#none of you STILL care about anything turkey does. ever.

[storm-of-feathers]

There aren't only three genocides happening. By the way. There's been at least ten ongoing. None of you cared about them until you could hate jews about it, though.

[izaack-gauss]

𝐀 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐧

< TW: ED >

Made by my friend @eightisviii, this was an art trade and I just really wanted to share this. I love this story so much. :)

𝐋. A Father's Concern

Izaack dreaded the day would come when he would meet his dad again. Ever since that fateful day when he signed a contract to Nuke News and got into the screens at last, it hasn't been great. Izaack felt like everyone's eyes were on him; and they were, both literally and figuratively.

Chub wasn't something the entertainment industry wanted and even a little love handle felt like it would lose him his image. So instead, he settled for eating less.

Days turned into weeks and into months until Thanksgiving. Alas, Izaack did promise he would visit his dad during holidays, plus the D.D.D. had recorded this as one of his routine. If he didn't go out there, his dad will surely go inside his apartment himself in full hazmat suit and all and drag him out.

He stood in front of the standing mirror, put on a casual blue tee shirt with a white collar and fitted himself into black skinny pants. Once done, he pulled his collar and jutted it out, flashing a toothy smile at himself. But he knew it wasn't enough.

He sighed and hoped his dad wouldn't notice if he only took a bite or two of a turkey leg for this one, maybe none at all. Argo would like meat more than me anyways, he thought and grabbed his keys before heading out.

His destination: Isaac's house.

-—-—-—-

"Son, you haven't touched the turkey at all." Isaac said, looking sternly at his son.

"Ah, this? It's only polite I wait for you to eat as well, dad." Izaack said, but even as Isaac began to chew on his drumstick, Izaack only stared at his drumstick and played around with his fork.

Isaac's brows furrowed despite his calm demeanor and he swallowed his food before he sighed. He wiped the sauce that got in the corner of his mouth and firmly placed his hands on both sides of his plate.

"Son."

Izaack was snapped out of his reverie and he looked up to see Isaac crossing his arms and looking down at him, his lips pursed into a thin line. He sighed; hoping his dad wouldn't notice was wishful thinking after all.

"Son, what's going on with you?" Isaac asked, concerned. "You loved turkey and you wouldn't pass your old man's cooking, would you?"

"Never in a million years, dad!" Izaack said, but then, his eyes drifted back towards the turkey leg on his plate and his mind reeled, reluctant.

"Actions say more than words, Izaack," Isaac shook his head. "Just what is going on with you? You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"I know, it's just... It's a reporter's thing," Izaack mumbled.

"I didn't get that."

Izaack flinched, "Dad, you know I love my job..."

"And what does it have to do with a thanksgiving turkey?"

"A lot! The media is watching all the time, they're recording, they're laughing. Pointing and laughing. They'll call me fat, I'll lose my job, I'll—"

"Whoa there, son," Isaac's eyes widened and he reached for his son's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You won't get fat over a drumstick, besides, you're a great reporter. They're the ones who have more to lose than you."

Izaack breathed in and out, trying to calm himself down. "I-I guess you're right, dad... I just.." He sighed and averted his eyes. "I still can't..."

"I'll let you come to your own terms," Isaac smiled at him and patted his hand before pulling away. "Still, it worries me. As your dad, you know I care about you."

"I know, dad."

"And even if you get fired for such a silly reason, I'm always here. Me and that lanky businessman you sure love to bring home."

Izaack groaned at his dad waggling his brows. "Dad!" His face heated up, unable to believe him.

"I'm surprised you didn't bring him to Thanksgiving. Kinda douchy, don't ya' think?"

Izaack rolled his eyes. "We're meeting up later for the later festivities. And what about Joel, hmm?"

"Joel?! He's..." Isaac coughed out a choking sound. "Just a co-worker, nothing more."

"Sure..." Izaack smiled.

Isaac smiled back. "Well, if you aren't going to eat that, might as well give it to Argo. Poor boy's been on a dog food diet for days."

"Oh yes, feeding a dog food that is for a dog. What a nightmare." Izaack joked and laughed heartily. "...I love ya', dad."

Isaac chuckled, "Love ya' too, Iza."

[sarnai4]

Amusement Parks

I am a major fan of amusement parks (Cedar Point specifically) and started wondering what it would be like if the RTTE crew went on a group trip there. So, here's a set of headcanons for how this would do.

Gotta talk about the rollercoasters. Fishlegs is probably not getting on most of them, but I bet Dagur convinces him to try out one loop coaster and the blond is surprised by how much fun it is (it'll be like their time hanging out with their Gronckles). Hiccup is on them, but he's also looking at the engineering aspect and considering how he could build a better one. Snotlout is screaming his lungs out, but he's loving every second of it too. At some point, either the twins and/or Dagur are teasing him about probably not being tall enough to get on some of the rides. (If they're ever right, he will never near the end of it) Mala is too proper to scream on rollercoasters, so she's just smiling. Dagur's laughing the whole time. Ruff and Tuff keep trying to make the other one scream by also fighting on the rides. Astrid loves the adrenaline and Throk would let out a cheer, but he's not sure if that's proper or not. After a few times, he might. Heather and Minden ride coasters like normal people. Lastly, Stoick and Gobber just plain aren't fitting. Sorry guys.

For the carnival games, There's a competition going on. You have Dagur, Astrid, Snotlout, and Throk trying to see who can get the most toys for their S.O.'s (even though Ruffnut is definitely still not Throk's girlfriend). Hiccup really doesn't care about getting a toy, but he knows there's no point in trying to have Astrid not be competitive. Minden also doesn't want a toy, but she likes seeing how excited Snotlout is to get her some. Ruffnut and Mala are sorta competing too and betting on who's going to win because 1. the twin still wants toys and 2. Mala can't let her trash talking go without any of it being dished back out to her. She's just classy with how she does it. Gobber's playing too because he wants to show the youngins how the pros do it. The last time Stoick played, he broke the whack-a-mole and had to pay for repairs, so he's picking who to root for.

Fishlegs is mostly enjoying all the foods and has had 3rd breakfast, 5th lunch, and nth dinner by the time the park closes for the night. The twins normally join him to get filled up on garlic parmesan fries...then feel really sick on the rides. I can see Stoick enjoying the turkey legs in particular.

Cedar Point also has an arcade area because it doesn't know how to be anything other than amazing. Fishlegs is probably here more than with the rides. The others trickle in after they've ridden a lot of the coasters. The twins are on air hockey and intentionally aiming the puck at each other's fingers. This is also why none of the others will play against them. Everyone takes turns on the games, but the competitive side has to return, so this is also a competition. Snotlout actively spends his time sabotaging Dagur on all of the games (he will even block the basketball on those hoop games). In his defense, this is payback. You'll see why in a few moments.

For the other rides, Fishlegs and Heather are on the Ferris wheel. Snotlout and Minden are too, but Dagur has found these little bean bags to test out his aim by seeing if he can still bop Snotlout with them. The mood is very killed with Minden, but she also thinks it's funny. And now you know why Snotlout is cheating later on. Astrid is convinced the non rollercoaster rides don't count, but Hiccup gets on some. The big guys still can't ride unfortunately.

When it comes to the shows, they're all enjoying them and the twins try to have the audience start the wave or some type of chant. (At least one of their attempts works). Heather especially likes the live music. She might even be one of the singers who's going to perform later. For the characters that employees are dressed up as, the twins are amazed. This might lead to Throk seeing if they have a position open for him since it would make Ruffnut happy. Hopefully it won't happen because Dagur keeps trying to have the poor individuals break character by tormenting them. Mala and Hiccup get him to stop eventually, but he's still making faces at the workers behind their backs.

Last but not least, the waterpark. The thrill seekers of the group are on the slides and the twins are also having fun at the kiddie section with the dragon head. Admittedly, the reptile caught Hiccup's eye too. After enjoying the slides, Heather joins Fishlegs in the calmer water with the inner tubes. Stoick acts like he thinks the slides are silly, but Gobber gets him to try them since he seems to be having such a great time. If anyone looks at Mala or Minden for too long, they're getting hit or glared at, respectively, by their boys (Throk included for Mala. Only her hubby can make googly eyes at her).

After all this, I think they'd consider their vacation a very nice one

[eldritchsurveys]

1221.

When you were younger, did you have a swing set or a playhouse in your backyard? >> I did not.

Is your mall nice? >> This city has two malls. They're very generic, no more or less nicer than any other mall in this country, I guess. I've definitely been to more interesting ones. What are you listening to? >> Nothing.

Do you burn incense? >> Quite frequently, yeah. I need to replenish my stock soon.

Do you smoke weed? >> I do.

Do you go to the gym? >> I do not.

Do you like Kid Cudi? >> I don’t know anything about Kid Cudi.

What’s irritating you right now? >> A car just went by that was vibrating like it had its bass cranked up but I don't hear any music. Still, that vibration is intensely irritating.

Do you stay home when you are sick or do you still go out? >> I'm not usually sick, but if I am, then I'm staying home. My goal when sick is to be not-sick as soon as possible, and the quickest way to do that is by resting a lot. Also, if the sickness is the contagious kind, I ain't got no business going out anyway.

What’s your relationship with the person you last texted? .

Do you have any plans for the weekend? >> Apparently Sparrow's parents are doing something at their house. Can't imagine what. Hope there will be something edible there.

Are you in a good mood right now? >> Eh. Certainly a better mood than I was in earlier.

Do you like your hair? .

Do you ever wonder how other people see you? >> I wonder this all the time, because it's the one thing I'll never know for certain. It's impossible to see oneself from any other point of view but one's own and it galls me. Does anyone have feelings for you right now? .

When was the last time you were sunburned? >> I have never been sunburnt.

What is on your bed right now? >> Sheets, weighted blanket, fleece blanket, random towel, pillows, a few plushies, and me.

What were you doing 30 minutes ago? >> Looking at tumblr.

What is your favorite holiday? >> Tu Bishvat.

What was the last thing you had to drink? >> Water.

What are you wearing right now? >> Marvel Comics printed lounge pants, grey camisole.

What was the last thing you ate? >> A turkey and provolone sandwich with salt and pepper chips.

Have you bought any new clothing items this week? >> I have not. When was the last time you ran? >> I don’t remember. It was probably to catch a bus, whenever it was. Ever ridden on a roller coaster? >> Several times.

Any plans today? >> None. I need to rest and recharge if I want to do any tasks tomorrow.

Is anyone jealous of you? >> How would I know?

Do you eat healthy? >> At this point in our financial instability, getting any calories at all is the priority. I prefer eating a much more varied diet but that's simply not possible right now.

Have you ever been to Six Flags? >> I've been to Great Adventures, yeah.

Have you ever thrown someone a baby shower? >> I have not.

Who do you text the most? .

Do you wish you had a pool table? >> I have no use for this.

Next time you plan on drinking? >> I have no idea. Maybe they'll have a decent craft beer or wine at Sparrow's parents' place on Saturday, and I'll have something then. Ever been to Olive Garden? >> I have.

Is chest hair a turn-on? >> Not by itself. How long have you had the shirt you’re wearing? >> I got the pack of camisoles on Amazon maybe... a year ago?

How has the weather been lately? >> Humid. Very humid.

Is your shirt pink? >> It is not. I would like more pink shirts, actually. I only have one.

How many pairs of sunglasses do you own? >> Four. Do you own a shirt with dinosaurs on it? >> I do not, I don't care for dinosaurs.

When was the last time you drank alcohol? What was the occasion? >> Hmm... a couple of weeks ago. No occasion, I just decided on a whim to finally drink that one canned mead that had been sitting in the fridge for seven months.

[kamreadsandrecs]

Cormac McCarthy died earlier this month, and none of the tributes I’ve read have mentioned what I consider his most important contribution to the American literary canon: He wrote the best parenting book of all time, The Road.

Not only is it the best parenting book I’ve ever read, it’s the only parenting book I’ve read cover to cover. Sure, I’ve skimmed the big hits out of a sense of obligation, but nothing has come close to resonating with me to the extent, and for the unblinking duration, that The Road has.

For those unfamiliar, The Road is the story of an unnamed man and his unnamed son, who are walking through an ashen, ruined landscape in the wake of an unnamed catastrophe that happened years prior, when the boy was quite young. The conditions that surround them are unsafe, so they have to keep moving. They are heading toward “the coast,” but the man isn’t sure there’s anything waiting for them there. What he does seem to know is that the boy needs hope to survive, and a destination provides something to hope for. McCarthy’s prose is spare and devastating. (For those who would rather not read, there’s a very good film adaptation starring Viggo Mortensen in the role of the man.)

The Road will outlast every other parenting book in terms of relevance. It will achieve immortality, because its themes, like the Bible’s, will never become obsolete or irrelevant. It reads like a dark prophecy — but only for those of us reading it beneath our crisp Brooklinen sheets. It’s the present-day story of millions of migrant families moving across the land all over the world. Parents are on the Road with their kids as you read these words. The Road crosses the Darien Gap and through Mexico to the southern U.S. border into Texas, South Sudan, and the highways of Turkey and Syria.

I first read The Road not long after my own life-changing encounter with infrastructure collapse. I was living in New Orleans when the levees failed after Hurricane Katrina. The day before the storm hit, I joined the crowds in the parking lot of traffic on I-10, which had been put into “contraflow” mode — all lanes, east and west, heading out of town. Forced dispersal. Families were in crisis on the road shoulders, helpless in the relentless heat, dealing with car breakdowns, overheated kids, panicking pets, the need for a bathroom. In the following days, when my husband and I returned to New Orleans to report on the flooding, I’d watch someone pull out a handgun in a lineup for gas. I saw police accepting bribes and hospital patients wandering the streets still wearing their open-back robes.

I was 23 and had not given any thought to having kids yet, but after what we’d seen — which was nothing compared to what people back in the flood zone endured while trying to survive for weeks after the storm — my husband and I became fixated on being prepared to walk out of any place we ever lived. If we had kids, they’d need to be prepared to do it with them too. Forget cars, I thought. Forget systems. 

I know this sounds ridiculous. But talk to people who have come up against the limits of our civic infrastructure and social contracts, and you’ll hear all kinds of crazy opinions about what you should be prepared to do, most of which involve firearms. My reaction was to make an ironclad commitment to foot travel, and anyone who knows me and my kids can confirm that I’ve kept my commitment — for better or worse. My kids can walk farther, with no snacks or water, than any other kids I know. (Granted, the kids I know are among the world’s most blessed and, therefore, among the world’s loudest and most persistent whiners, so the bar we’re working with is very, very low.)

We forced our kids to adapt to our twisted worldview by having them endure many long hikes — never with enough snacks and rarely with enough water. My friends know this about me and almost certainly pack extra snacks when we go on hikes together to compensate. Thanks, guys, and I’m sorry.

Consequently, do my kids enjoy hiking? They do not. They associate it with hunger and thirst. But it gives me peace of mind, knowing that they could walk out of Montreal and just keep going. Their grumpy resilience reassures me. Feel free to call me crazy.

But if you’re from, say, California or the Gulf Coast or Honduras, I suspect you might not. New Yorkers had their own brush with a suddenly and briefly transformed world just a couple of weeks ago, when wildfire smoke turned the sky orange. Borders are fake and can be put up anywhere, at any time, by anyone with enough resources to create a stash. Any of us could one day find ourselves on the wrong side of the one we want to cross. At which point we’re not much different from the father and son in The Road.

So when I read the book, which was published only about a year after Katrina, I felt vindicated by McCarthy’s vision of walking through a ruined landscape — empty but full of danger. See? I thought. This guy gets it. What I love about The Road is that it eschews the typical narrative terrain about heroic American ingenuity in the face of adversity and, instead, focuses almost exclusively on the emotional work of being loving and brave while fearing for your life.

When all of the accouterments are stripped away, what does it mean to care for a child? That’s what I think McCarthy was writing about more than any kind of apocalypse. And in a way, my obsession with walking long distances missed the point of the book. My lizard brain reverted to a prepper mentality, a “How will we beat this thing?” game, which is ultimately just a project of the ego. It’s actually fun, in a sick and self-indulgent way, to imagine myself walking out of harm’s way with my kids gamely trudging behind me. But what if I were caring for a disabled child or had a disability of my own? The “fun” of the scenario falls apart pretty quickly, and all that’s left is the parent’s real job: keeping a smaller person alive — ideally with the help of others.

McCarthy’s novels tell macho stories about broken men, but The Road is different. Its humanity is in its resistance to that prepper mentality that gamifies crisis and fetishizes individual choices, and it focuses instead on the emotional work of survival. As porn is for incels, so are prepper stories thrilling for people who have never had to care for anyone. The main work of survival isn’t stockpiling guns and MREs. It’s maintaining an emotional baseline of determined love.

I’m sure all of today’s best parenting practices, like Dr. Becky’s scripts or Emily Oster’s useful bits of data about how much you’re allowed to drink while breastfeeding and how to choose a car seat, will serve us all in good stead for years to come. Even when the skies turn orange, we still need to set healthy limits with our kids

and practice self-care. But there is an altogether different kind of caregiving that a growing number of people in vulnerable parts of the world learn, and we haven’t started writing books about it yet — unless you count The Road.

It’s Father’s Day as I write this. My kids have made breakfast for their dad, and they’re all eating it in the kitchen. (I’m invited to join them, but I want to finish this draft first.) I’m thinking about a scene in the book where the man finds a can of tinned pears and gives it to his son, momentarily transported by the joy of sharing something sweet. I still nurture my long-walk vision, but I know it’s stupid. There are really only two things that a parent, under circumstances of extreme duress, can possibly be thinking about: being loving and being brave.

[kammartinez]

Cormac McCarthy died earlier this month, and none of the tributes I’ve read have mentioned what I consider his most important contribution to the American literary canon: He wrote the best parenting book of all time, The Road.

Not only is it the best parenting book I’ve ever read, it’s the only parenting book I’ve read cover to cover. Sure, I’ve skimmed the big hits out of a sense of obligation, but nothing has come close to resonating with me to the extent, and for the unblinking duration, that The Road has.

For those unfamiliar, The Road is the story of an unnamed man and his unnamed son, who are walking through an ashen, ruined landscape in the wake of an unnamed catastrophe that happened years prior, when the boy was quite young. The conditions that surround them are unsafe, so they have to keep moving. They are heading toward “the coast,” but the man isn’t sure there’s anything waiting for them there. What he does seem to know is that the boy needs hope to survive, and a destination provides something to hope for. McCarthy’s prose is spare and devastating. (For those who would rather not read, there’s a very good film adaptation starring Viggo Mortensen in the role of the man.)

The Road will outlast every other parenting book in terms of relevance. It will achieve immortality, because its themes, like the Bible’s, will never become obsolete or irrelevant. It reads like a dark prophecy — but only for those of us reading it beneath our crisp Brooklinen sheets. It’s the present-day story of millions of migrant families moving across the land all over the world. Parents are on the Road with their kids as you read these words. The Road crosses the Darien Gap and through Mexico to the southern U.S. border into Texas, South Sudan, and the highways of Turkey and Syria.

I first read The Road not long after my own life-changing encounter with infrastructure collapse. I was living in New Orleans when the levees failed after Hurricane Katrina. The day before the storm hit, I joined the crowds in the parking lot of traffic on I-10, which had been put into “contraflow” mode — all lanes, east and west, heading out of town. Forced dispersal. Families were in crisis on the road shoulders, helpless in the relentless heat, dealing with car breakdowns, overheated kids, panicking pets, the need for a bathroom. In the following days, when my husband and I returned to New Orleans to report on the flooding, I’d watch someone pull out a handgun in a lineup for gas. I saw police accepting bribes and hospital patients wandering the streets still wearing their open-back robes.

I was 23 and had not given any thought to having kids yet, but after what we’d seen — which was nothing compared to what people back in the flood zone endured while trying to survive for weeks after the storm — my husband and I became fixated on being prepared to walk out of any place we ever lived. If we had kids, they’d need to be prepared to do it with them too. Forget cars, I thought. Forget systems. 

I know this sounds ridiculous. But talk to people who have come up against the limits of our civic infrastructure and social contracts, and you’ll hear all kinds of crazy opinions about what you should be prepared to do, most of which involve firearms. My reaction was to make an ironclad commitment to foot travel, and anyone who knows me and my kids can confirm that I’ve kept my commitment — for better or worse. My kids can walk farther, with no snacks or water, than any other kids I know. (Granted, the kids I know are among the world’s most blessed and, therefore, among the world’s loudest and most persistent whiners, so the bar we’re working with is very, very low.)

We forced our kids to adapt to our twisted worldview by having them endure many long hikes — never with enough snacks and rarely with enough water. My friends know this about me and almost certainly pack extra snacks when we go on hikes together to compensate. Thanks, guys, and I’m sorry.

Consequently, do my kids enjoy hiking? They do not. They associate it with hunger and thirst. But it gives me peace of mind, knowing that they could walk out of Montreal and just keep going. Their grumpy resilience reassures me. Feel free to call me crazy.

But if you’re from, say, California or the Gulf Coast or Honduras, I suspect you might not. New Yorkers had their own brush with a suddenly and briefly transformed world just a couple of weeks ago, when wildfire smoke turned the sky orange. Borders are fake and can be put up anywhere, at any time, by anyone with enough resources to create a stash. Any of us could one day find ourselves on the wrong side of the one we want to cross. At which point we’re not much different from the father and son in The Road.

So when I read the book, which was published only about a year after Katrina, I felt vindicated by McCarthy’s vision of walking through a ruined landscape — empty but full of danger. See? I thought. This guy gets it. What I love about The Road is that it eschews the typical narrative terrain about heroic American ingenuity in the face of adversity and, instead, focuses almost exclusively on the emotional work of being loving and brave while fearing for your life.

When all of the accouterments are stripped away, what does it mean to care for a child? That’s what I think McCarthy was writing about more than any kind of apocalypse. And in a way, my obsession with walking long distances missed the point of the book. My lizard brain reverted to a prepper mentality, a “How will we beat this thing?” game, which is ultimately just a project of the ego. It’s actually fun, in a sick and self-indulgent way, to imagine myself walking out of harm’s way with my kids gamely trudging behind me. But what if I were caring for a disabled child or had a disability of my own? The “fun” of the scenario falls apart pretty quickly, and all that’s left is the parent’s real job: keeping a smaller person alive — ideally with the help of others.

McCarthy’s novels tell macho stories about broken men, but The Road is different. Its humanity is in its resistance to that prepper mentality that gamifies crisis and fetishizes individual choices, and it focuses instead on the emotional work of survival. As porn is for incels, so are prepper stories thrilling for people who have never had to care for anyone. The main work of survival isn’t stockpiling guns and MREs. It’s maintaining an emotional baseline of determined love.

I’m sure all of today’s best parenting practices, like Dr. Becky’s scripts or Emily Oster’s useful bits of data about how much you’re allowed to drink while breastfeeding and how to choose a car seat, will serve us all in good stead for years to come. Even when the skies turn orange, we still need to set healthy limits with our kids

and practice self-care. But there is an altogether different kind of caregiving that a growing number of people in vulnerable parts of the world learn, and we haven’t started writing books about it yet — unless you count The Road.

It’s Father’s Day as I write this. My kids have made breakfast for their dad, and they’re all eating it in the kitchen. (I’m invited to join them, but I want to finish this draft first.) I’m thinking about a scene in the book where the man finds a can of tinned pears and gives it to his son, momentarily transported by the joy of sharing something sweet. I still nurture my long-walk vision, but I know it’s stupid. There are really only two things that a parent, under circumstances of extreme duress, can possibly be thinking about: being loving and being brave.

[demonicheadcanons]

Obey Me Brothers + Little Affections

AN: Keep thinking about the little things each brother would do to express affection. Some warm fluffy stuff because we all need it. Enjoy!!

The hair drying one on Lucifer’s sparked this entire thing thanks

Lucifer

- Washing and drying your hair. You know if you get your hair washed at a hairdressers and they just. Go to town with a towel drying your hair? He finds it hilarious and loves doing that. You’ll hear him chuckle, unable to see him because your face is covered by the towel. He’s softer towards the end but initially when trying to get most of the excess water his only concern is not actually hurting you. He’s also genuinely trying to help, just having a little fun with it at the same time.

- Continuing on from this, Lucifer will ruffle your hair. If it doesn’t really upset you, he loves to make a mess of it, and he grins at you, your hair sticking out every which way.

- The second his brothers aren’t around, he seems to canonically love holding your hand under the guise of keeping track of you or comforting you. Its partially true - the MC gets into trouble easily, so its good to keep a hand on them. However, the comforting affect goes both ways.

- Sharing information with you implies a close bond (or at the very least, a strong curiosity, like when he hints at where Mammon’s card is / when he talks about the album) and it means Luci cares about you a lot. He likes to talk about his interests and introduce you to things he cares a lot about. A lot of the time this comes in the form of music, because it’s something he’s able to enjoy whilst still doing his work.

- Doing origami or other paper crafts together? Really relaxes him. It’s so peacefully intimate and cosy. You sit together at his desk, work documents hidden out of sight for now, and make whatever you can out of colourful little bits of paper. He likes making flowers, although he’d never say it out loud, but he makes you countless crowns with paper flowers of all different kinds. You walk in one day when he’s taking a break from work and he’s got paper cranes lining the entire length of his desk. He calls you over and puts one on your head for absolutely no reason before acting like it never happened.

- If no one else is around and he’s feeling a bit daft, he’ll sweep you up into his arms with no warning and just hold you like that, staring directly into your eyes with a daring and loving smile on his face. This happens most when it’s late at night and all the coffee he’s had is starting to wear off and he feels a little more relaxed and open. He’ll carry you to his room to cuddle, too, if you don’t have anywhere else you need to be. Just pray none of his brothers encounter you two because he’ll set you down on your feet immediately and he won’t help you up if you fall.

[[Other Brothers under the read more]]

Mammon

- Fist bumps!!! He passes you and holds his fist out, and pouts if you don’t immediately bump your hand into his. Do the snail or turkey thing once and he falls in love with it. Lucifer, tired and stressed after a lot of work, decides for once to go along with giving him a fist bump because he’s too tired and no one else is around, and Mammon does the snail thing. The look on Luci’s face is worth everything that happened after. But when its you, Mammon just smiles and beams at you. He’s really happy.

- Sitting so close together that you can’t possibly move without disturbing the other. Sides fully pressed together even if he doesn’t have an arm around you or your hand in his. He likes the constant contact, it’s healing. So heavily invested in whatever you’re watching that the two of you simply don’t realise how close you are until the episode ends and you realise you’re leaning your full weight against him and his face is red but he’s smiling so softly you can’t bring yourself to move.

- You’ll have to start the habit, but, tackle hugs. You see him in the distance somewhere and sprint over and tackle him full force. He’ll act mad at first, especially if he trips and falls over or he’d been talking with someone else, but he holds onto you tightly and his face is beautifully flushed. After a while he’ll do it too, although he’s a lot gentler, but if you hear him call your name you need to turn around quickly and hold your arms out. He’ll lift you up into the air and twirl you around once or twice before just, going on with his day as normal. You hear his laughter as he walks away, bright and bubbly and confident, exactly as he should be.

- The absence of insults is important for Mammon. He’ll tolerate it if it’s every now and then but he’ll really notice if you’re always kind to him, he pays attention and holds tightly on to every compliment you give him. When he feels low he finds you and holds you in his arms, fingers playing with the loops in your jeans, as he recites off every nice thing you’ve said to him, hoping you’ll reaffirm them. Did you mean it when you said he was one of the most caring people you’d ever met? When you said his eyes made you feel at home?

- He likes feeding the crows with you. It’s something he does without telling anyone, but one day he takes you out along with him and the crows take a liking to you instantly. He likes how you look with his crows standing proud and confident on your arm, your hair a mess from their flapping wings as you laugh and try to get the last bits of food out from the bag.

- If you style his hair and put random accessories in it - anything from silly plastic hair clips to flowers to feathers - he’ll keep them in all day. He doesn’t care who sees because his MC spent their time doing this for him, and he’s happy to tell anyone who dares criticise him.

Leviathan

- He’s awkward with any affection at first, but he actually builds up to quick tight hugs when he’s really happy. If he’s incredibly excited - just won tickets for something, or some idol liked his comments - expect to be tackled in a hug. He gets flustered after, but if you hold tightly onto him he won’t let go immediately.

- If they even vaguely relate to his own interests, Levi will try hard to be invested in anything you really enjoy. For example, he’ll watch your favourite shows with you or try and read things you enjoy, etc.

- At the same time, Levi will share his interests with you. It’s not something he can really avoid doing as it’s ingrained in him to ramble about his special interests, but it will come in seemingly smaller forms - for example, he’ll hand you his headphones one day, blushing, and ask what you think of this song, or he’ll show you a paragraph in a TSL book that has particularly good rhythm or evokes a lot of emotion. If he lends you his books or DVDs it’s practically a proposal.

- You two have full conversations with Henry as he swims about in his tank. About silly and pointless things or very serious topics, from jokingly scolding him to venting about the future and about school and such. It warms Levi’s heart.

- Horn pats. When he’s in his demon form, pull him down to your level and pat his horns. He’s so flustered he can’t move the first few times, but one day he’ll start coming up to you and asking you if you want to do it. He likes being able to be in his demon form, and likes that you’re comfortable with him even when he doesn’t look as human.

- When he’s very comfortable with you, he likes to wrap you up in surprise hugs and laughs if you try to squirm your way out of his grip, a brilliant mischievous glow in his eyes, any self-consciousness long forgotten.

Satan

- I’ve said this before on another post but Satan likes to pet your hair and run his thumbs over your palms, pressing into them gently like he’s touching the pads on the paws of a cat. He traces circles and presses kisses into your palm and over each finger tip and knuckle, like it’s his own form of worship.

- It takes a long time to build up the confidence to do so but I can see him like. Playfully nipping at your skin if he presses light kisses against your shoulders or neck. If it makes you laugh or blush he smiles against your skin.

- If you fall asleep somewhere he’s the first person to go get a blanket to throw over you - he’d rather just let you sleep if you’re somewhere safe instead of disturbing you to lift you elsewhere, and risking waking you up. Occasionally he’ll kneel down beside you and stay there with a book until you wake up, and he’s fallen asleep like that once or twice.

- Just. Talking. Laying down together and going from topic to topic, saying whatever crosses your minds with no filters and no judgement. Letting time pass by with the comfort of the other, laying on your back in the planetarium or library or in his room, wherever there aren’t books piled up. No responsibilities except to listen to the other, and every now and then you laugh and he feels like maybe this could be home.

Asmodeus

- Sharing things, whatever it is. Food, clothes, jewellery. Taking a necklace off and putting it on him because “this would go so well with your outfit,” or holding out your fork and telling him to try some of your food, it tastes heavenly. Perfume, as well, is a must - he wants the two of you to smell the same.

- Like Mammon, he likes to have some kind of contact with you at all time - holding hands, an arm across your shoulders, anything. But the main point of contact he truly adores is if he has his hands on the skin of your stomach or back, even in the most innocent way possible. If his arms are around you and you’re comfortable with it, he’ll tuck his hands under your shirt and trace shapes against your hips, stomach, back, lower ribcage. Wherever he can. It’s something he’ll do absentmindedly without everything thinking about it, and it recharges him when he’s low on energy.

- He actually really likes working alongside you, whether it’s school work or something related to a part time job, or a potential business idea. He’s smarter than anyone would give him credit for and he loves how you look when you’re deep in thought, trying to solve something, and how your eyes light up as you figure it all out. He’s not one to just give you the answer to things, so if he knows something and you don’t he likes to hint at it like it’s a game. When you guess the answer right he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose and beams at you.

- Late night phone calls where you talk about whatever’s keeping you awake. He doesn’t mind who’s calling who, he wants to ramble or listen to you at any given moment and he’ll give up his sleep if it means you can get something that’s bothering you off your chest. Similarly, there is no greater comfort for him than getting to complain to you about something or other, something that’s genuinely bothering him and that’s stuck in his head. He feels like it only disappears when you take a hold of it for him for a little bit.

Beelzebub

- Sharing food, obviously, means a lot to him. Feed him bites of your food, give him anything you don’t want, and he’ll love it. He especially loves if you share food that’s important to you in some way, and you’ll find him giving you little bites of his food too the closer you two get. It means a lot to him when people embrace the fact that he eats so much, instead of scolding him for it or making jokes about it.

- He really likes holding hands. Your hands are so small in his and yet you trust him not to injure them as you pull him along. He feels possessive sometimes but isn’t outwardly affectionate enough to do anything about it, and the last thing he wants is to make you uncomfortable. It’s the perfect thing for him.

- Stacking random things on the other. Sitting cross-legged in a park, pulling daisies out of the lawn that’s about to be mowed anyway and gently placing them into each other’s hair, on the other’s shoulders and laps. If you’re laying in his bed he’ll take random light objects off his night stand and place them on top of you. There’s no purpose and no intention, and yet it makes him smile and gives him butterflies, and he laughs if you glare jokingly up at him but let him continue.

- Run your hands through his hair, down the sides of his face, under his jaw. Anywhere. He melts in an instant, mouth slightly open as you poke his cheeks or tickle his neck and shoulders with feather light touches.

Belphegor

- Nap. On. Him. Any time, any where. Snuggle up to him, lean your head against his shoulder or bury your face into his neck or lay down on his lap and just rest. He blushes every time and it takes him a second to recover. Sometimes he’ll angle himself so he can lean against you two and he’ll fall asleep as well.

- He likes those kind of monkey hugs where you wrap your entire body around him and he can bury his face in your neck and hold on as tight as he wants. He’ll walk around like that until you get to the attic and he can throw you into his pile of pillows and blankets, and he flops down on top of you and clings onto you again, trying to hide his face because he’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

- He loves playful, back and forth banter. He’ll tease you constantly, loves if you pout at him, loves it more if you retort with something and keep it running for a while before the two of you start laughing.

- Being childish. He’ll stick out his tongue at you or pull a sudden face and he expects you to do it back immediately. If you don’t he’ll poke and tickle you, telling you how disappointed and hurt he is.

- Headbumps! But not too hard. Gently bump your head against his shoulder to get his attention and he’ll pat it. Bonus points if you nuzzle into his hands then - he’s hard to fluster but you can hear him swallow as he starts to go red. You’ll immediately have all of his attention to yourself.

- Belphie is the king of silent conversations. The tiniest gestures, nods, tilts of the head. He can pick up on all of them, knows exactly what you’re trying to say without you saying it, to the point where sometimes you won’t even realise you’re not talking aloud.

[dumdumsun]

The Loveliest Lies of All

A/N: Welcome back ❤️

Warnings: none that I'm aware of

Word Count: 3599

—————————————

Chapter Two: Hard Times at the Huskin' Bee

The chirping of crickets, gobbling of turkeys and the honking of the soaring geese above indicated the morning creeping up on the trio (or quartet?). The sound that accompanied the early morning chat of the nearby animals was Greg blowing raspberries to feed his short attention span. Scout was mildly surprised that Wirt hadn’t yet snapped at him, but then again, the teen boy was skilled at blocking out his younger brother.

For the fourth time in the last hour, Scout’s leg had given out on her slightly, causing her to stumble a bit. What she would give to have a chair, a couch, a bed to rest her wounded leg for maybe half an hour. A full one, perhaps? Maybe even two?

“You know what? I think we’re gonna find a town soon,” She chirped. “I can feel it.”

“Well, we need to,” Wirt sighed, staring up at the sky that rained rays of sunshine upon them. “It’s almost morning. We should’ve found one by now. This is the way the Woodsman told us to go, right?”

“Yes, Wirt.”

Greg blew another raspberry before glancing up at his brother with big eyes. “Have you listened to anything I’ve been saying? For the last couple hours, I’ve been saying… Pbbt! Pbbt! Pbbt-”

“Well, that settles it,” He finally snapped. “I’m gonna walk up ten feet ahead of you.” He frowned and walked past the two. Scout sighed and shook her head at her friend in amusement. She failed to notice the boy stop his walking when he heard a voice call out to him.

“I hear something!”

Scout turned to Greg and started towards him. “Wirt, Greg heard something!”

“It’s probably nothing. Hey, look,” Wirt crouched down in front of a sign nailed to a nearby tree. “‘Pottsfield, one mile’. A town! Let’s go this way.”

“Okay. After this, though.” She turned away from him and joined Greg’s side. The boy had been digging into a bush and talking into it. Behind her, she heard Wirt’s footsteps before he was by her side.

“Greg, stop talking to a bush.”

“Okay.” The boy shrugged before reaching into the bush again. Seconds later, the same bluebird from the previous night flew out of the bush and flapped her wings above them.

Scout widened her eyes at the bird. “You!”

“Thanks! I owe you a favor. So, um, you guys are lost kids with no purpose in life, right?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Um-”

“How about I bring you to Adelaide of the Pasture, the Good Woman of the Woods? She could help you get home!”

As the two boys stared at the bird in awe, Scout narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. She didn’t trust this bird for one second. “Adelaide, huh? How’s she gonna help us?”

The bluebird scrunched what would’ve been her brows. “She has powers.”

“What kind of powers?”

“Powers that’ll get you home.”

“Why can’t she just show us the trail that leads us out of here? And why does no one else seem to know the way?”

Wirt exhaled and waved his hands about. “We don’t need magic talking birds leading us to fairy godmothers in the mysterious- I’m going to Pottsfield.”

“Yes. Pottsfield. C’mon, Greg.” Scout grabbed the boy’s hand and followed behind her friend.

“What about the favor?” The bird called.

Greg turned to her with a bright smile. “I’ll think of my wish later!”

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

Scout irritably sighed at the feeling of claws softly digging into her left shoulder. “Hey,” The bird softly started in her ear. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here. What’s your name?”

“Just call me Scout.”

“Wait, seriously? Scout?”

The girl snapped her head to look at the bird. “Wanna get off on the wrong foot again?”

“Whoo, someone is sassy,” She gently tapped her cheek with her wing. “Well, Scout, you seem like a very capable young lady. What if I say… we ditch these goons and you come with me to Adelaide?”

Scout rolled her eyes and batted the winged creature off of her shoulder. “Then I say no. Never.”

Rolling her eyes, the bluebird huffed and flew next to Greg, no doubt attempting to convince the poor boy to ditch his brother and walk off with some stranger. Scout knew that Greg was smarter than that, better than that, so she didn’t bother scolding the bird. Noticing her now flapping above his shoulder, the boy brightly smiled. “So, let’s small talk. My name’s Greg. What’s yours?”

“Beatrice.”

“My brother’s name is Wirt.”

“Who cares?”

Wirt frowned and glanced at them over his shoulder. Scout sighed and shook her head.

“And my frog’s name is Wirt Jr.” Greg gently rubbed his frog’s back. “But that may change.”

“Okay. That’s great,” Beatrice lowered her voice as to not alert the two teens in front of them. “How about you and I ditch your brother and his girlfriend?”

Greg hummed in uncertainty and looked away. “Maybe later.”

Scout nearly tripped over a large pumpkin nestled within the patch they walked through. Wirt didn’t notice this and kept his gaze forward. “So, Scout, you’ll do the talking when we get there. Right?”

Huffing, the girl placed her hands on her hips. “If I must, you big wuss.”

“I-I’m not a wuss! I just- Aha!” He cheered and raised his fists triumphantly, the four now standing just above a town. “Civilization, see? Now-”

Scout tried to warn him, but the teen had walked right into a pumpkin. She watched silently with narrowed eyes as he kicked and wiggled his leg out of the vegetable before flinging it to the side. Regaining his composure, he turned forward and set his fists on his hips. “Alright. Let’s rejoin society.”

The “society” the group had walked into lacked one element. A society. There were plenty of houses littering the land, yet not a soul in sight. Rounding a corner, they walked between two houses as Wirt called out for any residents. “Hello? Hello? Hm… See anybody?”

“No,” Greg scanned the area before his eyes landed on his brother. “Oh! I see you!”

Without gaining the others’ attention, Scout slipped away to check inside the houses. They seemed… cozy. Each house was the same; small, single-roomed, and nearly empty. “These townsfolk need to invest in… well, everything…” Scout whispered as she shut the door to the fourth house she inspected.

“Scout!” Wirt called from beside a haystack. “Find anything?”

“Poor interior design, but nothing to help us.” She sighed before joining her friend at his side. “Where’s Greg?”

As if on cue, the young boy poked his head out of the haystack. “Do you hear that?”

From a barn within the distance, cheerful singing could be heard. Scout gasped and helped Greg out of the hay, frowning at the small pumpkin he must have stepped in a while ago, still on his foot. Shaking off her confusion, she let the boy keep his new shoe and followed Wirt into the barn. Peeking in, the group set their sights on something otherworldly.

The townsfolk- is that what they were?- were pumpkins. Well, their bodies were made of pumpkins, string, and actual clothing like hats. Each person had a distinct face drawn onto their pumpkin face, which sent a chill down Scout’s spine. Within the barn, the folk participated in all kinds of activities. Dancing around a tall string object, bobbing for apples, peeling apples, unhusking corn. The likes. They seemed lively, carefree.

“Oh, pardon me there.” A figure spoke as they shoved themselves between a frozen Scout and Wirt. Turning, one of the pumpkin townsfolk faced the group. “Say, you folks ought to don your vegetables and celebrate the harvest with us.”

“Uh… Oh! You’re wearing costumes!” Wirt realized.

“Well, sure. Pumpkins can’t move on their own. Can they?” He shrugged before walking away. Scout gripped Greg’s hand as she watched the pumpkin man go.

“Huh… Well, good thing you’re still wearing that pumpkin shoe, huh Greg?”

Said boy grinned up at Scout. “Yeah! I’m dressed for the occasion!”

Beatrice blinked. “You guys find this place as creepy as I do, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Wirt shrugged as if to reassure himself. “So, it’s some kind of weird cult where they wear vegetable costumes and… dance around a big thing. They seem nice enough.”

Feeling the hollow eyes of one of the townsfolk on her, Scout absentmindedly shuffled closer to Wirt. “There’s something off…”

“Well, maybe I can find someone here who will give us a ride home,” Wirt patted her shoulder comfortingly. “Scout, watch Greg. Greg, listen to Scout. Beatrice, thank you, but you can leave.” He waved the bird off.

Beatrice sighed. “I can’t leave. I’m honor-bound to help you since you helped me. That’s the- bluebird rules.”

Scout raised a brow as Wirt hummed and walked away. Greg’s eyes trailed up to his tea kettle hat that Beatrice sat upon. “Beatrice, did you know that Scout is the best dance partner ever known to man?”

“Awe, shucks, Greg…” Scout chuckled and let the boy lead her onto the dance floor.

“I’m not dancing with you.” Beatrice snipped, but Scout only grinned.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s too late,” She giggled as she and Greg twirled to the music. “We’ve already started.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes and watched as Greg and Scout joined hands with the frog before dancing in a small circle. The bird noted that there was no way she was going to separate the girl from the young boy. She clearly cared about him, if she was willing to dance around like a fool in the middle of a festival hosted by pumpkin people. And not giving any lip about it, at that. Instead, she threw her head back and laughed joyfully with Greg just before a voice broke out and silenced the entire room.

“Leave Pottsfield?! Who wants to leave Pottsfield?!”

The second the townsfolk began crowding around them, Scout pulled Greg into her side, whipping her head in every direction. Greg, oblivious to the danger, smiled casually. “Oh, are we leaving already?”

“Let’s leave immediately!” Beatrice yelled just before the barn went dark. Someone had shut the doors, trapped them in.

“I’m just trying to get home.” Scout heard Wirt’s shaking voice just before he bumped into her side.

The townsfolk backed the group into a wall of more pumpkin heads and bodies as they whispered out,

“They’re not supposed to be here.”

“Maybe he’s here to steal our crops.”

“To ruin our party.”

“Or take off our pumpkin shoes!” Greg chirped, gesturing to his trapped foot.

Wirt widened his eyes and shook his head. “Uh, no. I, uh-”

A deep voice from above chuckled. “Now, hold on, everybody. Heh. Let’s not jump up to any conclusions.”

It appeared that the tall stringed object had not been an object at all. In fact, it was a body for the most menacing-looking pumpkin-folk in the entire barn. He had to crouch just to peek through the shadows, his face drawn to show a large grin of wide teeth, hollow eyes staring into the souls of the children before him.

Wirt and Scout instantly joined hands out of fear.

“Enoch,” The townsfolk who ratted them out called. “What shall we do with them?”

“Now, let’s see here, children,” Enoch detached two strings from the ceiling to act as his arms. “How’d you end up in this little town of ours?”

In a jumbled mess, Wirt and Scout spoke over each other,

“We needed to get home-”

“We were lost in the woods-”

“Then we saw your farms-”

“And your very interesting houses and thought that this was a normal place to ask for help.”

“And we all stepped on pumpkins!” Greg grinned before Scout shook her head.

“I-I didn’t! I didn’t step on any pumpkins!”

Wirt tightened his hold on her hand. “Yeah! Well… Yeah! A-And then we heard the music from the barn, and well… uh…”

“What if we just left?” Scout tried.

Enoch chuckled yet again, contradicting the very tense atmosphere within the barn. “Now, let me get this straight: you come to our town, you trample our crops, you interrupt our private engagement, and now you wanna leave?”

She blinked. “Well, when you put it like that, it makes us look bad…”

“You’ll never convict! You have no proof!” Greg shouted, almost tripping on the pumpkin his foot resided in.

The same elderly townsfolk walked over to the group, a struggling Beatrice in his hands. “This one’s trying to escape!”

“Let me go!” She cried out. “I don’t know these clowns!”

“Children,” Enoch started. “It saddens me that you don’t wish to stay here with us… particularly because I simply have to punish you for your transgressions.”

“I knew it,” Scout whispered in Wirt’s ear. “I knew they were messed up here.”

Enoch started out his next words in a sing-song tune. “So, by the order of the Pottsfield Chamber of Commerce, I find you guilty of trespassing, destruction of property, disturbing the peace… and murder.”

“Murder?!” The teens shrieked.

“Oh, no, not murder,” Enoch snorted. “But for those other crimes, I sentence you to…”

Scout held her breath.

“A few hours of manual labor.”

And then slowly let it out.

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

“Is that the last of it?” Scout asked after plunging her rake into the ground.

“Yup. That’s all the hay.” Wirt wiped a line of sweat from his forehead. “Guess that means we move onto… picking the pumpkins, right?”

“Girl!” A voice shouted out. The group turned to see a townsfolk walking up to them. “Not so fast, young lady. We need you for a special job.”

Scout and Wirt shared a look. “What… kind of special job?”

“We need a scarecrow. Need someone with nimble fingers. Gather this hay here and follow me.”

“Uh, yes, sir.” Scout quickly dumped the pile of hay into a wheelbarrow and pushed it behind the retreating pumpkin figure. She sent a reassuring smile over her shoulder at her friends. This seemed to almost do the job for Wirt, the poor boy wringing his hands together.

“She’ll be fine…”

After picking pumpkins, loading them onto a wagon, and then being bullied by turkeys (this was specifically Wirt), the group minus Scout was directed to the cornfield, baskets in hand. When approaching the clearing, the three reared back at the horrible figure displayed before them.

Its haunting grin stretched across its straw face, gangly limbs made of hay and straw, the body propped on a wooden pole. The top of its head lay open, some hay trickling from it. Beside the scarecrow was a ladder, now being climbed by Scout, who beamed at the boys and Beatrice. “Hey, there!”

“Whoo, that thing sure is ugly.” Beatrice whistled.

“He’s my pride and joy.”

Wirt wordlessly started picking the corn as Greg ran up to his friend. “Scout! I missed you so much! You missed it! The turkeys took Wirt’s hat right off his head and wore it! You should’ve seen the way Wirt jumped all around to get it-”

“Alright, Greg, that’s enough.” Wirt muttered. When Scout cackled, he snapped his head up to her. “Hey, what’re you laughing at? Your scarecrow’s head isn’t even closed! He looks like… like he’s lost his mind! Ha!”

“Stop worrying about my scarecrow and worry about your corn!” Scout pointed at him just before a stalk of corn Greg let go of had smacked the teen in his face. Wirt cried out and fell onto his back. He turned his head to the side to see Beatrice smirking at him. “Hey, guys?” Scout quietly called.

“Yeah?” Wirt turned to his friend, who stared off in the distance.

“They’re watching us like hawks…”

Once their work in the cornfield was finished, the four were sent to a large mass of empty land. Their only instruction: dig holes. Seeing as Greg was a very young and short-spanned kid, Scout took it upon herself to help the boy dig his hole and Wirt dug his own. “Scout?” Greg quietly called out, slightly winded from the work. “What if we find buried treasure?”

The girl hummed. “You think that’s why they’re having us do this? To find treasure?”

“Could be,” He shrugged before gasping. “Wait, that means we’re doin’ all the hard work and they get the pay!”

“The ways of the world, Gregory.” Scout tapped his nose. “But I’ll let you snag some.”

The two shared a laugh before Scout plunged her shovel into the ground, coming into contact with something. “Oh, hey, I found something!” She gasped.

“Buried treasure! Wirt!” Greg called out, catching the attention of his brother and their bluebird companion. “Scout found buried treasure!”

“Whoa, really?” Wirt awed as Scout ducked down to check what she found. “See, Beatrice? What’d you find, Scout?”

Wirt and Beatrice hadn’t expected to hear the girl’s frightened scream. They both flinched at the sound as Scout’s head popped up. “Greg, don’t touch it! Oh, god, get me out of here!”

“What?! What is it?!” Wirt widened his eyes and watched as Scout scrambled her way out of the hole. Greg smiled and shifted his body to reveal the skeleton laying in the hole.

“A skeleton!”

“Don’t touch it, Greg!” Scout warned. “We don’t know who that is!”

Wirt moved back and cried out in fear as Beatrice raised her brows, slightly amused. “We’re digging our own… I-I-I was wrong. I was wrong all along. I-I don’t know how to get us home. U-Use your little feet to pick our locks!”

“Oh, ho! Now you want my help?” Beatrice sassed.

“I don’t want your help-”

“Yes, he does!” Scout shouted. “Beatrice, please! At least get Greg out first!”

Any other words of plea died on her tongue at the sight of Enoch’s form moving towards them from a distance. Wirt whirled back to Beatrice, terrified. “Yes, she’s right, I want your help! Beatrice, serio-”

“Your time is up!”

“Aah!” Wirt screamed at the whole town who now crowded them once again. Scout sank back down into the hole and pulled Greg close. Shaking in his spot, Wirt stared up at Enoch, who only glanced down at the holes.

“Have the holes been dug?” A townsperson asked.

“Uh… yeah.”

“Splendid! Well, then-”

“But no.”

“No?”

Wirt blinked down at his feet before snapping his head back up to the townsfolk. “Right! Yeah… Uh, you know, we were digging, and there were too many rocks. You guys don’t like rocks, right?”

Scout narrowed her eyes as they all agreed with Wirt. “What is he doing…? We need to get out of here.”

Within the next second, Beatrice flew down into their hole, her foot free of its chain. As Wirt continued to babble, she freed Greg and then Scout, the three (plus the frog) booking it out of Pottsfield. By the time they were back in the woods, Scout’s chest burned and her leg pulsed in pain. Leaning against a tree, she sighed out and scanned the area around her. “W-Where’s Wirt?”

“Uh… Back with the pumpkin people?” Beatrice shrugged.

“What- Why?! Did you free him?!”

“Yes! I don’t know what that fool is doing!”

Scout let out a grunt of frustration. “Okay, okay. Just… watch Greg, don’t move. I’ll be right back!” She turned on her heel and rushed back towards the empty field. Cutting through the grass, she found her friend lying on his side. “Wirt!” She whispered.

He whipped his head to her, eyes wide and angry. “Where the heck did you guys go?!”

“We escaped! Why didn’t you?!”

“You guys just left me!”

Scout rolled her eyes and pulled Wirt to his feet, the boy realizing his ankle was free of its chain all this time. Dumbfounded, he let her lead him back into the woods. When he snapped back into reality, he broke into a sprint, eventually making his way to his brother and Beatrice. Bracing his hands on his knees, he took very deep breaths. “Are they chasing us?”

“No.”

He let out one last breath before standing up straight. “I-I thought you guys-”

“You’re welcome.” Beatrice smiled a bit. Wirt bowed his head.

“Thank you… I guess we’re even now, huh? You aren’t honor-bound to help us anymore?”

“I wish,” She rolled her eyes. “But you weren’t actually in any danger with those weirdos.”

Wirt grinned. “Oh, yeah! Then you still have to help us get home!”

“I got it!” Greg picked up his frog. “I wish Wirt Jr had fingernails so he could play the guitar better!”

A beat of silence passed before a voice cut through, “An odd time to tune in.”

The three turned to Scout, who approached them with a limp. Wirt frowned at this. “You weren’t running with me?”

“No, I told you they weren’t chasing us.”

“O-Oh…”

Beatrice hummed and turned back to Wirt. “So… yeah! I’ll bring you to Adelaide. I mean, that’s where I’m going anyway.”

As they began their journey ahead, Wirt wrapped Scout’s arm around his waist to support her. “Oh, yeah? What’re you going to Adelaide for?” The girl asked with a small smile.

“I guess, in some ways, I’m trying to get home, too.”

“That’s vague,” Wirt tilted his head. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Scout sharply inhaled. “Touchy…”

“Well, I sure hope Adelaide is more helpful than that Woodsman was. I think his directions were… not very good.”

Scout nodded her head in agreement, leaning into Wirt’s shoulder as they continued down the autumn-decorated wood.

—————————————

Taglist: @kirishimas-manly-eyeliner

[guqin-and-flute]

Modern 3zun/A-Fu Verse--Baby Acquisition Continuation

[Part 1] [Modern A-Fu Verse] [AO3 Series]

[Crediting @little-smartass​ with a lot of the characterization/story beats because I’m positive we’ve had a conversation about this at some point]

“He really is as bald as a little cue ball, isn’t he?”

It took Meng Yao several seconds to register that words had been spoken, another to parse the words, then another to tear his gaze up from the pile of early childhood development books he was accumulating in his lap, color coded tabs bristling from the edges. Da-ge was sprawled in the corner of their enormous sage green couch in his slacks and undershirt, bathed in the ghostly, swimming glow of the TV on mute. He was looking down fondly at the newborn tucked into the crook of his arm, fast asleep with his fist shoved up against his face.

A newborn that was, in fact, very bald. And so very tiny.

“Is that normal? Is that a sign of something?” Meng Yao began to anxiously dig around in the plush crevices of the armchair he was folded into for his phone, preparing to search something along the lines of ‘is baby baldness bad??’

On the other half of the L of the couch from Mingjue, Xichen sucked in a shuddering breath through his nose, making them both freeze and look over. But all he did was sigh in his sleep and return to his motionless sprawl where he had collapsed about an hour and a half ago when Mingjue forcibly removed the baby from his arms and insisted he lay down. “Just for 5 minutes,” Meng Yao had also reasoned in a two pronged attack. “No one says you have to nap. Just close your eyes for a bit, then you can take him again while Da-ge makes dinner, if you want.”

Of course, he had fallen asleep immediately as they all had known he would. But one had to give Xichen explicit permission and then a backup compromise and then incentive before he considered doing something so selfish as making sure he wasn’t dead on his feet, even after a day of running errands with an 7 day old who was still suffering from stomach upset from travel. Meng Yao and Mingjue were long since practiced in being able to maneuver around his particular aversion of self care.

When their eyes met again, Mingjue’s were crinkled and he teased in a lower voice, “Being bald is a sign of being an infant, A-Yao. You really know nothing about babies, do you?”

Meng Yao aggressively squashed back the automatic bridling that happened every time a flaw in his...anything was pointed out. Instead, he primly brandished a pastel yellow book with curlicue flowers around the edge. “I am learning.” It’s not my fault I obtained all my siblings after adolescence. Not for lack of trying...

“I’m telling you, most of those are gonna be useless. Everyone’s got something to say and it’s all going to be different. You’re better off just winging it,” Mingjue stage whispered dismissively, rolling his eyes. “It’s just until Xichen’s uncle gets the custody stuff all worked out, so he’ll be gone before you know it. Just enjoy the baby-head smell while he’s here.”

The what? He narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re making fun of me.”

For some reason, a grin spread over Da-ge’s face--a delighted, self satisfied grin. “Oh.” He got up--(”Don’t wake him up--” Meng Yao hissed, stiffening, remembering his disconcerting little mewling cries from Xichen’s return from the store)--and easily cupped the infant up to his shoulder as he crossed the thick cream carpeting.

“Make room, come on,” Mingjue whispered, grabbing a stack of books in one large hand and carelessly tossing them onto the basket of neatly folded throw blankets beside the armchair.

Lips pursed and fully harassed, now, Meng Yao neatly piled the remaining books down by the leg of the chair. “Why do you insist--” When he sat back up, he immediately almost fumbled the armful of baby that was thrust into them. But Mingjue seemed to have been ready for this, because he just kept pressing him into his chest until Meng Yao’s hold came up automatically to support him.

The baby was warm and very soft, with no tension in him at all as he slept. And so light--almost like some sort of doll. It was hard to believe he was a real, living human being instead of some sort of strange hairless animal. Baxia had more heft, for god’s sake and she was a cat.

For some reason, Meng Yao’s heart rate immediately spiked as if he were being chased. His palms and neck began to sweat. It’s not like he hadn’t held the child in the day that he had been here, he just...well, he actually hadn’t. He hadn’t held any child before--his nephew wasn’t quite born yet and he had never been in a foster home with a baby. All yesterday and last night, he had shadowed Mingjue while he changed the diapers, observing techniques such as ‘The Turkey Hold’ and ‘Tissues Before Wet Wipes’. He had noted the ease with which Xichen just palmed him belly down like a fragile little football while packing the lunches Mingjue had assembled for him and Meng Yao to take to work, or patiently maneuvered his little sausage limbs in and out of clothes like he wasn’t afraid of breaking him.

And they certainly weren’t keeping him from Meng Yao--but he was still researching and information gathering while they had plenty of experience. And the stakes seemed absurdly high to chance a failure with this particular subject He hadn’t been avoiding it, just...he was sure the opportunity would present itself. Eventually.

His face was round and slightly alien in its minute proportions; a perfect miniature of a proper nose, a fine dusting of eyebrows above completely smooth little eyelids, a tiny squinch of a mouth that had fallen open in sleep.  And he sort of smelled like...slightly sour milk and the floral baby detergent Xichen had bought. Nothing that special.

Cautiously, Meng Yao attempted a gentle joggle with his arms, then froze when those little fingers flexed and the baby made a noise, halfway between a snort and a grunt, but so tiny. How on earth did anything this tiny and helpless even exist? How was he allowed to hold something that had this much potential? This much importance? His father wouldn’t even let him touch his fountain pen at the office--how would he ever let Meng Yao hold his heir? “A-Yao, breathe,” Mingjue’s whisper was nearby and amused and when he looked up at him, Meng Yao saw his face was close, leaning down, hands braced on both arms of the chair. Blocking escape.

“I think you should take him back,” Meng Yao hurriedly whispered back. “I don’t think he likes me. He’s going to wake up and cry.”

Mingjue shrugged. “He might.”

Anxiety, old and choking, rose up in his throat like bile, like failure. “Then take him back.”

The asshole just raised his eyebrow. “No. If he does, it’s not the end of the world. Calm down, smell his head.”

“I can smell him just fine from here, I--”

“Smell his head, I’m telling you--”

“Mingjue--” he hissed, baring his teeth, instinctively looking over at the sleeping Xichen to be the tie breaker and peacemaker, but Mingjue just put the back of his fingers to Meng Yao’s cheek and (gently. Always gently.) pushed his face toward the tiny round head tucked to his shoulder.

Stiffly, he gave a grudging, perfunctory sniff, intending to follow the exact letter of the order and not the spirit, because if he was going to be forced--

Oh. Oh. What? Pressing his nose closer, he breathed in properly. What on earth...

His head did smell different from the old spit up and detergent. Warm and--and--almost sweet but not, somehow mild and calming? It felt familiar, even though it wasn’t. How was this unwinding something in his chest? Without intending to, he breathed out through his mouth in order to hastily draw in another breath, deep and slow. It smelled like... sleep and home and softness. Comfort. And he did have hair, actually--downy little fluff, close to the scalp, soft like velvet when he pressed his lips to it to take a third breath. How did the top of his head smell so good? Was it the baby soap they had used? No, it wasn’t, because he could smell traces of that, soapy and artificial. This was something completely organic that somehow exuded from his scalp?

Mingjue chuckled above his head and Meng Yao opened his eyes--that he didn’t even remember closing. He knew he should probably feel more annoyed at his partner’s smugness but the tension that had been humming through him seemed to have utterly bled away. “There, now, was that so hard?”

“What...is it?” he murmured against the baby’s head, unable to tear his nose away.

“Baby-head smell.”

“Baby-head smell?”

“Mm.”

“Do they--do they all smell like this?”

“More or less. It’s so we don’t eat them when they wake us up in the middle of the night, probably. Hormones and shit.”

“Has someone bottled this? Made it into a candle?” He whispered, affronted. “Is this known?” None of the early childhood development books he had read even alluded to the fact that baby heads apparently smelled like magic. “Does Xichen know?”

Mingjue snorted. “Of course you consider marketing. Yeah, most people who’ve handled babies know about the baby-head smell, so now you do, too. Instant stress relief.”

It was. It was like a drug, how instantaneously it worked. Meng Yao greedily breathed in again, cupping his tiny head closer to him. He could feel the thrum of his heart through his back against his forearms.

Mingjue huffed a fond laugh through his nose and smoothed his hand heavily down Meng Yao’s hair, swaying them both gently as one. “See? Not so scary. Now sit there and relax with baby. I’ll make us all dinner.”

Meng Yao could do that--and quite happily.

[autisticandroids]

Ok not 2 expose my dean winchester apologism on main but. I think that part of why dean is so controlling of sam specifically are his abandonment issues and his role as sam’s caretaker!! Like. He isn’t controlling to the point of never letting Sam leave (Stanford babey) but he absolutely cannot allow Sam to leave by dying because 1. There is no possibility of return and 2. He will have failed as a caretaker in the most drastic way possible. So like. In deans head the ONLY way to make it thru the apocalypse du jour with Sam intact and alive is to make Sam do what he thinks is right.

This is, of course, complicated by his whole “monsters cannot be allowed to live” moral code because Sam is, of course, an abomination and a blood freak. We catch a glimpse of how dean would react if HE became monstrous and was able to do something about it in the vampire ep, and he was ready to kill himself. So like. In deans head part of keeping Sam alive is keeping him human. So if/when Sam becomes monstrous in deans eyes, he’ll do anything to reverse it, and failing that, he’ll kill the thing that used to be his brother. Which is why Sam dying is acceptable collateral when he is making Sam quit demon blood cold turkey and when dean is putting his soul back in s6.

Is the way that dean treats Sam still bad and gross?? Yes. Am I perceiving it rn??? No. Unlike dean I have my-loved-ones-can-do-no-wrong disorder and unfortunately I love dean.

i assume you’re responding to this post. 

the thing is that dean has lots of justifications for his behavior! you’ve hit the nail on the head for some of them. he does in fact have terrible abandonment issues, which lead to him seeing sam trying to leave as a betrayal. he also has “i take care of sam” as a core aspect of his identity, and having that stripped away from him would destroy him. “take care of” here means “keep alive and well and non-monstrous.” like these are in fact the main reasons dean does the things that he does!

none of these reasons make dean’s behavior towards sam even remotely okay.

like, this is why i spend so much time trying to think of ways to develop their relationship out of the pattern that it’s in: dean does the things he does for reasons. if you could change the reasons, then you could change the behavior. 

but like, how do you people think abuse works? do you think anyone wakes up in the morning and says “today i am going to abuse my partner/child/family member/etc.”? no. everything people do is for reasons. “the world is scary and if i’m not controlling everything that happens around me it’s even scarier” is a reason. “if my wife makes more money than me i won’t be a real man, and not being a real man is the most terrifying prospect i can imagine” is a reason. “my boyfriend is going to leave me and if my boyfriend leaves me then no one will ever possibly love me again and i’ll die alone” is a reason. all of these are reasons one might abuse someone. they are all tragic and sympathetic. none of them excuse abuse.

anyway i love dean. dean is my favorite character and i want to give him a blanket and a hot chocolate. he is also abusive to sam. he is abusive for reasons, which you very coherently laid out in your ask! but he is abusive.

this is why i spend so much time trying to imagine a method of untangling them. because i want good things for dean, but i also want good things for sam. you know?

[transjess]

“So this is what you wanted to do to me, huh?” Soulless says pointedly, sitting on the edge of the bed and frowning down at Sam, then looking up at Dean and raising an eyebrow. Dean grits his teeth.

“He was fine ‘til Cas broke his wall,” he says. “And you’re not him. I needed him back.” 

“Sure,” says Soulless, and Dean can feel the eye-roll even when he turns away. “He’s kinda pathetic right now. This is really what you were gonna kill me for?” 

“Shut your damn mouth before I shut it for you,” Dean growls. “That’s my brother. You’re just a freak who looks like him.” 

Soulless puts a hand over his chest. “Ouch. Really, words hurt. Besides, I’m fond of the guy! I’ve got all his memories up here, y’know, just none of that annoying guilt complex, endless regret, feelings of uncleanliness. He’s a good dude. Would be even better if he stopped being such a doormat to you.” 

“Sam’s not a freakin’ doormat to anyone! You seen how stubborn the kid is?” 

Soulless shrugs. “I’m just saying, the real reason you hate me so much? I don’t blindly follow you like he does. You can’t bully me into doing whatever you want, and that pisses you off no end.” 

“I don’t bully him!” Dean shouts, rage curling in his gut like a snake preparing to strike. 

“Sure you don’t,” Soulless says, and this time Dean sees him roll his eyes. “Take it from me, Dean, because whatever you think I am I’m still your brother - or part of him, at least - and I remember everything he does. And without the fucked up guilt that eats this kid up alive I can see stuff clearly. I’m the most objective person in this damn room. And I’m just saying, you better start looking at yourself, looking deep, because if you’re not careful you’re gonna become your father, and we both know how Sammy here felt about that guy.” 

Dean can’t think of anything to say to that, anger and horror mixing in his throat and blocking it up. 

“At least when he ran away from John he went to college,” Soulless continues, turning to look Dean in the eye, his expression cold. “When he ran away from you Ruby got him addicted to demon blood. Wonder what’ll happen next time he can’t take living in your shadow?”

“He got himself into that shit,” Dean argues, but his voice dies in his throat at the sheer scorn of the look Soulless throws his way. 

“Get off your high horse for a sec and read a freakin’ pamphlet,” he says. “You nearly killed him in that detox. You know what they usually do for addicts who wanna get clean? I do. I read up on it, because somehow, even without a soul, I’m less of a monster than you. You locked us in that room, alone, for hours. No food, no water, no books, no weaning us off that shit. Cold turkey.  I remember how much it hurt, Dean. I remember how scared I was, how I thought I was gonna die alone, and hated, and you know what? He thought he deserved it. Even as he begged for you to come in and help him, he thought he deserved to die like that.” Dean’s heart feels like a stone weighing down the pit of his stomach. “You’d done that to me? I’d’ve beaten the shit out of you when I got out. You’re lucky he loves you so much. Anyone else would never have spoken to you again.” 

“We had to get him off it,” Dean says weakly. Soulless scoffs. 

“And you had to torture us to do it? Sure. He might have forgiven you, but I haven’t. Getting us clean is one thing - locking us in that shitty room for hours while we writhed in agony was punishment. Little Sammy broke the rules, made Dean angry, and he had to pay, ain’t that right?” 

Dean snaps; he strides across the room and grabs this fucking Terminator-ass Sam lookalike and slams him against the wall, the rage in his gut burning so hot he can barely think through it. “You don’t know shit!” he shouts, and the smugness on Soulless’ face is too much. He swings a punch, only to find his wrist caught in a strong, unwavering grip. Soulless shoves him back. 

“You know, you’re right about one thing,” he says. “I may be a version of Sam, but I’m not him.” He jerks his head towards Sam, twitching in his sleep on the bed. “I’m not the one who lets you hit me to make you feel better. You wanna abuse your brother, you’re gonna have to wait ‘til that one wakes up.” 

Soulless shoulders past him to leave the room, his footsteps heavy and loud in a way Sam hasn’t let his be since he hit his growth spurt. Dean listens to them fade, his fists still clenched, staring sightlessly at the wall and trying to grit his teeth against the tears that wanna spill out. God, he wishes that psycho freak would just shut up. Everything he’s done he’s done to protect Sam. Everything he’s ever done has been for family.

Dean looks at Sam, the real Sam, pale and twitching in his hospital whites, and remembers how his cheekbone felt cracking under Dean’s knuckles. He whirls around and retches into the little wicker bin in the corner of the room. 

As much as he hates the son-of-a-bitch, maybe that soulless freak has a point. He hadn’t meant to treat Sam like a punching bag, and Sam’s always just let him, even invited it sometimes, when he can tell Dean’s really mad, but... 

Fuck. 

Dean sits next to his little brother and reaches out, holding one stupidly gigantic hand between his own. 

“‘M gonna do right by you, Sammy,” he says, voice thick with tears. “I promise. We’re gonna get you better, and things are gonna change. I swear.” 

Sam moans in his sleep, forehead creasing, his limbs all twisting up and inwards so he can curl up, like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. Dean clings onto his hand, not letting it retract, and tries not to think about what’s going on in there.

[sincerelyella]

Panty Hawk

Book: The Royal Romance (AU)

Pairings: Liam x MC (Ella)

Characters belong to Pixelberry; Ella Brooks Rys belongs to me.

A/N: Hello everyone! I was on a writing hiatus for a bit, school’s been hectic so I’m sorry if I have been lagging on my reading and writing - I miss ya’ll! So, this little one-shot was inspired by one of my favorite shows New Girl. I’m probably the only one who’ll find this funny LOL Their banter cracks me up and I just had to write something, hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: Adult language, sexual innuendos

Words: 1259

Leo, Drake, Liam, and Maxwell were all sitting in the royal quarters enjoying some quiet, uneventful guy time. Hana and Ella were at the spa for the day and planned to do some shopping afterward.

Drake stood and placed his empty tumbler on the coffee table. “Let’s go, Rys! The washer is done!”

“Why do you insist on teaching Leo how to do laundry, Drake?” Liam inquired as he took a sip of his scotch.

“He asked me!” Drake called from down the hall. “He’s supposed to be getting married to Katie, and he wants to try to look somewhat normal.”

Liam shrugged and continued his conversation with Maxwell about how many peacocks he bought along with the bonus of five flamingos. “It was a great deal! Bertrand would never even know because it didn’t make a dent in the account!”

The guys continued throughout the day, drinking, playing poker here and there but never quite finishing the game because they’d get into a debate about how men can fake an orgasm. “I call bullshit, Rys! You can’t fucking fake that!” Drake yelled as he waved his tumbler in the air, spilling some onto his shirt.

“You can, Walker and I have. I can’t tell you how many times!” Leo lifted his tumbler to his mouth and took a sip of the amber liquid.

Maxwell suddenly stood from the table and wandered into the kitchen. “I’m going to make half a sandwich. Anyone want one?”

Drake furrowed his brow. “You can’t make a half sandwich. If it’s not half of a whole sandwich, it’s just a small sandwich.”

“What are you, the sandwich police?!” Maxwell called from the kitchen. “Do you want one or not?”

“Yeah!” All three men yelled in response.

“How’re you doing, Drake? You just broke up Lisa last week, didn’t you?” Liam gave Drake a sympathetic look.

“You’re free now, my man!” Leo clapped Drake on the shoulder. “We should go out! Get you a new one to latch onto.”

“I don’t need sex that badly, Rys, I’m not like you,” Drake grumbled into his tumbler filled with whiskey.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with wanting some strange ass,” Leo cackled. “I’m gonna be getting married, though, so I don’t need to do that anymore.”

Drake sighed as he placed his drink down onto the poker table. “Thankfully, all the things my girlfriend used to do can be taken care of with my right hand.”

Liam choked on his drink and began to cough while Leo stared blankly for a full minute. “Yo, that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard, Walker!” Leo patted his brother’s back as he sputtered.

“Let’s just not talk about me and my love life, ok?!” Drake stood and wandered into the hallway towards the laundry room.

Maxwell returned to the living room moments later with three sandwiches on a plate, one in his hand that was already almost done. “I only found cheese and pickles. I didn’t see turkey, mayo, or mustard in the fridge.”

“So … you mean to tell me that this sandwich is just filled with cheese and pickles?” Leo quirked his brow at Max and then shifted his gaze to the sandwiches in front of him.

Maxwell shrugged. “That’s all the king and queen had in there.”

“Yeah,” Liam said sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “We haven’t had it restocked in a while; it’s been kind of crazy.”

Leo grabbed a sandwich and stopped mid-bite when he heard Drake bellow from down the hall. “Leo! The dryer is done, get over here!”

“Fuck.” He mumbled and set down his food to see about the laundry. He walked towards Drake and saw a perplexed look on his face. “What’s going on?”

“I think … Ella left her underwear in the dryer.” Drake eyed the panties and then shifted his gaze to Leo.

“Uhh, okay, so what’s the big deal? You’ve seen women’s underwear before. Just grab it and let’s go, I’ve got a gross sandwich waiting for me out there.” Leo gestured with his thumb towards the living area.

“I’m not touching Ella’s underwear, Rys!” Drake hissed.

“What the fuck, Walker! They’re just granny panties. Can you move?” Leo pushed Drake out of the way and reached into the dryer to grab the underwear in question. He pulled his hand back out and looked down to see a lacy red thong dangling from his fingers. “Oh shit!” Leo threw the thong back into the dryer and stared in horror at his hand. “Fuck! Why didn’t you say it was a thong?!” Leo whirled around and ran into the living area. “I did a bad thing.” He blurted out suddenly, and both Liam and Maxwell looked at him curiously.

“Does it affect me?” Max asked as he dealt the cards out.

“No.”

“Then suffer in silence.”

Leo huffed in frustration and turned his attention to his brother. “Liam! Can I move Ella’s clothes out of the dryer?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay, thanks!” Leo turned to run back to Drake.

“Wait, Leo, why are you asking?”

“You’re not sniffing it, or anything, are you, Leo?” Maxwell snorted.

Leo turned back around and glared at Max before he met Liam’s gaze. “NO. I just wanted to be respectful, since you know, you’re married now.”

Liam arched his brow and waited for Leo to give him the real answer. “Okay, her thong is in there, man! I touched them by accident.”

“What’s the big deal?” Max questioned as he drained his drink. “Ella taught me how to do laundry, and when I’d come over, I would move her panties hundreds of times.”

“Hundreds of times? What’re you doing? Just hanging around the dryer, like some sort of panty hawk?!” Leo accused.

“Ha! Panty Hawk. I’d totally watch that show!” Max moved to sip his drink again and realized it was empty.

Drake waltzed into the living area with the laundry basket in his hands. “Okay, who is gonna move the thong?!”

“Max, why don’t you do it? I’m feeling a little dizzy from the scotch right now.” Liam rubbed his forehead.

Maxwell stood. “Are they warm from the dryer still?”

Liam’s head shot up instantly. “You know what, no, you’re out! None of you can touch her thong.” He stood slowly and walked towards the laundry room, pushing past Leo and Drake.

“I didn’t know it was a thong, Liam! I thought it was granny panties!” Leo followed behind his brother, Maxwell trailing behind, giggling behind the both of them.

“Oh, so it’s okay to touch my wife’s underwear when they’re granny panties?!”

“Well, you move it then!”

“What am I? The thong remover?!”

“YES! She’s your wife!”

About 30 minutes later, Ella and Hana walk into the quarters to find Leo, Drake, Maxwell, and Liam gathered around the dryer. Maxwell had on large yellow gloves that are used to wash dishes with and was holding a reaching stick with Ella’s red thong hanging at the end of it. All the men froze as they turned to see Hana and Ella standing there with their hands on their hips.

“What the hell is going on?” Ella demanded. Her eyes met her husband’s, and he smiled at her nervously.

“Oh hi, love! You’re home early.” Liam sidestepped the guys and walked towards Ella.

“Babe, why does Maxwell have someone’s thong?”

“Nobody wanted to move it but me, El! But, I didn’t mind moving your underwear.”

Ella looked around at all the men in her living room. “Um, that’s not mine.”

[chaoticfandomcat]

A talk in the Moonlight

A little story of my characters having a chat only the moon hears~ (1.1k Mentions of Alcohol, French.)

The moonlight lit her frame with a glow. Soft music like a ribbon twirling around her and weaving through her steps as she danced. Gliding like the bow across the strings in a small circle to an invisible partner.

A swish of noise.

A darken window.

Her playing stopped abruptly as behind her closed eyes she saw the lighting darken behind her lids. A shadow draped over her like a blanket. For a moment neither said a word, neither moved. She played a few more notes letting the last one ring out before lowering her instrument.

“You’re late”

“Oh dear songbird, how could I ever be late? The moon is still high in the sky.”

“And I said by 3 AM. It’s 4.”

The figure in the window chuckled lightly stepping down from the window and gently taking her free hand and kissing the back of it, “Forgive me. I had a run in with our mutual friend. They wanted some information and I had to give my price.”

“For someone who claims to only feel certain emotions,” Her tone clipped, “Mischievous certainly appears to have no such limitations.”

“They would never anger you.” The window figure stepped out from the light, removing the veil of shadow cause from the backlight of the moon. Slightly made their way over to the dresser where a case lined with velvet sat open. “Do tell, what does the songbird have to ask of little me?”

“Like you haven’t already guessed,” The musician huffed, joining the other by the case where she methodically began putting away her violin into it.

“I do so love hearing it from your lips, humor me chère?”

“I heard talk at one of my shows. A piece of little worth hiding a gem,” She turned towards him, eyebrow arced, and lips curled into a smirk, “Nothing a certain fox couldn’t find.”

“Of course not,” The other purred their own smile growing more mischievous, “But that is not all the little bird heard?”

“There may have been more talk of the gem meaning to distract the fox from the real prize. How loose lips get when assumptions are made,” The case closed with a click as the woman set it down on the floor and took a seat on the stool. “I trust they will find the fox can focus on more than what shines?”

“I know how to avoid being blinded,” The man undid the other’s hair from its bun and opened the top draw with an instinctual ease taking the brush out.

“Yue this is related to what our friend has been chasing. It’s not just diamonds involved.”

“You worry too much Yin. I may not have the experience they have but I can take care of myself. I’m not trying to let my presence be known. This time,” Yue tittered gently running the brush through Yin’s long hair.

“I know. The Midnight Kitsune already made their appearance, no one is expecting anything more from them for a while,” Yin commented, tilting her head back slightly and closing her eyes as he brushed.

“So I’ve gotten my quota for attention out of the way early,” He sent a grin into the mirror to which she peeked her eyes opened at but closed them again and hummed in response. “Enough about me, I am very interested to hear about the details of your show. Which role did you play that day?”

“The one who doesn’t understand a word being said. What did you call it dear thief?” She peaked an eye open at him with a lazy grin, “Joli petit accessorie? Pretty little accessory? I smiled and nodded as if I understood none of it.”

Yin remembered the smell most clearly. A hazy fog of smoke with the undertone of chemicals. Turkeys trying to appear as peacocks. Speak of money they did not have, and people they never met. Cheap cologne with an expensive name and cigars placed in boxes that made them appear imported. A miasma of a smell that made her duck her head to hide her face of disgust.

“They spoke of me like a prize. So amazed their host could get someone such as,” She pauses grimacing at the remembrance of the other words, “myself.”

The grimace did not escape Yue’s notice whose casual smile seemed to sharpen in the low light.

“Crude language aside, the host was so content to keep me close he was delighted when told I could not understand a word.” The awful grin the man sported as he rambled off words she dares not repeat. The man would have his dues, she was sure.

The dim lights of the room had only aided her. Her music wound its way around them, ease their tension and loosened their inhibitions. The liquor flowed with the tune, and she heard everything. She danced just out of reach from any straying hands, leaving them unsure if she knew or not. And she heard everything.

“Perhaps,” Yue purred dangerously, switching the brush for a comb, “I will need to comb through his other belongings.”

“Do you enjoy that pun?”

“Immensely.”

“Do what you will with them after you secure the item.”

“Oh? I am being given permission then?” Yue paused in his care leaning over Yin’s shoulder and using a free hand to brush her hair behind her ear. “Well?” His breathing tickling the shell of her ear, eyes flashed dangerously in the mirror as Yin looked directly at the reflection.

“Take the words as you will. The consequences are your own,” Her eyes close and Yue hums happily before pulling back and continuing his combing.

“I’m sure the rest would approve,” He pulls out a hair tie from his pocket and runs his hands through her hair to separate it into strands. The movement drawing a content sigh out of her.

“Remember Fox,” Yin gives a hooded gaze into the mirror, “Work first.”

“Oh dear la chanteuse,” Yue’s gaze meets her own as he ties off the braid and rests his chin on her shoulder, “This is all play.” He pressed a kiss against her shoulder as she closes her eyes laughing softly. When she opens then again Yue was back on the windowsill.

“Of course, regular thieving is far too easy for one who normally announces their heists.”

“Child’s play,” Yue replies, bowing with a flourish and making his cape swish out, “Adieu Songbird.” He leans back and lets himself fall.

He had never startled her with that trick. Like every other time she walked to her window, closing it with a clink, and turns her gaze to a building across the way. A shadow moves.

Yin smiles faintly going back over to the dresser and picking up the white rose tinged with orange at the tips. They should have taken caution. Don’t they know what it means when a songbird falls silent?

Well.

That would be their undoing.

The fox will find them. And the Oni will take them.

[reesepce]

21  APRIL  2022. istanbul,  turkey. by  pool,  03:37A.

ma,

hm.  where  do  i  start?  the  beginning  is  probably  best,  right?  um.  yeah.  okay.  here  goes  ..  i’ve  been  talking  with  a  doc  who  suggested  that  i  start  writing  letters  to  help  heal.  some  mumbo  jumbo  about  how  getting  it  out  would  be  of  use  to  me,  even  if  i  don’t  or  can’t  deliver  them.  i’m  not  entirely  sure  how  true  that  is,  but  i  can’t  not  do  homework  when  it’s  assigned  to  me,  even  when  i  do  have  a  choice  in  the  matter,  so.  uh.  hi. 

it’s  been  awhile,  eh?  how  long  has  it  been,  actually?  do  you  know?  have  you  been  keeping  track?  do  you  even  know  how  old  i'll  be  this  year?  they  celebrated  some  birthdays  where  i’m  at  recently  and  it  got  me  thinking  ..  do  you  remember  when  my  birthday  is?  because  i  tell  myself  that  you  don’t,  that  you  forgot  it  because  you  were  doing  more  important  things  in  the  time  we’ve  been  apart.  it  usually  helps  to  make  me  feel  better  until  i  remember  that  you  never  actually  remembered  it.  neither  of  you  did.  why  is  that?  why  is  it  that  neither  of  you  ever  remembered  anything  about  me? 

well,  that’s  not  the  right  way  to  phrase  that,  is  it?  because  you  can’t  remember  something  you  don’t  know.  so  why  is  it  that  you  never  tried  getting  to  know  me?  why  did  you  only  ever  pay  attention  to  me  when  you  thought  i  was  doing  wrong,  when  i  wasn’t  being  your  definition  of  perfect?  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  maybe,  just  maybe,  i  started  doing  that  on  purpose  because  all  i  ever  wanted  was  for  you  to  fucking  look  at  me?  why  couldn’t  you?  did  you  not  like  what  you  saw?  how  could  i  have  been  better  for  you?  what  could  i  have  done  to  make  you  want  me,  to  make  you  love  me? 

i’ve  thought  about  it  a  lot,  you  know.  exhausted  every  scenario  because  there  has  to  be  something  ..  possibly  multiple  somethings  ..  that  i  could’ve  done  different  because  everything,  my  whole  life,  has  always  been  my  fault.  maybe  i  didn’t  make  myself  small  enough  for  you.  maybe  i  wasn’t  pretty  enough  for  you.  maybe  i  wasn’t  smart  enough  for  you.  maybe  i  wasn’t  thin  enough  for  you.  maybe  i  was  too  loud,  too  needy.  maybe  i  should  have  just  been  more  independent.  maybe  i  should  have  lowered  my  expectations.  maybe  i  should’ve  just  listened  and  obeyed.  if  i  knew  how  to  follow  instructions,  would  you  have  cared?  would  it  have  changed  anything?

but,  in  truth,  none  of  that  really  matters,  does  it?  even  if  you  were  to  tell  me  it’s  never  been  my  burden,  i  don’t  think  i’ll  ever  be  able  to  let  you  take  it  from  me  anymore.  it’s  made  a  home  within  me,  nestled  deep  within  the  crater  of  your  absence  because  even  when  you  were  with  me,  you  were  only  ever  physically  present.  who  am  i  if  i  no  longer  have  it?  anyway,  this  isn’t  at  all  what  i  wanted  to  say.  i  don’t  think  it  is,  anyway  ---  but,  then  again,  i  didn’t  exactly  have  a  plan,  but  just  for  reference:  i’ll  be  25  in  september.  on  the  10th,  to  be  exact.  which  means  it’s  been  roughly  13  years  since  we  last  saw  one  another. 

i  wonder  how  much  you’ve  changed.  did  you  know  that  i  always  thought  you  were  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  existence?  i  think  i’d  still  think  you’re  the  most  beautiful,  but  i  don’t  know  if  i’d  recognise  you  in  the  street  anymore.  when  i  try  to  recall  you  in  my  memory,  i  can’t  see  you,  and  if  i  didn’t  steal  a  picture  of  you  when  dad  moved  us  to  quebec,  i’d  only  know  you  as  the  cartoon  monster  my  mind’s  conjured  up  of  you.  it’s  funny  how  our  brains  work,  isn’t  it?

i’m  gonna  have  to  tell  the  doc  that  this  ..  it  didn’t  make  me  feel  better.  in  fact,  i  think  i  feel  worse,  so  i’m  not  sure  if  i’ll  write  you  another  one.  if  i  do,  tho,  i’ll  save  them  and  if  we  should  ever  meet  again,  maybe  i’ll  finally  be  able  to  deliver  them.

i’m  sorry  you  were  forced  to  raise  a  child  you  didn’t  want  and  i’m  even  more  sorry  that  i  couldn’t  become  a  child  you  wanted.  i  hope  you  know  that  i  tried  ---  that  i’m  still  trying  ---  and  that  i  love  you. 

♡  rj.

[365days365movies]

March 21, 2021: Orlando (1992)

Tilda Swinton...confuses me.

Like, in a good way. Because Tilda may be the most versatile actor working today. I mean, look at the goddamn filmography, and you’ll see what I’ve mean. I’ve seen Tilda Swinton in a lot, surprisingly, and I don’t think anything I’ve seen was bad. For example, I am an ARDENT defender in the portrayal of the Ancient One in the MCU.

I understand the controversy here, but I actually think this is excellent casting. Especially considering...being comic book-accurate would NOT have been a good idea with this role, if we’re trying to AVOID controversy. But Tilda Swinton FUCKING KILLED IT in this role, and I will always be happy for this choice.

Let’s see, there’s Jadis in the Narnia films, as shown at the top, there’s Snowpiercer, as Mason (an amazing character, and an acting job that Swinton disappears into), Moonrise Kingdom as Social Services, The Grand Budapest Hotel as Madame D., and Gabriel in Constantine. Which is a good segue to the next talking point...

Gabriel is pointedly androgynous, and honestly, Tilda Swinton kind of is as well. You may have noticed that I haven’t used any pronouns in referencing to Tilda Swinton, entirely out of respect. Gonna be a little hard to keep up with, so I’ll be using she/her from here on out, only because those are the pronouns that Swinton’s most recently promoted for herself. She’s also referred to herself as queer of some variety, as well as being famously gender non-conforming.

Which is fitting, given that a lot of that public image began with today’s movie, one of her first big roles. I’ll be revisiting Swinton in the independent movie scene in a couple of months, but this may be a good introduction. Instead of spoiling anything off the bat, I’m gonna jump right in. And so, I present: Orlando. SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

We begin with a young man named, well, Orlando (Tilda Swinton), a young man with a feminine appearance and a good upbringing. His name means power land and property, but all he really wants is company. He writes and rests by a tree in the day, but falls asleep by mistake. When he wakes up, he runs back to where he’s meant to be, with a tribute to Queen Elizabeth I (Quentin Crisp) playing in the background. And that’s a REAL song, by the way, actually sung in the 1600s for Elizabeth! Very neat.

A title screen flashes, reading “1600: Death”, and we see where Orlando is meant to be. He speaks poetry for the Queen and her court, but is interrupted by the aged queen, who asks whether or not his poem is appropriate for her presence, as the poem is about youth, and Queen Elizabeth is not that. Orlando’s father (John Bott), who is serving as host to Elizabeth, intervenes on his behalf. However, it doesn’t seem to matter to the Queen, as she invites Orlando back to England to serve as her “favourite”. He accepts, and soon lives alongside the Queen. She quickly promises Orlando much land and property, for him and his heirs, but on one condition: that he does not fade, wither, or grow old. 

The same wish cannot be applied to Elizabeth herself, nor to his father, as both grow old and die soon afterwards. Fast forward 10 years, and it’s a cold winter in England. Visiting Orlando’s vast estate is a woman from Russia, named Sasha (Charlotte Valandrey), and Orlando quickly falls for her. This is to the dismay of Euphrosne (Anna Healy), his fiancée? I’m not sure, to be honest, but they’re definitely involved, and she’s definitely upset.

However, this is also a scandal for everybody else as well, not just because Orlando’s already engaged, but also because Sasha is Russian, during a particularly poor economic period for the country. Euphrosne angrily throws his ring back at him, and Orlando speaks directly to the audience, telling us that a man must follow his heart. The two go to his private cottage, and they start to make out, when Orlando suddenly comes down with intense melancholy.

Because this is such great happiness that he feels, but this happiness too will one day end. Which is, like, the most emo-shit I’ve ever heard, but I’m kinda here for it. And yet, that happiness does indeed end, when Sasha is forced to return to Russia, despite Orlando’s pleading for her to stay. He asks her to meet him at London Bridge, so that they may elope together.

Later, Orlando happens upon a performance of Othello, noting to us that it’s a terrific play. This is as the death of Othello is being played out, so that’s probably foreshadowing, right? Anyway, Orlando leads two horses through the thick fog, waiting for Sasha to arrive and come away with him. But as a storm sets in, there is no sign of Sasha. And Orlando stands there in the rain. Said rain, though, soon becomes ice, underneath his feet, floating away down the river, along with his hopes of a happy future with Sasha. The treachery of women, according to Orlando.

Over the next week, Orlando languishes in his bed, asleep for the entire time. Increasingly more servants are brought up to try and rouse him, only for him to remain asleep, no matter what they do. But then, he wakes up, noting that he can only conjure three words to describe women, none of them worth explaining.

Forty years later, and the title screen cries “Poetry”! And Orlando looks exactly the same. Guess he really took that whole “don’t grow old” thing from Elizabeth to heart, huh? He speaks to a poet, Nick Greene (Heathcote Williams), and gushes about his poetry, which is a pursuit that he loves greatly. But Nick is...well, Nick is kind of a dick, to be honest. Orlando wants only to share his love and his poetry with him, but Nick’s only in it for the money. Not a true artist, and he mocks Orlando’s poetry, which he reads only after Orlando offers him money. And then, he writes a poem mocking Orlando further, which angers Orlando...but doesn’t stop the money flowing to Nick.

Orlando moves onto his next pursuit, in 1700, in the next section: Politics. Now over 100 years old, Orlando becomes an ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, and travels to Constantinople. There, he receives a somewhat rough and awkward greeting, which Orlando is not helping with. They share some Turkish coffee, Orlando has trouble drinking that Turkish coffee, they drink a LOT of Turkish coffee, and they toast to multiple things, including the “beauty of women, and the joys of love.” Orlando pauses at this, and reveals that he is still suffering quite a bit of heartbreak. His Turkish friend, the Khan (Lothaire Bluteau), bonds with him about this.

After 10 years, Orlando has fully retreated into life as a Turkish man. This is interrupted by a British emissary, sent to bring him news of a new appointment and power from the Queen. However, something goes wrong when the Khan arrives and takes Orlando hostage. The city is under attack, and the Khan asks Orlando if he will help against their enemies. Orlando agrees, and gives them arms, and heads to help himself at the walls. There, he witnesses a man dying, and it shakes him greatly. And just like before, he sleeps it off for seven days. And then...she wakes up.

YUP. WHAT.

Yeah, um, Orlando is now a woman. Like she says: “Same person, just a different sex.” Which is a very interesting premise, not gonna lie. Looks like Orlando now has to live life as a woman, which is going to be...difficult in 1700s Turkey. Or England. Or anywhere. Or any time.

Still, Orlando approaches this new life with aplomb, and without really any needed caution. Parading in some awesome dresses, she greets fellow nobility as the lady Orlando. However, the emissary from earlier, Archduke Harry (John Wood), begins to recognize her as similar to the lord Orlando.

In speaking with a group of poets, however, Orlando learns EXACTLY what men think of women in this society, and it’s not even a little bit good. She leaves, enraged and embarrassed. Harry also speaks with her, assuming that she was a woman all along. However, Orlando’s in EVEN MORE shit, as she’s quickly served with papers that are an attempt to take away all of her property and titles, because Lord Orlando is legally dead, and Lady Orlando is a woman, which one of them says is basically the same thing. FUCKIN’ YIKES, BRUV.

Ah, but Harry tries to help by proposing to her ON THE FUCKIN’ SPOT. He believed that Orlando was perfect as both genders, and is happy to do it. However, Orlando understandably refuses, and after Harry tells her that she will die as a spinster, alone and dispossessed, she runs into a nearby hedge maze. And while in the hedge maze, time passes, and her outfit changes to match the period accordingly.

Forward 140 years now! The year is 1850, and a new chapter begins: Sex.

And as she runs from the maze, she runs into who else...but Shelmerdine (Billy Zane), a man who...Shelmerdine? SHELMERDINE? What fuckin’ witch cursed his entirely family line to have THAT name? That’s the kind of family that was named AFTER a bridge, not the other way around! WHAT KINDA NAME IS FUCKIN’ SHELMERDINE?

Well, I’ve looked it up now, and it is apparently a real name. So, if any Shelmerdines are reading this...I mean, I’m sorry, but also, FUCKIN’ SHELMERDINE? OK, back to Shelmerdine. He’s twisted his ankle falling off his horse, and Orlando is now taking care of him. She reveals, in the process, that she’s about to lose everything. The reasons for that aren’t quite said, but Shelmerdine offers a place at his side, back to the great free land of America.

After having a conversation about the roles of men and women in the world (which is interesting given the context of the film in general), the two fulfill the chapter’s imperative. And we never see the act, but we do get some interesting angles and hand-holding. But the next morning, this post-coital reverie is interrupted by the lawyers from the Queen. The lawsuits have been settled, and Orlando has been legally declared a woman, meaning that unless she has a son, all of her possessions will be lost.

Shelmerdine (I swear, every time I say that name, a fairy gets chlamydia) leaves as well, with the southwest wind. As he heads back to America to fight for freedom, Orlando stands in the rain, facing an uncertain future, and broken fully by the politics of the time period.

And then...the sound of planes overhead. Looks like a new time period once again, heading into the periods of World Wars, and Orlando is now...heavily pregnant. OH. FUCK. Welcome to the next chapter: Birth.

We jump past the period of World War II, and to the 1990s! Orlando is presenting a book to a publisher, and he believes that the book will sell. With her young daughter in tow, she finally goes back to her old mansion, now finally able to go back after losing it 100 years prior. The narration from the beginning repeats, recontextualized for Orlando’s new life. She is over 400 years old, and finally, FINALLY...she is happy.

And that’s Orlando! I think I loved it. Real talk, this was a fascinating movie, and I’m into it. I’m very much into it. I’m sure there’s more to be gleaned from this film, but I’m glad I watched it regardless. More in the Review, though! See you there!

[alittleimagine]

just a favor pt. 2

derek hale x reader

prologue part 1

The Hale house outside San Francisco was smaller than the house Derek had taken over when his parents had left Beacon Hills behind, but it was still larger than you expected. 

Your ideas of San Francisco and the surrounding areas always involved narrow homes on steep hills, and to be fair the majority of your knowledge regarding the housing market came from Kira, but the warm-toned two-story in front of you had space to breathe. You were reminded again of Malia’s vague comments on Hale family money. 

Tearing your eyes from the house you looked over at Derek and the tense set of his jaw. You gave his side a gentle nudge with your elbow and took the bottle of wine you’d brought as a gift from his death grip. “Hey,” you said, voice low, “I thought I already told you everything would be fine.”

He watched you for a long moment. “Where exactly do you get all this unbridled confidence from?”

You smiled. Adjusting your hold on the wine bottle you looped your arm with his and started walking toward the green door. “Sometimes you just gotta fake it till you make it.” 

The look he was giving you had the potential to throw you off your game if you weren’t careful. You winked at him and rang the doorbell. 

The moment stretched out as you waited for the door to open. You wouldn’t tell Derek, he was a ball of tension already, but you had some worries. You weren’t a psychopath- a lot could go wrong and any sane person would be concerned, but you meant what you’d said. Confidence, real or imagined, did wonders. 

You had been expecting his mom or dad, but it was Cora who opened the door. 

Cora had visited Beacon Hills sometime during the summer and you had met when she’d arrived at a movie night. You couldn’t say you knew each other well, but she’d appreciated your knack for driving Stiles nuts. 

Rather than welcome you both in she leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at Derek. The oversized zip-up she wore over a sports bra was very in keeping with what you knew of her. 

“Your girlfriend is Y/N?” She asked. It was difficult to say if she was skeptical or just giving Derek a hard time.

Derek sighed hard. “Clearly.” 

Cora narrowed her eyes, seconds ticking by, then shrugged. “That tracks. Come on in.” Derek glared holes into her back as she led the way while you tried not to laugh. 

“Dad!” She shouted through the house. “Derek’s here! And he actually brought someone.” 

You felt Derek huff beside you. “No, Cora, don’t worry. I didn’t want an actual greeting or anything. Just suspicion.” 

She grinned at him over her shoulder, ignoring his sarcasm. “Good, I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

You couldn’t help but snort at Derek’s unimpressed look. Sibling irritation had relaxed him though and he moved your hand from his arm to hold in his own (warm, calloused, distracting) as you followed Cora into what you presumed was the kitchen. 

There, cutting carrots at the kitchen island, was Alexander Hale. Derek had shown you pictures of his parents during your prep meetings, but you could have picked his dad out of a lineup without any help. 

It was like looking into the future. His dad’s hair had begun greying on the sides of his head and he wore black-rimmed glasses, but you could picture Derek in a couple of decades looking just like him. Derek was broader, perhaps, but you had to wonder if he’d inherited anything from his mother. 

Dr. Hale (you were sure to remind yourself of his doctoral degree in Gender Studies) smiled wide at the sight of you both. He set his knife down and wiped his hands on a dishtowel before rounding the island to embrace his son. “Derek! Happy Thanksgiving. How was traffic? Not too bad I hope. And this must be the girlfriend Laura told us about.”

He didn’t give Derek a chance to answer before focusing on you. 

“Y/N.” You said, holding a hand out to shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hale.”

His handshake was warm and firm, and the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Oh, just Al is fine. None of the doctor stuff. I’m glad Derek brought you along. He can be so private sometimes. Gets it from his mother.”

Derek groaned. “Dad. Come on.”

Al was unperturbed. “The turkey is already in the oven.” He said to you. “I’m just working on some stuffing and a few things to pick at-” He stopped himself short. “Wait. Do you like turkey? We didn’t make a ham. But, we can have Laura pick something up on her way in.”

Before you could reassure him that you loved turkey Cora spoke up. 

She’d moved to lean on the counter by the cutting board and held a baby carrot in her hand. “Do you know if she even eats meat?” She took a loud bite of the carrot, reveling in her dad’s reaction. 

Al looked horrified. “Oh my god, I didn’t ask if you were vegan or vegetarian.” You could see him trying to think back to everything he was cooking for the night. 

“I eat meat.” You were quick to assure. “And I love turkey. I promise. I love Thanksgiving food.”

Though he sighed in relief the look of worry hadn’t faded from his face. “Are you sure? We can set something up.”

You could see Derek shake his head as he moved to take the wine bottle from you. “Cora’s just messing with you, dad. I would have told you if she was a vegetarian.” 

Satisfied Al returned to his post as the cutting board. “Well, just let us know if you don’t like something, alright.” 

“Don’t worry. I’m not shy about speaking my mind.” You said. 

Derek nodded his confirmation before crossing the kitchen to retrieve a couple of glasses. “Water?” When you nodded he began filling the glasses, remembering you didn’t like ice in yours. “Where’s mom?” He asked. “Is Laura not in town yet?”

“Your mom is taking a call upstairs,” Al said, focusing on his chopping while Cora continued to eat stray carrots. “Laura is in town, they just arrived, but they checked into a hotel. Said it would be easier for the night.”

You’d never met Derek’s older sister though she’d visited Beacon Hills earlier in the year. You did know she was married to a Noah with a three-year-old girl named Alina and a baby boy on the way. She’d been the one Derek first lied to.

“What about Malia?” His dad asked. “I know she said they were doing a Thanksgiving brunch with Kira’s family before driving out.” 

Derek nodded. “Yeah. They should be here in an hour or two.” He paused and wrinkled his nose. “Is Peter coming?”

His dad shook his head. 

You knew Peter was Malia’s biological father and Derek’s maternal uncle and the relationship there was strained on all ends, but Malia had been working on it. A thought struck you, but you’d address it later. 

“Why don’t you go get settled in.” Al said. “You guys are going to be in the room at the end of the hall. Malia and Kira are taking Cora’s room and Cora is sleeping in the living room tonight.” 

Cora scowled. “Just because I’m not dating anyone.” She had been living with her parents while she attended the UCSF School of Medicine for sports medicine. You wouldn’t have loved being kicked out of your room either.

“I know, but it just makes sense, honey. It’s just one night.” 

“I’m bringing a girlfriend next year.” She muttered to herself.

Derek mussed up her hair before gesturing for you to lead the way out of the kitchen. 

Your bags, small as they were, had been left in the car and you watched as he grabbed them both, shaking his head when you offered to carry your own. The sun was high in the sky, but it was still chilly out and you wrapped your arms around yourself as he dug through the car to make sure nothing was left behind. 

“Hey, I have a question.” 

Derek gave you a curious look. “Yeah?”

“Peter is your mother’s brother, right?” 

Derek nodded and something in his expression made you think he already knew where this was going. “You’re wondering why everyone is a Hale?”

“Yes.” 

He smiled. “Dad took mom’s name when they got married. He does lectures all the time on how weird it is that surnames are patrilineal and when the time came for them to get married he said he had to put his money where his mouth was.” He’d clearly explained this multiple times in the past. 

You grinned. “I kind of love your dad. Just saying.”

“Yeah, well, try not to get caught in one of his lectures.”

~*~*~*~

The room you’d be sharing for the night was a nice, simple guest room with a full bed and mostly neutral decor. While you peered out the window to see the view Derek stared intently at the bed. 

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” He said, making you turn. 

“Derek, what are the chances that Cora barges in here tomorrow morning? Or your niece?” 

He winced. 

“Yeah. it would probably look pretty weird if you were sleeping on the floor. I’m a whole grown-up,” you said, “I can share a bed with a man. Unless you don’t want to.”

Derek shook his head but said nothing. 

You moved to look in the mirror hung on the wall and check your hair after the drive. You could see Derek watching you in the mirror. 

“Does anything ever bother you?” He asked, sitting on the bed. 

You furrowed your brow. “Lots of things bother me. Sharing a bed with you isn’t one of them.” You could just make out the pink tingeing his ears in the reflection. “And having to spend Thanksgiving with a family that seems pretty cool also doesn’t bother me.”

Derek watched you a moment longer. “Have I said thank you yet?” 

“You might have. But it’s not a big deal. I’m having fun.” You turned to lean against the vanity and watch him. “It’s not particularly difficult to pretend to be your girlfriend.” 

You expected him to blush at least a little, but he just watched you. You turned and gestured for him to follow you. “Come on. I still have to meet your mom.”

It was easy to chalk any nerves up to meeting Derek’s mom. Talia Hale was highly regarded and it wasn’t difficult to see why. As far as you knew she’d left a long career as a successful business attorney to pursue her original dream of working for the ACLU, hence the move to San Francisco. She remained a figure in a number of charities and organizations in Beacon Hills even from a distance and Derek always seemed in awe when he spoke of her. 

So, the idea of her was intimidating. 

Everyone wanted to be liked. Of course you wanted your fake boyfriend’s parents to like you.