does! Add flavor to it! An action is 6 seconds. You can do so much in six seconds while still attacking! Describe the actions you take! Take free actions to do little flairs or flourishes! Show off! Fight with elegance, fight with brutality, fight with conniving, fight with confidence! Spend an action doing something in character instead of attacking! Yes, it's not efficient, but it's more interesting and entertaining to take a fall for a storytelling moment instead of spending yet another turn attacking. Flawed moments are far more interesting than constant perfection, that's why you use dice instead of always having a nat20 every turn. Use the failures to your advantage, show how your character reacts to a bad situation or rough luck!

Don't just spend the time in between your turns waiting for yours to roll around. Instead, be planning the sick ass thing you'll do if the dice allow you to, or the reaction to the adversity if they don't! And, sometimes, break away from the "I swing my sword, I cast a spell, I eldritch blast" combat! Push enemies off of elevations with the push action! Flip a table over to get cover from spells and ranged attacks!Grapple them to make it easier for your team mates to hit them or use them as a human shield! Grab a big rock off the ground and chuck it at someone! Cast a spell that doesn't just do damage!

Broke:

"You shoot a fireball at the thief as he attempts to escape."

Woke:

"As the the thief runs, I go to launch the fireball at him, but notice the mirror to the left of me. My narcisim gets the better of me, and I end up taking a second to check my hair. Ah yes, dashing. Oh, wait, I was doing something. I manage to tear myself away from the mirror long enough to barely catch the thief in my fireball as he attempts to flee."

So, I say all that to say this: players and Dms alike, roleplay during combat! It's a roleplaying game, not a roleplaying game+formulaic tabletop war game any time there's combat. And hey, if you ever find yourself needing inspiration on how to make fights more interesting in your tabletop games, grab a couple low level modules off Paizo, and read up on Pathfinder goblin scenes, they pay extreme dividends.

[sunshowersanddandelionwine]

okay no but im still not done thinking about fiber artist soap (part two of this)

(i crochet mainly so most of my knowledge is there, but if any knitters/weavers/etc want to chime in please do!)

the first time he ever saw anything to do with fibercraft, he was really little. maybe six or seven. he found his nan sitting at a spinning wheel, humming to herself, turning a mass of fluffy white into even, careful strands of soft yarn. curious as he was, he couldnt stop himself from coming closer and watching. asking questions. she just smiled, pulled him into her lap, and let him watch from there.

the first time he tried to make something wtih the finished product, it didnt quite come out how he expected. what was supposed to be a scarf looked anything but. it was wonky and misshapen, with dropped stitches and tension all over the place. but despite the awkward end result, he actually finished it! it took a few tries, a fair bit of frogging, and a couple of breaks where he had to step back and do something else, but he finished it! his sister lit up like a christmas tree when he gave it to her, and still has it tucked away somewhere.

he never really talked about his little hobby once he enlisted. its not that he was ashamed of it, but there wasnt a lot of down time during basic and what little unscheduled time was better spent elsewhere. he did have a stash of yarn and a few hooks and needles tucked under his bunk, and during nights when he couldnt sleep hed pull out a skein or two and work until either his mind stopped racing or the sun broke over the horizon, whichever came first.

the first person to really notice his little hobby was gaz. they spent a lot of time together on and off duty, its only natural that hed notice. after a bit of good natured ribbing, gaz is more than a little impressed at the speed he can work up a piece. he even asked for a lesson or two, with varying results.

price is next, after soap gets laid out during a mission. hes sitting next to the shitty medical cot when gaz brings him a lumpy bag and chucks it at soaps head. hes not expected him to pull out a set of knitting needles and a few balls of yarn, or for soap to start chattering away with gaz as his hands work quickly.

ghost notices when he sees soap working on a different project almost every day. one day its a pair of colorful socks, the next a chunky blanket, the next the beginnings of a sweater sleeve. he works with an intensity that he usually reserves for a particularly complicated explosive, the tip of his tongue peeking out from between his lips. ghost rallies the courage to ask when he sees price wearing a sweater he could have sworn soap had been working on last week.

his fingers are awkward and fumble with the hook, yarn getting knotted and tangled as he pulls the last row of loops apart with a frustrated huff. but soap is there to gently guide his hands in place, telling him how to hold the yarn with the right tension, how to start a new row without dropping stitches, all the things that he himself was taught by his ever patient nan.

fiber artist soap who shows his love through his work, and who works his love in every stitch <3

[ichorai]

blueberries ; three.

pairing ; joey tribbiani x gn!reader chapter synopsis ; the one with lumpy potatoes, new years parties, and mother-kissers. wc ; 9.0k warnings / includes ; talks of sex/suggestive content, mild cursing, reader wears a dress but obv still gn, and a new love interest !!

series masterlist. main masterlist.

“Are you wearing makeup?” Chandler asked Joey as the actor sauntered into Central Perk, sinking into a chair beside you. 

“Yes, sir, I am,” replied Joey, rolling up his sleeves with a smirk. “As of today, I’m officially Joey Tribbiani: actor-slash-model.”

Snorting, Chandler piped, “That’s so funny, because I was thinking you look more like Joey Tribbiani: clown-slash-mime.”

You wanted to laugh, but you kept a straight face, sending Joey a reassuring grin. “Don’t listen to him, you look great!” Tilting your head to inspect him further, you added, “Though—your foundation could be a shade darker, you look like a ghost!”

“What were you modeling for, anyway?” asked Phoebe.

“Well, you know those posters for the City Free Clinic?” he asked excitedly.

Monica gasped, “Oh, wow! So you’re gonna be one of those healthy, healthy, healthy guys?”

Practically dripping with pride, Joey struck a ridiculous modeling pose, which made the rest of you scoff with laughter. 

“The asthma guy’s really cute,” you chimed. When Joey sent you a glare, you were quick to tack on, “And you’ll definitely give him a run for his money!”

“You know which one you’re gonna be?” asked Chandler.

“No,” the actor-slash-model sighed. “But I hear lyme disease is open, so…”

Patting Joey’s shoulder, Chandler said, “Good luck man, I hope you get it.” That earned strange looks from the rest of you while Joey just beamed brightly, blissfully oblivious to his phrasing.

It was then that Ross stormed in, a strained mope marring his features. He sank into a chair with a heavy sigh, prompting you to roll your eyes and ask, “What’s wrong now, Ross?”

“Monica told me mom and dad weren’t spending Thanksgiving here—and I didn’t believe her at first, but it turns out she was right. How could they do this to us?”

Sighing, the black-haired woman proposed, “How about I cook Thanksgiving dinner at my place? I’ll make it just like Mom’s!”

“Will you make the mashed potatoes with lumps?” he asked.

Monica hesitated. “You know they’re not actually supposed to have—” She cut herself short at Ross’ sour expression. “Fine, I’ll work on the lumps! What are the rest of you doing tonight? Joey, you’re going home, right?”

From beside you, he nodded enthusiastically, excited to finally go back home and visit his parents.

“And I assume, Chandler, you’re still boycotting all the Pilgrim holidays?”

The man snorted. “Yes, every single one of them,” he sarcastically quipped.

“Pheebs, you’re going to be with your grandma?”

“Yeah, and her boyfriend. But we’re celebrating Thanksgiving in December because he’s lunar, so—”

Slightly confused, Monica asked, “So you’re free Thursday, then?”

“Yeah, why?” replied Phoebe, equally miffed before realization dawned upon her. “Oh, can I come?” 

Monica nodded with a grin. “And Rachel’s planning on going to Vail—so what about you, Y/N?”

Tracing the rim of your teacup with a finger, you pursed your lips to the side in thought. “I think I’ll be free! You have room for one more?”

Ross crossed his arms in Monica’s kitchen, making him look abnormally burly in his chunky, woolen sweater. “If she’s talking to it, I just think I should get some belly time, too!” he complained. “Not that I believe in any of this.”

“I do,” you chimed, helping Monica season the turkey in the kitchen. “Babies begin developing ears well before thirty weeks, so I’m sure they’d be able to hear a little bit of what goes on outside the womb.”

Phoebe nodded her agreement. “I think babies can totally hear everything! Here, lemme show you, Ross—this might seem a little weird, but you put your head inside this turkey and then we’ll all talk and you’ll hear everything we say!”

“I’d like to say that I’m totally behind this experiment,” said Chandler. “In fact, I’d very much like to butter your head.”

You snorted in laughter, before turning to see Rachel walking into the apartment, sulking. 

“Hey, Rach,” you greeted, hopping up to grab her coat for her. She sent you a half-hearted smile. “Did you make enough money to go to Vail?”

“Forget Vail,” she sniffled. “Forget seeing my family, forget shoop, shoop, shoop.” She mimicked skiing down the snow as tears pricked her eyes. 

From the kitchen, Monica handed you the envelope, and you tapped Rachel’s shoulder. “Hey, honey, you’ve got some mail.”

“Just leave it on the table,” she replied, burying her face in her hands.

“I think you’re gonna want to see this,” you responded softly. When Rachel didn’t move, you rolled your eyes and smacked her arm lightly. “Now!”

She jolted in shock, before snatching the mail from you with a mildly offended look. The expression immediately melted away when she ripped it open, pulling out crisp dollar bills. “Oh, my God! You guys are great!” she exclaimed, lunging forward to drape her arms around you and pull you into a hug so tight that it was a wonder your ribs didn’t cave under the pressure.

“We all chipped in,” you assured her. “Except Ross, who now owes me twenty bucks.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek, before pulling away and streaking into her room, yelling out something about packing her suitcase. 

When she was gone, Monica headed back to the kitchen, shoving a bag full of goodies into Chandler’s awaiting arms. “Here you go, your standard holiday feast—canned tomato soup, grilled cheese fixings, and a family-size bag of Funyuns for one!”

“You sure you want to spend Thanksgiving alone?” you asked him, peering into the bag with distaste. “What is it with you and this holiday, anyway? I never got around to asking—honestly I was too scared to know the answer.”

Sighing, Chandler placed his hand on your shoulder. “Alright, I’m nine years old—”

Ross and Monica and Phoebe all groaned, muttering how much they absolutely hated this story.

“We’ve just finished Thanksgiving dinner. I have, and I remember this part vividly, a mouthful of pumpkin pie. And this is the moment my parents choose to tell me they’re getting divorced.”

“Oh,” you said. “Oh, my God, Chandler, I’m so sorry.”

Holding a finger up, Chandler shook his head. “Ah, but it gets worse—you see, it’s really hard to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner again when you’ve seen it in reverse.”

He began miming throwing up all over you, and you wrinkled your nose, bile rising up your throat.

“Oh, stop! You’re going to make me puke, too!”

There was a knock on the door, and before anybody could get up to answer it, Joey walked into Monica’s apartment, shoulders slumped.

“Jo?” you asked. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were spending Thanksgiving with your family?”

“They think I have VD,” he sighed, moving to pull you away from Chandler who had frozen mid-puke, and wrapping you up in a tight hug. 

A bit surprised, you awkwardly patted his back, mouthing to Chandler to shut up when he began to say, “Be careful, Y/N, wouldn’t want you to get VD, too!” With a stout nod, Chandler bid himself adieu, claiming that he needed to ‘get away from all the merriment’. 

When Joey finally let you go, he wound his way into the kitchen, following Monica around like a lost puppy as she cooked. “Hey, Monica, I got a question—I don’t see any tater tots.”

“That’s not a question,” she replied, cocking a sharp brow at him.

“But my mom always makes ‘em—it’s like a tradition! You get a little piece of turkey on your fork, a little cranberry sauce… and a tot!” huffed Joey, sitting down at the kitchen table by Ross. “It’s bad enough I can’t be with my family, you know—because of my disease that I don’t actually have.”

Rolling her eyes, Monica blew out a heavy sigh. “Alright, fine. Tonight’s potatoes will be both mashed with lumps for Ross, and in the form of tots for Joey.” 

The two men grinned at each other victoriously, fist-bumping beneath the table. 

“I’m off to talk to my unborn child! I’ll be back before dinnertime,” announced Ross, grabbing his coat, waving goodbye to the rest of you and disappearing out the door. 

You took his spot at the kitchen table, resting your arm on Joey’s shoulder as the two of you watched Monica berate Phoebe for whipping the potatoes.

“Ross needs lumps!”

“Oh, well,” the blonde started sheepishly, “I thought we could have them whipped and then add some peas and onions.”

Frustration flooded across Monica’s features. “Why would we do that?”

“Then they’d be, uhm, be just like how my mom used to make it before she died,” said Phoebe, which made Monica blanch out of part-guilt and part-exasperation.

“Okay, three kinds of potatoes coming up! Unless you have a specific kind of mashed potatoes, too, Y/N?” she glared at you expectedly, eye twitching.

You raised your hands in a placating manner. “No, ma’am, I’m fine with whatever you’re making.”

The glare melted away and was replaced by one of relief. “You’re officially my favorite.”

Right at that moment, Rachel stumbled out of her room haphazardly carrying about half a dozen bags that looked to be on the verge of breaking open because of how stuffed full they were. She was beaming radiantly nonetheless, rushing to the door. 

Before she could leave, however, Chandler ran back into Monica’s apartment, out of breath and blurting out, “The most unbelievable thing just happened! Underdog has gotten away!”

Joey’s eyebrows quirked upwards. “The balloon?”

Chandler shot him a sharp look, before leering, “No, the actual cartoon character. Of course the balloon! It’s all over the news—he broke free and was spotted flying over Washington Square Park! I’m goin’ to the roof, who’s with me?”

All of you began bolting for the door, except Rachel, who lamented that she had to leave for her flight.

“Come on, Rach, an eighty-foot balloon dog is flying loose over the city? You don’t wanna miss that!” you exclaimed, tugging her along. She reluctantly followed after all of you, dropping all her bags to the floor. 

“Got the keys!” exclaimed Monica as all of you rushed out her apartment.

“That moment when we first saw the giant shadow fall over the park!” squealed Rachel, eyes sparkling. “I felt like I was in one of those big action movies!”

You chuckled. “Yeah, and the big bad villain was an inflatable balloon in the shape of a smiling dog.”

“But did they really have to shoot him down?” asked Phoebe. “That was just mean.”

The group arrived in front of Monica’s door. 

“Okay, right about now the turkey should be crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside! Why are we all just standing here?” she said, rubbing her hands together anxiously.

“We’re waiting for you to open the door,” said Rachel in a ‘duh, isn’t it obvious?’ tone. “You’ve got the keys.”

Monica blinked. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. When we left, you said you got the keys!”

“I didn’t!” Monica’s voice went shrill. “I asked if you had the keys!”

“No, no, your voice went all flat at the end, like you already got the keys!” Rachel stressed, her own tone getting higher to match Monica’s.

“Do either of you have the keys?” Chandler unhelpfully asked, exaggerating the last word. 

Panicked, Monica jangled the doorknob. “The oven is on!”

“I gotta get the money and my bags!” Rachel cried out. “I’m gonna miss my flight!”

“Oh!” said Joey. “We have a copy of your key in our apartment, right?”

“THEN GET IT!” Monica screeched, which made the two men step back out of shock.

“Alright, jeez, that tone won’t make me go any faster, you know?”

At the raven-haired woman’s withering glare, Joey bolted into his apartment to grab an entire box full of keys, which made the rest of you groan in exasperation.

After about ten minutes of trying out different keys, Monica bit out, “Can’t you go any faster with that?”

“I got one keyhole and about a zillion keys—you do the math!” he replied, tossing another unfit key back into the box. 

“Why do you guys have so many keys in there anyway?” barked Rachel.

“Hm, for an emergency just like this?” deadpanned Chandler.

Rachel was practically vibrating with frustration at this point, grabbing Chandler by the lapels of his button-down shirt and yanking him down threateningly. “Alright, listen here, smirky! If it wasn’t for you and your stupid balloon, I would be on a plane watching a woman show me where the emergency exits are right now! But I’m not!”

“God, I swear I asked if you had the keys,” sulked Monica. 

“I didn’t! I wouldn’t say I had the keys unless I had the goddamn keys! I obviously didn’t have the keys!”

“Oh, my God,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Really, guys, there’s no point in arguing about it anymore—blaming someone won’t make the door magically open.”

Ignoring you, Monica rounded back to Rachel, hissing, “Why would I have the keys? You were the last one out!”

“Because you said you had them!” Rachel replied, practically screaming at this point. Joey momentarily stopped trying to jam random keys into the door to watch them fight, but you swatted his arm to get him back to work. 

“Why?”

“Because!”

“Why? Because everything is my responsibility? Isn’t it enough that I’m making Thanksgiving dinner for everyone? Yeah, everyone wants a different kind of potato, so I’m making different kinds of potatoes! Does anybody even care what kind of potatoes I want? No! Just as long as Phoebe gets her peas and onions, and Joey gets his tots, and Chandler gets to watch from the side, and Ross gets his gross potato lumps and—and—it’s my first Thanksgiving all on my own and now it’s all burnt and I can’t—” She burst into a mess of tears and running mascara, and you shook your head sympathetically, walking to her to wind your arms around her and comfortingly pat her on the back. 

She hiccupped into you, about to hug you back when Joey said, “Hey, I got the door open!”

Monica ripped herself away from you and shot into her apartment, leaving you blinking in surprise. 

“Thanks for being there for me, Y/N, you always know how to make me feel better!” you muttered under your breath, before following the rest of the group in. 

The apartment was full of smoke, the stench of burned poultry lingering in the air. You waved your hand in front of your face just as Monica yanked the oven open and threw the ruined meal onto the counter. “Well, turkey’s burnt! Potatoes are ruined, potatoes are ruined, and potatoes are ruined!”

It was then that Ross strode into the apartment, whistling a merry tune beneath his breath, before noticing the smoke and the sullen expressions. “This doesn’t smell like Mom’s,” he quipped, which earned him a cuff to the shoulder. 

“No, it doesn’t,” grouched Monica. “But you know what, Ross? You want lumps? Here, you got one!” She yanked one of the burned, hardened no-longer-mash potatoes out of its bowl, waving it around with a manic look to her eye.

From across the room, Rachel slammed the phone onto the coffee table, screaming out, “God, this is just great! The plane is gone, so I guess I’m stuck here with you guys!”

Joey crossed his arms. “We all had better plans, okay? This was nobody’s first choice.”

You winced—technically this had been your first choice, but you opted to remain quiet.

“Really?” said Monica, clearly hurt. “So why was I busting my ass to make this delicious Thanksgiving dinner!?”

“You call that delicious?” Ross gruffed. 

The entire group erupted into screams and accusations and loud arguments.

You sighed, moving to the door, where Chandler was leaning. 

“Now this feels like Thanksgiving,” he whispered to you, which made you snort in laughter. 

“Guys, look!” Phoebe exclaimed from the window, interrupting everybody’s yelling. “Ugly Naked Guy’s taking his turkey out of the oven!”

Everybody was in too sour of a mood to care, until—

“Oh, my God. He’s not alone! Ugly Naked Guy is having Thanksgiving dinner with Ugly Naked Gal!”

All of you bolted to the window, both cooing at how cute they were and how gross it was at the same time. 

“Ugly naked dancing!” Monica pointed out, a smile breaking out across her face. 

“It’s nice that he has someone,” said Phoebe.

The rest of you sighed, before looking at each other fondly.

Soon after, all of you were seated at the kitchen table, watching Chandler cut grilled cheese sandwiches in half.

“Who wants light cheese and who wants dark cheese?” he asked.

“I don’t even wanna know what’s in the dark cheese,” replied Ross as he grabbed half of a sandwich. 

“You wanna split with me, Jo?” you asked, holding up an uncut sandwich.

Phoebe clapped her hands. “You guys have to make a wish! You know, like a turkey wishbone!”

With a smile, you held out the grilled cheese to Joey, and he clutched the other side, before pulling. He ended up with the bigger half, a wide grin split across his handsome features.

“What’re you wishing for?” you asked, biting into your smaller portion.

“Duh, the bigger half,” Joey replied, which made you kick him beneath the table. He tilted his head. “What would you have wished for?”

“I don’t know, honestly. I’m really happy with what I have now,” you smiled at him, before turning to look at Chandler, who was clinking a fork against his glass. 

He cleared his throat. “I know this isn’t exactly the kind of Thanksgiving any of you had planned, but for me this has been really great. Mostly because it didn’t involve divorce or, you know, projectile vomiting. I was just thinking if Rachel had gone to Vail, or if you guys had been with your family, or if Joey didn’t have… syphilis and stuff, we wouldn’t be all together. I guess what I’m trying to say is—I’m very grateful all of your Thanksgivings sucked.”

The rest of you raised your glasses. 

“Here’s to a lousy Christmas,” said Ross.

“And a crappy New Year!” you chimed, before taking a long sip. 

“Hi, guys,” you greeted everybody as you sat down beside Ross on Central Perk’s largest couch. “I’ve got news!”

Ross was just about to ask what it was when Rachel came with a steaming cup of tea for you, smiling softly. “Hey, Y/N! Do you guys know what you’re doing for New Years?”

Suddenly, the entire group threw their arms up in the air, groaning loudly. 

“Jeez, what? What’s wrong with New Years?”

“Nothing for you, you have Paolo!” Chandler replied hotly. “You don’t have to face the horrible pressures of this holiday—the desperate scramble to find anything with lips just so you can have somebody to kiss when the ball drops! Man, I’m talking loud!”

Frowning, Rachel cocked her head. “For your information, Paolo’s gonna be in Rome this New Years, so I’ll be just as pathetic as the rest of you!”

“I am so sick of being a victim of this Dick Clark holiday! I say this year, no dates—we make a pact. Just the seven of us, dinner,” proposed Chandler, spreading his arms out invitingly. 

As the rest of them chimed their reluctant agreement, you winced, setting your tea down. “Sorry, Chandler.”

“Sorry? What do you mean, sorry?” he asked.

“Sorry, as in I already have a date for New Years.” Your words were a little hushed, and you sank further into the sofa out of mild embarrassment.

The entire group seemed to double-take at your words, practically bursting at the seams with questions.

“Who?” Joey asked.

“A guy from work—his name’s Connor, and he’s one of the head researchers for quantum photonics,” you said in response, playing with the fraying threads of your sweater. “I’m not even in that field but I’ve become more or less his consultant and peer reviewer for his papers and just this morning, he came up to me with flowers and asked me to be his date for New Years, and gosh, I just felt like a giddy teenager, you know?”

Monica slapped your arm, an excited smile spread across her lips. “That’s great, Y/N!”

“What does he look like?” asked Phoebe.

“He’s got the most gorgeous dark hair, and soft brown eyes,” you began describing, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. “And he’s just so soft-spoken, you know? Honestly, I never really saw him in a romantic light until he came up to me this morning and it all just came rushing at me—it’s honestly a bit too good to be true.”

Joey scoffed. “Yeah, especially after the last person you were with.”

Stiffening, you clenched your jaw and shot him a half-hearted glare.

“Who was the last person?” Ross queried.

Purposefully, you dodged his question and said, “Well, good luck with your no-date pact! I’d love to spend New Years with you guys, but—”

“Why don’t you bring him?” asked Rachel.

“No! No, it’s for single people only, that was the whole point!” Chandler butted in.

With a sour glare, Monica said, “Come on, it’s Y/N! The last time we’ve met one of their partners was… come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone you’ve dated. We can make an exception, Chandler. Just one. Besides, I’d really love to meet this Connor guy!”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Just Y/N, but that’s it.”

The next day, the entire group was gathered in Monica’s apartment, helping her decorate a small Christmas tree. Joey wasn’t here, however, having gotten a job as a helper elf at a local mall. You couldn’t shake the feeling of him being upset with you, he’d barely spoken a word to you ever since they had made the date-pact yesterday, but you tried not to read too much into it.

“I can’t believe he hasn’t kissed you yet!” Rachel told you. Untangling the silver tinsel, you wrapped it around the pine on Monica’s coffee table. “God, by my sixth date with Paolo, he’d already named both my breasts!”

You blinked in surprise. Ross made a choking noise from beside you.

“Ooh, did I just share too much?”

Ross huffed out of his nose. “Just a smidge.”

Hanging up another ornament, you shrugged. “I don’t know—I kinda like that he’s taking it slow, you know?”

Phoebe nodded enthusiastically. “David hasn’t kissed me either—are all scientist guys like that? Very methodical.”

You remembered Phoebe mentioning that she was seeing a physicist. “I can assure you, Pheebs, not all scientist guys are like that. A lot of them don’t waste any time with sex, much less kissing!”

“I think it’s romantic,” Monica chimed.

You smiled softly. “It’s really nice. Connor is just—he’s just so nice and smart and gentle and sweet. When he looks at me it feels… I don’t know, I just forgot what it feels like to be wanted by someone else, you know?”

Phoebe sank into a chair, grinning like a lovesick fool. “I know what you mean. I just want to be with him all the time, you know? Day and night, and night and day. And, uhm… special occasions…”

With an exaggerated gasp of betrayal, Chandler pointed an accusing finger at her. “Wait a minute—I see where this is going. You’re gonna ask him to New Years! You’re gonna break the pact!”

“No!” Phoebe vehemently exclaimed. After a moment’s pause, she sheepishly asked, “Can I, though?”

With a defeated sigh, Chandler propped his hands on his hips. “Yeah, cause I already asked Janice.”

“What?” you asked, nearly dropping a fragile ornament you’d been holding. “Chan, the entire pact was your idea.”

“I snapped, okay? I couldn’t handle the pressure and I snapped!”

Monica shook her head. “Janice, though? That was, like, the worst breakup in history!”

“Well, I’m not saying it was a good idea, I’m saying I snapped!” Chandler defended, face reddening.

The door to Monica’s apartment swung open, and Joey strode in, dressed head-to-toe in a ridiculous array of bright green, red, and white fabric that came together into a shoddy elf costume. His shoes were pointy and little bells hung off the ends, and jangled with every step he took. 

“Too many jokes,” Chandler gritted out, doubling over as he suppressed the urge to make fun of his roommate. “Must mock Joey!”

“Oh, stop it,” you said, grinning at him. “I think he makes a handsome elf.”

Strange, you thought. Joey almost completely ignored your comment, opting to head back to his apartment, claiming that he had to change because around a dozen kids sneezed on him during his shift.

Back at Central Perk, Ross was throwing a fit after Monica had told everybody that she had also caved and asked Fun Bobby to be her date for New Years.

“Okay, so on our no-date evening, four of you now have dates!” he grumbled. 

Raising his hand, Joey said, “Uh, five.”

You raised your eyebrows, but you weren’t really surprised. Joey had an uncanny knack for getting random strangers to fall in love with him.

Rachel bowed her head, also saying, “Six. Sorry, Paolo’s catching an early flight!”

“Yeah, and I met this really hot single dad at the mall. What’s an elf to do?”

Before you could question him further, Ross buried his face into his palms. “Okay, so I’m gonna be the only one standing there alone when the ball drops?”

“Come on, Ross! We’ll have a big party, and no one will know who’s with who!” Rachel reassured him.

“Ugh, this is the last thing I needed right now! Marcel’s shutting me out, and now this.”

It took you a moment to realize that Ross was talking about a monkey that he had gotten, which you believed was really to fill the lesbian-wife-shaped hole in his heart, but you never vocalized those thoughts. 

“Why’s Marcel shutting you out?” you questioned.

“I don’t know, he’s moping around all the time, dragging his hands.”

You bit back the urge to say like owner, like pet, but bit down on your tongue and sipped on your tea. 

“That’s so weird,” Chandler added. “I had such a blast with him the other night when you asked me to petsit! We played, we watched TV—that juggling thing is amazing!”

Ross blinked. “What, uh… what juggling thing?”

“With the balled-up socks? I figured you taught him that.”

A muscle ticked in Ross’ jaw. “No.”

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” Chandler said placatingly. “It was just a couple socks… and a melon.”

The party at Monica’s place was in full swing. 

You had shown up early with Connor, an assorted tray of nearly-burnt homemade cookies in hand. Everybody was fawning over Connor, and he was a doll the entire evening, constantly keeping a warm hand on your lower back and whispering sweet compliments into your ear that made you swoon like a seasick sailor. 

There was one point when he had excused himself to go to the bathroom, and Monica rushed to you, telling you that if you didn’t hold onto him for dear life, she’d smack you silly.

The rest of the guests were acquaintances that you barely recognized, and you could feel your social battery draining by the minute. You stood in the kitchen sipping on a glass of punch as you listened to Janice talk your ear off about a new diet that she’d been on, trying your utmost best to come up with an excuse to leave her. 

“Sorry, Janice, I gotta head to the bathroom real quick. Nice dress, though, you look amazing!” 

“Oh, thank you, you’re such a sweetheart! You know, if Chandler hadn’t already asked me, I wouldn’t have minded having a piece of you to myself—!”

You squirmed away before she could try to flirt with you any more, bolting into the general direction of the bathroom. Suddenly, you crashed straight into somebody’s chest, which you were utterly relieved to be Joey.

He grasped your forearms, concerned, before promptly letting go of you.

“Hey, Jo,” you said, strangely timid. This was Joey, for heaven’s sake, what were you being so shy for? “You look good!”

“Thanks,” he said, before giving you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. A dark brown leather jacket was thrown over a tight white turtleneck, and his dark hair was combed to the side. “You look great, too. Dresses suit you.”

Tonight, you had decided to wear a silky dress that was a mottled shade of olive green, draping just right over your figure. It shone dimly beneath the lights, and Joey couldn’t help but notice how it brought out the brightness of your eyes. 

“Really? I can’t remember the last time I’ve worn a dress,” you nervously replied, tucking a loose curl of hair behind your ear. “I’m only wearing this because Connor told me it complimented my eyes.”

Immediately, Joey’s expression seemed to falter. “O-Oh, yeah. Well, he’s right.”

A knock on the door drew your attention away from Joey, and Monica opened it to reveal a man—and judging by Joey’s wave, you guessed that it was the hot single dad that he had mentioned was his date. Your inference was further confirmed when two small children walked in after him, much to your amusement.

“Oh, uh, bye—” you began to say, but Joey was already moving away from you.

Before disappointment could fester within you for too long, Connor was by your side, curling an arm around your waist. You smiled at him, leaning forward and softly pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. Rouge dusted across his cheekbones and he returned the favor, before nuzzling his nose against the side of your temple.

It was sickly sweet—nauseatingly so. But you loved it, anyway.

 From across the room, Joey watched the two of you cozy up to each other and he cursed under his breath. He forced himself to tear away his gaze and focus on his date and… the two kids awkwardly following behind.

The door flung open not five minutes later, revealing Rachel. Only, she was covered in mud and dirt, and a mysterious goopy substance that dripped down her hair. Her lip was busted and swollen, and deep bruises littered her pallid complexion. 

“Oh, my God,” you whispered under your breath, whispering an apology to Connor before rushing to Rachel, who was being fawned over by Monica. “Rach, are you okay? What happened?”

“Fuckin’ Paolo missed his flight!” she spat out, a bit muffled and hard to understand because of her swollen lip, taking a seat on the sofa. 

Hurriedly, you grabbed a glass of water for her and dampened a small towel with warm water, and rushed back to her, cleaning away the speckled dirt on her face.

“And then your face exploded?” Phoebe asked hesitantly.

“I was getting into a cab at the airport, when this woman, this blonde bitch with a pocketbook started yelling at me! Something about how it was her cab first, and the next thing I know, she’s just pulling me out by my hair! So I start blowing my attack whistle thingy and then three more cabs show up! So as I’m getting into a cab, she straight out tackles me! And I hit my head on the curb and cut my lip on my whistle!” She burst into tears, before quickly composing herself, realizing that there were more than a dozen people watching her blubber bloody, dirty tears. “Oh. Everyone having fun at the party? Y/N, is that Connor? He’s very handsome!”

Connor waved hello, but you sighed, gently pressing the back of your hand to Rachel’s forehead. “Honey, you might’ve hit your head really hard and gotten a concussion. Can someone get some ice, please? Or a frozen bag of peas, or something?” When Chandler brought you a small pack of ice, you gingerly held it to her head. “Alright, this should bring down the swelling soon. Are you feeling sleepy at all? Is it hard to keep your eyes open?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine, I think. Thanks, Y/N.”

“No problem,” you replied, patting her leg softly. “No alcohol for you tonight, though.”

With a meek smile, she nodded, before heading into her room to get changed and clean herself up a bit more. 

You blew out a breath, before allowing Connor to sweep you away closer to the windows. “That was…” he began.

“What?”

“You’re really great,” he said, eyes softening. “I know this thing between us is really new, and I don’t want to rush anything, but I really like you.”

You swore you could feel your heart liquefying within your chest and drip down between your ribcage. “I really like you, too, Connor.”

Not too far from the two of you, you overheard Joey’s date purr, “When I saw you at the store last week, it was probably the first time I’ve ever mentally undressed an elf.” 

Disgust coiled within your stomach when you noticed that her kids were watching. 

“Hey.” Connor’s fingers lifted your chin up to meet his gaze. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “I’m good. Let’s go get some more food, I’m starving!”

The next hour was spent mingling some more, and you were already hiding yawns behind a fist. Connor, ever so considerate, had asked you if you were feeling tired and wanted to leave, but you had waved him away. Though you were tired, you really did want to kiss him on New Years.

Before you knew it, it was five minutes before midnight.

You had bumped into Chandler, who had sullenly told you that he had broken up with Janice. Again. 

“Will you kiss me at midnight?” he asked you. 

You reared back in surprise, gesturing to an equally bewildered Connor. “I’m here with Connor, Chandler.”

He squinted. “Okay. Connor, will you kiss me at midnight?”

“Oh, go away, Chandler!” you swatted his arm, and he hissed, scuttering away to ask another poor soul to kiss him. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw Joey tuck in two kids on the sofa with a large blanket, passed out cold. You tilted your head, heading towards him. 

“Where’s their dad?” you whispered quietly, not wanting to awaken them. 

“Chandler told me he saw him in Monica’s room, getting it on with some chick,” replied Joey, distant. “I’m just watchin’ over the kids.”

Your gaze softened. “That’s real sweet of you. Happy new year, Joey.” A bit more hesitantly, you spread your arms out. You were tired of walking on eggshells around him—you wanted your best friend back. He looked at you for a second, gaze flickering to Connor, who was chatting pleasantly to Ross, and then back to you. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you tightly, blueberry perfume invading his senses, a tirade of overwhelming emotions winding through every nerve. All of a sudden, your glossed lips were on his cheek, nose bumping into his cheekbone. “In case you don’t get a new year’s kiss,” you whispered against him, before pulling away.

Throat tight, he nodded stoutly, watching as you sent him one last devastating smile, and turned on your heel to head back to Connor.

A minute before midnight.

“Looks like the no-date pact worked out,” Chandler huffed. “Except Y/N, the bastard.” He glared at you from afar as Connor placed his hands on your waist, tugging you closer, his nose brushing yours. 

“Everybody looks so happy! I hate that,” said Phoebe. Sure, she had been the one who urged her date to go to Russia for a big break in his career, but it still hurt that he’d left nonetheless.

As the clocks hit midnight, the couples around you cheered and began embracing each other. Connor pulled you flush against him and kissed you deeply, and you couldn’t help but grin into him when he skimmed his fingers down your side, tickling you slightly. Your hands cradled his jaw as if he were made of fine china, inching to the back of his neck to lace together.

You pulled away, breathless, just in time to turn and see Joey exasperatedly grab Chandler’s face and plant a firm kiss on his lips to shut him up about being forever alone.

Nora Bing was a delight, despite Chandler’s vehement difference of opinion. 

She was confident, a good conversationalist, and often divulged a bit too much information than needed, which made for a rather entertaining evening. She was a pretty popular erotica writer, and though you haven’t had the chance to pick up any of her books yourself, you’ve heard it to be rather… raunchy.

The entire group was out at a fancy Chinese restaurant, and she had asked you to bring your ‘little boy toy’ as she had called Connor. 

You sat between him and Chandler, with Nora being on the other side, and Joey across from you. 

Soon after you arrived, Rachel and Paolo rushed in, looking disheveled. 

“Hi, sorry we’re late. We kinda lost track of time,” the brunette said, breathless. Paolo was kissing down her neck from behind her and you had to resist the urge to gag. Down the table, you could see Ross discretely fist the tablecloth so tight his knuckles turned white.

The two sat down, and the food arrived shortly after. You shared a dish with Connor, who placed a warm hand on your knee.

“Mrs. Bing, I have to tell you, I’ve read everything you’ve written!” said Rachel as she fed Paolo a prawn cracker. His tongue dragged down her hand and the rest of the group watched in disturbed, awkward silence. “I mean it! When I read Euphoria at Midnight, all I wanted to do was become a writer.”

“Please,” the blonde woman smiled at the compliment, “if I could do it, anybody can! You just start with half a dozen European cities, throw in thirty euphemisms for male genitalia, and bam! You’ve got yourself a book!”

From beside her, Chandler gagged around a soup dumpling, pounding his chest. “My mother, ladies and gentlemen,” he hacked out.

Amiable chatter filled the rest of the dinner—Phoebe was telling a story about a homeless man that once chased her in the street wearing a full-body chicken suit, Joey filled Nora in with his upcoming auditions, and you and Connor told the group about what you’ve been up to at work. 

Both Nora and Ross had excused themselves to go to the bathroom, and you looked to Joey with a soft smile.

“How are your auditions going, Jo? Do you need any help practicing your scenes? You know I always love doing those with you,” you said, pulling a small plate of wantons towards you. 

“Oh, no, it’s fine—they’re more solo acts than anything,” he reassured, before falling quiet once more.

It was your turn to choke on your noodles when Connor’s hand began inching up your thigh. Irrational panic cramped your insides. 

Concerned, Monica asked, “Are you okay, sweetie?”

“I, uh… need to go to the bathroom.” Abruptly, you stood up from your seat, face practically set aflame. Connor’s hand fell away from your leg, but he stood up as well. “No, uhm, I’ll just be a second—you can stay here.”

As you rushed to the back of the restaurant where the bathrooms were, you were driven further into a mess when you saw Ross and Chandler’s mom making out against the wall, making obscene, porn-like noises.

You were just about to turn and leave when you saw Joey right behind you, concerned gaze fixed on you. “I was just makin’ sure you were alright, you looked a little—” He cut himself off when he looked back and saw Ross and Nora. “Oh, my God!”

The two sprang away from each other, staring wide-eyed at you and Joey. 

“We’ll, uh… just go pee in the street!” you uttered in an abnormally squeaky tone, grabbing Joey’s arm and yanking him away from the bathrooms.

When you returned to the table, Connor smiled at you kindly, but there was a glimmer of apologetic worry behind his hazel irises. 

“That was quick,” he commented. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah—no. I don’t know,” you whispered, still a little shell-shocked.

Lowering his voice, he leaned closer to you. “Was it about me touching you? If it was, I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have done that and I should’ve asked if you were comfortable with it first—”

“Oh, Connor, it’s fine! That wasn’t what I was worrying about, I promise.”

With a sigh of relief, Connor nodded. “You’ll tell me if something’s wrong, right?”

“Yeah,” you replied distantly, glancing towards Joey, who’d been boring holes into you the entire time since you got back. “Of course I will.”

Early the next morning, you knocked on Joey’s door, greeted by him wrapped in a bathrobe and his dark hair a disheveled mess.

“Hey,” you said with a warm smile. “I brought you some croissants from that bakery down the street.”

With a grin, he took the bag from you and inhaled deeply, groaning. “Thanks, Y/N, these smell amazing.”

“So, uh, about yesterday…”

You were about to bring up Ross and Nora, but Joey asked before you could, “Was Connor bothering you?”

The mention of your doe-eyed partner made you rear back in shock. “What? No! I mean… he did kinda touch me in a suggestive way and I was just surprised, was all. He’s really great, but…”

“But?”

“I don’t know! Being in a relationship is terrifying,” you huffed, leaning against his kitchen table.

There was a beat of silence. “You guys are in a relationship?”

“Well, we haven’t really made anything official, but I think we are,” you said.

“Oh.” Joey swallowed heavily. “Don’t worry about it too much, okay? Just do whatever makes you happy. I… we’ll always be here for you. I’m one of your best friends, remember?”

Worrying on your bottom lip, you quietly murmured, “Lately it just hasn’t been feeling that way.”

Joey’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean—there’s like this sort of weird tension between us. Do you not like Connor or something? Or is it something that I did? Because you know I love you, Jo—I’d never do anything to hurt you on purpose.”

A troubled expression melded over his features. He shook his head. “You didn’t do anything—and Connor’s great for you! Nothing’s wrong, I promise. I’ve just been in a weird funk—but things are gonna go back to normal soon, I swear.”

“Oh, Jo,” you whispered, pushing off the table and stepping closer to him. Gently, you wrapped your arms around him in a warm embrace and he returned the hug immediately, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I care about you a lot, you know?”

Before he could respond, there was another knock at the door. You let go of him so Joey could answer it. 

Ross was standing behind, looking distraught.

“Oh, good, Y/N you’re here too. Is Chandler in there?” 

“Yeah, he’s sleeping,” replied Joey.

At the confirmation, Ross grabbed the two of you and yanked you out of the apartment, much to both of your dismay.

“Okay, about last night, you know,” Ross began, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “You guys didn’t tell Chandler, did you?”

With a sigh, both of you shook your heads. 

“Great, because I’m thinking… we don’t need to tell Chandler, right? It was just a kiss—just one kiss, it was no big deal. Right?”

“Right, no big deal,” said Joey. “In Bizarro-World!”

Disappointed, you prodded Ross in the shoulder, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You broke the code!”

“What code?”

“You don’t kiss your friend’s mom!” you said, a bit too loudly, which made Ross shush you with paranoid glances back to the apartment. 

Joey nodded his agreement. “Sisters are okay. Maybe a hot aunt, but moms? Never a mom! They’re off limits.”

It was then that the door swung open again, and Chandler appeared, yawning. 

“What’re you guys doin’ out here?” he asked as he bent down to pick up the newspaper on the doorstep. 

“Uh, the three of us had discussed getting in an early morning racquetball game!” squeaked Ross, before gesturing to Joey. “But apparently somebody overslept!”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have your racquet,” Joey shot back. 

Scratching the back of his neck, Ross nodded. “No, uh, no I don’t. It’s being restrung. Y/N was supposed to bring me one!”

You blinked in surprise. “Yeah, I, uhm, you forgot to call me yesterday and tell me what kind you wanted! So many different racquets to choose from, you know?”

Chandler rubbed his eyes sleepily. “You guys are spending way too much time together,” he quipped, before turning on his heel and heading back inside, closing the door behind him.

“I’m scum,” lamented Ross once Chandler was out of earshot.

“How could you do that to him?” you hissed lowly.

Ross threw his hands up. “I don’t know! It’s not like she’s a regular mom, you know? She’s sexy, she’s—”

“What, you don’t think my mom’s sexy?” asked Joey. 

“Well… sure, but in a different way.”

Joey scowled. “I’ll have you know, Gloria Tribbiani was a handsome woman in her day, alright? You think it’s easy giving birth to seven children?”

“I think your mom’s beautiful, Jo.”

“Why, thank you. See, no wonder she keeps saying you’re her favorite—”

Ross blew out a frustrated huff. “Alright, I think we’re getting a little off topic here.”

From the opposite side of the hall, the door swung open to reveal Rachel and a barely-dressed Paolo. 

“Hey, what’re you guys doing out here?” she asked, clearly in a chipper mood.

“Not playing racquetball,” you hummed in a glib tone, shooting Ross a dagger-sharp look.

A little confused, Rachel nodded, but didn’t care enough to ask more about it, leading Paolo out of the apartment and heading up the stairs to kiss him goodbye.

The three of you filed into Monica’s apartment. “Are you gonna tell him?” Joey asked. “You can’t just lie to him forever.”

“Why would I tell him?” asked Ross as he fished a carton of orange juice out of Monica’s fridge.

“Maybe because if you don’t, his mom might?” you chimed, cocking a brow. 

“Oh, God. Oh, man—you’re right. I have to tell him.”

With Chandler seated and Ross standing in front of him, you and Joey lingered in their kitchen as you listened in to their conversation. 

“You’re my best friend. I had to tell you,” said Ross, which made you roll your eyes. 

“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe Paolo kissed my mom! I mean, I barely saw him leave Rachel’s side that night!” Chandler said in disbelief.

Joey crossed his arms and glared at Ross. Guilt welled up in your long-time friend’s face, and he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

“Alright, no, I can’t do this. I was the one who kissed your mom. I’m sorry.”

Shocked, Chandler got to his feet. “What?” he asked, jaw unhinging. 

Stammering, Ross began to explain, “I was just really upset about Rachel and Paolo and I had too much tequila in my system and Nora—uhm, Mrs. Mom—I mean, your Bing, was… she was just being nice, you know? But nothing happened, I swear. Ask Y/N and Joey—”

Rounding on the two of you in the kitchen, Chandler asked incredulously, “You guys knew about this?”

“Uh… well, knowledge is a tricky thing,” Joey began to cough out.

“I spent the entire day with you!” gruffed Chandler. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Defensively, Joey retorted, “Hey, you’re lucky we caught them when we did, or else who knows what would’ve happened!”

“Not helping!” barked Ross.

A muscle jumped in Chandler’s jaw. “And you, Y/N? We spent the rest of that night together and you didn’t say a single word! Too busy making googly eyes at your boyfriend?”

“Don’t bring Connor into this,” you bristled, glaring knives into all three of them. “Listen, Chandler, I obviously wanted to tell you, but it wasn’t mine to tell. Ross had to own up to his mistakes and tell you himself.”

Lifting a finger, Ross said, “Mistake—as in, not plural. Just one. It was just one kiss—okay, I’ll shut up now.”

“I can’t believe this. What the hell were you thinking?” admonished Chandler. “Of all my friends, no one knows the crap I go through with my mom more than you. I can’t believe you!”

Despite Ross’ desperate attempts to get Chandler to hear him out, he turned tail and made his way out of the apartment, slamming the door on the way.

“See what happens when you break the code?” Joey huffed, before rushing out to catch up to Chandler. 

You sighed, slumping against the kitchen counter. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Ross said, making his way to you.

“I shouldn’t be the one you’re apologizing to,” came your stout reply. You fixed Ross with a pointed look. “I know you’re hurting over Rachel right now, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that you’re hurting others, too. Give Chandler some time to mull it over, and then talk to him again. Okay?”

Ross pursed his lips. “Okay.” He slung an arm over you, pulling you into a side-hug. “Say, what were you doing with Joey so early in the morning?”

Your cheeks flushed with a surge of heat, and you ducked your head. “We had some things to talk about.”

Dubious, Ross narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say anything in response.

Later that night, you were sitting beside Connor, who was engaged in a lively conversation with Joey—something about how waffles were really just the ugly, older sister of pancakes. You were glad to see them finally getting along, despite the initial awkward stage.

Chandler walked in, sinking into the empty spot beside Connor, asking him how he was doing.

When Ross opened his mouth to speak, Chandler held up a finger. “I was asking Connor, not you, mother-kisser.”

Much to Ross’ dismay, Joey burst out into raucous laughter, which left Connor confused.

“I’m doing great,” your boyfriend replied, evidently puzzled. “How about you?”

Before Chandler had the chance to reply, Ross sat up straight. “Can I just say something? I know you’re still mad at me, I just wanna say that there were two people there that night, okay? There were two sets of lips!”

“What’s going on?” Connor dipped forward to whisper into your ear. The smile melted off of Joey’s face. 

You twisted to mumble back, “Ross kissed Chandler’s mom.”

Connor’s eyes widened, and he nodded in understanding before settling back to watch the two hash it out.

“Yes, well, I expected this from her, okay?” retorted Chandler. “She’s always been a Freudian nightmare.”

“If she always behaves like this, why don’t you say something?” Ross postulated. 

“Because it’s complicated! It’s complex! Hey, you kissed my mom!” Chandler exclaimed loudly, which made some of the other people in the cafe stop and stare at the two. You sank lower into your seat.

Placing a hand on Chandler’s chest, Ross said, “Hey, you have every right to be angry at me and I’m still really sorry. But you’re not gonna talk to her at all and tell her how you feel about all this?”

“Look, just because you played tonsil tennis with my mom doesn’t mean you know her!”

“I might not, but I still think you need to let her know that you’re upset with her, Chandler.” 

Chandler’s face hardened as he considered Ross’ words. With a stiff nod, he stepped away from the taller man, waving goodbye to the three of you on the couches, before heading out to presumably talk to his mother.

“Well,” you said, rubbing your hands together. “I think that’s my cue to head back home.”

“Let me walk you home,” said Connor, gently grasping your chin between his thumb and forefinger before dipping forward to kiss you, all soft and sweet. You pulled away to press another quick kiss to his cheek, then swiftly got up from the couches, his hand intertwined with yours. 

Ross watched as Joey barely said goodbye to you and Connor, his expression tight and closed-off.

When both you and Connor were long gone, Ross turned to Joey.

“You’re in love with Y/N, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

Joey’s head snapped up so quickly that it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash. His eyes widened a fraction. “What?”

“You are,” said Ross. “I can see it in your face. It’s written all over you.”

The Italian shook his head vehemently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Y/N’s my best friend.”

“Yeah, sure. One that you’re in love with!”

“Well, how would you know, huh?” Joey crossed his arms, panic coiling within his gut. 

Exhaling, Ross lowered his voice, muttering out, “Because that’s how I look at Rachel… and that’s how I feel when I see Rachel with Paolo.”

A second of silence passed before Joey cuffed Ross on the shoulder, laughing. “You’re a funny guy, Ross. Just because you’ve gone and fallen in love with Rachel doesn’t mean Y/N and I are the same. You got it all wrong—Y/N’s like my sibling, if anything!” 

“You sure?” 

Joey sank his teeth into his bottom lip. “Positive.”

Ross couldn’t tell if his friend was telling the truth, or if he was just a really good actor.

[wombywoo]

Bling, favorite, and alternate please 🥰🥰 these ones look fun!!

thank you for asking 😚<3

bling: What jewelry does your OC wear? Does it have any meaning?

Quinn...doesn't wear jewelry, at least not often enough. He has a few earrings that he'll put in *for occasions* but other than that, he's not a bling kinda guy.

Vincent has some nice rings and necklaces--although he also only wears them for occasions, or if they go with a particular outfit. Sometimes he likes to flash his vintage gold cross just to combat the stereotype, lol

favorite: Does your OC have a favorite article of clothing or accessory? What is it? What's the meaning behind it? Do they wear it all the time or do they wear it sparingly to keep it safe?

Quinn has a favorite lumpy zip-up hoodie that he throws over everything on cold mornings. He got it cheap at a sports direct, and it's just standard gray, unremarkable, and fairly worn, but it's his most comfortable item and he's grown rather attached to it for whatever reason.

Vincent cherishes his vintage leather biker jacket and he's kept it in mint condition for decades. He got it in the 60s and it became part of his signature look for a while. It's brown, fleece interior, classic, fits him perfectly. Unfortunately for him, Quinn's started 'borrowing' it occasionally, but it's fine because he looks cute in it 😤

alternate: What would your OC's alternate universe look be? If they're a fantasy character, what's their modern look? If they're sci-fi, what's their fantasy look? What AU would you want to see your OC in, and how would they dress themself? Bonus: Prompt an AU!

I...honestly haven't thought about them in an AU setting asdfghjk. But if I had to visualize them in a fantasy realm, I can see Vincent in something regal and dramatic (dark red cape, tight-fitted pants, glossy boots, a sword✨) and Quinn in something more rugged (brown vest, chunky boots, dirt galore) lol

[verfound]

MINIFIC: Oct. 23: Day 1: Autumn (MLB, Lukanette, DLM AU)

...I was gonna do these, and then I wasn't gonna do em, and then work life flipped off creative life and here I am, joining the fun at @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers's late. Using the Ghostober 2021 prompts here. Just having fun. 👀

Read on A03

To Feel Alive Again: Day 1: Autumn

A chill breeze whispered through the street, nipping at the edges of exposed skin peeking out from coats and scarves.  Marinette pulled her own coat – a lumpy, gray thing she had lifted off a reap a few weeks back – and tried not to scowl.

She used to love this time of year.  Before.

The changing of the seasons meant a new wardrobe.  Layers of material, vibrant splashes of color, boots and hats and scarves – so many accessories.  She used to have the cutest peacoat, made from a deep burgundy wool that always kept her warm on the coldest fall days.  She had embroidered a swirl of leaves around the hem in a rich gold thread, and she had even found golden buttons shaped like maple leaves to line the front.  She had been so proud of that coat.  She’d lived in it every fall for years.

…she hadn’t died in it, though.

She’d died in the spring.

When it was too warm for such a heavy coat.

She supposed it was funny, in a way.  Before, the fall – a season marked by death – had always brought a new life to her, but the spring – the season for life and renewal – had brought with it her death.

Now she saw it everywhere.

It was hard to love things anymore.  In the After.

“You’re still allowed to love things,” Théo had said, not unkindly, one morning over breakfast.  It was a rare moment of seriousness for him, and if she hadn’t been in such a foul mood she might have appreciated it.  Instead, she hunkered down deeper in the gray coat she hated and stared – glared – out the window.  She hummed, not really agreeing or disagreeing.  She didn’t see the way Luka glanced up at her from his coffee, a small frown playing at the edges of his mouth.

She did see the large, chunky sweater folded on the foot of her bed when she came home a week later, though.

“…Fred, what…did you leave this here?” she called, her hands trembling as she held the sweater up.  It was obviously handmade – not as good as she could make, but absolutely perfect in its little imperfections.  The stitches pulled just a little too tight or a little too loose, the slightly uneven ribbing along the neck, the braiding that hadn’t been blocked properly zigzagging down the front…it spoke of time, and care, and things Marinette hadn’t let herself think about in far too long.  And it was soft, the yarn used to make it obviously high quality.  She knew just how much a sweater like this would cost – more than she could dream of affording these days, when she was still struggling to hold down an after-death job.

“Hmm?” Fred called, popping his head in the room.  When he saw the sweater, his eyebrows lifted.  “Ah, that?  No, it wasn’t me.  Luka dropped it off while you were out.  Said something about pink suiting you?”

Marinette’s head jerked up, surprised, but Fred was just smiling at you.

“You’re still allowed to love things, Marinette,” he said, inclining his head towards her.  “You’re still allowed to feel.”

She looked back at the sweater, her lips pursed and her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed, and didn’t answer.  Fred sighed and flipped his hat onto his head, nodding at her.

“I’m off,” he said, tipping his hat at her.  “Make sure you eat tonight, kid, all right?

…he probably hadn’t meant a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of macarons, but as she hunkered down in the nicest sweater she had ever worn and watched her old favorite sappy movie on the cracked tv…well.

At least when you’re dead you don’t have to worry about calories.

[the-tired-commander]

Chunky Pepsi Drinker continues his adventures around Tyria! He's bringing the worst possible food to anyone he can <3

Bonus

Lumpy Pepsi Drinker chicken violence

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #37 - Twenty-Minute Tuesday #5

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please enjoy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to The Frank Program.” Frank took a pull from his vape and blew it out onto the microphone. “You hear that? That’s the sound of freedom. But the government doesn’t want you to have access to Sticky Maple Peanut Butter THC/CBD/NCT/CBT E-Juice! Right, Daryl?”

Daryl nodded. He had patchy burned splotches on his skin.

“That’s right. They’re banning all the good flavors because it ‘encourages children to vape more.’ Ridiculous.” He took another pull from his vape and started coughing. “God damn that tastes delicious. I couldn’t enjoy myself so much if I had to vape that smoke-flavored crap. So that’s why Daryl and me cooked up something special, and I’m happy to share our recipe with ya, America, because that’s what a good radio host does.”

“Podcast…” Daryl said with a small voice.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘podcast host,’ whatever. Same difference. The point is, we got a big cauldron from some kinda forest witch at the Home Depot parking lot, and we loaded it up with ingredients. Make sure you listen close, because if you don’t, you might have some problems.” He glared at Daryl, who cowered on his wooden stool in the corner. “First, get a jar of peanut butter. Smooth kind, not lumpy or crunchy or chunky or what-have-you, just smooth or you’ll clog your atomizer. Put a whole jar in there. Then, a bottle of your finest grade B maple syrup.”

“They don’t have grade B anymore, it’s all grade A with different levels of -”

“Goddamn it, Daryl, you know that don’t make no goddamn sense! There has to be another grade or grades ain’t even a thing!”

“But they changed -”

“Don’t argue with me, boy!” Frank took another puff to relax. “Right, you pour the syrup on in. Next step is you get one of those tea infusers with the metal basket and fill it with tobacco and Mary Jane. Chuck that in too. Next step, a gallon of propylene glycol. And after that, the most important step, which you do not want to get wrong! It’s a gallon of vegetable glycerin. VEGETABLE, Daryl!”

“I thought nitro meant it would go faster.”

“It did go faster, it went faster enough to burn through yer damn left eyebrow, ya idiot!”

“I’m sorry, Pa.”

“Hey man, it’s your fuckup. I don’t care. But to the listeners out there, uh… listening: the recipe is fantastic.” He took one more puff and choked on a chunk of peanut. Between coughs, he managed to say, “this has been… The Frank Program… Thank you for letting me be Frank with you!” He collapsed to the floor, wheezing.

[sumiblue]

(pictured: HE <3)

I bought a little aloe plant today.

Every place we lived in when I was growing up had aloe plants, so it seemed a natural and easy choice for my first houseplant in my first flat. The plant display in the Co-Op is right next to the door, so I picked it up, chunky green arms trailing over the pot, and placed it in my basket, carrying it with me while I got my other lumpy, hefty items. Do you see what Problems May Arise from this course of action. Me too, but I did it anyway because I was simply too nervous to do the unthinkable; shattering checkout line normalcy to go, “Oh, one moment” and dashing to get it then. My timidness cost my juicy friend a couple of his limbs, but he’s home now, on my rather bare bookshelf, green and alive. I love him to bits (...of aloe in my shopping bag) and he’s only been here for 10 hours. I keep going over to his corner, introducing him to his new environment and telling him how lovely he his. So far it had been amusing to verbally greet my living room furniture every morning, but it’s a different delight to now natter on about any and everything to this living being who might be hearing me. It scratches that itch to use one’s voice for connection. I have to keep reminding myself, though, that he’s not a new interlocutor, and my search for fulfilling connections should continue.

Loneliness, like aloe plants, has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, though living on my own for the past 3 months has definitely given it a different texture. Not worse, not better, just different. It’s probably due to an amalgamation of a few things. Moving across the Atlantic. The accumulated lessons learned and experiences from 30 years of being alive. Probably not the multi-year worldwide health emergency though...Oh wait.

I imagine most of us have seen article after article about how extended self-isolation during the pandemic has shone a light on how lonely a lot of us are, if it hadn’t caused it in itself. My mum shared an article with me this week, which talks about the fact that, for the very lonely, the solution may not be finding company with other people.

Loneliness isn't just about not being around people. It's been said numerous times that the pandemic and lockdown gave many of us the chance to really examine our relationships. We were forced to be still and listen to ourselves for once, and became more aware of what we were (or weren't) getting out of the socializing we habitually engaged in. I think, in many cases, we realized that while we had company, we weren’t experiencing connection. We started to crave it deeply, and were stymied in our attempts to fill that void because oops, outside could kill you. However, going out to find connections isn’t the solution for everyone, like the article says. Maybe in your stillness you discovered that spending time alone was precisely what you needed, and you started learning how to connect with your Self. Filling your own void. Self-love is healthy! We each have to figure out what fills that gap for our individual puzzles, whether it's solitude, company, a different type of company, etc.

I wonder also if this massive awareness of our own loneliness is sometimes misconstrued with the feeling of grief. Change leads to loss, and if we’ve experienced changing perceptions of our relationships, our selves and our social fulfilment needs, we’re bound to be thrown into a turbulent twisting uncomfortable storm of emotions. And here we’re back to sitting in self reflection innit, asking ourselves, is the name for this storm loneliness? Grief? Both? I don’t think they’re entirely separate, but it may help to identify where you are so you can figure out where to go.

Personally, I do think that my puzzle piece is painted with other people, particularly with shiny deeper connections. Having been isolated for a few years, I’ve found I do need that external input from even light interaction to remember that I am not uniquely horrible but am in fact, in a human general sense, pretty okay! I feel it in the shared frustration with the pensioners at the bus stop because the big blue bastard (affectionate) is 20 minutes late again. I feel it when the cashier wags their finger at me and says “Silly little girl, you must have confused this Appleton’s Rum for apple juice. ID please and thank you.”* In these brief little moments, I get reminded that people Exist. We just Are. We are all complicated and flawed and still wonderful. Not gonna lie though, finding and making those rare closer connections would be fucking fantastic. People around whom I can feel like I’m not the Only One. Unmask with me baybee.

But as a very temporary stop-gap measure, my darling precious aloe boy suits me fine.

*An exaggeration but it fuckin’ felt like this

[firespirited]

Just wanted to let folks know that big dick energy for most has nothing to do with actual size (or even having a bio penis), small dick energy for most has nothing to do with actual size even though the wording needs some reworking (IMHO it's terrible shorthand for bad in bed)

In fact, you could argue andrew tate's penis was so big he tripped all over it.

Yes There are a few size queens/kings who are usually judgmental about the rest of the body too. People whose ideas have been warped by pron and airbrushing.

But for the vast majority of people, normal people who get the spark from conversation or a shared eye roll at a social event (not the types who swipe for the perfect model) are NOT interested in a set series of criteria for your genitals, you can test the waters early on by saying you feel some anxiety, if they listen and react correctly that's a good sign and anything else is a sign they're not for you.

If you are trying to be a good person, there are people out there who are going to love you, all of you and treasure your genitals because you're an attentive lover and that makes you fantastic in bed.

It doesn't matter if your genitals are small, chunky, lumpy, thick, floppy, soft, wonky, wrinkly, cold, unusual, gendered, scarred...

They will call them by words that make you feel sexy and confident, they will touch you in ways that make you feel respected and wanted. So much so that when the world tries to insult your genitals, a small secret smile will cross your face.

We might not get rid of the catchy "big dick/small dick" energy in the next five years but that's really not what most people are thinking about when they imagine a good lover.

And most of all, it's not what most people value : intimacy is trust, it's being able to have fun and be honest and vulnerable, and it's about wanting to make your partner feel happy and comfortable with you. Your genitals will be loved and sexy because they're yours.

[lexdrabbles]

Thought You Should Know

Hi! Happy New Year! I promise I didn’t abandon this fic, life just got REALLY in the way. Alternatively: Yes There Is A Third Chapter To This Fic. Remember how I said it’s built around a dream? No? Well, it is. Here you go. Please enjoy: Son Boy Comfort Ultimate.

Word count: 3,684 (Chapter 3)

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Ship: Love Square (Mainly Adrinette)

Warnings: None

Read on AO3

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2)

Chapter 3: A Consideration of Everything that is Right and Wrong in The World

Chat Noir’s first akuma after making the discovery was… well. To say it was harsh would be an understatement.

It was the end of the day, but they had still been at school. Adrien would not have known what to do with himself if he had been home. He felt like a bit of a delinquent: Nino, Alya and Marinette had talked him into skipping fencing to go to the cinema with them and watch the first showing of a movie Nino had been raving about for months. He got Kagami to cover for him and everything had been going to plan until that point, but then again why should he ever get to have nice things? He was pretty sure that was not allowed.

As soon as the first ball of slime splashed and stuck to the courtyard floor, the group exchanged looks and a quick “meet back at the theater” before running to hide separately. Nino bolted upstairs to the classrooms, Alya and Marinette ran into a bathroom; he quickly ducked into a broom closet and transformed, ready to get the whole thing over with as soon as he could. He was trying really, really hard not to think.

The akuma’s… suit? Whatever they were wearing— it was really ugly. It looked like a crafts store had thrown up on them: they were covered in the same indescribable-colored slime (purple? Orange? Blue? Brown? All of the above?) their projectiles seemed to be made of, embedded with every imaginable shade of little balls and beads and glitter, and what looked like random bits of plastic. They also had a pair of huge, chunky, bright hot pink headphones. They had leaped into the middle of the courtyard almost right as Chat Noir emerged from his hiding spot, and their voice was a loud, grating whisper.

“Come on out, children! Don’t you want to look at all the pretty slime mixing together?”

“Has anyone ever told you you have a terrible fashion sense?” He clocked the figure in the back with his baton and sent them flying off like a weird, lumpy baseball straight into the locker rooms, leaving a thin strand of purple-green goo stuck to the end that made contact.

They kicked out the double doors and exited looking even more scrambled than before, the slime over their body shifting and writhing.

“It’s not about fashion, street cat, it’s about the feeling!" They shot a ball of slime out of their extended palm and Chat jumped out of the way just a fraction of a second too late; it caught on his right hand and dragged him back fully before sticking (hand included) to the wall behind him with a gross squelch.

“You’d think a fashion designer would have better judgment” he muttered, using all the anger stirring within him to struggle against the sticky, glittery substance (why on earth was it warm? Actually, scratch that. He did not want to know). The villain approached him at a stalking pace, absolutely convinced they had Chat right where they wanted him.

“One down, one to—” A loud creak rang out from behind them and they stopped in their tracks. Chat Noir could not resist looking at the wall across the courtyard and saw Alya peeking out of the bathroom. As his friend’s eyes widened, the villain followed Chat Noir’s line of sight: they turned around just in time to catch the slightest glimpse of her head popping back in before shutting the door again. The akumatized pile of slime turned back to him and contorted its face in what could only be described as a smooshed smirk.

“Be right back, kitty cat”. They seemed to eye him up and down before taking off in the opposite direction, running toward the bathroom door with slime projectiles at the ready.

The bathroom where Marinette was hiding.

“You kids should subscribe to The Whisperer!”

… And Alya— where Marinette and Alya were hiding. Both of them.

He was barely using his brain when he finally yelled “Cataclysm!” —perhaps louder than he may have wanted to—, immediately dissolving the goo on his right hand into a foul-smelling pile of ash. He saw the Whisperer flinch halfway through the courtyard as the tips of a butterfly-shaped mask lit up at the front of their face —where eyes should have been— and peeked out at the sides of their head. That gave Chat the moment he needed to leap after them and trip them with his extended baton; using it once again like a golf club to swing the slimy form the other way and entirely out of the gates of Collège Françoise Dupont.

He gave the bathroom door a knowing smile and a nod, partly wishing Marinette knew - knew that her help and her kindness and her friendship did not go uncompensated. That he planned on making her feel as safe as he did with her. Him and Ladybug would make sure she was protected.

He stopped in his tracks at the school door, watching as the Whisperer still struggled to get a hold of their slimy form. Where was Ladybug, anyway? As used as he had gotten to villains being dealt with in minutes, with new heroes popping up seemingly out of thin air before he could even get to the team, he had been fighting alone for several minutes now, with no signs of backup to be seen.

Had she found out somehow?

This was no moment to get in his own head, but after the humanoid slime being reformed, every attack got harder and harder to dodge or counter. What if she had? It was ridiculous. It was not as if she could just know (about his horrible, awful, selfish choice to keep quiet) and have decided to leave him to fend for himself. How would she? And even if she somehow had, how would she know it had anything to do with Chat Noir? His mind offered terrible excuses, each one worse than the last, for why the worst-case scenarios were not so far-fetched— Maybe she has known it was me all along, maybe she just hates me that much . The longer she was not there, the more difficult it got for him to keep the Whisperer in check. He had no idea how much time went by, but when he noticed, he had just barely dragged the villain out on the rooftops and was dodging slime projectiles by the skin of his teeth. He had been feeling better, he had started to actually let himself go through this, reassured himself it was only temporary, that he was doing his best with the situation. Where had it gone all of a sudden?

Before he even had time to begin formulating a hurtful answer to his own questions, he felt himself be lightly lifted and whisked up into the air.

He had not let himself realize how much he was looking forward to seeing her until she was zipping him masterfully away from the fight.

Ladybug put him down on solid ground- what looked like the back of a store with enough going on to hide out for a moment. He must have been staring, because her expression went from concentration to worry in a second.

“Are you okay?” She grabbed his right hand and looked at his ring as the second paw pad blinked off (had he missed the first one?).

He quickly tried to fall back on their established dynamic. It was easy, it was familiar, it was what worked . “All good. Thanks for that, my Lady, that one was a whisker away from getting me” except that the pun was as dry as sandpaper in his mouth and sounded all wrong; his least practiced smile felt off and did not reach his eyes, as much as he tried (he had never had to try before. Not for her).

She looked him up and down with concern and clocked a bruised cheek and a still-slime-stained arm. “I am so sorry Chat, I got held up transforming and then I had to track you down, and—”

“Bugaboo” he interrupted, planting both hands on her shoulders (like Marinette had done to him when he had started spiraling). She was there and she was worried, and she was apologizing for some wild, unfathomable reason. “I’m okay. Really”.

It was true that it had been a while since he had to fight one of those things alone. The same little voice in his head that kept pushing for him to actually think instead of just playing video games all day demanded that he take the apology; just this once. He had recently begun teaching himself to listen to it.

Ladybug breathed in and sighed in an attempt to relax into Chat’s reassuring gesture, but their regrouping session was cut short by loud, approaching splats .

“Let’s just do this, okay?” She spoke looking in his direction but did not once look into his eyes. “You and me, like it’s always been.” She smiled and it was one of the saddest he had ever seen on her. He wanted to ask, but knew there was no time.

He held his baton like one would a sword and they settled into a hurried fighting stance. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

The fight was unusually quiet —On the heroes’ side, at least. The Whisperer would not shut up and their voice felt like it was just short of sanding their eardrums down to dust—. They communicated only in short phrases, looks and the occasional hand gesture. You could have cut the tension with a knife, and the living slime’s irritating remarks (“you just need to relax and listen to my voice”, “feeling the tingles yet?”, “maybe some slime will help you calm down!”) did nothing but add insult to injury. Chat was trying so hard to be in sync with Ladybug, to fall into the usual lull of battle, and he could see she was trying, too, but it just did not come. Everything about the fight was off— every move was mechanical; every tactic, strained. When she called her Lucky Charm, he had to keep himself from physically flinching.

They were done with the akuma faster than expected, but it took everything out of them— The fight was over, and nothing was fine.

The victim (some poor failed YouTuber named Ethan) insisted he could get home by himself and left the heroes alone to part ways. After a fist bump that felt as routine and hollow as everything else in the past few minutes, Chat extended his baton and began to turn around to leave before feeling a hand wrap around his wrist.

“Wait. Can we talk for a bit?” Ladybug looked up at him, and he was reminded why he could never say no to those wide, honest blue eyes. Even if she looked worried and he did not think going there was a good idea.

She pulled both of them into an empty backstreet between two nearby buildings, secluded enough that it guaranteed privacy. And she asked the question he had been fearing that entire time.

“What’s wrong?”

He could not even bring himself to say it was nothing. He just looked at the ground and fiddled with the tail end of his belt. He knew he had to say something, anything, to explain himself and his pathetic performance, but his throat stayed locked shut as he did his best to fight back the incipient prickling at the back of his eyes.

“That bad?” Her voice was not mocking or admonishing as he had expected. It was soft. There was something there that knew, on some level, what he was going through. She took a step closer to him and he tried to look up at her, but got no further than her shoulders; the tips of her pigtails messily falling over them.

“We could recharge and talk about it, if you want.” He watched as she raised a hand and placed it, gently, over his shoulder. He wanted to step back, to keep her at a distance, but he could not react fast enough, and it was too late.

He melted right then and there.

“I’m sorry, Ladybug, I am so sorry!” All his defenses broke and tears flowed down his face all at once, like they had been accumulating behind a dam.

“Chat, you don’t—”

“I failed you, I basically lied to you! I can’t even— I—” He could not have stopped himself from letting everything out for her to see if he had wanted to (he did not, and perhaps that was the worst part of it all).

The tears stung at his eyes and nose, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, grabbing at him desperately. “What do you mean? Chat? Are you okay? Chat, your miraculous, it’s—!”

He could not pay attention to a word she was saying as his legs gave out under him and he fell on the rough cement ground, barely registering the fuzz of magic washing over his body, leaving him exposed to her sight. He squeezed his eyes shut and wiped them furiously with his hands, maybe even trying, on some level, to conceal his face. He looked at the ground, the tears giving way to a wave of dry, exhausted anger.

“I could have ended this days ago. I— I should have done it,” he sobbed, “and I didn’t.”

Ladybug made no sound as she continued to tower over him, feet frozen as if nailed to the floor.

Adrien rubbed at his eyes again and made sure they could stay open. They did not sting anymore; instead, they just felt heavy. He used all the strength he had left in him to look up at her, to look directly into her eyes.

“I know who he is, Ladybug. I found out Shadow Moth’s identity.”

In her expression, he could see nothing but deep pain. He could not hold her gaze.

He did not know why she remained quiet. She did not yell at him, she did not leave. She stayed as he laid kneeling on the ground, looking at the gray cement under his knees, and spoke. He told her his story. He fidgeted with the ring on his right hand as he talked about the study, and the glint of the peacock miraculous and the book and how it had made his chest hurt. He began crying when he recounted how big of an idiot he had been the first time his father became the Collector. He had been so close, they had been so close, and if he had just used his brain instead of letting his affection-starved little dumbass heart fool him into thinking that maybe his father actually loved him, maybe, just maybe… he could have… he…

His throat locked up again and he wanted to tear his hair out, to compress himself into a minuscule marble and be launched onto the surface of the sun. He wanted to melt into the ground and rip the streets of Paris apart and swing his father into the Eiffel tower like a baseball and scream until the farthest reaches of the universe could feel his pain. All he managed was for the tears to burn their way down his cheeks again.

He did not see so much as feel Ladybug throwing herself on the ground in front of him, and through the stinging salt in his eyes he managed to see her.

She was crying, too. Shaking her head and grabbing at his shoulders again.

“Stop it. Adrien, stop that right now. This isn’t— you’re not—”

She cupped his face in her hands and wiped his tears away, even though they kept flowing and flowing out of his eyes. “Just… stop it, okay?” He did not understand why she was crying, why she insisted. He shook his head and tried to remove her hands, but they were so soft, and the tears hurt so much, he ended up holding them instead. He looked at her, concerned, empathetic, painfully kind, and let himself fantasize about a world where he was not so selfish; where he deserved her. She just kept him close. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

And she hugged him. It seemed like something impossible and wrong and like everything that was right with this messed up world they were living in when Ladybug hugged Adrien Agreste and held him tight like he was the most precious thing she had ever laid hands on. He closed his eyes and let himself melt into her arms— and he did not need to feel the electric fuzz of magic or see the soft pink glow of her detransformation behind closed eyelids to recognize her and kick himself for not figuring it out sooner. He held onto her because she still felt like a towering shield around him and like no harm would ever come to him as long as he had her, and she was just as precious to him in that moment as he felt he was for her. He loved her as much as he ever had— maybe even more.

This was it. The safest place on earth. Right here, in Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s arms.

After they separated, silence settled between them. Adrien and Marinette were sitting on the ground of the alleyway cast in half-shadows from the tall buildings on either side; thin beams of sunlight striped the windowless walls that hid them from the rest of the world for the time being. They fed their kwamis, who shared an uncertain glance, and remained looking wordlessly at each other for what felt like hours, but was probably only a minute.

“I’m sorry.” It was Marinette who broke the silence first, at last averting her eyes to the ground.

This startled him more than anything else she could have said.

“About what?” His voice felt coarse after crying for so long. She seemed to think for a moment, as if going through a rolodex of instances to be sorry for in her head.

“I don’t know. About everything. About your dad, about not being able to help you, about not just… telling you?” She gestured to her earrings and to Tikki, who was digging into her second macaron and pretending to not hear them. “Maybe if I had just dealt with it as soon as you told me…”

“You were there for me, Marinette. I am so thankful for that.” Her name was sweet in his mouth, almost drowning out the bitter taste left behind by the past week. “It was all I asked for, and you went above and beyond, like you always do.”

“But you’re still not okay. We don’t know if…” He thought he saw something painful flash in her eyes, but she shook her head and it was gone. “I just wanted to make things okay for you.”

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do to make things okay.” It hurt, but it was true. “This is beyond even the best superhero Paris has ever seen.” He gave her a small smile. Seeing her look back up to meet his gaze, he could still barely believe his eyes. One of his closest friends, the one he had always been able to trust and confide in, who gave the best advice and had the most amazing ideas, was the person he loved and admired most in the world. The mix of feelings was a bit overwhelming— His chest and throat still ached from everything; from knowing too much, from not being able to do what was right for the greater good, to fulfill his duty. However, at the same time, he was sure his heart would burst out of the sheer love he felt for Marinette in that moment.

She smiled back at him. “Yeah, but you’ve kinda got a lot going on right now anyway.”

He rolled his eyes playfully at her. “I thought my job was being the clown of the team?”

She chuckled lightly at that. “Well, I always knew you were a versatile guy.” They both laughed and Marinette relaxed visibly, letting go of the strap of her purse she had been fidgeting with. Adrien noticed how much he had also needed this shared moment of levity.

He scooched forward and turned so that he was sitting next to her and leaned his head on hers, feeling her let her cheek rest on his shoulder. He reached out his hand for her to take, and after hesitating for a moment, she did. After a while of tracing over each other’s fingers with their own, it was Adrien who spoke up.

“Your hugs are firm,” he said, “it’s nice.” It was all he could do not to spurt out everything he felt when she was next to him; how safe, calm and at home she made him feel.

She let the sentence hang between them for a moment, as if she was examining it, and squeezed his hand lightly.

“Your hugs are gentle,” she squeezed his hand lightly, “I never want to let go.”

He squeezed her hand right back, brought it up to his lips and kissed it. He felt her cheek heat up through his t-shirt and a smile escaped onto his face.

“So, what now?” Marinette asked. Her voice was uncertain, but there was an unmistakable determination to it.

Adrien pulled back to look at her, but did not let go of her hand. He would never get tired of seeing her like this, fully and vehemently herself.

“I think we’ll have to figure it out together,” he said. “That’s what teams are for, isn’t it?”

She offered him her other hand and it made his heart grow at least thrice its own size.

“It’s you and me against the world, after all,”she said, a small smile painting her face a lovely shade of hope.

He took her hand and held it tight in a half-silent promise. “Just like it always has been, my Lady”.

[enchantedchocolatebars]

The Little Pie🍎🥧

(This story is canon divergent and a 'what if' to this story.)

"It's perfect!" Little Philip beamed, his blue eyes sparkling in excitement at the baked dish that sat on the kitchen counter in a tin.

His joyous smile said it all - the younger was beyond pleased with the pie he and his brother had made for their mother.

It was apple, her all time favorite.

Pip had purchased the apples they used in the pie from the town's marketplace.

They were on sale.

Little Caleb blinked at the chunky creation.

The pie looked so... small. Mini even. It must have shrunk in the oven somehow. It also looked super lumpy. Not to mention very bumpy.

He and his brother weren't the best bakers.

The pies that his mother made were much more prettier and bigger in comparison.

"Do you think mother will like it?" Caleb turned to Pip, a worrisome look on his face. He hoped she did. The blonde didn't want her to hate it.

Philip answers with a swift nod. "She'll love it, I know she will!"

Confident about the outcome of his cooking, the brunette takes the tiny pie from off the counter. "Let's go give it to her!"

With that, he heads for the stairs, rushing up them as Caleb following behind.

...

Inside her bedroom, Patience was seen sound asleep on her bed, but not for long.

The widow's door had swung open as she awoke to the voice of her youngest son. She sits up to see him and his brother.

"Mother, mother!" He cheerfully calls out to her as he and Caleb enter the room. He places the baby pie on her lap. "Look what me and Caleb made for you!"

Patience let's out a light gasp as she looks down to see the little pie.

"It's a pie!" Philip says with a smile.

"Oh my..." The blonde began in amazement, slowly picking up the pie with her index and thumb as she places it in the palm of her hand. Her brown eyes couldn't believe it! It was so cute! "You two made this for me?"

The boys happily nod in response.

"All by yourselves?"

They nod a second time.

"Do you like it?" Caleb asked, anticipating his mother's answer.

"Do I like it?" she repeats, setting the pie down on her dresser before reaching out to hug both her boys. They were elated to be in her loving embrace. "I love it! Oh, Philip, Caleb, thank you both so much!" Kisses get placed on their foreheads. Such a sweet gift made Patience feel so special.

"I told you she would like it," Philip whispers to Caleb with a grin.

[tharrb]

Freddy: you might be asking yourself, how could a dashing young stud like my self have trouble making friends?

Michael: is it because of the way you look?

Freddy: the way I..

Michael: yeah sort of lumpy and red raw.

Freddy:I.I.

Chunky: is it because you like part of a bigger animal that fell of or was removed, and then came to life.

Freddy: that’s actually personal-

Jason: he’s like an old persons finger.

Chucky: reminds me of an infection I had up my-

Michael: or is it the voice?

Ghostface: he looks like a tumor.

Chucky: and he stinks.

Jason: I know it’s because he has beady eyes like a rat.

Michael: or you’re just generally unlikable in a way that’s hard to pin down.

[askrena]

[ CARVING ] With the spring harvest comes an abundance of turnips. So many that merchants have brought them to Garreg Mach by the bushel to sell them for Midsommar. Once believed to ward demons and other monsters away if one carved a face into them, the turnip carving tradition is now little more than a fun activity for children to do with their parents.

Roy was attempting to carve the silhouette of a dragon into the turnip, and he had to admit it was coming along rather well. He carefully chipped at the webbed outline of wings, concentrating hard. He looked up to see Sharena next to him.

"Oh, Sharena! What are you going to carve?"

midsommar 2022

         THE KNIFE CUTS THROUGH THE ROOT with care, each kiss of the blade against the vegetable pressed with caution. The shape is slow to take form under her careful guidance, but with time and persistent, loving effort, its true self is revealed. Sharena hums as she cleaves away the final pieces, satisfied with her work. She turns to Roy, thus, and holds it in her palm for him to see.

         "Oh, I was making a cow. Look!"

         And there it rests, sitting atop the center of her open hand; a small, chunky creature of bovine origin. Its hooves are tucked beneath its body as it sleeps, its carved-out eyes heavy with rest. Sharena strokes its back with her finger, laughing quietly to herself.

         "I think it looks pretty good. A bit clunky, but cute!"

         She peers over to look at Roy's own work, gasping at the detail. His seemed to be a far more faithful recreation to what he envisioned, though far more taxing than hers, what with how he seemed so absorbed in his task.

         "Hey, you're doing great!" Sharena chirps, before looking down at her lumpy-in-comparison cow, "Maybe I should add more polish to mine…"

[ask-the-shorty-squad]

Shuichi, Fuyuhiko. Why were you both crying?

If you want a hug I will glady give you one!

Why dont you Give us your Fucking Alibi instead you Crusty. Dusty. Lumpy. Chunky. Clunky. Trunky. Rusty. Untrustworthy. Piece of shit.

That hurt. But I'll tell you sure!

I was Locked up in a cage Remember! The WOH kept an Eye on me.

Mhmm! I Masaru Daimon! Made sure he didnt escape! I also Tied him to a Pole and threw a Sharp Object at him! Hoping he'd die!!

But he didnt. So i Decided to Throw Jataro at him for Fun!

But Neither of them Died...So i was really sad and Started To kick him in the Nuts.

BUT HE STILL DIDNT DIE!!! WHY COULDNT HE JUST DIE!!!! THAT MAKES ME SO MAD IM GONNA!!!!

*Masaru Trys to Punch Shuichi*

A-AHH!!!! I-I've never been more Scared of a Child in my life!!! Lets Get outta here Now!!

Yeah this kid is starting to get annoying and I don't want to spend another minute with Nagito.