#i need a bumper sticker of him on my car

[darligvane]

Gage headcanons

I have these all written down in a google doc (plus way more) so I figured I might as well throw some here now that I'm getting more comfortable using tumblr lol. I'm very open to discussion about these! I might post more in the future if someone finds it interesting.

CW for: Minor mentions of addiction and some general trauma stuff. Nothing too bad I don't think but don't hold me to that.

A lot of these mention The Harvester by the way, sorry. Lore makes my brain itch.

● While he is a part of a minority of raiders who can actually read and write‐ (as evidenced by him leaving messages to Colter on his terminal) -he is dyslexic. It takes him a while to write things out coherently, and reading anything more than a few short sentences is often frustrating.

● ^ because of this, he prefers / genuinely enjoys comic books. They're light on reading and he can usually tell whats going on even without dialogue. He had a small collection of comic books back when he lived with The Harvester, and still gets kind of pissed he never got those back.

• Regarding comics, his least favorite character is the Silver Shroud. He just pisses him off.

● His eyepatch being so large is actually functional! (Somewhat) I like to think he lost his eye by getting shot in the face with a plasma round, which corroded and destroyed a large area of skin around his eye and down his cheek. So the large metal plating on his eyepatch covers the large scar.

● He actually lost his eye when he first joined The Harvesters gang when he was younger. One of Harvests gang members pulled the trigger on him when he initially approached them, thinking he had ill intentions. It sucked- but hey, at least they let him in.

● He made his own cage armor and designed it particularly around his needs rather than protection. He uses the cage to hold tools, parts, a rag, etc. while he works on things like Colters power armor or other mechanical things he fiddled with. Definitely doesn't make him very bulletproof, but following the boss around keeps him away from most combat situations anyway.

● Colter had a tendency to use Gages armor like a big handle to drag him around a lot, which he didn't particularly enjoy.

● His favorite colour is yellow, which is why his cage armor is the colour it is. He painted it himself :')

● Has the most horrific trust issues in all of mankind. (Thanks for betraying him Harvest, he will absolutely not recover from that.) He won't eat anything he doesn't see prepared himself, won't set down his drink unless he's alone, he can't sleep around other people, etc. When Colter dies and the new Overboss takes over, he doesn't even tell them where he sleeps until he trusts them entirely. He'll just dissappear at night unless you call out for him.

● These trust issues leak into his behaviors during relationships also. Down to the more simple things. He prefers to hug his partner from behind or be big spoon, he prepares food for them both, takes the night guard when camping, etc. Anything that puts him in the more advantageous position, even if its subconscious.

● The Harvester haunts him. He still sees and hears him in the shadows or corners after however many years its been. Has nightmares of him coming back and finally finishing the job, killing him. Feels the cold metal of a scythe against his throat when it isn't there... its endless. Even something as common as the sounds of distant gunfire make him paranoid, since it reminds him of the betrayal. Absolutely ruined him.

● Has tattoos inspired by / centered around The Harvesters. Covers them with his armor though. Hes got some trauma to unpack man, idk. (Should I do a tattoo tour for him?)

● One of the reasons he hates chems is from a previous addiction. He doesn't like to talk about it, but he made a few of his worst life decisions on chems and it just put a bad taste in his mouth. He'd prefer it if his Overboss / partner was in a rational state of mind, thank you.

● He is surprisingly good with animals for the most part. Particularly cats. Does the old man / dad thing where he says he doesn't like them or calls them mean names while secretly petting them or letting them hop in his lap when he's alone.

● Not usually a big fan of the more "exotic" wasteland animals though. Totally got jumpy one day and shot a Pack molerat on accident.

Thats probably enough for now. I'm happy to answer questions or expand on these more if asked, and I'll probably share more in the future. (Maybe some 18+ ones too? We'll see.)

[callooopie]

Modern!Davos Blackwood headcannons (pt. 1?)

— SFW —

I’ll hit it from the back, just so you don’t get attached — i like the way you kiss me // artemas

I can definitely see myself making more of these. Adding to the modern! Davos lore. Not proofread. LMK if y’all have other ideas or headcannons too!

Benjicot Davos Blackwood. People call him Davos. Only close friends call him Ben. Only you can call him Benji. Although, he goes by his middle name usually. Now, bloody Ben? That’s a story to be told later on how he got... (There is no story. It’s just people saying “Shit.. there’s bloody Ben..” or something like that. There’s no violence to the name, only pure exasperation when people see him)

This is the boy you need to hide away in your closet or under your bed when your parents come checking in on you randomly. You could’ve been working on homework, or just hanging around. And somehow this “annoying” guy appeared outside your bedroom window—and you just had to let him in. “C’mooon, let me in sweetheart.. you think I can’t climb up there? Stand back, I’ll show you.”

He is the type of person to rant about how the education system is rigged, set up to fail students, or rant about it in general and as a whole. Anyway he’s got a 4.0, and makes it onto the dean’s list every semester in college. However he is always late to class—complete with either a Monster or Red Bull drink in tow.

He invites you over to his place like a gentleman. Ignore his “annoying fuckass” roommate.. (it’s Aeron.) He does the whole (“it’s a little messy :3”) as he leads you down the hall of their apartment. “Hello MTV, welcome to my crib.”

He cooks at that desk, game-wise. Faceit level is between 5-6. CSGO rank is Master Guardian II (He does tell you he once hit Global Elite. But he stopped the grind to focus on school, not because he’s washed or anything—maybe you could be his Valorant duo? Or be his support in League; he’ll have you know he makes a mean ADC.. do you do overnight discord calls?—)

If you play more casual games (Minecraft, stardew, etc) he will play with you, HOWEVER, he will either ruin the aesthetic of the minecraft world via automated farms OR speedrun the mines in stardew (he passes out so much it starts to affect the money you’re trying to save for farm upgrades). Every time he goes fishing in either game he puts on a country accent and makes “gone fishing, getting away from my bitch wife” jokes. “I’ve uh- carved out an area for the iron farm. Nothin’ too big—just something to get started.” (Shows you an utterly decimated and leveled biome)

Davos Blackwood fun fact no. 43; he does rallying (rally racing). He went to a rally school for fun over the summer. Ignore the price tag; yes he saved up for that! no it’s not dangerous! Regular driving wise he does donuts in empty parking lots, and takes corners way too fast. He is the type to street race a random ass pickup truck or some other car that pulls up beside him. It is thrilling, and he knows you enjoy it too despite your protests and how you grip the handle above the seat. “No it’s fine.. pfft—don’t worry don’t— I’ll smoke him. Just watch.”

Speaking of cars. Do not complain about his car. This is his baby. His one and only. It’s an old car; it’s so old it’s bordering not being considered street safe anymore. Ignore the anime girl stickers with their tits and ass out, that was there already he didn’t do that. “It’s safe don’t worry—I’m getting the bumper and everything fixed like Monday I swear.. no I did not hit anything why would you say that-“

He’s oddly in-tune with his emotions and emotions of others despite appearances. He’ll KNOW if something’s bothering you. Maybe you’re just a little too quiet, you laugh at a joke a little too late or even if it sounds unenthusiastic. Whatever it is, Davos is on the case. A hug, some pep talk, he’ll let you punch his palms to get any anger out. He’s your ride or die, of course he’d do anything for you. And maybe if it’s a person who upset you he might pay them a visit.. “Who was it this time? Oh—that bitch? Ugh. I’m sorry about that… I have a gun just saying—“

Needs your hand in his. Or some part of you touching him. Whatever works. If he does not get a modicum of affection in 5 minute intervals he shrivels up like a plant—no he’s not being dramatic. Is the type to whine loudly about it regardless of where you’re at. On occasion he lets out bloodcurdling screams as a joke, lamenting about being denied tender love from you. You think it’s funny in private, you do not think it’s funny in public. Which is why he always does it in public. “Gimme your hand. Wha? What do you mean ‘it’s too hot out’? I wanna.. I wanna hold your hand… I don’t care if you’re sweaty—LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND”

I do believe his brain would be.. a little rotted. He sends you tiktoks, niche memes, shitposts. He will watch twitch streams or league/csgo content creators on YouTube. His vocab is normal, but does consist of slang from the gaming community. This can be good and funny, or sometimes bad if he uses it during serious moments. However he’s at least a normal human being and knows when to talk ‘normally’. He says joever unironically

Shadow boxes you. No matter what’s happening or where. You could be looking at something in a store and you just see slow, dramatic punches going toward you. He makes the whooshing sound too. This is how you know he’s bored. He’s also the type to tackle you to the bed. Not in a sensual or cutesy way but in like a WWE way that initiates a caged fighting match between you two.

Regardless of your mastery level of skateboarding he will hold your hands and pull you around on his board. Late at night when the parks or lots are empty, you both will be there. And he’ll be a smiling goof as he gently steers you around on the board. He usually says fuck helmets (his one big flaw), but carries one around just for you. His safety be damned. Yours? No question about it, you’re wearing all the gear required.

Smoker. Red flag. Marlboros, sometimes he uses zyns. It’s bad. Yes he knows he’s going to get lung cancer and succumb to nicotine. But he just can’t help it—it helps him relax. It’s why there’s a plethora of gum and also a cologne bottle in his car. Does it help? That’s to be determined. Does not smoke near you however if you don’t like that, he’s not that bad of an asshole.

[corviiids]

omg what are your thoughts on the phantom thieves becoming adults and getting jobs :0 i'd love to hear them!

thank you so much for asking. here is one billion words. i will remove my bumper sticker from your car

i am also working on a project which nudges on some of these ideas so shhh! shhhhhhhhhh

ryuji

successfully gets through rehab and recovers enough to launch into a pretty decent competitive track career, which he does for a while, but i think he retires early after deciding he doesn't want that to be his life forever. while spending time with ren doing volunteering, he realises he really enjoys working with kids, so he picks up some qualifications and becomes a gym teacher and track coach for kids. i think for ryuji when he gets older he gets more and more disgusted with the person kamoshida was when ryuji starts working with kids and struggles to understand how anyone could treat them so poorly when ryuji just loves them and wants to help them thrive. anyway he becomes a deeply beloved teacher and coach, basically what someone like kamoshida could have been if he'd been good instead of shit, and spends the rest of his life doing that. he and ren are roommates for a while but he eventually moves out to pursue his career.

ann

she finishes out the game pretty ambitious so i do think she launches into a successful international modelling career. after gaining some notoriety in that space and building up a ton of experience and good contacts i think she starts branching out into launching her own fashion and beauty lines. eventually i think she should become the editor of her own fashion publication too... the others see her on billboards and in magazines and on buses all the time. briefly dips her toe into an acting career after being invited to a film but her performance is so poor she wins an equivalent to the golden razzie which she shows up to accept in person laughing and gushing about what an honour it is so everyone loves her even more for it although she decides not to continue acting after that. important to me is that she gets new cool haircuts. imagining her with close-cropped hair. like not exactly a buzzcut but getting there. she's an icon. she splits her time between LA and tokyo and has apartments in both places but usually prefers to crash at ren or makoto's place in tokyo and be a loving nuisance to them for a while

yusuke

i feel very strongly that yusuke needs to experience the world and branch out because the game kind of goes "yusuke's personality is art" which frustrates me as 1) to be a good artist i think breadth of life experience is valuable and 2) i want yusuke to do fun things. so i think yusuke postcanon tries to immerse himself fully in art for a while but then has kind of an existential crisis about his work feeling superficial to him despite his successes and so he ends up going on extensive sabbatical backpacking around the world and meeting lots of people and experiencing new things and then returning to pour his newfound knowledge of life and wisdom into his art and reaching new depths and takes the art world by storm. and also he always has money for food forever. starts out with an art foundation but eventually gets his own studio apartment which lies abandoned while he's gallivanting. haru furnished it

makoto

to me makoto is one of the characters who finishes the game with the most growing left to do, which makes her really fun to explore postcanon, personally. anyway i think she does become a cop and does it for quite a few years but before long starts to get extremely disillusioned about the work she's doing until she eventually hits quite a severe depressive spiral about the direction her life has taken. then sae and her friends talk her out of her crisis by convincing her that it's never too late to change your life. so she quits her job and in her late 30s/early 40s she goes back to school and gets her law degree and eventually becomes a criminal defence attorney. she also figures out that she is gay. i think this takes her less time than the cop thing but still like probably longer than she'd care to admit. lives alone with a pet. i want to say she either has a dog or some kind of cool reptile like a bearded dragon.

futaba

i have a running joke with myself that akechi puts her onto r/overemployed and so futaba has like six or seven remote IT jobs at major companies around the world, none of which know about each other, all of which she does from the comfort of her house. anyway she gets loaded off a series of extremely good and mysterious investments that she refuses to explain so she's mostly just working for fun. gets back into hacktivism also mostly just for fun. sometimes she anonymously drops entire indie games for free online which go viral without fail. moves out on her own in adulthood but still spends most weekends and days at sojiro's and has a WFH office set-up in his house which he complains about and doesn't mind at all.

haru

so i think haru spends a long time working to restore okumura foods to the vision that her grandfather originally had for it and does succeed to a good extent in the sense that it becomes a more ethically-run company with an improved reputation, but okumura foods is a major global corporation and by nature it just cannot attain that local mom-and-pop vibe that her and her grandfather wanted. so i think after a while she retains her shareholding in the company but gives up her directorship to other trusted board members and uses okumura foods as a launching off point to branch out into starting her own much smaller company, which she keeps local and runs herself, and it does become the well-loved community hub she always wanted it to be. doesn't live in tokyo directly because she prefers quieter areas on the outskirts but commutes there merrily all the time to work and see her friends.

sumire

i personally don't think sumire ever achieves her and kasumi's dream of being number one in the world. i think she competes at an international level and comes very close many many times before she eventually comes to peace with that, decides that that's enough for her, and retires from competition. for a while she follows a similar path to ryuji and becomes a children's gymnastics coach, but after a while of other people encouraging her that she could be applying her skills to more competitive pursuits just in a different way, she eventually becomes an olympic-level professional coach and ends up helping many of her students achieve her and kasumi's dream in their stead. also doesn't live in tokyo but visits frequently and has an active whatsapp chat running with ren and akechi on top of the thieves chat.

akechi

decides he's had enough of being dead after a minute. takes a gap year and starts college at the same time as ren. studies law and goes into criminal practice, but bounces between defence and prosecution before getting fucking sick of it and deciding to quit law. he starts his own small private detective agency instead. years later he writes a book and eventually re-enters the media world with a significantly different image to his detective prince years. is surly the ENTIRE time. somehow this doesn't hurt his popularity. no longer has a food blog. moves in with ren after ryuji moves out but not initially romantically, just as roommates with a Tension that makes everyone else extremely uncomfortable

ren

i think ren struggles for a while to work out what his career should be before he eventually figures out he is not the type to get fulfilment from his professional life, and wants to focus more on what he's doing in his personal life, which is helping people. basically after graduation he moves back to tokyo and goes to college and changes his mind a whole bunch of times before eventually settling on some kind of psychology/sociology degree, but then mostly just continues doing a lot of part-time jobs to keep himself afloat while he figures out his life plan. during this time he starts getting into volunteering and social work and spends more of his time working with vulnerable and at-risk youth, basically whatever will put him in most contact with people who need him in a non-paid capacity. eventually when sojiro is set to retire ren takes over leblanc and runs it peacefully as his day job, and the rest of his time is spent on non-profit work. living with akechi.

morgana

the damn cat lives forever. the sakuras and ren's parents have a shared custody agreement. he disregards this and spends most of his time with ren. he and akechi are fine with each other but do not get along vis a vis homemaking decisions mostly because morgana has opinions about their lifestyle choices and akechi doesn't take well to being told where to keep his dishes by a small creature without thumbs.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 2: The Jailhouse]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, historical topics including war and discrimination, smoking, blasphemy, kids, parenthood, alcoholism, y'all know exactly who is in jail come on now, Pizza Hut, a wild ex-husband appears!

Word Count: 7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevir @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰🧁

Amir is sitting at the kitchen table and icing peach cobbler cupcakes; he has a single white flower from a dogwood tree poked through one of his cornrows. He wears a short sleeve button-up shirt with a kaleidoscopic geometric pattern, high-waisted khaki shorts, and eyeglasses with large rectangular, tortoiseshell frames. He has one leg crossed over the other and is kicking it absentmindedly as he works, a habit he’s had since long before you met him in your 9th grade English class. The microwave is humming. Walk This Way is blaring from the little pink boombox.

“Ho, I mean it this time, I gotta get the hell out of this town.” Amir uses a fork to place a small peach wedge—sauteed in butter, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla—atop the swirl of buttercream frosting, then sprinkles the cupcake with cinnamon before moving on to the next. “Guess what some inbred neanderthal swamp creature did last night. They busted a window out of my car again.”

“I told you to take that thing off it.” Amir has a homemade bumper sticker on his Ford Escort that reads, in holographic rainbow cursive: Fuck Ronald Reagan (not literally)!

“That war criminal can let 50,000 people die of AIDS but I belong on America’s Most Wanted for exercising my First Amendment rights?”

“I know you’re not wrong. You know you’re not wrong. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“To be afraid is to behave as if the truth were not true. Bayard Rustin said that.”

“And I’m sure he was a very smart man, but he didn’t have to live in Napoleonville.” The microwave beeps, and you remove the sweet potato inside with an oven mitt and place it on the counter alongside the others. This is a trick you’ve learned: they’re so much easier to peel and slice once they’ve been microwaved a bit, thirty seconds for a small potato, one minute for a larger one. “You want me to ask Willis to do a stakeout or something?”

“He might be the one committing vandalism.”

You frown down at the sweet potatoes as you peel them over the cutting board and toss the skins into a bowl so Cadi can feed them to the squirrels later. You doubt Willis is responsible, but one of his friends very well could be.

Amir sighs, acquiescing, wistful. “Six months from now I’ll be in San Francisco.” Yes, he will; he’s been saving up for years. The thought of him leaving is practically apocalyptic. You can’t envision a future without Amir. It’s like the very worst version of when you’re a kid and some event—Christmas, your birthday, summer break, prom—is so glimmeringly monumental that whatever life will exist beyond it is incomprehensible, a haze of other people’s dreams and warnings. Surely you won’t exist in that timeline; surely you will dissolve away once that fateful checkpoint is reached and become nothing but sun and sand.

You don’t tell Amir any of this. You don’t want to make him feel guilty. Instead you tease: “You sure you don’t want to stay and get a job on one of those shiny new oil rigs?”

He laughs as he pipes buttercream frosting onto the last peach cobbler cupcake. His artistic talents far surpass yours, but you bring the baking techniques and recipe ideas. Still, you have always split the bakery profits—however meager they might be—equally. “Yes, how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to lose half my skin in an explosion caused by company negligence? Or inhale toxic fumes, or have my limbs ripped off, or fracture my skull? Or fall off a platform in the middle of the night and be eaten by a gator before anyone bothers to fish me out? I will surely regret all my life choices when I’m lying on the beach in Pacifica next to my new boyfriend who looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

The front door opens. It’s Mr. Fontenot, the town pharmacist. You call out: “Hi there! Come right on in! We’ve got your cake ready. Blue velvet with marshmallow cream and topped with candied blueberries. We read up on how to make them just for you. So thank you kindly for the learning opportunity.”

Since you’re wrist-deep in sweet potatoes, Amir leaps up to retrieve the box. He opens it so Mr. Fontenot can inspect his order. “When you cut into it, you’ll see that it’s a dark royal blue on the inside. Cookie Monster blue, not robin egg blue, just like you wanted.”

“Will ya look at that,” Mr. Fontenot says, beaming down at the cake. Written across the marshmallow cream in blue icing is (in Amir’s most elegant script): Happy 8th Birthday, Corey! “My grandson is going to get such a kick out of a blue cake.”

“He sure is,” Amir agrees. “Now can I talk you into anything else for the party? Some peach cobbler cupcakes, perhaps? Praline brownies? A brown sugar pie? Homemade Fruity Pebbles Rice Krispie Treats? Kids love them…!”

You say once Mr. Fontenot has gone: “He works for the company, you know.”

“Huh? Who?”

“Aemond. He works for Jade Dragon. He’s an engineer.”

“Ho, you are obsessed with that man!” Amir says. “You’ve brought him up, like, four times already!”

“Yeah,” you confess, a humiliation that is futile to deny. Parts of you are still sore from what he did to you; other places are aching for more.

“And you didn’t even get to see the dick?!”

You shake your head as you cut the peeled sweet potatoes into haphazard chunks. Amir puts a pot of water on the stove so you can boil them until they’re soft enough to mash into filling for a sweet potato pie. “Didn’t see it, didn’t touch it…”

“Didn’t lick it, didn’t suck it?”

“Okay, that’s enough, Dr. Seuss. But no.”

“Secret dick, scar on his face, missing an eye…” Amir mutters. “Maybe he’s a veteran who lost his andouille in combat! Yes! That’s it! He was there when we invaded Lebanon or Grenada or Libya and now he’s horribly disfigured and can’t bear the prospect of your inevitable horror and rejection!”

“His andouille is definitely unchopped. I could…uh…tell. Through his jeans.”

Amir closes his eyes and presses his palms together. “Sweet baby Jesus, please send me a gainfully employed big-dicked blonde man too.” He looks at you again. “But he really wouldn’t use it?!”

“Aemond said he wanted me to trust him first.”

“Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe he thinks you might be on the prowl for Shotgun Wedding #2. You should tell him he’s got nothing to worry about in that department. You’ve been on the pill practically since Cadi was born.”

You murmur: “And I will be forever.”

“I know,” Amir says gently, pausing to squeeze your shoulder before taking the sweet potato hunks you’ve sliced already and dropping them in the boiling water. “So! When are you going to call him?”

You startle. “I can’t call him! I called him the first time. Now it’s his turn to call me. I can’t call him again, that would be desperate. Right?” Right?!

“Does he even know your number?”

“He knows my name, and he knows about the bakery. The number is publicly listed, he can find me in the phone book.”

Amir groans. “Lord have mercy, just call him! Pick up that pink phone right there beside the refrigerator and press those cute little buttons and say, loud and proud: Come on over here, big boy, I want to see that traumatized war veteran dick.”

The phone rings. You trip over your own feet as you lunge for it.

Amir snickers. “Pathetic!” He takes over slicing the rest of the sweet potatoes.

“Hello?!”

You hear a deep, slothful drawl; Willis’ family have been bayou people for longer than the United States has been a country. “Hey sugar, you want to bring your favorite ex-husband some dessert?”

You sigh. “Hi, Willis.” From across the kitchen, Amir makes retching noises.

“So what’d ya say? I just had a late lunch and got to thinkin’ of you. Gave me a sweet tooth.”

“Um, I don’t know, we’re really busy right now.” Amir snorts; you’ve had three customers in the last hour. There’s usually a rush first thing each morning and then again around closing time.

“Ya ain’t got time for me? Well, alrighty then. Maybe I won’t have time for you when you need a wild hog chased off your porch or a flat tire changed out there on Route 401.”

This is the eternal dilemma, the balance you wrestle with like a boat in a storm: not making him angry, not letting him get too close. You and Willis don’t have a formal agreement for custody or child support. You’ve worked it out yourselves, and he typically doesn’t make it too difficult. You’ve always felt that appeasement is the wisest course of action. As the elected sheriff of Assumption Parish, Willis Boudreaux is responsible for all criminal investigations, court proceedings, and tax collecting. Even when he was just a deputy, he had plenty of friends at the little white courthouse in the heart of downtown Napoleonville. You’re better off working with him than against him. “Okay, fine, I guess I have a few minutes. What do you want?”

“Why don’t you make a professional recommendation?”

You glance irritably at the kitchen table. “We have brown sugar pie, peach cobbler cupcakes, praline brownies, lemon blueberry cookies, uh, I’ve got half a strawberries and cream cake left in the fridge…”

“Definitely the cake,” Willis says. “I love strawberries. Remember how you fed them to me on the beach when we went to Grand Isle?”

That was…what, eight years ago? Ugh. “Barely.” You like when Willis has a girlfriend; then he mostly leaves you alone. Tragically, he and his most recent fiancé Colleen broke up last month. “I’ll drive the cake over now.” You slam the phone receiver into the base before Willis can respond.

“Let’s kill him,” Amir says.

You laugh. “I’ll consider it.”

“We can feed him to that gator out in the tree row.”

You grab a flat white bakery box off the pile, fold it open, and fetch what remains of the strawberries and cream cake from the refrigerator. “You’ll get that sweet potato pie in the oven if I’m gone for a half hour?”

“Yup. Then I’ll start working on the brown butter oatmeal raisin cookies. Is the recipe…? Oh, I see it, it’s right here on the counter. Got it. Have fun with your awful ex-husband. You sure you don’t want to add a little something special to that cake? Windex? Rat poison? He sure looks like a rodent to me. That nose? Those eyebrows?!”

“Amir, he’s just French.”

“He should be exiled to Saint Helena.”

“I’m going to have to put my own ad in the Bayou Journal,” you say, smiling sadly. “Who’s going to run the shop with me when you’re in San Francisco?”

Amir winks. “Maybe your traumatized, half-blind, hung-like-a-horse war veteran knows how to bake.”

Outside, the gator is sunning herself by the gravel driveway. She’s only about five feet long and dozing with her muddy green eyes closed, jagged upper teeth on display, missing toes here and there, back scarred by boat motors. It’s 90 degrees and sunny, warmth flooding over your bare legs and arms: denim shorts, lime green tank top. You can hear cicadas, doves, chickadees, starlings, goldfinches, ospreys, the benign droning of bumble bees. You throw the white box in the passenger seat and start your Chevy Celebrity, yellow paint, wood paneling, brown velour upholstery. You crank down the windows—the air conditioning is broken, that’s one reason why Willis’ brother was willing to sell it to you so cheap—and turn on the radio: 867-5309 by Tommy Tutone. You pull out onto Route 401, headed northeast towards downtown Napoleonville.

You pass fields of sugarcane and soybeans, shacks and trailers, grass green like emeralds. The hot mid-May air, humid and stagnant, blows through your hair. If the ride was any longer than ten minutes, you’d have needed a cooler for the cake. You find a parking spot on the street outside the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and grab the box containing half a strawberries and cream cake, probably just starting to get melty around the edges. Deputy Melancon is on his way out when you arrive. He holds the glass door open for you.

“Comment ca va, cherie? Is that for me? I hope so!”

“I think your boss would chew your arm off if you tried to get between him and this cake.”

Deputy Melancon guffaws as he ambles towards his police car. “Have fun in there! It’s a zoo today.”

“What…?” But now you can hear the noise coming from inside the building: howling, banging, Willis telling someone to sit down and shut up, his Cajun drawl lethargic and calm. Willis is not a yeller, and you’ve never witness him raise his hands in violence. The being a cop part of his job is the aspect he enjoys the least. But sitting around jawing with his deputies until long after midnight, regaling them with tales of supposed glory acquired while you were home with a screaming baby, scrubbing floors, fixing dinner, still bleeding eight weeks after birth, waiting—because it was all there was to look forward to—for him to walk through the door and shuffle to the couch and collapse there with an ice-cold can of Bud Light in his fist, dripping condensation down his sinewy forearm? That’s what Willis lives for.

Willis is at his desk and grudgingly plodding through an intake form. His sunglasses have been shoved up into his dark curly hair; his hat—which he loathes wearing—is resting atop a mountain of deserted paperwork. There’s a poster of Heather Locklear on the wall along with a dartboard with a cutout of Tommy Lee in the center. There’s a man in one of the three holding cells that you’ve hardly ever seen used. He has slicked-back blonde hair, an aristocratic wisp of a moustache, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and tiny red shorts and thick foam rainbow-patterned flip flops. He’s the person responsible for the ruckus.

“I want my phone call!” the prisoner shouts as he beats his palms against the iron bars. “Hey! Hey, mullet boy! I want my fucking phone call!”

Oddly, the stranger has a British accent. Aemond? you think for a split second. But no; this man couldn’t possibly be related to Aemond. He is short, slouched, soft all over, uncoordinated and uncomposed, pathetic, petulant, innately pitiful. Willis ignores him. He speaks to you instead.

“Bienvenue, sugar. Ya got something sweet for me?”

Obediently—though not entirely willingly—you bring him the white box and set it on his disorganized desk. Willis produces a stack of Styrofoam plates and a Ziploc bag full of plastic eating utensils that he keeps stocked in a drawer specifically for such occasions. He opens the box and sighs euphorically, his eyes on the moist pink cake and layers of whipped cream frosting as if it’s the flesh of a naked woman.

“Hey!” the prisoner shouts, gripping the iron bars and pressing his flushed cheeks flat against them. “Hey! I like cake too!”

“Just what I needed,” Willis tells you, as if the man isn’t there. “Sit down, eat with me.”

“I really don’t have long.”

“Ya got five minutes, don’t you?”

I guess I do. You sit down but don’t take any cake. As Willis cuts himself a slice, you can’t help but watch the man in the holding cell. He stares back at you, a little ashamed, a little defiant, palpably weak. You ask Willis: “What did you book him for?”

“DWI,” Willis says with his mouth full of cake. “Driving While Intoxicated.”

“Huh. You don’t usually pick people up for that.”

Willis points at the prisoner with his fork for emphasis. “This one was very intoxicated.”

The man kicks the bars with his flip flops. “I want my fucking phone call!”

“Ya already used it,” Willis says pragmatically, and nods to something on the floor of the holding cell: an empty, grease-stained Pizza Hut box. The prisoner looks at it, regretful.

“I didn’t know I’d only get one,” he admits. “But also! You ate three slices of my pizza!”

Willis chuckles. “Consider it payin’ your taxes.” Then, to you: “It was tres bien. Meat Lover’s. Ya can’t argue with that.”

“Hey cake lady,” the prisoner says, his prominent eyes weepy, needful, a deep stormy blue. “Can I have a piece? Please? Please? I’m having a rough day here. My flip flops are giving me blisters and your redneck husband committed pizza theft. And I’m in jail.”

“Ex-husband,” you correct him.

“Good for you. Smart cake lady.”

Willis says: “You just settle down and I’ll drive you over to the parish jail as soon as I’m done with my dessert.” He shovels cake into his mouth; he eats like a gator, like a pig.

At last, you cut a portion of strawberries and cream cake—the whipped cream frosting turning thin and runny—and place it on a Styrofoam plate. Then you get up to take it to the prisoner. You have a soft spot for the freaks of the world. You and Amir, you know exactly what it’s like to be freaks.

“Don’t give him no fork or nothing,” Willis says around a mouthful of cake. “I can’t have him tryin’ to kill himself.”

“As if I’d give you the satisfaction, Sasquatch!” the prisoner flings back.

“It’s the Rougarou we got down here, son,” Willis replies, unbothered.

You set the plate on the beige linoleum floor close enough for the prisoner to reach out and drag it to his cell. When you step back, he retrieves the cake and eats it with his bare hands. “Oh, fuck, this is so good!”

You turn to Willis. “Cadi keeps mentioning some horseback riding camp that a bunch of her friends are going to this summer. Can we make that happen?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?! It’s over $300! That’s a new boat!”

“I think it would mean a lot to her.”

“Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year.” Willis licks pink cake crumbs from his fork. “Why the hell’d she ever get it cut like that?”

You shrug, irritated. “Because she wanted to.”

“Never wears no skirts or dresses, doesn’t care about jewelry, always got dirt on her face…ain’t she gonna want a boyfriend in a few years? Who’s gonna take her out lookin’ like that? Who’s gonna marry her one day?”

“She’s ten years old, Willis.”

“She’s been spending too much time with your little friend, that’s the problem.”

You glare furiously at him, but are interrupted before you can say something unwise. The man in the holding cell has finished his slice of cake. He sucks frosting off his chubby fingers and then yanks on the iron bars in vain. “I gotta go home! I gotta feed my ferret!”

“Guess ya should have thought about that before driving 70 miles per hour in a school zone, Mr.…” Willis glances at the intake form to refresh his memory. “Targaryen. What the heck is that, Italian? Polish? It ain’t French, that’s for sure.”

“It’s Greek, you dumb hick.”

Willis jabs his plastic fork at him. “You oughta watch that, son, or you’ll catch yourself a nasty case of what the liberals call police brutality.”

“He’s a Targaryen?” you ask, stunned. The man in the cell peers back at you with large, ever-wounded, ocean-blue eyes, glassy but not entirely unintelligent.

“So what?” Willis says.

“Willis, those are the oil people. Jade Dragon, the new rigs on Lake Verret? The Targaryens own that company.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” he marvels. “Really? This bon a rien right here, his family are a bunch of millionaires?”

“Yes. And you should probably let him make another phone call.”

“Yeah!” the prisoner says excitedly. “Listen to the cake lady!”

“Alright, alright,” Willis grumbles. “Guess I don’t need no legal trouble.” He picks up the phone off his desk and walks it to the holding cell; the cord stretches just far enough. “Make your damn phone call, gros couillion.”

Mr. Targaryen snatches up the receiver, punches some buttons, and listens as it rings. “Hi. Okay, don’t yell at me. Here’s the deal. I’m at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and I need you to pick me up. Wait, I said don’t yell at me! Stop yelling!!”

“I really need to get back to the bakery,” you tell Willis as you make for the door. “I’ll see you around, okay—?”

“Hey, sugar.” You stop and wait for him to finish. He’s considering you in that way he does sometimes: mild, thoughtful, vaguely sad, how’d we end up like this? He should know, you’ve told him a hundred times, but that doesn’t mean he understands. “I’m supposed to be gettin’ a new deputy next week. When he shows, I’ll send him down your way, recruit ya another customer. Charge him a little extra if you want. He won’t know no better.”

“Thanks, Willis,” you say, and you mean it. Then you step outside into sun glare and the shrieking of cicadas.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s almost dinnertime when the phone rings. You’re heating up the turtle soup that Amir brought over earlier, stirring the pot as the sky outside turns from a crystalline blue—just like Aemond’s eye—to rust and amber and fool’s gold, as the twilight air breathes into the room warm and ancient. There’s a plump nutria nibbling on grass at the edge of the backyard. Wham’s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go pipes from the boombox. At first you’re too startled to race for the phone—too terrified that it won’t be Aemond, too afraid to get your hopes up—and you hesitate just long enough for Cadi to answer instead.

“Hello?” she says, and then: “Yeah, school was good.”

Everything sinks in you, heart, spirit, the sweltering pressure of blood ebbing in your veins. Oh. It’s Willis.

Cadi continues chatting away obliviously. “Uh huh. Not really. We learned about robber barons and cannons of Italy. Yeah, captains of industry, that’s what I meant. Uh huh. Yup. It was okay, I guess. Yeah. Today it was pizza, but it’s always shaped like a rectangle. Exactly, no crust. It’s weird. Pepperoni. I always sit with Michelle and Erica. Erica has this totally tubular book about horses she showed us. Yup. I like the Appaloosas the most. Uh huh. Okay, I will. Yup. Bye.” Then she hands you the phone. “For you,” she says, then resumes setting the counter: cups, bowls, spoons, folded Bounty paper towels, dinner for two. You never eat at the kitchen table. The table is reserved for business.

You raise the pink phone receiver to your ear with some uncertainty. What does he want now? “Willis?”

“No,” Aemond says, amused. “Though we’ve been to some of the same places.”

You try not to let the smile fill up your face. You fail. “You were asking Cadi about her day?”

“Evidently.” You don’t know what this means; you don’t ask. “When are you free?”

“I usually have the house to myself on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.” It’s currently Monday.

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. What time?”

“I should be done in the bakery at around 5:00.”

“I’ll be there at 5:01.” Then Aemond hangs up. So do you, your skull suddenly abloom like springtime, colors and promise and warmth. He’s going to be here in less than 24 hours. I really am going to see him again.

You turn towards the counter. “Cadi, what are robber barons?”

“Rich people who are mean to their workers to get as much money as possible. They don’t care about others. They just want more and more and more. They’re very greedy and are never satisfied.”

“So like the Rockefellers and Standard Oil,” you say, thinking back to your high school American History class. It feels like a lifetime ago, it feels like trying to catch lightning bugs in your bare hands.

“Yeah.” Cadi pours herself a cup of Tang. She’s wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt and green corduroy pants; her father would not approve. “Or Jade Dragon Energy.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Tuesday, 5:03 p.m., rattling cicadas and golden light like the lit coil of a stove burner. You’re still scrubbing dishes, and Amir is icing the last of the orange creamsicle cupcakes for the next morning. Aemond opens the unlocked front door and strides purposefully into the kitchen: ripped jeans, red t-shirt, Converses to match, Marlboro jacket. He is carrying a neon teal duffle bag that he drops on the sloping wooden floor where the living room meets the kitchen. He is momentarily taken aback when he sees Amir, then recalls what you told him about your friend who helps run the bakery. Aemond pulls out one of the kitchen table chairs and sits. He lifts the glass lid from a cake plate, takes the last peach cobbler cupcake for himself, makes unflinching eye contact with you as he licks the frosting off it with long, slow, sensual drags of his tongue.

Amir says: “Hey Scarface, that’s $1.”

“Amir!” you scold, mortified. But Aemond doesn’t seem offended. He smirks, extracts his black leather wallet from the pocket his jeans, and fishes out four singles. He slides them across the table.

Amir sighs. “This bitch can’t even count.”

“I’m sure he can count,” you say, smiling. “He’s an engineer.”

“He’s mouth-fucking this cupcake right in front of me, he’s clearly unstable.”

Aemond looks to you. His voice is low, imposing. “I need to know what your limits are.”

“Oh my God!” Amir squeaks, bent over the table and icing as quickly as he can.

“Okay,” you tell Aemond. You rinse the pearlescent soap bubbles from your hands, wrists, forearms. Then you step out from behind the counter and watch him, remember him, imagine what will happen next.

He gives the peach cobbler cupcake another lap. Buttercream frosting coats his mischieviously curled lips and then is swiftly licked away. “Can I spank you?”

“Yes.”

Amir mutters to himself: “Grandma is never going to believe this.”

“Can I tie you up?”

“Yes.”

“Can I bite you hard enough to leave bruises?”

You pause. “Only places that will be covered by my clothes.”

“And what should you say if you ever don’t like what I’m doing?”

“I just tell you to stop.”

“Exactly.” Aemond grins. His right eye skates from your face to your chest to your hips to your thighs to your ankles, drinking you down like the earth swallows rain, like the vines and cypress trees and Sanish moss of the bayou thieve sunlight and never give it back. His left eye doesn’t move at all, though this is not something you would notice if you didn’t know to look for it. “Good girl.”

“Done!” Amir announces triumphantly, completing the swirl of frosting on the final orange creamsicle cupcake.

“Can I pull your hair?” Aemond asks you.

“Yeah, I think so. Not hard enough to yank it out though.”

Aemond scoffs. “Of course not. I don’t actually want to hurt you. That’s what some doms are after, but not me. Not here, not with you. You don’t want real pain, do you…?”

“No, definitely not,” you say, relieved.

“Brilliant. Then we’re on the same page.”

Amir could leave, but he doesn’t. His eyes dart between you and Aemond from behind his large rectangular glasses, fascinated, scandalized, too astonished to move.

Aemond continues: “Birth control?”

“I’m on the pill and have been for years. I can show you the pack if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you. I saw them in your bathroom last time I was here. I’m in the practice of using condoms regardless.” He tilts his head impishly. “Can I fuck your ass?”

“Um.” You hesitate. This is uncharted territory, though you cannot say that you are entirely unintrigued. “Maybe one day.”

“Noted. Some people find the sensation, the taboo, the fullness…quite pleasurable.”

“Do you?” Amir asks flirtatiously.

Aemond gives him a lazy, ludicrously charming smile. “Well I’ve never been on the receiving end, but I’m game to give it a try if you are.”

Amir bursts out laughing, then says to you: “He’s alright. He can commit abominable sins with you, I guess.” He stands and shakes Aemond’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Kind of.” Then he saunters off through the living room and out the front door. After a moment, you and Aemond listen to his blue Ford Escort rumble to life and then the crunching of gravel as it rolls out of the driveway. From the boombox drifts Just What I Needed by The Cars.

Aemond licks the last of the frosting from the peach cobbler cupcake and says: “Now you’re going to be the cupcake.” He crosses the kitchen, kneels down in front of you, roughly yanks down your denim shorts. He presses his face to your royal blue satin panties—hastily purchased this morning while Amir watched the shop and changed into just one hour ago in anticipation of Aemond’s arrival—and inhales deeply, desperately, like a drowning man gasping for air. Then, through the sheer fabric, he begins to tease you: nudges of his nose, nibbles of his lips.

Your fingers tangle in his short blonde hair. Blonde like the drunk man in the holding cell, you think randomly. “Aemond, why didn’t you want me last time?”

“I wanted you. I wanted you then and I want you now.”

“But I disappointed you. You didn’t finish.”

“Oh, I came,” he purrs. “Went home, got in the shower, thought of you. It didn’t take long. I would have disappointed you terribly. Woke up in the middle of the night thinking of you. Tried to miraculously get some work done yesterday while thinking of you. Crawled out of bed this morning thinking of you. Are you noticing a theme?”

You smile as his tongue presses forcefully against the satin. “I might be.”

“How many times in your life has a man treated his orgasm as essential and your own as an afterthought, if he considered it at all?”

Oh God. That’s the fucking truth. “A lot more than once.”

“So consider what we did on Sunday as one little notch in the other column. Just restoring a bit of much-needed balance to the universe.” He hooks his thumbs under your panties and tugs them off. “Open your thighs for me,” he orders as he pushes them apart with his palms: large, smooth, artful hands. You brace your own hands against the kitchen counter as he buries his face between your legs, not lapping in a tentative, exploratory sort of way but feasting on you, drowning in you, lips and tongue and then fingers that skate up the downy inside of your thigh to taunt you, enter you, fuck you expertly yet leave you wanting more of him, all of him. Your nerves are on fire, your blood is simmering. Outside the birds of prey are emerging from their liars and battle-scarred gators stalk boldly through the green prehistoric wildness of the Deep South.

What happened to his eye? you think through the lust-pink haze, knowing you cannot ask him. Aemond respects your rules. You must abide by his as well. How was he injured so gravely? Who hurt him? Did they atone for their misdeeds, did they pay the cost?

Suddenly, Aemond stands and pulls you against him by your waist, rips your yellow tank top over your head and unhooks your bra, kisses you fiercely. His mouth is dripping with you, clean mineral longing; his right eye is gleaming, famished, not just lustful but half-mad. No one else exists. No one ever has or ever will. “Go to the bed and wait for me there.”

“No.”

He spanks you once with his open palm; the sound is sharp and exquisite. “Go.” And this time you obey, counting the seconds in the dusk-lit splinter of time before he joins you.

In Aemond’s duffle bag—among other things, surely—are silk scarves the color of sapphires. First he fastens one over your eyes as a blindfold. Then he ties one around each of your wrists and binds both to the same bedpost, low enough that while your hands are kept up by your head, you still have some room to maneuver on the freshly-laundered, wildflower-patterned duvet. “Not different posts?” you ask Aemond.

“No. Tying your arms far apart like that can cause cramps in your back and your shoulders. It can even make it difficult to breathe. I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be focused entirely on what I’m doing to you.”

You moan as his fingers slip between your legs and circle over the place that makes your muscles yearn and twist and tighten until you feel they might snap, until you can imagine every string of you breaking and dissolving from the prison of flesh into water, air, gravity, the eternal silent progress of time. He bites and sucks at your nipples, flicking his tongue over them, admiring them, praising them, ravenous for them. You are enraptured by the weight of him on top of you. Without your sight, everything else is more noticeable, more real: his warmth, his sweat, his every brush of skin against yours, his smoke and cologne and gasps and sighs, the grinding of his bare cock against your thighs as he makes you ready for him. And you beg for it long before he gives it to you.

“Roll over,” he commands breathlessly, and then guides you: your fingers clutching the scarves that secure your wrists, your elbows propped on the mattress, your back arched and hips angled up towards him, his lips murmuring against your shoulder, your cheek, the side of your throat. He’s telling you so many things, perfect things, delicious things you’ll never hear enough of: how beautiful you are, how badly he wants you, how well you’re doing. There is the sound of Aemond opening a condom wrapper, and a strange sorrow ripples through you. I wish I could have him raw.

One of his hands reaches around to stroke you, keeping you soaked and supple for him. The other begins to guide his cock into your aching, starving wetness. You stretch for him, you accept him eagerly…and then there is resistance. He stills immediately and tries a slightly different angle. Nothing. He could force it, probably, but he won’t. He recedes from you, agonizing emptiness, dire unfulfillment. I’m disappointing him, he’s too big, I’m too tight, too nervous, too inexperienced at being dominated, I can’t please him. You whimper: “Aemond, I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, more ferocious than any words you’ve ever heard from him. You are not allowed to criticize yourself. You are not allowed to give up so easily. He leans down and whispers into the shell of your ear, his ribs against your spine, his heat entombing you: “Relax. I’m in charge now. I’ll take care of you.”

You want him to. You need him to. His commandment rolls through your blood and bones like a wave, loosening those last vestiges of anxiety, shaking grim psychological heirlooms from the highest shelves. You can surrender yourself completely to Aemond. He is worthy, he is safe, he is euphoria made flesh. His fingertips are still stroking you. He pushes your thighs just a little farther apart and—slowly, cautiously—eases his cock into your throbbing warmth. He hisses in a breath, though he tries not to break character, to show you that he might just be a little bit at your mercy too.

You moan loudly and shamelessly, letting him know you’re alright, more than alright, in ecstasy, in bliss, in torment, on the edge. When Aemond thrusts, he finds a place that’s never been hit so directly or so well. The climax is on you before you are aware of it, one of those swells that rises out of nowhere, capsizes the boat, fades back into the endless blue of the ocean. It jolts through your pelvis, your spine, your skull, and then evaporates like steam from a bathroom mirror. And now Aemond is trying to finish too, but something is off. He tries a few different rhythms, can’t seem to get it right. You think you can feel him beginning to soften. No no no, I can’t leave him unsatisfied again.

You look back, though you cannot see him through the blindfold; instinctively, you want to be closer to him. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond says. “Nothing, nothing, nothing is wrong. You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.” He turns your face so he can kiss you deeply, his tongue in your mouth, swallowing you down, entangled in every way possible. And only then he is able to come: powerfully, trembling, crying out like he’s in the kind of pain that leaves scars for life.

He glides his cock out of you, and you can hear him snap off the condom. Then he unties your blindfold and your wrists. You reach for him, then stop yourself; he reaches for you—a reflex, surely—and then shakes the notion away and collapses beside you on the duvet. You both lie there panting, gazing dizzily up at the long shadows of centuries-old oak trees that cascade across the ceiling, minds drained, bodies spent.

After a moment, Aemond clambers off the bed to grab a lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his jeans pocket. Then he flops back down next to you, lights a cigarette, takes a deep, slow drag. “So, cupcake,” he says nonchalantly, exhaling smoke, hand shaking. “Where’d you get married?”

You laugh; this is ridiculous. “Why on earth would you want to know that?”

“I want to know things about you. Things other than your tits and your pussy. I mean, those are great. I enjoy them tremendously, and I plan to keep enjoying them. But I also enjoy you.”

You sigh. Aemond waits, puffing on his cigarette. “The parish courthouse.” Plain, boring, economical. “I wanted a wedding at Saint Honoratus, but…”

“Saint…who?”

“The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens,” you say. “It’s this gorgeous place in a town called Belle River on the other side of Lake Verret. Very small, very old, it’s a historic site or something, they can’t ever knock it down.”

“Why couldn’t you get married there?”

You shrug; how much could the details matter now? Someone needed to organize it, someone needed to decorate, someone needed to pay for food and drinks, someone needed to send out invitations, someone needed to care enough to make it happen, and that someone would have been you, just you, seventeen and broke and bedridden with morning sickness until noon every day. “It just didn’t work out.”

“Sounds like a lot of things didn’t work out for you.”

You raise your eyebrows. Aemond winces.

“Sorry. That was…not the way I meant to express that sentiment.”

You forgive him. You’d forgive him for anything right now, right here, in a bed stained with his sweat and your wetness and the seed you wish he could have spilled inside you. You taunt him: “Should we meet up at your house next time?”

He recoils, horrified. “No. Definitely not.”

“Why? What’s at your house? An abandoned wife and six tall, blonde, prominently-jawed children?”

He chuckles; he has collected himself again. “No. It’s just that…well…I have family in town currently. They’re staying with me while I get set up with the new job and everything. Quite a lot of people. And my family is…unorthodox.”

You wish he would stop using words you don’t know. That’s the hazard of affiliating with a highfalutin petroleum engineer, you suppose. “So they’re strange?”

“That’s a kind word for it.”

“I like strange people. I like you.”

Aemond smirks warily. “You wouldn’t like them. Just trust me on that.” He traces the border of your face with his fingertips, contemplating your secrets, tending his own like a nightscape garden. “Do you ever want to do something…not in your bedroom?”

You grin and he kisses you, nicotine and quelled desire; he can’t help it. You say when you break away: “What, like dinner or flowers or any of the other activities that were very clearly not a part of this arrangement?”

“Arrangements are flexible.”

“Are they?”

“This one is. Increasingly so.”

You ponder his proposition. “There’s this new restaurant I really want to go to. I’ve never been before, but it looks pretty rad in the commercials on tv. It’s up in Gonzales.”

“The same town as your illustrious Kmart engagement. How fortuitous. Pease continue.”

“It’s an Italian place,” you say.

“I love Italian.”

“It’s called Olive Garden.”

Aemond’s mouth falls open. He is bewildered, appalled. His cigarette smolders forgotten in the crook of his fingers. You might as well have told him you wanted to run over puppies with lawnmowers. “You want me to take you to Olive Garden? Seriously?”

You are wounded. “What’s wrong with Olive Garden?”

“Cupcake, Olive Garden is not real Italian food. That’s like saying Taco Bell is Mexican.”

“…Isn’t it?”

“Okay,” he capitulates. He smiles as he smooths your disheveled hair and touches his lips to your forehead. “It’s fine. We’ll go to Olive Garden.”

“Really?” you reply, beaming.

“Really. You’re free Thursday?”

“Unless Willis has to switch nights for some reason, yeah.”

“Then we’ll go Thursday.” Aemond rolls off the bed and finds a mug—Return Of The Jedi, Princess Leia and the Ewoks—left on your dresser to put his cigarette out in. He looks through the screen of your open bedroom window as the sky turns ever-darker, as the moon and stars begin to rise, and he breathes in the verdant, humid, ageless witchcraft of the bayou. “You have no idea what the last few days have been like for me,” Aemond says softly, his bare back turned to you, the ridge of his spine like a road cut through a swamp or a forest or a field of sugarcane. “You have no idea how badly I needed this.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All Things End 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of loss (death, miscarriage), and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Arvin Russell

Summary: Newly widowed, you take a job at the local grocer to make end’s meet.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your shoulder only gets worse. When you tell your supervisor about it, he’s unfazed as he sends you to restock the cans of tuna. Those are small, he suggests. No matter, the repetitive motion only tweaks the knot firmly lodged beneath your shoulder blade. 

When you finish your shift, you’re almost in tears. You still need to haul your own groceries home as you spend twenty minutes collecting the bare essentials. Even the light load feels like pushing a boulder up a hill as you leave through the front doors. 

You wince as you cross the lot, searching out the beaten up Volkswagen. You stop as you see the bumper sticker, heart dropping at the reminder. You remember that road trip and how you rolled your eyes at Ben when he slapped the sticker onto the car. You tried but it wouldn’t peel off. 

You stop and lean the bag against the hatch. Ugh, just the thought of driving makes your muscles roar. It’s not far. 

You lift the bag again and a pang ripples up your neck. You cry out and drop your armful, the can clunking heavily as the brown paper splits and sends your groceries scattering. You slap a hand on the car and reach to shakily rub your neck. 

You quiver out a gasp as you look down at the mess. You slide your hand down the metal and groan as you reach for the can of mixed beans. It’s scooped up before you can get your fingers around the dented tin. 

“You alright?” Arvin asks as he gathers up the smattering of groceries. 

“Yeah, I… tripped.” 

“You know,” he stands, hugging the loose goods, “I told you to take it easy.” 

You look at him in exasperation, he means well. Still, good advice isn't always practical. You have to work. You need the paycheck. 

“I know, thanks,” you reach for his armful. 

“Let me,” he insists as he steps closer, “pop the trunk.” 

You groan and turn to shove the key into the slot, pulling up the hatch halfway until it opens all the way. You drag the empty box from the corner for him to put the groceries in. He puts them into the cardboard as you lean on the bumper and cradle your shoulder. 

“You think you can drive like that?” He asks. 

“Really, I’m fine,” you insist through gritted teeth. 

“Is that true or just something you say?”  

“Look, I appreciate it but you don’t need to worry that much. Enjoy not having to while you can,” you say. 

“I see someone who needs help and I help,” he shrugs, “it’s what my ma taught me to do. If she was still around, I hope she’d be proud of that.” 

You wince and look away. It can’t be easy losing a parent young. You regret being so defensive and over what? Your bum shoulder? If she were alive, his mother might be around your age. Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned. 

“Thanks, Arvin, that’s considerate, I’m sure she would be,” you force a smile. “I can drive, I got another arm--” 

“Isn’t safe like that,” he shakes his head, “please, I can give ya a lift. I’ll walk back into town--” 

You open your mouth but stop yourself from repeating that mantra ‘it’s fine’. Your mouth slants and you tilt your head one way then the other. You sigh through your nose. You really just want to lay down with some ice. 

“You’re not going to let me go, are you?” You ask. 

He grins and shakes his head, hair flopping, “’fraid I can’t.” 

You nod and hold out the keys, “shifter sticks, make sure you give it a wiggle.” 

🌲

Arvin drives confidently up the country roads. Everyone knows where everyone lives around here, even as the roads wind into the thicker brush. He slows as he comes onto the gravel road that leads to your marital homestead. Each time you see the arch of branches that crest the clearing, you’re reminded of the day you moved in. With Ben. 

There’s not much else left of him there. The pieces you did keep of your happiest years are all hidden away. More sore reminders of the lost. Aside from the stubborn rose bush. The petals are just as bright and pink as when Ben put it in. Your first year anniversary gift; it would be almost twenty if he was here. 

Your shoulder tweaks and the pain stokes the tears behind your eyes. You wiggle your nose and shake off the grief. It’s just this damn knot. It’s got you all twisted up. 

Arvin stops gently, the axle grinding loudly with the worn brakes, and he turns the engine off. You unbuckle your belt as he frees the keys and does the same. He’s quick but most people are quicker than you right now. 

He comes around to open your door before you can. You thank him as you get out, your purse dropping off your lap. He bends to pick it up first 

“Get yourself inside,” he hands you the keys, “I’ll get your things.” 

“You really don’t--” 

“I can hear it in your voice, just like those whiny brakes. I’ll have a look at those too,” he insists. 

“Arvin,” you utter, awash with embarrassment. 

“That shoulder won’t get any better if you keep being stubborn,” he grips the top of the car door. 

“What would you know? You got some years before you gotta worry about all this?” You kid as you slump your injured shoulder and touch it daintily. 

“I know pain when I see it and I know you’ve had enough of that,” he says, “go on. Let me get my good deed done for the day.” 

You nod and can’t help the tug in your lips. Right. He sees an old lady in need. You’re under no illusions. You know your age, you know what you’ve lost, you know what other people think. They pity you. Somehow, you hoped he wouldn’t share that. 

You sniff and step past him. You make your way up the front steps with tunnel vision. You try not to see the empty flowerboxes or the broken bench. The things Benny would have taken care of. 

You let yourself in but aren’t fast enough to keep the screen door from clattering into your shoulder. You cry out and stumble, catching yourself against the bigger inner door. You drop the keys. You don’t even need them. No one in Hammer Ford locks their doors. 

“Woah, hey,” Arvin’s footfalls rush up onto the porch, “everything okay? What happened?” 

You cling to the door hand and shakily look back at him, “nothing,” your voice is brittle, “the door... hit me.” 

“Ah gee,” he frowns, “come on,” he urges you in with his hand on your lower back, “you needa just relax, miss.” 

[vampirevatican]

Hi, hope you're doing well!!

I love your Judd works and was wondering what your headcanons are for Judd having a sensitive girlfriend...

Like, they're polar opposites. She's quiet, sweet, and tender hearted. She keeps to herself for the most part and is good at self-regulating her emotions, but when she gets too overwhelmed, upset, mad, or stressed, she totally breaks and has a hard time cooling down. How would Judd handle her strong emotions?

I think Judd being super soft only for his sensitive girlfriend is such a cute concept 🥺

Thank you sm!! <333

omg thank you, that's so sweet!! also...

'oh my goodness i love this question!!! um, i think...'

a super soft gf for judd?? just what the doc ordered tbh

i think he'd handle her big emotions differently, mainly depending on the situation

like say she's really pissed and is about to get into a fight? i don't think he'd stop her unless it wouldn't be good for her in the long run. like if it risks her bright future or he could see her having to go to hospital

when it comes to work? be it a job or school then he'd definitely make sure she got breaks before she breaks down or burns out completely

he'd probably give her a rage room, like he'd build a cutesy shed and the inside of it is where she can scream, throw, punch, kick and break things as much as she wants

he's very much an actions over words, ya know? although if she just needed him to sit with her for a bit and repeat reassuring phrases he would

he'd hold her close and rub her back, or play with her hair, kiss her forehead and the top of her head

god forbid his family caused the break down, you're just consistently in his room as prisoner and if you have to use the bathroom he's a body guard at that point

some additionals bc gosh this is cute (and brainrot tings)

he will not do the soft sanrio cutesy things with her like matching outfits... UNLESS she found a way to make badtz maru, or another all black sanrio character, more punk

hear me out please... i can picture him 'tolerating' a lot of cute stuff for her, especially if she pulls puppy eyes

the raccoons? consider some of them dressed up with bows, silly outfits or even glitter

his van? there's holographic and cute stickers on it sometimes and yes he rides in her car sometimes and accepts that it's decked out in full girly uniform

actually his favorite sticker on her bumper is a cute bunny that says, 'i know i have a cute ass. can you stop riding it?' or it's baby baphomet stickers he picked out for her by the same artist (tiktok mention)

whenever he picks outfits for her? she has to hide whatever black she has, lest it looks more pastel goth/grunge

he loves her dearly. this is a sun and moon dynamic. this is one of those 'if anything happens to them id kill everyone in the room and then myself.'

[sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts]

hiiii!!! i’ve just now been really getting into ur fics (and to preface idk what you do and don’t write) and i actually love ur style sm! could you ever so possibly write a pedro pascal x fem reader except she isn’t famous, like at all, and is actually a cop? also with a bit of age gap in there..? thank you soo much!!!!

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Pedro Pascal x Cop!F!reader | WC : 1.7k | Proof read : NO | Navigation | Notifications | asks : OPEN

Summary: From giving him a ticket to him asking you out.

Warnings: Cops? its fluffy just

A/n: Just a simple oneshot of how you met Pedro Pascal, and I'll probably make a post about my dos and don'ts for asking. You are 100% okay though, there's nothing wrong with this question.

You were doing your usual rounds about the city, the brisk morning air a refreshing contrast to the monotony of your job. The streets were starting to bustle with the early risers, the aroma of fresh coffee and baked goods wafting from nearby cafes. As a parking enforcement officer, it was your duty to ensure that everyone followed the rules, even if it meant being the bad guy sometimes. Today, though, was just another ordinary day.

You walked along the row of parked cars, your eyes scanning for any infractions. Then you saw it—a car parked in a metered spot without any quarters in the meter. The car was fairly nondescript, an average sedan, but two bumper stickers caught your eye. One read "I love Baby Yoda," and the other proclaimed, "I'm a Cool Uncle." You chuckled softly to yourself, appreciating the stickers for a moment before pulling out your ticket book.

As you began writing the ticket, the door to the nearby Starbucks swung open. Out walked a man, coffee in hand, looking relaxed and content. You glanced up casually, ready to inform him about the parking violation. But as your eyes met his, your breath caught in your throat.

It was Pedro Pascal.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. There he was, your celebrity crush, right in front of you, and all you could do was stare, wide-eyed and starstruck. He looked exactly as he did on screen—charismatic, charming, and effortlessly cool. The sunlight caught the edges of his hair, making him look almost ethereal.

You quickly snapped out of your reverie, reminding yourself of your duty. Even if it was Pedro Pascal, he still hadn't fed the meter. Taking a deep breath, you approached him, ticket in hand.

"Excuse me, sir," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "I'm afraid I have to give you a ticket. Your meter's expired."

Pedro looked down at the ticket in your hand and then back at you, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Ah, I knew I forgot something," he said, his voice as smooth and captivating as you'd imagined. "I got a bit distracted by my need for caffeine."

You couldn't help but smile at his candidness. "I understand, but rules are rules," you replied, handing him the ticket. "Even for someone with such great taste in stickers."

He glanced at the back of his car, then laughed. "Yeah, my nephews insisted on those. I couldn't say no."

The two of you stood there for a moment, an easy silence settling between you. It was surreal, having this casual conversation with a man you had admired from afar for so long. You noticed his eyes, warm and friendly, and you felt your cheeks heat up under his gaze.

"Thanks for being understanding," he said, taking the ticket from you. "I guess I’ll have to make sure I have some quarters next time."

"That would be a good idea," you said, trying to sound professional but feeling a flutter of excitement in your chest. "Enjoy your coffee."

The next day, you were doing rounds once again, the early morning light casting long shadows on the sidewalk. You and your coworker Jeff had decided to take a break and get breakfast. It was a rare treat to have some company during your rounds, and Jeff's jovial nature was a welcome distraction from the routine.

As you approached the same Starbucks where you'd met Pedro the day before, you felt a flutter of anticipation in your stomach. Jeff nudged you playfully.

"What's got you so excited today?" he teased.

"Nothing," you replied quickly, trying to hide your smile. "Just looking forward to some coffee."

The two of you entered the Starbucks, the familiar aroma of fresh coffee and pastries enveloping you. You got in line and scanned the room, half-hoping and half-expecting to see Pedro again. To your surprise and delight, there he was, sitting at a corner table, engrossed in his phone.

You nudged Jeff. "Look who it is," you whispered, nodding in Pedro's direction.

Jeff's eyes widened. "No way. Isn't that Pedro Pascal?"

"Yeah," you said, your heart pounding. "I met him yesterday. Gave him a ticket."

Jeff laughed. "No way! Did he freak out?"

"Not at all," you said, remembering the encounter with a smile. "He was really cool about it."

As you waited for your coffee, you couldn't help but steal glances at Pedro. He looked up from his phone, and his eyes met yours. A smile spread across his face, and he raised his coffee cup in a silent toast. You felt a blush creeping up your cheeks as you smiled back.

You and Jeff grabbed your drinks and headed for a table, but Pedro waved you over. "Hey, join me!" he called out.

Jeff raised an eyebrow at you. "Looks like you're in demand," he said with a grin. "Go on, I'll hold down the fort here."

You walked over to Pedro's table, trying to keep your composure. "Hey," you said, sitting down across from him. "Fancy seeing you here again."

"Yeah, what are the odds?" he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "How's the ticket-writing business treating you today?"

"Not bad," you replied, relaxing a little. "No major infractions so far."

"That's good to hear," he said. "I made sure to feed the meter this time."

You both laughed, and the conversation flowed easily from there. You talked about everything from the weather to your favorite movies. The more you talked, the more you realized how down-to-earth and genuine Pedro was. He had a way of making you feel comfortable and at ease, and before long, you were laughing and sharing stories like old friends.

"So," Pedro said after a while, leaning back in his chair. "What do you do when you're not writing tickets and keeping the streets safe?"

You hesitated for a moment, feeling a bit self-conscious. "I read a lot," you began, "and I watch TV shows and movies. I'm a big fan of... well, a lot of things."

Pedro's eyes twinkled with curiosity. "What kind of things?"

Before you could answer, Jeff, who had been eavesdropping from his nearby table, piped up. "Oh, she's a super fan of a bunch of stuff. She's got all the merch, too. Posters, figurines, the whole nine yards."

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment. "Jeff!" you exclaimed, giving him a look that you hoped conveyed your exasperation.

"What? It's true," Jeff said with a grin. "Don't forget to tell him about the fan fiction."

Pedro raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Fan fiction, huh? What shows are you into?"

You took a deep breath, deciding to own it. "Mostly dark romance," you said. "I love exploring complex characters and intense emotions. Shows like 'Game of Thrones,' 'The Mandalorian,' and 'Narcos.'"

Pedro chuckled, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Ah, so you're a fan of my work?"

You nodded, feeling a little shy. "Yeah, I am. You bring a lot of depth to your characters. It's inspiring."

"Thanks," he said, looking genuinely touched. "It means a lot to hear that."

Jeff, not missing an opportunity, added, "She even has a Pedro Pascal marathon every few months. It's like a tradition."

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. "Jeff, you're killing me here."

Pedro laughed, a rich, warm sound that made your heart flutter. "No need to be embarrassed," he said. "I'm flattered. Really."

You looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were kind, and you could see he was genuinely amused and touched by your admiration. "Thanks," you said softly. "I just didn't expect to meet you like this, let alone have a conversation."

"Life's full of surprises," Pedro said with a wink. "And I'm glad we did meet. It's not every day I get to have coffee with someone as interesting as you."

You felt a rush of warmth at his words. "I could say the same," you replied.

Pedro seemed to hesitate for a moment, then asked, "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?"

You smiled, a bit amused. "I'm twenty-six."

Pedro's eyes widened slightly. "Wow, you look younger. I would have guessed early twenties."

You laughed. "Well, thanks. I guess good genes run in the family."

Pedro leaned in a bit closer, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Good genes and a youthful spirit. You know, I should probably make sure you're over eighteen before I ask you out."

You felt your cheeks heat up, a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. "I promise, I'm well over eighteen."

Jeff, who had been listening in with a grin on his face, couldn't resist chiming in. "Yeah, she's definitely over eighteen. I've seen her ID."

Pedro laughed, turning to Jeff. "Good to know. Wouldn't want to get myself into trouble."

Jeff shook his head, still grinning. "You're safe, man. Just make sure you treat her right."

Pedro turned back to you, his expression softening. "So, how about it? Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?"

Your heart skipped a beat. "I'd love that."

Pedro's smile widened. "Great. How about tomorrow night? There's a nice little Italian place not too far from here. My treat."

You nodded, feeling a flutter of excitement. "Sounds perfect."

Pedro glanced at Jeff, a teasing glint in his eye. "See, she's an adult. We're good."

Jeff laughed, clapping Pedro on the shoulder. "Just remember, I'll be watching. I've got her back."

Pedro chuckled, turning his attention back to you. "I'll keep that in mind. So, how about I pick you up at seven?"

"Seven sounds great," you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the excitement bubbling inside you.

As Pedro stood up, he held out his hand. "Looking forward to it."

You shook his hand, feeling that familiar spark of connection. "Me too."

As you and Jeff walked back to your patrol route, he nudged you playfully. "Look at you, making plans with a celebrity. You're living the dream."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I can't believe it either."

Jeff grinned. "Well, just remember us little people when you're famous."

"Yeah, yeah," you said, rolling your eyes. But you couldn't help but smile, thinking about the date tomorrow night. Your life had taken a surprising turn, and you were excited to see where it would lead.

[stanofwar2]

Journal Entry 1, 2

Saw that my poll was tied between oc journal entries, and a mix of all three. So here's the start of Leon's Journal entries of his time in Gravity Falls. Hope y'all like it!

Transcript/clear text below

June 12th

I can’t believe I’m writing in this old thing after so long, but what the hell else am I gonna do after all the weird string of events that happened this afternoon.. I’m not even sure how to start all this, I feel like a 10 year old writing in her diary… Oh well, not like I’ve got anything better to do. This old beaten up journal my therapist gave me a while ago to “ Journal and process my feelings ”  is finally serving a purpose while I’m stuck here.

So how did I get here? Simple, I was making my way through the back-roads in Roadkill County Oregon so I could cut down my travel time so I can get to my client Mrs.Vandersheisse quicker (I’m going to need to call her as soon as my phone is done charging)

But as I was cruising, enjoying the scenery of huge redwood’s expanding as far as the eye could see, I looked back to the road and crashed my car after a Gnome rode a deer into the middle of the road and startled me! Which caused me to panic and swerve out of the way and straight into a tree! Luckily my airbag deployed, only leaving me with a couple of bruises at the end. Once my head stopped spinning I dragged myself out to assess the damage only to see that the front of my car was wrapping around the trunk of the tree that didn’t even budge, almost mocking me. I was grumbling to myself as I leaned against a tree, practically fuming with anger when I heard a set of footsteps approaching, a rough, gravely voice following quickly as the stranger approached. He asked me if I was alright, saying he heard the crash from his house.

I told him I was, opening my eyes slowly and I.. I was a bit.. Caught off guard when I opened my eyes to look at the guy. He was, well. Not what I would have expected to see out here. To be honest I was expecting a redneck with the smell of patriotism thickly wrapped around him but Instead I was greeted by a somewhat heavy-set, but muscular, older guy with short gray hair wearing a tight red t-shirt and white pants, a gold chain that peaked out of the collar of his shirt, taunting me.. Drawing me in..

His eyes peered at me behind square glasses that framed his face well. From his accent he’s probably originally from a big city, I’m guessing Jersey.

He. Was. Hot. And I found myself stumbling over my words a bit, worrying if I had hit my head harder than I thought or if I was passed out. He didn’t seem to notice.. I think If he did he didn’t say anything, just continued to ask me if I was okay, how and why I crashed, and where I was heading. I told him a little before I felt dizzy and nearly fell over. I caught myself but this guy gently wrapped his arms around me and told me that it was probably best if I get my head checked out, so he walked me all the way to his place, keeping me steady, and finally telling me his name. Stan Pines. I told him mine and he told me how nice it was to meet me. He smelled like the ocean

I was a bit.. Surprised to see that his house was actually a tourist trap called the Mystery Shack. Which I swear I saw a bumper sticker for, though it didn’t have an address so how I or anyone would find it is a mystery to me (wonder if that’s intentional?) I awed at it, earning a good chuckle from the guy who asked me if I’d ever been, to which I said no. He smiled wide, going into a proposition speech about how it’s one of the best tourist traps in the Pacific Northwest, that he would know since he made the place. I chuckled, finding his spiel somewhat endearing. But eventually he got me inside and called out for someone named Ford and Soos (Or was it Zeus?)

Soos, the now apparently current owner of the Mystery Shack came out asking, “What is it dudes?” Stan filled him in about my car and told him to go into town and get a tow truck. Soos saluted and ran out, giving me his quick condolences for my car. Then, there was Ford. I shook my head when I saw him come in, asking Stan why he called him. I thought I was seeing double! Making me worry that maybe I’d hit my head harder than I thought. Turns out that he’s Stan twin and a big shot with 12 Phd’s so Stan wanted him to give me a check up. Stan caught him up, to which Ford gave me a concerning and serious look and quickly got to work, grabbing some stuff to give me a full check up. It was awkward as he prodded and asked me questions like my name, my birthday, who the current president was, and eventually asking what had happened, giving me a good look at him as well and noticing that he has six fingers, which caught my attention, but I didn’t comment on it, didn’t want him to feel like I was judging him, making me quite the hypocrite. I told him 90% of the truth, keeping out the Gnome part of it. He hummed, his mind whirling away, asking me about my last name and swearing that he’d heard it before somewhere in his research. I wonder if he knows my family?

I just chuckled and then finally met the other family members of the household. Mabel and Dipper Pines, 13 year old twins spending the summer at their “Grunkles” place. They were very sweet and friendly, practically interviewing me about who, why, and how I was here, to which I gave them all I was comfortable telling, leaving the more.. Weird parts out. Stan let us know that it would be a little bit before Soos told him how bad the damage on the car is. I was nervous as I sat there, people-watching the Pines family, their antics and general weirdness growing on me, easing my nerves. At least until Stan got the call from Soos.

So, Good news, I only had a minor concussion and would be fine shortly. Bad news, my car is pretty much completely fucked and it’s estimated it will take a whole month to get it running. A MONTH!! I was.. Well I was devastated. I am devastated still, wondering what gods damned me to be stuck here in the middle of nowhere!! And in a house so damn noisy and filled to the brim with spirits!! Ghostly lumberjacks meandering about, trying to get mine and others attention. Luckily, they all are pretty weak so as long as I ignore/tune them out, I’ll be fine. But it’s.. Not just them there’s a generally strange aura surrounding this place. I felt it in the woods, which is completely normal but for it to be this strong and consistent here? That’s the odd part, then again in general this whole area has felt.. Off. Not bad, just, off, different.

Anyway, I groaned, wondering what the hell I’m going to do now! Where I was gonna stay for a whole month! I heard some small whispering before Stan sat down next to me, cleared his throat and put his warm hand on my back, telling me he was “sorry that life had given such a nasty hand.” But he said that it wasn’t all bad news, that he and his brother had been talking and while they couldn’t help with the whole car issue, they could clear out a room in the Shack, giving me a place to stay until I can leave. I couldn’t believe it, why were they being so nice to me? I was.. Skeptical and Stan found that entertaining, letting me know that it was because there weren’t any good Motels in town and they could use an extra pair of hands to help around the house and to watch the kids. So basically they were giving me a place to stay in exchange for a free babysitter. Which, as annoying as that is, isn’t the worst offer I’ve had. So I agreed.

Mabel was all the happier to have another person to talk to. She gave me the ~Grand Tour~of the shack, eventually leading me to what would be my room, which was clearly a storage room that she and her brother had cleared out and tried to make look homey. Which was very sweet.

Eventually Soos returned, giving me my travel bags. Stan dragged a mattress into my “room”, gave me some sheets that he swore he “cleaned recently”  before giving me another apology about my car. But it was different than before, it was.. Softer, genuine. But I didn’t pry, just thanked him, to which he gave me another confident, exaggerated smile and told me “Anytime buddy, welcome to Gravity Falls” (Guess that’s the town’s name) before walking off to do Gods knows what. 

I’ve set up my bed, cleansed my room with some sage, and placed some warding crystals in the corners of the room, hiding them so the kids or anyone don’t mess with and or steal them. So now, here I am, sitting in my new room recounting the odd string of events that have led me here in a busted up journal that I don’t even remember packing.

I should stop here for now, Mabel peeked in to let me know that dinner is ready so I guess I’m off. Until next time.

Leon

[lkfarrout]

What Happened Last Summer (18+) Chapter 1

My first fic guys! (I'm gonna throw up I'm so nervous)

Read Chapter 2 next!

This is the first chapter out of probaby 10 or more and I plan to post a chapter a day. Takes place the summer after the show does, and introduces an OC/love interest for Stan named Kathy :)))

There is some mild sexual content, so I will be marking the whole series as 18+. There is some light angst, arguments, etc. This series really could be titled "Stanley Pines is forced to actually talk about his feelings for once in his life"

Enjoy! Press 'keep reading' for the fic

“Welcome to the Mystery Shack,” the redhead at the counter was less than enthusiastic – she barely bothered to glance up from her magazine. Kathy lingered at the counter and studied the interior of the store. The walls were covered in shelves of bizarre amalgamations of animal parts, interspersed with hats and t-shirts and a few hand-painted signs that said “No Refunds”.  A few customers browsed the items, including an older man in a light blue Hawaiian shirt eyeing a treat inside the vending machine.

“Could I talk to your boss, Soos, if he isn't busy?” 

The girl looked at the clock, then back down at her reading, and said “He’s finishing a tour right now. What do you need?”

Kathy dug around in her bag. “I’m new in town, just reopened the motel. I was wondering if I could leave some business cards here?” 

At that, the man at the vending machine spun around.

“Actually, I’m the owner of this fine establishment.” He leaned an elbow on the counter and proudly gestured around the room. Suddenly, she found her hand in his and he shook it firmly. “Stan Pines – original Mr. Mystery.” His rough, but confident voice echoed through the giftshop.

Kathy tried to meet his eyes but instead found herself staring at the open collar of his shirt. A gold chain poked through a bit of hair that matched the thick silver stands on his head. 

“Sorry,” she began with a small laugh, “I thought you were a customer.”

“I guess you could say I’m retired,” he replied, gesturing to a $15 bobble-head of a man in a black suit and fez. Kathy could sort of see the resemblance, especially the nose. “But I’m not too old to recognize a good business opportunity!” He grabbed the cards from her other hand and studied them. Gravity Falls Twin Bed Motel - now under new management. Open Friday -Monday. He flipped it over to find a name and a phone number. Katherine Phillips, owner. 

“Lovely to meet ya, Katherine. Welcome to town.” He shook her hand again.

“Thank you Stan, but you can call me Kathy,” she replied.

“I’ll strike a deal with you, Kathy. I’ll hand out your business cards if you take some of these,” he handed her a stack of bumper stickers, “and send a few people this way.”

“That’s exactly what I had in mind.” She threw the stickers in her bag. “I look forward to working with you. See you around, Stan” Then, Kathy did something stupid – she winked at him. She wasn’t entirely sure why, other than it seemed that this man’s charisma was rubbing off on her. As soon as she winked, however, every drop of charisma, every minute of sales experience, every cool, casual part of Stan instantly vaporized. A slight pink tinge flooded his cheeks and he cleared his throat into his fist. 

“Yeah, I’ll see ya around.” He watched her walk out the door, then watched her get in her car, then watched her drive off. Before he knew it a hand was waving in front of his face.

“Mr. Pines?”

“Huh?” He shook himself out of it. “Oh, Soos.”

“I see you met Kathy.” Soos nudged Stan with his elbow.

“You know her?”

“She hired my grandma to clean motel rooms – real nice lady. And close to your age too, Mr. Pines.”

Stan considered this information, and started fiddling with the stack of business cards. “What are ya sayin’?”

“Well, you know, ever since I met Melody, I’m sort of like the expert on relationships. I’m sure if you don’t ask her out, Mabel will do it for you when she gets into town.”

“No, Soos, I couldn’t…” Stan began.

“Mr. Pines,” Wendy butted in, “she winked at you. C’mon, ask her out! Ask her out!” She pounded on the counter in rhythm, and Soos joined in the chanting.

“Ask her out! Ask her out!”

“Fine!” Stan grabbed a business card and shoved it in his pocket. “Just get back to work.”

_______

With a deep breath, Stan picked up the phone’s receiver and began dialing. 

“Kathy? It’s Stan… yeah, from yesterday at the shack. Look if you’re not busy tonight, I thought ya might like a tour of the town. I’ve lived here thirty-one years, y’know.”

“A personal tour from Mr. Mystery himself? I couldn’t pass that up.” She teased him, “Will I get to see Bigfoot?”

Stan chuckled, “Nah that stuff's all for the tourists – if you’re gonna live here you need the real tour. Thought I’d take ya to the diner, we could drive around, and maybe go out to the lake.”

“Stan, this sounds more like a date than a tour to me.”

“Ah, ya got me! Guilty as charged.”

Kathy laughed, “Alright, Stan, I’ll see you tonight.”

[kekaki-cupcakes]

BONJOUR (〃^ω^〃)

if your requests are open and if you so feel like, I would LOVE (♥ω♥*) to hear your Connor Stoll HCS whether misc or x reader related I care very little, I just want more content of my fav.

Sincerely eternally yours - anon.

ciao! ヽ( 'ω' )ﾉ

Hey I know you requested this ages ago sorry about that. I've also decided to answer requests in order of which one I like the idea of the most instead of time because I feel like I'm stuck on a few old ones lol

Also this was so fun to write and I ended up writing a short story at one point or smthn.

Conner Stoll Headcanons

»»————-　★　————-««

-He sometimes forgets Travis isn’t really his twin.

-As do most people that know them. 

-He’s so sick of the jokes about his last name he and Travis just pretend to not understand anymore.

-The poison sprayed T-shirt given to the Hunter Phoebe, stopping her from going on the quest to save Annabeth wasn’t just a prank on the stern girl. It was on purpose, so that Percy could go instead, but no one really realized that.  

-Once he moved to New York years after the books ended, he rented a flat with a smashed in window and a leaky bathtub. He had to live off one dollar pizza slices for about a year [he loved them] until he saved up and stole enough to afford a better flat with three bedrooms. One was for him, one was for Cecil, and one was for Katie when she visited with Travis. He has a bunk bed that he shares with Travis, but he makes his brother sleep on the top bunk like they did at CHB.

-Unknown to him, Travis’s room at Camp Jupiter has a bunk bed too, and he sleeps on the top every night. He’s studying Law. 

-Once Conner was able to pay rent by the deadlines and had steady shifts at work [and once his diet had gotten a bit better, although pizza slice Friday is a ritual] Chiron finally let Cecil move in.

-It was only really because Cecil wanted to go to highschool properly, and finish it this time instead of being chased from the year ten open day by feral harpy’s. He works at Starbucks part time and Conner drives him to every shift and then Iris messages CHB and talks to his friends in his car while he waits for Cecil to finish. 

-He’s actually really disappointed when Cecil buys a motorbike and doesn’t need lifts to Starbucks anymore, but then his little brother needs someone to pick him up because he crashed into a phone box and he’s back to annoyed chauffeurTM again.

-He owns the shittiest car ever, like, one of those falling apart pickup trucks with fluffy dice and he actually keeps it pretty clean because he’s so proud of it. He calls it ‘Mater’, from the movie Cars, because it’s Cecil’s favorite movie. It’s also covered in bumper stickers. Like, nearly every part of it, and people just hand them to him sometimes to fill in a gap. 

-He joined the local track team, and he’s actually pretty good.

-His guilty pleasure is Taylor Swift’s 1989 album and eating peanut butter MnM’s by the bag even though he hates real MnM’s.  

-He never really wanted to go to University, and the strictness of Camp Jupiter would’ve killed him, so he got a job at the lolly store Sally used to work at, but was fired when he let too many little kids shoplift. 

-Now he’s working at a backpackers lodge instead, and he actually really likes meeting all the traveling people that come through, even though he knows it’s because of his dad. His relationship with Hermes is questionable, mainly because of Luke. 

-He loved his brother but after the Titan war and all the shame put on their cabin he hated Luke with a passion, as did most of his siblings, even if they sort of did understand why he did it all anyway. Conner wouldn’t have joined the Titan Army, but he knows that if the majority of Camp Halfblood was to stage something like that again he probably would. He’s loyal to his siblings and friends, not the gods. 

-Chris Rodriguez agrees on that part. They’ve talked about it a lot. 

-Chris stayed over on the fold out couch enough for him to get a toothbrush in the bathroom and his favorite cereal in the pantry, which is weet-bix bites with honey and blueberries [if someone went to the shops for something other than pink monster energy drinks and grain waves]. He stills lives at Camp Half-blood with Clarrise most of the time and he’s going to University online but has to come in once or twice a week for tests and practical classes. He wanted to be a paramedic but he knew that would be too much stress on him and so would being a therapist.

-Chris is studying nursing and catches a ride with Pollux [who is studying to be a paramedic] sometimes.  

-Then Pollux began staying over sometimes as well.

-And of course there were times when Clarrise would come into the city with her boyfriend to find late night underground fight clubs and visit Coach Hedge [he was the satyr that brought her to CHB].

-Six months pass and Conner’s apartment is a mini Camp Halfblood stop by.

-This is confirmed when Lou Ellen bursts in at three am with a hellhound on her heels and the app Malcom Pace had invented that directed demigods to nearby safe havens when they were in danger.                                                                                                               She explained that his flat had come up and she needed to talk to Austin [who was sleeping on the couch] about how somebody from his cabin had stolen her voodoo doll of Will that they liked to tickle while he was stitching someone up in the Infirmary. 

-He’s accepted it now but sometimes when a random kid shows up covered in blood he sends them to Sally’s apartment [she’s on the app as well]. There’s only so many blow up mattresses and showers long enough to scrub monster grit off a twenty something year old can afford. 

-He gets promoted at the traveler’s lodge, and ends up sending a lot of demigods, nymphs, and satyrs there as well. 

-Chris’s nursing skills help out a lot more than they were hoping.

-So does having Pollux the paramedic on speed dial. 

-He pirates anything he watches, and his favorites are The Last Of Us and Ferris Bueller's day off. He is obligated to watch Cars at least once a week with Cecil, but his favorite Disney movie is The BFG [it used to be the Lion King but then Luke happened and it hit too far home]. 

-He also really liked watching The Hunger Games but then he realized what it reminded him of and now he steers clear. 

-That, and the fact the Castor and Pollux trope is used. 

-Conner hates musicals. 

»»————-　★　————-««

[rrat-king]

WIP wednesday

...or close enough. was tagged by my beloved @whatisamildopinion (i am absolutely eating your birthday fics they are killing me dead actually) so here is a snippet of the next chapter of Church Clothes cuz i promise i have been working on it:

-

Kristen was painfully aware that they were in Jawbone’s old station wagon as Sandra Lynn pulled into the church parking lot, remembering too late the collection of bumper stickers that adorned the back of the car. The McDonalds were walking up behind the car, and she could see in the mirror as Debby McDonald spotted the “ride me like you ride my bumper” sticker she knew was pasted on the trunk door, pressing a hand over her face as Debby did the same to her son, ushering him into the church as she glared at the car.  

“Lemme know if you need a ride?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Kristen said as she got out of the car, needing Sandra Lynn to drive away immediately before one of the congregation called the cops for indecency. It had happened before, she didn’t need it happening again the first time she was back at church in years.

Thankfully, Sandra Lynn seemed to take the hint, only giving her a little nod and a pointed look before driving off, leaving Kristen outside the church in a too small dress and a deep ache of nostalgia she refused to confront. 

It wasn’t so much a choice as it was habit as she walked into the church, tracing long worn paths through the doors of the sanctuary, eyes unfocused as she made her way into lobby, veering towards the left hand side near the stain glass portrayal of Helio strung up on his post, the glass of the corn a little too orange. 

She used to joke with her brothers that it looked like a field of corn dogs, making them giggle and snicker and get them in trouble with the Sunday school teacher as she pressed her lips together, the picture of innocence. 

It was where her family always stood before making their way to their usual spot in the front pews, chatting and making nice and showing off their precious chosen. It was where they stood as Kristen made her way towards the stained glass without a second thought, only realizing she was looking straight at them as Bucky bound towards her. 

-

i will tag @wlwinry @allthecastlesonclouds and @luvo27 if y'all have anything y'all are working on you want to share <33

[aceistheplace86]

Strawberry & Pine pt 3

//Y'all don't understand how badly I just want to make everything heartbreaking sad but I have to do somethin called "groundwork" or whatever... You guys are safe for now.

How on earth did she know his name? His real name!

“Look lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stan said quickly “I’m Stanford. Stanford Pines. Mister Mystery. Always have been.”

Julie held out her hand “Show me your hand” When the man made no sudden movement she nodded “I knew it”

Stan’s eyebrows furrowed together “I don’t understand what's happening right now.”

Julie glanced around the mostly empty diner and then back at him “I knew something was odd when I started seeing your face on bumper stickers for the “Mystery Shack”… his face” She said quietly. “Look. I have lived here in Gravity Falls for a long time. I knew your brother. I helped him with his studies” She paused “I was there when he…” she trails off.

“I don’t know what scam you’re pullin’ but I’m outta here” He stood up and walked out of the dinner quickly. He got in his car and slammed the door shut. He started his car and looked in his rearview mirror, that’s when he saw her sitting in the back seat “What the-!” He screamed.

“Please let me explain” Julie spoke softly but hurriedly.

“How did you get in my car!”

Julie sighed and in a blur had disappeared, a streak of red light trailing behind her before reappearing in the passenger seat.

“Gah! Stop doing that!’ Stan yelps.

“I am one of the many anomalies that lives in Gravity Falls” She starts “I ran into your brother, Ford, one day in the forest. He almost got himself killed by a creature he was unprepared for” She gathered her curly hair and pulled it into a ponytail feeling a bit overwhelmed with it in her face. “I taught him about some of the creatures here, how to stay safe. Even made him a contraption that he could use to keep the powers of the stronger creature at bay. I taught him about myself”

Stan just stared at her confused “What are you exactly”

“To put it simply, a witch,” she tells him

“Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

Julie opened her mouth and then stopped for a moment. “I thought you were him” She whispers softly. “I thought he came back, I thought he was okay” She looked out the window “So I went to the Mystery Shack and saw how different it looked. I tried to keep a positive mind until I saw you, shook your hand”

Stan looks down at his hand and sighs softly “Sorry to disappoint.” He mumbled.

“There is no disappointment Stanley,” She tells him “At least not because of who you are. I figured you were the only other one who could understand something like this.”

He looked up at her and gave her a weary smile “So you knew my brother then huh?”

Julie nodded “Brilliant guy. But so hard on himself” She mumbled.

Stan just nodded “So you were there that night when I… when he…” He couldn’t find it in himself to say the words about the portal.

“I was there before that” She starts

“Wait. Before? Well, why didn’t you try and stop him before he even made the damned thing!”

“I did!” She looks at him “I tried to bring him back down to reality, but he was too far gone” She rolled her shoulders back and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “We got in a fight. He didn’t trust me” she tells him. “He used my own contraption against me. I was powerless” She recalled the memory. “I freed myself with tools while he was distracted and teleported out of there. I needed to regain strength before I faced him again” She looked down at her hands “I wanted to have a plan on how to help him… But I was too late”

He watches her, remembering how scared his brother had been that day he had finally been reunited. “Why didn’t you come to see me earlier?”

“I left Gravity Falls in search of a solution to bring him back,” She says “I know he wrote everything in those journals but I was under the impression that he had gotten rid of them.”

“Yeah,” Stan mumbled. “It ain’t an easy fix”

Julie looks up at him “But, I think I can help”

[prince-liest]

Sooooo what car do we think Once Bitten Alastor drove ?

I wish I knew more about cars and could give this a thoughtful answer, but I didn't get my license until I was 25 (grew up somewhere you didn't need a car) and so I really am new to the world of having to care about vehicles, hahaha.

I feel like he would have an appreciation for something classic and nice-looking but still functional and not overly expensive. Definitely not the kind of guy to pay dozens-to-hundreds of thousands on a classic car (frankly not sure if he could afford that in the first place) but also giving him a '97 Corolla like I currently drive (extremely widely-produced and thus easy to source parts for, demonstrably keeps rolling 27+ years later, very "if it ain't broke, don't fix it") seems like it's not classy enough. Maybe it was originally his mom's and he inherited it!

He definitely has exactly one (1) carefully-positioned bumper sticker, and it's a tasteful logo advertising his podcast.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟

147 my god!!!!! This is over 1000 words

---

It feels as close to the experience of a hospital waiting room as probably exists anymore. 

Bobby nods. “It’s resolved. Not to worry.”

“The radio?” Athena asks.

“No longer transmitting. We don’t need anyone else finding this place,” Bobby explains. “I’m just glad it was you and not someone we don’t know.”

Athena nods. “The end of the world brings out the worst in people.”

“Enables the worst in them, certainly,” Bobby agrees. 

“Though I suppose not everyone,” Athena adds. “Look at what you’ve done here.”

Bobby smiles, gesture feeling slightly forced. “Thank you. We’re getting by.”

“Looks more like thriving, compared to some of what I’ve seen.”

Well, that’s fair. Bobby hasn’t seen as much. He’s happy not to know. Happy not to be part of a larger, more dangerous world. He can’t risk losing another family. 

Before Bobby can reply, Hen and Chim walk out of the utility closet where they’ve been treating May. 

“How is she?” Athena asks, rising to her feet. 

“She has an infection,” Hen says. “But not the infection. Likely, something got in the wound. Or, the zombie that scratched her had something gross on its hands.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Chim says. “If it gets worse, we’d have to take the leg.”

Athena gasps. 

“We’re not there yet, Athena,” Hen assures her. 

Athena takes a deep breath. 

“I trust you, Hen. Do what you have to do to save my baby. She’s more than a leg.”

Bobby swallows. His mind can’t help drifting to his own kids. He feels a desperate, nagging need to prevent her from experiencing his agony. He doesn’t know her kids at all, but he wouldn’t wish that loss on anyone. It’s completely unnatural. Completely soul-changing. So very hard to survive. 

“It’s a waiting game for now,” Chim tells her. “You and your son should rest. We’ll keep you updated, and you can see her.”

Athena sighs. “I can’t rest now. I have to go check the old house. See what I can crab. See if there are any signs of Michael.”

“Town’s not so bad for zombies anymore,” Chim tells her. “They’re mostly all dead.”

Bobby still feels a pang of anxiety at the thought of her going out into it alone, anyway. 

“You want backup?” He offers. 

Athena smiles a little ruefully. “I never did work with a partner, captain.”

“We’ve got an electric vehicle,” he shrugs. “Don’t waste your gas.”

Pragmatism often wins out over ego, he finds. Or just a desire to be alone. 

She nods. “Well, alright then. Thank you.”

▪️▪️▪️

Before the outbreak, Bobby had been a truck guy. Maybe that was just familiarity with the battalion trucks at work, maybe it was a lifetime of driving on snowier, rougher roads. The immediate halt of gasoline production changed that, of course. Hard to appreciate a gas guzzler when each refill is a chore. Siphoning is one thing. Locating gas to be siphoned? Another. 

Luckily for them, the community center already had one of the town’s only public EV charging stations. And a few of the more affluent residents, all of whom died fairly quickly, left behind their expensive cars. It was Karen who proposed they take as many as they could. She could work with their computer systems, and the rest of them were handy with vehicles on account of the job. So now Bobby finds himself driving a Tesla, covered in looted bumper stickers from the dollar store that Denny has artfully arranged. There’s a number of absurd slogans. I love my Bichon Frise. My kid is an honor roll student. Who rescued who? Coexist. Go green - go vegan. Athena reads them all as she climbs in the car. 

“We’re more pescatarian at this point,” Bobby says when he catches her eyeing the last one. “Buck catches a lot of fish.”

“You don’t strike me as a bumper sticker guy,” Athena smirks, climbing in the passenger seat and buckling up. 

He appreciates someone who uses their seat belt even post-apocalypse. It had been an argument with Buck until Chim made him watch a DVD copy of Zombieland. Not as funny of a film when it’s your reality. 

“That’s all Denny,” Bobby replies, chuckling. “We had to draw the line at someone’s NRA sticker.”

Athena laughs. “I’m guessing he didn’t understand?”

“No. We took the guy’s guns, left his agenda.” 

“Fair enough,” she chuckles.

“Where am I headed?” Bobby asks.

“Montalvo Drive,” Athena says. 

Fancy neighborhood. Damn. Not something she’d afford on a police salary. 

“You got it.”

A quiet falls over the car as Bobby drives. He knows very little about what happened between Athena Grant and her husband, Michael. A man Bobby has never met.  Hen knows. Karen knows. But they’ve never said. There wasn’t a reason to, after the outbreak. And before, it was a private matter. One day, they were called to an motorist accident, a different sergeant was at the scene who Bobby didn’t recognize, and Hen quietly told Bobby and Chim that Athena had taken the kids and gone to her parents. He found he missed seeing her at calls, as strange as that is to say. She has an energy about her, maybe. 

“What did your husband do?” Bobby asks finally, after five minutes, when they pull onto the street. 

“Architect,” Athena explains. 

Well that accounts for that. 

“He was - is, I don’t know - good at it, too.” Athena continues. “Successful.”

He’d have to be, to buy the home she ends up directing him to. Ocean view. Two stories. Big gates and a pool. Athena probably didn’t have to work at all. Let alone a dangerous, demanding job. Which just goes to say, she’s the kind of person that needs to. He understands that. 

Bobby parks outside the gate. He grabs the shotgun he brought with them as Athena checks the gate codelock. You never can be too sure. 

“The batteries in these things are supposed to last years,” Athena mutters as she punches in the code. 

The gate clicks open. 

“We can leave the security company a testimonial,” Bobby tells her. 

“Customer reviews are everything,” Athena agrees flatly. 

They slip through the creaking gate. It doesn’t have the power to automatically open. From there, it’s a short walk up to the front door of the home. The walkway is that flat, river stone look. It must once have been polished and beautiful. Now, it’s growing through with weeds and a little dusty. Athena sighs when she looks at it. 

[muppetears-stuff]

do you have any headcanons about Warren or other characters you like ?

Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you for asking!! ^^ more under the cut cause this gonna be long- :3

so, headcanons vvv

Bisexual. But that's just fanon-

I have a whole bunch of headcanons for double exposure Warren/design concepts that I have only thought of yet😔😔 but I will tell!!!

I love the idea of him having long hair, longer hair than original game Warren. He has it in a low ponytail, or I might just keep it down.

He's a lot more confident in his style and personality than teenage him, so I like to think he still sports the undershirts but wears jackets a lot more now, too. Lanyard covered in pins, and his student ID/regular ID, taking that from his original concept design for the first game because a lanyard feels SO Warren to me,,,,

Breaking away from double exposure thoughts. It's canon that he's friends with most girls at Blackwell. I like to think he's invited to sleepovers and hangouts sometimes, even if he's awkward around them, but he's one of the nicest guys at Blackwell. The girls are taking advantage of that.

I love the thought of nervous characters biting their nails (like me. And Warren is me /hj), and so he paints them/let's the girls paint them, it's to keep him from biting his nails off. If they're pretty or have something on them, he's not gonna wanna bite :]

Listens to bloodhound gang and Weezer. Specifically, "I wish I was queer so I could get chicks." By bloodhound gang and "I just threw out the love of my dreams." By Weezer. And weird al,,,,

He would've had such a wonderful dynamic between Chloe and Max, and I love to think that some rebel/mischievous part of him admired Chloe. He would drop everything to help Max and one of her friends if they needed help, as shown in the game. So he would've definitely helped with the mystery behind Rachel.

The type of guy to take one compliment from someone and think about it for the rest of his life. keeps him up at night type thing. /pos

Flocked to Max and thought he liked her, but it was just because she was the first person who made him feel seen and appreciated and made him feel like a person. He says it in the game, and it makes me cry, so it's not really a headcanon, but the first part is-

Gifted kid shame and burn out. Cries over getting a low grade or score and can not physically function for a week. I would love the idea of in game, him hanging around Chloe and Max, where some of his dialogue is him talking about how he should be back at Blackwell studying but finding what happened to Rachel is more important than an English paper.

If he does something cool as hell, he's gonna recognize it's cool as hell and gets giddy when someone else recognizes that it was cool. (the craving for validation, I get it.)

Mom friend, I have decided. Warren is not opposed to a little tomfoolery, maybe a bit of property damage, but if anyone got hurt while doing so, he's there with a bandaid and disinfectant immediately.

Presented Max with the idea of matching costumes for Halloween, Paulie Bleeker and Juno Macguff from Juno 2007, but she declined ,:3 (they are literally them!!!)

He's overly dramatic about things and will pull out the puppy dog eyes to get what he wants (which isn't a alot, he's a simple man.)

Bag, lanyard, jacket. COVERED in pins and patches of his interests/bands he likes

Has bumper stickers of movie references

Named his car. Her name is Lauren.

Mom knits things for him like sweaters, beanies, and mittens, and it's always a lovely gift during December<33 complete momma's boy.

Has vocal stims of random references that make him giggle way too much, repeats them for no reason. Picks at his cuticles or underneath his fingernails or messes with his undershirt sleeves. Constantly wiping his hands on his jeans. Big hand talker too :3

Wears a ton of wrist bands/bracelets and definitely ends up wearing concert wrist bands they give to you at the door for longer than needed because he forgets to take them off-

Is creatively stunted and can't visualize things properly. He wishes he had the creative brain that Max does so he can maybe see the world outside of facts and pre-established knowledge. Has a hard time writing because of it.

And that's it :DD I could probably do a part 2 with other characters,,,of course, if that is desired💖💖 thank you for asking!!

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

Driving Habits -Diasomnia Edition

Can they drive? If so, what kind of drivers are they? What are their car habits?

Characters; Malleus Draconia, Lilia Vanrouge, Silver & Sebek Zigvolt

Content; road rage mention, car crash mention, Sebek, the joys of public transit

Word Count; 700+

Find the Rest of the Series; Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde

Author’s Note; As a reminder, do not put my work — or others for that matter — into AI as it steals. Link to Masterlist

Malleus Draconia

Can’t drive. It’s a mix of not being tech-savvy, and not having the need. He’s the future king, he logistically has no need to drive. Also it never turns out well when he tries.

Will stare out the window in silence, pondering; be it gargoyle design and history, what Lilia, Silver and Sebek are doing, to a future invitation. In short, he daydreams.

He also does not see the appeal of modern vehicles. Horse-drawn carriages have worked stupendously for ages. And then there’s also magic. Humans are odd creatures for inventing such things.

Only so many people who work for him are able to drive, so his options are rather limited… but he knows better than to have Lilia be his driver; his only real safe option is Sebek.

Did take public transit once, out of curiosity. It becomes a ritual of his to take it once a week for the full route just to people-watch. He saw Azul one time, Kalim the other time chatting to a man with a saxophone, and he could have sworn he saw Idia sulking in the corner.

Lilia Vanrouge

He doesn’t have a license, and he really shouldn’t drive, but he does. He is THE speed demon, putting Epel to shame [I am speed]. Do not get in the car with Lilia under any circumstance.

He blasts a deafening mix of screamo, bagpipes, tavern music, and ‘Throw Back Thursdays’. You can hear him coming before you even see him. An absolute madman, but a great racer.

Takes phone calls all the time and has almost crashed on several occasions; don’t be like Lilia.

Before his car somehow disappeared during the night, he had it decked out to the nines; bumper stickers, a small army of bobble heads on the dash and back, fuzzy dice on the rear view mirror. His car also had a few dents from some scrapes he went through.

He has to stick to horse drawn carriages and teleportation now since there seems to be a ban on him at every dealership. But they are no where near as fun as taking good old Mim out for a spin, yes he named his car. Again, I question how Silver survived his childhood.

Silver

He decides against driving due to his sleeping condition, and doesn’t want to put others in danger due to it. 

He sticks mainly to his horse, brooms, and joins Malleus along his weekly public transit adventures. He enjoys the bonding time he and his horse have, and provides as an outlet to reflect. Whereas he joins Malleus on transit due to safety reasons, and also as added bonding time without Sebek.

Speaking of the bus, he has noticed a few others every now and then; Azul looking flustered next to a screaming toddler. Kalim with some saxophone person. And Idia sulking and trying to disappear in on himself. Wait, where did Malleus go?

He NEVER gets in the car with Lilia, EVER; thank Sevens he only acquired the car when he started attending NRC and he only had it for about a year before it “disappeared”.

He encourages Sebek with his driving lessons, and also acts as a moderator since the only people willing to teach him are humans. Overall, he isn’t bothered that he doesn’t drive, and is confident in his decision.

Sebek Zigvolt

Defensive driver, heavy on the breaks and goes below the speed limit. Looks at Lilia as a clear bad example, so he has to resort to taking lessons from Trey, who was kind enough to offer, and his dad. He’s the only hope for Diasomnia.

He refuses to listen to anything while driving, as it is a distraction and he can’t tolerate distractions. Probably would have the radio removed from the car if he were able to.

His phone is on silent, the only notifications he gets are from his emergency contacts; Malleus, Lilia, and his mother. Each one has a different ringtone so he knows who is calling.

Insists that there be no decorations. The only thing that is remotely personal is a novelty gargoyle air freshener Malleus had gifted him from one of his outings. Otherwise it looks like it came straight from the dealership.

Has road irritation and will shout about how people shouldn’t be on the road. He only gets proper road rage when Malleus is in the car. Do you know who you endangered with your tactless driving, human?! DO YOU?!