#or bi or whatever i said i was like over a year ago

[alittleemo]

back on my grinding my teeth in my sleep nonsense it seems. back on that grind if you will. my teeth hurt

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Arizona | On Call

part i

summary: frankie has a question.

pairing: neighbour!frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. dual pov. reader and frankie are both bi and have same sex exes. mostly fluff here, folks. and some (maybe a lot of?) angst. just a couple of buds chillin'. some talk of dead/absent parents.

reader is a teacher and has hair, but she is otherwise a blank slate.

wc: 5.1k

an: wow - i really did not expect this little guy to get the response it did yesterday. eternally grateful for your support and enthusiasm. i love you. hope y'all enjoy <3

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

That taste All I ever needed All I ever wanted Too dumb to surrender

- arizona, kings of leon

series masterlist | main masterlist

It’s quiet in the house. 

Golden, gooey sunlight pools on the living room floor, slanting through the windows. It’s warm against the arm he has resting on the edge of the sofa, not a chirp or a lawnmower whirring outside, and when Frankie closes his eyes, you’re the first thing he sees. 

Evenings like this are the mirror of when your truck first rattled up the street and groaned to a halt outside your front door. He can see it now, within the darkness behind his eyelids, how he’d peeked from behind the curtains in Lucia’s stifling room, her small, sleeping body sprawled on the bed behind him. How the truck door had swung open, how your bare legs had emerged from the cool of the cab, how you’d hopped down onto the pavement and raised a hand to shield your eyes from the low-lying sun. You’d licked your teeth as you’d rechecked the address and looked up at the house - your house. Blown a deep breath out from your cheeks and then turned back to the truck to scrabble around for your keys. 

Frankie had turned from the window as soon as you’d bent across the front seat, only glimpsing the bottom of the plush of your ass peeking from below your sweat shorts before he’d swept the curtain and the image aside.

He’d given it two minutes before he’d clattered out of his front door at the same time as you’d emerged from yours, raising a hand in greeting over the fence that separated your houses. You’d answered with a wide grin and a lilting hey, neighbour as he’d looped the boundary, holding out a palm for you to shake. I'm Frankie, he’d said, shooting a thumb over his shoulder at his open front door. From across the way. You’d given him your name in return, quirking an eyebrow as you asked whether he was feeling strong.

The truth is, that day Frankie would have been whatever you needed him to be. Immediately taken by your warm charm, your glinting smile - the mischief always just behind your eyes, the way you moved through your house. Even now, he cooks you dinner during exam season when you’re up to your eyeballs in papers, mows your lawn when he’s already cutting his own. Offers a shoulder to cry on when you’re missing your dad, always your best friend with spare beers when you’re free on a Saturday night - and you never fail to return the favour. 

The way things are now, it’s like he can’t even remember what it was like to not have you next door. What it was like when he wasn’t launching your paper onto your porch, what it was like when you weren’t soaking him and Lucia with the hose over the fence as they launched water balloons at you from the other side, both your backyards filled with squeals and shouts of laughter. He’s so glad - so infinitely glad - that fate or whatever it was that had a hand in these things dropped you on the curb that evening a year ago. That he had grinned and laughed and said yes ma’am, that he had lept at the chance to be a good neighbour and started lifting the boxes from the truck bed, helped you set up your wifi, invited you in for a beer in his kitchen when you ordered food for the two of you as Lucia slept soundly upstairs. 

He remembers being shocked at how easy it was. Easy conversation, easy laughter, easy silence. Easy friendship.

How he’d looked forward to seeing you across your lawns in the morning, calling out your greetings as you clambered into your truck and he fastened Lucia into her booster in his. The catch ups over the fence when you’d finished your days, recounting stories from the classroom or cockpit, Lucia chipping in her own from nursery. The delight in your eyes when they’d knocked on your door a couple of weekends after you’d moved in, arms laden with a tub of homemade cookies. How you’d invited them in, drinking coffee and juice, how easily you’d gotten on with Lucia. She’d adored you after that first afternoon spent together, falling asleep in your lap as you’d settled in front of the TV in low evening light. You and Frankie had talked long afterwards in lowered voices, you refusing to be relieved of his daughter’s tiny sleeping body, insisting you were just as comfortable as she was. The little girl only stirred when Frankie made you snort with laughter at something one of his friends had said. 

Conversation had turned to friends, family. He told you about his brothers in arms, his mom and dad, Lucia’s mother. A woman who was jetting across the country as a flight attendant, an amicable breakup leading to easy co-parenting. You’d gladly told him about your friends, but hesitated before telling him of how your mom had disappeared from your life when you were little, how your dad had passed away a couple years back. He’d stretched an arm out, one hand settling on and squeezing your knee. Big palms warm and heavy, thick fingers gentle and understanding. When you’d followed the line of his arm up to meet his eyes again, crow's feet folded in their corners. Kindness, understanding. Someone who knew loss, too.

He asked about your dad, what he was like, and you’d regaled him with stories of growing up with ice-cream dates, summers you spent fishing on the local lake, how he’d carry you on his shoulders, his tight throat when he told you how proud he was of you at graduation. 

He’d tentatively asked if your dad had been why you moved out here, understanding the need to put physical distance between yourself and the pain and memory of your surroundings.

No, you’d said, eyes glinting ruefully, this was because of a breakup.

Frankie hadn’t pushed for anymore after that.

You’d invited them over for dinner the weekend after, and Frankie had stood by your side in the kitchen, insisting on helping you cook, immovable despite the rag you whipped at him. As you chopped and fried, you'd told Lucia about stars and blackholes and plants and bugs. She was especially taken by bugs.

You’d dug out books you’d borrowed - and never returned - from the school library for her to pore over, even giving her a magnifying glass to use to hunt for critters in your backyard as you and Frankie had washed up afterwards. The three of you then spent an hour on your hands and knees on the grass as Lucia found worms and beetles and caterpillars, a soft smile on Frankie’s face as you shouldered her never-ending questions with all the grace of a bona-fide teacher. 

Every night that week, Lucia had clamoured to go next door and see the bug lady again.

Frankie had had to explain that you were busy working (yes, even this late, mija), and then had to endure the tiny stomping of feet as Lucia explained to him - with all the levity a four-year-old could muster - that there just weren’t enough bugs in their garden; they had to see the bug lady.

Bug lady. The first nickname they’d christened you with. You’d laughed with a full chest when he told you, and assured him it would be a mantle you’d bear with honour. Bug lady. And then, with time and growing softness, it was shortened to bug, and it stuck. 

Tonight, there is a different question to can we come over and look for bugs? that he needs to ask.

He thinks - knows - you’re the right person for it. Deep in his heart. Can count on one hand the number of people he’d entrust the safety of his daughter with, and all of them are too far away to call.

He needs a babysitter. And so far, he’s gotten nowhere fast with his inquiries.

The numbers he’s tried have been polite enough, more than good at their jobs. But they have clients already, families who came way before him that meant accommodating sitting at relatively short notice would be sporadic at best and impossible at worst.

And he’s running out of time. 

His first late night flight is Thursday; some rich guy taking a date up into the skies to watch the view over the city. It’s good money, and he'd be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the sights, too. The glimmer of the city below, the ridges of the hills, flash of the ocean in the distance. The worlds and lives of so many people cradled in the bowl of the valley. It’s beautiful, humbling. It’s worth sharing.

You’d enjoy it, he knows. And every night flight reminds him of an evening not too long ago when he’d struck a deal with you, asking you to grab him a beer when you’d gotten up to go to the bathroom mid-movie. You’d wiggled your eyebrows at him, what’s in it for me?

He’d snorted at you, offering various services and items in exchange, all refused, but then before I’ll take you up in the heli if you - had even finished leaving his mouth, you’d leaped up from the sofa, grabbing his hand to shake on it before he could back out. At night. You’d specified, nodding, wide-eyed as though he’d been the one to say it.

He’d rolled his eyes at your eagerness, demanding you make sure it was an extra cold one for that, and you’d bowed in the doorway, smirking. 

‘At your service, my liege,’ you’d said, before scampering out the way of the cushion Frankie launched at you. 

He’d had to ask you to explain to Lucia why she shouldn’t call him my liege two days later, when it seemed she’d lost the meaning of Papi in an effort to be like you. You’d snorted into your soda when he told you, but had fixed Lucia with serious eyes when you told her that Papi was a very special name to call her dad, one that helped him feel loved and appreciated. Lucia had acquiesced quickly afterwards, stretching her arms out to Frankie before he lifted her from her chair, tucking her face into his neck as she apologised profusely, reassuring him that she still loved him the same, just that my liege had sounded so fun coming from your mouth. Frankie had looked over her curls at your bitten lip, your silent laughter, holding his own amusement behind his teeth as he stroked her back and cooed that he knew, mija, it’s okay.

He remembers, with a lurch below his navel, how Lucia had then asked whether you’d call him Papi to show him he was loved, too. How both your jaws had fallen slack, how something had flickered behind your eyes too quickly for him to catch before you’d told her you call him other things to the same effect. Fish, buddy, and then mouthed over the top of her head, asshole. Frankie had laughed, the jumping of his body pushing Lucia into her own giggles, and you’d soon followed.

It’s strange how much like a family you’ve become over the last year, how well you’ve slotted into their lives. One of his best friends, pulling up with the boys when it comes to ranking his favourite people. Filling gaps he didn’t even know were there, healing fissures he thought had closed. How well you fit in his arms, how well your head fits beneath his chin. How well your lips might fit with his, how well you -

A breath of laughter puffs from his nose, and he rolls his eyes at himself. He’s too old to have a crush, too old to be smiling to himself when he thinks of the girl next door, his best pal. Besides, he has a bad track record with dating friends, anyway.

He checks his watch, stills, listening for the sounds of a restless daughter. Satisfied, he pushes himself up from the orange-bathed haven of the couch with a grunt, pulls open the front door, and skips down the porch steps.

The stubble of the lawn is cool beneath his socks as he jogs across the grass, curving around the picket fence between your properties to pop back up on the other side, striding towards your house.

He takes the steps up your porch two at a time, rapping his knuckles against the sage green of your door. He waits no more than five seconds before he knocks again, earning an irritated alriiiiight from the other side.

The click of a lock, and it swings open to reveal you in shorts, a cap, and a worn cotton t-shirt - sun-warmed, soft, gorgeous. 

You grin at the man on your doorstep, and he grins back.

‘Evenin’, teach.’

You click your tongue at the nickname.

‘Way past your bedtime, Morales,’ you tease, ‘You need a warm milk?’

Frankie flicks the back of his hand against the bill of your cap, giggling as it falls to the ground. 

You smooth your hair, scrabbling for the hat, scowling at him.

‘Need a warm milk,’ he mocks, and you land a carefully curled fist against his bicep as you stand, deadening his arm. ‘Ow, pendeja,’ he pouts, rubbing at it. ‘You know, wearing a cap indoors still doesn’t make you cool.’

That pretty, playful little scowl flickers over your face again.

‘I just finished my study break, actually.’

‘Oh yeah? What are we studying today? A million ways teenagers make your life hard?’

The scowl is stolen by a bitten back smile, and you wave him off, turning on your heel down the hallway, tugging your cap back on.

‘Whaddya want? Pain in my ass,’ you call, walking away from him and back into your kitchen. He follows, drumming his fingers along your sideboard as he goes.

‘I need a favour, if you have any spare.’

Your kitchen is bathed in the same warm glow as his living room, but instead of quiet, there’s the slow turn and hum of your laundry machine in the closet, the sweet croon of a voice from the record player in the corner. Fruit in a bowl, bottles of gifted wine, pictures of friends, paintings from students. The jungle of houseplants you keep towards the patio doors, the jumble of papers, books, planners, and pens spread around your laptop on the table.

It’s so you. So like home.

You pick up the stem of your wine glass, half full, between your thumb and pointer finger, eyes turned up to the ceiling as you count on your other hand. You wince and suck your teeth, eyes falling back to his.

‘I dunno. ’S not looking good, Fish,’ you say somberly, ‘My favour quota’s already been exceeded this year.’

‘Baby, it’s March.’ 

You shrug.

‘Been busy.’

He raises an eyebrow at you, and you scoff.

‘Well, I guess I could make an exception for you, big guy.’

He smiles, leaning against the kitchen counter.

‘I need a babysitter.’

You nod, swallowing a mouthful of wine before placing the glass back on its coaster. Papers shift and whisper as you hunt for your phone, buried in the piles of essays.

‘Oh. Sure. I have some numbers -’

‘Actually - I was thinking -’

‘Now that’s dangerous for all of us.’

He points a finger at you, and you bite your lip, humour lighting your eyes.

‘Ha. Anyway. I was thinking - I know… I know you got that big car bill last month. And I know you don’t get paid enough. And you know Lucia loves you…’

You frown at him.

‘You want me to babysit?’

He bites his lip, looking over your table with clearer eyes. You’re busy. Always busy. Overworked and stressed. A heat crawls up his neck, early onset guilt.

Maybe this was a bad idea. He inhales deeply.

‘Yeah. But I’m starting to realise that might be a lot to ask.’

Hm.

He watches as you pull out a chair and sit at the table, studying him.

‘If it makes it any better, you’re my last resort.’

He’s relieved to hear a flutter of a giggle in response, and you clap your hand over your heart.

‘Ouch. There I was, thinking I meant more to you guys than that.’

He crosses his arms, shaking his head, smiling.

‘You know you do, bug.’

You take your cap off, throwing it away from you on the table, rubbing at your forehead.

‘I’ve got a lot of work to do, Frankie,’ you say softly, eyes gentle.

He sighs.

‘I know. You can say no. It’s just - all the numbers I’ve called are kind of booked up, that’s all. And I guess - I wanna leave her with someone I trust. Someone I know. At first, anyway.’

You stare at him still, thinking.

‘What are we talking?’

‘Once or twice a week. Three at the very most. Just for late night flights.’ He pauses. ‘I’ll pay you top dollar.’

You make a disapproving noise.

‘You don’t have to pay me, Frankie.’

‘Of course I do, don’t be ridiculous. It’s on your time. And if it helps you out…’ 

You frown at him, but he fixes you with a look. No negotiating. You turn your gaze out to your backyard. 

He watches, nervous, as you chew your thumb.

Your eyes find his again.

‘Can I take work over? To do round yours?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Do I have to cook?’

‘No. I’ll make sure there’s food. For both of you.’

You nod slowly.

‘And Luc is in bed by…?’

‘Six.’

You nod again.

‘I’m not expecting the whole nine yards,’ he says, shifting. ‘No cookies or playdough, nothing like that. Just someone to look after her. And I’ll still be making calls.’

‘When would you need me?’

Frankie’s mouth twitches. 

‘Thursday this week. Tuesday and Friday next week.’

You take another drink of your wine. 

‘Can I sleep on it?’

‘Of course, bug.’ He smiles. You return it.

‘Then I’ll sleep on it. I’ll see what the schedule’s like and let you know tomorrow.’

His smile widens.

‘Alright. Thank you. Really.’

You stand from your chair, holding up a palm.

‘I ain’t said yes yet, Morales.’

The smile turns goofy.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

He steps away from the counter and pulls you into his arms. Holds you there for a minute, rocking, enjoying the warmth, the closeness, your smell. Reminds himself that it’s weird to think about your scent as much as he does.

You untangle yourself from him, hands on his biceps where you give a little squeeze.

‘Alright,’ you say, ‘Off you go. See if the kid hasn’t burned the house down yet.’

He chuckles as he retreats, backing down your hallway to the open front door.

‘See you tomorrow, teach.’

‘Get lost, Francisco.’

You sign off by flipping each other the bird as he pulls the door shut behind him, just as you usually do.

And as he steps back into his still-quiet house, he tries to tamp down his grin and his fluttering heart, just as he usually does.

You text him two hours later, when he’s fresh from the shower, clad in only his boxers.

Alright, I slept on it. I’ll be round Thursday.

Along with the swell of relief in his chest, this time the grin and the flutter are much harder to smother.

The night before you left for college, you’d had a nightmare.

You weren’t the type to scare easily; eighteen years old and free from any of the real worries the world could bring. And you were so fucking excited for this next adventure, so ready to begin the rest of your life. Still, you’d found yourself doing something you hadn't done since you were a child.

You’d knocked first - softly, so softly. Waited for a come in that never came. Your dad had stirred anyway as you closed the door quietly behind you, turning, half asleep, to see you stood twisting your fingers in the middle of the carpet.

‘Y’alright, sweetheart?’ he’d asked, all gravelly and tender, threatening tears to spill over your lashline.

‘Yeah,’ you’d mumbled, ‘Just had a nightmare.’

He’d simply lifted the covers on the other side of the bed, and you’d slipped into their warmth, scooching into his side, breathing in his smell. He’d cradled you in his arms like you were still a kid - afraid, vulnerable - and you’d let him. Let the tears soak into his shirt. Felt his grip tighten on you, the kiss he pressed to the top of your head. The promise within it, within the cool moonlight bleeding through the curtains. 

If you don’t wanna do it, all you gotta do is say.

He’d known you didn’t need to hear it, knew it was all you’d worked for, dreamed of. So instead, he’d murmured something else.

‘I’m so proud of you.’

You’d nodded into his chest, and he’d waited until the tears stopped falling before he asked if you wanted to talk about it. You hadn’t at first. But he’d always promised that talking about a dream broke it.

‘I dreamt you weren’t here.’

The vision had hung in the room for a moment, lapping against your dad’s quiet breathing.

‘I am. I’m right here, sweetheart.’

You’d nodded again, that deep, swooping panic of being completely alone in the world threatening to claw through your chest and sweep away his comfort. You couldn’t say anything else. Nothing about the empty house you’d seen, the dust sheets covering lonely chairs.

‘Always gonna be here. Can’t get rid of me.’

You’d both known he was wrong. That one day, this night would be a memory. That one day, you’d try to remember what it felt like to be held like this, known like this, try to remember the scent of his sleepshirt, and not be able to. But that would be years - decades - away. Tomorrow you start the beginning of your real, grownup life. Tomorrow, he’ll drive you across the state. He’ll haul your boxes up to your dorm room, and he’ll sit on your bed and look around and smile at you. The smile will be small, full of love, pride, grief. The grief of letting his little girl go, of looking at you and seeing you at all ages at once. Newborn, tiny in his big hands. On his shoulders, laughing at the sky. Nervous on your first day at school. Shy at the gate of highschool. Flying through the years, surrounded by friends, now landing here. 

And when he stands to leave, to tear himself away, the tears will fall again. You’ll say you’re not sure, your whole world rocking, tilting. And he’ll tell you that you might not be, but he is. You’re gonna be great. You’ll be amazing. And his most favourite line of all.

A ship in a harbour is safe. But that’s not what ships were built for.

And you’ll laugh, and you’ll hug him, and you’ll wish you could for a little longer. But you’ll walk him downstairs all the same, out to his car. You’ll shield your eyes and wave until his license plate disappears, and then you’ll cry in the sun until you have a headache. By the time you’re out with your roommate that evening, you’ll feel better. 

You won’t think about whether he cried on the way home, whether his body shook with sobs. Whether he’s sat in front of the TV now, unable to focus on the movie that’s playing because the house is too damn quiet. Won’t think about how, when he tries to sleep, he can still feel that little girl curled up into his side. How he contemplates his own mortality, hopes it won’t come for him for decades, hopes he’ll see you graduate, meet someone, be happy, achieve all you want to.

For now, there is only the blue moonlight, the deep breathing, the warm arms.

And four years later, your nightmare will come true.

You’re awake, though barely. Faintly aware of the wet on your cheeks, of the ache deep in your chest. The memory, the dream. You try to burrow your face into him, try to breathe in his scent, recall the way he talks. And as the same moonlight from the dream floods your vision, you remember. 

Four years later, and the hurt is still as raw. 

You curl into yourself, folding your arms around your body, holding it in, holding it together. Breathe through it - in through the nose, out through the mouth. I love you. I love you. Your voice and your father’s blending together. You try not to let it overwhelm you. Try not to recall all the moments, all the last moments. The hospitals, the treatments, how he wasted away before you, how you could do nothing about it. But it’s hard. So hard, alone, in the middle of the night like this.

When the burn in your throat eases, you reach for your phone. 3:32am. You unlock it out of habit, texts still open. The conversation you’d had with Frankie earlier - times, dates, what he’d make you for dinner. 

You wish they could have met each other. 

You’re sure Frankie would have loved him. Would have loved his laugh, would have shot the shit about baseball, would have clapped him on the back and joined him for beers on the porch like he does with you. And you’re sure your dad would have loved Frankie. Would have seen his kindness, his patience, his humour. A good man, just like he was.

Sometimes, when the younger man leaves your kitchen, your dad appears, sat at the table across from you. 

‘You like him.’ He says. 

‘Come off it, dad,’ like you don’t both know you’re lying. He gives that knowing little shrug. 

‘Whatever, kid,’ he says, ‘I see the way you look at him. Like you looked at - who was it - Jordan, in seventh grade?’ You always throw something at him then. A marker, a highlighter. And he always laughs at you.

You click your phone screen off, bathed in half-darkness once again. Stare at the frozen ceiling fan, the divots and shadows on the ceiling. Tired, but too awake to sleep. 

You grumble as you swing your legs out from the covers, standing from the bed. Pad downstairs in the dark, flick on the kitchen light, fill the kettle and set it to boil. Through the window, across the way, Frankie’s kitchen light is also on. Your brow furrows - this isn’t a time either of you should be awake - but then he appears in the window, shirtless, busying himself with something by the sink, and you quickly avert your eyes. Something you’ve gotten good at doing since you moved here.

Good at desperately trying not to notice his soft curls, the way his biceps stretch his t-shirts, the way his shoulders fill doorways, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles at you. The way he says your name, the golden skin you’ve glimpsed, the noises he might make -

You roll your eyes at yourself. Crashing out of an engagement, skipping town and developing a crush on the DILF next door is so… you. 

Annie would have gotten a kick out of it, that’s for sure.

The kettle finishes its boil, and you reach for a mug, a tea bag. Watch the tendrils of steam curl from the clutch of the ceramic as you brace your hands on the marble either side of it. You chew the inside of your cheek, head hanging between your shoulders, startling when your phone buzzes, furious-sounding as it crawls across the countertop. 

You know who it is before you see the caller ID. 

‘Hey, neighbour.’

‘Hey, bug.’

You smile into the receiver, holding the mobile to your ear as you move to the sink, adding cold water to the tea. You look up through the window to find Frankie also stood before his, looking back at you. Mercifully, he’s found a shirt, but his bed head still has your stomach turning in cartwheels. 

‘What’s up?’

‘Saw your light on. Wanted to check you’re okay.’

You hold up your mug, cheersing him through the glass. 

‘I’m good. Just having a little drink.’

You watch as he cocks his hip against the counter. 

‘Yeah? What kinda drink you got?’

You exhale through your nose, rolling your eyes. 

‘Chamomile.’

There’s a beat, and then his voice is soft, tender.

‘Y’had a nightmare, too?’

You shake your head.

‘Not a nightmare, just a dream.’

‘Dad?’

You nod, sipping.

‘Yeah. You know how it is. Lucia okay?’

You watch him flick his gaze to the hallway, the stairs beyond your line of sight. Hear the scratch of his whiskers as he rubs at his beard.

‘She’s alright. Nothing a warm milk and her night light can’t fix.’

You smile at him.

‘You remind me of him, you know.’

Frankie pauses his scratching, peering out at you, surprised.

‘You’re a good dad. The best. He was, too.’

Your voice is low, affectionate. Something pulls deep in his gut, something that forces a tight bubble up his throat. He swallows a couple of times, closing his eyes to the kindness.

‘Thank you, bug.’

‘I mean it.’

He nods, voice crackly and deep when it comes to you.

‘I know.’

You watch each other a moment longer, separate rooms, separate houses, such closeness bridging those gaps. Frankie breaks the quiet.

‘You sure you’re okay?’

You smile, nod, sip.

‘I’m sure. Should head back to bed, anyway.’

Frankie hums down the line, thoughtful. A breath whistles through his nose.

‘G’night, bug.’

‘Good night, Fish.’

You wait for the beep of the disconnected line, Frankie’s wave through the window. The hard lump in your throat as you watch him retreat to the doorway of his kitchen, the darkness that stares back at you, the ache of being alone again on this moon of grief. 

And something quieter, more selfish. Creeping and tidal that laps at the edges, a want for a man you have convinced yourself you cannot have. A sadness that buzzes deep in your skin, curls back layers of your being, tells you that you cannot afford to be broken again. Not like your dad. Not like Annie. 

But you like him, your dad says. What’s so wrong with that?

You cocoon yourself tightly in your duvet, your back to the moonlight, the reminders. Tired eyes blinking at the door. Waiting. Waiting, in a different life, different house, different state, for eighteen year old you to tiptoe in and tell you about her nightmare. 

Waiting for you to tell her that her dad is right there.

That she should hold him a little longer before he drives home tomorrow. 

[morganski-19]

The One with the Stolen Clothes

 Eddie walks into Steve and Robin’s apartment to bother them, because he’s bored, and Robin dramatically gasps. Then throws a ball of paper at Steve when he walks out of his bedroom.

“What the fuck was that for?” he asks, thoroughly confused.

Robin gestures over to Eddie with wide eyes. Steve raises an eyebrow, still confused. Eddie just looked between the two of them, trying to decipher what they are silently communicating. Robin rolls her eyes.

“Eddie, where did you get that shirt?”

Eddie glances down at his shirt, having just pulled it out of the laundry basket before walking over here. “The laundry basket on the couch. Why?”

“No, like what place?”

He shrugs. “Thrift store probably, I don’t listen to this bad, but the logo’s cool.”

Robin dramatically stands up. “I knew it. That’s my shirt.”

Eddie makes a confused face. “How would your shirt end up in my apartment?”

Steve’s eyes widen. “I think I know. Remember when you stayed over here a few nights ago, and you borrowed some of my clothes. You said that you would wash them and then return them, but never did. I’m pretty sure that was the shirt you borrowed.”

“Huh, guess so. Sorry Buck, I’ll have to wash it again before giving it back to you.”

“Yeah fine, whatever,” Robin groans.

Steve snaps, like he just made a big realization. “That’s why you threw the paper at me.”

“It always come back to you stealing shit out of my closet.”

“Not my fault you like to wear baggy shirts.”

“You still wear it even if it’s not baggy,” Robin raises her voice. “Half my closet is stuff that you stretched out.”

Steve huffs. “That is so not true. And you steal my shit all the time, it’s like our thing.”

“Not when you lend someone else my clothes,” she points to Eddie, bringing him back into this conversation. “And I don’t care if it’s not washed, I’d like it back.”

Eddie shrugs. “I’ll go change then.”

He leaves the apartment and returns to his own. Nancy giving him an odd look when he walks through the door.

“Is that you’re shirt?” Nancy asks, sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop.

“Apparently not. It’s Robin’s.” Eddie goes to his room to change, double checking that this shirt is actually his.

“How’d you end up with Robin’s shirt?” Nancy asks, turning her head to the hall when a loud scream is heard from the other apartment.

Eddie matches her expression, thinking it’s probably not a good idea to go over there again. “Steve accidentally lent it to me. Apparently, he steals her clothes a lot.”

Nancy hums. “Yeah, it’s been a problem for years. But she does it to. When I roomed with her in college, she would steal my sweatshirts all the time.”

“I’m still surprised you guys didn’t date back then. You practically were from the sound of it.” There’s another scream from the across the hall. “Should we intervene?”

“Nah, they’ll be fine. We probably would have dated in college if I knew I was bi back then. But I didn’t, so we sort of missed it.”

Eddie faces Nancy. “And now?”

“Now,” Nancy says, still facing the door. “Whatever we might have had back then is gone. Robin and I are just friends. All we’ll ever be.”

“Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you think Robin doesn’t like you back.”

“Because I believe it. What we have,” Nancy takes a deep breath. “I’d rather be her friend forever than risk losing her to some shitty breakup. I almost lost Steve when we broke up in college, and then Jonthan when we broke up two years ago. I got lucky twice, I’m not risking being lucky again.”

Eddie sits down next to Nancy at the table. “But are you really going to stop yourself from trying. Maybe this time, you won’t have to be lucky. Everything could work out.”

“Are you still holding yourself back after your dick head of an ex-boyfriend broke up on you?” Nancy asks already knowing the answer.

“Got me there. When did life get so complicated?”

Nancy huffs. “Life was so much easier when we were in high school. The biggest thing we had to worry about were classes and shitty after school jobs. Not this.”

“Remember that hiding spot we found in the library?”

“Yeah,” Nancy smiles. “Right behind the non-fiction isle by the teachers lounge. Everything felt better there.”

“Do you ever wish you could go back in time, just for life to feel simpler again? Or to change something in hopes it would make your future better.”

“Sometimes. I think if I did, the one thing I would change is us falling out of touch. Everything else, I think was just fine enough.”

Eddie plays with his rings. “I’m sorry that I stopped reaching out when you went off to school. Just felt like you didn’t need me anymore, with all your new college friends and classes and shit. You didn’t need me dragging you back to that town. You were so much better than them.”

“I’m sorry I let you. Wasn’t just you’re doing. I wanted to separate as much from home as possible, you just happened to be in the crossfire.”

Robin bursts through the apartment door, finding Eddie with a glare. “My shirt,” she demands.

“Right, here,” he tosses her the shirt and she leaves. “We really need to start locking that door.”

Nancy winces. “Yeah. Why’d Steve lend you the shirt anyway?”

“Not the reason you think. We were too high and tired to stand up fully, so he just let me stay over.”

“Damn, thought you two were done being stupid.”

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen until you and Robin stop being stupid.”

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or taken off) @slowandsteddie, @annieofhearts, @cacdyke, @ubpd, @captain--low, @thespaceantwhowrites, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @anne-bennett-cosplayer, @lunaticparisianlady, @apomaro-mellow, @dolphincliffs, @dragonmama76, @maggiebug417, @stevesbipanic, @fearieshadow, @mentallyundone, @eightpackdiaz, @au79burger @bookworm0690 , @practicallybegging, @potato-of-the-lord, @autumncrocusandladybug

[restinslices]

Lin Kuei Sibling Headcanons

I gotta stop using the same gifs over and over again. Anywho, just random headcanons about them when they were younger. A few of these is what my siblings and I did but listen-. No sad shit this time around, but next time issa wrap no bun (word to CoryXKenshin)

When they were younger Bi-Han realized someone was drinking his shit, so he started spitting in it

He also loudly announces that he did so and that whoever drank his shit was drinking his germs 

Kuai Liang responded by saying “well we both share the same DNA”

Revolting. Yuck. 

Tomas smiles when he's nervous so people always think he's lying. 

“Did you drink my slushy?” “No” “Yes you did. You're smiling” “YOU'RE MAKING ME NERVOUS”

D if you ever see this, I did not drink that fucking slushy years ago and getting mom involved was actually so foul. “Put that on my dead granny”, WHY WOULD I LIE ON GRANDMA? I SHOULD'VE drank it. Should've took a big ass gulp 

Moving on- 

Like I said in my last post, Bi-Han and Kuai Liang have definitely jumped Tomas before 

They call it play fighting, Tomas calls it attempted murder 

Bi-Han is the “come here” brother and Tomas is the “you're gonna hit me” brother 

Bi-Han is also the “you want a cookie?” and Tomas is the “what'd you do to it?”

Speaking of those two, the real reason Bi-Han doesn't like Tomas is because Tomas would stand in his doorway and when Bi-Han would tell him to get out, Tomas would say “I'm not in your room”

Kuai Liang would put his finger close to Bi-Han but say he's not touching him 

That's the real reason he betrayed them. It's true. I asked him. 

Idk which one them does it but one of these mfs puts the cereal box in front of them to ignore the brother they're mad at 

Tomas is “your dad is pissing me off”, Kuai Liang is “lmao what happened?”

Bi-Han’s room is the chill out spot against his will

Kuai Liang has accidentally set someone on fire 100% and they never let him live it down (my siblings did that on purpose but scooting right along) (no one died😃)

Tomas is the victim of white jokes. He'll say smth and here comes Bi-Han “why are you?? speaking?? to me?? as a white person?? go eat salt??”

Kuai Liang is “hey can I have a bite?” and Bi-Han says “sure” then licks all over whatever he has. 

“Tuesday is my day with the TV” “you're adopted. shut up”

Bi-Han has gotten the other two into several fights ‘cause he has a bad temper and his siblings ride for him 

This one time my sister yelled at a teacher for yelling at me and that's Bi-Han. Like yeah, he's not the nicest as an adult but as a kid? The only mf that's allowed to yell at his brothers is HIM. 

They've all gotten whooped because none of them snitch on each other. This is a ride or die brotherhood (for now) (not me tho. My mom got a heavy ass hand. You're on your own)

“Tell your brother to do those damn dishes” “you want me to say it like that? with the curse word?” “go ahead”

Whoever it is goes to their brother and- “dad said get your big nasty ass up and clean those motherfucking dishes before he whoops your skinny long neck ass”

I cannot pinpoint who exactly would do this and risk the whooping so imma just say they've all been guilty

Bi-Han and Kuai Liang are those annoying ass kids asking you to play bloody knuckles. If you don't get the fuck away from me-

Tomas played with Kuai Liang once and quit immediately

Kuai Liang is the “I only had a cup” when the juice is all gone. Yeah, you had a big ass cup you get from Super America. The Minute Maid is gone because of you 

Bi-Han and Kuai Liang, “Say Fuck, I'm not gonna tell dad”. Tomas says “no” and the day he does say it now he's being blackmailed 

Kuai Liang would help Bi-Han look for shit he knows he took. Y'all may think Kuai Liang would never do such a thing. He's so sweet. THAT'S HOW HE GOT AWAY WITH IT!

When they accidentally really hurt the other and hear their parents, they have different reactions. Bi-Han is the “tell them. I don't care. Actually, I'll tell them for you” brother. Kuai Liang is the “wait wait wait, calm down. Stop crying. Look, you can hit me back. You want candy?” brother. Tomas is the “that was actually an accident. My bad” brother. 

Tomas actually learned all that smoke… magic… uhh… shit so he could defend himself cause he was getting ragdolled in that house 

Kuai Liang is actually really nice to Tomas now cause he looks back and thinks “wow, I was kinda an asshole”

For example, Tomas was living his life and here comes these maniacs grabbing him and putting his bare feet in the snow 

Idk, I just really think Tomas was fighting for his life in that house 

It was all in love but now he jumps when they move a little too fast

Tomas tells his brothers he loves them a lot because he wasn't able to tell his birth family before they were killed. He wants them to always know and whenever their time does come, he wants it to be the last thing they hear from him or the last thing he says before he dies. 

Kuai Liang usually says it back or says something else comforting. His way of saying “I love you” can be something as simple as a hand on the shoulder. Sometimes instead of saying “I love you”, he says “I care about you”. Personal preference 

Bi-Han used to say “I love you” back but as time passed, he stopped. He's someone who gets kinda uncomfortable when it comes to vulnerable emotions. His way of saying “I love you” is “are you hurt?”. It's usually only used after a form of combat but combat can make you realize that your life is on a time limit. We saw in game and by intro dialogues that he was hurt by Kuai Liang not sticking by him. The idea that he doesn't care for his family AT ALL I think is false. I think he cares but he cares about his own goals more. 

That's all I got for fluffy shit rn

I’m actually someone who enjoys angst way more than fluff but thinking about them and angst makes my heart fall into my ass … imma write some later tho

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for coming out as bi to my girlfriend and voicing my concerns to her

I (18M) have been dating my girlfriend, L (20F) for three years now. our relationship has been great so far, we were attracted to each other from the start. she has always been very flirty and tbh that's how she won me over at first, because teenage hormones are gonna teenage hormones y'know, but when I got to know her better as a person I realized my feelings for her weren't just sexual - she is kind, gentle, overall really sweet. I was, and still am, attracted to her in every way. L is also openly bisexual, fully out, and idk I've always felt so safe around her because she doesn't judge others, I think she's so beautiful inside and out. she has been my first girlfriend ever so I always do my best to be supportive and make her feel loved.

a few months ago I realized I'm bi. I thought, hey, since she always speaks about her own bisexuality I think I can tell her I'm bi as well. she was, as usual, very non-judgemental but she said something that I didn't like, something like "you see how much I love and trust you? someone else would've been like OMG YOU'RE PROBABLY JUST GAY AND YOU WANT TO CHEAT ON ME WITH A GUY". I was,, confused bc 1. I think supporting your partner when they come out is the bare minimum, 2. she is bisexual herself and I don't think shes gonna cheat on me with a girl, I never acted like I was great for supporting her and 3. I know I'm not gay because L can do whatever she wants with me so I dunno what that comment was for. I've enjoyed my intimate encounters with her too much to be gay and she knows this.

I was a bit annoyed but still grateful that she was supportive. I noticed our sexual activities increased after that and a part of me wondered if she was trying to make sure I'm not gay. which made her look like a bit of a hypocrite because she never had to "prove" to me that she's not gay. not complaining tho - I just found it odd? I think it's a weird double standard, but then again I know women are always putting up with double standards so I feel like I can't tell her abt how strange her comment was. I just don't want L to think I'm not attracted to her and I started feeling like an asshole for telling her I'm bi.

but she got actually upset over something else that has nothing to do with us being bi - when we first started talking, she was dating another guy. I knew this, so I was respectful, I thought that L being flirty with me was some kind of joke until she told me she was serious and she couldn't stop thinking about me. L didn't cheat on him, she broke up with him before she started dating me, and recently I told her "hey... I won't be that guy one day, right? I trust you and I know you won't cheat on me, but I remembered how our friendship first started and if you ever stop loving me I would like to know before you feel ignored enough to start flirting with other guys". she got very visibly upset, she said I was right, said she felt cheap and like a whore and ???? NOT AT ALL WHAT I FUCKING MEANT. I was trying to tell her I want us to have communication, because I love her and I want our relationship to work out.

I feel like a shitty person and boyfriend, first for telling her I'm bi even though it wouldn't have an impact on our relationship, then for trying to voice my concerns and accidentally making her feel that way.

I've apologized a few times and we're good now but she introduced me to her best friend and,, this girl just started talking abt how she will guide me so I can properly take care of L? it made me feel really stupid. I felt like a child tbh. we are bi but not poly (I respect those who are, just giving you context) so idk why she felt she had to insert her friend into our relationship. am I really so bad that my girlfriend has to ask her friend to teach me how to be good to her? I would understand this if L had some sort of disability but her friend just talks to me about BDSM and doms/subs and like ??? I feel like L being a sub has fuck all to do with our argument, but I still feel terrible. pls help me make sense of these things. I want to know if I am the asshole.

[ripleyresonance]

Sweet Enough to Eat

Sugar Mommy Rhea! x OC

Part 2

Happy Holiday's Mosherz. I hope you all made it on the naughty list this year. This is part 1 of a sugar mommy Rhea fic idea I had. Let me know if you want more...it might be ready already...

Cali had always enjoyed the finer things in life.

Her favorite perfume was Vanilla Diorama by Dior. Her favorite weekend getaway was Nicè, France. And she had even had her favorite sakè flown in from Japan on a bi-weekly schedule.

The best part was that she didn’t spend a dime on this lifestyle. It was all thanks to her sugar mommy.

Cali smiled sitting at her vanity and looking at a picture of her “mami” on her vanity. Cali was unsure which state or country she was in right now. Being an international WWE superstar meant she was gone most of the time. And with past sugar mommy’s, Cali had never cared as long as they bought her what she wanted she was happy. But something about this one left this empty feeling inside of her when Rhea left.

It all started a few months ago. Cali was down on her luck in a major way. Her last sugar mommy had ghosted her and she was running low on perfume. It had even been three weeks since she had her nails done. It was a dire situation.

To take her mind off it she went to her favorite bar from college. She knew they had cheap drinks so she put on a baseball cap and sunglasses and just tried to keep your head down and drink the sadness away. By the time she left, she was understandably pretty fucked up. Maybe she was a little too fucked up as she was bent over throwing up on the brick wall next to the building in the ally. She went to sit on the cool pavement as she felt a strong arm hold her up.

“Woah woah easy there beautiful. Don’t want you to sit in this puke puddle.” An Australian accent said to Cali.

Cali giggled as she stood up facing the woman.

“Y-you sound like bluey.” Cali burped.

The woman laughed.

“You would be surprised how often I get that.” She smiled.

“Can I get you an Uber love, you look like it’s been a rough night?” She said frowning a bit.

“Oh, you wouldn’t even believe the half of it! I mean first, she ghosted me and didn’t even leave me enough money to get my nails done last week now look at them.” Cali cried showing the woman her nails.

“Who could ever let such a pretty thing let their nails go undone?!” She said playing along with Cali.

Cali smiled at the woman as her drunk brain thought someone finally understood her problems.

“What’s your address honey?” the woman asked propping her against the wall to grab her phone.

Cali frowned at the woman.

“I don’t wanna go home. It’s not like anyone will be waiting for me.” Cali said making the women pause for a moment. “Did you want to go back to my place?” She offered.

Cali gasped dramatically.

“Are you trying to kidnap me!?” Cali said loudly.

The women panicked.

“NO NO oh god you just looked sad and sounded like you-“ the woman stuttered.

Cali laughed loudly playfully pushing her shoulder. “I’m fucking with you. A sexy buff lady just asked me to come back to her house. I’ll happily be kidnapped.” Cali said putting her hands out in front of her acting ready for cuffs.

The woman chuckled rubbing the back of her neck.

“You going to be a real handful huh?”

“I could be two handfuls if you wanted..” Cali said grabbing her chest and making the woman laugh.

“C'mon then my car is around the corner she said grabbing Cali’s hand to guide her. It was warm and grounding, enough for her to realize.

“Wait wait wait,” Cali said making the woman stop to face her.

“I’m about to go home with you but I don't even know your name. I mean not like I haven't hooked up with someone before not knowing their name” Cali said.

The woman thought for a moment before touching Cali's chin lightly.

“ We are not doing anything tonight in the state you are in besides getting you a new outfit. You can call me Rhea…what can I call you?” Rhea said her voice low.

“Shit with that voice you can call me whatever you like.” Cali felt her face heat up. “But my friends call me Cali”.

“Well…Cali, shall we go home?”

The next thing Cali knew she was opening her eyes to a bull terrier licking her face.

She shot up in a bed that was not hers as a woman ran in the door.

“Oh shit I am so sorry I wanted to let you sleep in. Barry DOWN off the bed.” the woman snapped as the dog ran off.

Cali looked at the woman momentarily as last night flooded back to her. She remembered her picking her off of the sidewalk, going back to her place…throwing up on her-

“Oh, my god.” Cali said “I just remembered…I am so sorry!” She went to move from the bed until she realized she had no clothes on.

Cali looked mortified as Rhea quickly reassured her.

“We didn't do anything! After you threw up on me I went to go shower and I came back to you naked and laying on my bed so I threw the blanket on you and went to sleep on the couch” Rhea said frantically.

“I- oh my god.” is all Cali could say putting her head in her hands.

“Hey hey we all have had those days, trust me,” Rhea said leaning down next to her and placing a glass of water and ibuprofen on the nightstand.

“You have woken up naked in a stranger's bed after she picked you up out of your own puke?” Cali said peeking out of her hands.

“Well…no,” Rhea admitted causing Cali to groan and fall over.

Rhea laughed going to her closet to grab Cali some clothes.

“Here you can take a shower real quick and throw on these clothes, I will make us some coffee.” Rhea smiled before leaving Cali alone.

As Cali showered all she could do was die of embarrassment remembering the night before. Did she call A total stranger a “sexy buff lady?”. On top of that strip naked and lay on her bed. Cali had to get out of there quickly but after walking out to the kitchen she was hit with the smell of toast.

“There you are sunshine, I got coffee and some toast, the hangover breakfast of champions.”

Rhea sat the food on her kitchen island before Cali as she just stared at the woman.

“Why are you being so nice to me…” Cali said quietly. Rhea looked at the woman with soft eyes.

“Last night you told me you didn't want to go home…you said no one was waiting there..and I don't think anyone should feel that way…especially not someone as beautiful as you are.”

Rhea mumbled the last part as Cali blushed taking a seat and drinking a sip of coffee.

“So did you just break up with your partner then?” Rhea questioned as she leaned against the counter sipping a cup of her coffee.

“Oh no, I haven't dated in…a long time.” Cali laughed

Rhea cocked her eyebrow.

“Sorry you mentioned someone was paying for your nails and perfume so I assumed,” Rhea said

Cali groaned internally thinking how she was about to explain to this kind stranger that she just gets sugar mommies to buy her things. She should have just lied but the ibuprofen was taking longer than she wanted to kick in.

“I uh…people like to buy me those things sometimes,” Cali said avoiding eye contact.

Rhea had a devious smile across her face.

“Are you a sugar baby?” Rhea questioned.

Cali signed looking at Rhea.

“Okay okay let me explain I started back in college and it was super easy and I started getting used to all the gifts and attention and-” Cali rambled.

“Hey hey, no judgment from me..It's not like you are scamming people. They just like giving you what you want, and I see why.” Rhea smirked.

Cali looked confused as Rhea set her cup down standing in front of Cali grabbing her hand. “You were right last night. I cannot believe someone would let you have your nails grown out this much. I would let you change them multiple times a week if that was what you wanted.

Cali stared at her shaking her head and laughing.

“Okay okay poke fun of me all you want thank you for the breakfast,” Cali said getting up as Rhea as Rhea pulled her hand again.

“I’m being serious…Cali.” Rhea said.

“My job has me flying everywhere, I am rarely here at home and it would be nice to have someone to come home to when I am back Maybe even fly out sometimes.” Rhea smiled.

Cali blinked a couple of times trying to process what Rhea was saying.

“… I’m sorry but do you remember me puking on you less than twenty-four hours ago? Why in the fuck would you want to be my sugar mommy.” Cali said highly confused.

“Because Cali I find you…interesting, and I want to find out why,” Rhea said lightly kissing the inside of Cali’s wrist making her blush.

As the offer hung in the air Cali’s mind raced at the unexpected turn of events. Rhea offered to go get her nails fixed she couldn't help but feel a sort of tension in the air…Cali did not know if it was all in her head or what but she could have sworn that kiss to her wrist was more romantic than transactional.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 3 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, omc, ofc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 6.2k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Scott’s new-found abilities and the murky world they’ve been dragged into is making it pretty damn hard to keep his promise. 

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real and old family skeletons rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive? 

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to? Chapter Summary: More information about the animal attack comes to light. You can’t decide if you're more scared of the monster or becoming friends with someone new. 

A/N: You can also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

You were surprised to see your dad’s car in the garage. He wasn’t supposed to be off work for hours, and he certainly never came home early on weekdays. You would be more nervous if there was anyone left in your life to grieve. It was just the two of you now. Your mom hadn’t ever talked about her family; you weren't even sure if she ever had one, and Grandma and Papa Dickinson died before you even had the chance to remember them. You wished, sometimes, that there was someone else in the house. Someone who could fill the cold silence and closed doors. Someone who might chase away the ghosts lingering in the long halls and photographs on the walls. It was a futile dream. You were going to die in this house, and someday a new family would chase your family’s shadows away with laughter.

You felt a bittersweet sense of déjà vu when you walked into the house and saw your dad sitting at the kitchen table. The kitchen was his spot before everything went wrong. He puttered around the island in the mornings with his thermos of coffee and tablet, somehow knowing exactly when to flip the bubbling pancakes on the griddle without glancing up from whatever NPR article he was reading. He only looked up from the screen to kiss your mom on the cheek and give you a side-squeeze until you whined about your inability to breathe. 

That was a long time ago, you reminded yourself as your dad looked up from his iPad. It’d been four years, but he still hadn’t quite figured out how to hug you and the kitchen never smelled like pancakes and cinnamon syrup anymore. “How was school?” your dad finally said after a long moment of uneasy eye-contact. 

Your brow wrinkled, and your head canted slightly, “You really want to talk about my day?”

“Of course,” your dad paused and rubbed his hands over his face, “but there is something important I wanted to talk to you about.” His stubble had grown out enough that you could see where the brown was starting to gray. He looked so old for a moment, and you weren't quite sure how to feel. You never did around him. 

Frowning, you sat down in the chair across from him, “Did someone die?”

“No,” your dad quickly replied, and then he sighed, “well, yes.” He set his iPad to the side and took his thick reading glasses off, “You know about the animal attacks.” It wasn’t a question. You figured that was how this would go; it was easier to pretend you didn’t exist if he monologued to the spot on the wall just over your shoulder. “Sheriff Stilinski and I agree that a curfew is the best course of action, considering the situation we’re in.”

Best course of action. You chewed on what was left of your nails and resisted the sigh budding in your chest. So, this was a council meeting too. You just didn’t get a vote. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” Your dad blinked a few times and rubbed at his jaw, like he’d been expecting you to fight him on it. Most of the fight fizzled out in you a long time ago; it was just easier to pretend. You got that from him, you thought. You inherited your dad’s love for mystery novels and his ability to deny reality straight to its face, and that was where the similarity ended. Your face, your skin, your heart—your exhausting curiosity—that was all your mom. It must be why your dad couldn’t keep his gaze on you for long. He ran his fingers through his short crop of dark hair and said, “Anyone under the age of 18 needs to be home by 9:00 every night.” 

“Fine.” It wasn’t like you had much of a social life anyway, and the curio shop you worked for closed long before dark. “So,” you fiddled with the edge of a decorative bamboo placemat that hadn’t seen a plate in years, “do the police have any idea what kind of animal’s going all Pac-Man on people?”

Your dad stared at you for a moment, a deep divot developing above the crooked bridge of his nose. You looked down at your hands and mumbled, “The vampire Pomeranian, not the wimpyass circle.”

His mouth tugged a little, and you would’ve sworn he was fighting a smile if everything else in the world didn’t directly contradict the theory. “Not exactly.”

“Which means…” you shook your head a little and tugged your fingers through your unruly hair, grimacing a bit as they snagged on a few knots where your hair had frizzed together, “they’ve ruled out tiny bloodsucking dogs, or they’ve narrowed it down to a few probable options?” 

He paused for a long moment, and you pulled your shins to your chest, focusing on the tips of your sneakers hanging off the edge of the wooden seat. You turned your cheek into your kneecaps and waited for your dad to make an excuse and leave. You’d pushed. You always had to push. 

“There were wolf fibers on the girl.”

You whipped your head up from your knees, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. You were a little embarrassed that you were more stunned by your dad sharing confidential information with you than a wolf migrating to central California for the first time in over a hundred years. “And the bus driver?”

“He’s still…unresponsive. Stilinski is looking into the possibility that he was attacked by the same animal.” 

“Huh,” you said quietly, eyes glazing over as you considered the possibility.

“Regardless, you need to be home before dark until they catch the damn thing,” he leaned back against his chair, tipping his head back with his bottle of Miller High life. The golden liquid sloshed back and forth with the strength of his swallow. It was the first time you’d seen him drink since the funeral, but you knew about the empty bottles he threw away in the trash outside. Over the years, the number varied; you noticed a significant increase around anniversaries, birthdays, and Christmas. You left extra take-out in the fridge during those weeks, always his favorites, and they were gone in the morning. You twisted the pendant on your necklace and made a note to order Little India’s tandoori chicken after your shift.

“I have to work tonight.” You said quietly, nibbling the bed of your thumbnail, “I’m off at 8:00.” 

You both dreaded and longed for your boss’s absurd take on the situation—though boss wasn’t quite the right word for Maggie Sinclair. Despite the fact that she owned Curio Killed the Cat and approved your paychecks, Maggie was the least authoritative person you knew. You’d say Mags was like an older sister, but older sisters generally didn’t require so much supervision around open flames and sangria—and anything else sparkling enough to distract her sporadic focus. Your mom used to look out for her before she died; you supposed Maggie was just another thing you inherited from her. Your favorite thing probably, but that was something you’d most likely take to your grave.

Your dad’s face went blank for a moment, as it always did when he was reminded of anything remotely related to your mom. It was easier for him, you thought, to pretend that she never existed. You couldn’t even be bitter about it; you hadn’t even cried at the funeral. You cried much later, of course, but by then the pity well had run dry. Nobody cared how you coped, so long as you coped quickly. You’d wasted those precious first few months of constant consolations with numbness, with monotonous, 'Thank you,’s and, 'It’s sad, but I’m okay,'s and then, eventually, everyone stopped asking if you were okay. Time passed. You didn’t touch any of the casseroles in the fridge. People moved on. You lived in the wake and pushed people away with an acrid bite that would disappoint the resurrection right out of your mother. Your dad was just coping. You both were. 

“Right,” he cleared his throat, “come straight home after.”

You shouldered your backpack and stood up, “Always do.”

You still didn’t know how Maggie met your mom, given the 15-year age gap and their vastly different…everything, but Maggie had been in your life for as long as you could remember. You spent so much time in Maggie’s store after your mom died that you figured you might as well get paid for shelving spell books and grimoires while you were there—even if you did think that most of Maggie’s customers were totally off their rocker. Of course, in-person customers were a rare oddity in Curio Killed the Cat.

The store was always slow on weekdays, weekends too actually. Most of Maggie’s business was online; she shipped ‘haunted’ and ‘magical’ artifacts all across the globe to e-goths with bad backs and Wicca wannabes. Truthfully, Maggie didn’t really need your help running the storefront, but she claimed she enjoyed the company—even if said company was bitterly sarcastic and hypercritical of the product she was stocking. 

“Hey, Mags,” you called. The bell on the front door tinkled in the background as you shoved it open with your shoulder. You paused to scratch under Maggie’s ancient tabby’s chin until he let out a sawing purr. You weren't exactly sure how old Gizmo was, but he behaved more like the taxidermied animals on the walls than the stray cats that lived in the small alley behind the store. 

“Maggie’s head popped up from the circle of book-stack pillars surrounding her. A few of her black curls frizzed out from her bun like a chaotic springy bow and her sweater swallowed her whole despite the relatively warm evening. “Babe,” Maggie placed her hands on your shoulders and grinned at you with a little too much teeth, “thorn in my side, light of my life.”

You lifted the large pair of acrylic glasses from Maggie’s nest of curls and then slipped them over her rounded nose with a reluctant sigh, “What?”

“Glasses. That was next on the agenda.” Maggie blinked owlishly behind her lenses as her eyes adjusted, and then they lit up with whatever it was she’d miraculously remembered, “I am so delighted to see you.”

“It’s Monday.” Gizmo curled around your leg and meowed pathetically until you bent down and lifted him onto you shoulder, “I work Mondays.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, “I’m aware; I made the schedule. The Concerta isn’t completely defective.”

You grinned a little, and Gizmo kneaded your chest in agreement, “So: You’re delighted to see me.”

Nodding rapidly, Maggie picked up a lavishly bound book from one of the stacks of new inventory. It was so tall that it reached her chin, and there were four more just like it in the back. “I need these stocked for realsies,” Maggie said, blowing off the thin layer of dust that had started to gather on the cover. She dropped the book back on top of the pile with a loud thump and carefully avoided knocking anything over on her way to the front of the store, “And I’m currently in the middle of a bidding war.”

“Haunted or historical?” you grabbed the clunky price gun off of the tarot card display.

“A little of both actually,” Maggie hummed, fiercely focused on the computer screen. Her nose was almost smashed against the monitor.

You set Gizmo down on the floor, patting his head tenderly when he let out a disgruntled whine and clawed at your thin knee socks. Eventually, the effort became too much for his poor paws to bear, and he waddled off towards one of his many nesting spots. “For you or for the store?” you pulled the stepladder away from the wall of stone runes and protection charms and plopped yourself down on the top step.

“For you, actually,” Maggie grinned a little and winked, “don’t say I never gave ya’ nothing.”

“Wonderful,” you dropped your chin into your cupped hands, “a poltergeist bonus.”

Maggie huffed and shoved the sleeves of her hand-knitted cardigan up to her elbows, “It’s not actually haunted. Not really. It’s like…a spirit router, basically. Whatever. It’ll make me feel better about you walking around with a rabid Cujo on the loose.”

“Aw,” you smirked good-naturedly and slapped a price tag on a book entitled ‘Heal the Witch Wound Inside’—$35.99, and for what? You were too amused to point out the redundancy of rabid Cujo. “You got me a guardian angel.”

“Trying to,” Maggie corrected her under her breath, “but MagikMike9917 is a persistent little bitch.”

You laughed and slid ‘Witch Wound’ into the self-help section, “Just get me a mini-taser; they come in some real cute cases now.”

“Mhm.” Maggie briefly glanced over in your direction and then abruptly whirled her head back towards the thick book in your hands, “Not that one.”

You narrowed your gaze as you examined the cover of the book more closely. You had to admit, it was beautiful. The leather was a deep burgundy, and the spine was hand stitched together with gold thread—but it was the carving on the front that really caught your attention. There were two wolves etched into the leather. Their howling snouts pointed towards the full moon above their heads, and their tails entwined around the roots of a large tree sprouting into the sky. Ornate symbols framed the borders of the scene, and a few scattered jewels glinted in the light. It must have taken at least a week to finish. 

You held up the book, your brow curved into a high arch, “This for me too? ‘Cause I’ve already seen The Witcher; pretty sure I got the gist.”

Rolling her eyes, Maggie reached blindly for her soup mug of passionflower and mugwort tea. The smell of it was truly rank, but you had grown accustomed to the musky bitterness over the years. “That one’s already sold. They should be dropping by to pick it up anytime now.” She raised her cup towards you, “I told you bestiaries are essential reading.”

“For dungeon masters, maybe,” you hummed as you studied the cover again. The red and citrine jewels in the wolves’ eyes seemed to be winking at you when the light hit them at the just right angle. 

“Which is an essential contribution to society,” Maggie punctuated her sentence with a loud slurp. 

Your lips gave way to a small grin as you set the book to the side. You’d stocked around half the stacks of books when the front door chimed for the first time since your shift started. You looked towards the door and squinted at the increasingly familiar smattering of freckles and moles, “Are you stalking me now? I will tell your dad; I’m not above snitching or stitches.” 

Stiles blinked a few times and then shook his head, holding up his hands, “I swear on my jeep this time it’s a coincidence. I ordered something here like a week ago.”

You folded your arms over your chest, “And your jeep is sacred, is it?”

Stiles nodded solemnly and rested his hand over his chest, “The sacredest.” 

If the muttered cursing and aggressive sipping was anything to go by, Maggie was too busy with her eBay war to be of any help with inventory. Stocking would have to wait. You stood up and glanced over Stiles’s shoulder, “Where’s your sidekick?”

Stiles squeezed one eye almost completely shut and looked off into the void with the other until realization dawned over his face, “You mean Scott?” He snorted and shot you a grin that was loaded with self-pity, “I’m usually the sidekick reference. Always, actually.” 

You nodded and looked down, searching for the culprit of the little head butting into your shin. Gizmo was probably the most ineffective, geriatric guard dog in the entire animal kingdom, but you appreciated the effort. You scooped him up into your arms so that he could better inspect the strange boy who’d invaded his den and nuzzled your nose against the black stripe on top of his head. “They do tend to never shut up.” 

Stiles looked like he wanted to argue—a frequent expression of you were beginning to realize—and then his shoulders slumped in defeat, “Holy shit, I’ve been type-casted.”

“You could do an arthouse film,” you tilted your head, “show people you’ve got range.”

Stiles nodded, considering the idea, “My charming wit and boyish good looks are really holding me back.” He stooped down to scratch behind Gizmo’s ears. Gizmo bristled for a moment, eyeing his hand suspiciously, but he eventually flopped back in your arms after a few curious sniffs. “No one takes me seriously.”

“Uh huh.” You watched Stiles pet Gizmo and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, trying to remember the last man Gizmo hadn’t bit. You couldn’t recall a single one. Warmth enveloped your face when Stiles looked up and met your gaze. He didn’t appear to think much of it, just turned his eyes towards the ground and stroked Gizmo’s little gray toes. 

You set Giz down, despite his pathetic protests, and turned towards the stockpile of inventory, fighting the urge to bite your nails to the quick, “So, what’d you order, boy wonder?” You looked over your shoulder when Stiles didn’t answer. He was smiling a little, mostly to himself, with his hands shoved in his pockets. Your brows quirked, “What?”

“Nothing.” He groaned a little when you kept looking at him, your brows still cocked, and then shrugged with his hands still fisted in his jacket pockets, “It’s just not so bad, the sidekick thing. It’s not so pathetic when you say it like that.”

You swallowed, a little startled by his honesty even though you were the one who’d insisted upon it. “Order?”

“Right,” he nodded a few times and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a thickass book, wolves on the front, about yea big,” Stiles held his palms almost six inches apart from each other. “Please don’t make me say the name; I’m pretty sure it’s Latin.”

You grabbed the bestiary you’d set aside earlier and looked at the cover again; there was a small inscription just below the tree roots. “It’s Greek, actually.” You brushed your fingers over the indented letters, “φυσιολόγος.”

Stiles shook his head and took his frustration out on the air with a dramatic jerk of his hands, “In English?”

“The Naturalist,” your lips curled into a shrewd smile, “so sorry we don’t carry it in Japanese.”

Stiles pursed his lips and snatched the book out of your hands. “Hilarious. Truly. I don’t just watch anime, y’know. I also like…” he trailed off and scratched at the nape of his neck, “very cool, normal things.”

“Such as?” 

He pulled a face that was distinctly reminiscent of a little kid sticking their tongue out, “Such as shut your face.”

“Wow.” Shaking your head, you returned to your task of shelving books—this one was about the spiritual properties of mushrooms—and made a popping noise with your tongue against the top of your mouth, “You better hope there’s an English translation in there ‘cause consider my mouth officially shut.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Stiles continued quickly, words almost overlapping with the speed of his tongue, before you could take advantage of such low-hanging fruit, “I made sure I could read it before I bought it—being comprehensible is literally the least it can do for 50 bucks plus shipping.” He shook his head and held up the book, “Can you believe the library wouldn’t order it for me?”

“Imagine that,” you chided, “and with all the demand for vintage bestiaries too.”

He dropped his order on top of a rickety writing desk that supposedly belonged to a Beacon Hills’ heretic who died in the 1800s—at least, according to the tag hanging from one of the drawers and Maggie’s generous interpretation of her family history. “D&D is coming back in a big, big way,” Stiles pointed at you and winked with obnoxious flourish, “just you wait.”

You smirked, pointedly ignoring your recurrent childhood obsession with Egyptian and Roman mythology, and smacked the side of the price gun until the sticker tape unjammed, “My instinct is to make fun of you, but I’m afraid the hypocrisy will catch up with me.”

“What?” Stiles glanced around the store and smirked, “Are you one of those new-agey astrology, crystal nerds? How many fingers is my aura holding up right now?”

You gave him a flat look and reached for another book. “We don’t sell crystals, actually. They aren’t that common in ritualistic spell-casting.”

Stiles blinked slowly, “You’re joking.”

“Wish I was.” You still weren't entirely sure if Maggie actually believed in all this spiritualist-mythical bullshit. She contradicted herself constantly, and often said things just to make your face pinch in disbelief, but at the same time she still insisted that you keep a protection charm bundle under your bed. The smell of the divination tea, at the very least, was great at warding off unwanted chitchat. “Animal blood is the main ingredient in most of ‘em.”

“That’s…repulsive,” Stiles cringed, restless fingers meandering towards the shelves of books next to you. He pulled out a small illuminated grimoire and flipped through the yellowing pages, pulling a face every so often at some of the more unsavory hex materials. 

You pried the book from his fingers and slid it back into its correct slot. Maggie didn’t actually ask you to organize them; her exact words were, ‘Slap a sticker on ‘em and stick ‘em on a shelf,’ but the idea of such a chaotic setup haunted you until you finally reshelved them all with a revised, occult-specific Dewey Decimal System. “It’s actually just corn syrup and—”

“100% authentic dove juice,” Maggie interrupted from behind the front counter without removing her face from her monitor.

Stiles jerked his head to the side, evidently just realizing that there was someone else in the room with you, and then swiveled back to you with his face stretched out in a toothy grin, “That dove juice discount must save you, like, so much money.”

You watched Stiles, warily and wearily, reach for a meditation journal from one of the heaps by your legs, “I have to stock that.”

Stiles turned the journal over in his hands, “Lemme help.”

You huffed deeply and gestured to the diligently organized bookshelves, “I have a system.”

He gave a staunch shake of his head and hunched down so that he could read the small stickers on the spines, “I owe you—for covering for me.”

You took the journal from his hands and squatted down to the bottom shelf. You quickly found the guided meditation section and managed to squeeze the bulky notebook between ‘Walking the Pagan Path’ and ‘Warding Your Mind' with some aggressive wiggling. You looked up briefly and met Stiles’s eyeline. He was especially lanky from this angle. Lanky and soft, with his layers of sleeves and rounded features. You tucked a loose curl behind your ear and looked back at the line of jewel-toned spines, “How is he? Scott?”

“Better.” He tapped his fingers against the top of the bookshelf to a rhythmic beat that felt familiar, “Exposure therapy is a real pain in the ass.”

“I thought it was ‘low blood sugar.’”

“That too.” Stiles leaned over your head and grabbed another book, and you shivered the soft cotton hem of his jacket skimmed over your face. “He’s hemophobic and breakfastphobic,” he said as he handed you the book. You hummed softly in appreciation as he continued, “It’s a vicious cycle, actually. Dude would totally fall apart without me.”

“That’s nice.” You tipped your chin up towards him and grinned, “Totally bogus, but still nice.”

“I told you.” His smile was smug, but somehow still dopey enough to be charming, “I’m a nice guy.”

Your thighs started to ache from squatting in the same position for so long, so you dropped onto your knees, shivering as your bare skin pressed against the cold hardwood floor. “I’m still not sharing my sacrificial blood discount with you.”

“Guess I have to get a job here, then,” Stiles shrugged and leaned against the bookcase, jerking back a bit when he turned his head and came face-to-face with a yellow-eyed taxidermied owl. He turned it around until the glass eyes were safely pointed in the opposite direction and said, “That way I can drive you nuts all day long and become a master wizard.”

You clicked your tongue; the cluck rang with saccharinely sweet pity, “Sucks that you’re only qualified for the first part.”

“Yeah? How’d you get the job, then? You clearly don’t respect the craft.” Stiles ran his spindly fingers along a row of spines, and you wondered if he could play the piano. He certainly had the hands for it. 

“Mags knew my mom, so…” you chewed on your lip until the metallic tang of copper burst on the tip of your tongue. You abruptly returned your attention to shelving the Wicca section and fiddled with the spines until they were all perfectly in line with each other, “It’s more nepotism than anything else, but I do take the history books home sometimes.”

Stiles looked at you, and the prickling sensation of being seen started slithering through your nervous system again. It took you a few tries to get Greek and Roman Necromancy to slip into the small gap on the shelf in front of you. Stiles crouched down next to you. His mouth was twisted around a sly smile, but you could see the earnestness in his eyes, “Witch training?”

You grinned a little, grateful for the out, “Hardly. I just like the lore.”

“Yeah,” Stiles’ gaze drifted towards the book he ordered; the wolves’ gleaming eyes were almost hypnotic, “me too.” 

“I’d hope so, for 50 bucks.” you nudged his knee with your elbow, and he swayed precariously on his perched toes and then shot you a glare that lacked any actual malice. “There are cheaper D&D monster manuals, y’know.”

He snickered and elbowed you in the ribs, gently but his bony limbs were sharp and unforgiving, “I knew you were a nerd.”

You were tempted to rebut the accusation, but he already had far too much evidence to the contrary. At least, he didn’t know about your Data/Geordi fanfiction phase—and no one ever would, you thought darkly. You’d have to kill them, probably, or at the very least flee the country.

“At least I’m not a sucker.” You stood up and brushed off your socks, though there was nothing to be done about the red indentations on your kneecaps from kneeling on oak flooring for so long, “Just how easy would it be to convince you to drop another 50 on a replica Byzantine amulet?”

Stiles held out his hand, shaking it in the air incessantly for far too long. You tilted your head and tried not to smirk at his predicament. The longer you watched him struggle, the more pathetic his pleading became. Eventually, Stiles groaned and pushed himself onto his feet with exaggerated effort, “Obviously not very. Evil spirit didn’t even crack the top 20 on my suspect pool.”

“Got it.” You propped your arm on top of an antique guillotine, bent elbow crooked along the wooden pillory. Stiles stared at the rusted blade and then gawked at your arm. He looked like he was a few seconds away from shoving you out of the way, even though the edge was dull with age and safely secured to the iron frame with thick rope. Rolling your eyes, you stepped away from the antique and trailed your fingers over a less forbidding oddity. 

You spun the brass globe a few times and said, “So silver bullets, then? I’m sure there’s some kind of bulk-discount we can work out.”

Stiles’ eyes snapped to your face, “What?”

“You know,” you gestured towards the order he abandoned while buzzing after you like an especially tenacious mosquito, “for all the werewolves running around town. Thought you’d already know that, being a wannabe wizard n’all.” 

“Right.” Stiles’s jaw shut with a click as he ran his hand over his head, “Duh.” He rubbed at his bicep and swallowed a few times before clearing his throat, “Didn’t get to that chapter yet. Clearly, I’ve got a lot of studying to do before I graduate from apprentice to master.” 

You squinted at him, mulling over if you should call him out on his odd behavior or just chalk it up to his usual weirdness. Maggie materialized behind you before you could do either. She placed her hands on your shoulders, squeezing softly, and then shuffled you to the side so that she could join your little circle, “I’m strictly anti-gun violence; the NRA hates me—but we do carry wolfsbane essence.”

“Don’t say essence,” you grimaced.

“We have some wolfsbane goo in the back.” Maggie pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and pivoted back to you, “Happy?”

“Not even remotely.” You turned towards Stiles, finally grateful for his presence. Usually, you were on your own in your never-ending believer versus non-believer disputes, and Maggie was somehow under the impression that she wasn’t massively outnumbered beyond these four spooky walls. Oddly, Stiles looked lost in thought. The one time you needed his dismissive snark, and he just had to actually consider the opposing side.

“Is this like the dove juice thing?” Stiles watched Maggie’s face closely, astute eyes tracking every minute twitch and flicker in her expression. It was easy to make out all the different pieces of Sheriff Stilinski in his face like this. You could see the calculations running behind his eyes, the strings coming together, the chess pieces moving. The effect was startlingly piercing. “Or is this actually the real deal?”

You stared at him, face scrunched in bewilderment, but Maggie was undeterred, “We only sell the real deal in the back, to the honored few.”

Stiles looked towards you, his right brow raised. You sighed, folding your arms over your chest and flicking your hair over your shoulder, “Real useless, but…yeah. The plants are real I guess.”

Maggie winked, “I’ll even give you the friends and family discount.”

You scoffed, “We aren’t friends.”

Stiles frowned, momentarily distracted from his intense investigation of Maggie’s body language, “We aren’t?”

You licked your rapidly drying lips and shook your head slightly, more confused than indignant. Truth be told, you’d expected him to agree with you. You hadn’t known each other for long, and he seemed to be more interested in your connection to Lydia than forming one with you. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that he wanted to talk to you about anything else. It’d been a long time since anyone wanted to, that’s all. The friends who hugged you at the funeral, they stopped coming around a long time ago, and they still avoided you at school—like you were contagious, like you’d leak radiation and your misery would metastasize in their bone marrow. You still woke up crying sometimes, throat claggy with stubborn shadows, choking on the hollow bones of picked-apart memories—too busy shoveling dirt to consider tomorrow. 

You scratched at your arm absently and rolled your eyes, slowly, so that everyone could see how utterly unaffected you were, “It’s a couple hundred bucks for a few millimeters of emulsified weeds. If we were friends, I wouldn’t even let you buy something so stupid.”

Stiles’s frown quickly curved into a crooked grin, boyishly charming and vexingly sure, “Sounds like that’s exactly what you’re trying to do.”

Maggie reappeared through the door to the back room, locking it with one of the many keys dangling from her strawberry lanyard. You didn’t have a clue when she’d disappeared to begin with, but the vial clutched in her hand was far more interesting. It was filled with a thick purple liquid, so dark it was almost black. Maggie held it out to Stiles and laughed at his inquisitive stare, “It’s on the house this time, ‘cause you’re such good friends with my darlingest girl.”

Eventually, Stiles took the vial from her hand. “Yeah, darling,” Stiles smirked and rolled the vial between his long fingers, “‘cause we’re such good friends.” The liquid sloshed slowly, a little like a lava lamp, and you kind of wanted to stuff it down his throat.

“Careful with that,” Maggie blinked at you behind her thick lenses. She wasn’t grinning or winking. It was a little eerie to see her so still, like her body had been snatched by a pod person and it was trying to mimic casual human behavior. “It's potent stuff. Shish-kebab a were with that, and they’ll be dead by sunrise—humans too, obviously, so please don’t stick it in your mouth.”

“If you can even get that close,” Stiles muttered to himself as he held the vial up to his pinched gaze.

“To a werewolf,” you deadpanned, looking between the two of them, searching their faces for any indication of irony. Bat-shit. Your grand total of two friends were both certifiably batty.

Stiles was too busy looking at the back of Maggie’s head to absorb your mockery. Your brow furrowed at the intensity of his stare until your attention was diverted to the dusky orange cast over his skin. You glanced out the window; daylight was rapidly fading. Was it really already almost 8:30? “You should probably head home,” you raised your chin towards the door, “if you don’t want to run into the big bad wolf with a purple goo heavy arsenal.” 

He let out a little laugh, more like a breath really, and muttered, “You have no idea.” Your forehead crinkled as you parsed over whatever the hell that meant, and Stiles shoved the book he ordered into his already overcrowded backpack. “I’ll see you at school.”

Your chin bobbed as you gave him a little nod. You lifted Gizmo from his bed of tasseled meditation cushions, for your own comfort this time, and nosed into his matted fur. Maybe, Stiles was just…really into larping, or maybe he was just…a really dedicated collector of supernatural keepsakes—because there was absolutely no way that you just naturally attracted delusional conspiracy theorists. You’d already met your quota of one the moment you were born. 

“Get home safe.” Stiles’s voice pulled your face from Gizmo’s neck. He lingered against the doorframe, clutching his backpack strap. The corner of his mouth cocked into a tight smile, “No more dead batteries after dark, okay? I’ll kick your ass if you get eaten.”

You took a moment to smile, but once you did, it unfurled over your entire face like sunset coating the store in a golden glow. The corners of your eyes crinkled as you shook your head a little, “I’ll try to restrain myself from killing any more cars.”

“Friends,” Stiles grinned and pointed at you, “we’re totally friends.” He ducked out the door before you had the chance to disagree, but you couldn’t decide if you really wanted to this time. 

You almost dropped Gizmo when Maggie bumped you with your hip. “Who the hell was that?” 

“Stiles. He’s…” you waved your hand in the air and eventually settled on, “a friend.”

Maggie stroked the gray fluff on Gizmo’s cheek, cooed when he rubbed his face against her palm, and then pursed her lips, “Uh huh.”

You shrugged and buried your nose in Gizmo’s neck again, taking solace in the fact that at least half of your face was hidden by silver fur, “So he’s more like a fungus in my life.”

Maggie’s grin was insufferable. Her cheeks dimpled, and her eyes nearly disappeared into happy little crescent moons, “Uh huh.”

You glowered at a stuffed crow perched on top of a water-logged armoire; there was a shine in its beaded eyes that appeared a lot like laughter. “You are the single most irritating person I have ever met.”

It was an admirable trait, never getting upset, never getting offended—but at the moment you wished that Maggie wasn’t so idealistic. She simply gave you a smile that was annoyingly wrought with meaning and took Gizmo from your arms. “Whoever the hell he is, he’s right. Get your ass home before the Wolf Man bites it.”

Maggie wiggled her fingers in the air, and you shoved them away from your face. “I’m going. I’m going.” You paused at the door, gave the store one last look and Gizmo a little good-bye wave, “Seriously, mini-taser, Mags. Prime shipping’s gotta be faster than the spirit realm.” At the very least, a taser might actually have a chance against whatever carnivore was hell-bent on ruining your sophomore year.

[hwangism143]

limbo (part 4)

synopsis: a reunion and an awkward first interaction. but what if the past repeats itself?

pairing: non-idol!minho x non-idol!fem reader

genre: angst, exes to lovers, heart break

warning: swearing, air-frying as a joke (minho. duh.), flipping off, abandonment

word count: 1.4k words

a/n: I physically cannot write long chapters. send. help.

part 3 | masterlist | part 5

One friendship you were desperate to hold on too was that of your friendship with Sora. The bond you shared with your roommate was forged through the unbreakable mix of late night ice cream and broken nail polish bottles.

When you told her about your plans to move, she cried out, "Unnie! How's going to give you much needed advice on you fashion and love lives now?"

And, for a while, you maintained steady contact with her. Sora was like the younger sister you did have but was closer in age to you. You both would regularly gossip, her about university and you about your new job.

That was, however, until she fell off the face of the earth three years ago.

She had completely, out of the blue cut off contact with you two years into you leaving. After confirming with others mutual friends, people who knew her and her family, you found out that she had deleted all traces of her existence. Her parents later got a message from her stating that she was fine and just wanted to be left alone.

You couldn't help but wonder: was it you? Had you done something? Could you have prevented it?

These same questions along with a longing for Sora made way to your mind as you got ready for the get together later at Chan and Eun-bi's place. If Sora was still here, you would have called her, patiently taking all the well meant hits she aimed at your outfit.

If Sora was here, she would ease your anxiety about meeting Minho again.

Instead, you just sighed in contempt and walked out the door, deciding to be somewhat satisfied with whatever you wore.

━━━━━━━✦✗✦━━━━━━━━

You entered the penthouse with an animated gasp.

It was a penthouse. Of course it would be grand. Still, the absolute magnitude of how brilliant it was blew you away. It made sense of course, Chan along with Changbin and Jisung, completed the production trio 3Racha. Their music was literally everywhere.

Eun-bi, on the other hand, had made a name for herself as a soloist in the Korean music industry. Together, the two of them had built up Bahng Entertainment from the ground up and were now, very obviously, reaping it's benefits.

"I'm so cool," you whispered to yourself, "I managed to make famous friends."

Giving yourself a complimentary pat on the back, you rang to doorbell. The door opened and you fell right into Eun-bi's already open arms.

"I have missed you so much," she squealed, squeezing the air out of your lungs.

When she finally let you go, you went around the room making rounds. Unease bubbled in your stomach as one name clouded your thoughts. Minho, Minho, Minho. It was a fervent prayer, once always at the tip of your tongue.

Felix and Hyunjin, despite just seeing you a few days before, loudly proclaimed there problems with your absence. Changbin gave you a small pat on the back with a defeated mutter of 'still tall'. Jeongin practically flew at you, his hug competing with Eun-bi's for 'most oxygen depriving'.

Seungmin sent you a devious smirk while Jisung screamed as loud as he could "Jeogiyo noona, hokshi namchajingu isseoyo?" The entire group, bar a certain Lee Minho, broke out into laughter.

At last, Chan came up to you, palms open and facing up. "Hand it over," he said playfully. You let out a dramatized sigh and handed him thirty bucks, making a mental note to never bet on cricket again.

Then, you finally saw him.

He looked good. Uncomfortable at you being there, yes, but good nonetheless. He wore a white t-shirt with three cartoon cats and the words 'SoDoNg' on top. His black jeans were snug and a gray hoodie hung off his shoulder. He regarded you with alert eyes and a small smile.

"Hello," Minho finally said after a long pause, "You look good."

"Thank you," you responded awkwardly, "So do you."

━━━━━━━✦✗✦━━━━━━━━

six and a half years ago.

Minho walked in front of Jeongin, chastising him at his lack of energy.

"Come on, stop being lazy! I want to get there before Hyunjin and Felix leave to go anywhere else," Minho told him off.

"Ugh," Jeongin groaned, "We all know you just want to see Y/N. Why'd you have to drag me along as well?"

Minho glared at him to avoid the fact that he was right. Minho did want to see you. He had never offered to pick up Hyunjin and Felix up from their Physics class, considering how it was on the other side of campus and often clashed with his schedule.

When offered to accompany Jeongin today though, his eyes instantly lit up with suspicion. He began teasing Minho on the walk to the Science department until Minho threatened to air fry him. When that failed, Jeongin resorted to whining about the walk.

"So! Tired!" he huffed.

Minho ignored him and continued walking, oddly excited at the prospect of seeing you. You had an effect on him that nobody else seemed to have. Sure, he had a few flings here and there and a few girls head over heels for him, but for once, he thought that he could possible be head over heels for someone himself.

Someone like you.

You were funny, pretty and your nose scrunched up whenever you were judging someone. You were expressive, understanding and sent a smile to everyone that even so much as looked at you.

It astounded him how much he liked about you after only one meeting.

Jeongin chatted off Minho's ear about some breakup or the other, but Minho wasn't listening. He leaned against the wall in attempt to come off as casual and nonchalant, but assumed that he was sweating profusely.

When you, Hyunjin and Felix finally came out of the building, Minho let out a sigh of relief. He didn't know how much longer he could keep up the act. Hyunjin raised an eyebrow upon seeing him while Felix's mouth was slightly hung open in shock.

Hyunjin gave Minho an exaggerated wave right in front of his face and went off to terrorize and already shrieking Jeongin. ("I spent five hours fixing my hair, you will not mess it up again," he yelped in agitation). Felix, seemingly catching wind of what was happening, shot Minho a wink. Minho promptly responded by subtly flipping him off so that the motion would escape your notice.

"Hi," Minho greeted you kindly.

You blinked in rapid succession, slightly shocked at the fact that the man you were daydreaming about when you were supposed to be noting down orbital diagrams, was standing right in front of you.

"Oh, hey Minho! I have never seen you here," you told him with a surprising amount of enthusiasm for someone who had just sat through an hour long lecture on the 'principles of celestial bodies and irregular orbits'.

"Oh, uh," he chuckled nervously, a hand making way to his neck, "I usually have my culinary class right after, but the professor delayed it and I figured I would pick Felix up."

"Oh yeah, yeah," you snapped your fingers in remembrance, "You're studying cooking, right."

"You should cook for me sometime," you added in what you hoped was a smooth tone that would soften the nervous shakes in your voice and aggressive thumping in your chest.

You didn't know the effect that sentence had on Minho. Minho didn't know the effect his presence had on you.

"Well, we should grab a bite to eat sometime," Minho chuckled nervously, "I know this really nice cat café and you mentioned that you always wanted to go."

For someone really smart, you sure were extremely dumb. "'Kay, I'll ask the boys," you blurted out, with even giving what he said a second thought.

Your nose scrunched in mortification. "Well, I was hoping more just me and you..." Minho's voice trailed off.

You regained your footing in the conversation and replied in what you supposed was a flirtatious tone. "Lee Minho. Are you asking me out on a date right now?" you prodded his arm with your finger.

"I don't even have you phone number," he exclaimed defensively, throwing his hands up, "That would be unethical."

You promptly recited a set of number in response as Minho looked at you in surprise.

"So, um, I assume that was your phone number?"

"Yep! But I wonder what happened to mysteriously and charismatic Lee Minho I talked to that night. Since when did he become such an anxious mess?" you teased him playfully.

"Maybe you'll see that side of me on our date," Minho winked at you with a smirk. You bit back a playful retort, wanting to see and embrace every side of him that you possibly could.

"So it's a date then?" you asked, a blush pattering over your nose and cheeks.

"It's a date."

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[7-wonders]

8 - "You look like you were jealous" - Subtle Smut Sentence Starters - Morpheus/Dream.

Morpheus never worried about men flirting with the reader because he knows his lover has a preference for women. Lately, a woman in the workplace has been not only flirting but also dreaming about the reader, and that makes our emo kitty jealous. Morpheus starts looking for the reader at his workplace saying that he has important things to talk/do with her, but in fact he knows that this woman wants to ask the reader out on a date, which is why he always appears and intervenes.

You can say that this woman has all the characteristics that the reader likes in a woman. Reader would obviously be bi/pan.

I don't know if that's how it works, forgive me if something is wrong or confusing, I don't speak English. You can obviously change whatever you want. 💓💓💓💓

A couple of months ago, I wrote about the reader being jealous. Now it's Morpheus's turn, and I giggled the whole way through writing this. Enjoy!

•••

As the King of Dreams, Morpheus is privy to the dreams that each and every being with a consciousness holds dear to them. Though he is not in charge of desires (that’s his sibling’s department, and it’s one he’d like to stay far away from, thank you very much), dreams and desires often share the same space and are sometimes even the same thing.

This is how he finds out that there’s someone, a mortal, nonetheless, that is interested in you romantically.

Jealousy is not a feeling that Dream of the Endless has been overly familiar with during his long, long life. Possessiveness, yes, but for the most part, he has had no reason to be jealous (except for the Killala affair, the first, and probably only, time that he had ever been genuinely jealous). Not to sound pompous, but he is Endless. What need does he have for an emotion as petty as jealousy? In fact, if one were to ask him, he would say that he had never actually been jealous before and that if he had, it was so long ago that he did not remember what the emotion felt like.

No, he’s not familiar with jealousy, but what else would he call this…odd, simmering anger that threatens to eat him alive? After all, it had only started when he had sensed you, or rather, a version of you, in someone’s dreams, and found said version of you engaged in sexual intercourse with a dreamer. It was only after Morpheus declared the dream to be over that he went in search of the offending dreamer, only to discover that it was none other than Johanna Constantine.

As you would say, Morpheus shot himself in the foot. After all, he was the one to introduce you to Constantine when the occultist was having trouble summoning and speaking to ghosts. You just so happened to have the abilities of a psychic medium and were more than willing to help out when the situation had been explained to you. You worked well together and ended up continuing your professional partnership after the original job was finished. At the time, Morpheus had prided himself on a job well done. Now, he was wishing that he had forced her to make a costly deal with his sister if only it meant that she would stop meeting up and working with you.

It certainly doesn’t help that Constantine was a naturally flirtatious creature, calling you “gorgeous” or “love” whenever she talked to you, or teasing that she would be ready and available should you finally decide to leave Morpheus. Worse is the fact that, when it came to women, Morpheus knows that Johanna is what is referred to as “your type.”

He distinctly recalled a night spent with you and Hob Gadling, listening as you recounted the follies of prior relationships. Hob had just finished explaining speed dating in the eighties when you told him that, after years of denial, you had had the startling realization after your last relationship that you did actually have a type, with that type being “brunette girls with an attitude.” Unfortunately, that was very much Johanna.

Morpheus doesn’t understand why it is that he’s feeling so upset, so jealous, over this situation. He knows with every fiber of his anthropomorphized being that you are loyal and faithful to him and that you are just as obsessed with him as he is with you. But as Johanna’s infrequent dreams of you take on a more romantic tone, he cannot help but become a slave to jealousy.

Morpheus had to do something. He could not, he would not, lose you to anybody, but especially not a mortal, and definitely not a Constantine.

So he begins to…appear spontaneously when he knows that you and Johanna will be working together. Matthew calls it “staking his claim,” and perhaps that’s what it is. What else would he call showing you affection in front of your coworker, affection that he is not good at giving when in public, for no reason other than to remind said coworker that you are very happily taken? It’s a rather genius plan, he believes. Subtle, too. If he were to be questioned as to why he shows up at the most inopportune of times, he would simply claim that Time works differently in his realm, and therefore it is impossible to know what is considered a “good time” to see his beloved.

Morpheus is able to delude himself into thinking that this is all working perfectly until after the third time he tries this act. You’re excited to see him when he interrupts your and Johanna’s research into whether the entity she’s dealing with is a ghost or a poltergeist, and you eagerly accept the kiss he offers to you. Still, he notices the look that you and Johanna share when he asks if you might be willing to end your meeting early, and he becomes uncomfortable at the thought that you both know what this is. No, Morpheus tells himself, he’s covered his tracks extremely well.

“Well, Jo? Think we can continue this tomorrow?” you ask upon getting the hint that Morpheus would rather be anywhere but here. “We have been at it for a while now.”

She sighs in faux petulance before nodding. “Aye, could use a break, let you and Sandy get on with your marital activities.”

Morpheus glowers at the exorcist, but you just snicker under your breath and remind her, “We’re not married.”

“Yet.” Johanna glances at Morpheus and winks. “Better hurry up with that, else someone might swoop in and steal your girl.”

“Thank you for the sage advice, Constantine,” Morpheus bites out before turning to you. “Are you ready to depart?”

You nod and take his offered arm, allowing Morpheus to sweep you away to the Dreaming faster than you can even think about saying goodbye to your friend.

When you land in his chambers, you grab his arm before he can try to escape based on the pretense of needing to return to tasks that are apparently pressing, but not pressing enough that he couldn’t escape to see you for no real reason. “Wait,” you say. “Can we talk?”

“What about?” Morpheus asks, for he is not about to deny your request.

“You’ve been acting weird.” You pause. “Weirder than normal. And you only act this way when I’m working with Johanna.”

“I do not believe that has been the case.”

You grin, and he knows that you’ve figured out what he has been doing. “Morpheus. Are you…jealous?”

“That is preposterous,” he says immediately, trying to dispel the notion from your mind.

“Really? Because, to me, it sure looked like you were jealous.”

“I am no such thing!”

Instead of trying to argue with him, because there’s no point to that when you both know that he’s lying, your triumphant grin softens to something sweeter. “It’s okay to be jealous, you know. It’s a very human emotion.”

“I am not human.”

“I know. But you do carry the entire subconscious of humanity, so it makes sense that you’d feel our petty human emotions.”

“Suppose I am…jealous,” Morpheus says the word as if it pains him to do so. “That would not upset you?”

“No! If anything, I’m just curious why you’re jealous. And why it’s Johanna that you’re jealous of.” 

The fact that you have no idea why he feels this way makes Morpheus feel even worse about the jealousy that he’s experiencing because it’s obvious that, to you, he has no reason to be jealous. Morpheus so badly wishes to manufacture a crisis somewhere in the Dreaming so that he may escape having to talk about his feelings.

“I am aware of your proclivity of women that are much the same as Johanna Constantine,” he says instead. “I am also aware of the affection that she harbors for you, an affection made obvious in her dreams.”

“Johanna doesn’t have a crush on me! That’s just how she is, she flirts with everyone!” you argue.

“I can assure you that she does. I will let you see her book if you wish.” He knows that you’re not doubting him in the slightest, but he also wants you to know that just because he’s jealous does not mean that he’s making things up.

“No, if you say it’s true, then I believe you. But what do you mean, my proclivity towards women–” you mutter the last sentence, trying to figure out what Morpheus meant when suddenly you remember the exact same conversation as him. “Huh, I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

It clicks together for you now, and you grab Morpheus’s hands so that he can’t run away. “Yes, girls like Johanna have traditionally been my type. But lately, my type has changed.”

“It has?” He knows what you’re going to say, but he wants to hear you say it. If Morpheus is going to be indulging his more human emotions, then greed may as well join that list.

“My type is you, Morpheus. Not people like you, but you.”

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, leaning his forehead against yours. Morpheus straightens after a moment when fear runs through him like lightning. “You will not tell her of this, will you?”

“No, I wouldn’t talk about our private conversations to her. Plus, it’s embarrassing enough to have a crush on someone that you know is taken. I don’t want to call her out and make her feel bad about it.”

“You are wise,” Morpheus praises.

“Then might I wisely suggest that you allow me to show you just how little you have to be jealous about?” you ask, already leading him back towards the bed.

He smirks. “You may.”

His secret bout of jealousy, he’s relieved to discover, will remain safe with you.

[ask-pride-color-schemes]

I still think it's really funny that the "toothpaste"/"listerine" flag I (partially?) made back in 2016 based off an anon's suggestion took off and had so much discourse over it. Because I literally had NO idea about it until years later when I stumbled upon it randomly (iirc) because nobody said anything to my face about it ever. Even now I don't think anyone has said anything to me outside of direct responses of posts I made about it.

Like there's literally everyone across every spectrum of everything either loving or hating the flag for completely different reasons, some of which aren't even remotely true. But somehow it almost never reached me.

I'm just here playing in my mud pit trying to help people make and find flags and terms that make them happy while there's a whole war raging over (at least) one of them around the corner.

Anyway, I got burned out a while ago from making flags because people kept making like 100000 a day with photos and copyrighted images on them and I couldn't keep up so I don't know all the flags the youth are using anymore.

Anyway I just wanted to reiterate that I'm NOT a truscum. One of them took the flag and reuploaded it stating it was the "official" gay man flag and I guess that's when it exploded and people just assumed they made it?

I also still 100% support non-dysphoric/transitioning trans people, bi/pan lesbians/gay men, anyone with "weird" or "contradictory" labels, people with 500 genders or 0 genders or -62 genders, you can detransition, retransition, LMNOP-transition, you can change your sex but not your gender, you can reclaim your slurs, you can do whatever you want forever, just don't be an ass and for the love of cats stop making overly complex flags, they're supposed to be simple for a reason!

@gayflagblog's version

Mod Hermy

[dreamonminecraft]

I mean, George’s been showing an attraction for men (fictional and real) for ages, not just Dream. Those thirst traps he used to watch.. his fascination (not just jokes) with dicks over the years. Also he went from being very awkward/careful about any gay mention (remember how upset he got over the ’bottom’ comment?) to fully embracing that now. He even got upset when the sidemen thought he would be bad at head like? For me, in the past two years, he (seemed to at least) fully accept himself. That obviously doesn’t mean you’re ready to be out about it. But going out to gay clubs with Larray, being in their ’twink’ tiktok thing they did and all other moments.. they bonded over *something* surely. So yeah, I was shocked about this whole thing, not gonna lie. It’s the first time ever we’ve heard about him in connection with women, in a non-platonic way. Like remember when he went on that girl trip with the Botez sisters in 2022? Just him and the girls and them talking about that ’Zaddy’ waitress or whatever it was 😂 And all the moments of him seeming uncomfortable about talking of girlfriends and boobs and yeah, I don’t know. He’s always been just gay in my eyes (based on the things he’s done/said and not stereotypes or looks just to be clear.) Or even about just dnf either. Like take Dream out of the equation and I would still think that. Now sexuality can be fluid of course. Maybe he realised he could feel something for women too? Maybe it was an exception to the rule? Or maybe, he experimented a bit and what do we know what he really felt about it? People try things sometimes, for many different reasons. Maybe he had a little crisis or something. Maybe he was heartbroken over Dream flirting with someone else in the same room like? Or maybe he is bi/pan ( not trying to deny the possibility, I’m bi myself so.) But yeah, just my opinion, not some actual truth here ofc ❤️

I think that's a really fair assessment. From what we knew of his private life (up until a few weeks ago) he was attracted to men (real and fictional) and never shared details of any prior real life experiences with anybody (women or otherwise - first kiss, past partners, etc)

He's fine with the perception that people have of him being gay (obviously it doesn't hurt his career. not saying he's queer baiting) but Dream was very 'im straight. I kiss girls. I date girls' before he knew he wasn't straight, and when he started to realize that he wasn't, he still acknowledged that he liked girls while recognizing his changing feelings. George is just very private in general.

There's a clip from one of the very first dsmp streams where Dream calls George gay "he's like that one closeted friend who doesn't say I love you because he doesn't want to out himself" (my least favorite Dream joke ever, thanks) and you know how he justifies it to the (rightfully) uncomfortable chat? "I wouldn't say that if I wasn't 100% sure George was straight."

George's response: "Straight outta Compton"

I mean this guy has been actively denying any sort of public labeling of his sexuality by anyone for almost four years. Maybe he's in the same position as Dream and he just doesn't want a label (doesn't know/doesn't like the pressure/whatever) or maybe the public perception is something that he doesn't want. Whatever he is, I think it's pretty clear he's some sort of queer.

[ficsbyuzi]

i FoUnD yOu

Part -2

Read part 1 here

Characters : Aegon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen and Alyna Martell (Dornish OFC) in modern Westeros (modern AU)

Warnings: +18, swearing, smoking, violence (kinda)

Word count: 2.7 k

A/N: Flashback is in italics. Motivation struck and wrote this today. Ignore the errors, pretty please?

SEVEN YEARS AGO.

KING’S LANDING UNIVERSITY.

Flanked by his friends Martyn and Leon, Aegon strutted toward the parking lot near the campus main gate, a cigarette dangling from his lips. As usual, they were skipping their classes.

“So, what are you gonna do about it?” asked the blonde-haired Martyn, kicking a stone off their path.

“Look, I don’t care about the business and stuff,” Aegon replied in a casual, carefree tone. “I’d rather roam the world, drink every type of wine they have out there, fuck a woman or two in every country.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, then dropped it on the ground.

“Life’s too short to stay stuck in one place,” he said, shrugging and releasing a plume of smoke into the air.

“Aegon, the dragoncock,” Leon said, bowing theatrically.

The three young men erupted in laughter as Aegon crushed the cigarette under his shoe.

“Yes! Yes! And I’d rather start a band and…”

“OI, TARGARYEN!”

Aegon was interrupted by the booming call of his family name echoing down the corridor.

He turned to see the source of the voice, which sounded more like a challenge for a fight than a call. A rash, cheeky grin played on his lips as Alyna Martell stormed towards him, her nostrils flaring and jaw taut.

He was unsure of the cause of her ire; he only relished the satisfaction of her evident anger. He couldn't help it. Seeing her bothered and frustrated brought him an odd joy. Thanks to the long-standing rivalry between the Martells of Dorne and the Targaryens of King's Landing, which evolved into a giant business feud over time, the resentment between the two families had seeped into their youngest members.

“Alyna! No!” A girl came running after her, trying to stop her from whatever wild thing she was about to do. The smudged mascara around the girl's eyes and her reddened nose, hinted at her recent breakdown. Before she could catch up to her, Alyna had already reached an arm length from Aegon, her stance resembling that of a viper, ready to strike at its prey.

Aegon retreated reflexively, the amusement on his face fading. Only putting that little distance between them didn't help much, when two punches, hard and brutal, landed on his nose.

His cronies of friends froze on their spots. The sudden, unexpected blows disordered the world around him, evoking a ringing sensation in his ears and muffling the sharp scream from the girl, who was trying to stop Alyna.

A shock wave of gasps rippled through the bustling corridor. Everyone froze in their places, their attention redirected to the scene.

Alyna made a bold declaration, pointing a finger at Aegon's face, now contorted in sharp pain, "You think you can toy with anyone and get away with it, you entitled bitch?”

“You fucking bi..aaarrrggghhh..” A painful groan from Aegon's throat interrupted his nasal retort. Martyn tried to peel his hand away from his face, to check the aftermath of his nose, while Leon seemed ready to throw hands with Alyna.

Alyna didnt even budge and stood her ground, chest heaving with rage. She was ready to repeat what she just did to his platinum-haired friend.

The girl now held her arm firmly pushing her away, “Alyna, please no,” she begged, whimpering.

“What's going on?” a sharp coldness laced a new voice that came from behind Alyna.

A mocking, sliding whistle sound came from someone in the crowd.

Alyna hissed, recognising that voice and falling off the high of her rage in an instant. Aemond's voice was a splash of ice cold water on her burning, red hot anger.

“She hit Aegon!” Martyn complained, holding Aegon’s head back to stem the nosebleed. Aemond rolled his eyes in exasperation, sighing deeply. It was yet another consequence of his brother’s reckless behavior.

Alyna turned to face him, but struggled to meet his piercing gaze. Tearing through the uncanny, tongue-tying effect Aemond had on her, she spoke in a cold, lethal voice through gritted teeth, “Tell your brother to stay away from my family.”

With a slight twitch in his eyebrow, Aemond understood what his brother did.

Alyna’s blazing, brown eyes now held Aemond's cold, violet gaze, as if waiting for him to respond, when instead Aegon let out a menacing giggle, flashing his blood-stained teeth, “There are two people involved, you know? Break her nose too,” he jerked his chin brazenly, towards Alyna’s cousin.

“You..” Alyna snarled, turning to face Aegon .

“Alyna? Alyna Martell? Principal Mormont has called you in his office,” a dorky, sophomore announced.

Aegon would have received another blow, already, if it were not for that sophomore appearing on the scene.

If it were not for Aemond, who was invisibly tying her hands with his mere presence.

Alyna’s eyes darted to the boy, and then back to Aemond, her jaw stiff, teeth still grinding in rage.

Aemond’s lips curled up in a subtle, condescending smile. He hummed, walking towards his brother to attend to him.

“This is not over Martell,” Aegon yelled from behind, and Aemond tsked, “Aegon, stop it!”

“No! it's not!” Alyna retorted in a chilly voice, without facing him and dragging her cousin along, as she walked away from the Targaryen brothers, barking- “what?” at the boy who was now gawking at her, eyes popping out in astonishment.

-

In the last hour of sunlight , Alyna was sitting on her study table in her dorm room. Immersing herself in her books was the only way she could take her mind off what had happened in the morning. Her eyes couldn't move past the title of the chapter she was reading - “Election of Archons in Old Valyria'' as she struggled to shake off the humiliation she faced in the principal's office that morning.

The sound of the door lock turning snatched whatever little attention she was paying on her book.

“Girl, why do you keep throwing yourself in the trouble pits?” Doreah, her room mate, asked, entering and tossing the keys in the bowl.

“Please don’t start it all over again!” Alyna sighed, noticing a pretty girl with silver dreadlocks, clad in a deep red tracksuit, standing next to Doreah.

“That's Baela, she is in KLU for a week to collect some samples for her botany project; we were in high school together,” Doreah informed, as Baela extended her hand toward Alyna with a grin.

“Heard you broke my cousin’s nose,” Baela grinned, and Alyna's eyes widened a little, shuffling between the two girls.

“He deserves it,” Baela shrugged, “You can hang them upside down from the top of the building for all I care, I'm not particularly fond of them,” she said, plopping down on a bean bag. Alyna's continued staring at her, mind calculating her next words.

“He knocked up my cousin, and then cheated on her,” Alyna told her, her tone taut.

“And you got suspended for a week for breaking his nose, yup,” Balea smacked her lips, checking her phone, “I know.”

An awkward silence settled over them, broken only by the sound of water being poured into a glass. Doreah’s pleasant voice cut through the quiet. “Frankly, I wouldn’t mind having some harmless fun with the Targaryen brothers.”

Alyna scowled, letting out a disgusted grunt.

“What? They’re hot,” Doreah protested, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her voice as she noticed Alyna’s reaction. She smiled sheepishly at Baela, who rolled her eyes and made a gagging gesture.

“Aegon will be game I'm sure, but Aemond isn’t the type who would just have fun,” Baela said, chuckling, eyes still glued on her phone.

There it was.

That unsought, uninvited feeling in her core, that traveled all the way up to her face, warming her beautiful, gold-toned face. A delicate twinge within her, a discord between the emotions she hoped would surface and those she actually felt - whenever Aemond was around her- whether in person, during conversations with people, or sometimes, even in her thoughts.

Sometimes, certain things, experiences, and people that one encounters in life, elicit both aversion and attraction.

Aemond was one such person, to Alyna.

Everything about him was a confounding experience for her.

She hated the way his humming grated on her nerves, yet stirred something within her.

She resented seeing him in her history classes every day. It irked her how he always knew more than her, how he was always so focussed and well versed in his research.

Yet, she couldn’t help admiring him, his profound knowledge, his exceptional discipline accompanied by an awe inspiring personality. A reluctant respect had begun to take root inside her for him. No wonder half the KLU was mad for him.

Alyna cleared her throat, sniffing and shifting in her seat to turn back to her books.

“Would you like some ice cream? We have chocolate,” she attempted to steer the conversation away from the Targaryen brothers.

“I think my lovely roommate has a crush on your broody cousin,” Doreah blurted, checking her nails.

Alyna whipped her head toward her best friend, her scowl deepening. "What?" she snapped, her voice betraying a hint of squeakiness, “No!"

Baela chuckled at Alyna’s reaction, as if she’d just been caught red-handed in a heist. With a smirk, she got up to retrieve the ice cream from the mini fridge in their dorm's common area. Meanwhile, Alyna continued to glare daggers at Doreah, and her best friend only wiggled her eyebrows playfully, unfazed.

“You both will be perfect for each other, you know?” Baela drawled, waving the spoon at the spic and span appearance of Alyna's side of the dorm, a sharp contrast to the disorder that her roommate’s side was in. The neatly arranged history and philosophy books on the bookshelf above her study table, the flawless arrangement of bonsai plants at the window - the source of natural light for her study table, the pristine white bedding - all screamed of her love for organization and order.

“He is just like you, a neat-freak with horrible temper issues.”

“Yeah, I have been tolerating the pain in the ass that he is for a year now,” Alyna scoffed, rolling her eyes, “And No! I don't have temper issues,” she added, frowning and turning back to her books, neglecting the little butterflies flapping their wings in her stomach.

“He wasn't always so broody and a pain in the ass, you know,” Baela said, as Alyna continued to pretend to focus on her books, donning a mask of indifference.

"Years ago, right after my mom passed away, us cousins got into a silly fight. Aemond, being Aemond, started calling my maternal cousins names. Things quickly escalated, and my cousin Luke ended up pushing him. Aemond fell onto a boulder, and his eye took the brunt of the fall. He was never the same after that," Baela revealed, her face shadowed with somber reflection.

Alyna's gaze had shifted from the page of her book to the ground outside the window, where a few rocks lay scattered. She couldn’t help but imagine how hurtful and devastating it must have been for Aemond to lose an eye at such a tender age.

"Okay, Aemond and Aegon are out of the league," Doreah’s chirpy voice broke the somber silence. "What about the third brother?" She added thoughtfully, as if she were weighing a life-altering decision.

"Eww, Dor, he's like fourteen," Baela scowled.

"He’ll grow," Doreah replied with a shrug, inspecting her manicure. Alyna couldn't tell if she was serious or just putting on a show. She exchanged a glance with Baela, both of them wide-eyed in amused disbelief.

Just then, Alyna’s cell phone rang, slicing through the snorts and giggles that filled the dorm room.

“Wait, shhh..stop..it's my dad from Sunspear…”

The ringing of the phone clanged through the quiet of the parking lot, jolting Alyna back to reality. She blinked, returning her focus to the driver's seat, where she had been lost in thought. Moments earlier, she had parked the cab in the owner's garage, ready to hand it back and close that chapter of her life.

The smile tugging at her lips, a remnant of her mind’s recent revisit to her past, transformed into a full grin, when she saw Doreah’s incoming video call, flashing on the screen.

“Think of the devil,” Alyna gave an ear to ear smile to her best friend.

“Good morning to you too, and here I thought I would meet a bridezilla on my phone's screen!”

“Hmmm, let me just,” Alyna pouted playfully, and snapped her fingers, feigning a magical change of appearance, “Did you pick up the bridesmaid dresses yet?”

Doreah laughed. “Yes, ma’am! I’m picking them up today. Then we’ll head to your salon appointments. Just calling to confirm,” she said in a mock-serious tone, adding a quick salute for effect. Alyna couldn’t help but giggle.

“Where are you?” Doreah asked, looking at her watch.

“Garage. Returning the car.”

“Good riddance,” Doreah drawled.

Alyna only responded in a wry smile; she understood her friend could not fathom how important that job was for her. She was leaving a part of her in that cab. Part that made her free.

And her mind, as if in a bid to shield her from dejection, brought forth the memories long forgotten again, prompting a soft chuckle.

“Guess who I ran into on my night shift!” Her smile now reached her eyes as they twinkled.

“Who?”

“Aegon and Aemond Targaryen,” Alyna grinned and Doreah gasped, eyes widening, ocean blue irises threatening to pop out of their sockets.

“Whaaa..! Omg! You know I recently saw them both on the cover of Westeros BizWorld last week. Gosh I practically drooled,” Doreah fanned herself, “Don't tell me, you have had a bachelorette party already, without your girls,” she teased, sniggering with a usual naughty dance of her eyebrows.

“What? Gosh, you are filthy!” Alyna laughed, facepalming with a shaking head at her friend's thirsting.

“Wow you are really getting married , Alyna! A week later you will be Mrs..”

“Yeah yeah, save that speech for the maid of honor toast,” Alyna interjected, “Now get your ass here by 11, or you are fired,” she feigned a serious tone.

“Oooohh bridezilla!”

“You bet your ass I am one! Meet me in 2 hours.”

Alyna disconnected the call, smiling at her phone's screen, and acknowledging the familiar, warm sensation suffusing through her after years.

But as she picked up her backpack from the back seat, the dazzle of the solitaire on her ring finger dimmed the nostalgic smile on her lips.

She consciously commanded the unwelcome stirrings within her to cease.

Her future awaited her and it had no room for the past.

-

“Take him with you,” Alicent requested of Aemond, placing the cup and saucer on the coffee table. She sat with her son in his luxurious living room, concern etched across her face.

“It’s a work trip, mother, I don’t see how it will help Aegon,” Aemond said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

As always, their mother seemed to expect her responsible son to clean up the mess her eldest child had made.

“It will be a change of scenery for him,” she sighed, “With the ongoing dispute after your father’s death and his breakup with Cassandra...” Aemond’s attention shifted from the floor to his mother as her voice wavered.

“Aemond, he’s stopped using our cars. Only Mother above knows where he goes at night or what he does. I’m so scared for him...” She placed a hand on her throat and began to chew her nails.

Seeing his mother on the brink of a panic attack, Aemond decided to give up.

“I’ll see what I can do, but he’ll have to behave,” his tone still carrying a tinge of reluctance. “I’ll be away on tours according to the schedule, so he’ll be on his own for most of the day.”

Alicent nodded. “I’ll convince him. He listens to me, at least in private. When do you leave?”

“A week from today.”

—-

[fallenhunnyapple]

Since I talked about Human Priest AU, I think I should talk about the Runner up too! Yet another AU with @fallenguitarhero

Amnesia AU

The basic premise is after Adam's death, when he gets revived in Hell, its as a Naked Idiot, thinking he'd just woken up from when he was put to sleep when they took his Rib for Eve. He doesn't know what this place is, why its Red and Hot, or why he's no longer in Eden. He awoke outside the Hotel so his first instinct is to look inside the strange structure and figure out what's going on.

(the rest under a Readmore cuz it got a little long and I don't wanna clog your dashes-)

Charlie thinks there's a new Sinner outside the Hotel and goes to greet him and instead met with a Very Naked Adam who doesn't seem to recognise her. Not wanting to let a confused and naked Adam wander Hell alone, she brings him inside and dresses him (poorly in a sheet) and tries to get to the bottom of it. Adam thinks she's an Angel since she looks so much like Lucifer, she must be one of his Angelic siblings, it's the only thing that makes sense.

He talks to her about his life in Eden, about how Lucifer is his best friend and he doesn't like Lilith because she doesn't listen to him so he gets in trouble with the Angels. About how they have started leaving him alone. About how the Angels say there's something wrong with him but once they do this thing that he was put to sleep for everything will get better! Lucifer said he would be there when he woke up, but Lucifer wasn't anywhere, why did he lie to him? But Charlie is nice, she listens to him. Usually the Angels dismiss him or ignore him, they don't care about his problems, but Charlie actually listens. The only other one to do that was Lucifer, that's why it hurts that he's been avoiding him-

Charlie of course calls her dad to come and help take care of this, she's Really out of her depth, she is Not equipt to deal with all this and she doesn't want to introduce Adam to the whole idea of Hell because, well, that's not her place. This has to be handled in a way she can't and by someone she's not. And when Lucifer does arrive, it takes Charlie only moments to see that Adam is completely In Love with her Dad. Who, for his part, is entirely oblivious. She feels almost Bad for Adam.

Lucifer ends up staying at the Hotel to keep an eye on Adam and it honestly doesn't take long for a relationship to start. Adam finds out from Charlie and Angel that being Gay is Okay, and that Lucifer is Bi. He doesn't understand much of what's going on, but he knows he's not in the Garden and he doesn't have the Angels' expectations placed on him anymore, he doesn't need to procreate and he can pursue what he wants. And what he wants is Lucifer. Lucifer for his part Isn't in Love, but there is something about how Adam is so innocent and earnest, how he makes Lucifer feel old but also feel like there's a way to start over, how he makes Lucifer feel wanted for the first time in many years. He may not be in Love, but he wants to make Adam Happy, he wants to take a chance on this Do Over.

Lucifer, despite not being in love, becomes a bit emotionally dependent and obsessed with Adam. He likes feeling needed, and he loves feeling wanted. It's helping heal some part of him that's been broken since his and Lilith's relationship started falling apart many years ago. Adam's mischievous, curious, and bright nature helps revitalize him in a way he didn't expect. And Adam is worried for him when he hits lows, he tries to cheer him up in whatever way he can think of. And having someone around during those times that shows how much they care does a Lot of good. Adam is his ESA.

There are a few things going on with Adam, though. First and Foremost, in a bid to keep him innocent, to avoid overwhelming him and to avoid making things Confusing and Terrible, they're trying to keep him oblivious to what this place Actually Is. They don't call it Hell, he shouldn't Know what that is. He doesn't know about Sin in that way and they don't want to introduce it to him like that. He's not allowed to go out unless it's with someone Trusted (Mainly Lucifer or Charlie, but that does eventually extend to Angel and Vaggie.) It would be hard to explain what happened to Humanity, why things are the way they are. It's not an easy thing to keep covered up. But it's not something they can hide forever, especially because of the next point.

He is slowly getting his memories back, reliving his personal traumas, the feelings of betrayal, the emptiness, the loneliness, the bitter hatred. He'd have memories of Feelings, hating the color red, feeling some level of bitterness and resentment towards the man he Knows he loves, etc but he never had any context for them. But he slowly gets them back. But everything is getting recontextualized, he has support from Lucifer and Charlie and other people at the Hotel. It's still difficult to deal with the memories and feelings, but he's not dealing with them alone and he feels genuinely cared about, it makes all the difference. Lucifer asks him if he believes he loves him, because by the time enough of these memories resurface, Lucifer does love him and Adam had never questioned it. So its hard when he genuinely answers he doesn't know. But it's okay, they can work through it together.

But aside from his memories coming back, Adam is also dealing with the much more physical problem of transformation. His blood is still gold, he's a Fallen Angel, even if he doesn't have the context of it. And gradually his body changes. His Fallen form doesn't quite reflect his Angelic form as he started as an almost blank slate. He's becoming a Catboy, or Lion Boy specifically, a kemonomimi type with more cat mannerisms. It's chalked up to the eventual corruption of anything residing in Hell, but it's part of his fate as a Fallen Angel. Lucifer isn't complaining and Adam is getting scritches and pets so he really has no complaints either.

There are a few other points and thoughts, but this is the general overview of it-

[gayeddieagenda]

hello :) please tell the people about “question game” :)

question game fic!!!!!!!! u obviously know the whole history of this fic but currently im trying out a rework that switches things up a little in the light of bi buck canon - reserving the right to change my mind later, question game fic opens with buck and eddie chilling and hanging immediately after buck and tommy get together. buck is newly bi. it's all very normal. and then eddie's like, hey, buck, are we ever going to talk about when you told me you were in love with me four years ago?

buck told eddie he was in love with him!!!! in season 3!!!!! and they basically never talked about it again!! eddie suddenly bringing it up like it's a thing they talk about throws buck for a loop, while eddie is pretty clearly trying to catch up to what's going on in buck's head - eddie made a lot of assumptions about their relationshipover the last four years based on the idea that buck wasn't really that serious when he said he was in love with eddie, and certainly that he wasn't /still/ in love with eddie. now that buck has started dating a man, eddie's questioning some of those assumptions.

and tldr it turns out they still don't know how to talk about it! the things get weird between them and the solution they eventually land on is: question game! honesty pact! they promise to be honest with each other and start asking each other all the questions they've avoided over the last four years. i haven't really gotten into the meat of reworking it yet, so here is a very dumb tiny snippet, from the middle of the fic:

"Take your shirt off," Eddie said. Buck laughed. “I have to answer your questions, not do whatever you tell me to.” "Okay," Eddie said. "Will you take off your shirt?" Buck rolled his eyes. He couldn't stop the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes," he said.

they r dumb <3

[lover-of-mine]

https://www.tumblr.com/lover-of-mine/756567190429417472/can-you-explain-to-me-why-bts-a-throwing-a-party

I’m in the group that the screen shots came from, and They got salty the other day when that screen shot of his dad saying Ryan was filming for a movie and would start filming 911 next week dropped because it made buddie fans happy to know Ryan was A) booked for another project and B) gave us the time frame for 911 (which as we’ve seen from your spy network, they wanted Lou to be the one to break the news of filming starting up again)

Anyway so after it dropped, a few of the bts fans went and found the Facebook group (most have already been banned from it because they started up their bs and attacked the mods and admins in the group because it’s a pure Ryan fan group and his projects, including 911 and buddie and there is not a lot of love for Lou/To,my to be found in it.) and they searched for anything else Ryan’s dad shared/posted and discovered that comment. I remember when he originally posted it years ago. It was not received well at the time because well… we all know what was happening 3 years ago in the show with the shooting and where the story was clearly going.

Back to his comment from 3 years ago though.. a little context,Ryan has over the years alluded to.. issues with him and his dad and their relationship, his dad’s religious views on things, cultural views on things, etc. He’s a lot more (or was anyway) I don’t wanna say Ryan said narrow minded, but he (his dad) was not as… receptive? To other ways of life? (Lgbqt etc) so ultimately it got mostly over looked and just attributed to that and then just forgotten about altogether until now.

Which brings us to today and the BT fans using it as some sort of gotcha. While it could still be just Ryan’s dad being himself, we also have more additional context of behind the scenes with the show from that time period thanks to Oliver now, what with the info about Fox shutting things down and 3 years ago when he commented it was the time frame of when that would have been taking place. So hindsight of 20/20 vision, it’s possible it was just him putting it out there that hey, it’s not gonna happen because they(Ryan and Oliver) would have known it wasn’t going to be happening anymore.

Either way, the BT fans trying to use it as some sort of gotcha moment is as per usual for their gotcha moments, pointless because his dad doesn’t work for the show. He got no real say in the show. He knows whatever Ryan tells him. And he shares (in regard to the show) whatever Ryan allows him to share. He’s not constantly in the group engaging and talking. And most of the time when he does it’s random photos from things like family events, graduations, old holiday photos, occasionally bragging about a new achievement or something like the most recent little update of hey he’s doing this but he’ll be doing this soon.

Okay, context of the group is interesting, thank you for that!! But that's what I've been thinking really, because 3 years ago we were dealing with very different circumstances. And it's not like Ryan's dad has any say on the show, he's just saying what Ryan tells him and well, we know for a fact fox was blocking Buck being bi so it was definitely blocking buddie.

I still think it's adorable that he's out there giving updates tho.

[babyboywinchester]

Wait hold on. I don't care about the actors in general but Misha didn't say fag when he clarified that he was straight, and the times he's used it, it was perfectly in context and not something he uses to actually talk about queer people? I'm confused why this is an issue (and tbh I'm also confused why we hold actors up to these weird standards when none of j2m are perfect, they're just some guys who mostly try their best)

That ask didn’t say he used the word fag when clarifying he was straight. I said he went on to say the word fag, I believe there were a few years between these two instances? Regardless, I find the things he says/does lecherous and icky. I don’t hold any celebrity on a pedestal or expect them to hold unrealistic standards… at the end of the day I could give two fucks less because it doesn’t effect me or the people I love… but I can, and will, call out gross or inappropriate behavior when and where I see it. Jared’s done questionable things, for certain, but people always try to paint him out as some evil wicked monster. Which I think is unfair, but people are going to believe what they want to believe. Jensen Stans typically treat that man like he is a god that can do no wrong and yet he’s also showed some icky behavior himself… I’ve noticed though that I only tend to get these anons after I’ve said something negative about Misha, which leads me to believe that you, or the others sending them, only seem to truly care when he is cast in a bad light. But, what do I know? I can’t look at your blog since you sent this anonymously.

Misha used the word fag when some people didn’t think he should do so considering he isn’t part of the queer community as a whole, which doesn’t bode well for his record of having to walk back coming out as bi and having to come out as a heterosexual man, or the near constant queerbaiting he himself engages in but then tries to blame others (read: writers, CW, anyone with eyes who can see destiel was never and would never be canon, etc. etc.) of doing exactly what it is that HE is doing. At the end of the day whatever… he’s pawning rubes out of their money over one fetishized gay ship on a show that ended over four years ago… but I’m not one of those idiots. If they want to set their money on fire by giving it to that guy then by all means…

If you want a better understanding of the icky things he has said @nancylou444 has a loooong list. This is like the… third or fourth time I’ve directed someone over there. Or don’t take a look. It’s no skin off my ass. 🤷‍♀️