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nat-20s · 4 years ago

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for @jonmartinweek day 4 prompt- tape recorders! once again post canon, but this time babes? it’s pure sappiness

~*~

When Martin dumps the box in front of him, Jon can’t help the sardonic huff of a laugh that escapes him. “Really? I would’ve thought you’d had enough enough of these damn things for a lifetime.”

Martin beams at him, obviously expecting a less than thrilled response to the charity shop cassettes. “Oh, believe me, I have. Buuuut..”

It’s clear Martin wants him to bite, and, what the hell, Jon can’t deny he’s curious. He sets aside the paperback he’s been thumbing through and asks, “But?”

“But it’s been a year and a half since we got here, and you know that I’ve been writing again, and the poems really do sound better on tape.”

“Oh..kay? Is that all? Because, love, you do know you can replicate that sound digitally, right? No need to bring..to bring those things into our home.”

“Aha! I knew you would say that, but, no, Jon, that’s not all. Remember how our therapist said something about softening bad associations by re-contextualizing items with new, positive memories, or whatever? I thought these would be a good start, considering they’re not quite so visceral as lotion or, eugh, peaches. And, yes, there’s always the whole possibility of something listening on the other side, but I have actually accounted for that. I’ve had the recorder in my bag for the past week, and I’ve taken it to all sorts of locations that would be considered interesting or scary, and nothing. I brought it to a job interview, for Christ’s sake, and not a peep. I am almost certain that we have total control over when the recordings start and stop, and who gets to listen to them. You have full veto power here, obviously, and you don’t have to record anything yourself, but, I thought it might be nice, to record just notes and grocery lists or songs stuck in our heads or whatever. Maybe we could make tapes into something mundane and maybe even pleasant, if a bit outdated.”

Standing up for a better viewpoint, Jon eyes the box of cassettes and, crammed in the corner, the recorder itself. He’s not overly enthused at the sight, and if it comes on by itself at any moment, he’s tossing everything into an industrial shredder and never looking back. Yet, it would be preferable to not wince at the sound of static, to be able to use the tape deck in their beater car. He knows already that he won’t be using it himself, the imagined press of the recorder in his hand more than enough to make his skin crawl and throat tighten. Just Martin’s voice, however, might be tolerable. Perhaps even enjoyable, on those rare occasions that they have to spend more than a handful of hours apart. “All right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I suppose it won’t hurt to try. Though I must admit my confidence in this experiment isn’t particularly high.”

Martin rewards his willingness to go along with this with a kiss to the temple, and informs him, “That’s fine. I can be optimistic for both of us on this one.”

~*~

The next morning, Jon rolls over to find an upsetting lack of warmth at his side. He opens his eyes to find his delightful boyfriend has been replaced with a cold, uncaring tape recorder. It’s apparently locked and loaded, as it has a sticky note in Martin’s loopy handwriting that says “Play me :-)”. With bated breath, he ever so carefully presses play.

Hello, love. Remember how we completely neglected to do our shopping on Tuesday? Turns out, we have zero breakfast food now. I’m grabbing some bagels from the cafe that’s too pricey for us to regularly justify, I’ll be back in 15. I love you.”

Huh. Not terrible. Maybe this is something Jon could get used to after all.

After that morning, and Jon’s lack of averse reaction to it, Martin keeps his word and begins to record all sorts of things. Little reminders for both of them, a spoken journal, affirmations for Jon, and, yes, grocery lists, despite Jon’s continued insistence that a whiteboard would be infinitely easier. Martin even manages to capture Jon on tape a few times, either singing or having a very earnest conversation with their incredibly chatty cat.

The wild thing is that it works. Jon doesn’t flinch at the sight of a cassette anymore. At worst, they’re mental background noise, nothing to take note of. At best, they’re audio treats, a physical token of something wonderful or peaceful or loving or all of the above.

This culminates six months later, when Jon finds a tape awaiting it. On it is a spoken clue from Martin, leading to another cassette. He follows the path, and he has to admit, he’s enjoying the playful puzzle. After being lead to a number of locations loaded with fond memories, he ends up in front of Martin, waiting on a bench in the park where they first woke up Here. He goes to sit next to him, and with a silent smile, he’s handed one final tape. Jon raises an eyebrow at him, questioning, but Martin doesn’t give away anything, just nodding at the recorder. Jon shrugs, and goes for it.

My dearest Jon,We’ve been through hell and back more times than I can count, and throughout it all, we’ve somehow managed to stick by each other. Right now, I’m the happiest that I’ve ever been, and I have an inkling that it’s much the same for you. While it’s largely a formality at this point, I would like to declare to the world that we’re going to spend the rest of our lives, and perhaps even beyond them, together. My love, my light, my anchor, will you marry me?

Okay. He can admit he’s glad to have that on tape.

#jonmartinweek2021 #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #tma #post canon #yall this is so saccharine #AND it was posted during daylight hours WILD #HEY THIS WAS MISSING THE FIRST SENTENCE BUT IT'S FIXED NOW

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kae-karo · 4 years ago

Note

For dialogue prompt:

Xiao: do I look like a cat to you?

y’all i’m losing my mind over this sdlfkjsdfjlskdlk the cat!xiao hivemind is REAL (also tagging @plot-hole-ventilation thank u love!!)

[send me a dialogue prompt from this list and a genshin character!]

tags: cat,,,,xiao,,,,,, and a bit of xiaoven as a treat, canon divergence

----

“Hey, hey Xiao?”

Xiao lifts his head to find Venti rushing up to him, a bottle in hand and a wide grin on his lips. Xiao tips his head, lets himself appreciate Venti and all his brightness for a moment. The sun to Xiao’s moon, if he’s feeling particularly sappy, though he would never say so aloud. Even now, he keeps his expression pointedly even, with the exception of a subtle quirk to his brow.

“Hey,” Venti says again as he slides to a stop, a little breathless and with a sun-kissed flush to his cheeks. “Will you taste this for me?”

Xiao blinks at the bottle Venti sticks in his face, brows furrowed at the unusual blue-green hue of the liquid inside.

“What...is it…” He glances up, past the mysterious drink, to find Venti’s eyes wide and pleading.

“C’mon, taste it for me?” Xiao narrows his eyes. “I dunno what’s in it,” he says as he pulls back a bit, tips his head and focuses on the bottle. “Juice or something, probably.” And then he turns those wide eyes on Xiao again, pleading and hopeful and-

Xiao sighs, pulls the bottle sharply from Venti’s grip. Unfair that he has such an easy time convincing Xiao of anything, but Venti grins and sits back on the grass and tips his head and archons, Xiao would do almost anything for that smile.

“Thanks, Xiao.”

Xiao drops his gaze to the bottle, ignores the warmth he can feel quite suddenly on his cheeks. He uncaps the bottle, sniffs experimentally. Something...fruity, maybe? Or tangy, or perhaps bitter. Maybe all of the above, it’s hard to tell for certain. He casts a quick glance at Venti, whose expression flashes with a hint of hope and excitement.

It’s so strange, how easily he feels. How easily he shows those feelings, even when it bears little relevance to the situation. Stranger still that Xiao can make him smile, feel some kind of happiness. It makes his chest warm, as though Venti has planted a tiny sun there, glowing bright.

He takes a short sip, just enough to taste, and regrets it when an unsettlingly slimy texture coats his tongue. He coughs, and a grimace overtakes his face as he shoves the bottle at Venti.

“Not juice,” he manages, recoiling and dragging a hand across his lips, hoping to erase any residual- eugh, this might be worse than some of his darkest nightmares. He turns a glare toward Venti, but Venti’s eyes have gone wide, and the bottle falls from his hand.

Xiao watches with furrowed brows as it lands on its side, as the remaining contents spill out and onto the grass.

“Xiao, um,” Venti coughs out a nervous sort of laugh, “I don’t really know how to say this, so, uh…” He leans in, and Xiao freezes, heart hammering at the hand that reaches toward him. Toward his face- no, his head? And-

And fingers brush against something there, something that was definitely not there a few minutes ago. Xiao’s hands fly to his head, and panic drips down his spine at the- at the pointed ears he finds suddenly attached to his head.

Venti falls back on his elbows when Xiao leaps to his feet, and Xiao notices movement in the corner of his eye. Spins quickly, catches sight of-

“You have a tail!” Venti shouts, though he seems to be finding this far more amusing than Xiao.

“What on Teyvat did you give me,” he growls as he spins around to glare at Venti, but Venti’s eyes go wide in panic and he shakes his head sharply. Raises hands in surrender. Xiao’s anger recedes a fraction, but only because it is Venti.

“I was just- I was in Albedo’s lab-” Archons, that is not a good start. Genuine concern settles heavily in Xiao’s stomach. “And I saw this, and it looked like it’d taste good, but it had a little note by it,” Venti continues, though he doesn’t look as panicked as before.

“It said ‘cat’, so I thought maybe it would make cats follow someone around...”

Xiao blinks - that is the first thought he jumped to? Now that Xiao’s aware - rather hyperaware, in fact - of the ears and tail, he can feel them twitching with his agitation.

“And if it did, well,” Venti tips his head, twists his lips and focuses more on Xiao now, “I’m allergic to cats, y’know. So I figured it’d be better if someone else tried it? Or,” he adds, gaze going distant again. “I thought maybe it was actually for a cat-”

“Do I look like a cat to you?” Xiao snaps, but regrets it immediately when Venti recoils. His startled panic disappears after hardly a second, though, replaced with a tight-lipped sort of look, one that barely conceals his obvious laughter.

“Well, you do now,” he gets out just before a giggle escapes, though he at least has the common decency to slap a hand over his mouth and prevent any further laughter. A sudden wave of embarrassment floods Xiao’s veins, and he turns on a heel to stare somewhere that isn’t at Venti.

Gods, he’s a- a cat. A cat, of all things. Ears and tail, though at least he doesn't have fur everywhere. How mortifying.

“I’m sure Sucrose and Albedo can help us fix it,” Venti says quietly, then, and Xiao exhales a slow, steadying breath. He is irritated, yes, but Venti had admitted he didn’t know what the bottle contained. Xiao could’ve been a little more intelligent about the situation himself.

“Let’s go,” Xiao grits out, keeps his gaze pointedly fixed on the ground when he turns around. He’s surprised to find Venti on his feet already, and he lifts his eyes just enough to find Venti’s lips pressed into a tight line again. The same as earlier, when he’d been trying not to laugh.

“Forget it, I’ll go myself,” Xiao declares, embarrassment flooding his body with heat. His tail- archons, he has a tail - thrashes behind him, and he stalks off past Venti before he can say a word.

He is then immediately pounced on, and Venti drags him to a stop and rushes around to stand in front of him.

“Nonono, I’m sorry, please let me help? You’re just-” He stops short, lips pressing into that too-telling line again, and it makes Xiao’s chest ache. “You’re just so cute!”

Cute. Xiao swallows.

“Ah! I mean…” For some unknown reason, Venti’s face turns red at his own words, as though he hadn’t just called Xiao cute. The word leaves Xiao paralyzed, and Venti stammers for a moment longer before clearing his throat.

“I mean, not that you’re not...always, uh. Cute.”

Always...cute? Xiao blinks in confusion, both at the statement and Venti’s nervous expression. The meaning hits him a moment later, and his eyes go wide, and he feels warm-

Warm from the inside. That tiny sun glowing in his chest, the warmth caused always by Venti.

“Let’s go,” he grits out quietly, and Venti follows when he marches off in the direction of Dragonspine.

“I’m- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“You too.”

“Wh- huh?” Venti rushes to catch up to Xiao’s side, and Xiao swallows. Glances at Venti from the corner of his eye, then turns back to watching his feet as they walk. His tail flicks unpredictably, and he feels it catch Venti’s arm before twitching away.

“You. You’re, um. Cute. Also.”

Venti stops dead in his tracks, and Xiao curses his own idiocy. Why would he say something so stupid? So-

An arm loops through his unexpectedly, and he nearly pulls away until the warm, sweet scent of Cecilia flowers washes over him. Venti smiles wide, bright as the sun when Xiao glances over, and Xiao’s chest glows with warmth.

#genshin #genshin impact #xiaoven #xiao #venti #snack-thief-keith #ask

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antihero-writings · 4 years ago

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Before It Kills You Too

(Cover art by _xstlyricax_ on Instagram!! I’ll put a link to her profile in a reblog!!)

Fandom: Lore Olympus (Webcomic)

Fic Summary:

Hera goes for a drive after a fight with Zeus, and has some time to think. Her internal monologue and memories, using Blackpink's "Kill This Love" as a prompt. ||

Anger was a fire, it burned white hot and devastated the world around it. But then it faded...This was more than anger.

Character Focus: Hera

Notes: If you haven't listened to, and/or watched the music video for Blackpink's "Kill This Love" (I’ll put a link in a reblog!), I highly recommend you do so either before or after reading, as the fic is based on the lines, and a few of the visuals of it!

The cover art is based off of the visuals of 0:59-1:12 of the music video too!

I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a comment and/or reblog!!! I'm not kidding when I say that makes my week!!

(I’ll put some more notes in a reblog!)

Chapter 1: I Owe It All to You

Hera kept glancing from the road to the speedometer, the dial sneaking steadily upwards: sixty miles an hour to seventy in seconds.

She leaned over and took a cigarette from the pack, putting it between the fingers of the hand on the steering wheel. She took out the lighter and clicked it open, lighting the end, then closed it again and set it back down in the cupholder while she breathed in.

Smoke never tasted so sweet as when she was angry with him.

Eighty, ninety.

“Good to see you again, Bunny!”

“It’s only been a few days!” She laughed, “And who’s Bunny?”

“You are!” Zeus took her hands and gave her eskimo nose kisses. “Who else?”

The golden girl smiled, big and bright—

—the kind of smile one can only give when the world itself is big and bright. When one lives in a realm of hope, where beings keep their secrets, and their promises, and no one lies, or steals, or cheats.

She breathed out, smoke billowing like her mouth was the gates to the Christian’s hell—(they say hell hath no fury right?).

Sometimes she wished she had Zeus’s power; that she could set the world on fire with a glance.

A hundred.

The world was nothing but streaks of light across her vision. Not trees, people, and buildings; not distinguishable as life or meaning, just lines of color as she flew by. Maybe things were better that way. She could dance in the in-between, reach up and grab the ribbons, twirl around with them in beautiful absurdity. Only absurdity was beautiful; truth and sanity were far too ugly.

“Bunny I—”

“Don’t ‘Bunny’ me!”

She took another long draft, letting the smoke’s medicine filling her lungs.

And out.

Breathe out, feel the negative emotions leaving your body, all the meditation gurus say.

What a load of bullshit that was.

For every soothing inhale there was always an exhale that felt like it was clawing its way out of her throat. For every sweet hello there was a bitter goodbye, full of curses at his back, in return. For every incredible high there was a unfathomable price. That was the rule to life; what goes up, must come down.

And she had risen too high, once upon a time.

The test of life had no answer, let alone a right one. Even the gods were slaves to fate, and emotion.

The tires screeched hellishly as she rounded corner.

Hera walked around the corner.

“It just—I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him! You know?”

The queen stopped. It was that nymph’s voice. The one who came by earlier.

“Ahh I’m so jealous! Tell me more! Tell me!”

“Well he just…I don’t know! When he kisses me the whole world just kind of…stops. You know? And when he listens…I feel like he’s actually listening.”

“Ugh, too sappy! Tell me the dirty stuff!”

“Oh stop! I’m not gonna tell you about our sex life!”

Hera rolled her eyes, beginning to walk away when—

“Well he is the king of the gods. You’re right; It’s better if I imagine.”

The queen froze.

“Eugh I don’t want you imagining me in bed with him!”

“No, I’m imagining me in bed with him!”

Hera couldn’t hear them anymore. Couldn’t see the world in front of her. She was staring at a space before her eyes only she could see; a space, a memory, where the world was wide and she and Zeus were the only beings in it.

That space was shattering piece by piece.

Her breath was shallow in her chest, her blood pumping her ears.

“Mama?” Ares’ little voice brought her back to the world. “Mama, you’re hurting me.”

She immediately let go of her son’s tiny hand. “I’m so sorry sweetheart!” She crouched down and took his hand in both of hers, this time with the most gentleness she could muster, and kissed his fingers. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah…‘m okay.” He took his hand back and rubbed it.

He looked at her apprehensively.

“…Are you okay, mama? …Are you angry?”

She whizzed passed broken stop sign, catching her reflection in the rear view mirror; her hair in tattered locks like rags about her face, eyebrows permanently furrowed, lip permanently pursued, blue eyes dim and hollow, with nothing of the brightness they once contained; only a few lingering sparks of electricity in an abandoned power plant.

‘Okay’. ‘Angry’.

Such ugly words.

“I just…” the golden girl pushed her hair behind her ear sheepishly, her eyes bright, “I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him…you know?”

“Can’t say I do,” Aidoneus muttered softly.

She put her gently hand on his. “Don’t worry, I know you will one day.” She grinned.

And what made it better was that she really meant that.

He tried to smile back.

“So what’s that…like?” he asked softly.

“Well…when he kisses me the world kind of …stops. It feels like there’s nothing and no one in the universe but him and me. We can talk about anything. And when I talk it feels like he actually listens. He always makes me laugh. When I’m with him…it feels like nothing else matters…”

She hated that word: okay. It was too simple, too easy; one could always throw it out as an answer. It didn’t mean, I’m doing very well, or I’m doing poorly—(though it could mean either depending on the context). Okay was just, ‘fine’, ‘alright’. Okay could mean you were doing wonderfully, having a great day, and okay could mean you would rather be dead, and either way people would smile and say good! I’m okay too!. Okay was never truly satisfied, never fully living. Just existing. ‘Okay’ was a word for ghosts; for those who are neither dead nor really alive, neither sinners nor saints. Just floating through the world, caught in between.

She was always okay…and she was never okay.

She rolled down the window, cool air rushing in to the car and scooping up all the smoke, taking it out into the night, giving it to some other lonely Goddess who needed it.

“Ugh, this again? I thought we were done with this…Just leave it for now. You’ll feel better after lunch.”

And, anger, anger was a fire that blossomed like a rose high, and bright, and scorching for a while, eating everything it saw. Then it dwindled. Sometimes it could be lit again by a passing breeze, if the embers were still fresh enough. And sometimes that relight could touch a passerby leaf or bush, and from there desecrate forests and cities. But often, even then, once it had finished blazing it would wither and die. Anger burned white hot and violent at first, but eventually it would fade, and the world would be left to deal with everything it blackened in its wake.

She sometimes had a vague image of smashing Zeus’s head in, of him clutching his big ugly skull, golden trails of blood intermixing with his violet hair, draining down his cheeks. And there she was, holding the stem of glass, half of the vase, in her hand, the rest of it in pieces all over the floor before them. Sometimes. Sometimes it felt good to take out all that anger out on innocent paintings. Sometimes she had to destroy something, before it destroyed her.

“You’re acting crazy.” He had said.

Crazy, was she?

Crazy for believing visions in her head, which were always right in the past? Crazy for being angry? For kicking him out? No.

Crazy for staying with a being like him?

Yes. If she was crazy, that was why.

If I’m crazy, well, then…

She smirked, taking a long draft, and letting it out, grey wisps filling the air around her.

Thanks, baby, I owe it all to you.

She had a faint recollection of being sane once. Before him. He always made her crazy, be it when she was first fell in love with him, or when she rose in hate for him. But there was a time, when, before all this, she was a sweet, naïve little golden girl in the forest, with her sanity in tact, who loved animals, and taking care of broken things, her innocence still put together.

He thought he knew crazy. He hadn’t even scratched the surface.

But then that impulse would fade as quickly as it came, and she was left with guilt for even thinking that way. She’d never do that. She might burn his picture, but she wouldn’t actually hurt him…would she? She hoped it would never get that far.

No. That was anger. The boiling thing rising inside her that made her want to smash, and spit in, his face, and burn paintings, that was anger. Anger rose, vehemently, but in the end it dissolved.

This was more than just anger.

This, this feeling; this dull resounding ache at the back of her consciousness like an unending death knell; this thing that bored a hole in her stomach, making her feel constantly sick; this thing that hung as a weight in her chest; this thing wrapping around her, chaining her wings; this thing that stained her eyes with sleeplessness; this thing that broke into her mind and ransacked her thoughts, tainting all those happy memories, making them seem diluted with lies, and sickening to think of, and never, ever left her house—

This was heartbreak. Eternal, infernal, heartbreak.

She was on a long stretch of road now, out where nature still bloomed and she didn’t have to look at anyone’s faces or talk to anyone. The ribbons of light still outlining the air—(was it two hundred now? She’d lost track.).

Lucky me.

Everyone always told her she was lucky. Not everyone got to be the wife of the king of the gods. Just her. She was lucky she had a husband who was powerful. Who was rich. She was lucky she had a husband who adored her. Who doted on her. Who listened to her. Who she could talk to. Who made her laugh.

Not everyone had that. Some had husbands who were poor. Who were weak. Who didn’t love them, and whom they didn’t love. Husbands who didn’t dote on them, or give them so much as a wanton kiss. Who fixed a permanent scowl on their faces. Who they couldn’t talk to. Husbands who lied to them, and cheated on them.

She was lucky she didn’t have that.

Not everyone got to be queen.

Lucky her. So lucky he chose her. So lucky she got the crown. No one else.

No one but her.

So lucky she had that handsome face to wake up to every day.

(Every damn day)

So lucky could talk to him every day. So lucky could kiss him, and hug him, and make love to him.

(Sometimes she couldn’t even look at him.)

So lucky she had Zeus. That goofy, dumb, brave, arrogant king as her better half. So lucky she had a husband who was so sweet, and kind, and gentle, and funny, and patient, and forgiving. So lucky she didn’t have had a cheating, lying, conniving, backstabbing little weasel for a husband, who put that crown on his head, and walked into his office like he owned the world—!

And he was the one person who could say he did. Including her. Sometimes she couldn’t say a word against him.

He owned the world. Along with every fucking girl in it.

And he did fuck them.

After it all, what would he say?

We all lie, so what? Something like that.

So what.

Him; the illustrious king with his throne, and his lightning. Her; a jealous queen with a stolen crown.

The only one to blame was herself.

“I just feel like everyone’s lying, everyone’s—!” the golden girl cried, her hands over her eyes.

Someone took her arm, someone whose grasp was gentle.

He put his finger on her chin, tipping her gaze up to him.

“I’d never lie to you.” Zeus said, giving a gentle smile.

And what made it better was he meant it.

She returned the smile, placing her hand over his. “Nor I to you.”

That naïve little ray of sunlight darkened by his moon.

We’ve both lied, so what? That would surely be his excuse.

“You know what?! Why don’t we talk about you for a change?”

He’d said he was sorry before. He’d promised to be better.

And she believed him, then.

He’d spent enough time telling the truth that she believed he meant it when he apologized. When he made promises. When he spoke to her, she thought he meant the things he said.

I cheated on you, I’m sorry.

I lied to you, I’m sorry.

Now she questioned everything he had ever said. His apologies, his promises, his compliments, his kisses. Were those words so long ago just another lie? His promise to never lie to her, was that just the first lie of a thousand? As numerous as the hours they spent together. Did he ever intend to keep his words back then?

That was the unfortunate thing about lies; they could reside in even the most sincere of promises.

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

Long ago she’d wanted him to apologize. She’d been more than desperate to hear those words falling from his lips.

Now she knew they meant nothing. They could, and usually would, be just another lie. And, even if he meant them, they wouldn’t fix this aching hole he’d left in her chest.

She remembered herself at her wedding; them, the picture of a perfect, royal couple, his violet a compliment to her gold. Both of them practically shimmering, wearing traditional wedding attire—(though impossibly embellished and adorned)—and those goofy, light-filled smiles. The whole pantheon applauding, smiling, wiping away tears at their back.

In other countries, at weddings, they said they’d be together in sickness and health, till death did them part.

Did this count as sickness? As death?

Didn’t he break that promise? Did her promises matter after he broke his? Was her faith and faithfulness worth nothing anymore?

She now imagined herself in a black dress, standing at the back of that ceremony with a bow, and an arrow made of adamant, laced with the venom from a certain many headed monster, its gleam reflected in darkened gaze. She breathed out as they spoke, and loosed that arrow, shooting that girl in the back. Olympus shouted in vain, as she watched all that gold flow out of her past self, those blue eyes fade to a cool grey, keeping her from making the biggest mistake of her life. And she’d look at Zeus’ horrified face and think

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

That was surely better than this. Better than dying slowly, the blue in her eyes dimming day by day into lifeless grey still animated somehow, better than that gold leaking out of her with each forsaken sunrise she woke up next to him.

Would he be happy then? Without her? He could fuck around with whoever he wanted.

Would she be happier, dead, without all this?

There was no way she could have known, back then what their lives would become after a few millennia. How that god who held her hands and said he’d never lie to her, who hugged her and kissed her, and seemed so in love, could become dissatisfied. That lust would overtake him; he’d keep wanting more and more, gorging himself on it. She had no way of knowing that she wouldn’t be enough one day.

She was young, and innocent then, and didn’t know better.

She couldn’t forgive herself for that.

Something flashed gold in the headlights before her, and for a second her mind manifested before her; she saw that golden girl still, her own hair draining down the street like liquid, that white wedding attire—old, ragged, covered in burns—her own naïve eyes, still full of light and life, staring up at her, terror overtaking their innocent frames. And her own eyes boiled.

The sound of breaking glass was like a cooling rain upon a fire that had been left raging too long.

******

Zeus was doing important business work. Focus was imperative.

Someone knocked on the door. “Your majesty.”

He fumbled with the spinner he was playing with, dropping it on the floor, sitting upright. He folded his hands on the desk, clearing his throat, trying to look professional.

“Yes? If it’s Hermes wanting to install racing tracks in the sky again—”

“Uh, n-no,” the messenger poked her head in the door, looking nervous, “It’s… about your wife.”

He blinked, then sighed, leaning back in his chair. “…What’s does she want this time?”

“Um…” she swallowed, avoiding his gaze, “S-She’s been in a car accident.”

*****

Notes cont.: Do you guys have any ideas for what song I could use for Zeus for the next chapter? (I want the next chapter to be framed like this one--based around a song, but for him, and from his perspective.) Let's see...In the simplest terms, I'm looking for a song about someone who knows they've made mistakes and/or hurt someone, and wants to do better. It doesn't have to be kpop, it can be anything XD (Though to be honest I'd prefer if it wasn't American pop...)

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waitineedaname · 4 years ago

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frame the halves and call them a whole

also on ao3

“Alright, I’ve got a bad one.”

“Oh, lord.”

“Brace yourself.”

“I’m bracing!” Sasha made a show of gripping the short carpet on her living room floor and Tim grinned, leaning back against her coffee table.

“Would you rather… date a spider with the head of a human, or a human with the head of a spider?”

“Jesus. I see someone has been reading the discredited statements.”

“Guilty.” Tim shrugged cheekily.

The two of them were sitting on the floor in Sasha’s flat, and she’d long since lost track of what time it was. Ever since they’d been moved to the Archives, they’d made an agreement to go out and do something together once a week. Sometimes that meant getting sloshed and losing at pub trivia, sometimes that meant dragging each other to whatever new film had made it to theaters that week, and sometimes that meant playing sleepover games in the middle of the night, as if they were twelve year olds and not thirty-somethings with 9-to-5’s. Neither of them had the energy to go out drinking and there wasn’t anything good in the theaters that week, so the third option had won out. They’d ended up on the floor when Sasha made an ill-advised comment about not being ticklish and Tim called her bluff. She’d dissolved into hysterical giggles and he’d said something about how being an oldest sibling meant having a sixth sense for someone’s ticklish spots, and then he’d gone very still and quiet. She’d taken his hand and squeezed and initiated the game of would-you-rather they found themselves in now.

“Okay. Let me think about this.” She drummed her fingers on her lips contemplatively. Tim smiled in that fond way he did when he didn’t want to outright laugh at her. “Are the human and spider bits proportional?”

“Ooh, very good question, Sash. Let’s say they’re the normal sizes for your average spiders and humans.”

“So my options are a human head scuttling around on spider legs or a human with an absolutely microscopic spider head?”

“Yep!” Tim said, popping the ‘p.’

“I’m going to go with option A. I mean, if it’s a human head, I could still hold a conversation with it, right? And I don’t think spiders would make good kissers.”

“I think some of our statement givers would disagree with that judgment.”

“Please don’t tell me we have a statement about a human body with a spider head. I don’t think I could take it.”

“Sure do! Statement number 9170108, or something like that. Some freaked out old coot convinced his neighbor’s head was fake and he was keeping a tiny little spider underneath the fake head.”

“Christ. I’m glad Jon didn’t ask me to look into that one. I might have quit on the spot.” Sasha laughed.

“Aw, and then leave me and Martin to deal with Jon? You know how he gets with the spider ones.”

“Hm, fair. The Archives need someone sensible around.”

“Hey, you’re not the sole voice of reason down there!”

“You’re right. Martin can be fairly practical when he wants.” She failed to bite back her smirk when Tim clutched his chest, feigning pain.

“Oh, how you wound me, Ms. James! Here I was, thinking it was Tim and Sasha versus the world, but you’ve betrayed me for Martin!”

“Is that your proposal for a Scott Pilgrim reboot? Am I Ramona in this scenario?”

“No, we’re both Scott Pilgrim because combined, we can equal the pure sexual energy of one Michael Cera.”

“Eugh! Gross!” She retched and kicked at him, making him laugh.

“I’m kidding!”

“You better be! Any and all horniness for Michael Cera is banned in this flat!”

“That’s fair.” He caught her foot and shoved it back at her. “Knives and Ramona were both way too good for him, anyway. They should’ve ended up together at the end.”

“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said all night.”

“You’re really not pulling any punches tonight, huh?”

“Nope. My turn. Would you rather...” She crossed her arms and stared him down long enough to make him squirm, “get stoned with Jon or Elias?”

Tim groaned so loud she worried her neighbors would complain. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot make me choose that.”

“Hey, you asked about spider people!”

“Yeah, and I’d argue that dealing with my bosses while stoned is worse than a human head skittering around on the walls!”

“Oh, come on. Jon isn’t that bad.”

“Sasha. You were friends with him in Research. I was friends with him in Research. Last time we got drinks, he talked about South American moths for forty minutes. I’m getting a headache just thinking about listening to him while he’s stoned.”

“Maybe it’ll calm him down.”

“Maybe.” Tim pouted, and Sasha did her best not to giggle. “Alright fine. I choose Jon, but only because I cannot imagine Elias getting within eyesight of anything as fun as weed without shriveling up and acting like an affronted Victorian gentleman.”

“Okay, first of all, the Victorians loved drugs, they were high on opiates all the time-"

"Like hell am I doing opiates with Elias."

"Second of all, I may have looked into what Elias was like before he got promoted…” She trailed off and bit back a laugh when Tim's jaw dropped.

“No.”

“And he was a major stoner.”

“You can’t just say these things. I refuse to accept it.”

“I’m serious!”

“Are we talking about the same Elias? The Elias Bouchard that uses words like grandiloquent and apropos? The Elias Bouchard that gets pissy if you round up on your time card?”

“You know what’s even worse?”

“Please don’t make it worse.”

“I’ve seen him wear those socks with weed patterns on them.”

“I told you not to make it worse.” Tim wailed and covered his face. “I swear, if I saw that, I would gouge my eyes out without hesitation.” Sasha patted his leg sympathetically.

“Well, good thing you chose Jon, then.”

“I guess so! Fuck’s sake.” He sighed and flopped over onto his side to lie on the floor. Sasha laughed at him goodnaturedly, and then joined him on the floor. She expected him to be thinking of his next would-you-rather prompt, but after a long minute of him silently running his fingers through the carpet, he surprised her by asking, “Do you ever miss Jon?”

“Sorry?” She said, confused. “We see him every day, Tim.”

“No, I…” He huffed, “You know what I mean. Do you miss the Jon we knew in Research?”

“Oh…” Sasha caught onto his drift and fell silent, unsure what to say. Tim was clearly brimming with emotions that he was struggling to get out, so she let him take a minute.

“Not saying he’s a completely different person now, but… I don’t know. We used to get drinks with him. He used to laugh at our jokes. He used to make jokes. Weird, dark jokes, but still jokes, you know? But these days, it’s all business, all the time. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile in months. All… All snappish comments and ‘research this, call this statement giver, stop goofing off during work hours.’ Never mind that just a year ago, he was the one using work hours to show us cat videos because he got distracted during his lunch break.” The side of Tim’s face was smushed into the floor and his one free eye was focused on the whorls he was creating with his fingers in the carpet. Up close as they were, Sasha could see the light scar on his chin that he’d once told her was the result of an ill-advised dare as a child, when his brother had challenged him to see if they could jump off the back deck of their house. She touched it, and he leaned into her hand, eyes distant and sad. “I just…” He spoke softly, “I miss my friend.”

“I miss him too.” Sasha said honestly, though she knew Tim was taking it harder than she was. “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“I know that.” Tim said, and she believed him. “It’s this stupid job. The stupid Archives. I miss being in Research, where I could make fun of the weirdos in the Archives, but now we’re the weirdos in the Archives.”

“We work at an institute that studies the supernatural. I think we’re the weirdos no matter which department we’re in.” She said, aiming for some levity and feeling relieved when Tim let out a soft huff of laughter.

“Fair. Still. The vibes in there are…”

“Bad.” She finished for him.

“You can say that again.” He finally shifted to look at her again. “If you were the Head Archivist-”

“Tim-” She warned, not wanting to dig up an old sore point.

“I’m serious. If you were the Archivist, do you think you’d act like this?”

“Would I push you away, you mean.” She said. He shrugged and nodded. “I don’t know. I really don’t, Tim. I’d like to say I wouldn’t, but who knows what kind of pressure it involves. I can be just as intense as Jon when I feel pressured.”

“Yeah, but you’d be way nicer than him.”

“You don’t know that.” Sasha said, firm but gentle.

“...Guess I don’t.” Tim sighed and shut his eyes. She reached down and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

“Next time you’re missing Jon, call me instead, okay? Or Martin, he’d love that.” She ran her thumb over his and gave him a small smile. “You can always count on me.”

His gaze is impossibly soft as he looks up at her, and he seems to almost forget to respond at first. “Yeah.” He finally says. “I can always count on you, Sash.” A cheeky grin spread across his face, breaking the tender moment. “The Pilgrim to my Scott.”

She laughed and let go of his hand to push his shoulder into the leg of the coffee table playfully. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense!” He protested despite his own laughter. “Okay, maybe it doesn’t make sense, but it’s the thought that counts. I’m poetic.”

“No, you’re sleep-deprived.” She sat up enough to eye the microwave from her vantage point in the kitchen. “Oh lord, it’s 2am, no wonder. You always get sappy at 2am.”

“I do not!”

“You do. Big sap.” She patted his cheek playfully and stood. “Want me to get you some extra blankets for the couch?”

“That’d be great.” He hauled himself to his feet, groaning all the way. She snickered.

“You sound like an old man.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m young and spry.” He complained, stretching.

“Mhm.” She rolled her eyes and went to the closet.

“At the prime of my life.”

“And yet you make dad noises getting out of a chair.”

“Hey, lying on the floor isn’t good for your back! Aren’t you older than me anyway?”

“Maybe, but I’m not the one complaining about my back.” She cut off whatever complaint he had prepared by throwing a quilt at him. He caught it and stuck his tongue out at her. She returned the gesture and grabbed another blanket. “Are two blankets good?”

“That’s perfect.” He took the blanket gratefully and settled on the couch. “Should I make breakfast as thanks?”

“You don’t have to,” Sasha immediately said out of politeness, but then added, “But if you want to make pancakes…”

“Understood. I’ll see you bright and early with some pancakes, then.” Tim smiled up at her and made himself comfortable on the couch.

“See you in the morning, Tim.” She turned to walk to her room, but stopped at the doorway when Tim piped up again.

“Sasha?”

“Hm?” She looked back at him and saw his best flirty grin on his face. He winked and blew a kiss at her. More than used to his nonsense, she gasped and pretended to catch the invisible kiss, then promptly put her hand to mouth and pretended to eat the kiss. Tim clutched his heart and fell back onto the couch, trying to act like he wasn’t holding back laughter. “No, you’re so cruel!”

“Good night, Tim.” She said, closing the door behind herself before her poker face could break.

“Good night, Sasha.” She heard through the door, full of fondness and amusement in equal parts.

Sasha rolled out of bed the next morning to find Tim making pancakes, as promised. They sat at her kitchen table and bickered playfully about movies; Tim listened patiently as she infodumped about the history of science fiction as a genre, and she let him rant for the fiftieth time about Indiana Jones. Tim insisted on washing the dishes like a gentleman, and Sasha insisted on squirting bubbles out of the dish detergent bottle at him. They didn’t speak a word about work or their conversation from the night before, but she hugged him very tightly before he left, as if conveying all the emotion she could through touch alone. From the way he squished his face into her shoulder, it seemed the message came across.

“I’ll make sure to get you the spider guy’s number.” He said when they finally pulled apart, and she snorted.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” She said, shoving him out the door.

“So I’ve heard.” He winked and walked backwards down the hall outside her flat. She sighed and waved, a smile on her face as she shut the door.

If he bugged her and Martin more than usual after talking to Jon the following week, she didn’t mention it.

#tma #the magnus archives #sasha james #tim stoker #ambiguous timsasha #my writing #okay to reblog #I blame the liveshow for making this more emotional than intended #wrote more than half of this in one sitting instead of writing my final paper how are y'all doing #my hobbies include infusing dialogue with as much dramatic irony as possibly and crying about s1 archival gang

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lakesandquarries · 4 years ago

Text

highlight (of my lowlife)

“I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t trust your cooking. Stay out of my kitchen.” and “You’re lucky you’re cute…”

Also for Ouma Month - “Domestic”.

title from “lowlife” by poppy.

AO3 Link

“I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t trust your baking. Stay out of my kitchen.”

Momota makes a shooing motion at Kokichi, but how is he supposed to stay out when Momota looks like that? He’s wearing a frilly apron (with stars on it, of course), and his hair is tied back, and there’s flour on his face, and the whole thing is so bizarrely domestic that Kokichi can’t stop staring.

He pouts at Momota, not crying yet but ready to start at any moment. “I just wanna help, Momota-chan!”

“Help my ass,” he grumbles, but he shoves an apron at Kokichi anyway. Kokichi drops the pout, tying it and beaming at Momota.

“So! What’re we making?”

“Brownies,” Momota says, turning back to the oven. “First gotta - Kokichi! ”

There’s a sharp thwap! on his hand as he reaches for the oven. The tears come easily, filling his eyes as he pulls away and cradles his hand. “Momota-chan! That was so mean of you!”

“The oven is on!” Momota says, glaring, but then he sighs and mutters, “sorry for hitting you.”

“Apology accepted. This time.”

Momota’s directions are easy enough, leaving Kokichi plenty of time to be a nuisance. Momota reads out the instructions, and Kokichi follows them on a technicality.

“C’mon,” Momota says, pinching the bridge of his nose as Kokichi measures out two cups of sugar using teaspoons.

“You touched your face! Go wash your hands again!” Kokichi says, nudging him with his hip.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Momota grumbles, stomping over. “The next ingredient is vanilla,” he informs him from the sink, as Kokichi adds in the last teaspoon.

“It smells good,” Kokichi comments as he pours it into the teaspoon, and before Momota can stop him he dips his finger in and licks it. “ Eugh ,” he whines, sticking his tongue out. “Why are we adding this in?? It doesn’t even taste good!”

“It does when it’s cooked. It’s got like, a lot of alcohol in it.”

Well, that’s good to know. He’s never had much experience baking - not a lot of access to ovens when you’re constantly on the move. Momota’s a decent teacher. His explanations don’t always make sense, but at least he’s not condescending.

It’s surprisingly fun, baking. Not just the messing with Momota - though, of course, that part is great - but it’s pretty straightforward and it smells good and it’s nice to think about having brownies later. Kokichi’s got a bad sweet tooth, and while Momota manages to hide it, he’s not much better than Kokichi.

Momota shows him how to prepare the baking tray, how to get the batter to spread out evenly, and they split the job of cleaning (licking) the bowl and utensils. Momota wipes down the counters, cleaning the last of the flour off, and then all that’s left is to wait.

Might as well make things more fun.

“So,” Kokichi says, hopping up to sit on the counter Momota just cleaned. “You said something very interesting when I first came in!”

“Did I?” Momota slips off his ridiculous apron and puts it away into the closet. Kokichi makes a mental note of its location before returning to the matter at hand.

“You said, and I quote, I love you from the bottom of my heart. ” He grins at Momota to cover up the fuzzy feeling in his chest. He refuses to call it butterflies - he’s not that much of a loser. He’s Ouma Kokichi, after all, and he’s above things like love and caring.

“Is there a problem with me saying that?” Momota asks, glancing at him from the closet.

“Well, that depends on if it’s true.” He twirls a strand of hair around his finger, and when he looks over Momota is frowning.

“Kokichi, we’re dating ,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows. He moves closer, leaning against the kitchen island across from Kokichi and placing a hand on the countertop. “We live together .”

“Yeah, and? I remember you hating me a lot when we first lived together!”

Momota’s face scrunches up as he tries to use his tiny brain to figure out what Kokichi’s saying, but finally he responds, “Are you talking about the killing game ? Seriously?”

“I’m not wrong,” he says, swinging his legs to kick against the drawers. “You were pretty mean to me back then!”

“Yeah, well, back then you kinda deserved it,” Momota says. He’s not looking at Kokichi as he says it; his gaze is firmly planted on the ground. Interesting.

Kokichi taps his finger to his chin. “So, you stand by punching me in the face back then, but now you love me?”

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

Kokichi beams at him. Momota sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“You were an asshole during the game,” he says. “But hitting you also wasn’t great. So. Sorry about that.”

Kokichi rolls his eyes. “You’ve apologized before.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one who keeps bringing it up. And anyway, that’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?”

Momota leans forward, stepping away from the kitchen island and towards Kokichi. He has to look up to meet Kokichi’s eyes.

“I love you,” Momota says, reaching forward to cup Kokichi’s face.

That stupid fluttery feeling in his chest has only gotten stronger, and he can feel his face heat up. He feels ridiculous like this, letting Momota have any influence over him and yet -

And yet -

Momota’s face is so kind, so earnest, and his hands are soft and warm and maybe this is the safest Kokichi has felt in a long time. Maybe he is getting the stupid butterflies in his stomach.

“I hate you,” Kokichi says, and Momota lets out a huff of laughter.

“Is it just me, or have you gotten worse at lying?”

He leans forward, letting his head rest in Momota’s hands, trusting that he’ll support him. Reaching up, he places his hand over Momota’s, tilting his head to the side to kiss it - and, then, to lick it.

“Kokichi,” Momota whines, trying to pull his hand away, but Kokichi keeps it gripped tight.

“You taste like sugar,” he says, a wry grin stretching across his face. “I wonder…?”

Momota rolls his eyes, but he leans forward anyway. His lips taste like chocolate, and Kokichi savors it, waiting until the last possible moment to pull back. Momota has this unbearable look on his face, all heart-eyed and soft, a sappy smile spreading across his face. Kokichi kisses him again.

They’re still kissing when the oven beeps, alerting them that the brownies are done, and Kokichi shoves Momota away eagerly, jumping down from the countertop. Momota catches his wrists, pulling him away from the oven.

“Kokichi! We’ve been over this already, c’mon!”

Kokichi pouts, but doesn’t bother struggling. “Momota-chan! You’re bullying me again.”

“You’re gonna burn your hands off someday,” he mutters, releasing Kokichi’s hands and shoving a pair of oven mitts at him.

Kokichi ends up watching as Momota pulls the tray out of the oven, placing it on top to cool. His oven mitts are, of course, space themed.

“Kokichi. Do not touch,” Momota warns.

He watches as Momota cuts up the brownies, lungeing when he’s done only to be smacked away again. “Still too hot,” Momota tells him.

“Keep me entertained while we wait,” Kokichi says, tugging on his arm.

“You know you can just ask for affection like a normal person, right?”

“Ugh. Absolutely not.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to learn,” Momota says, poking a brownie. “Hm. Should be good.” He picks it up, offering it to Kokichi, who does not take it from him but instead eats it directly from Momota’s hand, like a feral horse.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Momota asks flatly.

“Entertaining myself!”

Momota rolls his eyes. “I’ve got a better idea,” he says, leaning down to place another sugary kiss on Kokichi’s lips. It’s much shorter than the others, as Kokichi quickly pulls away so he can grab another brownie.

“You’re ridiculous,” Momota says as Kokichi shoves an entire brownie into his mouth.

“You love me,” Kokichi says.

“Yeah,” Momota says, a fond smile on his face. “Yeah. I do.”

#oumamonth2020 #kokichi ouma #kaito momota #oumota #ouma kokichi #momota kaito #cora writes #another fic!!! hope y'all enjoy #this one is soft

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duckyduc · 4 years ago

Note

I don't know any of your characters, so just give me 1, 11, 17, 23, 36, 55, 65, 72, 82, and 93 for any characters of your choice. (also did you mean to reblog something twice by accident, or did tumbl just do that.)

Ooo thank you for the ask! :D

And about to two reblog thing, sometimes I reblog something and forget to tag it and reblog it again with said tag, occasionally forgetting to delete the original reblog. ÓvÒ so yeah, most of the time it's usually my mistake, I apologise!

Anyways, onto the asks! :D

1. when is their birthday? Ok believe it or not, none of my characters except one has a solid birthday- there's no real reason behind this other than me being bad at deciding birthday's for characters x,3 The only Character I have who has a decided birthday is from my post where I designed 7 characters based on songs on my art side blog! Their name is Blue and their birthday is August 6th, purely because that day is known as unlucky-

11. How would your Character court the person of their dreams? Awww I love this one!! I know most, if not all of my Characters would probably be very dorky and anxious but excited about it and most likely mess up one way or another before hand- for example losing the ringbox, or stumbling on the proposal or something silly- But in the end it'll nearly always be happy and sappy and fluffy and I'll cry writing it because I'm a sucker for love-

17. When does your Character think that violence is justified or deserved? Ooooh that's a good one. I can't actually speak for all my Characters on this one Ha- I have a variety of Character personalities and backgrounds and universes, meaning they'd all have different views on this. Like, for OCs like my Octoling oc, Lavender, retaliation might only be needed if there's a obvious threat like infected octarians since they're basically zombies and will attack and are more obviously bad(?) Oh this question's harD- I think the more human my Characters get, literally and figuratively, and the more creative the universe they live in is, the more difficult it is to tell when violence is "good" or "bad". Kind of like real life, some violence could and should be avoidable and then some is inveitable. Personally, I don't justify violence very easy? I do joke and say I might bust somebody's kneecaps sometimes- but I'd never really bust a innocent person's kneecaps!!!- People are complex so justifiable violence is too

But I think all my characters would agree like me if they saw a "MAP", (aka pedophile, eugh.) TERF, Neo Nazi, Abuser or fascist, those kneecaps??

They gotta go-

23. What do they consider beautiful in others physically? Oh I just realized this will be a long post because I can never be simple- i think for this one I'll just say eyes- Like eyes are gateways to the soul, dare I say eyes are more expressive than mouths, even. Eyes are very pretty-

36. How honorable is your Character? It depends eheh, my Characters go from very cool and honorable to That Kid Who Lives Nextdoor™. Like one of my main OCs, Pepper? She's a whole ass biologist- then there's that one cat oc Blip. Who's just. The neighbor's kid who probably does fortnite dances-

55. (Woo we getting there!) Is your Character an introvert or extrovert? I'll say most are extroverts because I am kind of a extrovert. Kind of, I say-

65. Is your Character better at leading or following? Which do they prefer ? Oh most of my Characters are leaders- I try to design all of my OCs with the idea that they could all be anime main characters while still fitting in enough to be in the same universe but standing out enough to not fall off if that makes sense. I don't like making boring OCs QwQ. Oh also has anyone ever thought about how we all could be an anime main character? Think about it-

72. in a DnD game, which class would your Character be? I've never played DnD but I'm gonna use another one of my Main ocs for this example, Ducky. (A Different Ducky from me!-) she would be a rogue definitely- it sounds nearly just like her, all sneaky and rebellious-

82. What are your Characters sleeping preferences? for most of my characters It must be very nice and cool in the room to sleep- for my softer ones they'll need thick covers and maybe a plushie and a MANDATORY good night's kiss, I'm very sorry I don't make the rules-

Final one!!

93. What is your Characters goal in life? Ohhh a deep one to end off with. Most of my characters, don't really have goals in life h- Mainly because I don't have a goal in life because I'm still growing! I think as they grow and develop too, maybe it'll just come naturally to me what they would want as goals. I'm still thinking about my goals and for now I think my only concrete goal is to make stupid little stories that make people happy. I've been wanting to do that since I was a little kid and I still hope I can do that now, so if reading this made anyone smile or happy then thank you, because it means I've made a positive impact on at least one person's life, and I think that's the coolest feeling in the world

Oh wow this got deep huh??-

If you're still reading this thank you!! Thank you so much for listening to me ramble and be stupid!!!- :D

And a big thank you for vmeemo for the ask!! I loved writing this response and hope to make more someday! Sorry if it's rlly long tho- :,3

Have a good day/night people's!

#ask #vmeemo #long post #tw map mention #tw terf mention #tw fascist mention #tw neo nazi mention #i hope you guys like this!! v sorry its long- x #;w;

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klunkcat · 5 years ago

Text

We can be stronger, now

After months of dating, Zira finally introduces Crowley to his family. Crowley is, understandably, less than thrilled about the whole thing.

(Takes place in my snake vet human AU featuring: an established relationship, a lot of soft tender feelings, and some not so great emotionally manipulative content from the Upstairs Gang, with bonus comfort and general tooth rotting fluff to make up for it!)

“It’s a dinner invite,” Zira announced, with a lot less than actual announcing and more feigned indifference and carefully hushed tones. Crowley’s imaginary hackles were already rising.

“Someone mailed you a dinner invite? As in, sent the whole thing over through the post. With a seal?”

Zira huffed with a genuine modicum of indignance, “some people do prefer the written word, you know.”

Crowley rolled his eyes good naturedly and flourished a hand Zira’s direction without bothering to stand from his strewn position on the old couch. “Well, lets have a look at this awe-inspiring penman ship then.”

Zira acquiesced and shuffled into the kitchenette to set the kettle, tittering quietly about dying arts and the old days and what not. Crowley smiled to himself, a little sickeningly sappy, bundled up with thoughts of slow mornings in dewy sunrises and warm mugs. It was fine that he let himself become absolutely overrun by his constant soppy gooey feelings, so long as no one was around to witness it.

Oh, we definitely have to go to whatever this event is, he’d decided, taking in the flowing script and very official looking parchment. They’ll have the little prawn cocktails and all the cheeses the mind could comprehend. Zira would love it. He’d developed himself a nice daydream of crashing fancy dinners with Zira, all flustered and giggly, just to show him off a little. Have everyone in a tizzy over the dashing man with the bleached white hair, absolutely spoil Zira with the little appetizers and drinks. So enveloped in the absolute sticky, syrupy sappiness of it all, he’d nearly missed the name attached at the very end. Not that it was particularly legible, all over done with loops and twists like that. Seriously, those rich types must have a different alphabet entirely. Bit like doctor’s handwriting, but he’d learned to decipher Anathema’s.

Signed, The Phael Estate

“That’s funny, isn’t it?” He called towards the kitchen. “Having a last name like that. Here I’d thought yours was strange.” Then again, he was the one who adamantly refused to be called anything other than his last name. Glass houses and rocks and what not.

“P-H-A-E-L. Huh. What are the odds of that. Switch two letters and you’d be practically family!” He snorted and glanced up towards Zira as he brought their tea over. Oddly, Zira didn’t look all that amused. He looked almost uncomfortable, in fact. Nervous, even.

“Something like it,” Zira agreed, smiling weakly.

Crowley sat up straighter.

“Angel,” he said, a bit blankly. “Is this a dinner invite. From your family?”

Zira winced. “Afraid so.”

“Your family. As in, Michael, the sister that called you on your 21st birthday to tell you that you were being financially cut off? The one that returned your Christmas gift in front of you? That sister?”

Zira sipped his tea, “Water under the bridge, really, dear.”

Zira didn’t talk about them much, or ever, really. They’d been properly dating for about four months, friends for a while longer, and the only snippets Crowley had managed to steal were all vague and distant sounding. Something about a family company, about moving out fairly young. A throw away comment here and there. Boring stuff, sounded like.

He’d always sort of assumed they were that uppity classical type of people, the ones with wire gates and a refusal to look beyond them. A miracle in itself that someone as passionate and curious as Zira had come out of it in one piece. So he thought.

“Alright,” he said, easy as you please.

Zira blinked up at him with a touch too much of surprise for Crowley’s liking. Meeting the parents was a right of passage of some sort, he figured. A step in a long list of eventualities he would dive head first into just to hold Zira’s hand a little while longer. He wanted to do everything with Zira, whatever he wanted to do.

Although Zira was trying very hard to appear completely neutral, Crowley had gotten quite good at picking up on the smaller details. The nervous twitch of his fingers, the overly casual short sentences paired with wide earnest eyes. Picking up on the context of these sorts of things sort of just came with the territory of staring adoringly at him whenever he got the chance, he supposed. Sappy. Eugh. He knew enough though to see that Zira absolutely wanted to go, or at least felt obligated to and didn’t know how to shuffle that particular responsibility off.

If there was anything Crowley excelled at, it was being irresponsible. Something for another day, for all the infinities of days he’d fight to spend with Zira. Stuffy and uncomfortable family dinners be damned. At the very least, they could go down swinging.

“So, which tie should I wear then?”

“Didn’t fancy dressing the part? I told you a good haircut would do wonders for those bags under your eyes, darling.”

“How’s your book store struggling on these days, hm? I thought for sure I’d heard about a ‘for sale’ postage, happy to hear you’re still keeping it afloat.”

“Really, you should ask about your cousin Urie, makes a pretty penny in the industry you know. Messing about with hobbies is all well and good until you need to think of settling down.”

Crowley regretted this evening beyond his capacity to regret anything else in his life. And he’d once had the great idea of picking an 8am class in college, before he’d dropped that whole thing.

Stuffy and uncomfortable clearly hadn’t met the Phael family, or they’d up their game.

The dining hall they’d found themselves shoved into unceremoniously could not possibly be dripping with more chandeliers and dazzling bits of metal and glass if it tried. Despite wearing his best suit, having Zira fret over his tie and spend hours debating which one best complimented Crowley’s hair (a debate that had neatly been side tracked by a whole lot of snogging), and despite Zira’s absolutely manic desire to press every seam and steam every wrinkle, he still felt wildly underdressed. The feeling had spawned when they’d rolled up through a private gate onto a tree lined roadway, escalated when Crowley had seen the massively sprawling plot of land, and only increased since.

None of which would be remotely bothersome, of course, if Zira hadn’t been growing increasingly quiet throughout their evening. Crowley could handle snobs, could handle the side glances and the frowns at his tattoos and piercings (Zira had half vaguely warned him they were on the conservative side when it came to body modifications. Conservative as in, preferred amount being none, actually), hell, he could handle the weird and invasive insinuations about dating Zira for his ‘connections’ (whatever that meant). It wasn’t like he hadn’t been through that inspiring jaunt a time or two with his own family.

The comments about Zira, on the other hand set his teeth utterly on edge. If they made it out of this evening, Crowley was going to buy them both the fanciest wine they could afford. Actually, he’d buy it either way. They’d probably need the respite, alive or otherwise.

“Brother, really. Have you lost all sense of self image? Phael’s do not slouch.” Michael frowned at him from across the table, and Zira’s ears turned red. He said nothing, but slowly and forcibly slid his shoulders down from his ears and sat up primly. “Although, I suppose you want nothing to do with the family, regardless. Buying a legal name change, and all.” She scoffed, loudly.

“Now, now.” Gabriel chuckled. “It’s not like he changed it entirely. Speaking of changing, I had wondered if you had reconsidered my offer?”

Zira visibly tensed, as though he’d almost instinctively pulled his shoulders back upwards. He cleared his throat after a long moment, a practiced smile firmly in place. “Oh, I… I certainly considered it! Unfortunately, that is. Er. Selling the shop is quite impossible, at this current venture.”

“Hemming and hawing is unbecoming, Zira,” Uriel said from farther down the table. Zira’s smile read more like gritted teeth. Crowley fantasized about throwing the entire table over, just to get more than a placid blink in reaction from Uriel.

“I am quite firm in my decision, that is to say… well. No. I have not reconsidered, Gabriel.”

Gabriel, who up until this point had seemed like the most disconnected nonplussed of the family, frowned. Then his features flattened entirely. “I commend your decisiveness, if nothing else. Well then, onto other news! Brother, we haven’t seen you in a few years. Gosh, not even sure how many.”

“Three,” Zira said, into his dinner more than anything else.

“Yes, of course. Three long, very interesting years. Tell us what you’ve been up to, hm?”

“Well,” Zira started, and paused. Surreptitiously, Crowley slid his hand onto his boyfriend’s knee, squeezing gently in support.

“Um. Actually, I adopted a snake.”

Michael looked positively horrified. Gabriel’s expression crumpled inwards. If Crowley wasn’t so furious about the entire thing, and desperately attempting to keep the evening at a level pace to get them both out as fast as possible, he might have laughed.

“A snake?!”

“Yes,” Zira brightened, unfolding himself from his stiff posture. “He’s quite the handsome snake too, a lovely shade of deep brown and this dark blue. His name is Oscar, after Oscar Wilde of course. He’s a rosy boa, and. Oh, it’s an excellent story come to think of it, but Oscar’s the reason me and Cro-Anthony, got together! It was because he escaped one night and—”

“Zira,” Gabriel interrupted, looking for all the world like he was talking down to a small, particularly hyperactive child. “You’re telling me you keep that creature, in your home?”

“Well, yes. Where else would I keep him?” Zira asked with a strange half laugh.

“Can’t exactly let him keep on living in the vents,” Crowley added. “Dirty in there. Might come out as a dust bunny instead, then what would we do with all the mice?”

Zira snorted, loudly.

Oh, the look on Gabriel’s face was priceless.

“Well, good to see your severance package went to good use then,” Michael cut into her stake, pointedly. Crowley achingly wanted to go into detail about the amount of customers that just adored Zira’s work, about the donations from the nearby locals aiming to keep his store open as a ‘vital part of the local scenery’ when the income had been sparse one winter. Zira had made him promise not to, though. Something about them preferring things small and unobtrusive, although Crowley was starting to think they preferred to think of Zira that way, more than anything else.

“I do wish you had found. Better coping methods. Rebelliousness isn’t an inherited trait, after all.” She gave a long level stare Crowley’s way. Ah, subtlety thy name is certainly not Michael Phael.

“I suppose snakes aren’t for everyone,” Zira smiled, uncomfortably, shooting confused glances Crowley’s way. Easy enough for Crowley to reign in his self defensive habits, he hadn’t even flinched. He’d much rather she go on poking at him than making that awful shuttered look appear on Zira’s lively face, anyways.

Dinner seemed to carry on with similar fashion, little pointed passive aggressions here and there, barbed words snuck in behind compliments. It was an emotional wasteland if Crowley’d ever seen one, and he’d thought his family was snarky. At least with his adopted siblings there’d be a straight-faced insult one could snap back at, maybe a punch or two if they were particularly heated. Not that any of them meant it, of course. Growing up in ‘rough circumstances’ had just given them all a particular coded language of their own. Wildly unhealthy, sure, but there you go.

Verbal sparring matches were entertaining only so far as they didn’t sink in too deep. Crowley was beginning to see that these awful ice picks of words and insults had been hacking for years.

The distance and vague cold sentiments made perfect, horrible, sense.

They’d almost made it to the end of the evening without too many emotional scars, the bottle of wine in Crowley’s mind nearly tangible with reality. Finish line practically within arms reach, clock hand ticking down to the ‘Acceptable Time Spent With Awful InLaws’ territory, when the sucker punch came.

And what a wallop it was.

“Sandalphon, why don’t you tell them about your business? He’s made amazing headway with his business degree, graduated with honours.”

Sandalphon’s smile slid back, “We’re talking to investors in New York.”

“New York, he says!” Gabriel guffawed. “I can’t wrap my head around it. All that from a few years in school, hm? Speaking of, Anthony, what did you say you did?”

Crowley took a large sip of wine (awful stuff, no taste in reds at all, this lot). “I work at a vet clinic.”

“Is that a difficult path? Veterinarian school is quite the under taking from what I’ve read,” Michael swirled her salad around casually. ‘Casually’, air quotes added via Crowley’s internal bullshit detector.

Zira’s lips had thinned. Crowley was definitely missing a particular puzzle piece here, and he tread carefully.

“Can be. If you finish it,” he shrugged.

“Oh? And you didn’t?” Gabriel’s eyes were a little too wide, sparking with something devious like he’d sensed a spot in his armour. Crowley’d been through this song and dance a few times, however. One didn’t get through life without an unwarranted opinion or two with as many visible piercings as he did.

“Wasn’t for me. Went all the way to the final practicum, though. If you’ve got a sick pet anywhere I can probably suss out where things went wrong. Work as a receptionist with a brilliant vet, Anathema’s the best of the best. I’m the one who’s got all the discounts and tips, keep in mind.”

Gabriel tutted. “How long did you say you’ve known each other?” He gestured at Zira, almost as if he were taunting him. If Zira had heat vision, Gabriel would be melted on spot.

“I’m quite proud of him, actually. Besides, Anthony has nothing to do with my decisions, Gabriel.”

Gabriel leaned back, the picture of innocent confusion, complete with a pout. “You’re a Phael whether or not you want to be, Zira. We just want what’s best for you, and I’m concerned you may have fallen into the wrong influences in our time apart,” he held his hands up, palms out. How the bastard had managed to pronounce the spelling difference in his last name so pointedly was a real magician trick in itself, Crowley’s eyes narrowed.

This one was definitely the brown-nosing teacher’s pet type growing up, Crowley figured. The bastard that spread rumors just to watch other people fight it out. Jumping to claim martyrdom wasn’t in this season, Gabriel.

“Wrong influences?” Zira squeaked out.

That wicked glint appeared in his gaze, “Well, people of his… type don’t exactly give the best impressions.”

Well, that wasn’t particularly creative, was it. Type as in, what. Drop out? Pierced? ‘Alternative?’ Come on, at least have the bollocks to call me out on what you’re really thinking, you right prick.

Crowley was about to zing back a hilariously witty retort, when Zira slammed his cutlery down. “I will not have you speak of my boyfriend that way, Gabriel.”

“He’s only saying what we’re all worried about,” Michael added, in a tone like she was completely baffled by a teenagers irrational outburst. “I mean, he is wearing sunglasses to a dinner party.”

Crowley scoffed out loud, rolling his eyes loud enough to hear as well. He’d been wondering when that remark would crop up, if he were to be honest. Was usually the first thing on any tetchy relatives mind.

“I suppose you’d rather have me curled up with a migraine, then?” Crowley leaned backwards slowly on his chair, watching her eyes widen. “Poor service, that’d be. Not getting that five-star host rating.”

“I am entirely fed up with your judgements!” Zira stood up, abruptly, clanging the plate in front of him. The room fell silent. “It’s one thing for you to nitpick my every move, to-to call attention to any mild flaw, to insinuate time and time again how much I’ve failed the family name.” His voice trailed off slightly, a bit hoarse. Crowley was nearly steam rolled by a desire to Get Him Out Of There Immediately. Ice cream was likely in order. With all the toppings. Double the wine.

Zira’s expression steeled itself. “It’s quite another to belittle and insult a guest in your home! Crowley is the most cunning, brave, and selfless person I’ve ever met, and-and if you won’t take the time to appreciate that, then I don’t believe there’s any point of carrying this charade on any longer.”

He turned to Crowley, eyes blazing. Crowley never felt so achingly pained, inspired and awed, and wildly turned on in his life. He looked every bit like an avenging angel, with the chandelier light fanning behind him. His heart lurched and skipped in a confusing upset-and-absolutely-smitten sort of way.

“My dear, I do believe we’d best be leaving.” He held a hand out for Crowley to take, lifted him out of his seat, and kissed him gently. People talked of sparks and lightning but this, with the awe and hurt still roiling in the air, was purely embers and simmering brimstone. Crowley was maybe just a little beyond dazed.

“I’ll be out at the car,” he said, before storming down the hallway.

Everyone stayed utterly still for one long, unending moment. Crowley let out a breath, leaned forward and finished his wine in a single gulp.

“Well, wish I could say it was lovely to meet you all, but. You lot really are the worst.” He wanted to say something along the lines of ‘if you won’t love that man out there, I’ll do it for you, and I’ll do it twice as well’. Maybe something like ‘he’s the best person I’ve ever met, and he loves me, I almost feel sorry for you. Missing out on something that extraordinary’. Instead he just looked Gabriel in the eyes, slid his glasses down his nose enough to make sure he caught every word.

“None of you deserve him.”

The wine really was all around terrible, couldn’t be helped if he accidentally knocked it all over their fancy tablecloth on his way out. Not like it was a waste.

The drive home had been quiet. Not so much tense as… processing. The rain splattering against the windows, and the wipers pushing back and forth was enough ambience, besides.

Crowley wasn’t so much worried, either, as he was.... unsure. Zira looked drawn and stoic against the dim grey light, and he’d kept his eyes firmly in front of him, on the road, the whole way to his shop. There wasn’t the usual stress induced furrow between his brows, or the nervous fidgeting of his hands. Zira was still, withdrawn.

Alright, so he was worried.

The man had just stared down his entire array of siblings and cousins and told them to stuff it. Wildly impressive, that was. Crowley didn’t exactly have an excellent frame of reference for the emotional fall out, mind you, but he imagined it was likely spectacular in and of itself. Zira truly and deeply needed a proper hug and a good cuppa, if he was amendable to either idea.

Crowley was slightly afraid Zira would tell him to go home, mind blowing kiss and heart warming words aside. After all, he’d just sat there and let it happen, like a thorough pillock. Some boyfriend that made him.

He waited until they’d parked, shuffled inside, and locked the doors behind them, before placing a hand gently on Zira’s shoulder.

“You, erm. Want to talk?” He winced even as the words left his mouth, weak and not nearly wide enough to envelop the enormity of everything.

Zira didn’t look at him, and walked stiffly to the cupboard.

Crowley felt a little lost by the doorway; he’d decided already he wouldn’t be leaving Zira alone tonight unless the man asked for it, but he didn’t exactly know where he was needed, either. Zira was always the energetic one of the two of them, loudly unimpressed or visibly pleased, he’d never seen him anything but. This was new territory, a new song and dance. Another task on his list of infinities he wanted nothing more than learn the steps to.

Zira was leaning on the counter heavily, shoulders high around his ears, back turned. He practically radiated unhappiness, and it ached.

“Angel?”

“I’m sorry you had to see all of that, my dear,” Zira said, in a strange soft voice. “I really should have torn up the infernal invitation. Probably should have not gone at all.”

Crowley frowned. “No sorry, I don’t need a sorry. Not looking for one.” He shook his head, exhaling slowly, attempting to work through what Zira needed to hear. “Not like they’re a lovely bundle of peaches or anything, but.” He shrugged, maybe a little self consciously. “Glad we went.”

Zira glanced towards him, eyes wide and just on the side of too glassy for Crowley’s liking, before returning to fumble through cabinets with trembling hands. “You are? But… but, oh, I made such a mess of things.”

That was enough, more than enough. That was too much, in fact. He snorted. “You?” He stepped forwards, dropping his coat on the armchair. “You were incredible. I think they had the mess side of things covered from the start. You just helped, you know, point it out.”

“Please, dear,” Zira’s voice was shaky, Crowley realized with an awful lurch.

He dropped his voice into something softer to match, gentling his expression. “Zira, what do you need?”

Zira closed a cupboard with a little too much force and whirled towards him. “I need you to. To... To be exactly- well, you!” His face screwed up, eyes closing. “What they implied of you was. Quite wrong, and you mustn’t believe a word of it, Crowley! You- they never have had a grasp on what things were worthwhile. You mustn’t listen to- to, well. What they said at the end was… it was bullshit. To be frank. And I’m sorry you had to hear it, along with the rest.”

Crowley’s heart did a funny thing, he had the very stark feeling then that he was missing a page or so from his script. “Angel, you know I can handle it. Slid right off me, you know.”

Zira shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to!” His whole body was trembling slightly, Crowley took another cautious step forward. There was something almost defensive about Zira’s expression, as though he was bracing for something. Crowley tried very, very hard not to be hurt by the implications there. He wasn’t sure if he fully succeeded.

“You shouldn’t either, you know.”

Zira’s lower lip trembled, and he caught it between his teeth, looking down. “Oh, it’s so terribly selfish. To think of my own pride when you. When they’d been so awful to you. You must know how wonderful you truly are, and, oh…. In comparison, I know, truly how I must seem, it’s only that…I hope your view of me hasn’t changed.” He shrugged a little, a helpless rise and fall of unsteady shoulders.

Crowley couldn’t help but move in, crowd Zira against the cupboard. He pulled the wineglass Zira had managed to snag from his hand with a patient delicacy, pressing his palm along the curve of Zira’s chin.

“Zira, angel. Do you really think that little of me?”

Zira’s eyes were impossibly round. “I… no! Oh, my dear, never, I’ll tell you every day how much I… I’d—It’s only. The things they said, about my failings—”

Crowley pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Nothing anyone could say would change that I know you, angel. They’re wrong.”

I would never think less of you, he thought, I want to know all of you. Difficult to think less of the entire bloody galaxy anyways, with how gone on you I am.

“They’re not,” Zira said, miserably.

Crowley’s next kiss was a gentle rebuke. He moved his other hand up to cradle Zira’s face between his palms, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. Crowley frowned. “Mmmmn. Let’s check that, shall we? Let’s see...I love your curls, I love your books, I love your shop. That’s at least three things they got wrong right there.” He emphasized each statement with a press of his lips to Zira’s temple, his forehead, his nose.

Zira looked away, his ears went pink. Crowley pressed another kiss to his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “I love your stories, I love hearing about every thought that travels through your wonderful, fussy brain. I love when you’re bossy, when you’re particular, when you’re endlessly brave. I love that you chose your happiness over their stuffy money and rules. I love that you stood up to them, that you care. They don’t even know a good wine from a bad one, all that wealth and no sense anywhere in that whole sodding house. Zira Phale, they are wrong. Couldn’t be more wrong even if they told me Oscar was a bloody pigeon, in fact.”

Zira’s eyes were glowing, he looked awed and enraptured and something else that made him look almost ethereal. “Crowley,” he gasped.

Right, sappy. This was why he didn’t let his useless heart do the talking.

“It’s true.” Crowley grumbled, sweeping his hands down to Zira’s shoulders instead, just as Zira’s hands curled themselves against his lapels and dragged him back in for a searing kiss.

His brain went a bit soggy, for a moment his heart and head were in perfect unison.

“You forgot one.” Zira laughed, a tiny overwhelmed noise. “I love you, Anthony J. Crowley,” he added, a bit breathlessly, eyes twinkling.

“Oh,” Crowley said, dazed and feeling a bit like he could do with a good pinch but utterly refusing to wake up from whatever dream he’d stumbled into. Reality be damned. “That too. Me, uh. You. Also.”

Maybe he’d let his heart do the talking a bit more often, then.

Zira smiled, a full and beautiful thing. “So, which tie should I wear?”

Crowley wasn’t sure if his brain had entirely given out on him, or if this was the usual amount of Zira inspired confusion but all he could manage was a ‘ngh?’

“For meeting your family, I rather think we’re on a roll.Two birds one stone as they say, after all.

#good omens #good omens fic #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #uhhhh i have no excuse for this other than Zira deserves a hug and also is a Strong as Fuck individual #this is wildly self indulgent thanks for joining me #my fic

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violetbeachpod · 7 years ago

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transcript: 9 - communication issues

Okay, so, we’re doing this again. Cool. Sup. It’s your girl.

No. No. That’s bad.

Charlotte, here. Cranor-Liu. From here. You know me. I know you. We’re friends. That’s--a thing that’s happening.

I have a better opening line. But first, a foreword. A preface? Not sure, not really giving two shits, but.

Cool.

So. Each of you individually texted me a potential opener for this. To be fair, and because they were all equally dumb and bad, I will read all of them individually.

Benji Ahuja, local small business owner and general huge nerd and also my worst enemy, but, like, in a friendly rivalry way, we are both so committed to this bit where we pretend to hate each other, okay, says: We got a real life possession on our hands, folks!

Corny. Bad. Sounds like a line from an 80s disaster movie, which, actually, is probably what you were going for.

I have never seen an 80s disaster movie. Was that 80s or 70s? Again, don’t really care. That’s rhetorical.

AJ Diggs, very good barista and very bad lab partner, yeah, dude, I am still bitter about that physics project from eighth grade where I had to write the whole paper at 3 AM, says: Did I miss anything?

He also used emojis in that, but I’ll spare him the embarrassment of reading out what they were. Actually--they were interrobangs, and then the 100 one a few times, as a joke, maybe? I don’t know if he knows what that one means. He’s not hip. He’s like a grandpa in a teen body. Wears the sweaters and everything. Not in the Macklemore way, which wouldn’t help him either, but in the actual grandpa way. He’s not even trying to be cool. He just dresses like a grandpa.

I love him very much. He is my dearest friend in the world. Thank you. Now, AJ, please never remind me that I said that.Because I can and will curse you and make you into a werewolf man or something. Cuz I’m evil and magical and can destroy you.

Robin Harper, writer and general icon: Can you maybe mention that my wedding was nice? I feel like Teresa didn’t acknowledge that enough. I’m kidding. LOL. Open it with, like. A message of concern. Say something nice, Charlotte. I love you. Hope you’re having a nice day. But. Please. Heart emoji. Heart emoji. Heart emoji.

Teresa literally told us not to be nice, so, uh, no. Love you too though.

Elaine Harper, crazy cat lady and also an icon: Dealing With Your Girlfriend From An Alternate Universe For Dummies is an easy book to write.

That’s--no one read those books. Did you read those books? Elaine, you’re legally obligated to tell me. Boom, roasted, whatever. I--that’s not even funny, Elaine, and you seemed to be, like, slightly cool, so, uh, thanks for ruining that illusion. I should have known, from the fact that you were getting married to Robin, but, alas, your cool vibes distracted me from that.

Teresa Marin, who sometimes gets possessed and who is also a student: Teresa Marin, more like Teresa Scarin’ me!

I absolutely refuse. No further comment. And, then, and here’s the interesting part:

Angie Thompson, student who wants, desperately, to be a singer-songwriter, but, like, who knows, maybe her music’s just not for me?: Teresa Marin, more like Teresa Scarin’ me!

Thinking about it, Angie probably sent that from both of their phones. Teresa’s not funny, but, uh, her jokes are better than that. I hope. Oh my God, I hope. Because Teresa is, like. Not a rhyming humor type of person. I know her well enough to know that, okay?

Anyway, so, uh, here’s my opener:

Can we learn how to, like, communicate like normal human goddamned beings about, like, the alternative universe that has entered into our lives? Like, I get not sharing out publicly, but we all know about it. We can, like, maybe tell each other about being possessed as soon as it happens the first time.

Look, my girlfriend, Mae Babson who, yes, is from an alternate universe, and who is also super cool and great and is my girlfriend and who is not a nerdlord, unlike you weirdasses and also me, was raised in a place where she cannot lie.

Which is sort of a cool thing, from, like, a moral standpoint, even though it was used to hurt her and those around her. Y’know what I mean?

Listen, look, listen, maybe we as a group of friends can take a page out of the book of the evil villain or whatever we’re calling him and, like, tell each other the truth.

But that’s—whatever. Whatever. We can make a Google Doc or something? Maybe. As a solution to this whole info-sharing crisis we’re having with each other.

Okay. So.

How’s me? How’s Charlotte? How is she doing? How on top is she? Is she still killing it?

Of course she is. But let’s elaborate. We need elaboration, here.

Well. I’m directing a one act that I wrote. That’s cool. My first few pitches got rejected, but, uh, the current one’s pretty good, so. I’m cool with that. And this one hopefully won’t get ruined by paranormal happenings. So. That’s cool. It’s a subversion of vampire romance tropes and a subtle commentary on heteropatriarchy in YA fiction. Because I’m that good.

Uh. I got a job? That’s something. Just heard back yesterday, I’ve actually only told AJ so far, so. Cool? It’s at the Bean Zone, so. AJ’s training me. So that’ll be a fun experience for all of us, which is to say, AJ, I’m going to make your life hell and there is nothing you can do to stop me. Absolutely nothing. Because Amanda loves me.

Mae is finally coming out of her shell, a little bit. You guys are—thanks for being good to her. I’m being genuine here. It’s very difficult to, uh. Cope? I guess, for her, and you guys are being genuinely cool.

Once you got over the whole alternate universe, thing, I mean, like. Thanks for not grilling her ever, but. You need to—

Whatever. Whatever. I’m not about to get sappy. I don’t do sappy. I’m a huge badass, and, as such, I don’t get sappy. We can all accept this about me.

I’m about to update you on Weird Shit. Because that, assholes, is the point of these. I mean, you could maybe argue that this is, as a group of people who are generally terrible at being alive and interacting at other people, a way for us to interact with other people, but.

Nah.

This is for weird shit updates. Those and only those

So. Teresa has been getting possessed on and off for months. If you’ve somehow managed to forget, which I haven’t. And my memory’s not great, so, I’m assuming that you’ve all remembered that. That’s cool. Kinda scary, but cool. Good to have that particular knowledge secured in terms of Weird Shit That’s Going Down Annual, a magazine edited by me.

But.

Uh. Mae seems to be the only fully successful—y’know. transport of a person to this world. She’s not sure why. I think it’s because she’s just very good at everything, but. She broke into a museum and everything, like, pulled a heist and all. Which is very cute. Very cool.

She doesn’t have a double. Most other people who’ve tried—do. There’s not another Mae Babson. There is another me, another Teresa, you get it. I don’t know—and really, I don’t care about why there aren’t doubles of certain people. That’s not—that’s a stupid thing to spend time caring about. For me. You guys can go wild on it, but, honestly? I’m cool with there being a second me. Mae says she’s chill.

Presumably, she’s—she’s extremely chill. And Mae—Mae didn’t know her super well, I guess? Because I’m—I’m sure that she’d like her. Probably better.

Because, uh. She’d understand and everything. And she’s probably a little. Y’know. More—determined. Sharper. Y’know? Because she’s—

I should not get jealous of myself in an alternate universe. She probably has self-esteem issues too.

Doc David Diggs says I need to work on projection. I’ve been talking to him. Do we all talk to him? I know that Angie does. And AJ doesn’t. But. Yeah.

Uh. Other Weird Shit. Hm. Let’s get into that. That’s—going on. Certainly, certainly, def, def, obvi, obvi, y’know how it is. More blank-faced people—failed travelers, I guess. The board is still a thing. I’ve snuck into a few meetings, and, uh. They’re pulling, uh, some shit. I took notes and everything. I’m not even taking APUSH notes anymore, so we can see that this actually matters to me.

Also, I still have a 93 in that class, so, uh, guess who’s on top? Yeah. I am a genius, thank you, thank you, thank you.

So. Notes. Notes on notes. Hell yeah.

So, I kept a chart of this, so.

Names of people on the board that I can make out are:

Hamish South

Katherine (not sure if it’s with a c or a k or a y or whatever? that’s a bad name to have. don’t name your child catherine. please) Brooks

Frederick Lewis

Daniel Wexton

Lisa Barnes

And there are a few others, but I can’t get their names. Mae doesn’t know any of the names, says that they’re way too secretive over there, so. Cool. You know how it is.

I have a few sketches of their faces, but they’re not great and I kind of have an issue with noses, so Mae can’t recognize them. None of them have doubles.

Daniel Wexton is the one who grabbed me, I think. Same voice and everything. Can’t quite make out his features, but.

These are the bad guys. That should be, uh, pretty obvious. But they’re the bad guys! That’s cool to know! Cue graphic, cheesy music, the more you know, and all the rest. Eugh. That’s—

So. Cool. We know who we’re going after.

Okay, more notes. Evil plans:

-Necromancy. The rest turned to sirens and other really painful noises, but I got necromancy? so? That’s important. I think it’s to get our boy Andy back, because this is very much a cult, which, cool, we’re infiltrating a cult, and by we’re, I mean me, and by infiltrating, I mean spying on, because I’m not technically getting into the cult itself. I’m just listening. You get me.

-Cut back on drama spending. That’s an evil plan. It’s the evil plan in every Muppet movie, and the board is doing it, so it counts. And yes, I do love the Muppets. I have emotions. I’m only human. I have a heart. None of you are allowed to repeat this to anyone ever. But, anyways, how fucked up is that? Not only are they trying to kill people, they’re also trying to take away my whole Thing, so. Yeah! Love this!

-Eliminate travelers from their place to ours, which makes sense, but which is, uh terrifying. Not much else to say, but it’s. Y’know. A thing that’s happening.

-Benji’s name came up one time but I got bored, so I stopped writing. Also the janitor walked in so I had to run before I got caught by anyone?

And that’s all that’s really relevant.

Um. I don’t really know how to end this? I guess--I just have to reaffirm that we know who the hell we’re investigating, and maybe fighting? Is this a showdown thing? Will there be a climactic battle sequence? Cuz I’m good at those. I can punch. Ask AJ.

So. Yeah. Update complete. This is Charlotte, signing off for now, cuz, uh. I--are we still doing sign-offs? Should I get a, uh. Like a normal one? Or one that we all use? Because I don’t trust you to come up with those things, because you’re clearly all less charming than me.

So. Yeah. We’re not doing that.

I do love you guys. Stay safe. Tell me if something happens.

Bye.

#transcripts #charlotte #season 2

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scrawlingskribbles · 7 years ago

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would the bots know any holidays/specifically valentines day? or would rad just have to explain it to them?? these are important thoughts

I mean if the bots have social media accounts I feel like they’d know more about the world and how it functions than some ppl like to give them credit for tbh~? x,D

And also I have this personal HC of Boxman having “Movie Nights” with all of them where they watch some cheesey-sappy film where Boxman’s like “EUGH look at how DISGUSTING it all is—THESE are the kinds of HIDEOUS things that we must strive to destroy!!!!” & on the outside the bots are all like “UGH YEAH DAD YUCK” but on the inside they all love the cheesey tropes and themes even if they won’t admit it.

HOWEVER: the idea of Rad having to explain things to them is a l w a y s a good time so I’m not gonna take that from you Nonnie bc it’s Good x,3c

#Very Important Thoughts Indeed~ x'3 #Askies #Anon #and I'm assuming this is for #Radlights #???? hope so xD #OK KO #Boxfam #Boxman #shut up McKinley

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barpurplewrites · 7 years ago

Text

Monstrous Visage - Chapter One

Day two of Halloween and I have the first chapter of a spooky little creature feature for you ghastly ghouls. Inspired by a creepy picture sent to me by @beastlycheese, part of which features in the cover art she kindly made :)

RumBelle, Swanfire, Henry and his grandchildren.

Enjoy :)

-x-x-x-

“Gramps? What is this?”

Henry shuffled over to the shelf where his grandson Matt was pointing at an elegantly carved wooden box. It looked familiar, but it took Henry a moment to place it, there were so many antiques and trinkets in the old pawnshop. When the memory came to him he nudged Matt and said; “Pull it out, lad. Pop it on the table and we’ll open it up.”

Matt gave him an excited grin, all of Henry’s grandkids had learned the rules of the pawnshop from a very early age; Rule One – Do NOT touch anything without permission. To be allowed to handle one of the treasures within was a rare treat. With exaggerated care Matt placed the box on the table and stood jiggling from foot to foot as Henry made his way over to the workbench and eased himself into the leather chair. He really need to book an appointment at the hospital to get his knees recalibrated again.

Henry ran his fingers of the edge of the box, “Now are you sure you want to see what’s in here Matt? It’s a little bit gruesome.”

Matt raised his eyebrows and gave Henry a look; “Come on Gramps I’m ten. I can handle gruesome.”

He twisted out from under Henry’s hand as Henry ruffled his hair. The bravery of youth, had he ever been that bold when he was Matt’s age?

“Okay, okay. You ready?”

Matt nodded eagerly and Henry slowly slipped the catch and lifted the lid of the box. Inside on a bed of blue crushed velvet lay the clawed foot of a cockerel.

“Eugh! Gross! Can I touch it?”

“No, best that you don’t lad.”

“Why do you have a severed turkey foot?”

Henry laughed, he could see why Matt thought it was a turkey, it was six inches long from the tip of the claw to the severed ankle joint.

“It’s a cockerel foot and it was your Great-Great-Grandma Belle’s.”

Matt bounced away from the workbench towards the kitchen, waving a hand at his Gramps; “Hang on I’ll get us some drinks and then you can tell me the story.”

“How do you know there’s a story.”

His grandson paused by the door; “Gramps, everything in this shop has a story and this one will be even cooler because it about family.”

Gramps’ chuckle followed him into the kitchen. Matt stood in front of the food dispenser, that Gramps insistent on called a ‘replicator’ because of Star Trek and punched in the code for two hot chocolates with whipped cream and cinnamon. The dispenser was voice activated, but Gramps had switched that feature off because of his habit of talking to himself in the shop; there’d been a bit of a mess with oranges and lemons when Gramps was sorting gemstones that nobody wanted to repeat.

Matt returned and thought Gramps had fallen asleep, with a disappointed sigh he put the cups down.

“Just resting my eyes lad. Get yourself comfy and we’ll begin.”

Matt sat in the armchair next to Gramps and blew on his hot chocolate. Gramps wrapped his fingers around his mug and took a slow breath.

“I was about your age when the carnival came to town. It set up in the fields on the edge of the woods near the old toll bridge. We were all so excited, it was the only thing anyone talked about at school, there had never been a carnival come to Storybrooke before, at least not that any of us kids could remember. The posters announced that the gates would open on Friday night…

Storybrooke, many years ago.

“Come on Mom! Hurry up!”

Emma laughed at her already hyperactive son, if he was this bad before they left the house what would he be like once he got some candy floss into him?

“Take it easy, kid. The carnival isn’t going anywhere.”

Henry got himself tangled up as he tried to pull on his coat and scarf while bending down to shove his feet into his sneakers. Even as he stumbled into the wall he managed to give her a frustrated look.

“But, we have to be there when it opens. I don’t want to miss anything.”

Emma took him by the shoulders and managed to still him long enough to free his scarf from the sleeve of his coat.

“Henry, it doesn’t open until seven. It’s only half past six. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Yeah, but we still have to pick Dad up from work.”

“Which is on the way, we won’t be late.”

The sidewalks were crowded with families heading towards the carnival. Emma had to break suddenly when the Zimmer kids ran across the road. She pipped the horn at them and grumbled under her breath; “Looks like I’ve found my volunteers for Monday’s road safety talk.”

She caught Henry’s fist pump in the rear-view mirror. He got called on first in class a lot since he’d moved into his Grandma’s class; Emma hadn’t planned to drag him up front and help with the dos and don’ts of crossing the road, at least now he would be trying to hide under his desk.

Neal was waiting for them outside the newspaper office, blowing on his hands and bouncing on his toes. He reached for the door handle of the Bug before Emma had reached a full stop. She rolled her eyes as he dove into the front seat.

“Steady on! This isn’t a getaway car.”

He leaned across and kissed her cheek as he whispered; “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

She shot him a look that screamed ‘Shut the hell up’, they’d not told Henry about their less than lawful past yet. She needn’t have worried Henry was too busy bouncing in his seat to have noticed anything.

“Come on! Step on the gas. Let’s go, go, go!”

Emma and Neal both twisted in their seats to give him a parent look. Henry shrugged his shoulders and grinned; “Please?”

Neal shrugged, “At least he didn’t ask you to put the siren on.”

Emma chuckled and pulled away from the curb. When they got to the carnival they found a parking space next to a familiar black Cadillac.

“Grandpops is here already!”

Henry pushed the seat forward nearly tipping his dad from the car as he raced to hug the figure leaning against the bumper of the caddy.

“Hello Henry. Bit excited, are we?”

“Yeah! Will you go on the rides with me Grandpops?”

“I think I can manage one or two,” – Gold looked over Henry’s head and grinned at his son and daughter-in-law, - “I’ve had a sneaky look, there are chair swings.”

Neal looked at Emma with a sappy smile; “Ems, my darling how long has it been since we took a twirl?”

Sighing dramatically Emma replied; “It’s been years, my love.”

Henry groaned and took his Grandpops’ hand; “Come on their being soppy again.”

Gold took his hand and smiled; “It’s a good thing that your parents love each other and can express it, laddie.”

“Oh, I know that, but I don’t have to watch it, do I?”

Gold glanced over his shoulder to see Neal and Emma cuddled together exchanging Eskimo kisses; “Aye, I see your point. Come on let’s get a space near the front and they can catch up.”

=x=x=x=

“Why did you call your Gramps ‘Grandpops’?”

Henry smiled as he finished the dregs of his hot chocolate; “My dad Neal called his dad Pops, so it made perfect sense to my young mind to call him Grandpops.”

Matt considered this logic for a moment and nodded as he decided that it was acceptable.

“Was Grandma Belle not with you that night?”

“Ah, we hadn’t met her yet. Gold and Belle would have their very first meeting later that night at the carnival, of course we didn’t know that she was Belle when we first saw her.”

#halloween house of horror 2017 #rumbelle fic

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sicklylittlesnowflake · 7 years ago

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Riverdale prompt: Jug with a bug (badumtsh) staying at the Andrews'

(So this fic is a direct sequel to this prompt that I did! So that fic is extremely short because emeto/stomach bugs aren’t my strongest suit as in I can’t stand emeto in real life but I don’t mind writing it, which is slightly strange? so I decided this prompt would be perfect for a little follow up! Still quite short tho and also sappy, whoops.)

Archie woke up an hour later than he usually did that morning, at 8:30. When he first woke, his first instinct was to check over Jughead, to make sure he was okay, and while the boy was pale and sweat was dotted on his skin, he was alive.

His best friend had woken up to an awful bout of vomiting, and he honestly wasn’t surprised. It was only a matter of time before Jughead came down with something, seeing his immune system was shit and also his whole life seemed to be falling apart. It was only natural his body wasn’t taking too kindly to it.

He’d managed to console a panicked, anxious Jughead and clean him up. He had contemplated telling his dad but he put it off for the next morning, and now the morning had come, so Archie was about to do just that.

Archie got out of bed as quietly as he possibly could, tiptoeing out of the bedroom and down the stairs to Fred’s room. Upon his arrival he saw the door was open, and could hear some cooking from downstairs so he went into the kitchen to meet his father.

“Oh, morning Arch, Jug still not awake yet?” Fred asked idly, transferring some bacon onto a plate.

“Yeah..about Jug dad,” Archie sighed as he took a seat by the breakfast bar.

“He’s sick, dad, he woke up vomiting,” Archie said casually as he poured himself a glass of OJ. Jughead being ill was perfectly common for them. It was just like discussing this morning’s edition of The Register.

Fred shrugged, “About time, really. He’s held on pretty long for his standard; have you checked for a fever?”

Archie froze, awkwardly taking a sip of his OJ and swallowed, “uh, no.”

Fred groaned and facepalmed, “Archie..”

Archie laughed sheepishly and gave him an awkward grin.

Fred turned the stove off, grabbing a glass of water and went up the stairs, taking a little detour to the bathroom to collect the thermometer, and proceeded to Archie’s bedroom.

He opened the door as quietly as he could to ensure he didn’t worsen the headache he was positive Jughead had, and his heart broke at the sight of the Jones boy feverish, pale and shaking on the air mattress. Jughead was a sickly kid and this wasn’t uncommon, and one would presume Fred would’ve gotten used to it, but it still broke his heart every time.

He crouched down to Jughead’s height and pushed back sweat ridden black hair and felt his forehead, frowning at the intense heat coming from it.

“Awh, Jug..” Fred tutted and stroked the black hair softly.

Jughead let out a little cough, which then escalated into a harsher cough which caused him to wake. Upon waking up, an intense headache flooded his senses and he scrunched his face in pain.

He opened his eyes slowly to see a pair of caring eyes; full of concern and love, and for a second Jughead was convinced those brown eyes belonged to Archie’s but as his eyes began to focus, he realised he was wrong.

Fred Andrews stroked his hair soothingly and gently, his touch so soft and comforting, something that left him feeling whole. Jughead hadn’t realised how much he had needed this, this kind of fatherly, loving and warm touch.

Jughead wasn’t exactly the most affectionate, being aro/ace and all, but little pats on the back, little punches on the shoulder, little hair ruffling, a hug once in a while, a cuddle when he needed it..He never thought he would be touch starved. But in times like these, even he needed just a little reassuring nudge.

“M-Mr Andrews, I uh..I’m sorry..for all this mess..” Jughead croaked, bringing his arms down to his gurgling stomach so he could clutch it to try and reduce the pain he was feeling.

“Jug, you can’t help getting sick, especially with all this bullshit you’ve been going through,” Fred said sincerely, while getting the thermometer ready.

“No, Mr Andrews, not that. I’m sorry for..all this mess I’ve put your family through. For endangering Archie, who I know you love more than anything in the world, for my father and everything, for being a burden on your family, I know you’re really tight on money..and yet here I am giving you another mouth to feed, and hell, I’m more expensive than Archie because of all the money you’ve spent on hospital trips and medicine..I’m so sorry for my mess of–”

“Jughead!” Fred interrupted, cupping one hand around Jughead’s cheek firmly, but not in a way that seemed intimidating or angry, rather reassuring.

Fred looked at him, looking for words to say when he sighed.

“Look, Jughead..These past few days..I’ve really fucked up. You don’t deserve this, and I keep making it seem like you do, but you don’t. I can’t even imagine what it feels like to go through what you’re going through..all that pain and heart break..And I haven’t been helping either, huh? Making it seem like I don’t want you here. I do, Jughead, I was just scared. I was running away from it Jughead, Riverdale’s darkness..but I can’t keep running away from it. Running away does no good, all I can do..is maybe shed my light on others, people who don’t have the light, like you, and maybe..maybe then my light can reflect onto you and to others..So we can stop this darkness,” Fred said softly.

Jughead let the words in, smiling at the kindness of Fred, any trace of hurt from Fred’s actions disappearing. He was instantly redeemed. His words were inspiring and enlightening, and they meant a lot, but he was Jughead, and he did not easily give in to sappiness.

“Nice Nicholas Sparks monologue, Mr Andrews,” Jughead smirked.

But from the hopeful light in Jughead’s eyes, Fred knew that Jughead understood, and of course he would, Jughead was intelligent, beyond his years, and he found it fascinating how he could communicate with this boy on a deeper level. Despite his snarky humour, which sometimes he used as a defence mechanism, he knew that Jughead understood. His walls were just very tough; and understandably so, with how often the world chose to hurt him.

“Here, let’s take that temperature..” Fred announced, placing the thermometer into Jughead’s mouth, after Jughead took a sip of the water.

Jughead looked as if he was struggling to keep a cough in, and his eyes began to water, slightly heaving. He held a hand over his stomach, stomach clearly upset by the movement from the incoming coughs.

Jughead immediately whipped the thermometer out when it beeped, and began his little coughing fit, the little convulsion seriously upsetting his body, causing some sick to rise in his throat. Jughead groaned, clamping a hand over his mouth as he rushed to the bathroom as fast as he could.

Fred cringed as he heard his heaving and gagging, sighing. He looked at the thermometer, frowning at 100.8 on it. He whistled.

He was about to get up to help Jughead when he could faintly hear his son muttering comforting things. Assuming that he had already done so, Fred stayed put and proceeded to fix Archie’s bed so that Jughead could use it.

Archie returned with Jughead, arm strung around him in order to support him. He slowly set his best friend down on his bed.

Once the smaller boy was on his bed, he grabbed the blankets and snuggled up to them, as well as pinching the bridge of his nose. He clearly had a bad headache, worsened by his rushing to the bathroom.

Archie sighed, “I came up here with some aspirin, but now I’m not sure if he can keep it down?”

Fred sighed too, “I’m not too sure..I bet that headaches awful, Jug, but you could barley keep down a glass of water..”

Jughead groaned, burying his face into the pillow, “This could not get any worse..”

Fred swallowed, “Also, with the fever you’re running I’m not sure if that many blankets is good for you.”

Jughead groaned louder and started to whine, clinging to the blankets like a life line. Fred couldn’t even protest; the sight too heartbreaking. Jughead never complained when he was ill; always obeyed and tried to ward off his symptoms for as long as humanly possible. It was telltale sign that he really felt awful.

Archie seemed to be thinking the same thing because he exchanged a look with his father that was practically begging for Fred to let Jughead keep the blankets.

Fred sighed, “Fine, Jug. You can keep the blankets for now, but if the fever rises we’re getting rid of one, okay?”

Archie sat down next to his friend and felt his cheek, frowning. His frown worsened when he saw Jughead scrunching his face in pain.

“..and the aspirin, dad?”

“..give it ten minutes–might just be the rush from running to the bathroom. If it persists or gets worse, fine, give it to him. I’m going to go out to buy some medicine..”

“Mr Andrews, don’t–”

“We’re low anyway Jug, its good to pick up some more..”

“Exactly! You’re low because of me!”

“Do you need another Nicholas Sparks monologue?” Fred smirked.

Jughead shut up, and managed a tiny smile.

As Fred left, Archie turned and gave him a confused look, “Nicholas Sparks monologue?”

Jughead laughed, “Its nothing–I just figured out your dad would be a great teen sap romance icon..”

Archie made a face, “Eugh, you’re going to make me throw up..”

Jughead rolled his eyes, “At the moment, that’s my job.”

The two both laughed for a bit, and the banter continued for the next few minutes until Archie was sat next to him, with the laptop in front of him, watching Netflix, allowing them in that moment to be just kids.

#emeto tw #jughead jones #archie andrews #fred andrews #riverdale #prompts #sickfic

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