#others' reactions have been lukewarm but OH WELL I LOVE THEM SO MUCH SO MUCH SO MUCH

[steampoweredskeleton]

JUST SAW TWO STAG BEETLES AND HAVE NEVER BEEN HAPPIER

IVE NEVER SEEN ONE BEFORE AND THEYRE SO SO SO COOL AND BEAUTIFUL AHHHHH!!!

[steviewashere]

Perfect Timing

Rating: General CW: References to Sex Tags: Established Relationship, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Marriage Proposals, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Dialogue Heavy

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is having hope for the future together."

💕—————💕

Steve was sitting at the dining table, hands spread out on the surface, staring down at a piece of mail when he heard Eddie clamber through the front door. Based on the string of things being dropped and Eddie not reacting negatively, just sighing a little bit and picking things up, must mean he was having a good day.

It’s funny, Steve thinks, that he knows the way in which Eddie’s emotions express when he comes through the front door of their shared space. They began renting an apartment in Chicago just a year or so after getting together. Tail end of 1986 meant sharing a bed and house by August of 1987. And it’s theirs. Filled with miscellaneous clutter—a bookshelf brimmed with books, coffee table layered with Sports Illustrated and Heavy Metal magazines, dice and keys and Topps baseball cards, and picture frames they dust and drawings from Eddie’s sketchbooks and ‘failed’ art projects of Steve’s that Eddie thought were masterpieces. Point is, they’ve made it their home. And they started their lives with a breath of fresh air.

And now it’s 1995, depending on one another’s reactions, this all may just crumble at their feet.

See, Eddie was out playing a demo tape for a small record company based here in Chicago. A little indie place that’s been looking to expand their music catalogue from contemporary to a broader lick of alternative genres. Which, it turns out, includes thrash and heavy metal. Which, Steve adores, Eddie is amazing at performing.

But, Steve? He’s been anxiously waiting all day for the mail to arrive. Biting down on his fingernails, chewing them up so much they bleed and he has to run his fingertips under lukewarm water. Pacing the carpet of the living room. Pushing down and peering through the eggshell blinds. Biting his fingernails, again. And then it came and now he’s at their dining table and now he’s waiting for Eddie to careen around the corner and kiss his hair and ask in his greeting Steve voice, “What’s this, baby?”

“What’s this, baby?” Steve hears from above him. He jumps a little bit. Maybe he should have put on music or something, try to get himself to stay grounded in the present. “Stevie?” Eddie calls.

“Oh, uh,” Steve stutters. “It’s a letter I got in the mail, but I—I wanna hear about your demo tape.” Eddie gives him a sidelong glance. A little furrow to his eyebrows, a frown. “The letter isn’t anything bad, I read it already. But I don’t know how you’ll feel about it.”

Eddie hums, nodding in slow understanding. He slides into the dining seat across from Steve. Mirroring his position. Then, he realizes, based on whatever face Steve makes, that it’s only anxiety inducing. He sets his chin in his right palm, stretching the other onto the table for Steve to take. Waiting patiently. And says, when Steve actually grabs back, “It went really well, sweetheart. They offered me a contract.”

“That’s great news, Eds! What did—Did you sign it? Please tell me you signed it.”

Then, Eddie sighs. And Steve shrinks a little. “I did,” he tells slowly, as if testing the words for the first time. “I signed it. They’re keeping me based here. I’ll start recording next Saturday.” He squeezes at Steve’s hand.

“What’s the long face for, then?”

“I’m not making a face,” Eddie feebly argues.

“You are!” And Steve mocks him. Frowning, eyes distant to the surface of the table, bunching his eyebrows impossibly farther down his face. His shoulders slump. “That’s what you did! What happened? Were they pieces of shit to you or something? Did they like—Are they underselling your music prowess or something? Do I need to kick their—“

Eddie chuckles. His laughter like honey. “Babe, breathe for me,” he whispers. “My only issue is that—“ But he cuts himself off there. He leans in across the table. Eyes down at the letter in front of Steve. “That’s a letter from the community college, isn’t it?”

Steve pulls his hands back, laying them palm down on the paper. He swallows thickly. “It is. Why?”

“Did you get in?”

“I’m not telling you until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“You telling me determines whether or not I have a genuine problem. So…Did you get into the college that you’ve been looking at forlorn every time we drive by it? Or did you not and I need to go kick some old people ass?” His eyes are large in earnest. Grinning like the Cheshire Cat. His hair curtaining his face, making his facial features impossibly darker, shadowed by something tricky.

Steve chews on his lip. “I got in,” he mutters. “I got into their English literature program. And once I’m done with that, I transfer. And once I transfer, I start classes at a four year. I’ll be studying English literature and secondary education,” he rambles. His fingers tap over the letter. “Is that…Does that ruin your whole music dream? I don’t want to be the reason that you chase something else.”

For a moment, the room goes scary still and silent. Eddie’s facial features soften. And Steve’s heart rabbits against his ribcage. Hard enough that he slides a palm over his t-shirt, massaging at the rapid beating, hoping that he doesn’t have a heart attack on the third floor of their complex. That would suck, he thinks bitterly. And my future would be done for.

He sits back in his chair. Anxiety thrumming under his skin when Eddie still doesn’t say anything. Just keeps looking at him like he’s…Like he’s planning an entire five lifetimes with Steve. Like he’s about to sweep Steve off his feet, chuck him over the side of their mattress, give him hickeys until he’s a mottled lovesick mess, and then get down on one knee and surrender his heart to Steve’s hands. Like he’s gonna propose something wonderful like marriage. And, maybe, Steve lets himself believe something crazy like that.

“Remember when I told you that I consider marriage as a possibility?” Eddie asks abruptly.

And, goddamnit, if Eddie does something crazy and stupid like propose right now, Steve may just throw up out of excitement. How embarrassing, he thinks. And he chuckles despite that.

“I do,” he finds himself whispering. “What does this—“

“And I considered it with you. And I held you close and you cried against my lips and we made love like we were the only people in the universe? Remember all the times that you’d lay on top of me out of contentment? All the times I’d hold you close to my chest? All the times you kissed over my heart, like it was the only thing keeping us tethered to the moment?”

Nervously, Steve laughs. “Yes, Eddie. Yes, I remember all that. What is your point with—“

“Fucking margarita nights. You’re a sweet drunk, d’you know that? Like almost unbearably sweet.” Eddie scoots his chair around the table. Setting it next to Steve, on his left. And his hands come into Steve’s field of view. Gathering Steve’s palms in his, squeezing and caressing the skin. “All the times in which we thought that this apartment was all that we had.” He shakes his head, smirking, snickering like this intense reaction he’s having is something funny to Steve.

Fact of the matter, Steve is scared shitless right now. What if this is his way of breaking up, he can’t help himself from wondering. Cruel. He swallows against the lump in his throat. Words escaping him.

“I want to marry you so bad,” Eddie swears. “Wanna do the whole ceremony. And the paper signing. And the honeymoon, but in some little cabin on a mountain. Where we load the fireplace with wood and we huddle in for warmth and we sip at rich cups of Uncle Wayne’s hot chocolate. And then, in a few years time, when we’ve financially recovered from the wedding, we’ll buy a house.

“We’ll buy a house and paint it yellow,” he promises. Steve begins to cry, something silent, but can’t pinch his nose to stop himself. “It’ll be yellow because that’s your favorite color. With white shutters. And a big backyard for a dog or two. Wrap around porch so that we can sit and watch the sunrises and sunsets.” He takes a deep breath that sounds a little nasally. “I’ll make you breakfast every morning,” he continues, “serve you a fresh bowl of strawberries, ones that you grow under the big front window of our house. I’ll kiss you all over the face, like I do now, and you’ll grumble that it’s too early and then you’ll smell the bacon and you’ll give me your stupid sleepy smile that makes my heart do funny little flips and you’ll kiss me on the mouth and it’ll be disgusting because you haven’t brushed your teeth.

“And I’ll be a very happy man.” Eddie’s breath trembles in his chest. He swallows hard. Steve wonders if he can hear his own shaky breath. Or if he’s too involved in whatever this is. “I’ll be so happy,” he whispers, “And I’ll find myself thinking, how did I ever get so lucky? But it isn’t luck. And it isn’t fate. It was trauma that forced us together and I’ll laugh about it. But then I’ll sigh because who the fuck cares how we started all of this?

“You’ll be a funky middle school English teacher. With your nicely done hair and a sweater vest and some khakis. I’ll be a musician, hopefully. But, every day you’ll have a small lunch; an orange that I made you peel but I removed the pulp from, a tuna salad sandwich because you’re my fish loving dork, and a bottle of water. I’ll leave you a note everyday telling you how proud I am because I’ve never stopped being proud of you.

“I’m proud of you, Steve, d’you know that? So much.” He laughs wetly. His eyes staring down at their interlocked hands. “All this to say that I’m proud of you. That I’m happy. We’ve got a future, sweetheart. And I want to be your husband. Will you—“ He swallows once more, thick and heavy and almost painful looking. Can love hurt when it’s this sweet?

Eddie finally looks up. His eyes glistening and his cheeks wet and his skin tinted pink. His eyelashes stuck together. Nose dripping only slightly. He’s a messy crier, but Steve doesn’t fare any better. “Will you marry me, Steve? Stay by my side and we’ll accomplish our dreams together?” His voice is soft. Enamored.

Unbelievable, Steve swallows back. Because how did he get somebody like Eddie in his life? How did he manage to find love and have it promised back at him?

“Yes, Eddie,” he gasps out. “God, holy shit.” He drops his hands from Eddie’s hold, instead wrapping them around his torso. Muffled into Eddie’s shoulder, “All this just because I’m finally figuring my shit out? God.”

Eddie cackles, burying his own face in Steve’s hair. They sway a little. “I just—“ Eddie begins whispering. “I don’t know. I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while. Every time seemed right, but this one? Baby, this one was perfect.”

Steve sighs into the embrace. Content to not say anything else. Except, “I’m proud of you, too, honey. I love you so much and I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you too, love bug. God, Steve, I love you, too.”

For the first time since 1983, Steve allows himself to truly settle in for a future. A future, he knows, he’ll be especially proud of.

💕—————💕 Fun fact, I accidentally deleted this whole ficlet when I was copying and pasting. Hit the spacebar and watched it disappear in front of my eyes. But I figured out how to get it back, not before almost throwing up on myself out of anger. Love y'all <3

[onyourhyuck]

LUKEWARM. L.DH | Episode 1

— Title: ‘Wasteland, baby.’

— Summary: Hong Yujin is the new patient at the psych ward admitted for her eating disorder. On the first day of being admitted she meets Haechan, a patient being treated for his bpd. Yujin already claims to hate him; he is everything she dislikes. Loud, annoying, self destructive.

— Genre: Psych ward, hospital, mental illnesses, can be triggering so read at your own risk, guys take care of yourself, mentions of eating disorders, mentions of bpd, suggestive, smut, angst etc.

— Notes: please don’t read if you’ll be triggered !! Take care of yourself guys.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Yujin is emotionally constipated and Haechan is a meddler.

The two most complex cases in the ward — happen to be each other’s triggers and worst of friends in the whole of hospital. Putting these two and two together is like asking for a death wish to happen.

You see punishment takes in many different forms. Yujin is convinced that god is punishing her with Haechan messing up her life whenever she’s in a good mood.

The young girl only recently started to enrol in this hospital not out of her own choice. News spread around quickly of Yujin and of course Haechan wanted to see the newbie for himself. She remembers how he bothered her with so much questions on the first day. Now Yujin wishes he would choke and shut up for once.

If there was a thing to describe him. It would be running tap water.

Strange interpretation right? Yujin likes to think that Haechan’s like tap water. Distasteful, stale and unpleasant.

So far it sounds accurate to Yujin.

A plop of weight pressed on the mattress with shoes on the hospital bed. The boy crossed his legs over the covers with a gleeful smile gazing right back at the owner of the room who looks to be the most pissed he’s seen her yet.

How exciting. Haechan loves getting reaction out of people the most. The girl has been his main source of entertainment here since she arrived. It was like a blessing from God, or so he likes to think.

“Get out.” Yujin states not even bothering to say hello or ‘please get out’ it was just a flat out unemotional reaction equivalent to ‘fuck off’ which he pretends that it hurt him. But it didn’t in reality.

The boy gasps pretending to be a freaking sob but he stopped acting when the expression on her face did not budge. Haechan was intrigued by Yujin’s bluntness. Most other patients would’ve backed down and been submissive to him, but not Yujin. He liked that in a very twisted way.

“Oh come on don’t be such a stick in the mud, let me hang out with you.” Haechan flashes her a little smirk hoping it would encourage some agreement between them.

Yujin heavily exhales. Might as well add some smoke particles, Haechan swore he saw her head turning to flames any minute.

“No. If I want to hang out with someone like you I would get a pet dog. Now get out of my room!” The arms extend out towards the door so Haechan can see the way out.

Taken aback by such statements but not letting them phase him outwardly. Haechan definitely notes from bothering her as of lately he did notice Yujin was rather a feisty individual. Deciding it would be even more fun to get on her nerves and push the already pressed buttons even more just for the fun of it. He didn’t actually care that Yujin was upset.

Haechan’s back pressed on the wall while he was sitting up on the bed this time. Legs crossed over the covers with that devilish smile.

“Oh calm down you’re in a mental ward, I’m sure you’ll come across much worse than me.”

The audacity to have Haechan smiling at her at this time? Yujin feels every inch of her body blood boiling to the point she couldn’t stand straight and see clearly.

Yujin glares over at the boy who made himself comfortable on the bed unannounced with one leg over the covers as if he owns this freaking ward to himself. Yujin stands there in middle of the room immediately ready to protest to the boy who gave no ounce of care.

“Who do you think you are?” Yujin says with an unamused expression.

The boy notices Yujin’s reaction to him sitting down on her bed and her glare. It would fun seeing someone else react this much, Haechan sometimes wonders if her head will explode someday.

The girl has only enrolled recently. He grins from ear to ear. It was fun however. Especially to a guy like him.

Haechan leans back on the bed and rests his feet against the wall. He grabs a magazine off the bedside table and begins to read, as if he’s at home. “Oh come on, what makes you think you own everything here? Who do you think you are?”

Haechan taunts her back. He can’t get enough of this interaction. It was like watching a sitcom on television but he was starring himself.

The moment which was full of tension like a chalk scraping at the chalkboard in a classroom. It felt like a million knives stabbing in the same constant pressure point on a body. It wasn’t a good energy at all so when the young nurse walked in on the moment, she was rather surprised to see Haechan on the bed already harassing the new patient.

The nurse furrows her eyebrows. “Haechan shouldn’t you be in your room taking your medication with nurse Joong?”

His eyes dart away from Yujin to the nurse rather eerily and he slants forward with a dropping smile. “Awh bummer — well this was fun.” He said it like he spent most of the living moments in this ward.

Yujin couldn’t put her finger on it, but it certainly sounds like Haechan was used to the pills prescribed.

But before he was fully leaving he whispers to Yujin. “Welcome to the Wasteland, baby.”

Not quite understanding what the boy meant. Yujin frowned and turned back but by then he was gone on his way.

@onyourhyuck please refer from translating copyrighting and plagiarising my work. Please reblog this blog and follow me for more updates it helps a girl out !

[dribs-and-drabbles]

My thoughts on the GMMTV 2023 line-up (from what I can remember and from some dms I shouted to @grapejuicegay last night)

I am SO EXCITED for both projects with Perth. I absolutely love him and Double Savage with Ohm looks incredible (I've been longing for Ohm in something dark) as does Dangerous Romance (how long have we been waiting for Chimon to lead?!). With DS, part of me wonders if they're not biological brothers (it's the use of 'blood brothers'...but I'm probably wrong 🤷🏽‍♀️)

Hidden Agenda looks cute...but quite similar to their last project. I'm a huge fan of Joong but not so much of Dunk. I wish they would have paired Joong with someone else (like Perth I guess! Or maybe Sing -> he's another I want to see lead) and in something meatier. But this one has Aou and Boom as a seemingly established couple 👏🏼

Although an office romance, and with Force and Book whom I think go well together, I'm lukewarm over A Boss and A Babe (especially the title). I'm not a fan of boss/employee relationships. Having said that, I do appreciate that Book's character did address the inappropriateness of that in the trailer.

The way I SCREAMED with Milk and Love in 23.5 (and honestly, I love obscure titles like this). And I doubly love that they subverted the stereotypes a little, having Milk as the shy pursuer and Love as the popular confident one. A+ I'll be vibrating till I see this. Oh and it was the only trailer I watched twice. I think that says a lot.

I think Cooking Crush will be cute. It's nice to see Off and Gun together again, hopefully they will be even more comfortable with each other, and Neo is back to his typical typecast it seems. But I'm happy to see Marc getting a few roles this year. I wonder if the 'twist' is that Off's character is already a brilliant chef...but we'll have to wait and see.

It's nice to see Ohm (shirtless) and Joong in Wednesday Club but I'm not so interested in the storyline. Sorry fellas. Also it's kind of funny that Ohm plays a middle child in two series, this and Double Savage 😄 (at least I think that's what he said in the interview after DS).

Oh it's wonderful to see Jimmy again. I hope he pulls out yet another different character. I felt he did so well with Puen being so different from his performance as Wai, so I'm looking forward to seeing him - and Sea - in Last Twilight. I hope they handle the blindness well...but it's Aof directing...so I want to trust it.

My live reaction to Only Friends: "Wait....Force, Book, First, Khaotung, Marc, AND Neo all in one show?! And they're all fu*king each other?! 😂 YES PLEASE!" Says it all really. And: "JOJO!"

I was happy to finally see Nanon in something...but I'm not sure what to make of The Jungle. I may not watch this one tbh. Actually, if it were the case that the women are getting revenge on these players by getting them all angsty and rejected then maaaaaybe I'd be on board. I want power women ��🏼

I've already mentioned a little about the Cherry Magic reproduction - I think they should wait for a couple more years. It's too close to Japan releasing the movie. Plus I agree with the majority of others -> Tay and New aren't the right casting for this.

Midnight Museum looks intriguing...I like a bit of paranormal, and I don't know Tor Thanapob so it will be interesting to see what he's like...and I really like Ploy from The Eclipse so I'm excited to see her...but I can't get a sense of the plot from that trailer.

And as for Our Skyy 2...I think these screenshots speak for themselves really:

But in all seriousness, I think these will be cute to go back to...or at least some of them - ATOTS, Bad Buddy, Vice Versa, The Eclipse...even Star in my Mind - but it feels strange getting a special episode for some series that haven't even aired yet - My School President, Never Let Me Go, and A Boss and A Babe. The latter being included in Our Skyy makes me think the ABAAB series will come out early in 2023 and then OS2 will come out later...but who can say.

And as for those I haven't mentioned...I'm not really interested, so I'll not waste your time.

The things I'm sad we didn't get include:

Neo as a lead in something serious

AJ in a lead role finally (I think he would be GREAT with Ploy in a het if he didn't want to do ql)

Joong given something serious/heavy

Sing in something meaty, angsty, soul-destroying

Drake to be given something more prominent

More women. Just MOAR

and my very favourite wish...for the actor who played Pran's dad, A Passin, to be in a ql with someone of a similar age (or younger, I'm not fussy...not really)...I mean, the man has to get his tattoos on display somehow 🤷🏽‍♀️ I could see him as a school teacher or librarian, subverting the school setting by focusing on the adults for once...

[mara-xx217]

Pokes head

May I request Michael being a possessive daddy and fighting a killer who hurt his girlfriend ? It can be anyway you like 💙

Why of course you can~ This isn’t based in Dbd, but the normal world. Hope you don’t mind!

Possessive, Protective Mikey

You were like some sort of disease to Michael. Or, perhaps, a parasite was a better descriptor of how you affected him. You wormed your way into him, deep into his chest, right beside his cold, soulless heart. You made him… feel, regardless of what that actually meant, it was beyond unacceptable in his eyes. That warm, painful throbbing in his chest was more than distracting, it was nauseating, disturbing. Terrifying… In a sick, twisted, wrong way, you terrified the Shape of Haddonfield. Michael fucking Myers was absolutely terrified of a small, defenseless creature that was completely helpless against the evil and cruelty he wielded against the world. He should kill you a hundred thousand times over for this transgression! But… it wouldn’t make him feel any better. He only… feels more empty every time your cheeks are stained with tears. Cold. Dead. Michael would feel dead without you…

This isn’t the first time he’s caught someone hurting you. It’s happened many, many times over, and his reaction has ranged from blinded rage to searing hatred. Not just for the one harming you, but towards you, yourself. It was that lack of control that drove Michael insane. He couldn’t watch you 24/7, couldn’t always follow you around or know where you were at any given moment… It drove him fucking crazy, and he took that frustration out on not just the asshole unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with you, but onto you, as well.

But, even that was quickly losing its luster to him. Michael had thought that hurting you would bring him some sort of fulfillment, like it has always done in the past when he had hurt others. It never has, though. Sure, he’s lied to himself, trying desperately to convince himself that seeing you all small, all scared and teary-eyed brought him a measure of enjoyment, to have your blood on his hands, to have you groveling in terror before him- but it didn’t. It- He- Michael felt… not good, when that happened. You made him… stop to consider how his actions would affect you, and he hated that.

Michael despises that you’re a magnet for trouble. That you just can’t seem to stay the hell away from people that want to do you harm. Sure, he doesn’t mind killing them. Quite the opposite, in fact, he rather enjoys seeing them covered in their own blood, begging for their pathetic lives before he mercilessly snuffs them out. No, Michael hates that you get hurt in the first place. The only one that should ever have the right to put their hands on you was him! Him, and him alone. Anyone else would be destroyed.

Some wannabe serial killer punk had set his eyes on you. Luckily for you, Michael knew better than to leave you to your own devices, anymore. He caught the little bastard scoping out your home before you had any idea of the danger you were in. He’d make sure that, this time, he’d be in complete control of the situation. You won’t be hurt, but that idiot thinking that he can do as he pleases? He’s going to regret the day he was born…

Sitting in your kitchen, you drank what must be your fifth coffee of the night. Strange things were happening, and it left you unable and unwilling to sleep at night. Rustling outside your windows, the sound of someone possibly jimmying your doors and windows, looking for a possible way in… Muddy footprints on your porch and small, dead animals left on your door mat… It was becoming too much. You’re… pretty sure it wasn’t Michael. He did love to torment you, but this wasn't really his thing. He was much more… direct, with his approach to you. This… this was someone else…

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you rub your eyes, feeling them water involuntarily from how dry they were. Anxiously, you tap your fingers on the top of the counter, before sighing heavily and grabbing your coffee mug. You decided to make your way to the living room, thinking that some TV would help calm your nerves and get your mind off of things. Fuck, I’m exhausted… You thought bitterly as you crashed onto the couch, nearly spilling lukewarm coffee all over yourself.

Picking up the remote, you absentmindedly flipped through channels, not really wanting to watch anything. It was just something else to focus on, rather than the impending sense of dread that was washing over you. This feeling was one that you were well acquainted with: the feeling of being watched. Your heart was pounding in your chest and your palms were slick with sweat. Slowly, you sit up, clumsily placing your mug on the table in front of you. The hairs on your entire body stood on end. Something’s not right here…

As you begin to rise off the couch, a firm hand pushes you back down into a sitting position. Your heart jumped up into your throat. You’re very familiar with Michael’s hands, and the one still gripping your shoulder was much, much smaller than his… Short, shaky breaths escaped through your clenched teeth. Fuck..! Oh shit- Oh my God no no no-! You don’t dare to move, only stare straight ahead at nothing as your mind runs wild with possibilities. Who the hell is it?! How did they get in?! Why me?! Where the fuck is Michael when I fucking need him?!?

The intruder sucks in a deep breath, as though he’s about to say something, but instead yelps in surprise as he’s ripped away from you suddenly and violently. You gasp, shooting up and scrambling across the room, back peddling into an opposing corner. Curling in on yourself, you crumple onto the floor, watching the brutality unfolding before you through the cracks of your fingers.

Michael had thrown the intruder back, sending him crashing into a mostly bare bookshelf, breaking most of the shelves along with it. You cringe and jump, feeling your insides twist and revolt against you. Michael drops to the floor, straddling the winded, smaller man as he desperately tries to fight back. Vainly. It was laughable, really. The idiot didn’t stand a chance against the human incarnation of evil, itself.

Michael briefly debated on playing with his food. There was something about seeing them crawl and beg that really set him off, but when he glanced at you over his shoulder, in the fetal position and hyperventilating, he actually decided against it. It was getting under his skin seeing you like this, and the quicker this is… inconvenience is dealt with, the quicker things will be back to normal. Well, to Michael’s fucked up definition of the word “normal”, that is.

With a quick stab to the back of his neck, the intruder was killed. Normally, Michael would have painted the walls with this creep’s blood, but he decided that it would be too much of a pain in the ass to clean up. With a flick of his wrist, Michael twists and pulls out the blade, wiping the excess blood onto the back of his victim’s shirt. He looks back over to you, and sees you stiffen. His… Huh. His chest actually hurts…

With a heavy sigh, he stands, stepping over the dead body as he makes his way over to you. A major part of you was beyond terrified. Is he gonna hurt me..? Oh- Oh God..! I’m gonna- I’m- I’m gonna..! You were trembling, shaking so hard that your teeth were actually chattering audibly. Michael’s eye twitched. He was conflicted: one part of him loved that you were this scared of him, as you should be, but the other… the other hated it. He- Well, he wanted… something, but he just didn’t know what. Fingers twitching, he reached out to you, struggling to ignore how you froze as he slowly approached you.

You really thought that he was going to grab you by the hair and drag you off to the bedroom, so when his fingertips just barely brushed the top of your head, moving the hair from your face, you were, well… at a bit of a loss. Michael has never, ever been that gentle while touching you. Ever. You raise your head slightly, just enough so that you could see him. He still had that damn mask on, of course, and his body language hardly betrayed what he was thinking or feeling, but- You couldn’t deny that his fingers were trembling ever so slightly.

He slowly crouches in front of you, treating you as though you're some kind of animal that will either bolt at the slightest movement or go for his jugular, or something like that. You don’t move or speak, unsure of what he was doing. When he placed his hand where that stalker touched you, gently- carefully squeezing your shoulder as though you were made of glass, you… you relaxed.

You could tell that he was struggling to be gentle, with how his fingers twitched uncontrollably and the pressure of his fingertips varied. You looked up to him, then down at his chest as an odd warmth spread through your cheeks. Michael was extremely possessive over you. He hated it when you interacted with anyone else, especially other men. But, right now, even though another man had touched you, he wasn’t flying off the handle like he usually did. He was still extraordinarily pissed off that he had given the bastard just enough time to physically touch you, but it was remedied.

He was fucking dead, and you were still here. You were his and his alone. That wasn’t called into question. There was no dispute. Michael Myers is the only person that is ever allowed to touch you. You’ve come to accept this, and slowly but surely, you’re even beginning to enjoy his touch. As sick and messed up as it was, you’ve started to develop feelings for him, despite the fact that he made your life a living hell. If anything, you knew that no one would hurt you ever again. No one, except for him.

[after-witch]

Close to My Heart [Baby Mine Part 3] [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Close to My Heart [Baby Mine Part 3] [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: He’s drugging you again. The bastard. 

Word Count:

Notes: yandere, stockholm syndrome, medical/drug content

He’s drugging you again. The bastard. The world is too much--too bright, too empty, too heavy and thick. The drugs he’s giving you make you sleepy, slow, heavy. 

And the room you’re in is so empty. Bare walls and a bed and an overhead light. The familiarity--scenes of years ago, of weeks spent in a room just like this one--is gutting. You miss the side table next to your bed with your books and notepad; you miss glancing into your daughter’s bedroom before walking downstairs to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. You miss your daughter. 

You don’t know how long these things have been gone, only that they are gone, leaving you with nothing in their stead.

Nothing but him, anyway.

He’s sitting on the end of your bed again. Staring down at you, mask on, eyes piercing even through the heaviness surrounding you. Your arms aren’t restrained anymore, but every time you move, it’s clear why he isn’t bothering: with all the drowsy-inducing sedatives built up in your system, you couldn’t muster an effective attack even if you tried.

And you’ve tried.

“How are you feeling?”

The same questions, every morning.

You press your lips together and smack them. Your throat is dry. You hope he brought your water cup. It’s the least he could do.

“Where’s my daughter?” You say, finally, voice dry and hoarse.

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“She’s safe. How are you feeling?”

“Let me see her.”

He shakes his head, a small, imperceptible motion.

“Not until you’re better. How are you feeling?”

His voice never loses its smooth, authoritative edge. You can’t say you missed this, missed the way he talked down to you like you were some weak little thing that doesn’t know right from wrong.

You lean back on your elbows, forcing your head to lift up enough to look him in the eyes. You try to muster an expression of disdain, but you don’t know if it’s registering anywhere but your own mind.

“Like shit. Fuck you, by the way.” You can’t help but take the tiniest bits of satisfaction where you can, and it doesn’t matter that your voice is hoarse and your arms are trembling and that you’re drugged to shit, because it gets a reaction fro him.

A small reaction, but still. His lips purse in a frown.

“Dear,” he says, oh-so-disappointed. “Your language.”

You let your arms give way, falling back against the pillow with a laugh that hurts your chest. Potty mouth, you think, I’m such a potty mouth. What did you read one time, some novel set in the American Midwest--better put a dollar in the swear jar.

“Stop being difficult.”

You snort.

Your head stays where it is, eyes following him as he retrieves a tray he set on the only other piece of furniture in the room: a bolted down chair, padded like a marshmallow. You’ve been tempted to point it out, tempted to ask him if he thinks you’ll try to smash your head open on a normal chair--why not pad your bed then, too? But he might just stick you in a straightjacket or something equally restricting if you so much as make a joke about harming yourself, so you don’t.

A rumbling, empty feeling in your stomach, the scratchiness of your dry throat, destroys any temptation to goad him more. He’s not above making you wait for food if you’re being testy, though you don’t think he’d go so far as to actually starve you. Just deprive you a bit, like he has a few times this week. So you force yourself to simply sit quietly and watch as he brings the tray to your bed, unfolding the little legs and placing it down in front of you.

He lifts up the cup of lukewarm water, a large blue cup you recognize from the kitchen. The little white straw peaking out of the top bounces around until you catch it with your lips. You barely listen to his words--’just a few sips, dear’--and try to ignore the tight, tingly feeling all this gives you.

Prickling humiliation, vaguely colored with childhood memories of hospital stays that made you feel helpless and alone, washes over you every time he gives you something to eat or drink. He always insists on holding the cup, on making you use a thin plastic straw--small sips only. He cuts up your food into tiny bites and only gives you a plastic spoon to eat with.

You dimly remember him feeding you thin broth some time ago, spoon knocking against your teeth every time you moved your head; but that was when your sedative dose was higher and stronger and you were so conked out of your mind that you kept calling him a doctor.

But you’ve graduated to rice and overcooked, bland vegetable that you can eat with a spoon. You know who he is, all the time, which honestly makes things a bit worse than when your stuffy mind thought he was someone else. Hooray.

Your fingers tremble as you press your spoon against the lumpy mash of vegetables. You can’t decide if he’s overcooking them on purpose or if he simply stinks at cooking now, having surely been years out of practice. They look even lumpier than normal, covered in a thick sauce; you bite down the urge to snarkily ask him if the sodium content from such a sauce is appropriate for your delicate health.

You’ve been his little home chef for how long now? Whipping up desserts and dinners like it was your profession. Whipping them up with a smile. And, before the birth of your daughter changed everything, whipping them up with a bright anxiety brimming underneath--anxiety for his approval. Did he like it? Was it too salty? The rice was cooked fine, wasn’t it?

And it wasn’t just the food, no. You’d wanted to please him in everything. In the way you cleaned, in the way you dressed, in the way you tried to soothe him after he’d clearly had a rough day while you sat at home, comparatively comfortable, reading books or fussing with the kitchen curtains again.

But true, honest (disgusting, dark, deep-seated) thoughts of pleasing him have been the furthest thing from your mind for years now. You allowed only the vainest of surface pleasantries to remain, for the sake of pretense, for the sake of getting away with the loving act long enough to get the two of you as far away as possible. Long enough to see yourself and your daughter free and happy, creating a new life--somewhere. Anywhere.

Well, look at you now.

A tear drips down onto your tray, running past your lips, warm and salty. The sight of the tear mingled with the smushed vegetables does it, brings you over the edge, and your shoulders shake helplessly as you begin to cry. You can already feel the exhaustion sweeping over you--the mere act of sitting up and crying and feeling something, feeling something so sad, means you’ll be out like a light soon. Your emotions feel so muted lately--the sedatives?--and when you do feel them, it’s so, so tiring.

His gloved hand brushes your cheek, brushes at your tear, and flinch away. You stare at the floor, white, bare. Rugs are a tripping hazard, you assume. Or maybe he wants to drive you crazy with all the light colors, the creams and eggshells and just-barely-there pale greys. 

You sigh, and look back at your tray. Your stomach demands it, so you lift up a spoonful of muddy-colored vegetables and take a bite. Despite your best efforts, the plastic spoon clinks against your teeth anyway. On your next bite, you go slower, steadying your hands--sometimes he insists on feeding you himself, if you mess up enough. You don’t think you have the energy left today to deal with that. So you eat, slow. Carefully. He doesn’t speak, simply watching as the plate of food, the vegetables and rice, slowly disappear inside you.

The sauce is salty and the vegetables are mush, but the rice is fine and you only wish there was more of it so you could stomach the vegetables more readily.

When you’re done, he holds the cup again, positioning the straw near your lips. You sip a little faster, greedy and thirsty, until there’s nothing left inside.

His eyes practically light up at the empty tray, and as he’s taking it away you leans in closer, whispering through his mask, “Good girl.”

Your stomach churns. Maybe the vegetables had gone bad. Or maybe hearing him voice praise that would have made your heart flutter before is making you feel sick.

After he sets the tray to the side, he takes his place--this time not at the end of your bed, but on the side, unnervingly close to you. You watch as he slides his hands behind his ears, slipping off his mask and setting it down on top of your bedspread.

But then he just… watches you.

You’re about to ask him what he wants, tell him to just spit it out already, tell him to fuck off if he’s just going to be a creeper who stares at you, when you feel something. Something different. A blooming, a wave, a strange feeling coming from inside your skin. Bone-deep, blood-deep.

And it’s then that you realize that he’s drugged the food with something new. Something strong. Something that does more than make you sleepy, like the stuff he injects into your arm.

Oh the fucker. Fucker, fucker, fucker. You feel it taking effect like a slow-going tide, radiating through your body. Tingles, light and airy, taking all of the sadness and stress and hate balled up inside you; soaking them up like a towel, until all that’s left inside you is a blissful feeling of forced relaxation.

“What did you do?” You ask, though it comes out as a whisper. Your head lolls a bit to the side. Was your pillow always so soft? You blink away that thought, try to focus on what’s happening: he put more drugs in the food, he put something in the food that’s not just to make you sleep and now your body is tingling.

He takes your hands in his--you dimly realize that you should pull away, but why bother? His grip helps your hands feel less floaty, anyway--and gives a firm squeeze.

“I know you’re still in there. That… untoward behavior with our daughter, none of that was really you.”

You smile. There’s a brief flicker of lightness in his eyes, but when you speak it flies away.

“You don’t know me,” you say, voice free of the snark and bite from earlier, but clearly grating to his ears all the same. 

Chisaki leans forward, and in your relaxed state you don’t attempt to move away. You simply register the closeness and focus on the way your body, your mind, is slowly deflating.

He squeezes your hands tighter. Too tight. They won’t float away, for sure.

“We’ve lived together for years. We’ve shared the same bed. We have a child together. You think I don’t know you?”

You whine--you don’t mean to, not necessarily, but your chest and lungs and throat aren’t cooperating. They’re too light for the sound you wanted to make, a guttural low sound from somewhere inside. Instead it comes across as childish and helpless and you suppose, that’s what you are.

“Lived together…” You laugh, shaking your head against the soft pillow. “But you kidnapped me.” He did, didn’t he, all those years ago. From a life you barely remember, especially right now; from people whose faces are scrubbed from your memory by time and trauma.

His fingers are stroking your hands now. It feels nice--it almost tickles. But the softness of the strokes, the way they tickle the tops of your hands, contrasts against his voice, firm, controlled, a touch of anger brushing underneath.

“I gave you a home. I indulged you in your interests, your hobbies, however silly. I gave you a family. Don’t act ungrateful.”

“M’not,” you mumble, reflexive more than reflecting. Trying to think about what he’s saying is hard, and getting harder by the minute. The tingling has now draped over your head and your thoughts are wrapped in cotton, thick and fluffy. You wish he’d talk softer. Everything else is calm, and the edge of something dark in his voice feels amplified a thousandfold.

“Look at me.” His voice is still too harsh. Maybe you should pet his hands to see if it helps, like it helped yours stay intact.

Before you can do anything, he speaks again.

“Don’t you love our daughter?”

Your head turns too quickly to look up at him, and you’re dizzy, but the words tumble out of your hoarse throat anyway.

“Yes. Oh, yes. You know I do.”

You may not remember the faces of others (your mother, your friends, your mother) but you remember your daughter’s face. Clear as a bell. Bright. You want to be with her so badly.

Another firm squeeze of your fingers. You squeeze back--hopefully it will bring him down to your level, to the cotton and balloons.

“Then why don’t you want to be with her?”

Why is he asking such a mean question? Your lips curl downwards in an unintentional childish mimic of a frown. They feel thick, almost numb, as you half-blubber out the words.

“I do want to be with her, but you won’t let me.”

His hands leave yours--you almost want to reach out, but they lay almost limp on your stomach--and he cradles your cheek instead. There’s warmth on your cheek and you realize that he’s taken his gloves off. Ah. Maybe your squeeze worked, after all; he only takes off his gloves when he’s happy, when he’s comfortable. When he wants to comfort you. 

Fuzzy memories of crying into his shoulder, of weeping openly on a bed in a long-forgotten room, mingled with the sensation of his bare skin against yours. Always soft, comforting. Enduring. Something you could rely on to release the pressure of your emotions and bring you back down.

“Because you’re unwell,” he whispers, voice as soft as the cotton wrapped around your thoughts. “You’re so unwell.”

The way he brushes his hand against your forehead feels nice. Maybe you’re sick, after all. 

You don’t even think about the words before you speak them, instinctual questions now going right from your surface thoughts to your voice and out your mouth.

“If I get better, can I see her?”

There’s a hand cradling your cheek again, and this time, you lean your face into the warmth. There’s that spark in his eyes again, but this time the look doesn’t melt away because of your ill-timed comment. You press your lips together to keep it that way, lest the thoughts flying out your brain make him upset again.

You feel so nice, like this, like you’re wrapped in the softest blankets in the world and there’s nothing, no hardness, no anger, no sadness, holding you down and making you cry. Just him and you and the warmth radiating throughout your body.

Why cry, when his hand is right here, when your body is so tingled and relaxed. Why cry, when all you can think about is how nice you feel, how calm he is, how calm you are.

Why cry, when the next words he speaks make your heart thud against your chest in pure, body-lifting joy.

“Of course you can.”

His hand trails along your chin, cupping it in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

“Now that I’ve found the right medicine for your… disposition, we can start the rest of your treatment right away.”

What he says should scare you. But there’s no room left in your body for anything but forced content and fuzzy softness and the smallest hint of deja vu, a wispy little thing cupping its hands and yelling warnings that you brush away with a smile.

[nightlight-firelight]

Hi everyone! Sorry for the long wait! Art block (Or writing block?) is the worst and I’ve been busy. I’m also trying to make this a gender neutral story and I’m not too experienced on this so hopefully I’m doing ok so far! Now with that out of the way, on to chapter 2!

“Falling (in love) So Fast That I Can’t Even Think!”

Chapter 2

You take a second to realize that he was holding you a bit tight around the waist, and the silence of the tension began to build every second that neither of you moved.

“Hi?” You ask him. You mentally smacked yourself in the head for that comment. At this point of view, you can see that the, now real and very handsome doctor, eyes were a shade of blue that could take your breath away and-

“Oh, um,” Eggman studdered out a bit softer and less confident the what you have seen him in the show. “Hi.” He finally decided to look around at his predicament and examined your room.

“Where am I?” Eggman finally pulled you back onto the bed, creaking slightly from the unexpected new weight. Your mind finally snaps back into reality as the warmth from his hands fades from your hips, already missing the connection he had. You need to relax, and not freak out the poor man sitting on your bed.

“You’re in my room.” You finally managed to push the words out of your lips. His face turns to confusion and worries at all of the merchandise of not just his universe, but the main Sonic series as well. His mind mostly likely wandered into a ‘crazy fan’ mode and tried to back up. You perk up and lean back slightly, making sure to not fall off the bed this time, but also give him some space to relax. Ivo’s movements began to quicken as he still backs up, almost falling off the other side of the bed. He catches himself and looks at you with a face of slight panic and worry.

“What’s all this? Who are you and what-” You cut him off with a hand slightly raised, signaling to calm down and to relax. “Breath, please. I won’t hurt you.” You promised him as you instruct him through a breathing exercise. After a small bit of confusion between the two of you, you lead the poor man into your living room, hesitantly on his part, and led him down on your couch. Just walking into your kitchen to grab two white ceramic mugs, you hear him clear his throat.

“So, what’s going on?” You can feel his gaze on you as the first mug is filled with hot liquid, the steam coming from the filling mug as your brain thinks of what you should do. You switch mugs, taking out his mug for yours. You take a breath.

You’re in my house, and not in your multiverse.” Finally giving him some type of answer as his, at this point, huge bear paw-like hands, envelope the mug and took a small sip. You went to grab your mug as he commented on the choice of beverage you had given him.

“Hot Cocoa?” The question you as you at on the opposite side of the couch, holding what you liked to think, that at this moment was your liquid courage. You take a small sip and taste the liquid pooling into your body. You almost blush as you remembered the ‘CowBot’ episode where Eggman offered Sonic and Tails hot coco and messed with them, waiting for his machine to arrive.

“I thought you might like it.” You confess as he stairs back into his cup, pondering on his whole situation. He takes a breath and looks at you.

“Can you explain to me how I may have gotten here?” All you could do is nod as you start the long trek into the explanation of who is and on all of your knowledge on how he may have gotten here.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

The next few hours were, as you expected, emotional. You had to start with who you were, where he was, and leading him into the conversation that may or may not have caused way too much emotion for the both of you.

“So the main series follows Sonic and his friends, but mostly Sonic, throughout his adventures fighting his version of the doctor. There in the form of games.” He takes a sec and has a look that tells you to keep going. You explain all the story of how the franchise came to be from the nineties till the game you were kinda worried about. Sonic Adventure 2. You tell him the basic plot points and slowly explain how the Main Univers Doc’s Grandfather died along with his grandchild, Maira. He winces when you explain this and see that he’s shaking whenever the two popped up. When you explained that Shadow was made by his Grandfather, his mood perked up and he getting giddy and you have to admit, his cute squeal of figuring out that somewhere he could be related to one of the most powerful people on his island. You smile and after his cute reaction, keeps the conversation going with more information about the franchise. By the time you had reached the current point of the history of the franchise, the man had a lot of questions.

“So let me get this straight,” Eggman’s posture was lax as he was leaned back into the couch, making himself more at home for the time being. “You’re telling me that the main version of me has released a water monster god, a prototype of Shadow, that is a giant lizard, a god within the earth that’s made of darkness, and tried to play with time and space like it was a toy?” He questioned as he took another sip of his now lukewarm cup of cocoa, stroking his mustache pensively, looking at you for a reasonable answer on why he would do so. “Well the BioLizard thing wasn’t truly his fault, but the rest were planed. And I’m saying ‘planned’ with quotes because I don’t think for a second that he thought a few of those through.” You chuckle at the main Doc’s decisions. While you did think his plans were really good, sometimes you think he may have never really thought things through before going to start his plans. Doc downs the rest of his drink as you realized that your cup is still half full. He sets it on the counter in front of the two of you and leans back into your couch. You smile at the thought that he’s finally warming up to you. In all reality, he could take you down with a swing of his fist and run anytime, but having him trust you this much to serve him a drink and have a nice conversation did bring up some fuzzy feelings you have been trying to push down withing the last few hours.

“So I’m still confused, how did I get here?” Doc asks as he cracks his spin a bit to relax better. You take another sip of your dink and set your cup down. You look him in the eye with a bit of confusion. “I’m not sure. I just watch the DVD and you were the one to start seeing me, after the ending of your battle with Sonic and Tails, that white light appeared and you grabbed me before I fell off my bed.” You look towards him and blush a bit, your face now warm from the memory of the save. “Thank you for catching me, I don’t think a concussion would have helped the situation now, would it?” You try and make the small joke appealing to make it less awkward. He blushes and nods, a small ‘no problem’ slips from his lips as you can see he’s trying to not make eye contact and his cheeks, just slightly visible under his mustache, a small bit of warmth wraps around his cheeks. Your brain gets hit with a moment of clarity and you jump up from the couch and take a second to grab your DVD player from your room, bringing it back to him to study. “I’m not sure if this would help you get back home,” You start, “ But it’s a start.” You also hand him the note that came with the box along with the Sonic figure. He takes the figure first and rolls it over a bit, looking at the detail.

“So this figure and the note came along in the box with the DVDs?” He asked as he set the figure down as he grabbed the note. You blush and remember that wasn’t the only thing in the box. You almost had forgotten the figure of the living breathing man in front of you. You ask him to give you a second and hurry back to your room. Searching the room, you almost give up on finding the figure, until you spot it halfway under the bed. You bend over and grab the figure and examine it. It’s still the same figure, but less detailed now. It actually looks like how one of the box set figures is. Cheaply made and having a missing paint splotch here and there. It still was a good-looking figure though, just not as best made. You start your very slow pace back to the living room, taking a small bit of time to think about something. The Sonic figure was still the same as it was before the doctor arrived, why did the doctor change-. You stop mid-way in your hallway to finally piece a big puzzle together. The figure of the doctor was some type of catalyst for his arrival. Like a gateway to get here. ‘And now that the figure is back to normal, does that mean that the Sonic one-’ You didn’t finish that thought as you hurry back to the living room, the doctor just putting the not back onto the counter. He looks up as grabs the DVD player and sets it onto his lap. He smiles as you enter the room.

“ Hey, you ok?” He asks you as you sit back down next to him, gently grab the Sonic figure, cradling it with some care.

“I’m ok,” You answer with some melancholy in your voice. “It’s just that I’ve been thinking of something that just came to me.” You look over to him, Doc staring back, patiently waiting for you to continue. You take a breath and look him in the eyes. “The box set also came with a figure of you as well.” You explain as you gave him the small toy, his face going into a slight pout over the quality as he looks it over.

“I’m much more handsome than this.” He sulks over the craftsmanship of his figure compared to the one in your hand. You pat him on the back with your free hand, feeling him tense for a sec and then relax. You giggle at the line, remembering it from the 30th-anniversary comic. Your mood lightening up a bit at his reaction. “It was actually just as well made before you appeared in my room.” You explained as you rub your thumber gingerly over Sonic’s quills. Your mood dampens a bit. “I’m really thinking that the figure was the way-”

And a giant flash of white engulfed both of your eyesight. You scream as you feel a sense of weightlessness as you clutch the figure closer to you. Opening your eyes after that flashbang of light, as see that you’re in. You blink and take a look around. You try and gain a scene of where you were as you feel like you were falling down. You see Eggman trying his best not to scream as he is also in the same predicament as you. You look at this ‘tube’ as you decided to call it and take a look a the warping walls. They move with colors that remind you of the goop In Super Mario Sunshine. The colors of yellow, magenta, and white mixing together and making the whole experience feel like a trippy dip around a pipe. The tube had some slight aura to it as it was some type of fuzzy feeling in the back of your spine, not good but not unpleasant either. You look down past your now slightly screaming partner in crime to see a large warp ring that looked something right of the Sonic movie, looking to land right over some type of woods. You realized from the rate your accelerating from and the height from the ring to the ground would lead to more than a few broken bones.

Holding your breath and snaping your eyes closed as you wait for the pain to hit, the now cool air of the new land you arrived on pools into your skin as you want to feel at least a bit of joy knowing that right at the end, you feel cool. You never did feel the ground but instead a pair of arms holding you and the sensation of rocketing back up. Opening your eyes, you see Doc holding you again, having been lifted from the ground by two sleek black jetpack type of wings protruding from the back of his jacket. He looks down at you with a smirk and chuckles a bit.

“We have got to stop doing this.” He’s sarcastic, and the potential way of flirting, way of teasing sends you a bit more than tomato red in the face as you wonder if it’s the altitude of the comment that making it hard to think right at the moment. You almost didn’t hear him as he starts to talk.

“It looks like we’re flying over Seaside Island Jungle.” He starts to explain. “I’m going to fly us back to my lair and we can figure out from there what’s going on.” You look over his shoulder for a brief second to see the portal closing and finally dusting away with a puff of gold sparks. Looking back and see a breathtaking view, seeing the full grand scale of the island from up in the clouds. You can even start making out at sever locations from both seasons. You only think of what’s going to happen next when you see golden sparks emulate from your closed hands and feel a heavyweight in your arms and Doc quickly getting down to the ground, getting to be just at the end of ‘Nameless village’ as your reflexes grab on tightly to what you were holding onto. You both look down and see a very unconscious Sonic the Hedgehog in our arms. You look him over and inspect the teenager and see that he’s breathing, and in an ok shape. You look back at Doc and even he’s surprised by this addition to the group.

“Is he ok?”You question him as he gives Sonic a once over. You getting used to finally landing on the ground, stretching your legs after that small adventure.

‘He’ll be fine after some rest, but he looks exhausted.” Eggman questions as you scoop Sonic back up into your arms, being careful of his quills, making sure you don’t end up looking like a human banana peel. You look over at Doc and he looks like he’s, and you have to look a bit more closely at his expression because he looks, jealous? You ponder on that thought that the man might be jealous of the unconscious blue blur as the both of you set off into town, wondering where to go from here.

“Hey!” You hear a cry from in front of the, three? of you. You look up and see four multi-colored anthropomorphic animals. “What did the two of you do to Sonic?” Cried the two-tailed Kitsune. You see all three, with the exception of Amy, who at this point is trying to stop the trio, of Sonic’s friends close in around you. You give a panicked look to Doc as it dawned on you that Doc and yourself were about to be attacked by Tails, Knuckles, and Sticks.

Shit.

[quicksilverownsmysoul]

Strangers

I just watched Safelight and y’all cowboy Evan Peters stole my heart. I just had to write something for him immediately because I have so many feelings for him right now. I’m busy so I could only get out this little story but I’ll try and write something longer a little later! And did I write this instead is studying for my management final? Yes I did! Do I regret it? Nope!

Word Count: 1242

You two had been stealing glances at one another all night. He was the cutest little thing you had ever seen. He would look up at you from under his shaggy bangs but the minute his eyes locked on yours he would look back down. He was sitting with a group of older women, who dotted on him as if he was their son.They would playfully joke with him and he would do the same with them.

You smiled at the interaction. You were sitting at a small table across the way. You had come with a couple of your friends but they had all ditched you to try and find someone to take home. They had begged you to come with them and you did because you assumed you guys would be dancing together, but instead you were all alone with your lukewarm beer, stealing glances at a pretty young cowboy. “He’s cute.” You jumped at the sudden voice. You spun around in your stool to see your friend Silvia who just snickered at your reaction. She had her arms wrapped around some random dude.

“Very, is he single?” Your other friend asked as she jumped back into the stool next to you. 

“No idea, I haven’t seen him around here before.” You replied. Your friend Aaron came up behind you wrapping his arms around your shoulders, pressing his sweaty body into yours. “Ew Aaron!”

You pushed him off of you and he just laughed, still not taking his arm off your shoulder. “What are y’all talking ‘bout?”

“Nothing.” You said taking another sip of your beer. 

“Nothing, expect (y/n)’s new boyfriend.” Your friend cooed. You grabbed a handful of the peanuts from the basket on the table and tossed them at your friend. She squealed and threw some back at you which you dodged. 

“Boyfriend?” Aaron asked. “Which one is he?” You leaned closer to him that way you wouldn't have to yell over the loud noise. “See the one with the brown cowboy hat and the bluish gray checked shirt?” Aaron followed your gaze, squinting trying to make him out.

“A little wimpy lookin’ ain’t he?” You playfully smacked his chest.

“Shut up! He is not! And I think he’s cute.”

“Not as cute as me.” Aaron said leaning onto the table and stealing your beer, dipping it back and finishing it. 

“You wish asshole.” You yanked the empty bottle back from him. “You owe me a new beer.” He laughed and pushed himself off the table. 

He dipped his hat, winking at you. “Coming right up ma’am.” You just rolled your eyes at him and went back to watching Charles and his friends. 

“Charles. Charles. Hey Charles!” He jumped as he felt something cold hit his cheek. He turned to see Peg pressing her beer to his cheek. “You zoned out on us there honey.”

“Sorry.” Peg watched him glance back down before looking up, she saw him watching you and your friends. 

Her face broke out into a smile as she realized what was going on. “So that’s what’s got you so distracted.” She turned back to her group clinking on her beer to get their attention. “Ladies and ladies, our little Charles has a crush.” All the women at the table cheered and jested. He felt his face turn red. 

“No I don’t.”

“I think you do.” 

“Which one is she Peg?” One of her friends asked as they turned to look at your table.

“The pretty one over there that that sweaty boy has his hands all over.” 

They all turned back to face Charles. “Oh she is cute! You should ask her to dance.”

“I can’t dance.” Charles said bluntly. “Plus I’m pretty sure she’s with that guy.”

“Nah.” Peg said, Charles turned to look at her.

“How are you so sure?”

“Trust us honey, we know these things.” One of her friends answered. “He’s not her type, he’s the bottom of the barrel like all the rest of the men we ended up with.”

“Ain’t that the truth!” Peg laughed out. Charles laughed with them as they all took a swig of beer, a toast to all the horrible men they had ended up with. 

A new song started up and Peg jumped to her feet, rolling back her sleeves. “It’s dancing time ladies. And I believe it is my turn to be the man.” She held her arm out to one of her friends and she took it, they left for the dance floor, leaving Charels sitting alone at the table. You watched the women he was with and headed towards the dance floor. Your friends had all left as well, dragging Aaron and the boys they had found to slow dance with them. You watched him bob his head to the music as you did the same. You took one last sip of your drink and hopped off your bar stool making your way towards him. 

Charles watched you come closer to him, mouth opened slightly in shock. “Hey. I’m (y/n).”

He felt himself gulp in seeing you up close, you were even prettier than he had imagined. “Hey. I’m-” You let out  a little giggle as he struggled to get his name out. “I’m Charles.” 

“Nice to meet your acquaintance Charles. Would you like to dance?”

“Me?”

“Yes you.” You giggled out.

“I can’t dance.” He admitted glancing down at his leg. 

“Everyone can dance.” You took his cowboy hat off his head and placed it on your own. “What do you say cowboy, wanna dance with this cowgirl?” You reached your hand out towards him and after a moment he took it with a small smile. He let you lead him through the crowd, not once did you say anything about his bad leg. You made your way to the middle, and stopped wrapping your arms around his neck. He hesitantly placed his hands on your waist. You guy swayed back and forth with one another, moving in time with the slow song. You let your eyes close and relax in his arms. He watched as you mouthed along to the song, you looked up at him through your lashes and he blushed knowing you caught him staring. He lifted his hand up and you took it in your own, he spun you around as you laughed stumbling back into him. 

You both watched each other with curious eyes, smiling at one another in the low lighting. You took his hat off and placed it back on his head, pulling it back slightly and brushing his curls from his face so you could look clearly into his eyes. Letting your hands slide down to cup his face. He smiled nervously, dimples showing. You ran your thumbs along his dimples for a second before slowly leaning in. You pressed your lips to his, his lips moved with yours. His lips were soft and sweet, you felt him pull you closer silently asking to prolong the kiss. You did before pulling away with a smile, face turning red as you watched him look at you with his beautiful dark eyes. You let an embarrassed laugh, wrapping your arms back around his neck and burying your face in the crook of his neck. 

Charles smiled widely, letting out a laugh of his own, you joined him, continuing to sway as you giggled with one another. Both amused with the fact that you had both kissed a total stranger.

This one is for my fellow southerns who seem to love cowboy evan peters as much as I do! @no-mercy-bby @thatspookyagent

[yandere-daydreams]

I love your Lucifer/MC/Diavolo stuff so much... What if they wanted to keep their darling forever, but needed their soul to do it? Cue Lucifer... "persuading" their darling to make a pact with one of them while Diavolo watches and occasionally comforts their darling and tells them to just give in so things can go back to the way they were... Even if it's more logical to suffer a lifetime of torture to spend eternity in the Celestial Realm than to give up their soul, it's easier said than done.

Any scenario with Lucifer and Diavolo feels like a scenario I’d be happy to write. Especially one where they’re lording over their poor, unfortunate Darling, the more powerless the better.

Title: Methods of Persuasion.

TW: Mentions of Torture, Mentions of Death, Bondage and Kidnapping. 

~

In moments like this, you began to wish you’d caught the eye of a less thoughtful demon.

You didn’t want to fight any of the brothers, if you were being honest. They’d been precious to you, they are precious to you, but if you had to, some would certainly be easier to escape than others. Mammon was determined, but careless, he’d forget something and you’d take advantage of that. Satan was smart, but he could be distracted, and you could get away. Beelzebub was emotional, Asmodeus was a pacifist, Leviathan had a temper, and Belphegor could be violent, but he never failed to take the path of least resistance when it came to conflict. Lucifer was… difficult, in comparison. You couldn’t slip out of iron shackles, nor could you break the wood of Diavolo’s headboard with so little slack to work with. You couldn’t attack him, not when he was careful to stay an arm’s length away, and nothing you shouted, yelled, screamed made a difference, his disposition as cool and collected as it always was. Making him as untouchable as he always was.

And with Diavolo so eager to impress, you couldn’t make him do anything besides sit back and admire his companion’s work.

He was already smiling, a grin spread across his taut lips as he unconsciously leaned towards you, perching himself on the side of your bed as he scanned over your restraints, your torn clothes, you. Lucifer wasn’t as blatantly content, his satisfaction buried beneath layers of lukewarm apathy, but he was still hovering over Diavolo’s shoulder, waiting for a reaction, a validation of his hard work. Like a dog, waiting to see if it’d fetched the right object for his owner. “You outdid yourself,” Diavolo confirmed, allowing Lucifer the barest hints of a smirk. “I could’ve helped, y’know. I’m sure (Y/n) didn’t give you too much of a struggle, but whether or not you believe it, I am a demon. I’d like to think I’m a capable one, too.”

“A man of your status shouldn’t have to lower himself.” It was a hollow declaration, considering you and Diavolo are both well-aware that any task Lucifer chose to take up was a task he believed no one else could do correctly. Diavolo accepted it nonetheless, nodding along as Lucifer continued to feed his own ego. “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, not when we share a vice--”

“If you two are done jerking each other off,” You cut in, letting your chains rattle for emphasis as you shifted, settling onto your back with a noticeable amount of effort to seem comfortable. “I’d like to know where I am, and more importantly, why I’m here. I don’t remember agreeing to any of you schemes, Lord Diavolo, and Lucifer, if I did something to break one of your many oh-so-essential rules, I think I deserve a warning before you chain me to a bed for it.”

Despite the latter half of your declaration, Diavolo never wavered, his delight holding strong as he clasped his hands together, his colorless knuckles the only indication of his anxiety. “You don’t have to be afraid,” He started, taking on a rehearsed, manufactured tact. “Luci’ and I are here to offer you an… arrangement, of sorts. You see, my companion’s grown awfully fond of you.” Lucifer’s hand came to rest on Diavolo’s shoulder, as much in support as it was in warning. Diavolo had the decency to move on quickly. “We’ve grown fond of you. And, because of that--” His expression grew conspiratorial. Softening, but taking on a dangerous edge. “--we’d like to make you a demon.”

You opened your mouth, your disgust coming instantaneously, but Lucifer spoke before you had a chance to, mistaking your apprehension for confusion. “A demon of sorts,” He corrected, coming to stand beside Diavolo. “You won’t be as powerful as a fallen angel or a creature born demonic, but you’ll be immortal, and you’ll be able to stay in the Devildom for as long as you wish. You’ll be strong, and safe-guarded, and you’ll be able to stay with us.” This time, when he glanced towards Diavolo, his eyes were brimming with affection, with expectation. He didn’t doubt you would accept. To him, it wasn’t even a possibility. “All you have to do is give Diavolo your soul. It’s more symbolic than anything - to show your loyalty. And I can promise you, it won’t hurt. Not after the transformation is complete.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to respond. It was a terrible offer to make, an awful thing to propose unprompted. You were kept in the dark about most spells and forms of magic, but souls were important, and offering yours couldn’t be as harmless as they were trying to make it seem. You’d be lucky if you were just bound to Diavolo. In the worst possible scenario, you’d be his creature, you’d be under his control rather than your own. You didn’t want to be immortal, you didn’t want to be a demon, and whatever relationship Diavolo and Lucifer were doing a poor job of hiding, you didn’t want to be a part of it.

“No, no, no,” You spat. You only meant to say it once, but duplicates stumbled out after the first, spilling over your lips before you could stop them. “If it was ‘just symbolic’, I wouldn’t be handcuffed. You wouldn’t have fought to bring me here. You wouldn’t try to make it sound so good. Tell me what you really want.”

Instantly. Lucifer’s calm smile turned to a snarl, his voice dipping into a growl. “You ungrateful--”

“We’ve prepared counter-measures,” Diavolo explained, ever the diplomat. “If you don’t accept our generosity...” His fist dropped to the sheets, the comforter soon balled in his grip. For the first time, you noticed how tight his grip was, how he was itching to hold something, but never seemed content with what he found. Abruptly, you wondered if his intentions were genuinely nervous or more violent in nature. “We aren’t in a place to let you refuse. I’m afraid we might’ve waited too long for that.” He sighed, composing himself. By the time he continued, his shoulders were squared, his gaze more focused than it had been. Resolved, but not defeated. “Handing over your soul would be the wisest option. You will, eventually, but Lucifer is prepared to make things… unnecessarily stressful, if you insist on being stubborn.”

“I’m going to torture you,” Lucifer summarized, his hesitation as scarce as his remorse. “I’m going to hurt you, and Diavolo is going to hurt you, and perhaps Barbatos will, if he wants a turn. You’re going to bleed and scream and suffer until you’re begging to give us anything we want, or you’re going to die and we’ll have you regardless. Submission will be easy, simple, and painless. If you’re looking for kindness, this is the only time you’ll be able to find it.”

Lucifer didn’t hesitate, so you couldn’t, either. You didn’t need to. You’d known what your answer would be before he opened his mouth. “Over my dead body.”

This time, it was Diavolo’s turn to smile, the gesture more earnest than it’d been all night. Slowly, a hand drifted towards you, coming to rest on your thigh. You weren’t sure if it was meant to be a threat, but suddenly, you were aware of just how sharp his nails were, of just how happy he seemed to let them push into your skin until they nearly drew blood.

“That can be arranged, my love.”

[demonslayedher]

Any Kny character you've grown to love/appreciate more??

Thanks for waiting, Anon, I have been trying to really, really hard to narrow this down, but the answer remains: the vast majority of the cast. The only character I loved right away was Tanjiro and that love kept me watching, as with almost every new character I was like, "ugh, I hate this guy. Here I was, having fun being emotionally invested in a high quality anime, and this might ruin it for me." But then the instant I see a different side of their character, I'm like, "...Oh." To go into some examples...

Zenitsu: I could not stand him right away, I hate womanizers, and his conniptions would go on so long that they held up the story. But Gotouge/Ufotable strung me along perfectly, the first glimpse of Thunder Breath made me immediately pay attention and think, "oh, that was cool. I want to see more of that." Seeing him protect the box pretty firmly put him in the "I need to protect this child" box in my heart. And then the spider demon happens, and I'm sending desperate reaction messages to a friend like "NOOOOOO!!!! BABBBBBBBBBYYYYYYYY!!!!" And then he annoyed me all over again at the start of Functional Recovery, ahaha. It's hard to remember how annoyed I was because I'm such a Zen Stan now, and he was a very firm favorite of mine by the time I finished binging the anime up to the last couple episodes, which I waited for as they came out. Inosuke: He was one of the reasons I was curious about the series, I saw some promotional art and was super curious about Nezuko's muzzle (I was one of the people who thought it was some ancient scroll or something, haha) and the kid with the boar mask. The art I saw showed his face, and I assumed he'd be some kid with a cracking voice performed by a female seiyuu. As much as I love Matsuoka's performance now, initially, since I knew what his face looked like, I found it grossly off-putting the moment I heard it. Then every chaotic thing Inosuke did dug a deeper hole; I very quickly decided I hated him, especially when he started beating up on the kid I was starting to like. As his chaos subsided he just became a character I tolerated, and then this happened:

Images you can hear, am I right? This immediately flipped the "BABY" switch in my heart. It was also a lot of fun to understand the Inosuke memes I was seeing everywhere. So by the end of the anime, I loved, loved, loved, loved the Tanjiro/Zenitsu/Inosuke interactions and desperately wanted more (still didn't like how Zenitsu bothered Nezuko, though). I was so impatient for more, but the manga art looked disappointingly off-putting. I figured the anime was successful enough that there'd eventually be more of it, and I wanted to be patient, but then I poked around, read some spoilers, got back into Tumblr to look at fanart and memes, saw a spoiler image of Tanjiro affected by Muzan's poison and the binge-read began. (That's kind of a lie, but I'll get to that.) Let's back up a few episodes. There I was, having a great time, the guy who I forgot about from Episode 1 was back and haha, I guess everyone hates him, and the chick who I figured was going to be a medic who saves Zenitsu in the nick of time turned out to be savage, awesome. I was sending reactions to my friends who were ahead of me, and then we left off seeing the Pillars staring down Best Boy. And I...

Well. Uh. Here, I've dug up an old convo for you, my comments are in blue.

Immediately followed by a passionate vocal rant, which I have transcribed here:

“I feel like what happened was that the mangaka was sitting around with his assistants and was like, ‘welp, gotta make this whole cast of characters, they gotta be so-o-o-o many more levels of extreme than all the other characters I’ve had so far, which isn’t hard, because all of the background characters are cannon fodder and I’ve just gotta leave them all with black hair and no personality traits. So! Gotta go to the opposite of the spectrum with the BIG! POWERFUL! People so no-o-o-body can be normal.’ And so he and his assistants sat down, and they all wrote down just random words or traits, and them put ‘em all in a hat. And then for each character, they pulled out a few of them and said, ‘OK. We’re gonna put these things together, now we have a character.’ And he was probably also like, ‘Iiiiiiiiiiiii’ll flesh them out later. For now, they just need t’… be there, and make an impact. How do we make an impact? By making sure it’s super, super clear what their character traits are. Here, we’ll have this guy repeat the word //HADE//…. ////HA DEEE//// over and over and over… to show that he’s a /showy/ person. Because he /cares/ about that. And he //should// care because that is his character and that’s why he’s powerful.’ OH MY GOSH, it’s so dumb.”

......orz I feel like Genya looking back at how he acted at the end of the Final Selection. I'm sorry, Gotouge, I had not even encountered your love for these characters yet in your little alligator form. Nor had I encountered the yet unseen-sides of these traumatized dragons and tigers. ...*coughs* Um. So. I was pretty harsh.

So this was my mindset, I went into the manga not caring about most of these characters and just wanting more Kamaboko squad interactions and wanting to hurry up and catch up to the battle with Muzan. And it's worth stating that I didn't mean to read it at first. I encountered a few spoilers, and just wanted to look for the context surrounding those parts, and then hunt for the (non-existent) build-up to those parts, and so... uh.........

I read a lot of the manga out of order, and yeah, that did affect how much I cared about what was going on. I didn't actually properly process a lot of it until later re-reads. But to try to state some things simply about each Pillar:

Giyuu: He was just 'ok' to me for a long time, I could see the appeal for why people I knew were fangirling over him but he didn't do it for me. His soft spot for Tanjiro was indeed endearing, though, and I firmly liked him by the time chapter 200 came out and I was properly heartbroken on his behalf.

Shinobu: She was intriguing, and then I liked her as soon as I saw her savage side, she was one of the characters I went hunting for spoilers for.

Rengoku: That stare really put me off at first, but I fell for him over the process of Tanjiro falling for him. When I first finished the train arc I sat back and said, "wow! That's going to make for a good movie!" and then in psyching myself out for the movie several months in advance, I fell hook, line, and sinker and was totally excited for him each time I saw the trailers. And then the movie was *stunning* and I love him even more. Uzui: He was the Pillar I hated most upon first meeting them. I blame the repeated use of his catchphrase. But then when he let his hair down to sell the kiddos the change in design helped warm me up more to him, like, "oh, there was a human in there." It took a long time for him to become more interesting to me, and an uncharacteristically subtle journey to becoming a character I liked. I am currently getting more and more psyched out for him and eager to see how much more I'm going to like him with the shiny Ufotable treatment. Mitsuri: At first I didn't remember her name, I had code-named her as "Boobs." But I kinda had a feeling she was going to grow on me quickly, and I was right, she's one of my easy favorites now. Muichiro: Who? Oh yeah, that kid who always kinda fell to the wayside in my attention. I'd see a lot of Muichiro-themed blogs and hear a lot of little girls looking at merch and showing a clear favoritism of him, and I'd like always react like Muichiro and just be like, "...", and then when I read his major battles I was more emotionally invested in things going on concurrently with other characters, and I was still like, "...", and then two days ago I revisited a Muichiro scene and was suddenly like, "......OH!!! MUICHIRO!!!!!" Himejima: I never really hated Himejima, even if I found his first impression kind of wimpy (haha... oh, I was so wrong). I had a pretty easy acceptance of him too, so I would generally count him among characters I like, but if you were to ask me why, I'd draw a blank. It's kind of a weirdly mature, subdued appreciation for him rather than passionate fangirling. But weirdly when I was daydreaming the other day I found myself thinking, "if I had to marry someone in the KnY cast, it would be Himejima." So like, not a fiery romance, but I see him as my dependable, sturdy rock to grow old with??? What is up with you, sub-conscious?? Iguro: My interest in him rises and falls. Being a Mitsuri fan helped warm me up to his character in the first place, which was the emotional tie I needed since his backstory didn't grip me much (I found it a frustrating distraction while I was desperately reading weekly updates). Reading more subtle details about his character in the fanbooks has brought me around and made me more curious about him, like I'd really like to be a fly on the wall for the conversation he had with Uzui one day about their pasts.

Sanemi: Hahaha, wow. He was so unlikable in the beginning, wasn't he? His character design (yeah, the eyes) was really off-putting too. But then I got to know him and there was no going back, I got totally played. He's a character I'm pretty fond of now and one of the characters I've enjoyed delving into most in fanfic. To keep this answer from getting too long, for the vaaaaaast majority of the cast, I was initially like, "meh" or "OK" or "ew" but now am like, "EEEEEEEEE, I LOVE THIS TOTALLY RANDOM UNIMPORTANT SIDE CHARACTERRRRRRR" so you know... times change. And the more time I spend obsessed with Kimetsu no Yaiba, the more I like them all, so even the characters I'm lukewarm on will probably have their eventual days when they take over my heart and smash it.

[hithelleth]

Shadow and Bone S1

Okay, FFS, I've been trying to meta for a week but my brain has been mush from the heat and everything.

I was spoiled (did it myself, intentionally) both about the show and the books and the author's opinions and I’m not sure whether I would have liked it better if I hadn’t spoiled myself or even less. I’m leaning towards the latter.

So I've been trying to clarify my mixed feelings and I think I’ve come to the conclusion that what I liked is fandom/fanon + some elements/parts of the show. But on the whole, it was so-so.

(BTW, the books were on my TBR, but I decided I’m not going to read them. I am not here for LB's BS.)

I need to give a shout-out to thank @electricbluebutterflies, who made me ship the ship before I even started watching the show for the second time (the first was bellarke. Oh, boy, do I (or should I say we) have a TypeTM.) There were other people who ‘helped’, but you were the first I saw posting about it on my dash. ;)

(Hmm, I should probably refrain from comparing bellarke and darklina, because that will end nowhere near well. (Or maybe I will in another post if I feel particularly masochistic.))

Anyway, I was bothered by stupid last names’ endings even before watching the show, because LB apparently didn’t take two minutes to google it, or maybe she decided to turn them around for a ‘twist’. Eh.

LB’s world-building also felt cheap and lazy; she basically just copied things from RL and camouflaged them with different names (and badly at that: I mean Ketterdam is obviously Amstedam, Fjerda Finland, and by her own confession Ravka Russia ) while leaving RL attitudes/issues (anti Asian racism being in particularly blatant) intact (with added ‘unique’ feature of prejudice against Grisha, who are basically just a spin on witches, so not so unique at all.)

Also, Slavic ‘representation’ left me lukewarm.

I suppose since nowadays it is distasteful (for white American authors in particularly) to use POC such as Black, Indigenous, and Latino people and their cultures for exoticism, us Slavs are fair game. Oh, well. I guess I should be happy we are no longer portrayed only as gangsters and prostitutes.

But, like I said, the visuals were pretty.

I love Darklina, but I think there’s been better meta than I could write already written about both Darklina and the Darkling, so I’m not even gonna try (though I did unload quite a bit in back and forth messaging with @vesperass-anuna) and rather reblog some.

I also really liked Helnik, except the end. It’s perfectly reasonable that Mathias came to the conclusion that Nina played him for revenge, but I did not like his back to ‘you evil witch’ reaction. I guess it’s also reasonable, but it is not the only possible reaction for him, it is what LB chose and that (as other things) says something about her writing.

Mathias is supposedly Fjerda’s best tracker, so he shouldn’t be dumb as a doornail (though it is canon that he’s very prejudiced and apparently he doesn’t grow out of it (so far.))

The other option for the ending would be that he figures she got her vengeance over him and be like, ‘fair enough, I deserved it.’ (Because he does.) It’s been done in other shows and came across much better than the self-righteous first option. And let’s not get into that if it was two men, LB would probably go for the first option, because when a man gives his enemy a taste of his own medicine, it’s lauded, but women are for some reason supposed to be above it, to be ‘better’. Fuck that.

I really liked the crows and would love more of them (but, like I said, I’ve been spoiled about the books, apparently the crows duology also ends badly so I’ll stay away from it.) And I also low-key ship Kaz and Inej (there wasn’t enough of them to do it high-key). Well, there wasn’t enough of the crows, period. They are really intriguing characters and I hope S2 explores them more.

That’s it, I think?

I’m going to stick with fandom/fanon.

[roanniom]

Happy Friday Issa! Today I am thinking about Paterson, and what it would be like to end up on his bus one day by happenstance. It would be impossible not be smitten at first sight. I can't stop picturing the way his eyes would just bore into ours when he catches us staring in the rearview mirror. The blush that spreads over him would be just unreal. 😍🥺💜 Thanks so much for sharing nyour imagines with us!

Lovely Claire, as you know I’ve been excited to get to this one. Partly because I love Pat with all my heart and partly because I looked forward to bringing such a beautiful idea to life in that calm Paterson style. I hope you like this little story <3

Three Stops, Five Regulars, and You

Word Count: 2,152

Warnings: Really just sweetness, the slightest angst from ~yearning~

Paterson drives the same route every day. He knows the people who get on, where they board, and where they disembark. The sweet old lady who gets her groceries at the corner store on Tuesdays. The recent emigrant from Nigeria who sits in the front and practices English with the local florist as they both commute to different jobs in the same strip mall. The high school baseball player who acts rowdy in the back of the bus with his teammates until the teammates get off on Maple Street and he remains on for eight more stops, always moving to sit shyly with a girl Paterson has gathered to be the boy’s old English tutor.

But never you.

When Paterson opens his folding doors and you walk in, he is immediately struck by your newness. The way the planes of your face reflect no familiarity back onto him unsettles Paterson as you pass him by to take your seat a few rows down. He inhales the scent that wafts in your wake, trying to place it but, as with your features, he draws a blank. Freesia? Gardenia? Paterson blinks at the expanse of windshield before him in an attempt to ground himself in the here and now.

It’s a Friday afternoon, almost early evening.

He’s on 5th and Potomac.

Three more stops till he’s done with his shift.

Done to go home to a microwaved meal and a comfortable couch.

Five more regulars to get to their destination.

And you.

Paterson looks up then into the rearview mirror only to meet those unfamiliar eyes. Beautiful eyes, he registers somewhere in the back of his short-circuiting brain. Eyes that take him in through the mirror. Appraising him. He wonders what they see in him, these eyes that can’t possibly know him any more than his know you.

“Hey Pat, we outta gas or something, buddy?”

The good-natured tease comes from Ollie, the auto mechanic, sitting in his usual seat in row six. This does nothing to stop Paterson from jumping a foot into the air and muttering his apologies before clunking the bus into gear.

It takes Paterson several minutes of silent driving before he works up the courage to glance at the rearview mirror again. He argues with himself internally before he does so.

You’re probably not even looking anymore. No, it’s much more likely you’ve become engaged in polite conversation with another passenger or pulled out a book or lost yourself looking out the window, taking in the outside world with those beautiful eyes…

Or, less likely but much more anxiety-inducing, you could still be looking. Looking at the lanky bus driver with the goofy ears who stared like an idiot instead of doing his job. He kicks himself at the thought of the way he’d gaped at you. Openly and so out of character.

What he should have done was averted his eyes when you’d entered, waited a respectable amount of time, and then peered back a few times to catch a glimpse. He could have taken in the curve of your jaw, the arch of your brow, the turn of your nose, all without detection from the comfortable anonymity of the driver’s seat. Gone home and written a poem or two about the ethereal creature who’d gotten lost and found herself on his bus route, a sprite or a fairy who would disappear tomorrow like some Freesia-scented vapor, perhaps never really there to start.

But no. He’d looked. And you’d looked.

And now he looks again.

His eyes dart back to the road immediately and his pulse races.

You were looking.

Paterson takes a few deep breaths and minds a stop sign before he hazards a glance again.

Yes. Still looking.

But this time he notices the smile on your face. The lips he hadn’t noticed, being so far below your eyes as they were, your eyes which had been just about as far as he had gotten to this point. The smile is soft but amused. Your hand lifts up in a small wave and Paterson feels himself heat up all the way down to his sensible shoes. His ears burn and he brings his eyes back to the road by force of habit and in order to do his job of steering this bus full of people but for absolutely no other reason. Because now he has two different things that require his attention – your eyes and your lips. Both deserving of equal consideration.

When his eyes revisit the road he realizes the next stop is upon him. When the bus pulls to a halt and deflates down steadily to allow passengers to climb out, Pat counts the seconds with his heartbeat. Wondering if this is your stop. Knowing which stop it is for all other riders but you. Knowing Mr. McKinney will get off to see his nephew and that the kind goth boy whose name he doesn’t know is off to the library with music blaring in his ears. Paterson nods to each of them as they pass, but does not look up to see them, opting instead to stare straight ahead.

When his peripheral vision doesn’t show him your retreating figure Paterson looks up to find you still in your seat, this time sitting lower. More comfortable. But still looking. Still smiling.

Involuntarily, Paterson feels a smile spread across his own face. He closes the folding doors and shifts back into gear.

Two more stops and three more passengers.

And you.

As Paterson navigates his way into the middle lane to avoid construction, he tries to settle his racing thoughts. He’s confused by this reaction, mental, physical and otherwise. It’s not like he’s never had a pretty passenger before.

So why does your face look like nobody he’s ever seen but everything he’s ever looked for?

“What’s your favorite thing about being a bus driver?”

Paterson inhales sharply and he jerks his head around at the unfamiliar voice to see that you are now sitting in the seat directly behind him. Your smile larger than ever.

Paterson swallows thickly, searching for the first words best to say to you.

“Passengers shouldn’t move about while we’re in motion.”

Wrong words.

“So is it that? The authority?” you joke, your smile becoming more lopsided, Paterson’s thankful to be able to see. Even with you right behind him he can still see you in the rearview mirror.

“No! No I didn’t mean to…I mean it’s really not that big…we’re only going 30 –” Paterson’s stuttering is cut off by your laugh.

“Ok if not that then what is it?”

“Um, what is what?” Paterson asks, looking back up after yielding to a bicyclist.

“What’s your favorite thing about being a bus driver?”

“Oh.” Paterson looks back at the road.

He’s never really thought of it. Mainly because nobody had ever asked it before, so he hadn’t bothered to ask it of himself. But it only takes another second of thought before he has his answer.

“It’s a weird limbo.”

“Come again?” Judging by your expression this was clearly not an answer you’d anticipated.

“Being a bus driver you are part of people’s daily lives. You go with them to work, you take them home after a long day. You see them with their friends and family. Or alone.”

“I’m alone,” you point out with a nod. It’s a simple statement, as if corroborating his assessment. Paterson grins and nods.

“Exactly, you’re alone. It’s very personal, in a way. Being there for these moments in between where they are coming from and where they’re going.”

“Intimate?” you offer. Paterson feels his throat go dry as he nods again.

“Yes. Intimate.”

“But you called it limbo?”

“Well it might be intimate, but it’s from a distance. A bus driver is only a small part of someone’s day, but my passengers are my day.”

“Oh,” you exclaim, voice softer than before. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”

The next stop, the penultimate one, comes into view and Paterson eases to bus to halt. A single mother known for jogging around the park in the evenings bids Paterson good night and Ollie claps him on the back as he heads out for dinner with his kids. Upon their exit, Paterson’s eyes seek out yours in the mirror once more. Wondering again if this is the place where you get off.

You lean against the back of your chair. Still very much seated.

Still very much a passenger.

It is then, as Paterson closes the folding doors once more, that he realizes the rest of the bus is empty. This startles him, as usually there is one more regular on the bus for this last upcoming stop. A man, very quiet and not unlike himself. Though Paterson doesn’t know much about him, he’s always wondered just how similar they are. Wondered if the man who enters a residential complex across the street from this last stop also has an empty apartment waiting from him. A lukewarm meal and a cold bed.

Paterson spares a moment to wonder where the man is, feeling a tinge of hope burn through the usual pity – perhaps the man is not alone, wherever he is, and perhaps tonight his dinner will be hot.

The folding doors hiss as they close for the second to last time tonight and Paterson pulls back into traffic. A glance in the rearview mirror reminds him that, not only are you still there, but that the absence of his final regular means that you two are very much alone.

The thought makes blood pound in his ears and he finds his eyes darting between the road and the mirror, not wanting to miss a second of whatever you may do, whatever you may say.

And you don’t make him wait long.

“That man called you Pat earlier,” you say in that lilting voice. “Is your name Patrick?”

“Paterson.” He says it wearily, bracing himself for the inevitable exclamation sure to come about how his name couldn’t possibly be what he says it is because no, that’s the name of the town.

Instead he sees you nod in the mirror as if this is the most rational name he could have given. Of course his name is Paterson.

The silence that follows is heavy with a lot of things, chief among them the things he wishes he could bring himself to say. Questions mainly, ones to counter the questions you’ve lobbed at him. After a block passes he opts for a simple one.

“What do you like best about being a bus passenger?” The question is timid and he hates himself for it, but the sound of your laugh is an pleasantly unexpected reward.

“I like the bus drivers.”

Paterson laughs with you then.

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“No, I’m not!” you say with mock offense. Paterson flexes his fingers on the steering wheel, starting to feel them tingle. Probably a symptom of a long day of driving.

Or a symptom of you.

“Ok maybe you’re not making fun of me, but there’s no way that’s your answer.”

“You’re right, maybe it’s not the bus drivers,” you say then, leaning forward to rest your chin on your arms as they fold on top of the ledge separating the first row from the driver’s seat. Paterson can practically hear your breath as you speak your next words. “Maybe I just like you.”

If Paterson hadn’t already been pulling up to the final stop he’s pretty sure he would have slammed on the breaks. When the bus eases into motionlessness, Paterson’s hand automatically opens the folding doors, something he probably wouldn’t have thought to do if the action wasn’t so tied to muscle memory at this point.

Paterson’s mind is reeling. He needs to ask you out, or at least as you your name.

But his tongue is tied and you’re standing up and reaching for your bag.

You step down the one step that brings you to the level of the driver’s seat and he gets another good look at you, eyes skittering up and down in a vain attempt to take in every detail incase this was both his first and last chance.

“Good night!” you say cheerily as you move to the door.

Paterson’s heart is sinking faster than the hydraulics on his bus when suddenly you turn around once more, almost as an after thought.

“Oh and Paterson? You were my day.”

And with that you step into the night.

Perhaps to continued tangibility.

Perhaps to vaporize into thin air.

He’s not sure which possibility scares him more.

Paterson allows himself to sit still for a few more moments, not bothering to close the folding doors so quickly this time. Allowing the cool air to flow in. Air that contains the remnants, and potential, of you.

~*~

Tagging some lovely people (please let me know if you’d like to be tagged or untagged in future work!) @mariesackler @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @sacklerscumrag @paper-in-ashes-fanfiction @historyandfandoms50 @clydesfavoritegirl @wayward-rose @hopeamarsu @thegreenmatt @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @finn-ray-nal-beads @fizzywoohoo @maybe-your-left @aliveandlonely @han-not-solo @morby @emeraldsiren20 @maryforyou @aloneandsleepless @jynzandtonic @renmaulxo

(AND PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU ARE GETTING NOTIFIED ABOUT THIS TAG, TUMBLR HAS BEEN WEIRD LATELY that is all, love you guys <3)

[leqclerc]

Hi! Can I ask, what's it about sebchal that you like so much? Their overall dynamic? Certain specific things?

Oh gosh...Okay, I have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings about them, but I’m going to try to be as coherent as I possibly can here.

I think part of what astonishes me about them - and something that maybe isn’t so obvious at first glance - is just how far back they go? What they are to each other - the journey they went on to get to where they are today - that didn’t happen overnight; it’s been years in the making. Of course, them becoming teammates was undoubtedly a pivotal moment for them both as well as for their relationship, but it wasn’t like there was nothing between them before that. So yeah, I was really surprised when I discovered that actually they’ve been these parallel lines for years, existing around each other even before they officially met. In a way Ferrari was their sort of mythical red string of fate - red, I mean, c’mon asdf - that kept them in each other’s orbit. All through 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018...to some degree they were coexisting in the same space, interacting with each other, tentatively getting to know each other better. It wasn’t like flipping a switch; it was a gradual progression.

Obviously Charles was then signed for 2019 and beyond in late 2018; the media circus descended on him (and Seb) during the Singapore race weekend. When Seb was asked how he feels about getting a new teammate, his initial reaction was kind of lukewarm, basically saying “good for the kid, but I work well with Kimi and I’m comfortable with the status quo.” By the end of 2020, he cited “the new beginning with Charles joining the team” as one of the best moments of his Ferrari career. 👈🏻

There’s a lot of things I love about them that can’t possibly be summed up in one word, but overall I’m going to say: it’s about the narrative arc.

It’s about the growth, the progress, the development, and just how far they’ve come in the past few years. How familiar they’ve become with one another and how comfortable they are around each other, just teasing and joking around. Then there’s also the fact that - to my knowledge - Charles has never been quoted saying anything negative about Seb, no matter how much interviewers and the media tried to goad him into trashing Seb. He kept reiterating - and he’s still saying it to this day - that their personal relationship was often misconstrued if not actively twisted by the media, portrayed as something it isn’t. It’s about how they started presenting a united front in team briefings when Ferrari was very obviously fucking up and letting them down last season. It’s about how - even at his lowest, darkest points - Charles still took the time to congratulate Seb, or ask about him over team radio, or praise him. Even when the whole world was criticising him for losing his touch last season, Charles was always firmly in his corner. It’s about the way they found solace in each other on the podium in Canada after Seb was obviously pissed off with how the race had gone. It’s about the gestures - the way Seb took the time to comfort and console Charles when he could see that’s what he needed; the way Charles chose to dedicate his entire helmet design - the most personal aspect of a driver’s team gear - to Seb, creating a very public scrapbook of the memories they made in their time together as teammates and wearing it proudly. They went on a hell of a journey together, they’ve weathered all the storms - despite the fact that the media, keyboard warriors and even some members of the team were trying to drive a wedge between them, they were always able to make amends and come out of any situation stronger and more unified. And I would love to see them celebrating each other’s success on the podium together this season - at least once - because it’s what they deserve.

I remember someone told me that - as a lineup - they weren’t necessarily good for the team. Maybe. But they were good for each other. That’s my takeaway.

[booasaur]

On the topic of Happiest Season, I feel you about being disappointed at some of the reaction towards people in the closet. The discourse about how white the movie is barely happening, instead it's lukewarm takes from people talking about Harper being a horrible emotionally abusive gaslighter and that Abby should run away with Riley. As a person who was closeted for a long time and still is to most of my family, who relates so much to Harper, although I wouldn't have lied to my girlfriend to begin with, all of her choices over the course of those days make sense to me (not talking about the situation with Riley in high school). They're not perfect choices, but it's not like the movie isn't clear about why she's making them. The last third of the movie felt like the walls were closing around her, every choice makes sense in that context. Of course she didn't just accept being outed five seconds after it happened in front of 20 people after decades in the closet, of course after a moment of reflection thinking about losing the love of her life she looked around and was like "what am I doing this for?" and changed her mind. And of course Abby was well within her rights to refuse to accept her apology and leave, but also of course she would have looked at this person she loved who for a year before those five days she had a 'perfect' relationship with, seen that their one hurdle was on its way to being cleared, heard the speech about Harper wanting sincerely to right her wrongs, and stayed. In what world is that a baffling choice? It's not like she immediately proposed. I related to Harper more than I have to a character in a while, especially to the feeling of being ripped in two. It"s why I've made the choices I've made in the past to not get into serious relationships, precisely because this is my worst nightmare. Maybe it's because I'm not white and I feel the tension between losing your family and losing your partner perhaps uniquely, when losing my family includes losing my culture and community (or at least that's how I've felt). But you can happily ship Abby and Riley, and want Abby to have left for completely valid reasons about wanting two different things in a partner, without some of the vitriol being spewed at Harper in full view of sections of the community that are hurt every time they see it. I know I'm not brave enough. I don't need reminding.

“I know I'm not brave enough. I don't need reminding.“ Oooof, anon. I’m so sorry that you and others have been made to feel like this. :/

Unrelated, though, this whole ask is so well said, your points are so well made, I was honestly intimidated even trying to answer.

As you said, the movie explains why Harper’s behaving as she is, she’s ashamed and scared, why is every action read in the worst possible light, often exaggerated and even falsely?? Your explanation of how the ending went down, like, exactly, I cannot believe people are mad that she lied when outed in front of her family and a ton of people like that! That’s a literal nightmare come to life, surely some of us have had that one too?

And exactly, Abby’s in love with her, aside from the admittedly absolutely messed up lies about her sexuality that she absolutely should get help for, their life’s been perfect, with this barrier now taken away by Harper’s big step, why would she not try for it? Especially in a romcom! The way people have forgiven so much more in this genre but a closeted person they absolutely admit is abused separately from that, acts badly a few times and apologizes and is irredeemable.

The not white part’s actually funny to me, because I remember during the arguments over how horrible Jade (TRMD) and Rana (Corrie) were for being closeted or caring about their family, the fandom splits were often along...certain lines. And that’s such a good observation, how it’s a disconnect from culture and community too, then. We lose so much. Obviously the Caldwells are white af but it was amusing to me how many Asian wlw I saw were like, oh... D:

I’m picking random parts to respond to because honestly, your whole ask is perfect on its own. I will, though, agree that it’s absolutely fine to not personally think that Harper deserves that forgiveness or that Abby and Riley should have gotten together, but this really bad faith reading into her intentions just isn’t supported by the writing!

I’m sorry it took so long to respond, I hope you’re feeling better now. 

[d-noona]

THE PLAYBOY ASSIGNMENT

Summary:

Persuading a millionaire to part with a fortune seemed like mission impossible. Especially as the man in question turned out to be Min Yoongi - April's first love.

Eight years ago, Yoongi had stormed out of her life, believing she was having another man's baby. Convincing him otherwise, whilst sweet-talking him into helping a worthy cause, would be tricky. Even more so when he insisted negotiations take place in the bedroom! Suddenly, April was struggling to remember that the playboy assignment was business not pleasure!

Min Yoongi x Original Character

MASTERLIST

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

Even as she raised her head to look at him, April told herself it was impossible. The Min Yoongi she'd known hadn't even owned a necktie, much less a pin-striped suit, and he was far more likely to flash a rude slogan on the front of a sweatshirt than his initials embroidered on a cuff.

Impossible.

She'd set herself up, that was what happened. The walk through the cemetery had prompted her to think of Yoongi -and once those memories had been activated, all it took to set them spinning out of control again was a baritone voice and a chance monogram...

It was quite a coincidence, those initials. But the voice was easily explained; this man did sound a little like Yoongi - or, to be more accurate, her eight years old memory of Yoongi.

April fixed a smile on her lips so she could properly greet a man who was not - who could not be - Min Yoongi.

And she looked up into a pair of cat like brown eyes, surrounded with long, dark, curly lashes. Eyes she had thought, once or twice, that she could drown in. Including that eight years ago in the cemetery, when he had kissed her so long and so well that her scattered senses had allowed the worst idea of her life to look like a winner.

Yoongi's eyes. It was impossible -but it was also undeniable.

"Well," he said. In his rich baritone, the single word seemed to carry an entire encyclopedia of meaning. Or did it only seem that way to April's guilty conscience?

Not guilty, she reminded herself. She'd been foolish, yes - and impetuous and perhaps even idiotic - but she had nothing to feel guilty about. She held out her hand to him and willed her voice to stay steady. "Yoongi."

His hand was warm firm and strong. April's fingers felt fragile and shaky in his grip.

Namjoon stared down at her. Though he was obviously thunderstruck, he recovered in moments. "You know each other? But-but that's wonderful! Old friends, I suppose?"

Prompted, April stumbled through the introductions.

"Min Yoongi," Namjoon said thoughtfully. "I don't believe I've heard the name."

"Oh, of course April wouldn't have mentioned me." Yoongi said. Only the slightest emphasis set the last word apart, but there was no more doubt in his voice than there was humor in his smile.

Irritation surged through April's veins. His meaning could hardly have been clearer even if he'd come straight and said they'd been lovers. Of course, if he had, she could not only have denied it, but any listener would have doubted his motives. This was far more cunning. The implication was perfectly obvious - she could see from the expression in Namjoon's eyes that he'd gotten the message loud and clear. And yet, Yoongi hadn't really said a thing.

:No. I don't believe I ever brought up your name." she said coolly. "You were hardly important enough."

Yoongi lifted his eyebrows. "But of course, my dear. What else could I have meant?"

That you were important to talk about, which was precisely what Namjoon may be thinking about right now. April's annoyance was mixed with reluctant admiration at the way he's so neatly boxed her into a corner. The Yoongi she'd known had been as transparent as glass. Just when -and how - had the man learned to be so smooth?

Not that it mattered. April told herself firmly, what Namjoon - or anyone else thought.

Yoongi turned back to Namjoon. "It's rude of me to bring up ancient history. You shared Si-Hyuk's interest in art, you said?"

The tinge of irony in Yoongi's voice was so subtle that April almost doubted her own ears, despite the demonstration she'd just suffered at his hands. For an instant she wondered if he'd recognized Namjoon's name, and therefore doubted the casualness of his interest. But she concluded it wasn't likely; The Moonchild was far from prominent as yet, and it's director was hardly a household word across the country. Then she followed Yoongi's gaze over Namjoon's shoulder to one of Si-Hyuk's favorite and most recent acquisitions, and knew why he was feeling ironic.

"I find his taste - shall we say, interesting?" Yoongi went on. "Personally, I'd probably use that thing to wipe the mud off my shoes."

April braced herself.

The work was a long way from being her favorite. The artist - and she used the term loosely where Kim Taehyung was concerned - had used a housepainter's brush to smear three slashes of blood-red pigment on a huge white canvas, and then left it to drip. April thought it looked like something from a butcher's shop. Namjoon, on the other hand, considered the painting a master work. When he'd taken April to the gallery to see Si-Hyuk's new purchase, Namjoon had been shocked by her lukewarm reaction. He'd spent the next half hour instructing her on artistic genius and the intricacies of expressionistic symbolism - at least April thought that's what he called it. Her eyes had begun to glaze only a couple of minutes into the lecture.

She couldn't wait to see Yoongi's reaction to that same speech.

Namjoon, too had turned to look at the painting. "Oh, well, that sort of thing," he said tolerantly. "Si-Hyuk would have his little jokes now and then."

April blinked in surprise, remembering the outlandish price he'd told her Si-Hyuk had paid. Then the metallic taste of fear rose in her throat. She'd forgotten, just for a moment, Namjoon's implication that he only dabbled in art. Surely, she thought, he wasn't crazy enough to continue that charade, now that he'd had a chance to take Yoongi's measure...

"Not all collection is blatant," Namjoon went on. "Si-Hyuk actually had a few art pieces which aren't half bad."

A voice in the back of her brain told her to stop him, no matter what it took, before he offered Yoongi a favor by taking the problematic pieces off his hands. But she was mesmerized by the pressure of Namjoon's fingers on her elbow, and unable to protest.

'Blatant," Yoongi murmured. "What an interesting choice of words."

"In fact," Namjoon went on, "If you're looking for someone to help value things for the estate-"

"That's very thoughtful," Yoongi said. "I wonder where Jung Hoseok went. He's the one who'll handle all that." He glanced around the foyer, his six extra inches of height giving him the advantage of being able to look over most of the crowd, and gestured to someone April couldn't see.

Jung Hoseok. The name hit her like a rock. Hoseok was Si-Hyuk's attorney - the one Namjoon had talked to about the will. If Jung Hoseok recognized Namjoon's name...

Namjoon, however, seemed unconcerned. His smile was firmly in place.

A tall handsome man hurried up. "You wanted me, Yoongi?"

"Hoseok, I'd like you to meet April..." Yoongi paused.

Doesn't he even remember my name? April through irritably. "Park," she said coolly.

"Still? Or again?"

April felt marginally better. Yoongi's hesitation made sense after all: there was a good chance that in eight years she'd have married - and perhaps divorced, as well. At least he hadn't assumed she'd married Namjoon; maybe she should award him a point or two for that.

"Still."

"What a shame," Yoongi said softly. "I seem to remember you were determined to have a wedding. And with good reason, too."

Fury rose in April's throat. And if he solicitously asks what went wrong with my plans, she thought grimly, I'll strangle him.

But Yoongi had moved straight on to introduce Namjoon. "He offered to help appraise Si-Hyuk's collection, Hobi."

The attorney stretched out a hand. "That's very generous of you Mr. Kim. Your opinion would be valuable. As the director of the Moonchild-"

Namjoon's fingers tightened on April's elbow; it was the only sign of surprise she could detect. "Actually," he said casually, "I didn't exactly volunteer my services. The time constraints which come along with my job prevent me from doing appraisals. What I meant to say was, if you'd like to help valuing the estate's art, I'm sure April would be happy to pitch in."

April opened her mouth to protest, and closed it again. She felt like a balloon with a slow leak. Now she knew that the tightened grip of Namjoon's hand hadn't been due to surprise after all; it had been more in the nature of a warning. He'd had this planned all along. She could feel Yoongi's gaze drifting over her face, appraising her every feature, every expression. "And April is...qualified?" he asked.

She couldn't stay silent any longer. "Namjoon, I hardly think that I-"

"Nonsense," Namjoon said firmly. "Of course she's qualified. Don't underestimate your talent, April."

"Or your resources," Yoongi added, very gently. "You know Hoseok, I believe I believe I might take more of an interest in Si-Hyuk's collection myself -under the circumstances."

His hand still on her elbow, Namjoon guided April across the foyer and into the broad hallway that led toward the dining room at the back of the house. Most of the crowed had moved on toward the buffet tables, and for a few moments, in the shadow of the staircase, the two of them were completely alone.

"I think that went very well," Namjoon said.

The note of self-satisfaction in his voice grated on April's nerves. "Then all I can say is that I'd like to see your definition of disaster. The only that could have made it worse as if you'd offered to buy everything outright at some bargain-basement price."

Namjoon tipped his head to one side and considered. "It's an idea. Min might actually have gone for it."

April went on ruthlessly. "But Mr. Jung Hoseok would know you were trying to scam his client, and then you'd be in the soup and the museum would lose all credibility."

"That's an interesting point," Namjoon mused. "Why he knew me, I mean, I didn't mention the museum when I called about the will. Si-Hyuk must have told him about me along the way. April do you really believe I'm so short sided I'd try to pass myself off as an amateur?"

"It looked to me as if you were making a pretty good stab at it."

"I did nothing of sort, I simply didn't boast of my position, my education, or my background. If the man wanted to draw conclusions..."

April stood her ground. "You deliberately tried to convince him that the Kim Taehyung canvas was worth less."

"I was being diplomatic. Feeling out his tastes. Trying to establish a bond. All good gallery owners do that sort of thing, or they'd never sell a single piece. It's no thanks to you, by the way, that I read him so clearly. Why didn't you tell me you knew him?"

"Because I didn't know it myself until it was too late to run," April admitted.

"You look a little stunned," Namjoon said. "What was that stuff about weddings, anyway? You didn't marry the man, did you?"

"No." April's throat was dry, her voice taut.

"That's good. If you had, I'd really wonder about your judgement. I grant you, for a couple of minutes I was a bit unsure about him, myself. His clothes weren't bad, not at all. And the name...I wonder how somebody like that ended up with such an aristocratic name. There was once an Empress that had the same last name as his."

"Funny," April muttered. "My mother asked almost the same thing once."

"But I knew as soon as he looked blankly at that magnificent Kim Taehyung canvas that my first instinct was right." Namjoon shuddered. "The very idea of threatening to wipe his feet on it! I only hope Kim Taehyung doesn't hear what I said about his work!"

"I doubt the two of them hang around the same circles."

Namjoon laughed. "That's certainly true."

"And all good gallery owners talk that way, don't they, to gain the customer's confidence?" April didn't even try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Namjoon, about this assignment you've saddled me with...Surely you don't expect me to pass myself off as a staff member, because I won't do it."

"Oh no. We'll refer to you as -let's see..."

She cut in ruthlessly. "We'll call me exactly what I am - the museum's public relations representative."

"Actually," Namjoon mused, "that's ideal. Because of your inexperience..."

"I thought you told Yoongi I was qualified?" April smirked.

Namjoon shrugged. "I didn't say expert. So any errors can easily be passed off..."

"Are you saying you want me to make errors?"

"April, my dear, you'll have all the of the museum's resources to draw on. And I can expect you to use all the expertise the Moonchild can provide you, including me."

"I suppose that means you'll make the errors? Never mind." She is starting to get frustrated as she throws her hands up in surrender.

"I'm still determined to end up with this collection April. So just remember, if you value things high, you'll have to raise the money to pay for the and explain to the board why they're worth so much."

"And if I value them low, I'll end up looking like a fool!"

"Oh I doubt that," Namjoon said easily. "Didn't you see the way he was looking at you, sort of like a hungry wolf? I imagine, if you play your cards right, you'll be able to keep Min Yoongi from asking any questions at all."

[deans-baby-momma]

Truth or Dare-Part 5/20

Summary: The Winchester sibling trio has been through so much in the last decade. From the night of their parents’ 30th wedding anniversary party where Sam and Dean eased Y/N from her innocence to Sam becoming a happily married lawyer with a kickass nurse of wife to the three of them now living in the same town they grew up in under the same roof where each of them came of age.  Y/N is a working mother of three,  her days spent helping the townsfolk make proper and suitable financial decisions while bustling about escorting her two oldest to school and her youngest, Mary Ellen, to daycare; Dean’s garage is the premiere body shop for classic restorations and  car maintenance; people from other state’s bring their vehicles to them to be repaired. Business at Winchester Wheels  is booming; Sam is the legal council for Winchester Wheels and has been since he moved back home almost 5 years ago. He has his work cut out for him dealing with the people Dean pisses off and threatens to sue the garage on at least a monthly basis.

After one lust-filled night, the siblings become more than family.  They become lovers. The three of them, together and separately.

One big loving family.

So when Y/N’s boss calls for her to take a much needed vacation, the six of them hit the road. What will happen? Will it bring them closer together or break them apart?

W/C: 1243

Warnings:  fluff

After the shenanigans at the cafe and RJ’s insistent revelation, the six Winchesters loaded into the rental vehicle and got back on the road.

“Where to first?” Sam asks, looking at a map on his phone. 

“First stop, Dodge City!” Dean exclaims happily but frowns when he is met with groans. “What?”

“Dude, that is like your fantasy sabbatical,” Sam says, looking over his shoulder at Y/N to see her nodding in agreement. “You love everything to do with the Wild West. Me and Y/N, not so much. The kids are going to be so bored!”

Dean huffs and sighs. “Well just so you know, they have a zoo and a water park that I had planned to take everyone to. Do you want to just cross that off the list?”

Y/N could tell Dean had gotten his feelings hurt at their disregard for his agenda. She scooted forward in her seat and put her arms around his seat and onto his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m sure we’ll enjoy Dodge City.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Dean responds and bends his head to kiss her hand. “We’re going to get there just in time for the 5:00 mock showdown between Wild Bill and Davis Tutt. You know Wild Bill got lucky Tutt was such a bad shot. It took ol’ Bill a few seconds longer to steady his gun. Worked out though, because he shot his opponent right in the heart!”

Y/N could tell from the tone of his voice and the slight change of pitch that Dean was excited to be able to witness such a remarkable, albeit remade, event in history. She felt bad about their initial reaction.

“Oh my god! Did you see that?” Dean remarks as they walk away from the stage of the mock gun battle. “Bill was the fastest draw in the land.” Dean pretends to pull a gun from a holster on his side and makes a pistol with his finger and thumbs, “shooting” left and right; mimicking the sound of shots by blowing air out of his puckered lips. 

Y/N shakes her head as she carries a sleepy Mary Ellen on her lap as RJ holds his uncle’s hand and Izabella holds her father’s non-gun one. As they walk down the street of the city decorated to look like an Old West town, they each take in the sights from the displays of the attire of times gone by. 

She can not imagine having to wear such drab and concealing garb that the women wore back then. Added to the fact that they were usually also squeezed into a corset that was two sizes too small and Y/N wonders how they ever got anything done, much less felt like populating the world.

She looks at one of the pictures that is hanging on the wall. The Vandall Family were photographed in front of what Y/N assumed was their homestead. The husband and wife and their 13 kids were all lined up from tallest to shortest. The woman was also holding an infant in her arms so that made 14 times she had taken off all those layers and laid with her husband to get pregnant. Unfathomable to Y/N!

Back at the hotel they had gotten rooms at, she places Mary Ellen in the provided crib and closes the door to the adjoining room. Izabella and RJ are in the adults’ room with Sam and Dean watching cartoons so Y/N decides to take a shower while the baby naps.

As she is rinsing her hair, she hears the door open and feels a presence enter the room. She waits and just a few seconds later, Dean’s head pops around the curtain.

“What a lovely view,” he says as he eyes her up and down. “So sexy,” he continues with a smirk on his face. “And all mine.”

“Uh huh. What do you want?” Y/N asks, trying to act nonchalant, that the fact that Dean is ogling her naked form is not turning her on. But sure enough she feels the first of the tingles in her pussy as he licks his lips.

“Sammy said he would watch the kids so we can go out,” Dean tells her, his eyes still trailing up and down her body. “So Y/N, wanna go on a date with me?”

Y/N stops what she’s doing and looks at her brother. An actual date? One where they can be the couple they want to be; hold hands and kiss? A date where they don’t have to worry about who sees them together?! The thought of that alone gets her blood pumping and her heart beat rushing.

“Yea,” she answers delighted and anxious.

“Okay. Well, dress up little lady because I am taking you out on the town!” Dean imitates a cowboy as his smile stretches across his face. He winks and blows her a kiss before disappearing. She hears the bathroom door click shut and she waits until she is sure Dean is back in the other room before she squeals.

Their first date. The first time they can go out and be a couple. She hurriedly finishes washing before turning the water off and stepping out of the tub, wrapping the fluffy hotel towel around her. 

She’s going on a date, her first official date. Ever!

Knowing this is a special occasion, even if it is just for her, Y/N takes the extra time to style her hair the way she wants it and picks out the best blouse she had packed, pairing it with a pair of black trousers and her slip on booties. 

She even puts on makeup, using the barely-ever-used eyeshadow palette to create a smoky eye effect. She tops that off with a thin layer of mascara and some blush on her cheeks. Looking in the mirror, the reflection shown back to her is of a full-grown woman and not the half-grown kid she was so used to seeing when she looked at herself. 

Looking at her reflection, she now knows how she attracted both Dean and Sam because even she will admit with the way her clothes fit and her hair and makeup on point, she was beautiful and sexy. 

She briefly wonders what Dean’s reaction will be and doesn’t have to wait long to find out. The sound of the key in the door draws her attention and she looks over as Dean walks in. He is dressed up also. 

He is wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, with no holes or snags in them, a cinnamon colored henley under a multi-colored flannel, the colors distressed and faded. The jeans were tight around his thick thighs and groin, leaving little to the imagination. Y/N could melt into the floor right there.

“Hot damn,” Dean exclaims as he takes Y/N in. “I am one helluva lucky son of a bitch. You are gorgeous, baby girl.”

“Thanks, handsome. You look mighty fine yourself.”

“Ready to paint this town?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she answers with a smile.

Dean places his palm on the bottom of her back as they walk down the street heading to, what Y/N is sure, some cafe that serves lukewarm coffee, cold pie and has dirty ashtrays on each table. 

Imagine her surprise when  Dean directs her to the exact opposite of her assumption.

A/N: If your username is marked through, it’s because Tumblr wouldn’t allow me to tag you. Sorry. 

@lostinaseaoffictionalbliss @spnbaby-67 @tftumblin @sea040561 @delightfullykrispypeach @larajadeschmidt13 @atc74 @vicariouslythruspn @squirrelnotsam @death-unbecomes-you @sandlee44 @blacktithe7 @hoboal87 @mogaruke @deanwanddamons @onethirstyunicorn @supraveng @deandreamernp