#laments of my future self

[atomicradiogirl]

everyone’s hugging their 14 year old self when really i wish i was hugging my 16 year old self. you thought you had to be grown up but you were still just a kid. the world was falling apart and you were stuck in the middle of it. it wasn’t your fault. you just wanted to experience that teenage love you can only have once, but she used you. you can love again. mom loves you she was just in pain. your body is yours, it’s no one else’s. you’re 20 and loved. the world is dark at times but sometimes you’ll look around and it’ll be bright and beautiful.

[seaglassdinosaur]

I love Beyonders as much as the next Beyonders fan, but can we acknowledge the fact that the ‘heroic’ ending for the characters who were dealing with suicidal tendencies… was for them to sacrifice their lives? To choose to die? That was pretty messed up, right?

[temis-de-leon]

When they don't know you as well as they thought they did

Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub and Belphegor (x reader, separately)

Main Masterlist

C/W: the boys are crushing on MC and it's implied MC is crushing as well, but there isn't any established relationship. Just friends feeling things for their friend, very common. Self-insert, perhaps?

A/N: this is just fluff, very silly, a little ooc maybe, but I'm not sure. I just wanted to make something fun and lighthearted after the recent news.

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No one is surprised anymore at the firmness the brothers speak with when they call you part of the family. Between the pacts and the unsolicited free therapy, it’s only fair, and only an idiot wouldn’t be able to see the affection running through the House of Lamentation.

Still, there are instances every once in a while where, although it’s difficult at the beginning, the boys have no other choice but to accept the fact that you have a completely different life back in the human world and they may not know you as good as they would like.

It starts with the small things; embarrassing conversations where their ignorance gets you to laugh like a maniac more than a couple of times. There they are, blushing in self-consciousness while you cackle uncontrollably because they believed some urban legend about a faceless suited man with freakishly long arms.

Then, slowly, but surely, it turns into more personal things about you, like your irrational, downright, phobia of lizards or the fictional characters you’re surprisingly attracted to.

(Some of those aren’t human, which makes them all feel a strong sense of hope, but you don’t need to know that).

The brothers learn about your studies, favourite subjects and what you’d like to do with your future, even if it sounds hopeless or unlikely. They also keep every bit of information about your friends and family; little comments that you let go here and there and help them understand why you are someone they love so much.

The whole situation evolves in such a way that inviting them to your birthday party in the human realm seems to be the obvious next step.

‘It’s so I can celebrate it with all my loved ones’ you say, and they really can’t deny your offer after that.

So, after a few awkward introductions and half-truths about their origin, everyone is happily talking to each other and eagerly waiting for their turn to be with you.

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Lucifer, who has had a special interest in your family for a while, finds himself chuckling in understanding when your mother complains about the occasional mess in your room. In your defence, he feels obligated to partially throw his brothers under the bus and blame them for keeping you in a constant state of disarray, but then she says something that… perplexes him.

You don’t like perfection? His eyes open wide at the revelation and your mother chuckles, misinterpreting his expression. She doesn’t know who he really is or what he represents, after all.

Just how vast is the veracity of that statement? Does it refer only to a state of mind or do you apply it to everything else?

Thankfully, he doesn’t have time to feel too anxious before he remembers the little details. When your triumphal smile shone in the dimness of his room that time he made a silly mistake in chess, ultimately granting you the win; or when the Anti-Lucifer League managed to leave his hair unkempt for an entire day, which got you to shamelessly look at him for longer than any of his younger brothers would’ve ever liked.

Not being perfect isn’t something he would ever do consciously and he had always found solace in the fact that you like him despite his mistakes. However, knowing you actually like him because of those mistakes? Perhaps letting those cracks show in his façade isn’t so bad as long as it is for you.

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Not far from him, Mammon chats with your human best friend. There’s an air of competitiveness between them, both wanting to be the ultimate best friend, but it all stays light-hearted. There’s no real threat when Mammon gets to be your first demon, you know? It’s a unique position!

But he still makes sure to assert dominance by stating he would’ve made the perfect party for you, better than the one you’re currently enjoying; with food and decorations from the Devildom and the Celestial realm included, matching outfits and, of course, keeping everything hidden so you can have the best surprise of your life. He had thrown a lot of those with Asmo’s help back home, so he knows you love them!

Or he thinks you do, at least.

Your friend sniggers harmlessly when they hear that last part, pointing at him with an infuriating smartass attitude, and immediately shatters Mammon’s reality.

What the heck do they mean, you don’t like surprise parties? He’d done a lot of those back at the Devildom and you’d never complained, appreciative as you are, even helping him do the same for other’s birthday parties!

Sure, you had always looked dumbfounded by the loud cheering and the confetti after stepping through the door, but that was part of the fun… right? You would tell him if you wanted him to stop, wouldn’t you?

He feels a pang in his heart when the idea of you being uncomfortable for his sake appears in his mind, but it doesn’t make sense. While you undeniably treat him better than anyone else in all of the realms, you still correct him when you see fit and him making you unhappy on your own birthday would be one of those occasions.

He trusts you to confide in him when things are wrong just as much as you trust him to do his best. That’s what friends are for, after all.

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And where else would Levi be if not hidden in a corner playing with his DDD?

He had tried mingling with people at the party, or at least tried hanging around them, he swears, but conversations became repetitive and boring and then he received a notification for a daily reward from one of his apps, so, of course, he had to sit down to collect it. Then minutes passed as he completed minigames to power up his cards and… you get the idea.

So when a friend of yours walked towards him, complimenting the pins and badges on his bag and the faint music coming out of his headphones, sure, the evening started going way smoother.

He talks enthusiastically, just like any other time his interests are mentioned, wildly gesturing with his hands and letting the little bubble around them be full of their eager exchange. However, a casual lament from his companion stops him right in his tracks.

It’s a shame you don’t like anime…? His first reaction is to laugh, enumerating everything you’d watched, and later commented on, with him under a blanket in the tranquillity of his room, but the utter surprise in your friend’s face leaves him speechless.

You really don’t like it? But… But he’s made you see so many things! Did you like any of them? Did you lie to his face when you said you enjoyed them? He would’ve never chosen a best friend like that; you were not like that and he refused to believe the contrary.

Also, would a liar buy merch on their own like you did? Would they watch the best episodes again or listen to the soundtrack on repeat when they had a bad day? This new revelation only makes him aware he was the one to change your perspective of the fine arts and he’s damn proud of that.

You are still getting an earful when you get back home, though.

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Satan thinks the kid is a young cousin of yours, but he really hasn’t been paying attention to anything in a long while. How could he, when the enthusiastic toddler had taken their mother’s phone just to show him the family cat’s pictures and videos?

A Mackerel tabby cat, too chubby for his own good but not enough to be actually concerning; playing with feathers, blinking slowly, bumping his head against legs and shoulders, meowing sweetly and, basically, opening his heart in half and making it roam inside his chest like a butterfly.

What a good party.

He mentions all the stray cats behind his house, obviously leaving behind the name of the House of Lamentation and the Devildom, and all the times you’ve gone with him to feed them and play. Satan even shows pictures on his DDD and stops with an adoring expression when you appear on the screen, sitting on your toes with a kitty on your knees and smiling past the camera, straight at Satan.

However, what he hears next takes the air right out of his lungs. He sits down and clutches his pearls and the kid stares at him in anxious confusion, clearly witnessing but not understanding the severity of his distress.

Who, in their right mind, doesn’t like cats?

He remembers the first few times you had accompanied him to his route, intimidated and slightly lingering behind. Initially, he had assumed it was due to the novelty of your friendship or a possible fear of Devildom fauna, but nothing against cats!

Were you afraid of them or just plain uninterested? Why keep going with him if you weren’t as fond of them as he thought you were? Wouldn’t it be because of him, would it?

A warm feeling covers him like a blanket, makes him search for you with his eyes and then immediately blush when you excitedly wave at him, point at the kid and mouth ‘Cute cat!’

Yeah. Very cute.

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On the other hand, Asmo hangs out with the people responsible for the decorations of the party and compliments them on their work. The colours are well-coordinated, there’s nothing out of place and the distribution was thought with all the guests in mind.

Although he hasn’t been able to help in that regard, he’s made sure you would be the centre of attention that evening; a complicated feature coming from him, but he had never minded sharing the main spot just as long as you were the one by his side; and everyone knows that.

You look cute and pretty and hot in your outfit, a style that both compliments and pleases you. You also worked together in your makeup for hours before getting to the party.

However, taking that much time might have been due to scrolling through social media and gossiping so much, but never mind that. Everyone agrees you look incredible and that is more than enough for him.

It isn’t until one of your friends mentions how weird it is to see you wearing makeup that he dares take his eyes away from you to stare at them in disbelief.

He would’ve never guessed that given that one of your favourite pastimes together is makeup as a whole: going shopping, watching tutorials, following trends, doing your own next to each other, doing each other’s… And, even if he wants to use it, his charming power is useless against you, so he knows you do your makeup because you want to and not because you feel forced by him.

Whether it’s something you share because you enjoy it or something you enjoy because you share it with him, he isn’t sure, but he can swear on his precious damned soul that makeup isn’t a need for you.

It’s just a bonus to your beauty.

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Sitting at one of the tables, Beel is simultaneously talking to your older sibling while gulping down an entire plate of bite-sized snacks; thankfully, whatever apprehension anyone felt at his hunger died hours ago and now the conversation flowed more naturally, mainly centred around you.

As much as he loves having you near him and his brothers in the House of Lamentation and thinking of you as another member of the family, he is very interested in knowing how your human family is, especially your siblings. It’s another way of relating to you and making him feel closer.

Plus, he gets to know stories from your childhood you may never tell him on your own; anecdotes that will stay at the table he is currently sharing with your sibling.

Unfortunately, they reach a point where, although he wants to keep asking questions about you, doing so with a mouth full of food might end up with Lucifer’s scolding of the year. Also, he really wants to make a good impression.

So your sibling begins asking the questions. Surprisingly, they start with his tattoo; dark red curling around his muscles and almost going unnoticed under the colours of dusk. Beel smiles without giving it any importance because it really doesn’t have it, but forces himself to stop gulping down food when your sibling throws a fun fact about you.

You find tattoos attractive?

He feels an instant burning on his cheeks followed by the rapid beating of his heart and a knot in his stomach, but there’s also a faint unpleasant sour taste in his mouth.

You’ve never asked him about his tattoo, barely sparing a glance at it when you worked out together or he took off his jacket.

He wonders if you don’t like it or if you think it doesn’t look good on him because all he can remember is the focused look in your eyes while looking at his and the curve of your smile growing bigger as you listen to whatever he says, even when it is entirely about food, and…

You know what? He doesn’t really mind. He is fine with things as they are.

.

As both a friend of yours and a fellow younger brother, Belphie respects your sibling’s decision to spill your darkest secrets and thoroughly enjoys the air of comradery between them.

Don’t worry, he won’t let it go past actual serious matters; if you want him to know any of that, he’d rather have you telling him yourself when you’re ready and not get betrayed by your sibling. Silly and harmless pieces of information, however? Those are more than welcome.

And he already has a favourite.

You need to hug plushies to sleep? Tell him more. He doesn’t judge you for feeling the need to hug toys or pillows while sleeping. Actually, he understands.

Do you have a favourite? Is it in the human realm or is it in your room back at the House of Lamentation? While he can recall seeing that ugly zombie iguana on your bed, he’s never seen you cuddling it while sleeping and, other than that, he doesn’t remember seeing one, so he wonders if you hide it somewhere when you know he’s going to your room; but what about those times he enters uninvited?

Does that mean you left your preferred plushie in your room in the human realm? Does that mean that you don’t actually need to hug anything to sleep?

Whenever you share a bed, which is pretty frequent, Belphie can sense an invisible barrier between you that he’s dying to break. It’s nothing physical, given that only he knows how truly comfortable your lap and your chest are, but it’s obvious in the way your hands hesitate to bring him closer.

Shy and indecisive, while you don’t reject his advances, he’s still unsure what your feelings on the matter are. He’d initially thought you weren’t used to having anything so close to you while sleeping, but… now… Maybe he has to assure you that you can hug him as hard as you want.

Belphie is just as good as any plushie, after all; if not better.

.

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Taglist: @ilovecandys2010  @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom

[aventurineswife]

helos fre :3 random but any thoughts on self aware hsr 🙏🙏 ngl it's absolute peak to me cuz the fics I've read about it is so good I wanna digest it into my blood cells 😍🥰🥰/hj /lh

AHHHH I HAVE FEW BUT ITS PROBABLY NOT GOOD 😭🙏 (I might need to write a series about it in the future lmaoo)

The Express itself, and the crew aboard it, start referencing an "observer" that influences their journey. They might leave cryptic remarks like, "We wouldn’t have made it here without a guiding force…" or, "Are you out there, watching us?"

Himeko and Welt have deep discussions about the metaphysical implications of being part of a "game." Welt's past in other dimensions makes him particularly reflective.

Occasionally, your Trailblazer might break the fourth wall and stare directly "out" of the screen. They’d ask questions like, "Why are you helping us? What’s in it for you?" Or even, "Do you think you’re doing the right thing?"

Their dialogue changes subtly depending on your in-game decisions, showing that they’re paying attention.

Kafka is one of the few who seems fully aware that you’re pulling the strings. She might tease, "How long will you keep playing this game? Or is it playing you?" It’s unclear if she means it literally or as a metaphor.

Pela starts digging into the concept of "higher dimensions" where powerful entities (like the players) influence their world. You might find hidden journal entries speculating about the possibility of unseen forces guiding their lives.

Characters start commenting on how often you farm the same materials or run the same domains (?). For instance, Dan Heng might say, "You’ve had me fight this exact enemy over fifty times… What are you preparing for?"

When summoning characters, some of them might react to being "chosen." For example: Silver Wolf might say, "Took you long enough. Were you saving for someone else?" While Seele could mutter, "You really wanted me, didn’t you?"

As beings tied to the metaphysical order of the universe, the Aeons might perceive your existence. Xianzhou scholars hypothesize that you are an entity akin to an Aeon of "Control" or "Fate."

The Stellaron within the Trailblazer seems to have an awareness of you, treating you like an ally—or a potential threat. It might whisper cryptic messages about your choices or consequences.

Herta becomes suspicious of the odd behaviors in the universe and starts referring to you as a "prime variable." She might even try to communicate directly through simulated events, asking for your cooperation.

Some characters, like March 7th or Natasha, might express gratitude for your care and attention. "You always bring me along… Do you think I’m special?" they might ask, breaking the fourth wall.

Certain antagonists, like Cocolia or Jade, might break from their usual dialogue to challenge your decisions. "You think you’re the hero? You’re just another player, aren’t you?"

A secret cutscene or dialogue could play if you act in unexpected ways, revealing that the characters have fully realized their reality. It could be bittersweet, with them either embracing or lamenting their lack of agency.

Aventurine might acknowledge your influence subtly. After completing a mission for the IPC, he sends a message: "Noticed your knack for efficiency. You deserve a little bonus for all the extra effort you 'inspire.' Don’t let it go to your head." He attaches an unusually large amount of credits, as though recognizing you directly for optimizing his profits.

Argenti might kneel before the screen during a heartfelt moment (or after a battle): "O noble guide, it is your divine hand that shapes my path! I dedicate my blade not just to the people, but to you. May your will continue to shine upon us!" He also gifts you rare items or sends messages of gratitude, as though you're a divine figure he serves.

AHHH I wanna write fics for certain characters or something (this could also lead to yandere themes depending if the person/anon reqs for it).

[hey-august]

Time keeps moving on and on and on

🎂Happy birthday, clown man! Here's your bday fic!🎁

WC: 810 Warnings: SFW-ish (brief mention of genitals but in a not-sexy way), Buggy x GN!reader, established relationship, Buggy has self esteem issues because of course he does Title from Man Overboard by blink-182

There was a stranger in the mirror. The longer he stayed, the less familiar he looked. Recognizable features became overshadowed and created a dissonance. Steam and condensation clung to the sliver surface. Buggy leaned closer and stared.

That was his hair. It was long and blue, like it should be. But it was thinning. The strands that he hoped were highlights, sun bleached to a light blue color, were white. Stark fucking white and void of color. At first he pulled them out, but the colorless hair grew like weeds. Like plants that propagate and take over if you don’t deal with the source. And how could he, when the source was time.

Buggy recognized his eyes. Well, he did at first. The longer he looked, the more he lost himself. The color was right, but the shape seemed to change. Were his eyes getting baggier? More hooded? Fuck, maybe he should stop pulling his skin so tight when putting on make-up. He wasn’t young anymore, his skin didn’t bounce back like it used to…

And there were the wrinkles. Emotions carved into his skin. Even if Buggy tried to smooth them out by filling the grooves with thick moisturizing creams and rough massages with calloused fingertips, they were fucking canyons. His wrinkles were deep and unfading. Forehead marks that fucked with the smooth lines of his crossbones, creases dug between his eyebrows, crow’s feet flanking his eyes, lines around his mouth that he couldn’t hide with paint.

Shit. Everywhere Buggy looked, he saw more details and definition that didn’t belong to him. That wasn’t him in the mirror. But it was.

Buggy was getting old.

He hated this. He hated all of it. The negativity simmered, sitting on a low heat in the corner of his mind. Every glance in the mirror made the fire hotter. Every day closer to his birthday brought bubbles to the surface, until it all spilled over.

“It’s your birthday! Are you excited?” Your cheeriness finally brought Buggy’s self-esteem issues to their boiling point.

“Why the fuck would I be excited about getting older?” he spat, more than ready to pour out every damn insecurity he had. “Look at me, white hair, wrinkles, flab-” Buggy grabbed, pointed, and squeezed every area of his body’s betrayal. “I’m old and it’s only going to get worse.”

“Worse?”

“Beer gut and droopy balls,” Buggy practically wailed. His future was unavoidable.

The clown pirate continued his long withheld lament, releasing every thought and frustration in a fast moving stream. Complaints about the hair growing out of his ears and no- Nevermind. Achy knees, a back that twinges when the weather changes too fast, hangovers lasting longer and longer. There was so much on Buggy’s list, but a hand grabbing his own stopped the tirade.

“I like those things-”

“Liar. Who would like a washed up clown?”

“Me.”

Buggy’s glare was met with fiery determination. He didn’t want to listen, but you weren’t done talking.

“Babe, I like that you’re getting older because I get to see it happen.” You paused. “I… I feel lucky that we get to grow old together.”

The confession sent blood to your face and turned your cheeks red. You chewed your lip but didn’t turn away from Buggy.

“Ew.” Buggy opened his mouth and pretended to gag. “You really think like that? You’re so sappy, it’s disgusting,”

The clown’s teasing came with a smile that grew bigger by the moment. His chest puffed as he put on a fake sneer and shook his head in mock disappointment.

“Whatever, it’s not a big deal. I don’t know why you’re still talking about these things,” Buggy continued, patting your shoulder condescendingly.

You rolled your eyes and smiled. “Right, my bad. Happy birthday, Buggs.”

“Thanks, hun.”

Buggy pulled you into a tight hug, holding you like he’d lost the ability to communicate any other way. Like there was nothing else in the world but you, him, and the sea. Like he’d melt into you, dissolve into you entirely, if you’d let him. Like you healed something deep inside.

When the embrace broke, you reached up and pushed back a few loose strands of Buggy’s long hair. You stayed quiet as you studied him. And for the first time in a long time, Buggy didn’t mind it. He didn’t worry that you’d see something disgusting, old, and ugly.

“I like these shimmer strands. They catch the light and sparkle,” you said softly, running your fingers through his hair again.

“Hmm…” Buggy hummed, pleased with the flashy compliment. Maybe white hair wasn’t so bad.

There was a stranger reflected in your eyes. He couldn’t always see it himself, but for a moment, Buggy saw himself the way you saw him. He saw the person you wanted to grow old with. He saw someone worthy.

He saw someone lovable.

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Y/N's Song

This is part 2 of the story Tears To Shead. Sally's Song by Amy Lee TW: Violence, unrequited love, heartbreak, self injury (reader uses her banshee powers against herself), the executions

Years have flown by since you unleashed chaos upon Hell with your Banshee powers, manipulated by Alastor's manipulation. Deep down, you always knew he would disappear the moment he had the chance. While you led infernal wars, he stirred up trouble on Earth. But fate has a twisted sense of humor—Alastor eventually fell too, joining you in the depths of Hell.

Alastor, as if born of this realm, wielded powers that matched the most formidable beings in Hell. Meanwhile, you rose in prominence, becoming the trusted right hand of Lilith and Lucifer. You were their go-to strategist, granted the privilege to navigate the rings of Hell alongside them. Your wardrobe transformed from stark silver and blue to a vibrant tapestry of colors, a whimsical patchwork dress that reflected your new status.

When you heard about Alastor’s demise, you held onto the hope that you’d never see him again. The thought of facing him and revisiting old heartaches was unbearable. Yet, cruelly, fate had other plans. Alastor reentered your life, and a tentative friendship began to blossom amid the chaos of Hell. You, now a key advisor, and he, a resurrected overlord, bonded as you both tried to prove your worth to the community.

Years of solitude turned into years filled with laughter and camaraderie. Alastor found a new place in your heart, a place you were too scared to acknowledge for fear of rejection. You had watched him turn away so many suitors, and the thought of being another disappointment paralyzed you.

As Alastor climbed the ranks, a madness began to envelop him—a stark reminder of the man you first met. You could sense the darkness creeping in, the spark of insanity igniting his ambition. While you earned respect as a natural leader, especially as Lilith grew more despondent, Alastor’s descent into chaos deepened.

In a manic frenzy, he confided in you his grand designs to overthrow Lucifer and Lilith. He envisioned himself as the ruler of Hell, and his laughter echoed with a madness that sent chills down your spine. You recognized that look all too well—the harbinger of an overlord's inevitable fall.

You begged him to reconsider, to take a step back. But your words fell on deaf ears; he saw your concern as a hindrance. As tensions escalated toward a catastrophic clash, you knew that with his shadows and your Banshee wail, Hell would tremble under the weight of your conflict.

New sorrow washed over you. It became painfully clear that you and Alastor were not meant to be. No matter how hard you tried to carve out a future together, his relentless thirst for power overshadowed any chance for love or companionship.

Yet, your feelings for him lingered—a bittersweet ache as you watched him chase his destructive ambitions. You remained a quiet observer, mourning the man he once was while he sought supremacy over Lucifer. Each step he took toward ambition felt like a dagger to your heart, a silent lament echoing in your soul.

As you followed his trail of devastation, you sang a haunting melody that intertwined with your grief: “I sense there’s something in the wind that feels like tragedy’s at hand, and though I’d like to stand by him, I can’t shake this feeling that I have.” Your skin, once vibrant with color, dulled to an ashen gray, reflecting the weight of your sorrow.

When Alastor launched his assault on Lucifer’s castle, you felt a painful tug in your chest. With a single strike, Lucifer thwarted him, sending Alastor reeling back into the shadows. You reached out in vain, your heart breaking as he slipped away, determined to seize power once more. “The worst is just around the bend, and does he notice my feelings for him? And will he see how much he means to me?” The words echoed in your mind as despair consumed you.

In a desperate attempt to reach Alastor, you invited him back into your home, hoping that a touch of care might spark some reason in him. You prepared a feast, doting on him as you once had, trying to recall the warmth of your past camaraderie. “Try as I may, it doesn’t last. Will we ever end up together?” you wondered aloud, offering him a boon: if he would only cease his relentless quest for power, you would provide him with this nurturing life every day.

But instead of gratitude, you faced his fury—not at your affection, but at your opposition to his ambitions fueled him. He scoffed at your bold request and, with a bitter laugh, stormed out, leaving you feeling empty. As he departed, you sensed your essence fading, your song slipping further into despair.

The arrival of the executioners filled you with a chilling dread. Like Lucifer’s family, you found a semblance of safety within your walls, but your heart ached with worry for Alastor. Once the chaos settled, his anguished cries echoed in the distance—yet again thwarted by Lucifer, even amid the brutal executions. “No, I think not, it’s never to become…” you murmured, reaching out for him in vain.

When Alastor finally turned to you, the pain etched on his face cut deep, and he simply looked away. Each rejection felt like a dagger to your soul. As your powers surged within you, the weight of your sorrow transformed you. In that moment, you felt like a mere doll, your essence stripped away, a haunting reflection of love turned to anguish.

“For I am not the one…” you whispered, the truth settling heavily in your heart. You realized you would never be what Alastor truly needed. As the years rolled on, this reality became clearer: no matter how fiercely you cared, he would always seek something beyond your grasp. Seven years passed, and once again, he was lost to the very ambitions that had consumed him.

[rebelliousstories]

That’s My Sister

Relationship: Sean Renard x Reader, Monroe x Monroe!Reader

Fandom: Grimm

Request: No

Warnings: Brief Strong Language, Fluff, Light Angst

Word Count: 3,540

Main Masterlist: Here

Grimm Masterlist: Here

Summary: Bringing home your significant other for the holidays is always stressful. Even more so when you are a wesen, with another wesen coming, and a Grimm to top it all off!

Love is like death, it must come to us all, but to each his own unique way and time, sometimes it will be avoided, but never can it be cheated, and never will it be forgotten.

The spice shop was gorgeous this time of year. Smells of nutmeg, cinnamon, and juniper with just a hint of pine filled the room. Lights strung up along the banners and shelves. There were not enough to distract or take away from the business, but it added just enough of Yuletide cheer to the area.

“Rosalee? Are you in?” Someone called out into the shop. She looked around in wonder as she waited for the person to appear.

“Hey, it’s my favorite Monroe. What can I do for you?” Said Fuchsbau emerged from the back, dressed in a cozy cardigan.

“Don’t let my brother hear you say that,” the Blutbad teased, “but seriously. I’m looking for a gift for my boyfriend and was wondering if maybe I could poke around and see what I could find?” Her timid tone, and now shy demeanor intrigued Rosalee as she watched the woman.

“Oh. Your mysterious boyfriend that we have yet to meet. I’m sure we could find something. Tell me a little bit about him.” Breathing a sigh of relief, the Blutbad relaxed and went back to her usual self.

“Well, he’s super sweet and oddly loaded. Which makes it difficult to buy him a gift because if he wants something, he already has it. I just- I want this to be good because it’s our first Christmas. But he does like tea when he’s not working to wind down. So maybe something to do with that?” Her rambling encouraged the other woman to begin scouring the shelves for something that might peek her interest.

“Is he wesen? Just incase I give him something poisonous.” Rosalee stopped to look at the sister in her shop.

“He’s half zauberbiest, if that helps.” She offered, to which Rosalee confirmed that it did, in fact, help in her search. But all the while the Fuchsbau’s thoughts were racing as she tried to think of anyone who was half zauberbiest. It was not a very common type of wesen, especially if he’s half.

“Aha! This might do the trick,” she pulled something from a shelf in a glass container, “it’s a calming blend. Rose, chamomile, lavender, mint, and green tea. It’s delicious and should help calm him down from stressful days.” The other woman’s face perked up, and she excitedly followed Rosalee to the counter, where she began to dispense an amount to take with her.

“So this boyfriend of yours, are you bringing him to dinner tomorrow night?” Rosalee tried to sound nonchalant, but her curiosity was eating away at her.

“Maybe. We’ve only been dating a few months. I’m just worried about my brother going off on him.” She pulled out her wallet as she continued to speak.

“I mean, the last time I was dating someone, Roe went full Blutbad on the guy and I could never get a date after that. This is the first guy I’ve dated in years, and I really like him. I don’t want to mess that up.” Taking to leaning against the counter and watching the Fuchsbau measure out the tea and square it away, she continued her lament. Rosalee looked up at her future sister-in-law.

“Look, I get it with your brother. He can be a bit intense. But I will keep him on his best behavior. Is that why you don’t want to introduce them?” She asked, ringing up her family discount for the tea.

“Yeah. That last guy, he looked at me like I was a freak after my brother woged at him. Haven’t been able to get over that stare since. And then he told every other wesen at our school to stay away from me and my ‘psycho’ brother. Never wanted to hurt a Hundjäger so badly in my life.” Placing some bills on the counter, she grabbed the package of tea from the woman, who held her hand gently.

“Bring him to dinner tomorrow. Juliette and I will make sure everyone is on their best behavior. There won’t be a repeat of that.” Rosalee reassured the Blutbad in her care. The other wesen nodded, and placed a hand on top of the other.

“I will, Rosalee.” They both smiled, and let each other go. As the female Blutbad left her shop, the Fuchsbau could not help but let her mind wander as she began to clean up a little bit. Did she even have zauberbiest come into the shop? It’s so hard to tell sometimes, let alone if they are half. All at once, Rosalee had a revelation. She knew who it was.

“Oh no.”

Meanwhile, in the precinct Nick watched from his desk as his captain seemed preoccupied with his phone. It was an unusual behavior which is why it drew the young man’s attention.

“What are you staring at so intensely, Nick?” Hank asked from his desk right next to him.

“It’s the captain. He’s been on his phone more and more today.” The detective pointed out.

“Maybe he’s making plans for Christmas dinner tomorrow night. It’s not a crime for him to be on his phone to make plans Nick.” He tried to explain the behavior away, but Burkhardt shook his head.

“See that?” He called attention to a certain quirk of the face. “He’s smiling. There’s no one in his life that he smiles genuinely for anymore. I think he’s got a girlfriend.” Nick said finally in disbelief.

“If anyone needs a good woman to keep him grounded, it’s definitely the captain. Just be happy for once and don’t profile the man.” Griffin shook his head and turned back to his files, prompting his partner to follow suit. But their attention was called away again as the captain’s office door was flung open.

“Where are you going?” Hank asked, watching the man move fast; it was as fast as he would move if they were on a case.

“Oh, I need to go pick up something for someone. You two should go home, and enjoy Christmas Eve with your families. I’ll see you later.” And with that, he was gone. The two detectives sat there, dumbfounded.

“I’ll be damned; the captain has a lady.” Hank muttered to himself, stopping his work for a moment. Checking the time, Nick stretched his back while standing from the chair.

“Alright, you heard the man. Let’s get out of here. Hey, see you at dinner tomorrow night?” Burkhardt asked of his partner. Griffin nodded and followed suit; both men grabbing their jackets from the back of their chairs in order to leave.

“You know it. I’m not one to turn down a free meal.” Hank joked, stepping out into the parking lot of the precinct. The men said their goodbyes and made their ways home.

In the Calvert-Monroe household though, a full blown argument was about to boil over. They had been going at it since the subject was brought up at dinner. It had lasted from the appetizer, all the way to clean up before dessert.

“All I’m saying is that I would like to meet her boyfriend before he comes over. What if he’s a lowen?” Monroe complained, handing washed dishes to his girlfriend.

“Do you honestly think your sister would date a lowen?” Rosalee countered, drying off the plate to stack.

“You’re right. Still,” he continued, “I just don’t want her to date someone that’s just going to break her heart. I mean, all the guys in high school she liked were totally not for her.” The Blutbad paused for a moment, and rested his soapy wet hands against the sink. Setting down the towel, Rosalee wrapped her arms around her boyfriend and cradled his face.

“She really likes this guy, Monroe. Don’t go over board. Besides, he’s not the worst choice for her.” Turning back to the task at hand, it took the man a second too long to process what the Fuchsbau had said.

“Wait, do you know who she’s dating?” Monroe questioned, watching Rosalee’s face take on an air of faux innocence.

“Maybe. Maybe not. She didn’t explicitly tell me who it was. I just worked it out from what little she did tell me.” She began to place her dishes away, but it seemed that Monroe was not yet done.

“Come on, who is it? Who is she dating?” But the woman said nothing.

“Rosalee.” He growled out in a warning tone, to which she finally faced her boyfriend and rested her hands on her hips.

“The only thing I will say, is that you have met him before. That is it. Now, cake?” Rosalee went to retrieve the chocolate cake from the fridge, leaving Monroe there in the kitchen.

“I’m gonna be kept up all night now.” He complained, but followed his girlfriend into the dining room to have dessert.

The next morning, was a morning of rest. Christmas had come, and everyone was preparing for the festivities that would soon come. Sneaking out of her shared bedroom, a Blutbad began to make breakfast for her lover that was still asleep in their bed. It still astounded her that she could even call this place, this bed, this man, her’s.

Vegan sausages were being fried, toast, pancakes, and several smaller side dishes covered the counter in the kitchen. It continued to shock her at how far vegan alternatives had come as she put the fake eggs in the pan to scramble. As she cooked, two strong bare arms wrapped around her waist. A kiss was placed to her head from behind as the mystery arms relaxed.

“Good morning. It’s not often that I get breakfast made for me.” The voice grumbled out, still thick with sleep.

“Who says this is for you?” She teased. Making sure that nothing would burn, she turned briefly in the man’s arms to come face to face with him. Sage green eyes gazed lovingly into her own, but shut momentarily as they met for a kiss. Her lips molded to her own, and reluctantly she pulled away from the beautiful shirtless man before her, in favor of ensuring their breakfast would not be wasted.

“It’s almost done. Want to go ahead and start putting food on the table?” One last kiss was pressed to her head, along with a squeeze at her waist, and he was off. Soon, the whole table was littered with food.

“Thank you for making this.” He commented genuinely, holding her hand over the steaming food. Suddenly, she hoped up as if a light bulb went off in her head, and she made her way to the kitchen. When she came out yet again, a mug was in her hands this time around.

“What is that?” Came his question, taking the mug and maneuvering it next to his other cup of coffee.

“It’s one of your Christmas presents. Try it.” Sitting down, she watched with bated breath as he brought the mug to his lips, and took a tentative sip. His face lit up and he eagerly took another sip.

“This is delicious. What is it?” Another question, and he was reaching for her hand once more.

“It’s a tea blend from a friend’s shop. I thought it’d be nice to help you wind down after work.” She explained, happy that she was able to get one of two correct.

“This is wonderful. I genuinely appreciate this. Let’s eat though. You went through all this work.” And with that, they dug into the food that littered the table before them. It was not too much longer before they sat themselves on the couch, and enjoyed each others company with presents to either side.

“Here you go.” The man placed a rather heavy wrapped present in her lap, and watched her with eager eyes. She tore into the paper, and leveled her boyfriend with a look as she saw what she had.

“Really, Sean?” Her tone was dry, and she tried to fight the smile coming onto her face. However, with her boyfriend sporting one himself, it was rather hard.

“What? You could always use another book, and I thought you might enjoy the stories.” Said man tried to explain away.

“You gave me a collection of brothers Grimm fairytales!” She exclaimed.

“And you’re not wanting to read them?” He leveled her with another look, which made her shrink down into herself.

“Yes. I’m going to read them.” Muttering under her breath, she placed the book to her side and grasped the other box that was next to her. She placed it in her lover’s lap, and awaited his reaction. Sean gently unwrapped the present, and opened the box that was in his hands. His face dropped in surprise, and his eyes danced over the present he had.

“Do you like it?” Timidly, she inquired. There was no telling what his reaction was going to be. Sean’s hand reached in and pulled out the small object that was awaiting him. It was a ring. Tiny and unassuming, which described his lover but that was not what caught his attention. It was what was on the inside of the ring. An inscription dated September 23rd of that year; their anniversary.

“You don’t like it? It’s fine if you don’t. I just thought maybe you would. I can take it back though if you don’t want it. I’m sure I could at least get store-” she never finished her rambling, because her boyfriend had surged forward and captured her lips in his. They remained locked in their embrace for who knows how long, but she was pushed against the couch in the midst of it. Alas, they pulled away for some much needed oxygen.

“Do you like it?” She repeated her inquiry.

“I love it.” He replied, breathlessly. Helping her back up, Sean allowed her to slip the ring on to his left pinky finger. On the outside, it just looked like a simple silver band, but the fact that he knew that there was that inscription inside made it feel like a known secret. And it was all his.

“This is funny actually.” Sean reached behind him and found the box next to him once more. She was confused as to what he was talking about, and took the box gingerly from his hands. Opening, she let out a small chuckle as to what was inside.

“Now, now, you still have to get my brother on your side.” Once again, she was teasing him. He chuckled as well, but pulled the ring from the box.

“It’s a promise ring.” Sean slipped the ring on to her right ring finger. The emerald in the center, with the silver surrounding it instantly drew her eyes to the sparkling stone.

“This is going to turn some heads at dinner tonight.” Her mind could not help but think about what was going to happen.

“I’ll be right by your side.” Drawing her into his arms, Sean pressed a kiss to her head, and cradled her close.

A few hours later, the couple was dressed up and ready to leave. One last spray of perfume and the jewelry was placed on her body before they left for the evening. Her leg could not stop bouncing as they neared their destination. Sean reached over and held her thigh in hi grasp, which allowed her to calm down just enough. He parked on the side of the road and helped his girlfriend safely exit the car onto the icy sidewalks. They walked up to the door with stained glass, and she took a deep breath.

“You can still back out, you know?” She tried to tell her boyfriend, but he just held her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes.

“I’m not scared by meeting your family. It’s going to be fine.” Sean tried to reassure her.

“Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And with that, she knocked. Just a moment later, the door opened and revealed a festive looking Fuchsbau.

“You made it!” Rosalee cheered, hugging her boyfriend’s sister close. Letting go, she turned to face the man standing next to her.

“Captain.” She greeted politely, and held out her hand for him to shake.

“Rosalee. It’s good to see you again.” This confused the Blutbad standing between them.

“You know each other?” She wondered aloud. Renard and Rosalee looked at each other.

“I think you’ll find a lot of the people here have met each other at least once.” Rosalee responded cryptically. She pulled them in and out of the cold, before taking their coats to their spare room. The couple wandered through the house and found where the rest of the group was hanging around. She got to watch Sean’s eyes take in her brother’s Christmas decorations that littered the room. The sheer amount of tinsel, lights, and fake snow that was around the house was enough to make even the most Christmasy person take a step back. There was a pause as everyone stopped to stare at the couple.

“You’ve got to be joking.” Monroe stated, setting down his beer. Nick, Juliette, and Hank all turned to face where the Blutbad was staring.

“Captain? Nice to see you?” Nick drawled out confused, and followed his friend’s motion.

“Roe, everyone, this is Sean. But I’m guessing that you all know each other.” She was looking around at the rest of the guests.

“Oh, you’re dying now.” Rounding the corner at an incredible speed, there were shouts as Monroe grabbed the collar of Sean’s more casual sweater she had convinced him to wear instead of his suit. He shoved the zauberbiest against a wall, narrowly missing some decorations as he woged. By this point, Nick and Hank were trying desperately to pull him off of the man, while Juliette and Rosalee were holding and shielding the other Blutbad.

“What are you playing at? What do you want that you feel the need to date my sister?” Monroe growled out, eyes no longer human but red and black and unearthly.

“I am not dating her for a plan. I love her for her.” Sean held up his hands in surrender.

“Roe, let him go.” His sister growled, stepping out from behind the women. The man in question turned his head and let the woge fade back into his skin

“This man is not who he says he is. He’s a royal, little sis. He only told you he loves you to find a way to fit into his plans. Whatever they are.” The longer he spoke, the angrier his sister became.

“I know he’s half-royal, Roe. But that doesn’t mean that Sean doesn’t love me. Now get off of him.” Fully woge out, she grabbed her brother’s arm and threw him back enough to create some distance. The three men that were currently in front of Sean were replaced by one angry Blutbad woman. Her woge disappeared as soon as it came, and she checked in on her boyfriend.

“It’s been lovely seeing everyone, but if this is how it’s going to be, we’ll be leaving.” She said after whispering to Sean for a few moments. It shocked everyone in the room. Rosalee went to reluctantly grab their coats, while everyone else stared at Monroe with pointed glares.

“Wait!” The Blutbad called just before the couple left the party. Sean was helping her into her coat when they paused. He was entirely following her lead on this, not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable or unwanted.

“I’m- I’m sorry, okay? You’re my sister and I’m always going to be protective of you. But you are an adult so I need to accept your choice. I’ll tone it down just, please, stay for dinner?” He was keeping his eyes on his sister, who returned with a less believable stare.

“You’re allowed to ask him three questions about our relationship, and three about himself. That’s it.” She replied, allowing Sean to once again, help her out of her coat. Rosalee took it back and happily went to set them on the bed once more. Monroe pulled his sister into a bear hug in the foyer of his home. When they pulled away, Sean stepped up to properly greet the Blutbad.

“You hurt my sister, I’ll break my pledge.” Monroe stared the half zauberbiest dead in the eye as he shook his hand. Renard brought out a smirk, and shook the man’s hand firmly.

“I’m slowly starting to realize the amount of people who will hurt me if I hurt her, including her.” He replied smoothly. The couple were pulled back into the fray easily. Everyone was laughing and eating, and in general, just having a great time. Looking at each other over their glasses of wine, and plates of food, Sean gave her a small wink, and held her hand. With the other, he thumbed a small velvet box the was in the pocket of his slacks. Perhaps next Christmas she would be more than a girlfriend. He needs to get through to her brother first.

[olderthannetfic]

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/774489326883127296/anon-who-was-lamenting-that-their-bodice-ripper?source=share

I once wrote a fic as a criticism of my fav character that ended on him going on a completely egomaniacal trip over another character and interpreting his final actions as humble and forgiving when in reality he was being a self-centered ass. The final line of the fic through a metaphorical twist revealed that his process of repressed guilt would eat him alive again in the very near future despite him thinking he resolved it by being a jerk, and that this was only the beginning of his tribulations.

Most commenters interpreted the fic as the character being just and fair and getting his happy ending and his well-deserved peace because I didn't spell out the bad ending implications of the last line, even if the author's note at the end referenced his trajectory as a corruption arc. You unfortunately can't get them all.

--

[suzdin]

Two for One: Part Five

Neighbor!Dave York x Human!Max Phillips x f!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-vampire Max, pre-Equalizer 2 Dave, familial drama and angst, ANGST!, mentions of drug use/abuse, alcoholism!, family death, invasions of privacy, breaking and entering, mentions of murder/violence, oral (f receiving), dom!Dave, soft!Max, threesome, anal, vaginal, breath play, alcohol and nicotine consumption, double penetration, anal creampie, dirty talk, I think that’s it

Words: 6,375 (sorry it’s short)

Notes: holy shit I don’t even know what to say other than I’m very grateful and touched by how many of you have reached out to me, and that I’m so so so sorry it took me this long to add a new chapter. Hopefully it’s worth the wait. I’m hoping to be more regular in the future! I did my best to remember who to tag, yell at me in the comments if I forgot you 🥴

—

You aren’t sure why, but with Dave gone, it feels wrong to see Max. At least, outside of your workplace...

Were it the other way around, you don’t think you would experience the same level of cloying guilt you feel with Dave, but then again, your relationship with Dave was far different than what you had with Max: while you kept Dave at arm’s length, with Max, you kept him even further than that, a begrudging admission of your lack of self control, something that you hate to admit runs in your family. You with your alcoholism and overactive sex drive; Garrett with his addiction to narcotics. Your mother’s former addictions to the same things as you and your brother, at one point or another, waxing and waning for decades as long as you can feasibly remember.

You can’t help but smirk to yourself as you imagine scientists studying your family like captive apes, which isn’t too far off. They would probably learn a thing or two about addiction. Not that your mother believes in science enough to volunteer for such things.

So, that is how things go for those few days that Dave is out of town. Max respects your need for space, surprisingly so, affording you little more than a few minutes in the bathroom each day you’re both in the coffee shop at the same time, ending in either a belly full of Max’s cum, his fingers buried deep in your pussy until you see stars, or both.

And he still insists on ending every interaction with those strangely intimate and delicate embraces, each encounter getting longer and softer with each passing day. Almost like Max wants to be close to you, but isn’t sure how else to go about it, only knowing that it’s something he needs—no, craves.

You won’t lie, you had started looking forward to those hugs too, needing them more than you’d realized. He never kisses you, though, no matter how long he holds you in his arms afterwards, something that leaves an oddly empty pit twisting inside of you that you can’t find yourself able to shake.

Your coworkers definitely know about your little bathroom receptions, thankfully looking the other way when Max comes strolling in like Don Juan in his pursuit of you. Even, much to your surprise, Audrey, whom you often found shooting dirty looks your way when she thinks you’re unawares, but has sense enough to keep her mouth shut. At least in front of you.

You played it cool around your boss, Maurizio, who seemed to be none the wiser, Max often chatting him up as a distraction when you had to straighten your clothes or smooth down your hair or make sure you didn’t have any remnants of jizz lingering on you. Sweet talking was definitely one of Max’s strong suits and Maury ate that shit right up.

Your nights after your shifts ended with you and Dave on the phone, talking — or doing other things — for hours on end, and you had to admit that his voice in your ear at the end of a long day was a welcome gift and distraction.

You asked about each other’s days; you lamenting about the stressors of your job, even divulging the part about the shipment of mocha syrup being two weeks late and how you’re down to only two bottles, and that you’re pretty sure Audrey and Vincent hate you, but leave out any bits about Max being the reason.

He tells you all about the day to day activities with his girls, everything from the inevitable meltdowns, to what they did and where they went, even letting you talk to his eldest — Molly — for a few moments when she insisted on knowing who her dad was talking to if it wasn’t Mommy, and although it felt awkward and forced it was still very sweet and amiable, leading you to wonder if this was all leading to something bigger between you and Dave… although you’d known each other only a very short time, it was suddenly feeling very real.

Did you want that?

You didn’t know, and not knowing scared you. That’s why, you realized, you hadn’t completely pushed Max away, in case things went awry. And they often did in your case, leaving behind a flaming trail of gnarled and smoldering wreckage in its wake.

And maybe you were starting to like Max, too. Just a little. As much as you tried to deny it.

At the very least, you could admit you looked forward to his daily visits more and more as the days slogged on, which was saying a lot.

As the upcoming week drew ever nearer, Dave’s communication dwindled and subsequently ran dry, which had you a bit worried. He had texted you about some vague work thing he had to do. You didn’t ask what it was, since it was none of your business.

Yet, you couldn’t keep yourself from worrying when the messages slowed and eventually stopped. Had you done or said something offputting?

You do your best not to linger in your own head for too long, keeping yourself busy with mundanities.

——

Dave was careful not to stay in touch with you unless absolutely necessary while he was actively on target. Whatever he could do to prevent you from being tied to the crime, even if only via digital footprint. Not to mention to keep himself from being tied to it, in whatever way possible.

He had left the crime scene with the intent to drive through the night without stopping until he reached Boston. His mind had not diverted from the original plan; however, with his dick painfully engorged and straining against his pants every step of the way, your face at the forefront of his mind, he found himself having to stop more than once to relieve the ache. You made him feel crazy. Crazier than he’s ever felt before. And he simultaneously loved and hated it.

With your videos playing on a loop, seat reclined back as far as it could go, he spills across his stomach again and again as he grunts your name through clenched teeth, hot spend collecting in the hollow of his navel.

Sunrise is approaching and he still has a couple of hours to go before he reaches you. He can’t wait to be with you. He can’t…

——

As you force yourself to drag ass into another long, miserable shift at work, barely conscious, your hair a rat’s nest, Dave is having to force himself not to be lead-footed all the way home. Being pulled over by a cop is the last thing he needs right now.

He texts you around 7AM, asking if you’re working and how you’re doing, although he already knows you’re not home, from the camera loop he periodically checks. He has to ask, though, to be as inconspicuous as possible.

You feel a wave of relief when you see Dave’s name pop up on your phone. But with a storm bearing down hard on the city (what your mother affectionately and irritatingly refers to as ‘tornado weather’), business unexpectedly picks up and you’re too slammed with soaked and pissy customers to respond in a timely manner.

You’re even too busy for Max when he comes in, passing him an apologetic glance right before your hands slip and you splash blistering hot coffee down the front of your shirt. Behind the dejected, puppy dog eyes he’s giving you, you almost think you see concern flash in those dark brown irises of his.

Not like that’s possible. Right?

—

It takes Dave longer than anticipated to make it back to Boston. Between the instances he had to pull off to relieve the strain in his pants, and subsequently take a power nap, he hits the city a little past 9, and by the time he makes it through the infuriating drag of traffic and rain, he pulls into his spot close to 10.

He draws in a deep breath as he stares up at your apartment window, dark now, pulling himself out of the driver’s seat, barely having enough energy to make it through the downpour and up the stairs to his apartment.

But as soon as he deposits his bag on the living room floor, he’s inexplicably hit with a second wind, adrenaline coursing through his veins when it occurs to him how close he is to you once again.

He hastily stuffs his lock picking kit down his pants, grabbing a rain slicker from the closet, despite already being drenched to the skin.

He knows you aren’t home. He’s confirmed and re-confirmed it. But needs to be in your space. Just long enough to smell you again, be with you without being with you until you can officially be in his arms again. He wants to lie on your bed, wrapped in your scent like a cloak as he dribbles down his fist, surprising you later by picking you up from work so you don’t have to walk home in the rain.

Which reminds him — he texts you again, asking when you get off, hoping that you’re just busy and not ignoring him.

He makes it inside your apartment in record time, the old wood of the interior crackling from the pressure disturbance, almost as if beckoning him inside.

He locks the door behind him and toes off his shoes, glancing around the small, dark space, which smells of stale cigarettes and… you.

He only needs a couple of hours. That’s all. Just long enough to hold him over until he can see you, smell you for real, touch you. Fuck you until your eyes roll back into your skull and you see stars.

He strips off his dripping clothes and drapes them over the back of your kitchen chairs to dry, at least somewhat, crawling into your bed and pulling the comforter up past his shoulders.

He presses his face to mattress, inhaling deeply, immediately growing hard from your lingering scent. Your coconut shampoo, your vanilla body spray. You.

As he slips his cock free from his boxers, he can almost feel your curves against his fingertips, the softness of your lips against his.

He begins to pump himself slowly, knowing he risked it all for you. Just so that sad fuck you call an ex can’t harass you anymore, his cock tightening further as he recalls the way Jonathan looked when the life drained from behind his eyes.

He did it for you, and he would do it a million times more if he could.

—

Your work day finally begins to slow after the lunch rush, the rain slacking off to a more tolerable, humid drizzle.

You let the others know that you’re retiring to the alley for a much needed cigarette break, and to not bother you for fifteen minutes unless it’s a life and death emergency. And even then, still don’t.

You already have a cigarette perched between your lips and a lighter clutched in your fist before you even hit the alleyway, thankful for the small awning even with the calmer precipitation.

You ignite the cig, pocketing your lighter as you take a seat on the milk crate you use as a stool, drawing in a long, much needed puff of smoke and toxins into your lungs. Fuck, it’s been a day.

You fish your phone out of your pocket so you can shoot Max a quick apology for not being able to see him earlier, immediately becoming distracted by the sheer volume of text messages you’ve missed since the start of your shift, Max momentarily forgotten.

Two of the messages are from Dave, which you’re relieved to see and respond to right away. One is from an employee letting you know they’re going to be half an hour late to their shift, which you ignore for the time being, not wanting to deal with it just yet. And the other eight are from your mom.

You sigh, taking another drag from your cigarette as you begrudgingly click on her name, anticipating the usual slew of bitching and moaning, reminding you what a terrible, awful daughter you are for abandoning your family; or, on the other end of the spectrum, kissing your ass and pleading for money.

As soon as your eyes scan over the messages, your world is swiftly rocked off its axis, your fingers losing their strength as your hands begin to tremor.

Your phone and cigarette crash to the ground, the former cracking as it hits the concrete, the latter snuffing itself out in the little bit of rain that’s left.

You wedge the heel of your palms against your eyelids and begin to weep, but you can still see the words behind your eyes, already haunting you, wishing you could scratch them out of your brain, wishing you could turn back time like it never happened.

Your grandmother, the only bit of glue that ever held you to your family, is gone.

—

Sarah comes in on her day off to cover the rest of your shift so you can leave early, thanking her profusely with promises to make it up to her as soon as you can.

You let Maury know you’re going to take a few days for bereavement, and he doesn’t give you any shit about it.

You walk home in a milky daze, finding your way by muscle memory alone, because you’re pretty sure you aren’t actually perceiving anything but a whirlwind of grief; grief so intense you can feel it in your bones, your bone marrow.

Your grandma—Granny Ruth—was the kindest, most selfless woman you’d ever had the privilege of knowing. You never could figure out how your mother turned out the way she did; how they were not only different, but polar fucking opposites.

You keep reading and re-reading your mother’s texts. How, in addition to your sorrow and angst, you’re also unfathomably angry.

Mom: your grandmother Ruth passed this morning

Mom: shame you weren’t here to say goodbye since you abandoned us

Mom: don’t bother coming home, she is being cremated no service

You need a stiff drink. Several, in fact. You need drugs. Every single one.

You need to get fucked until you’re completely desiccated. You need to strangle every last shred of emotion from your body because it’s too much to carry right now.

You wish you had a kill switch for your brain.

—

By the time you’ve reached the stoop that leads up to your building, you can’t keep it in any longer.

You managed to hold the fraying threads of your sanity together when you had to call Sarah in. And when you had to let Maury know. Even on the walk home, you were a zombie. Mindless. Numb.

But now, as you draw nearer to your home—or what you call home, but doesn’t really feel that way— your legs grow weak and your head swims, forcing you to collapse on the steps that lead up to the double doors, hunched forward, sobbing into your hands.

You aren’t sure how long you stay there, or if anyone sees you, and you really don’t care.

You stay until your head is throbbing, only snapping out of your daze when a familiar voice cuts through the sorrow, hushed, concerned, your name a murmur on their lips.

“Doll… are you okay?”

When you finally lift your head, your gaze settles on Max.

—

You tell Max about your grandmother. How she had been sick for years, how you should have never left her, the guilt and regret gnawing at you. You had been selfish, stupid.

He sits beside you on the steps, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, letting you cry, letting you lament about how much you hate your mother, only speaking when he needs to.

He’s being sweet, sympathetic, patient, and completely unlike his usual self. And you’re intuitive enough to know he isn’t bullshitting or just trying to get into your pants. He’s actually being sincere.

It’s so unlike him it almost unsettles you.

You aren’t complaining, though. It’s nice in how unexpected, how off-kilter it seems, and it does make you feel better, at least for a few fleeting moments.

As the conversation carries on and your mood lifts a peg or two, Max’s gentle, sympathetic touches gradually turn more reverent, more wanton, his movements slow and unsure at first to test the waters, wanting to ensure that you want it as much as he does.

When you reciprocate, your eyes re-affirming your needs to him, he grows more insistent, more brazen, cupping your breasts through your polo, coffee stains and all, canine teeth scraping along your pulse point.

He’s being more tender and sensual than you’re used to, and while you don’t mind it, you prefer Max’s usual persona and would much rather be railed so hard you forget your own name.

He pulls away long enough for you to punch in your password on the keypad, flinging the twin doors open and making a beeline for the elevator with Max trailing at your heels like an infatuated puppy.

His touches become more persistent and demanding the closer you get to your apartment, his true colors finally bleeding through. By the time you’re fumbling your keys to unlock the door, he’s practically dry humping you, hands on your hips, half hard already.

After a brief and minor struggle with your lock, your hands tremoring again, you eventually shoulder the door open, stumbling inside with Max immediately following suit.

The cool dark of your space welcomes you as you shut the door harder than intended, Max’s hands returning to your hips.

Suddenly, the air in the room shifts, and there’s movement from your bed.

—

You scream, your hands losing their strength for the second time today, keys and purse crashing to the floor as Max positions himself between you and the intruder.

Without thinking, you instinctively reach for the switch next to your head, the resulting flood of luminescence rendering everyone temporarily blind.

When your vision eventually returns, and you see who’s standing before you, you’re almost unable to fathom what the fuck is even going on.

“Dave? How the f- what are you… what the fuck?” you manage to prattle out, in spite of your inability to otherwise form a cohesive thought.

Dave could kick himself for being so careless, so sloppy. He was more clear cut than that. He should have known better.

His eyes flick to Max, his face neutral as he assesses the situation before speaking, taking a tentative step in your direction.

He’s in nothing but black boxers, one side of his hair flattened, his eyes weary and heavy with lingering traces of sleep.

He says your name, studying your face. He can tell you’ve been crying, and he wants to break whoever did this to you, rip them apart at the seams until there’s nothing left to identify a body.

He isn’t dense and can see that Max isn’t the source of your distress, clearing his throat subtly, whispering your name again.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low, his need to touch you, kiss you, bordering on physical pain. But he doesn’t want to startle or upset you, your eyes as large as dinner plates.

As Dave creeps another step forward, Max shoulders up to him, practically bristling like a dog over a prized bone.

“Maybe you should answer her question, Dave.”

“Max—“ you warn, Max pivoting to meet your gaze, taking a single step back only because of you.

Dave passes him a glance, and for a brief, but satisfying moment, he imagines himself decking Max square in the jaw. He knows he could take the pretentious prick down in a single blow, he’s certain of it. But as much as he wants to do just that, he refrains.

He’s aware that acting on his instincts would disrupt your already fragile state. And as much as he hates to admit it, he understands why Max is acting the way he is. He would behave the same, were the roles reversed.

He draws in a deep breath before responding.

“I wanted to see you. You weren’t home… your door was unlocked, so I let myself in. I wanted to surprise you. But I must have drifted off...”

He pauses, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, giving you a moment to absorb everything.

“I’m sorry. I was exhausted, not thinking straight. I… I fucked up.”

You can’t help but notice Max is uncharacteristically quiet as Dave explains himself, hands on his hips, ready to jump in at any moment if needed. But like Dave, he doesn’t want to do anything to upset you.

“Please tell me what’s wrong. I want to help, if I can. I-“ He takes another step, his hand reaching for your arm. “I missed you.”

You see a muscle in Max’s jaw jump when Dave touches you, and as much as you want to shove him away, scream at him, tell him to fuck right off for breaking into your apartment… locked or not… you can’t bring yourself to do it. You’ve been angry enough for one day and you’re too mentally drained to care right now.

More tears fall in lieu of your anger, and you almost can’t believe you still have any left to cry.

Dave closes the distance, Max immediately flinching, itching to pick a fight but holding back. Dave doesn’t seem to notice or care, his focus honed solely on you, cupping your jaw, his thumb dragging over your cheekbone, catching any stray tears.

They’re behaving surprisingly well, given the circumstances, you have to give them that.

And although Max knew about you and Dave, you’re shocked to realize Dave knows about you and Max. But it’s too much information to dwell on right now, your head a foggy mess, so you don’t.

“My grandma died,” you croak.

—

The first hour is awkward, uncomfortable, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Dave and Max are getting along but only just barely, both of them vying for your attention to the point of additional stress, wanting to do whatever they can to make you feel better.

None of it feels real. Everything feels dark and hazy, a fever dream.

You’re sandwiched between both men on your tiny couch, watching something on Discovery none of you give two shits about, passing a bottle of vodka around to add to your mixer of choice as you sit in otherwise oppressive, stifling silence.

Their hands are all over you, competing for your affections, probably wishing you would kick the other one out, and you consider more than once to kick both out to let you wallow in your sorrow in peace.

But the drunker you get, the less you care. The drunker they get, the less they care about the other touching you, as long as they do get to touch you in some way or another.

As their touches grow bolder, you sense something unspoken pass between them, their caresses gradually transitioning to fondling, their hands moving over your curves, groping your breasts, teasing your folds through your thin leggings.

Of course there are a few moments where they bristle and bicker, quarreling over who gets to touch you where, but for the most part, they cooperate, working your body in tandem.

Your head falls back, your neck folded over the back of the couch as Dave’s fingers slip under the band of your leggings, his lips finding your neck.

“So wet already,” he murmurs against your pebbled flesh, his fingers feather light touches against your skin, teasing. “You like the way we’re touching you, baby?”

Max’s lips are on the opposite side of your neck, nibbling and kissing from your jaw to your clavicle, his hand sliding under your shirt, pushing your bra aside to pluck at your puckered nipple.

You can only moan in response, so fucking horny you don’t even know what to do with yourself.

“I think she does,” Max replies with a crooked smirk, locking eyes with Dave as he slips your polo over your head, his head dipping to suckle at your exposed breast.

Dave pushes two fingers past your entrance, languidly pumping them as he anchors his thumb against your clit, causing your hips to twitch and sputter.

“So fucking pretty for us,” Dave purrs against your neck, pushing your leggings down to your knees, “Dirty fucking slut, letting two men touch you. What else would you let us do to you?”

“Anything you want,” you respond almost immediately, not having to giving it another thought.

Max’s head lifts from your chest, gently pushing you forward so he can remove your bra.

“That’s a dangerous proposition, doll. You think you can handle both of us at the same time?” Max counters, a devilish glint making his dark eyes shine as he palms himself over his pants.

You nod, unable to respond in any coherent language due to whatever magic Dave is currently performing between your thighs.

Dave tells you to lift your legs, tugging your bottoms the rest of the way down.

He had pulled his pants back on after you and Max arrived, but he shucks them off again, the outline of his dick visibly straining through the fabric.

Max had already stripped down to his undershirt and pants, wiggling out of his shirt while Dave removes his pants.

Dave spreads your thighs apart, drinking in the vision of your sopping wet pussy, the tip of his tongue flicking at his bottom lip like a hungry reptile.

He turns to Max, his eyes glistening, his brow furrowed.

“Make her cum. Get her ready,” Dave commands, Max not bothering to argue with being told what to do so authoritatively, because he wants it just as badly as you do.

“Ride his face,” he tells you, gesturing for you and Max to move over to the bed.

“Use him to get yourself off.”

Max moves into position, wriggling out of his pants in the process, leaving both men in their boxers and you completely nude.

Your walls clench around nothing as you mount Max’s face, planting your knees on either side of his head, your palms against the wall.

Max places a few delicate kisses to your inner thighs before abruptly pulling you all the way down, his tongue curling into your wet heat.

Dave growls, his eyes darkening with lust as he steps out of his boxers, large hand wrapping around the base of his thick cock, steadily stroking himself to the vision of Max eating you out with abandon.

Dave bends to kiss your velvety lips, his tongue demanding access and you let him.

“You remember your safe word, don’t you?” Dave asks as he breaks the kiss, his fingers entwined in your hair.

You nod, your lower lip dangling. “Foxglove for you, lavender for Max,” you reply.

“Good girl,” Dave praises, giving your right ass cheek a solid smack. “Now ride his face. Use him.”

You hear Max grunt something against your folds but you aren’t sure what, leaning back, your spine flexing as you brace yourself on Max’s muscular arms.

Dave watches, transfixed, his hand never leaving his cock as he tilts your head back to kiss and bite at your throat, your jaw.

“Is he doing a good job, sweetheart?” Dave asks and your head bobs eagerly in response.

“Yes he is,” you say as your hips roll forward, thrusting against Max’s tongue, his arched nose bumping your clit with every stroke.

“Max, spread her cheeks for me,” Dave says firmly and Max immediately obliges, his cock twitching in his shorts when he understands where this is going.

With his hands gripping your ass, he helps you to guide your movements, moaning against your folds.

Dave perches on the edge of the bed behind you, collecting some of your excess slick to coat his fingers, assisting Max in spreading you even wider as he teases and prods at your puckered star of muscle.

“Let me in, sweetheart, or it’s going to hurt later,” Dave commands softly, circling your entrance with his index finger. “Lean forward a little bit,” he tells you, placing his palm between your shoulders as he guides you into position.

You brace against the wall again, relaxing as much as you can, the new angle helping.

Dave manages to slip one finger inside, pistoning into your tight tunnel, making you whimper and quiver against Max.

He spits directly onto your anus to apply more lubrication, adding a second finger to the first.

“Keep riding his face just like that. Use both of us, pump yourself onto my fingers as you use his mouth,” Dave says, his voice low, his other hand reaching around to circle your throat.

“There you go,” he says as his fingers probe deeper, scissoring them apart to help stretch you further.

“Yes, fuck yes,” you whimper, your movements becoming more determined, more frantic.

Max is a trooper, his fingers still digging into your ass, his grip bruising, his tongue still flicking and curling into your tunnel, not even stopping to take a breath.

“That’s it, sweetheart, such a good girl for us,” Dave murmurs, his voice low and velvet.

He attempts to insert a third finger, adding more spittle and slick, only getting it past the first knuckle, but it does seem to help in spreading you open.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum… I’m so close…” you whine as your bounce more fervently on Max’s face, making him grunt words of affirmation under you, muffled against your soft mound.

Dave’s hold on your neck tightens, his fingers flexing against your skin, his lips brushing your ear.

“Let go for us, sweetheart. Let it all out.”

Max continues to guide your movements, Dave helping now as well, bouncing you up and down, using your neck as a handle.

With a loud cry, you cum hard and fast, stars behind your eyes as both men work you through your orgasm, Dave’s hand releasing your throat to return to his cock, Max groaning into your pussy until the waves of pleasure subside.

Dave pulls his fingers free, stilling his ministrations on his own body as he gently cups your cheek.

“Still okay?” he asks, and you nod with a smile as you climb off of Max who, understandably, needs a moment to take a breath.

Max finally extricates himself from his boxers, heavy cock springing free, pumping himself slowly as his visage roves hungrily over you and Dave.

“Get on his cock and lean forward,” Dave demands in a low growl, and you shimmy down Max’s body, straddling him, Max slotting himself at your entrance and lifting his hips to meet you in the middle.

You slowly sink down to his lap, Max releasing a hiss of pleasure, placing his hands on either side of your hips.

“Fuck, baby, you feel amazing,” Max pants, already bucking his hips in anticipation.

Dave positions himself behind you, on his knees, his hands also moving to your hips, fingers brushing Max’s.

They lock eyes with each other, his brow a hard, dark line as he regards the other man.

“You are not allowed to cum in her. Understand?” he tells Max, his voice low and authoritative, his lips tight.

Max frowns, his brow wrinkling in disapproval, but he doesn’t protest, not wanting to let the opportunity to be inside you slip through his fingers.

Dave edges closer, adding more spit and slick to your anus, inserting two fingers again to ensure you’re ready.

“Just relax, baby, and use your safe words if you need them,” Dave tells you gently, placing the head of his cock against your tight ring of muscle.

“Just breathe,” he says, and begins slowly pushing himself into you.

As Dave gradually gains ground, you’ve never felt so full in your entire life, the sensation unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, even when Dave claimed your ass the first night.

There is some pain initially, but the alcohol helps to alleviate some of the discomfort, as well as slacken your muscles enough for Dave to bottom out.

His head falls back with a loud groan as his hips press firmly against your ass, stilling himself for a beat to relish the sensation of your body strangling his cock.

After a moment, both men exchange another look and they begin to move slowly in conjunction with one another, their movements choppy and stilted at first as they learn the other’s movements, able to find a mutual rhythm after a few minutes that seems to work for you.

“Oh fuck,” you keen, burying your face against Max’s shoulder while both men slide in and out of you in tandem, and you think you’ve never felt anything more glorious in your entire life.

Max wraps his arms around your back, holding you against him, whispering encouragement in your ear.

“Look at you,” Max praises, one hand moving to cup the nape of your neck. “Taking both of us so well. You like having two men inside of you, don’t you?”

You nod and whimper against his neck, your hot breath fanning his skin, on the verge of tears with how heavenly it feels, how much joy and pleasure they’re gifting to you.

Dave gives your right ass cheek another sharp smack, making you yelp in surprise at the abrupt lance of pain.

“Say it. Say out loud how much you love it,” Dave grits through his teeth, his ministrations growing more intense.

“I love having two men inside of me, fucking me, using me,” you mewl between breaths, relinquishing a loud moan when their hips snap against you simultaneously, almost as if they planned it.

Little by little, their movements increase in speed and power, seamlessly with the other, a series of curses and inhuman noises bellowing out of your ribcage.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” you cry out when you feel yourself getting close for a second time, your muscles already tightening. “I’m gonna fucking… cum… again…” you groan against Max’s neck.

Dave lands another slap to your ass, their thrusts growing rougher, your bed rocking against the wall.

“Cum for us, baby. Cum all over Max’s cock while I’m railing your tight little ass,” Dave snarls, panting hard as he chases his own end as well.

You reach your second peak only moments later, your vision going pure white as you’re hurtled far over the edge, experiencing the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had in your life, gushing unapologetically all over Max’s lap and your bed.

They keep pistoning against you, riding you through the waves of your orgasm, the sounds of their grunts and growls filling the small space.

Dave can tell by the look on Max’s face that he’s close as well, his breath ragged in his chest as he warns Max a second time not to finish inside of you.

Max’s cheeks inflate, his skin a deep shade of pink, sweat prickling his brow as he does everything he can to hold back.

“Final warning,” Dave grits, reaching around you to grip Max by the throat, squeezing hard enough to get his point across.

With a deep grunt, Max pulls out of you at the last possible second, locking eyes with Dave, hand still wrapping his throat, exploding like a goddamn geyser all over your ass and Dave’s stomach.

That spurs Dave to reach his own end, stilling inside of you, hips twitching and jerking involuntarily as he unloads everything he has to give, your flexing and pulsing anus milking every last drop.

He collapses on top of you, both men breathing haggardly, your skin slicked with perspiration.

You stay like that for a while, none of you wanting to move for a long time.

Dave pushes his face against the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, his cheek resting against Max’s chest.

He eventually pulls out, rolling onto his back as you settle between them, lying in comfortable silence for what seems like an eternity.

Max pushes himself up, going over to the bathroom to grab some warm, damp rags, tossing one to you and Dave, using the third on himself.

Dave scoots to the edge of the bed, studying Max in silence as Max gathers his clothes.

You move next to Dave, also watching Max get dressed, quirking a brow in confusion and concern.

“You aren’t staying?”

—

You walk Max down, the elevator ride silent and stifling, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, having never been more quiet in his life.

You follow him to the street, staying with him until he reaches the corner.

“I have work tomorrow,” he says, a flimsy excuse at best.

You cross your arms, searching his face. “Are you okay?” you question, finding yourself genuinely worried.

“Yeah,” Max replies stiffly, confused and overwhelmed by everything that just occurred, his mind replaying the moment Dave grabbed his throat, resulting in him exploding all over both of you like a nervous teen on prom night.

“I just want to be sure…” he begins, lifting his hand to caress your cheek. “Did you want that?”

You meet his eyes with your own, not used to seeing Max this vulnerable, this unsure. You don’t like it.

“Yes. I did…” you say honestly, exhaling a slow breath.

“Did you?” you ask softly.

“Yeah. I did. I wanted it, and I enjoyed it, but… I don’t know,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I guess I’m just tired.”

You search his face again, searching for the unspoken answers, but not wanting to scare him away by prying too much.

You step into him, wrapping your arms around him in a snug embrace, and he buries his face in your hair, his arms linking behind your back.

He pulls away after a beat, his hands moving to either side of your face.

“I’ll text you soon. Okay? I’m sorry again, by the way. About your grandmother.”

You inhale deeply, nodding in acknowledgment, trying not to cry again. Sensing your pain, feeling a different kind of pain twisting in his chest, Max does something he normally wouldn’t.

He pulls you closer, his lips connecting with yours in a soft, worshipping kiss, long fingers sinking into your hair, committing the way you taste to memory.

—

@ohheypedrito @kateispunk @kellybelly1978 @heavennumber2 @alwaysmicado @yorksgirl @cosmic-li @chronically-ghosted @morallyinept @daddy-dins-girl @natdeandar @sarap-77 @guelyury @vabeachazn @gwendibleywrites @anoverwhelmingdin @oberynslady @untamedheart81 @casa-boiardi

[kings-highway]

I’m kinda throwing up writing this because I’ve never done this before but I wanted to say I really really love reading your fics!! (>T~T)>❤️

I also wanted to ask: what are some of your headcannons when it comes to daichi’s home life? Personally I like to think his siblings are all wayyy younger than him, which makes him more of a third parent than an older brother. He laments the fact that he has to be the responsible reliable figure even at home, but he’d never hold it against those little rascals <3 His parents also do their best, but it’s hard splitting your attention 5 ways, and with him being so dependable, they tend to neglect him a little

Anyways, that’s all!! Hope this isn’t too weird or anything haha ;-;

Aaaaaaaa no worries no worries at all <3 I love receiving asks and I love talking about these characters so never feel bad for popping up being so kind :)

and I have a lot of headcanons for the Sawamura family! As a disclaimer, I tend to write whatever is needed for any given storyline, so dont hold me accountable in the future if I dont 100% hold to these lmao

I fully agree with his siblings being substantially younger than him. But personally I also love the idea of making Daichi an unplanned teenage pregnancy, making the parentification of him less a facet of "bad" parenting and more a result of kids who were just not ready for a baby. it also makes his very mature disposition a very nice contrast to the idea that he was a result of teenage mistakes. In this way, his younger siblings were his parents "chosen" kids, the kids they had once they were older and ready for it, and I think they were very good parents. unfortunately they were very good parents after Daichi had already grown up. in this you can push his age from his siblings anywhere from 8-15 years older than them. ((when I write, I try to maintain canon family dynamics unless it'll play a roll in the story, so I often give the age gap at 6 years for realism, because we know he has 4 siblings by 18 and you can only squeeze out so many 9 month pregnancies in so many years lmao.)

so daichi functions as a third parent by default because his parents never really saw him as part of the white-picket-fence planning process, those are the kids that came later. it doesnt mean they dont love him, but a lot of his foundational years, 0-8, were in the care of literally children. (Assuming a teenage pregnancy of like 17) And they just... Couldnt really handle raising a kid and it required him to create a lot of independence and self-soothing skills.

it also doesnt help that I think he takes pride in this. In the future, as an adult, he might have resentment towards his parents but in the timeline of him being in high school I imagine he sees his own role as a point of pride. he is being "mature" and "responsible" and "useful" and so clearly he's being a good person so he likes the roll he has in his family. he doesnt want them to treat him like a kid because kids are work and require effort and energy and cause problems and he is Better Than That. he's got a bit of a martyr complex in that way where he thinks its a good thing he acts and behaves this way.

i also believe 100% in any interpretation that his siblings absolutely, disgustingly, adore him. he might be the third parent but he's definitely their favourite parent. for all the resentment and anger that his parentification will cause in his adult years, for the inevitable divide growing between him and his parents, the emotional neglect, all of it, he is the person that his siblings will idolize as their greatest support. And even if he stops coming around as often and tries to rebuild a life that centres himself rather than other people, they will always think of him as their hero, and want to make him proud and seek his approval far more than they do their real parents.

theres like a million other little headcanons that contradict these ones - Im also especially fond (as anyone who reads my work knows) of the narrative that Daichi's absolutely a daddy's boy in his idolization of his father, and the father-son dynamic is one of my favourite to explore with him. the influence of family dynamics, bloodlines and obligations (real or imagined) is like... My #1 trope for him. i love giving him a larger than life bloodline and instead of everything I just described, making his martyr complex one born of a desperate desire to fill unreasonable large shoes left behind from whatever reason. in equal measure to the emotionally neglectful parents I love me a good "how am I supposed to live up to this?" story.

i could keep talking. im so fond of this stupid fucking man. But I will stop yapping and leave it as that. Thank you so much for the opportunity to ramble on about my main bitch 🤍🤍🤍

[finchly-tintinnabulation]

- Foster Fail -

OCs: Parker Brown (baseline), Battle-Brother Mikhail (Dark Angel), Blood Claw Kári (Space Wolf). Brother-Sergeant Perseus (Ultramarine) and Battle-Brother Celeborn (Lamenter) are mentioned but don't appear yet

Tags: Space Marine Husbandry (Sentience), found family dynamics that will be elaborated on, fluffy self indulgent nonsense, Space Wolf is big doggy, gay ass space marines

This idea wormed its way into my brain after binge reading @kit-williams's Space Marine Husbandry stuff, though what I've written may not exactly be compliant with the established lore in terms of bonds. Idk I'm a silly guy who likes nontraditional found family,, ty to @daily-shenanigans784 for the beta and to my beloved Blood Angels fan for giving a seal of approval lol

The Chorus: @thisuserislilsilly

- - -

“I just don’t see myself taking on any Blood Angels in the future.” 

“Really?” The new case worker tipped her head to Parker, clutching her clipboard and giving him a bemused look over the cafe table.

“Don’t get me wrong, my friend has a beautiful Sanguinary flock with a dreadnought they absolutely adore, so I can see the appeal. It’s more of a lifestyle thing.” Licking his lips, he brushed the last crumbs of pastry from his fingers, crumpling up his napkin to discard on his empty plate.

“You say that like you don’t have a Lamenter roosting in your barn, Mr. Brown. Clearly you know how to keep ‘em.” She tittered. Speaking to another baseline was certainly a change of pace from Ankesh, the Salamander he’d corresponded with the last few years, but so far he had no complaints about Lorraine.

Parker scoffed. “Celeborn and Percy are a bonded pair, I had no say in the matter.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but it was hard to imagine life without the Lamenter these days.

“Oh, Perseus? Your Ultramarine?” Lorraine’s bleach blonde hair swished as she glanced down at her clipboard.

“Mhm.”

She peered over the top of her forms, expression quizzical as he took a final swig of his coffee. “I thought you and him were bonded.”

“Hm? Why’s that?” With a raised brow, he wiped his lips on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

“Well, I’ve never seen a solitary marine follow a baseline without one before.” Her round eyes bored into him, seeking answers like she could drill them out with a stare. Okay, maybe there was something he could complain about. Way too much eye contact.

“Dunno about any of that, but Percy’s family, no matter how you slice it.” Shrugging, Parker tried to find a spot on Lorraine’s nose he could look at more comfortably.

“How long have you been…?”

“Seven years.” He stated before her inquisitive silence could stretch too long. “I’m 23, be 24 in the spring.”

Beaming, her round eyes grew even wider. “No wonder you’re the local loyalist foster, if you’ve been working with Astartes for so long.” 

“Working is a strong word.” Chuckling, Parker couldn’t help but be reminded of days crawling out his bedroom window only to be scruffed by a scowling Ultramarine. “Speaking of, you bring the file?” 

“Sure thing.” Flipping past what he assumed to be his foster record, Lorraine unclipped a few papers from the stack on her clipboard, passing them across the table as he pushed his glasses up his nose. 

In the interest of skimming the whole document, Parker removed the paperclip holding the stack together and picked out the important details. Battle-Brother Mikhail, Primaris, loyalist. His brow furrowed. Dark Angel. First-time foster. “...No brothers-in-arms with this one, Lori?”

“Nope! You said you wanted to take it easy for the holidays, so I figured you’d only want one on your hands.” Lorraine grinned, seemingly oblivious to the migraine already brewing.

Fostering the rough cases of loyalist Astartes was Parker’s bread and butter, and it was partially because he had gotten quite good at tuning into their needs. Loyalists might have seemed easier than Chaos marines or Renegades, but that was only on the surface, as they could become just as unruly and sullen. Potentially violent.

 A great many fosters that had gone through Pinkman Ranch, and the most common were those poorly adjusted to the second millennium, either through recent arrival or homes that couldn’t provide for their needs. An industrious and well behaved Ultramarine or a beautiful and artistic Blood Angel could very easily become agitated and restless with someone who expected an easy foray into the benefits of having a space marine in the household. His father had taught him that the hard way.

“You’ve worked with Dark Angels before, right?” The case worker piped up, snapping Parker out of his contemplation.

“Yup. A pair of them, last year.” He mused, remembering that they were… hard to motivate. For lack of a better word, space marines with hobbies often adjusted better to a time without the strife they were built for, giving them passions to pursue. Dark Angels ran on piety and persecution as their duties, which proved to be incredibly difficult to get past. “They aren’t exactly big talkers.”

“Which makes them perfect for a nice quiet vacation!” Lorraine forged ahead, nodding eagerly.

“Mhm.” Quiet was exactly what he was worried about. Years of familiarity had cracked Percy’s shell, Celeborn was forthcoming with his needs and had Percy to advocate, and Kári wore his emotions as plainly as wearing his armor. Without a battle-brother for support, to ease his way into a new worldview, fostering a Dark Angel could be tricky and delicate work.

“My only question is how you think your Space Wolf might interact with him.”

“Kári listens to his pack. He knows to back off.” The concern was how the foster would react to his squad, not the other way around. The Blood Claw could be rambunctious, but Parker worried how such an insular marine would warm up, especially if he was out of commission for a bit and unable to stand between them. However, that wasn’t something Lorraine needed to know about.

“Anything else you wanted to ask? I assume you already know how to contact the local base.”

Parker dragged a hand through his hair, staring down at the small photo of the Primaris attached to the document. Serious but slim face, dark hair, a proud but haunted look in his eye. Of course he could always decline, but… this was part of why he started fostering after all. Percy would always be there if things got out of hand. 

“Nope, I think we’re good to go.” He paperclipped the file back together and handed it back across the table to Lorraine. “I assume you’ll send him by tomorrow?”

-

In the cold grey light of early morning, frost covered grass crunched beneath boots and sabatons alike, padding along the fence of the property. For someone so big, Parker was continuously impressed by how quiet an enormous stack of muscle and armor like a space marine could move so quietly, the Dark Angel having fallen into step behind him. 

“Just so we understand each other, you’re here to adjust, so I only have one big rule. Stay on the property, don’t go running off into the woods.” Parker looked sidelong over the barbed wire at the dense thicket of blue spruce blanketing the mountainside. “Rocky Mountain National Park is pretty damn big, so there’s plenty of room for war bands and renegades and the like, but you can’t go running after them while I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on you. Understood?”

Looking back at the marine, Parker waited for some indication of understanding, thankfully receiving a nod. 

“Great. You can run off and hunt once we’re done, though if you can’t stand being idle that long, there’s plenty to do around here.” He smiled at the impassable helmet, hoping the Astartes felt welcome behind it. Mikhail hadn’t said a word since the local base had dropped him off, but Parker had to admit to himself he didn’t expect much else. 

“Most of the profitable work is seasonal thanks to the livestock we keep, the sheep get sheared in the spring, and we harvest honey from the bees in summer and fall, but upkeep is year round. There’s also the chickens up by the house, but they’re more like pets, and we eat the eggs more than we sell them.” Meandering towards the barn, Parker chattered away, a soft pride in his chest as he talked about what had become the last few years of his life. 

It wasn’t long before he was intercepted, a behemoth in grey armor rising from where he’d been sitting amongst the flock of sheep and jogging over with a sharp toothed grin. 

“This our fresh blood, PB?” Kári crowded into Parker’s space as usual, grabbing the baseline by the underarms and scooping him up for a hug in greeting. Though the armor was cold in the winter air, his body glove and skin radiated heat, and without his helmet Parker had free rein to run his hand through the Space Wolf’s short auburn curls. 

Parker chuckled. “Be nice, there’s no need to call him that. Kári, this is Battle-Brother Mikhail. Mikhail, Blood Claw Kári.” Twisting in the affectionate marine’s grip, he turned to smile encouragingly at Mikhail, gesturing as best he could for introductions. 

“No need to keep your helmet on, cousin. Let me see that pretty face of yours.” The Space Wolf teased, expression wolfishly playful as he nosed Parker’s cheek, ruffling his hair with warm puffs of breath. 

“Be nice, I said.” Parker groused, righting his glasses as Kári’s nuzzling had knocked them askew. “You don’t need to if you don’t want to, Brother Mikhail.”

Silent through their exchange, Parker half expected the Dark Angel to ignore Kári, but to his surprise after a moment of stillness Mikhail reached up. With a hiss of a releasing seal, his helm was removed and magnetized to his hip. 

The printed black and white thumbnail image on his file did him no justice. Wavy black hair hung down to the man’s jaw, framing oddly wide green eyes and high cheekbones. He, much like Kári, had a look of youth almost uncharacteristic of the Adeptus Astartes, but with a pale face rather than the Space Wolf’s freckled and suntanned one. 

Kári whistled appreciatively. “Oh, you are pretty! Why don’t you waste some time with me tending the sheep?“ Parker was ready to scold him when Mikhail defied his expectations once again and looked shy. A blushing Astartes was truly a sight to behold, and the baseline had to consciously keep his mouth shut so as to not gape at him. 

“That which does not serve the Emperor’s will is not anything praiseworthy.” Mikhail muttered, voice soft but oddly robotic. Blinking, Parker stared at the Dark Angel for a long moment before covering his mouth with a hand, almost certain that laughing would be seen as disrespectful.

“Seeing as he isn’t here to impose that will, I wouldn’t concern yourself.” Tipping his head at the other marine, Kári spoke flippantly. Already pushing buttons. Mikhail’s brow furrowed into a frown. 

“What he means to say,” Parker quickly interjected, “Is that nobody can find your Emperor in our time. Humanity is not united under him like in yours, so… he’s not exactly leading anything here. At the moment.”

Jaw working, Mikhail’s lips twisted as he seemed to think for a long moment, perhaps coming up with a retort as he stared intently at the baseline. It was what Parker often feared working with loyalists; they only knew to be His weapons. However, there was no way of knowing what Mikhail thought, as he once again fell silent with a brief nod of understanding. 

“How about we head back to the house? Percy and Celeborn are still baking?” Uneasy but relieved for the time being, Parker steered the conversation away from the Astartes’s past (future?) and patted Kári’s gorget in a request to be put down that was quickly obliged. 

“Lead the way.” Kári pressed his nose to the baseline’s mousy brown hair one last time before letting him go, and Parker started the trek back to the farmhouse, the two space marines following behind like a pair of very large, armored ducklings. 

[thatseventiesbitch]

Welcome, That '70s Show fans, to another original script reading! This time we're looking at S4xE2 "Eric's Depression".

Although right off the bat, I notice that it's listed as episode 3x28 on the script. 👀 Whether it was originally intended to be part of a super-duper long season 3 or if it was just filmed with that batch of episodes and named accordingly, I'm not sure.

This script, like the last one I posted, belonged to guest star Corey Landis, who plays a young Red Forman.

The opening scene is largely unchanged, except Red is more critical towards Eric. 🥹

Then it cuts to Eric in his bedroom listening to the radio - the same as in the episode.

The guys come to his room to fetch Eric for Funland. Almost identical, only a few different lines.

I like Kelso/Fez's added addition about Eric and Donna's kids inheriting Bob's hair (😂). Leia should be thankful!

The rest of the scene is the same - except as they leave him, Kelso advises Eric to crack a window. He must not have been showering and his depression nest smelled like it.

Next is Eric's scene in the kitchen with Red and Kitty. Only a few slight changes.

Kitty advises Eric to "get out there an expose himself to some new gals" and Red makes a joke about flashing. 😂

Like in the episode, Eric is reminded of Donna everywhere and even sees her name spelled out in his alpha-bits. His line "Who am I kidding - I can't eat" was cut from the actual episode, though. My boy is in pain. 🥹

Cut to Funland. Jackie, Fez, Hyde, and Kelso arrive and the dialogue is mostly the same. Except Hyde and Fez argue about rather Woofy is a real dog or not (🤣) and Hyde remarks that they should have brought Kelso's leash.

Back to the Forman house. Red and Kitty's dialogue about Archie Wilkins is a little different. Kitty claims her nickname was "Heartbreak Kitty" 😂🤣. Red is over it.

And another quip about how Eric/his room smell. Red asks what died in there and Eric says "my soul" 😭😩😞.

Then the story about One Foot (lol) and Red orders him to trim the hedges.

And we're back to Funland. Fez's interaction with the mime goes on a little longer than in the episode. I didn't include it due to the image limit on the post.

Then Fez and Hyde have their conversation about Fun University/FU.

Jackie's the only one who seems concerned about Kelso.

Now, the Eric/Red and Donna/Bob scene is where the script really starts to deviate from what aired.

In the episode, Eric is lamenting to Red here about how he thought they were in love and then it all just blew apart, leaving a big hole. Red is less than empathetic.

In the script, Eric just wants his dad to leave him alone.

Bob is a lot more empathetic towards Donna in the scene that actually aired.

Eric and Donna see each other for the first time but interestingly, have a very different interaction. Neither of them knows what to say. In the episode, they both double down on their positions and have a shouting match ("I'm not wrong!" / "You are wrong, you dillhole!" / Dillhole, real mature. Double dillhole!")

In the episode they cut back to Funland at this point, but in the script...

Eric and Donna both fantasize about their previous scene where they ran into each other going differently!

First - I was cheated out of *another* Eric and Donna make-out (🤬). It's also fascinating how the separate scenes give us insight into Eric and Donna's different mindsets post-break-up.

Eric wants to be *right*. His pride is wounded. He implies that he thinks Donna's mindset is selfish. His fantasy quells his self-conscious thoughts - his worries that he loves Donna more than she loves him.

Donna, on the other hand, is *pissed*. She fantasizes about slapping Eric and sitting on his chest like when they were kids. She wants to cause him pain - because he's caused her pain. She never wanted to break up. Her fantasy is that Eric backs off of his need to plan out their every move in the future, his need for total commitment from her, and instead supports her in whatever she wants to do whether that is travel, writing, pursuing a career.

*Now* we go back to Funland.

No large changes, but Hyde rode the Cyclone seven times and Fez threw up *lol*. And Jackie wants to discuss a "career in theatre" with the Funland princess?

The scene in the lost and found with Bobby and Billy (Dylan and Cole Sprouse) and Kelso is the same.

At the Forman house, Red and Eric return from work. Some small, but notable differences in this scene.

In the script, Eric explicitly tells Red he doesn't want a new girlfriend, and that he doesn't want to talk about other girls because it just reminds him he's not with Donna. Red, frustrated, says that *breathing* reminds him he's not with Donna. 😩

I also lol'ed when Eric offered Red his sandwich and Red goes ahead and takes it, only for Kitty to intervene. And Eric's "God, she's everywhere!" 😭

The scene that features Young Red is different, too! In the episode, he cries out the name *Eloise* here...

The final scene at Funland is similar. The gang hasn't found Kelso yet but it's closing time. Woofy is a creep who hits on Jackie, and Hyde scares him off.

Jackie insists she's not leaving without Michael, but very quickly changes her tune. *lol*

At this point there's a scene of Kelso being driven home by Mr. and Mrs. Anderson - the twins' mom. It was the credit window in the episode that aired. It's pretty much what aired - the boys are calling Kelso 'Einstein' mockingly and spit on his ice cream, and when Kelso gets upset and acts like he's going to spit at one of the boys, the mom stops the car and kicks him out. I'm not including screen shots due to image limits on this post.

Then we cut to the bar scene. Red has taken Eric for a beer. And we end up learning about Eloise Steich, after all!

At the end of the scene, Donna and Bob walk in. Bob has had the same idea as Red and brought her to have a beer. Bob and Red see each other but Eric and Donna don't. I thought this was kind of funny.

After Donna and Bob walk out, Red asks Eric if he can stop being nice to Bob now that Eric's not with Donna anymore. Eric says - "You were being nice to him?" Red agrees - "Yeah. No, you got me." 😂

The originally scripted tag has Fez trying cotton candy (he’s amazed, lol) and then the gang see Kelso hitchhiking after being kicked out of the car by the Anderson’s.

And that's all for this one! Thanks for reading along with me, your host, @thatseventiesbitch! This might be the last one for awhile (🤰) but we’ll see!

Other Scripts I've Posted:

S2xE20 "Kiss of Death" S2xE22 "Jackie Moves On" S2xE23 "Holy Crap!" S2xE26 "Moon Over Point Place" S3xE23 "Backstage Pass" S5xE21 "Trampled Under Foot" S6xE20 "Squeezebox" S7xE8 "Angie"

[quidell-fics]

A/N: Hi everyone! Here’s a little sneak peek for you! It’s nothing major, but I wanted to share something lighthearted to let you know I’m still working on the next chapter. I hope this brings a nice break from all the intense moments in recent chapters! (This sneak peek might slightly change in the future as it is not yet edited.)

I leaned back, watching as he scooped dirt in rough handfuls, his movements precise and methodical. Each clump hissed softly as it fell over the embers, until the fire surrendered to the night, leaving only a whisper of smoke curling into the dark.

“So,” I began,“Since you’re all monkish and whatnot, I’ve been meaning to ask...” My gaze flicked to him as he paused, one ear twitching in acknowledgement. It was a tidbit I’d stumbled upon earlier when I tried offering him some dry meat—generously traded from the Horseman—and he turned it down faster than I could blink. A bit of back-and-forth questioning and hand gesturing on his part later, and voilà: I came to the conclusion Monkey Boy was a vegetarian monk.

Monk. I'd never met one before…We didn't have many where I was from.

I told him I’d give it up too—didn’t want any food to go to waste, and it’d be easier to cook for both of us if we ate the same meals.

In hindsight, I was starting to think that might’ve been a catastrophic lapse in judgment.

He glanced up, waiting for me to elaborate, and I obliged. “Does that also mean you can’t drink milk or eat eggs?”

His nod was calm, measured, monk-like. Mine, however, was slow and contemplative as my brain churned through this alarming revelation as I glanced back down at the journal in my lap.

I tried to hold it in. I really, truly tried. But sometimes composure is just a fragile, fickle thing.

With a dramatic huff, my arms shot up, wrapping around my head as I flopped back onto the grass in pure, unfiltered despair. A confused grunt came from him, but I was already mid-melodrama. “That means... I can’t eat pancakes!” The declaration was muffled by my forearm as I slapped it over my eyes, blocking out the cruel, pancake-less world.

First, I couldn’t cuddle Mr. Fluffnutter. Now this. The universe clearly had it out for me. “First my beautiful, awesome, fluffy cat, now pancakes,” I lamented, my voice heavy with betrayal. My free arm sprawled lifelessly at my side, the picture of pancake-deprived devastation.

“Pancakes!” I wailed, pouring every ounce of my soul into the word like it was a tragic ballad. My voice echoed into the night…

“…pancakes…” I whispered again, this time softer, the fight gone from me. Defeated. Broken. A shadow of my former, pancake-loving self. Somewhere in the distance, I swear a cricket chirped in sympathy.

What a kind, sympathetic cricket…

Monkey Boy, for his part, said nothing. But I could feel his bemusement, and confusion, palpable as the smoke still lingering in the air.

I think he was starting to acclimate to my idiocy, like a rock slowly eroding under a relentless drip of absurdity. Whatever.

“I made my peace with giving up seafood—my favorite food, no less. But pancakes? Really? That’s just cruel. It’s personal now.”

[somesecretpie]

Weather Woman (Short Story)

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. An eyewitness, Ms. Self, said the weather was to blame but Susan knew it was anything but that. This was homicide. Divine intervention. 

“My poor poor little pansies,” she said, peering over their wilted corpses. It had officially been a whole year since Susan’s county had any rainfall. Several months ago, the town began issuing fines to anyone who dared to water their lawn. Susan did not find this to be much of an issue—she continued to keep her garden green as suburbia withered and died around her, until she ran into a small problem. 

Susan ran out of money.

From all the fines she was paying. 

She reentered her home, morning paper in one hand, and her weekly subscription to “Martha Stewart Living” in the other. Her house was a wondrous temple of correct furniture and appropriate color palettes, bowls of plastic fruit at the center of each faux-mahogany table. Photographs of a happy family arranged in a symmetrical pattern (Not her own, though; they were stock images.) She would have absolute perfection, were it not for that scorched eyesore that marked her entryway garden. 

Susan poured her morning coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and turned on the weather channel for her district. That was the only thing she watched now: The weather. Mr. John Sunday in front of his green screen, with his little yellow bowtie, and his eyes the color of the unchanging sky. He looked quite unremarkable for a man that disseminated such important information to the public, but looks can be deceiving. One does not look at a perfect egg and see themselves contracting salmonella.

“Please, John, some rain for my pansies,” Susan whispered into her morning coffee. She turned up the volume and his pleasant voice filled the living room. 

“Good morning, Marin County! It’s gonna be nothing but blue skies this week. Perfect weather for going on a nice long walk. And enjoying all that mother nature has to offer—“

Susan threw her bagel at the television in a fit of anger. Then promptly cleaned it off the floor and swept it into the wastebin. 

What did she do to deserve these never-ending blue skies? I’m a nice woman, aren’t I? she lamented. Don’t I deserve purple pansies? Don’t I deserve a little rain?

There was something malicious and secret behind John’s blue eyes.  Something he knew that she did not. She could not bear to look at them! 

She shut off the TV. 

Her heart beat madly in her chest. What ever would Susan do? Refill her bed of flowers with desert cacti and succulents? No, wrong color palette. Take out a loan to continue watering her plants? Now that would be ridiculous…

The weather was to blame—but Susan had a poor understanding of it. What went on up there in the sky? Who, exactly, could she send a strongly worded email to?

That same morning, Susan Kelvin decided she would take out a loan after all, but not to water her plants. Instead, she would go back to her local community college to study meteorology. She was quite sure that most of her coursework was merely propaganda from Big Weather, but she needed that associate's degree so she could learn that secret that lurked behind the eyes of Mr. John Sunday. So she could join his ranks. So she could become a Weather Woman.

Susan applied to the local television network with high hopes. The fate of her future rested on their acceptance. She snuggled into bed that same night of her application and dreamed of fresh purple pansies dotting the corners of her deep green lawn. But...something was terribly wrong!

Susan gasped for breath and opened her eyes. Strong hands grasped her arms, the fabric of a bag over her face—she was being kidnapped! Oh this is going to work horribly with my schedule! thought Susan. She began to protest but a harsh voice shushed her to silence. She was shoved into a car.

After an hour or so of stumbling around, the bag was lifted, and Susan blinked rapidly. She was in a musty room lit by candles. Deactivated cameras hung on racks against the wall, and a circle of sharply dressed bodies surrounded her, their shadows bending and stretching in the flickering light.

“Welcome,” someone said. “You have been called before our chapter because of your personal obsession with the weather. And from our understanding, your qualifications may permit that obsession to become...something more.”

Susan struggled to get her bearings. In front of her was, if she was not mistaken, sliced tofu arranged into an occult symbol.

“Your name is Susan Kelvin and you have a degree in meteorology from Marin County Community College, is this correct?”

“Yes,” Susan confirmed.

“You live alone, your parents are deceased, and you have no friends or loved ones. Is this also correct?”

“Who are you people?”

Susan then noticed that she recognized the woman sitting on her left—it was Ms. Rivers from channel eight. A proper weatherwoman, straightened and carefully sculpted black hair, with a stormy gray pantsuit that tastefully contrasted against her dark complexion. And to her right was that weatherman from channel seven what’s-his-face (his appearance was not noteworthy). And at the very front, at the head of the body of bodies, the man who had been speaking to her was none other than Mr. John Sunday in his yellow bow tie.

“What interest do you have in becoming a Weather Woman, Ms. Susan Kelvin?”

“I…um…”

They waited patiently for her answer. It suddenly occurred to Susan that this was probably a job interview. She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her. 

“I believe I could bring a lot of value and a unique perspective to the weather conversation,” Susan said. “It has affected me personally…My district hasn’t had any rain in over a month.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “That must be terrible for you.”

“What are you apologizing for? You can’t control the weather.”

John Sunday leaned forward, and his blue eyes flashed a deep dark red. “Oh but we can.”

“Can what?”

“We control the weather, Susan.”

Susan narrowed her eyes. “That is completely absurd. You’re all a bunch of wierdo people who kidnapped me and I’m...I’m going to tell the authorities!”

“No one will believe you,” whispered Rivers. 

Susan glared at everyone, but the weather people held still, not a trace of doubt of their ability. But surely the truth about the weather would not be so…uncomplicated. Surely the unseen forces that murdered her flowers would not have human faces. 

“I don’t believe you,” Susan said plainly. “But I do need this job so that I can pay off my student loans–” 

“The forecasters bear a burden.” John ignored her question. The speech was likely rehearsed. “To be a forecaster is self-sacrifice! To be a forecaster is to be a champion of the greater good! Does that describe you, Susan Kelvin?”

She hesitated. 

Champion is rather vague. It can have multiple meanings.

She thought of her beautifully decorated house. 

Oh, but I am certainly good.

She thought of her neighbors and their inferior sense of style.

And I am certainly greater! 

Slowly, Susan nodded her head. 

The weather people muttered amongst themselves enthusiastically, like children, until silenced by John. 

“Excellent,” he said. “Very good. Then, on behalf of the California chapter of forecasters, the masters of the weather, we welcome you. Thank you, Great Mother.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” the weatherpeople said in tandem. 

Someone clapped twice, and the overhead lamps blasted light everywhere. 

“You’ll be shadowing Rivers tomorrow at eight. Look sharp,” John said dramatically, but without the candlelight defining his cheekbones, it was quite hard to take him seriously. 

The next day, Susan arrived at exactly eight o’ clock, wearing her best suit, and hair pulled back in a tight bun. She found Rivers, on set, eating conservatively from a bag of soynuts. 

“Oh hey! It’s you,” the weatherwoman said. “Sorry about all that cult stuff. John can be so dramatic.”

Susan smiled in relief, but quickly hid it away. “That is an understatement,” she muttered. “Will there be any more kidnappings?”

“Only for your monthly status report,” she said, “But give me your number and I can text you before it happens.”

Susan did so hesitantly, and kept staring at her phone after the fact. She had one whole contact now. How quaint. 

That day, Susan was supposed to examine the cue cards, inspect the camera crews, and stare intently at the weatherwoman, noting every minute thing she did. Rivers delivered her forecast with a smile. Blue skies again. 

“That’s disappointing,” Susan said to her over lunch. “I was hoping for some rain in my district.”

“John already has the weather planned out for the next few weeks,” Rivers said stiffly. “So sorry.”

Susan did not laugh. “This again? Tell me you do not believe this “controlling the weather” nonsense! You are not wizards!”

“Did you not see our occult symbols?”

Susan swatted at the air. “Meaningless shapes.”

“And what about John’s flashing red eyes?”

Susan’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Now, I don’t know about that…But he should see a medical professional.”

Rivers rolled her eyes and left to prepare for her evening forecast. When it was  done and there were no more cue cards to read from, she very quickly told the audience, in a joking manner, that there would be isolated showers over their recording studio from exactly five fifty PM to five fifty one PM. She then strut off the stage with a smirk. 

“Well, that’s an oddly specific forecast—“ 

The weather woman grabbed her by the wrist and led her all the way to the back-door exit with the recycling and the parking lot. 

“Check your phone,” Rivers said. 

Susan did not see why she should, there would be no messages. This was because she only had one contact, you see. But as she held her phone in her hand, a large raindrop splattered on the screen. Then another. And now rain was pouring from the sky, dripping down her hair and suit. Susan’s jaw dropped. She had not felt rain in so long. It was five-fifty. And by five fifty-one, the clouds departed as if swept away by a large broom. The sunlight stung her face. 

Rivers smiled at her. 

So they really did control the weather. 

This revelation posed a great many questions. Like, why did the public not know about this? And why did the weathercasters have these powers? And why had Susan studied for two years to become a meteorologist when she could just pulled forecasts out of her asshole? Susan frowned. Now that she thought about it, it was rather odd that her meterology courses mostly consisted of specifications for ritual sacrifice and obedience lessons. Susan had simply thought it was “one of those things” about academia. 

“Well, Rivers…”

“Yes, Susan?”

“I suppose this whole “forecasting” thing is...it’s fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun doesn’t do it justice!” Rivers said, through a handful of soynuts. “Just knowing how much power there is behind your every word. So long the camera is rolling, there is nothing stopping you from doing anything you damn well please!” Rivers laughed heartily, but kept her eyes trained on Susan. “Except your conscience, of course!”

“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “Ha ha!”

Fun doesn’t do it justice…It had been a while since Susan Kelvin had fun. She tried to remember when that was. 

Oh, yes, of course!

It had been two weeks ago. Susan had just gotten home from work after a rough day, shoulders drooping, hair ruffled, when she looked down on her front porch and saw a beetle. The bug was turned on its back, legs flailing weakly in the air. There was nothing nearby for grasping, nothing but hot sunburned concrete. This bug had no way of righting itself yet it struggled still. Susan sat down and watched this bug. She watched it until it stopped moving. Until it returned to its natural state. Nonexistence. That had been fun, Susan remembered fondly. I am eager to have fun again. 

After two days of shadowing Rivers, Susan was given her own partition of airtime over her district and a weekly forecast by her fellow weatherpeople. She delivered the forecast exactly as instructed. Blue skies. 

“Pretty good for a first-time,” Rivers said. “Although, you were a bit stiff. Trying showing more emotion, more body language, you know?” She placed her fingers on her own cheekbones, pressing them upward. “Remember to smile.”

Susan didn’t know why she hadn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t having fun yet. She spent the rest of that evening practicing smiling in the mirror. She read Martha Stewart, baked a five-cheese lasagna exactly per the instructions, and smiled upon removing it from the oven like Martha Stewart did in the picture. She smiled until she did it without thinking, baring her teeth even in bed, as she dreamed of purple pansies. 

The next day, she delivered her forecast so well that even John himself gave her a flamboyant “Well done!” And Susan smiled at them as they congratulated her—but still she was not having fun. 

All this power and I never get to do anything worthwhile. Susan sighed. I could fix my front lawn if only John would let me.

Later at the meeting, Susan tried to articulate her feelings. 

“We could be doing so much more, John. We could be helping the needy, like those poor people of Marin County who’s front lawns have been destroyed by the California heat!”

The weather people muttered undecidedly. Susan recognized her experiences were not universal, and acted accordingly, “Or what about people affected by hurricanes! Or wildfires, droughts, what about them, John! All those poor people we could help with our power—“

“Our power is a gift, you fool!” John snapped. 

Susan raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

“From Zietzebala,” said Rivers. “Our Great Mother Earth. She has gifted us with this forecasting power in exchange for our obedience as well as a few…sacrifices.”

“Ah.” Susan looked down. “And I suppose they have to be virgins too, don’t they. I’m still friends on facebook with a lot of men I went to highschool with who are probably–”  

“No! Dammit, no! I meant, like, recycle. Plant a tree!” John looked exasperated. “Sometimes we sacrifice a tofurky, but we’ve never really gone farther than that.”

“Maybe we should,” muttered Rivers.

John turned sharply to look at her. “Don’t think I don’t know about that little stunt you pulled yesterday,” he said with a voice like acid. “Isolated showers? Over our studio? You know how important the schedule is–”

“I’m sorry.” Rivers said. She did not appear sorry. “It will not happen again.”

“It had better not.”

John left the room in a huff.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Susan asked “What did you mean by that?”

Rivers sighed. “I know what you mean about wanting to help. About all the good we could do. Climate change has already killed millions…and the death toll will continue to rise.”

Susan thought of her dead flowers and trembled. 

“Don’t feel bad, Rivers,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

“No but it is literally our fault we control the weather Susan.“

“Oh right.”

Susan had forgotten. 

Rivers began crushing the snacks in her hand. “The horrible thing is–I could fix it all. I have an incredibly detailed plan to fix the environment that, when I placed it on the alter to Zietzebala, turned into a swarm of doves! So I know she approves!”

Rivers glared. “But her pact is with John. And John has a bad heart.”

Susan nodded. “Truly a wicked man.”

“No, he literally has a bad heart. Arrhythmia.” Rivers hit twice against her chest. “I’m next in line for leadership if ever something terrible happens to him, just so you know.” She looked askance, placing her hand on Susan’s. “Do with that information what you will, Susan.”

Several things flashed through her mind at once. She saw Rivers dressed in the fanciful robes of climate cult leader. Rivers telling her how beautiful her lawn was. River’s soft, well-manicured hands holding hers, not just now, but over and over again in the future. Rivers could be more than her singular phone contact. Susan’s cheeks grew hot and she withdrew.

“Susan?”

She collected herself, pouring another class of ceremonial non-alcoholic wine. She raised it in a toast. “Here’s to hoping John drops dead!” 

Rivers laughed, “Oh Susan, you’re so funny.”

Ms. Susan Kelvin squeezed her incredibly soft hand. “And when you’re head forecaster, you’ll give my district some water, won’t you? Because we are…coworkers?”

Ms. Rivers seemed confused for a half-second, then replied. “Of course! We will help everyone, which includes you!” 

“But not me specifically?”

“Not you specifically, no.”

“Oh.”

Susan looked away. 

Rivers offered her a soynut, but Susan refused it. 

***

Next morning, Susan awoke with a start. She had a good feeling about today, that good feeling had apparently kicked her out of bed at an hour earlier than usual. What to do with the spare time?

She clapped her hands together. I know! I will go out for breakfast!

So Susan drove her little car down to her neighborhood Denny’s, avoiding all the dead beetles in the parking lot with her new high heels. She squeezed herself into a cozy booth. A nice table all to herself. 

A waitress approached. 

“Brown toast, and two eggs please.”

“Will that be sunny-side up, ma’am?”

“No no,” Susan turned from the window. Blue skies. With a twinge of bitterness she clarified, “I like my eggs over easy.”

“Sure thing!” The waitress jotted it down. “Sorry for assuming, most people like ‘em sunny—.”

“Well I like them over easy,” Susan said with a smile. 

Susan tapped her heel as she waited, sipping some lemon water. A tingling feeling ran up her leg, like a bug was crawling. She quickly ran her hand up and down her smooth leg, but it was nothing. Nothing. 

Moments later a steaming hot plate arrived. The toast was cut into triangles (the only adequate shape), but the eggs. Oh, the eggs. They were sunny. Side. UP. 

Susan stormed out of the establishment without paying, and sped to her job, positively seething. 

She did her broadcast as normal, except for one teensy addition as follows: 

“Lastly, you’ll be seeing a horrific category five hurricane over in Marin county with wind speeds of about one hundred twenty miles an hour. It will be localized entirely within this area.” Susan pointed with her pointing stick to the map, on which she’d drawn a red circle around that one particular Denny’s.” Susan smiled. “That will be all!”

They cut to commercial break. 

No one approached Susan for a full five minutes. Then John appeared, apparently having powerwalked from the adjoining broadcast room.

“Susan, what the hell–”

“It was a joke!”

John looked flabbergasted. 

Susan made a silly face. 

“A…joke?” 

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Susan…you need to be really fucking careful with “jokes” when you’re on camera…You’re not in training anymore. Everything you say will happen no matter how ridiculous.”

Susan smiled slightly. That was exactly what she hoped.

John put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Look here, when the commercial ends, you are going to tell everyone that was a “joke”. You are going to tell everyone that there will be no category five hurricane at that particular Denny’s. Okay?”

“Okay, John.”

He backed away as the camera man counted down. Susan straightened her collar.

“Good evening, Citizens of Marin county. I have something to tell you all about that Category Five hurricane I mentioned earlier.”

Susan thought about reversing her decision. But why should she? That Denny’s had tried to poison her. She was doing God’s work. 

She cleared her throat. “That hurricane is going to have hail. So so much hail.” John was pulling at his hair.  

“And that’s not all. Susan looked directly at the camera, “Mr. John Sunday is going to die at exactly six forty-seven PM, and nothing that anyone does, not any doctor, not any ambulance, not any priest will be able to stop it.”

John Sunday ran onto the set, jumping over the rolling chairs and camera crew, reaching for her microphone. 

“And the power to this station will go off NOW.”

Darkness fell. Susan tried to run, but John tackled her to the ground. He pulled the microphone from her face and shouted into it, “No! No that will not happen, actually, that will not happen. Susan is wrong!” 

But the cameras were not running.

“You’re too late, John.”

John clutched his face.

“What time is it?”

It was six forty-six. 

There was terror in his eyes, “That wasn’t even weather related!” he stammered. “You will be fired for this!”

“Who is going to fire me, John?”

John took out his cellphone with a shaking hand and dialed 911. Susan heard it ringing, a steady pulse in his hand. But what John really needed was a steady pulse in his heart. He fell over in agony, and Susan bent over his writhing body. She watched until it stopped. Until it returned to it’s natural state. Nonexistence. Now she was having fun. Susan took his yellow bow tie (it was a clip-on.)

She ran through the crowd of concerned onlookers, off to her car to beat the rush-hour traffic. She heard sirens in the distance, a wailing chorus. Approaching. She clutched the wheel until her knuckles turned white.

Susan saw the siren was that of an ambulance and sighed. Pity that it wouldn’t help anything. What was done was done. 

That night, Susan made tea before sleeping, listening to the soft rain against her window as it cooled, with one of Martha Stewart's Living magazines resting on her lap. It was all very calming. She tucked herself into bed at exactly nine-thirty, as she did every night, and slept as she had always slept. 

But in her dreams, something was wrong. 

Something was terribly wrong.

Susan always dreamed about being in her house, but now she was on a pedestal. On all sides of her, a dark abyss stretched down into infinity. 

Instead of her carpet, the ground was teeming with worms. 

Instead of the whistling of her teakettle, she heard an ominous wind, delivering muffled shrieks and cries.

Susan tapped her foot on the wormy ground. Well, this is boring! she thought.

But no sooner did her mind form that thought than the wind began to pick up. 

Howling now. 

And from the sky of inclement weather came a flash of blinding lightning. Susan opened her eyes and who should stand before her but...

“Martha Stewart!” Susan struggled to speak. “I am your biggest fan, I’ve—I’ve read every issue of your magazine, I read your blog—I try so hard to be just like you!”

The woman answered in a booming voice that was far too deep, “But you are not like me, Susan. You are a hollow vessel. You are a parody of human being.”

“You’re not...really Martha Stewart, are you?”

The woman bared her teeth. “I’m afraid not. I am merely taking a form that you can understand.”

Susan had a feeling she knew who it was. “Are you... Great Mother?”

“The one and only!” Zietzebala winked. 

Susan looked her up and down. That dress was actually quite unfashionable now that she really looked at it. In hindsight it was obvious this was not Martha Stewart. Susan sighed soberly. Yes, not even a literal goddess can replicate such perfection.

Susan spoke to her in her usual condescending manner. “Why have you come to me like this...in a dream?”

“Isn’t it obvious why I’m here?” Not-Martha-Stewart said softly. “John Sunday is dead.”

Susan began to sweat. She adjusted her bow tie—no that was John’s bow tie, now she had drawn attention to it!

 With the intention of discreteness, and complete failure of that which was intended, Susan removed the article and hurled it into the abyss. Not even a full second later, the bow tie had reappeared. 

Again, Susan tossed it. 

Again, it reappeared. 

Again, she tossed it. 

Bow tie back again!

Again, she tossed it—

“This is who you are now, Susan!” shouted Zietzebala. Crackling thunder leapt from her perfect face-framing bob-cut of yellow hair. “This is your burden.” 

But the yellow of the bow tie didn’t even go with the current color palette of her outfit! Susan stood helplessly, in her persistently unfashionable clothing, staring into the eyes of this unearthly creature. And for the first time in her perfect life, Susan feared for her immortal soul. 

“Great Mother, I am so sorry,” she said tearfully, “But you must let me explain myself! He was preventing me from doing my job as a forecaster, so I had to kill him. I had to!”

Not-Martha-Stewart's eyes flashed red. “Don’t take all the credit, my child. I killed him. You merely allowed me to.”

Susan stopped pretending to look upset. “Oh. So we are on the same page?”

“Not exactly.” 

The Great Mother began to circle her, her high heels striking the writhing ground. “John is dead because he thought he could worship two gods at once.”

“He cheated on you?”

“With money.” Zietzebala shook her head. “John was too soft, much like the tofu he insists on sending me…He was unwilling to make the sacrifices I demand. But are you?”

The goddess was getting too close for comfort. 

“That…depends…what they are?”

“I want blood, Susan.”

She had figured. 

“Rivers has a two hundred page plan on how to save the environment. You are instrumental to that plan, Susan Kelvin. Because you are unlike any human I have ever known.” Her eyes glimmered like starlight. “You are…completely empty.”

Susan frowned. She felt strange. She felt used.

“I must go now–”

“Wait,” Susan stopped her. “While you’re here, can I ask you some questions about the nature of the universe? I’ve had a sudden stroke of curiosity.”

Zietzebala sighed. “Ok. I’ll give you three.”

“Objectively speaking, is the “Farmhouse style” or “Riverside cottage” style superior for a home kitchen?”

“That depends on the context, Susan.”

“Why are all the flowers in the magazines prettier than mine?”

“Because of the drought, Susan.”

She paused. Her last question…What shall it be?

After putting some thought into it, Susan decided to ask, “Is there life after death?”

Zietzebala smirked playfully. “Oh, I think you already know the answer.”

“Do I?”               

“Haven't you ever thought there was a bug on your leg, and upon looking, found there was no bug?”

Susan squinted. “What of it?”

The Goddess leaned in closely. “Ghost bugs.”

Susan shuddered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Susan grabbed onto the front of the goddess’s coat. 

“Wait, I have one more question.”

“I said I’d give you three.”

“Please, just one more!” Susan demanded. “Are there other gods?”

“You already know the answer.”

Susan scoffed. “I’m…not sure that I do!”

Zietzebala turned from her, staring into the abyss. “It is time for you to wake up, Susan. Remember all that I have told you. Collaborate with Rivers. Eliminate everyone she tells you to.”

“What?”

“Be the good that Martha Stewart wants you to be–or there will be consequences!”

With that, she clapped twice and disappeared in a puff of smoke that smelled like cedar and pumpkin-scented candles. 

Susan sat up from her bed abruptly and jerked her head to the side. Six o’ clock. I must get ready for work!

Susan hurriedly bread her hands, popped her soap in the toaster, ironed the carpet, and tore down Main Street. In her urgency, she went two miles above the speed limit. 

Seeds of doubts sprouted worries in her mind. Do I really have what it takes to be an eco-terrorist? Susan fancied herself the very image of perfection. Was she not? She who kept her lawn so neatly trimmed? Who’s china was so neatly kept? Susan breathed rapidly. She who ravaged a Denny’s…

Destruction. 

Peace. 

Order. 

Susan whirled into the parking lot of the recording studio, blew past everyone without a word, avoiding inquisitive eyes, avoiding accusatory fingers, planting her ass firmly in her little red rolling chair. She took a deep breath. Be the good…that Martha Stewart wants you to be. 

Rivers ran up on stage, grabbed Susan’s face and kissed her passionately. Susan stumbled backwards, bracing herself against the desk. This was NOT an appropriate workplace activity. But Susan could not help herself. She returned the expression, kissing Rivers hungrily, barely noticing the notecards that had been pressed into her hand. 

“We’re on in five!”

Rivers pulled away and Susan gasped for breath. “Read these exactly as they are written Susan,” Rivers said. 

Susan dared not look down at the paper in her hand. What horrible dreadful things would be written on them?

Television static buzzed in her head. Someone was counting down. 

The cameras trained on her. 

“Now we will go live to Susan Kelvin with the weather!” The news reporter  eyed Susan from her screen. “And I see you are wearing John Sunday’s signature yellow bow tie.”

Susan leaned forward slowly. 

“That I am, Fiona. I have worn it to pay my respects—God rest his soul.”

“It’s kind of weird that you were able to forecast his death in such perfect detail.”

Susan paused. 

“Yes well…he had a heart condition. So it was only a matter of time really. 

“Of course.”

Susan exhaled deeply, and looked down. 

Written on the notecards were not the names of oil barons to kill. Not golf courses to destroy. Not death, not destruction. Written on the card was simply the words “rain for everyone”

The television static grew purple.

Rain for everyone. 

It was insulting.

“...Susan?”

Her eyes met Rivers. She was grinning ear to ear. 

Rain for everyone.

Susan’s whole body shook as she began to deliver her forecast, “A cloud… will appear.”

The room melted away, only Rivers remained. 

“Right over my house. A cloud will appear and it will rain. And it will never stop raining.”

Rivers smile twisted into a look of abject horror. 

“And my pansies will respond to the rain. They will be the brightest purple. They will be the envy of all you disgusting animals.” Susan hadn’t noticed but she was screaming every word.

The ground beneath the recording studio quaked from thunder. The contract had been broken, wrath was eminent. 

“I AM NOT EMPTY! I AM FULL OF PANSIES! I AM FULL OF RAIN.” 

Flowers began sprouting from Susan’s ears, nose and eyes. Water poured from her mouth onto the floor. Choking on rain, Susan finished her forecast.

“And that…just about…wraps it up. Ba–ck…to you!”

A bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens, miraculously cutting through the walls of the recording studio, striking Susan. She fell from the stage. Shortly after, more bolts came and the recording studio violently burst into flames.

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. Eyewitnesses said that the weather was to blame but Ms. Rivers knew that it was anything but that. Homicide. Divine intervention.

Rivers stood alone in the parking lot, charred bow tie in one hand, and in the other, a flash drive that contained the cure for the goddess of earth. The only god. “Damn you.” Her fingers closed around the yellow cloth. The weather was about to get so much worse.

But for now, rain fell in sheets from the sky above Susan Kelvin's house, with no sign of stopping. Her pansy grew taller than cornstalks, stretching upwards, garishly purple. But Susan would never see them. Susan Kelvin was gone. 

Though, some say that on hot summer days when the sky is endless blue, at the back of your neighborhood Denny’s, you can feel her.

Crawling on your leg.  

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 4

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 4 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Alastor, Overlord and apparent connoisseur of fine meats and terrible jokes, became a regular sight around the shop.  You'd tried to maintain a more professional demeanor during the Radio Demon's return visits, making sure your customer service smile was pinned in place and impeccable manners on full display.  

It was obvious that Alastor was less than pleased by the shift in your attitude towards him.  

“Have I done something to offend you?” Alastor asked offhandedly as he perused the available selection of sinner meat on unremarkable Tuesday afternoon, the abundant stock of angel meat having long run dry.

“No!” You rush to assure him, nearly dropping your order pad in your nervousness. “No, of course not, Sir!”

“Oh, I'm so relieved to hear that!”  He said cheerily, his piercing red eyes locking onto yours, demanding your complete focus and attention.  “Then there must be some other explanation for the abrupt shift in your treatment towards me, hmm?”

“Well, that is, I-,” you stammered, trying to come up with an explanation that would satisfy his inquiry without revealing the mortifying truth.  Overlords were proud and egotistical to a fault and the fact that you hadn't recognized one of the most powerful people in Hell likely wouldn't be well received.  

“You were so much fun on my first visit,” he laments with a dramatic sigh, the sincerity of which was diminished by the ever present smile on his face.  “All the jokes and comradery- why, it was an absolute riot!  I hate to say it, gentlemanly as I am, but you've been quite boring by comparison these days.”

Terror prickled beneath your skin and you swallowed thickly, doing your best to hide your fear even though it was likely a futile endeavor.  Alastor's pupils had narrowed into thin slits that sliced across his irises; the attentive gaze of a predator that had honed in on its prey.  

Without a doubt, the only thing worse than being seen by an Overlord was being seen as disposable by an Overlord.   

“I see,” you manage to squeak out.  “I'll do my best to be more…accommodating in the future.”

“Splendid!” Alastor responded cheerfully, tapping his cane onto the ground.  “I'll take that promise and some bacon.”

“Right away, Sir,” you agree readily, prepping a section of butcher paper for his order.  “And just so you know, we got this particular meat from a very sick sinner at the hospital.  But don't worry, it's been cured.”

The Radio Demon's reaction was instantaneous, a loud bark of laughter followed by the sound of canned applause filtering the air.

“Bravo!  Bravo!” He crowed in delight. “Funny and a basic sense of self-preservation!  I dare say that you and I are going to get along famously.”

Much to your surprise, you did get along well with Alastor; in so much as a guppy could be congenial with a shark.  

You shared a similar sense of humor and had a hunch that Alastor would swing by more frequently when he felt as though his witty repartee wasn't being well-received by the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, finding you to be a more receptive audience.  

“It's positively depressing what passes for entertainment at the Hotel,” Alastor grouched, his eyes narrowed in disdain.  “Every free moment is frittered away in front of that infernal boob tube.”

“Where do they get off, relaxing in their free time?” You tutted in faux disapproval as you waited for the Radio Demon to make his deli selection.  “They must have tripped and dropped their Protestant work ethic on the way through Hell's gate.”

“I'm not objecting to them having a bit of leisure time, goodness knows I enjoy occasional bouts of indolence myself,” Alastor admitted, emphasizing his point by leaning on his microphone as though overtaken by a wind of sudden exhaustion.  “No, no- I simply disapprove of the manner in which they choose to spend it.”

“And what would you have them do instead?”

“Why, anything at all!  The red sky's the limit!” The Radio Demon announced, twirling a pointed finger up towards Heaven.  “Stamp collecting, embroidery, amputations, voodoo, bird watching-”

“All the traditional pastimes,” you nod indulgently, watching Alastor's ever present grin deepen at your remark.  This is what kept him coming back for more, you thought.  Your dedication to a bit and, most importantly, willingness to indulge his antics.  

“What about you?” Alastor asked, the weight of his focus settling onto your shoulders in a way that was still oppressive, but had become less overwhelming as time passed.  “You aren't a complete dullard, surely you must spend your free time on more enriching activities than watching television.”

It amused you how he spat the last word like a curse, and you would have laughed had you not been caught completely off guard by Alastor's question.  

Never, in the many weeks of your acquaintance, had Alastor shown any interest in you as a person.  You were a prop, a bit player holding up the scenery in the grand production of Alastor's life.  His shtick was furthered by the addition of a straight man so that's what you were, adhering to your assigned role without complaint.

The Zeppo to his Groucho.

“Oh, uh, yeah-,” you stammer, reaching for the thin pewter chain around your neck.  With bumbling fingers you pull out the necklace tucked into the top of your baggy dress, holding the ivory colored pendant out for Alastor to examine.  “I carve.  Bone, mostly since that's- it's what I have around.”

Time seemed to slow to an absolute crawl as Alasor slowly and intently raised a hand towards your neck, well aware of how intimidating the motion was and reveling in your obvious discomfort.  Heart rabbiting inside your chest, you held yourself as still as possible as the tip of his index finger, ink black and wickedly sharp, grazed the underside of your jaw ever so lightly as he draped the pendant across his palm for inspection.  

“Flowers?” Alastor hummed, the sound low in his throat and practically vibrating in the air between you.  “A delicate choice for a woman who spends her day hacking up corpses.”

“They're all my favorites from when I was alive,” you explain, unsure why you felt the desperate need to do so.  “They don't grow here in Hell and I- I didn't want to forget what they looked like.”

“Is that something that worries you?  Forgetting?" Alastor hummed thoughtfully, the sound harmoniously mingling with his static.  

“Just the good things,” you mutter, heart crashing down to your stomach when Alastor finally releases your necklace; pendant swinging into your clavicle with a dull thud.  “I can't seem to forget the bad stuff no matter how hard I try.”

“That is the way of things,” Alastor laughed, staticy and piercing. “Especially down here!”

Later that night, as you laid curled up on your lumpy mattress, you couldn't stop the goosebumps that rose across your body as you remembered the haunting feeling of Alastor's claw prickling your skin.  

You wondered if the feeling of him would fade with the good things, or linger with the bad.  It worried you that you couldn't tell. 

[defira85]

WIP Whenever

I've actually made quite a lot of progress on the next chapter compared to how long it took me to do the last few, because this was a chapter I've been looking forward to writing for a while now because of a scene between Carmela and Gale I have planned. Which is not the section I'm teasing here today, go me

(I enjoy Carmela's rigidity as a paladin and I know that makes her unpopular in my fics (I've seen the comments, I know people don't like her) but she's still my girl and I love her)

Anyway. Not that we're seeing her in this snippet. The very lovely @elinorbard tagged me earlier in the week and we're getting Gale and Rhyme today since I'm unhappy with the progress I've made on my Gortoween fic

Gale could not say that he had ever been a particularly athletic man in his former years, and as he gritted his teeth and forced himself to put one foot in front of the other as they plodded wearily back up to the mountain peak, leaving the ruined monastery and githyanki creche behind them, he found that he was quite frustrated with his younger self for having squandered the opportunities of youth—and, more importantly, the exquisite luxury of functional knees. What he wouldn't give, to be able to transport himself backwards through time and confront the bold and brash younger Gale of Waterdeep, to take him firmly by the shoulders and shake him, and lament to him sternly the dire importance of regular stretching and muscle building exercises. Being so well-acquainted with his younger self, he knew intrinsically that young Gale of Waterdeep would not have listened to a word he'd said, and would have dismissed such hard-earned wisdom flippantly. Gale of Waterdeep was a prodigy, an archmage without peer, a man striving towards divinity with both eyes fixed on his prize—what need did such a man have for squats? Trudging through a mountain pass, days from civilisation, without even the luxury of good arch support in his boots? Unthinkable! A younger Gale Dekarios would have considered such a future to be an unconscionable failure of the highest degree. And as the current Gale Dekarios huffed under his breath to try and make it look like he was not so terribly winded as he actually was, and that his thighs weren't burning like the fires of Avernus were set directly under them, he had to admit that he didn't entirely disagree with his younger self.

Tagging @zeph0r Nat I will get you to admit that your writing is magnificent and necessary one day @sleepytimegrrl @angelicfangirl I'll go into the document myself and steal your WIP if I have to @flamemittens I'm cheering for you @robinyourcreator