#shelley does fic

[big-urchin-energy]

Chapters: 2/6 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Original Elias Bouchard & Michael Shelley Characters: Original Elias Bouchard, Michael Shelley Additional Tags: Aromantic Michael Shelley, platonic- and yet decidedly homosexual- use of the word darling, They're friends your honour, it's the 90s but very light on the period typical homophobia, 5+1 Things, upon reflection this is almost certainly angstier than i intended Summary:

Five Christmases where Elias and Michael were friends and one where they were not :) Could be read as romantic but absolutely should not be, can be read as a stand alone.

A the proud author of apparently half the works in the aro!michael tag, I am thrilled to announce that this now has two chapters. Sorry for the wait, it absolutely will happen again.

[muntitled]

Clockwork | Park Sunghoon

Vampire!Sunghoon x Fem!Reader

Summary: “If there’s one thing stronger than your need to feast,” You lift that hand up once again, “-its your need to fuck."

Warnings: Language, Implied Violence, Dark Fic, Morally Ambiguous!Reader, Blackmail, Reader has a crush, Librarian!Reader, Implied age gap, Confrontation, Smut (+18) mdni, Blood Kink, Biting, Sadism, Masochism, Dom!Sunghoon, Sub!Reader, public sex, dub/Con, fingering, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Ownership kink, Pain Kink, Marking, Dumbification, Dacryphilia

Idek yall…

They are such stuff as monsters are made of.

That is the very last thing you are taught about Sunghoon.

That he is something to fear.

Predatory.

Killer.

But all you saw and all you’ll ever see is the boy casted in the shadows of library bookshelves. This is the setting that births your obsession- no- your love for him.

Every Thursday afternoon.

When the library has cleared out.

The only time he’s not with his family. The only time he’s alone.

Like clockwork.

“What do we have here?” A phrase you were obligated to say. Not many townsfolk valued literature and those that did, as per your boss, “needed to find every reason to come back.” Even if that meant mustering a robotic sunshine smile. As if you were a cashier at Starbucks and not a small town librarian.

How you managed to speak so coherently with Sunghoon looming on the other side of the desk remains a complete and utter mystery. If you were driven, otherwise, by the bundle of love knots in your stomach you might have stuttered foolishly and squeaked your way through scanning his books.

“Books.” He answers curtly, brusquely, leaving absolutely no room for further conversation- or interrogation, as it would apparently appear.

Sunghoon is not looking at you. His eyes - those endless golden voids-, are looking down at the mahogany desk you are standing on the opposite side of. You wish for more than anything to feel that otherworldly feeling of having those golden eyes focused completely on you.

What must that feel like?

To have Sunghoon’s sole, undivided attention.

You would soon have the unfortunate pleasure of finding out.

“W-Well I know they’re books,” You continue, stating this with an airy, light chuckle. A chuckle that indicated this conversation should have been over a long time ago and that you’re blatantly aware of that. Why aren’t you keeping your mouth shut?

“I mean- Well I just mean, you know it’s not everyday a 20 year old takes out,” You glance down at the book in your hands before sending it through the system, “Wuthering Heights?” Your brows furrow as you send a second one of his books through the scanner, “Turn of The Screw?” And the final, “Frankenstein-Mary Shelley?"

You quirk a questioning eyebrow up at him- one silently inquiring ‘what the fuck’s up with the archaic books, grandpa?’ But he, of course, is not sparing you a single glance.

Or wait- he does. But for the briefest moment.

"I enjoy literature.” It almost makes you keel over in inexplicable discomfort, the way the words were chewed on before they were forcibly spat out. You can see he is done entertaining your mindless spiel but for some weird, fucking stupid reason, you’re not done with him.

“Well yeah, sure. But I mean, the dust on these books are ageless, you must be the first man to borrow these in like, 40 million years-”

“21.” It is all he says. One little word that cuts your rant short like a heated knife. You glance up at him, hoping those dazzling eyes look down at you.

And they do.

Bloody, fucking, Christ. They do.

“You said 20. I’m 21.” Before you were about to ask how that could be the case- how Sunghoon could be older than you when you distinctly remember finishing high school the same year?

He decides to shock you.

“I got… held back a year. I was already supposed to have graduated.” You are not sure whether it’s the sprinkle of rain that has begun falling. Whether it was the weight of the impenetrable fact that Sunghoon fucking Park has just spoken to you more words than he’s ever said your entire high school career. Or whether-and this may exactly be it-you were affected by those blazing eyes that glided backup to look at you.

Not golden.

Blazing.

For the golden hues have simmered into something darker. They’ve literally bled into a darker shade of the gold-almost yellow hues in his eyes. The breath completely escapes your throat. This time he does not look away.

“R-Right. Of course. Sorry.” You had nothing to be sorry for. How could you ever have known any of Sunghoon’s and his weird friends’ ages when the only people they directly interacted with were the teachers and themselves? You could never have known Sunghoon was 21 and therefore did not need to apologise but… those eyes… they made you sorry.

“It’s just-” why the fuck, after everything, after all of that, is your mouth still moving? It’s like this was your only opportunity of bravery. Your only window letting through a sliver of courage before you would retreat in on yourself for the rest of your waning time in this town. Moving amongst the books like a spectre before you ran off to college.

This was your only opportunity.

“Well they’re all Victorian.” You finally let those words tumble out of your mouth.

You hear the sharp intake of breath.

“Bronte, James, Shelley.” You slide the books to him. “All Victorian… is this pattern the product of some trend I’m missing out on?” You chuckle lightly at the end of that, hoping to wrench one out of him too but you knew that was an impossible feat. Still, the chuckle drains down your throat when you hand him his books. Your fingers, still encircled around the hardbacks, brush over him accidentally.

“Jesus, are you cold?”

He pulls away quickly, evading eye contact like you’d turn him to stone. Evading your touch like your skin scorched his. “It’s raining. I-I could give you a ride-”

Sunghoon gulps visibly. In the span of a single conversation, those dark-golden eyes have stayed firmly on you but now they are prying you apart.

“That won’t be necessary.” He says, swallowing thickly once more.

“Of course.” You wave him off, immediately overcome by the embarrassment of your own presumptuous nature. Sunghoon's gaze drifts down to the books once more.

No. You can’t afford the dismissal. You can’t bear the non-verbal rejection any longer.

The faucet that is your mouth, just continues spewing.

“Vampires aren’t usually the ones being offered a ride, are they?” You turn your head, focusing on the raindrops shooting pellets at the tall library window. Your gaze appears far away but that’s what you want him to think. In your periphery, you see his eyes snap up from the mahogany desk with his head following; enough to make those dark strands bounce in surprise. You know you finally have him.

“I’m the victim,” You continue basking in the attention. Retaining more satisfying heat from his gaze alone than the husky fluorescent buzzing above you both. You are suddenly all too aware that the library is deserted.

“I’m supposed to be coaxed into your car. That’s how it works right? Like Bundy."

You lazily swing your gaze back from the window until you meet his eyes that have bled into an even darker shade of gold. So dark the gold has vanished completely, actually, leaving two soulless depths. His eyes scream, ‘how do you know?’

His jaw is tightened like screws and his fist is clenched so tight it should spout blood.

But there is no blood, is there? Dead things lose all of that.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about-” You lift a hand up. Right there, right in front of his stone face, silencing him immediately.

“That dance gets a little bit tedious, doesn’t it?” You laugh loudly into the hollow air filled with nothing but raindrops and thunder. “A little bit boring?” You give him a smirk. “I know one thing your little family specialises in isn't boredom.”

You make the unforeseen move of stepping back from your computer, slowly making a show of sauntering around the desk. Sunghoon's dark irises track you like a sniper and you revel in it.

You must stop your hands from fisting at your own sides.

You must maintain the little control you have, or it might just cost you your life.

“You're wrong,” he says, “The books. They’re not all Victorian.”

He’s stalling. Deflecting. Trying to distract himself from your nearing frame.

“Frankenstein,” he continues, “Shelley published it in 1818, that’s just short of the start of Victoria’s reign.”

You give him a small, tight-lipped smile.

“Hm. You would know though, wouldn’t you?”

He is pulled into silence.

“But back to your little lie.” Your path is set and your mind is made. “Vampire's daylighting as average university students? That’s a good fucking story.” You nod slowly, “A good fucking story.” You take small, tentative strides closer to him. Not wanting to engage too quickly. Sunghoon was big, tall and looming. Having that kind of frame tense- more tense than he already is, would only result in a blood bath. Your blood bath.

“Everyone at school, everyone in this town thinks you’re all so goddamn close but you wanna know what I think?” You saunter closer and he inhales sharply.

“No.”

You tsk and click your tongue, not stopping your calm gait whatsoever until his scent completely enveloped you. So empty and… dead.

A smell that can’t be masked by the most expensive cologne and yet you enjoyed it. It made your blood race and if what you knew was true, then he could hear the erratics of your heart as well. You wanted him to.

“See, Hoonie-”

“Sunghoon.”

“Hoonie. Why else would you be entertaining this nonsense?” You continue moving closer until his back is pressed against the wooden desk, looking down at you with a near pitch black abyss. You look up at him, feigning innocent doe eyes as you pressed your voluminous chest against him. You dare even let your hand drift over his black, cotton sweater.

“I could-” Sunghoon's eyes flutter closed before he snaps them open again. “I could hurt you. But you know that, don’t you?” A finger slips itself under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

Or so you thought.

He continues to lift your chin until you were looking up at the fluorescent light. Then, and only then, did you understand that he was baring your neck to him.

“Aw, Sunghoon.” You chastise lightly, still letting him do with you as you please. Unbeknownst to him, you were leaning in closer, letting your hand slip onto the desk behind him until you found just what you were looking for.

Letter opener.

“I’m counting on you to hurt me, Silly.”

You finally pull back, before he can lower himself further in-before he could go in for the kill.

You aim the sharp two-edged blade of the letter opener into your left palm and, with all the reserve in the world, you cut a long, shallow gash all the way in.

The very second your palm stains crimson, Sunghoon's entire build begins to shake. His chest begins to heave uncontrollably. His face is perfectly the same but somehow you still hear the hungry tufts of air leaving his nostrils, even over the raging rain outside and you smile.

“Trust me.” You say,

“I’m counting on you hurting me,”

“You’re really goddamn stupid, you know that?“ He says cockily, feigning his control when his pitch black eyes are a dead giveaway. The pupils are trained on the beoken skin along your palm and that alone. The blood has begun dripping aimlessly down your palm and you hold it up to him, showing him his prize. Showing him everything he’s been missing.

"Maybe I am. Maybe I’m crazy and stupid.” You discard the letter opener on the carpet beside you. It clunks to the ground and you let out a little sigh.

“You can go ahead and bite me Sung-” You might not explicitly be on a nickname basis, but you figured now was as good a time as any to familiarise yourself with each other, since-

“You’re gonna turn me."

Sunghoon finally rips his onyx eyes away from the dripping crimson faucet and he stares down at you questioningly.

"Why would I do that?” Some hair has fallen in front of his left eye but he makes no move to brush it away, so naturally, you do it for him… using your bleeding left hand.

“Well… because you’re you. And self restraint isn’t very you, Sunghoon.” You tuck the dark strand, now stained lightly with your blood, behind his ear and you begin to trail your hand slowly down the side of his face. Sunghoon's eyes flutter closed and he leans, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, right into your bleeding grip. He turns his head sideways and inhales sharply.

“I knew it.” You marvel at the boy before you. “Sure it was just a theory but- it all fell serendipitously into place: The absent days when it’s sunny out. The deathly paleness. The untouched lunch trays. The old ass books that probably give away your real age.” His eyes are still closed and he is still moving his cheek against your bleeding hand. He hums unintelligibly.

“The ice cold skin was my final check.”

“How clever.”

He produces the first smile you’ve ever seen and the beauty of it releases a wave of endorphins and butterflies in your gut. “You want a cookie for that?” He has a dangerously gorgeous lopsided grin that, coupled with the gleaming, pointed canines that have emerged, leaves your pulse quickening in more places than your heart.

“What’s to stop me from ripping you open right now? There’s no one here. No one will be here in time to stop me from killing you.” He turns to look at you and you almost gasp at how severely sexy your smeared blood on his cheek looks.

“Give me reasons.” He urges with his voice bouncing off the walls.

“I need reasons or-” his eyes flutter closed “-or I just might do it. I will kill you.”

You needed to maintain control. But in that moment you knew and feared that you and him were beginning to realise that your dominant reserve was slipping right through your fingers. It was your turn in the hot seat. Okay.

You got what you wanted. Find out what you needed to find out. But all that came at a price.

You try to keep your voice steady as you answer him.

“As much as it annoys you and me, Sunghoon, it is a fact that you wanna fit in with everyone else.” Sunghoon's eyes never leave yours as you continue talking. “You probably never really had a home and this town allows you to blend in with the rest of us.” He breathes deeply through his nose. “Killing the bookkeeper would put this little fantasy life you've built for yourself in jeopardy,” Your breathing is irregular and harsh and you look at his lips and oh god you need to taste him.

“But you’re still you, Sunghoon. This town can’t and never will change that fact. You’re not like the rest of us,” You finally say, “You’re not-”

In a blur and manipulation of time, space and all the little things in between, you’ve been transported with a swift dash across the room until you were being held by the throat against a bookshelf. Pain stems from the sudden and rapid movement but the firm and unwavering squeeze on your throat, elicits a wave of lust.

“I’m done playing your little mind games.” He’s seething and he’s angry and he’s right where you want him.

“Oh? But we were having so much fun, Sung-” He squeezes your windpipe, so incredibly close to crushing it.

“What do you want?”

You let the first ever genuine smile slip onto your face.

“For you to turn me, Hoonie."

He pauses. Quite literally.

Sunghoon's rapid breathing goes to a complete stand still and his form goes as still as a statue. You deduce that this is him thinking. He’s mapping out all the possible shit storms this would conjure up for him and his precious family and you hold the will to roll your eyes. After a few stunted seconds, Sunghoon eases back again.

"Once I start-”

“You won’t stop? Sunghoon, we’ve been eye fucking this entire time. I'm not sure what it is about Blackmail that gets you off but it's not difficult to see how bad you need it.” He squeezes your throat again in warning, already telling you all you need to know.

He's not sure why he's attracted to you. He shouldn't be. Whether its the fact that you should already be dead for even knowing his secret- for thinking you can offee him an ultimatimatum- its your sheer fucking guts that has him warming with attraction.

Your words slowly bring him up for air. “If there’s one thing stronger than your need to feast,” You lift that hand up once again, “-its your need to fuck. Vampires are immortal so they draw pleasure from the little things. The pleasurable things. That bulge in your pants can’t go unnoticed, Sunghoon, no matter how long you want it t-”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes before he murmurs: “Just shut up,”

He crashes his lips right onto yours. The kiss is not only electric but it’s magnetic. As if you would not be able to pull away even if you wanted to. And his firm grip on your throat keeps you there. It’s strong and he squeezes as he licks on your bottom lip, coaxing the opening out of you. So naturally, you moan, and the bastard uses the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth.

You needn’t open your eyes to see he was half-smiling into your kiss. That little nugget of information made you need him even more. During your kiss, you squeeze your legs together. Sunghoon hums disapprovingly in your mouth, sending his other hand down your thigh, urging them apart.

“You can’t do that.” He breaks the kiss and says the words at a perfectly even breathe, meanwhile you were a heaving mess.

“What?” You inquire dumbly, all too focused on his hand on your jeans to rather give a fuck about anything else.

“Pathokinesis.” Is all he says before he ducks down into the crook of your neck, ripping the gasp out of your lungs by force. His large hand around your throat moves up to your cheek, rubbing the skin with his thumb softly.

“Don’t do that.” He says into your neck before venturing to flick his tongue out, licking the skin and driving you all too insane. You almost don’t register his words but the weight of his revelation has you tumbling to your senses momentarily.

“What? So you can like-”

“Sense and manipulate your emotions?” He says, coming up from your neck. “Yeah.” He nods once before he takes your mouth in his once more.

“What you feel,” he mumbles in between the kiss, “I feel too."

Yet another gasp strains your throat when you feel two sharp teeth graze against the skin of your plump bottom lips as Sunghoon pulls away.

Have you really thought any of your movements through?

What if sex with a vampire was fatal?

You’re about to spiral into oblivion before Sunghoon speaks up.

"No.” He says curtly, and you’re all too aware of the hand trying to push past your denim jeans. “You’re not pulling back on me now. Not after everything.” You’re in awe of his words.

“Jesus, so you really can feel everything.”

That life threatening smile again.

“Pretty much.”

He begins to undo the buttons of your pants tentatively, almost meticulously, as if you were fortunate to have all the time in the world. You’re about to urge him to hurry the fuck up but one of the shelves behind your head collapses. Books fall to a sad heap on the floor and the wood is snapped in tiny pieces. Sunghoon's hand was leaning against that particular shelf.

Maybe he’s not as calm as he’d like to convey.

“There is one thing,” the buttons are undone but he’s stopped moving his fingers. They are in fact paused on the lining of your underwear. The material is calmly in between his index and thumb, creating the sickest, most twisted need you’ve ever felt. You almost abandon modesty and grind into him right then and there.

His next words however, have you almost wanting to keel over in grief.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” he says with a sick smile.

“Why?” It's all you can manage and suddenly, you think the universe must be smiling at the irony of this situation. The encounter had begun with You as the master of this blackmail, yet here you were, grovelling for him.

“I think you’re really good at getting what you want,” he says, leaning forward and slowly, oh so slowly, letting his hand slip into the fabric. The graze of his fingers on you cunt alone making you almost sob out in need.

“And I’m not gonna allow that.” He concludes before pushing his hand all the way in. Sunghoon does nothing but snicker when he feels the pool of wetness.

“This is how this is gonna work,” he uses his free hand to pick up your limp left one. The wound is of considerable size however, the blood is not flowing as much but it’s still there.

“You’re gonna give me this.” He lifts your limp hand up and you comply like a puppet on a string. “And I’m gonna give you this.” His fingers-the index and the middle,- flick over your clit, causing you to let out an aching whimper.

“Got it?” He’s already placing your bloody palm against his plump lips and you’re too enamoured. Too enamoured at the sight of his tongue sticking out and lapping at the blood as if it were a healing potent. You’re too enamoured to respond and he does not like this one bit.

Sunghoon flicks another finger against your clit.

“JESUS!” You scream into the empty library. Sunghoon, who’s eyes were closed, shoots open and he hums disapprovingly.

“No,” he says irritably, “Sunghoon. Say Sunghoon.”

You’re a drunken, sex filled mess. “Fuck-Sunghoon.” He smiles, satisfied, before returning to your palm. You begin to grind into his fingers and his chuckles.

“Sung… Sunghoon please.” There are tears staining your eyes and you’re so completely torn apart. The thrill of it being in a public setting. The rain. The licking on your palm. It’s too much.

Way too fucking much.

“Please? Please let you finish?” Sunghoon asks mockingly and a sob releases from your throat as your hips begin to buck into his hands. “You’d like me to let you cum all over my hand?”

“Please, Hoonie. Please.”

“That’s a shame…” He replies, “I thought we were having so much fun.” You do not even have the strength to act stunned at having your words being flung back at you, you’re too focused on the fingers that have slipped inside of you and the hissing noise escaping Sunghoon's throat.

It’s all so unbelievable. Sunghoon pulls back and hisses loudly. Your heart stops at the sight of his canines elongating even further but that all falls away when he sinks them further into your palm. Biting down.

Hard.

“Hoon..” You're completely out of it. The fingers slide in and out and in and out, searching rapidly for your g-spot, but in the very same breath, there’s a sharp, bright and blinding pain in your left palm, letting the tears fall as they may.

“Fuck, Sunghoon! Oh god! It hurts! It hurts so fucking bad!” You’re sobbing but his fingers inside you are relentless and his sucking, even more so. You feel like nothing but an object of his pleasure as your hand begins to grow numb. Sure he was bringing you to orgasm, the very same time you felt even that was for his own pleasure.

Never had you experienced a pain quite like this. This pain felt otherworldly. Diabolical. As if someone were ripping the nails right out of your fingers. As if you slammed the car door in on your hand repeatedly.

And the pain. God, the pain is white and bright, you fear passing out may be inevitable.

Sunghoon brings his head up, releasing his fangs from your palm but continuing his assault by licking and sucking on the two indents. “I know, my beautiful, beautiful girl,” he says, “I know."

The sobs stop, perhaps because you want to hear his voice. Perhaps because you feed on his praises. "You’re so beautiful, you know that?” he mutters unsoundly in between his licks, “So pretty, so perfect.” You realise he’s as delirious as you, his eyes are wide, gazing down at the madwoman before him with his own madness swirling in his irises. His lips are stained red and somehow that sets you over the edge.

“Hoonie?”

His eyes are red. Blood red. You gasp. “I’m-” You don’t finish the sentence, already feeling your orgasm crest as you carelessly fling yourself over the edge. It hits you and you forget all about the pain. All about the blood.

“That’s it, my pretty, pretty girl.” He encourages and your body is shaking violently against the book rack. Your eyes are screwed shut and you’re rocking uncontrollably into his hand.

In that moment, Sunghoon may have thought that he gained everything, but you gained far more. And when you come out of that high, once the fog cleared and the rain simmered down to a tiny, light pitter patter.

You begin to feel…

New.

“Welcome to immortality, Beautiful.” He whispers in your ear with that recognizable lopsided smirk.

You feel… empty. Drained. You feel nothing at all.

“Population… You”

[thediistortiion]

i love fics that write The Distortion genuinely not knowing How to Human and getting something egregiously incorrect.

i don't mean appearance-wise, i mean silly mistakes. trying to wipe up a spill with printer paper because it misunderstood what a paper towel is. calling an animal by the wrong name.

describing emotions in a door/hallway metaphor. ("hallway full of bees" sorry, did you mean butterflies? distortion, you are experiencing butterflies.)

it was literally a door it doesn't know this shit!

i think it has some memories attached to "who" it is, thus why it can tell michael shelley's story, but little details like this? the nuance of the human experience? lost on it. too busy hating being even remotely like a who to stop and attempt to model after them properly.

this makes it mildly offputting and that's the goal so it's content <3

also @ distortion shippers this entity does not know how to kiss. gerry/jon/melanie/whoever else is gonna have to teach it how because it will just stand there, eyes open and everything, being a door.

[brawlite]

some horror fic recs for october 👻

i wanted to put together a rec list of my favorite horror fics for the spookiest month. there are a bunch of different flavors of horror in here as well as a number of different fandoms, so hopefully you can find something that tickles your fancy (though ngl i would still rec reading these bad boys even if you don't know the fandoms at all).

i tried to tag tumblrs when/where i could find them, but if i couldn't, the author name links to ao3.

a reminder as always: this is horror—please read all the tags.

thanks for reading and i hope you find something to enjoy!

also, pretty please feel free to reblog and add your favorite horror fic recs.

👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪

the ghost apple tree by @thefearofcod

10k words, rated m song lan/xue yang/xiao xingchen (the untamed/mdzs) summary:

Fixing up a decaying house in the woods is the same as addressing your problems. (sxx is haunted)

brawls' notes: i think about this fic a lot; i'm haunted by it. this is by far one of my favorite horror stories i've ever read—the vibes are off-the-charts and horrific in a very visceral, tense way. made me feel weird (positive). i hope it makes you feel weird too (this is a threat).

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convergence by @astrophyllitely

33k words, rated e lan zhan/lan xichen, lan zhan/jiang cheng (the untamed/mdzs) summary:

Lan Wangji regains consciousness in a crashed spaceship on an unfamiliar planet. He is not alone; Lan Xichen is there. He is not alone; Jiang Wanyin is there. But never both at once.

brawls' notes: space horror? check. psychological horror? check. uneasy and tense alien vibes? also check. beautiful push and pull of the narrative, paired with an an intense feeling of claustrophobia. there's a particular moment that had my heart right in my throat. stunning.

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mockingbird by MarInk

82k words, rated e stiles stillinski/peter hale (teen wolf) summary:

Stiles works tirelessly to keep the roof over his heads and longs for a proper challenge for his brains. Peter chafes under his sister's authority and nurses big, bloody dreams. One day, the two are connected by a mistaken text message. One never knows who is on the other end of a wrong number. Sometimes it's somebody one will come to cherish and adore. Sometimes it's a ruthless, unapologetic monster. Sometimes it's both.

brawls' notes: sometimes you read something and are just blown away by it, forever altered. that's what this was for me. want a type of monster-au you've never seen before? this is it. also: ostensibly a wrong-number au, but don't be fooled. (i was.)

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never meant by nonhicsumus

3k words, rated m alex krycek & dana scully (the x-files) summary:

Sometimes the past isn't worth digging into.

brawls' notes: whump and psychological horror? plus alex krycek?? my favorite. every word of this is perfection—i instantly wanted to read it again for the first time. you can.

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fais do-do by @moku-youbi

18k words, rated e will graham/hannibal lecter (hannibal)

summary:

“Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.” ― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (this fic does not have a summary, but begins with this quote)

brawls' notes: a different-meeting au packed with everything you need for the perfect horror story: violence, blood, a chase scene, and an unreliable narrator. delightful.

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blackbird, fly by @acroamatica

19k words, rated m kylo ren/armitage hux (star wars: tfa)

summary:

One sunny afternoon in the mountains of Washington state, Ben Organa-Solo walked out into the woods. He never came home. Six years later, a journalist specialising in missing-persons cold cases decides to follow his footsteps and see where they might lead.

brawls' notes: a masterpiece of vibes. this reads so much like a spooky mystery novel, but with a creeping, anxious dread. perfect for the season if you want that true autumnal sort of chill. i've carried this fic in my heart for nearly a decade now—it has inspired me in my own writing so much over the years.

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grey stars on the rise by @iodhadh

4k words, rated e song lan/xue yang/xiao xingchen (the untamed/mdzs) summary:

Xiao Xingchen comes back. Xiao Xingchen comes back wrong. It takes too long, maybe, for Xue Yang to realize something is wrong with Song Lan too.

brawls' notes: the exact embodiment of: be careful what you wish for. brutal and crushing and so deeply, utterly satisfying. absolute yi-city perfection: the vibes are wretched but strangely romantic (chefs kiss).

—

half your life you've been hooked on death by @whatever-you-can-give-me

4k words, rated m vash the stampede/nicholas d. wolfwood (trigun) summary:

Wolfwood is cornered in an alleyway. Things get worse before they get better.

brawls' notes: and what's a horror rec list without a little bit of gore? whump and blood and near-death-experiences—oh my. this is brutal and feverish and exactly the right flavor.

—

black rock mountain by @bokuno-jinsei

24k words, rated e will graham/hannibal lecter (hannibal) summary:

Will is a hitchhiker with questionable hobbies. Hannibal is a man who has questionable motives. When Hannibal drives by Will who just so happens to need a ride, things quickly take a turn from the questionable to the downright depraved.

brawls' notes: you know That Fic that is really the epitome of that pairing for you? yeah, this is it for me. perfect alternate first-meeting fic. lives rent-free in my head.

👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪

and hey, why not be a little self-indulgent: i can't help but rec a few of my own horror fics here, too:

old growth

21k, rated m song lan/xue yang/xiao xingchen (the untamed/mdzs) summary:

There’s something in the woods outside of their hometown. Xue Yang and Song Lan are going to find it.

brawls' notes: i tried something new with the formatting on this one and i think it panned out solidly and was a desperately fun way to tell the story. this is full of spooky, sleepless forest vibes.

—

what's real or isn't

57k, rated e kylo ren/armitage hux (star wars: tfa) summary:

Hux's new house is not haunted. It isn't.

brawls' notes: i honestly love playing favorites and this is one of mine. this was a load of fun to write—it's chock-full of vibes, personal experiences, local history, and love notes to my favorite horror stories.

—

acquiesce

16k, rated e original luo binghe/original shen qingqiu (svsss) summary:

After seeing the gentle and loving Shen Qingqiu of the other world, Luo Binghe returns to his own with a hunger that can only be satisfied by one thing—a Shizun of his very own.

brawls' notes: this isn't spooky or haunted, but it is psychological horror—packed with nightmares, flashbacks, dread, and manipulation. enjoy!

👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪👻👁️🎃🔪

and that's it! hope you find something fun to read for this october 🖤

and again—please reblog and add your own horror recs if you are feeling so inclined!

[hobiespick]

Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except, reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

a/n : FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HI, HELLO, IM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I SUCK SO BAD, IM SO SORRY. My requests aren't open (yet) but its not even your fault I should have 100% specified that, but this is my first ever ask and ur also one of my favourite moots and I didn't want to dissapoint so here are some fuckinf cute Sam x Werewolf!Reader. I felt the carnal need to write a metric fuckton of context before getting into the actual headcanons (which are very long I have no idea if they can be considered as hcs) so the reader gets beaten up by earth-shattering plot purposes :3. Sammy juicy headcanons start when you see the '🧿' emoji if you don't wanna read the context (melodramatic sigh). And yes the title of the fic is based on the metallica song :). as always, enjoy my shitty thoughts <3

Warnings: angst with comfort (no don't clap it's fine, omg ur makin me blush); guess who joined the cool kids club and uses "____." instead of "Y/n"; literally a flash of gore, shitty dad(s), fake death, mentions of suicide, Sam looks at you and goes DO YOU WANT M-; Dean being himself; reader is also a hunter and has been raised like that (fml); Dean makes a twillight refrence; reader is frankenstein coded in the most nuanced way, Mary Shelley please don't haunt me; Dean is very happy to have a bestfriend/sister :)

word count: 8,102

- Okay, so for starters, the fact that you aren't actually a monster (you don't get the urge to kill or wreak havoc) is actually a supernatural miracle.

Your parents haven't talked to you since you called them the night you were hunting a werewolf and told them, horror-struck between sniffles and voice cracks, that it bit you, and you’re going to turn, and you’re horrified, and you’re going to drive home to put a pistol in your father's hand and hopefully stop you from turning in the thing you shouldn't be.

Your father replied, after successfully not saying a word besides "Hey, kid-" before getting cut off by you and your hiccups. He sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, enough to draw blood.

"You are not to come home; your mother won't bear to see you like this."

Your father objected before telling you you can finish the job by yourself; you always have.

He abruptly ended the phonecall like you weren't his daughter, more like an annoying salesman. You don't know what he'll say to your mother after that call; that was the hospital, and you tragically died? "Died a hero.." Your father would say when he described another hunter's tragic passing at the dinner table—paranormal tragic passing. So paranormal that your mother had knocked on wood and prayed it wouldn't get you or your family.

So you don't call, It's really me, dad. I'm fine, I figured it out by myself. How could you? after him suggesting it's better to kill yourself than take a shot at finding a solution together? You would rather have him believe you're dead. Or at least cry with you; it's okay, honey. come home; it'll be okay, spend the last days at home, please-

The last word you get from him is a text message you are too quick to open on your flip-phone to see the next day. When you rub at your eyebags after tracking down a witch, the witch. It was the second day when everything about you felt off; you were squemish, anxious, and haven't left your motel room all day. if you get this—the message read, "if you get this?!" if you get this, if you get this, if you get this—your brain repeats it over and over, taking the words apart and tattooing itself that phrase, because it held much more meaning to it than your father probably didn't intend; he would hear it if he read it before sending, you thought, that little 'if' haunting and tormenting like a damn demon. if you haven't already killed yourself; if you haven't already turned into something that took my daughter, my pride and joy, away from me; if you haven't already died–

- speaking to you like he's directly referring to the disease in your veins. Your brain moves on and reads the next ridiculous waste of your attention. I wanted you to know I told your mother that it was the hospital I was talking to yesterday, calling that you’re dead, house fire, so no remains to pick up—Damn, you know him or what? Even your fake death is stripped away from it's respect—"no remains to pick up"—like a toppled statue, a monument of what was once a hero (in dad's old-fashioned monster-hunting world), shattered and insignificant, no longer breathing or living, if you ever even had. Or a tree struck by lighting, again, "no remains to pick up" no meaningful remains or genuinely nothing, just a memory of another young hunter who died 'tragically'. You could imagine your tombstone with an even dumber epitaph to match it and an empty or nonexistent grave lying six feet underneath for closure. Your eyes move on, there will be a funeral with no grave, of course, I just wanted you to know that your mother and everyone else is devastated, we miss you, sugar. I love you, kid. Your father had overestimated your suicidal tendencies, and the way he didn't try to save his daughter in order to not go against the rules and possibilities of hunting only showed you how much he loves you.

So you track down the witch. You barely make it to her doorstep when she opens it with a too reassuring smile, saying your name and that she expected you, even going as far as offering you tea after opening the door and letting you in, to which you declined. You're not an idiot. But you do sit down, forced, when she, Willow Thorne, won't have you, a guest, standing up, a whole damn hunter being forced to sit down and accept being treated kindly like you deserve. When you walked in, the entire image of a satanic worshipper who sold her soul to demons and hexed everybody—that you betted all your life savings fitted the description of Willow shattered and laughed in your face.

Her home was filled with plants hanging and resting in every corner she could place; various crystals were sitting in cute porcelain plates like candy, candles of different colors on a bookshelf filled with books like The Language of Flowers, Astronomy for Beginners, and Sigils. Even more crystals, bigger and taller ones on a purple tablecloth. The house is adorned in shades of dark purple, violet, green, and warm colors. This home was a whimsigothic musem that would send your thirteen-year-old self into a shrieking, excited mess. Your parents never let you own crystals or a tarot deck; they were too afraid you'd turn darkside one way or another. well, mommy, daddy, if you could see me right now with lycanthrope blood pumping through my veins.

Willow Thorne is a wiccan type of witch; she does not receive her power from demons; she receives her magic from nature and probably practices her witchcraft the way she sees fit. This doesn't help build back the distrust you were trained to have in her. You flinch when you feel a tail curling around your bouncing leg; you glance down, and your eyes are met with a black cat's green ones—this must be her familiar—the little words on his purple collar reading 'Creek'. She gives you another flash of her warm smile and starts talking about her cat. This can't be real. Your every instinct screams that you should take her down or that she will take you down. Your options shrink the longer you stay. You keep a hand anxiously fiddling with your belt, thinking about the gun in your waistband. She's deceiving you with honeyed words and unassuming appearance; who the fuck knows, maybe the cat is manipulating you too. Throwing up would be the calmest reaction you could have right now, because the thoughts in your head started going at each other's throats and doubting in this situation could get you killed. Thoughts like, fuck her, her cozy house with purple witchy twitchy girl interior, and her affectionate black cat she mentioned she rescued when nobody would because of superstitions—you curse in your head, you're not actually upset at her although you do not let your guard down, you're upset at yourself for being so easily coaxed into trusting her, it's all too easy, and it is intimidating you.

You're pretty sure you're gonna rip your vocal cords out of frustration and an overall feeling of overwhelmingness; everything seems to piss you off today, even more than usual. How are you good?! All bright and beaming with nothing but positivity. You're not supposed to be good! I have believed all my life you aren't!..are you like me too? A thing that should not be? Before breaking down and crying about your situation, and if you did, she would make you that tea and rub your back with her hand that radiated ease and made you slump your shoulders with relief.

Before you get other fun thoughts like Am I on the wrong side of the war? You start discussing bussiness since you forgot that's what your here for. Even if your eyes water like a little kid after being scolded for something they didn't do, your voice is nowhere near close to sounding like one. You demand a cure, bargaining for a deal to stop the lycanthropy metamorphosis you feel taking over little by little and make you human again. If she can't, you have a gun with silver bullets in your trunk and your will written out, but by now it probably has no significance.

Much to your disappointment, she—Willow—insisted you called her, tells you she cannot take away your curse, but she can soothe it a little, keep it in a cage locked deep into your subconscious. In exchange, she could ask for fucking anything in the world, but she wants loyalty.

"Define, loyalty." You ask through gritted teeth, yeah, that will stop the tears, definitely, great intimidation skills, _____ .

"I'm talking about respect, mutual aid, when it all comes down for me, when I get threatened by a hunter, I want you to be there. I need you to have my back." She admitted, studying your eyes trying to reslove the conflict in them, anything that could give her hope. You couldn't explain this to anyone, ever, Yeah I almost turned into a werewolf once but my witch friend did a ritual on me, so i'm all good now.

Willow is now sitting on an ottoman facing her couch, where you're sitting. Her hands fidget with her bracelets until she clasps them together, and she is leaning towards you. Her gentle tone is imbued with gentle authority that commands her mutual respect without making her overbearing. Keeping steady eye contact, she is discussing serious matters with a serious tone like she should. You can't lie, it catches you off-guard, it herds you in the corner and softly shakes your shoulders, forcing you to listen.

You'd be every synonym in the dictionary for the word 'idiot' if you hadn't accepted this deal. You shake hands, and the warm smile she wears causes a domino effect, making you do the same, even if you had been crying.

It's a funky ritual. She makes you lay on the couch while she lights all sorts of candles; she closes the curtains even though it's already dark so light cannot come in. The only light present is the salt lamp in the far corner and the numeruous lighted candles. She even has to kick Creek out of the room, much to the cat's protests outside the door. They slowly come to a stop as he finds something that's more interesting than whatever ritual his owner is cooking up with a guest—that he feels drawn to for whatever reason. You feel nervous, and she feels nervous too, because you are. Willow reassures you and tells you that after it ends you will pass out for a while, but that's fine because she says you can spend the night if she isn't pushing it.

The celling becomes your newest fascination, and you study every small bump and gray spot in order to distract your mind from... well, thinking. Not for the ritual, but for reassurance, she lies and says you have to hold her hand. Her warm hand against yours seems to punch out of your lungs every doubt whether this will work or not and the sadness your father produced with an unfatherly amount of bluntness and cold parenting that was the verbal equivalent of stabbing your spine and twisting the knife, but you can't pull out the knife, well, you can try, but it will hurt even worse and it will infect spreading yellow or purple marks around it–. She—her hand—has the ability to make you breathe again without feeling like you have leg irons around your neck dragging it down and hands squashing your lungs to bits. She speaks incantations in what you know is latin and instructs you to close your eyes. You swear you hear a candle stop burning in the process—something you can't physically hear, but you had. You can make out a few words (your ears keep ringing and something is happening because you hear her voice; it's distorted and weird, but she told you, strictly, not to open your eyes, so you don't). Words like: lupus-wolf, tollere-take away? You're not sure on that one; that's what three straight days of crying might do to one, mutare- which means change. Okay, that was a nice distraction now what el–

You feel the imprint of a huge dog-like paw pressing into your Adam's apple and cutting off your breath. She obviously takes notice by the way you're writhing and choking and swatting away at nothing—something you're trying to fight even with closed eyes, but there is nothing there. Your palm doesn't make contact with anything. Quickly, Willow chants something you're too busy choking to catch. The pressure on your throat dissolves, and you can breathe again. She calms her own breath and squeezes your hand. When she doesn't feel you squeeze back, she remembers that you're supposed to pass out after the spell. Willow drapes a blanket on you and goes off to order something to eat. When she opens the living room door, Creek doesn't hesitate to run in and settle on your chest. The cat purrs as he patiently waits for you to wake up.

You wake up fifteen minutes later with the smell of food flooding your nostrils, stronger than it has ever been before. It's almost like it's sitting right under your nose. You open your eyes, and the smell has a color, and you can clearly see how it snakes its way in from the kitchen into the half-open door. Your nails feel heavier than usual. This is hopefully a fever dream. But the food isn't here, nor is Willow; you can hear her humming a song in the kitchen, Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix.

The weight of the shadow on your chest brings you back to earth, and you run your hands through his black fur with closed eyes as your head falls back onto the couch. The feeling of fur on your fingertips feeding to your serotonin levels rising. Creek seems to know what it's like to be disowned by your own father and forced to have a fake death in order to 'die' in a way that won't make your mother think you were cursed, or worse, that the whole family is now. Creek notices you're awake and gets off you, but not before making biscuits.

"Thanks, Creek." You mumble before pushing yourself up in a sitting position with a groan.

You can feel the rich, velvety, dark green rug beneath your socks; you would have appreciated it properly if you could actually see the details woven into it. Your eyes keep focusing and unfocusing like they're getting adjusted, and the room doesn't seem so dark anymore. God, how long did you pass out? As you tried to gather your thoughts (if the spell was easy on you enough to actually leave some), memories of the ritual came flooding back—the chanting in latin, the flickering candle(s), the punching smell of herbs, the murder attempt from a wolf spirit/ghost?! who the hell knows anymore? Now you were wide awake, and everything felt different. If it weren't for the fucking ritual that was just performed on you, you would've blamed the faint ringing in your years, shitty eyesight, and banging headache on a terrible hangover or a cold so bad it would make your throat ache for the tea your mom would make you when your immune system failed you. She promised she would teach me how to make it. Your grief echoed to you.

You rub at your temples at thats when you notice why did your nails feel heavier than usual. You had fucking claws, well, not animal claws, but they are honorably elongated and sharper than they had ever been. As you looked up from your lap, your eyes fell on a mirror.

A tall mirror leaning on its back legs, with black edges and details on the rim, you would again appreciate if you had the ability to see a single thing in the distance.

Your eyes widened, mortified, seeing yourself. It looked like one of your parents's worst nightmares. Something out of a dream your mom would have—a nightmare so nasty and vivid she would be forced by her paranoia to get up and check that you're still in bed sleeping soundly.

Your eyes were no longer the familiar color you have seen in the mirror or in old photos of your family members you've grown to love. The shade wasn't even close to yours; crazy how one small change made such a big difference in your appearance. Your pupils were slitted vertically, shrinking only to dilate a little once again, getting adjusted. You slowly got up on foal legs and fell on your knees in front of the mirror. Even if you didn't think it was night because you weren't seeing darkness, the light of the moon shone down on the mirror and floor thanks to the now open curtains. That's when your vision stopped unfocusing and finally cleared.

You were now looking at yourself. It felt incredibly alien and familiar at the same time; you looked at yourself every day, whether it was the mirror in your bathroom at home, a crappy motel one that faced the bed (which you cover up with a scoff each time), or a reflection in the car of your vanity mirror checking yourself before going in a precinct, pretending to be a reporter (the things middle-aged pigs would confess to a doe-eyed girl from the press..).

You gently pulled the corner of your upper lip only to reveal your enlarged and sharpened front canines. Your hand fell and instead went to cover your mouth in order to muffle your sobs. You must have done a horrible job because the second you slapped the hand over your mouth, you heard Willlow gasp as if she felt it too.

She drops the food she was unpacking and runs in, taking a moment to calm her heaving chest in the doorway; her hands were holding it like an earthquake had shaked her up; even her round glasses had slipped and rested on the tip of her nose.

"_______, you woke up!" she exclaims cheerfully. "I was just—how do you fee-?"

She kept stuttering and cutting herself off. Willow didn't need to say anything else; she saw the tears welling up in your eyes and felt the same shock you did from the kitchen.

🧿🧿🧿- later on, you have to bump into the Winchesters one way or another

- and it's exactly on a full moon when this time the ball isn't in your court and you don't get to decide whether you turn or not.

- your claws are sharp, your eyes have changed their original color completely with your pupils vertically slit, and your teeth (conveniently) remain the same; only a few of your front canines are enlarged and sharpened.

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

- you can hear deer stepping on tree branches, foxes running, and owls hooting when you're driving by the forest

- you smell how many people are in a room

- you have night vision (yes, your eyes to the flashy thingamajiggy when someone blinds you with their flashlight).

- as a hunter, you already know that your claws and fangs can rip out a human heart.

- ironically, as this whole situation is, you hunt alone on the principle that you don't long for companionship as some lycanthropes do.

- you've turned into a literal killing machine with no instinct to kill, so hunting with others is off the table since at the first sign of a threat (they think you are one, but you really aren't), a hunter exterminates.

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

- you have taken the case before them, but when you couldn't get anywhere with identifying whatever evil being was tormenting the locals with their mere presence, you thought about ditching it since it doesn't look like your type of thing and took the consideration that maybe humans were fucking around this time.

- so when you heard the FBI are in town investigating the case (detective Page and Plant), you placed that town in your rear view mirror; they got it covered..right?

- but something didn't feel right- it wasn't the shame of leaving a case with your tail between your legs (pun intended) with the weak motive, 'Maybe humans are really fucking around this time.'

- something wasn't right, so even if you were tired, you abruptly stopped the car and went over your research spread out on the flat of your closed trunk

- the slits of your eyes dance over the words on your laptop, your papers, and an old lore book you fought tooth and nail for. When you realized it's a ghoul you're dealing with, you turned the car around and went over every speed limit like hellhounds were scratching at your tires. It was your job to not let anybody else get hurt or someone else's grave be violated

- as the light of the moon shined down on you and your wild eyes looked back at you from the rear view mirror, you knew you couldn't have anyone see you, you had to be invisible

- *time skip* (as much as it pains me 'cause i am a sucker for details :))- you swoop in time to save the Winchesters

- and if they weren't tied up, they would've started fighting you too, because why was there a whole ass werewolf fist fighting a ghoul?? John trained them like Spartan warriors, but nothing prepared them for something like this.

- so they sit there like:??????

- they watch you take out a fucking ghoul all by yourself

- the head of the ghoul's person they're impersonating rolls onto the floor. You have to remind yourself it's not a real person; it's an evil spirit who kills to feed

- by the time you wipe the blood off your face, smearing it a bit in the process, and cut the ties holding the hunters loose, Sam is unnable to look away from your slit eyes adorned by a strange color that strangely suits you

- literally hearts in his fawn brown eyes like you still don't have blood on your face and you aren't trying to catch your breath; also, you took a nasty punch to your cheek, and he's pretty sure it's gonna leave a bruise, but he totally doesn't care, why? why do you ask?

- by the way Sam is scrunitizing you, and oh yeah, Sam is scrunitizing you, you're sure you're gonna have to ditch since you've been in this situation before and you know how it always ends

- there was no 'explaining yourself' to hunters when they saw you under the full moon or when they saw you change because you had to.

Before you can even open your mouth they have their methaphorical pitchforks sharpened and torches lit up, prepared to slaughter you, and if you're honest, you can't even blame them for it because you would've done the same.

- Dean rubs his wrist with his right hand; the imprint of the rope is still fresh on his skin like a tattoo. Sam focuses on not choking when you catch him staring.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean thinks out loud. You take a big lungs-exploding sigh and give a shot at introducing yourself since they seem more civilized than most hunters are

- Sam geeks out about you

He doesn't question you because he is suspicious (he has the right to be but surprisingly isn't). He has to feed his noisy, information-hungry brain or he will spontaneously combust

- "Are your senses even more enhanced during the full moon, or are they the same?"

- "Can you smell when somebody is afraid? Like the hormones from their pores?"

- "Is it annoying to always have super hearing? Like has it ever caused you to be..I don't know.. Anxious? It did?" He mourns over you, trying to imagine himself in your situation but possibly can't.

- "I'm really sorry you had to go through a whole..change all by yourself, but it just shows how strong you are, some don't even make it 'til the end."

- After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go.

"..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam.

- more shit Dean would ask you for the sake of his own little curiosity

- "Is 'bitch' even more offensive now?"

- "Who do you think would win in a fight? You or Jacob Black?"

- "What do I smell like? Y'know, since you can pick up on scents and alldat."

- Dean calls you Cujo

- It's the one nickname you can get behind, asking him what he thought about the book, and he's like, "Oh, I watched the movie, but i know a little. Sammy used to rattle on and on about his books when he was younger."

- if you think about it, an alais doesn't sound so bad in theory or practice while hunting.

- it's secretive, the boys don't need to divulge your real name, and it's actually high-key kickass (I literally watched Cujo just so I know what I'm talking about, a.k.a. the second reason why it took a millenium and a half for me to post these; the first reason is that i suck)

- Dean is thrilled to get to call you that- he gets this fucking smirk, like a dad about to drop the worst joke ever made on everyone, you and Sam brace yourselves for what's coming with matching eyerolls-

"Let's fuck em' up, Cujo."

- "Cujo, dude, you're just itching to raise a little hell right now, aren't you?"

- "Uh- a bacon cheeseburger, soda, yo, Cujo whaddya want? My treat >:]."

- "Cujo, put on that song you were listening to; I had it in my head the entire hunt." (I didn't mention the genre or artist bc I like to imagine Dean listening to everyone's fav category; ex. I imagine Dean screaming bikini kill lyrics whenever i'm sad)

- if you thought the 'canine/wolf' teasing stopped here, you're so painfully wrong

- Dean made you a mixtape, because that's his love language apparently, with only songs that are about werewolves

- I feel like it took him a longer time to find a suitable title than the songs themselves

- he has all of the possible picks on a piece of paper that stays in the pocket of his fifty pound leather jacket.

- the titles are: Songs to transform into; The howlin' hits; Songs that will make you wag your tail—that one is crossed out because he knows you will make him eat the tape if he does settle on it; Love at first bite; and finally the one he settled for is Songs you can sink your teeth into. Dean smiled at his work, it didn't feel like a prank anymore it was more like a gift and he didn't feel any ugly emotion or insecurity try to pull him back into not getting attached to you.

The final touch was a note saying

"Hey, Cujo, thought you might want these howlin' hits whenever you need to tune the world out.

P.S. : Sam told me to add one of the songs, it's that punk stuff you like - Dean"

- The songs he prudently picked out are these : Of Wolf and Man by Metallica; Bark at the Moon by Ozzy Osbourne; I Was A Teenage Werewolf by The Cramps; Wolf Moon by Type O Negative; Witch Wolf by STYX; Run with the Wolf by Rainbow; Lycanthropy by G.B.H and others.

- you accidentally made a kid cry once- a ball was literally flying towards you and you caught it just in time, thanks to your reflexes

- instinctively, you turned around in time and caught the ball as your claws grew and sank into the inanimate object

- it's all "Nice relfexes, _____" praise from Dean and proud and shy smiles from Sam until the owner of the ball starts sobbing in front of you

- it's a kid, a boy with red hair, no older than six years of age

- but we all know Dean's charm is basically made for this

- so he handles both the kid and his mom (flirting with a milf all day, poor Dean)

- you keep apologizing to the kid and the mom, but Dean just waves you off; you don't understand his generosity until Sam tells you that you accidentally secured Dean's hookup for tonight.

- Since Dean is not coming, not until early morning, nor is he there to call you and Sam 'dorks', you and his younger brother take advantage of it.

- you guys have a movie night with the most random movies ever

- it is chaotic

- from rom-coms you switch to a world war II documentary, then you watch re-runs of House MD on tv.

- Dean stumbles in at like five something a.m. and takes a picture of you and Sam snuggling under a blanket while the tv light casts shadows of orange and cold colors on your defenseless expressions.

- but can somebody actually blame you? Or Sam, for that matter?

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

- You and Sam were sitting with your sides pressed into each other

- you were radiating pure furnace body heat, how could he not be sleepy??

- but that's not the only reason Sam knocks out so heavily

- it's you he's sitting down with (relaxing for once in his life) watching a ridiculous episode of House with thirteen ads rolling every ten minutes accompanied by lazy talking as if you're not debating books only you and morally grey forty-year-olds read (where that Kansas drawl of his is much more audible and pretty), after a marathon of fatally random movies

- younger Sam who had trouble going to sleep/getting some shut-eye because Dean and John are out late on a hunt.

- Sam especially couldn't fall asleep because Dean wasn't there

- it was a different story when Dean was at the age where he couldn't hunt but he could use a pistol and take care of his little brother

- both of them in a relatively warm motel room, alone (since John fucked off to god-knows-where, to hunt a monster they are never to breathe in the direction of as a conversation subject.)

- little Sammy (age where he believed nothing could beat his older brother) could peacefully fall asleep knowing Dean stays up and watches over him like a hawke, reading comic books by the tv light

- where little Dean keeps chanting in his head what Sammy is supposed to do after eating his dinner.

- Watch tv or look at the comic with me (Sammy can't read yet), brush his teeth, then tuck him in bed.

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

- he is plagued/tormented by flashing images his overthinking big brain mades of a thousand situations where his family got hurt, if not even killed

- Sam's grip on the shotgun is shaking; it shakes even harder when John's bark booms over his shoulder, right into his ear.

- "Sammy, dammit, what are you going to do when a demon breaks through the door and me and your brother aren't there to protect you?!"

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

- snuggled beside you and denying any eepy allegations you decide to accuse him of

- so, the heat you contribute, the soft speaking on the tv, the darkness of the room, you being there is enough to lull Sam to sleep

- studies show you feel sleepy around the people you trust ;)

- the position you two fell asleep in cannot be described in any other word than childish

- somehow you would catch two kids, sleeping over at one of the other's houses, knocked out, and snoring in the same bed after watching a horror movie

- on one of the two queens the motel room contributes (the one closest to the tv) you and Sam have made this fluffy nest full of pillows, a huge blanket, plus a random quilt Bobby pulled out of thin air and gave it to you when he heard you complaining about the petal-thin blankets motels have during cold ass weather.

- When you both lied down on the bed with your legs greedily streched out, backs pressed against the headboard, and your head is resting on the wall while Sam, magically, was still able to hold his up after the very long day all of you endured. You predicted one of you wouldn't survive being in each other's presence and make it out not asleep, and god, you hoped it was you.

- Sam's breathing slows down after a while of comfortable silence, and you’re sure he's dying until you spare one quick glance and see him, downright snoozing with his lips parted without a care in the world, ghosts and eerie phenomenons weren't bothering or needing him now.

- during all of the movies and documentary and fuckin lazy intellectual commentary nobody else would have the patience to discuss with you or Sam, he somehow migrated on the bed/nest with his side flush against yours, like a magnet to another; it was inevitable not to stick together, literally.

- your shoulder was now pressed into his forearm, your head no longer resting uncomfortably, and his temple is resting on the top of your head.

- but (unfortunately) you weren't hugging or anything- like a mirror or a copycat, Sam has his arms crossed, just like you, so maybe that's why you didn't wake up full on cuddling, that does sound good though your brain mourns

- When you do wake up, the only slight change you notice is that you're sleeping on your side..so is Sam. You're facing Sam's neck and chin, and up close and personal, you can actually count the too-sexy amount of moles he modestly posesses. His arm serves the role of a pillow underneath his head, and the other is resting with his palm down facing the mattress.

- with Sam taking up the entire attention of your senses, it takes an emmbarassing while for you to hear the shower running, Dean; did he see you both like this? Was he going to mention it? Your gut fills with a small dose of embarrassement, preparing you for what's yet to come, and it protests at that.

- much displeasure from your senses to your brain and your heart that wanted to breathe Sam in more as he (hopefully) breathes you out, you turn on your other side, unconsciously careful not to disturb Clifford over here, and you try to determine what time it is from your surroundings alone.

- the light blue sneaking its way through the dark closed curtains and the slight chill in the air points all arrows to seven or eight in the morning, you could go back to sleep.

- Dean wasn't just feeling gracious; he didn't and wasn't even planning on sparing you or Sam

- that day, when he separately gets the both of you alone, he has the exact same conversation with different but not so different people.

-"You should've seen the two of you this morning when I came in, two kittens snoring together, it was fuckin' adorable." Dean teased–

—Monday, 13:34 p.m. — as he tossed his clothes into one of the laundromat's washing machines, making Sam paralyze in his seat as his fingers started fidgeting with the edges of his hoodie.

"You did?.." He inquires, not knowing what exactly Dean saw just this morning. Sam only woke up a little after you went back to sleep. He swore his cheek must have burned a hole through the pillow with how hard he was blushing. You were so close. There was a good distance between the edge of the bed and you. So your back was flush against his chest. If you're wondering where his arm went, it was around your waist. Sam—your own personal seatbelt. He probably thinks it's his fault too. Dean never ceased to describe Sam as a 'cuddlebug'.

"Uh-huh" Dean hums a confirmation, acting casual, scarily casual. Sam feels the teasing in Dean's tone; it's there, but Dean is not fully teasing yet, like he wants Sam to confess something first after boiling in his embarrassement for long enough.

—Monday, 20:02 p.m. — as he pulled the Impala into the driveway of a fast-food place you were so invested in you even forgot the name of; you froze and looked at him, searching for any emotion that might give him away, but Dean was a brick wall, a slight very Dean siginificant parted lips smirk paired with squinted eyes over the wheel, carefully driving into the driveway. Even the car seemed to betray you in your moment of weakness because you swear the volume is lower than it was a few seconds ago. Ozzy Osbourne's laugh can still be heard from the speakers, even if it's barely audible over your racing thoughts or your hearing trying its hardest to pick up on Dean's thoughts. The rythym of the drums seems to sync up with your heartbeat, or the other way around, you're not sure. Over every little sound, there still seems to be a little silence to fit in. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"..We had a movie night, we just fell asleep like that, that's all." You mumble, and Dean starts to feel a little bad for letting you be a victim to his spotlight-teasing and giving you no shade to reprieve to or show his undying approval.

Somehow, you still worry if Dean believes you have ruined the dynamic, and now he's cornering you to tell you to stop it or something (overthinking anxiety worms are eating away at your critical thinking skills). You just worry about what he thinks of this. You still worry about the Dean who doesn't correct random people on cases who mistake you and Sam for a couple; the Dean who just has to leave some arsenal or luggage in the front, just so you are forced to share the backseat with Sam; the Dean who always has to group you and Sam in a category when he teases you both (Geeks, nerds, smartasses, etc.). Cupid works hard, but Dean Winchester works harder.

"Hey-, Cuj- Doll." Dean sputters, switching glances between you and the wheel.

This didn't go as he planned it would, and now he is facing the consequences. The way you shrink in your seat and the way you avoid catching his eye makes Dean feel like a douchebag. If he didn't know any better he would thinks he is, but then you would actually be able to read him like a book and tell him otherwise. You hear the desperation in his voice; your candle of hope comes back to life and lights up. Your head turns to look at him with pleading eyes. Please don't be angry, please don't kick me to the curb, let me stay in the backseat a little more. Dean lets out a shaky exhale that turns into a laugh; he runs a hand down his face. You've watched him do that every time he got jumpscared by the monthly spirit with unfinished business. It was something you imagined Dean picked up from John, the picture in your head so clear (at least from the pictures you saw)— a tired dad in an old squeaky motel chair with a whiskey glass in his hand doing the same motion Dean was doing right now. Dean would mimic his father's gestures to try to look more like him; he didn't have his brunette curly hair, his dark brown eyes, Sam did.

Dean never had his voice either; he only perfected his bark to match his dad's. Sam hated the way his reflection resembled his father, Dean was either jealous of him for it or couldn't wrap his head around as to why his brother hated being their dad, probably the latter. Dad, at least in Dean's eyes, was a hero, a figure to be admired and emulated. But Sam? He didn't even have to try. Sam and John were so alike that they clashed constantly like two stubborn stags locking antlers in a duel.

"..Dean?" You call him out; you had no idea what was going on in his head; it would be pretty damn nice if you could know. Dean shots his head up at the mention of his name.

"Yeah?—sorry, I just, you and Sam are just so—" He sighs. "it's about time you two crazy kids broke that touch barrier." He guffaws, slowly pulling up to the ordering kiosk.

A new song starts playing on Dean's "hot summa' nights driving" mixtape, Emmit Remmus by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, he added it when Sam said that's one of his favorites.

- do I need to talk about how much of an immense help you have been on hunts?

- you don't need to help out on every hunt despite Sam's disappointment and Dean's kid-like joy to have their friend help them out who is a professional/werewolf/hunter/geek, who kind of gets his references?? But you are geniunely so good it's funny to have the boys call you up and be like "..so we need help". They're happy you'll show up but there is still that lick of shame that taunts the Winchesters whenever they are forced to call for aid.

- this one time, you wanted to hug them after not seeing them for two weeks, and when you went to attack Sam, you heard his bones crack.

- your strength still surprises you and knocks other people off their feet

- it was so loud (atleast for you), you were sure you broke something

- Sam did nothing but give you his (killer) dimply smile and reassure you didn't do anything (even if he slightly grunted); while Dean whined like a kid saying (lying) he doesn't want a hug (you coaxed him into it eventually)

- Sam feels like he's not allowed to call you by your nickname, like he fears it's Dean's thing and not his

- so when he finally puts on his big boy pants, he's like, "Uhh–Cujo- 🧍‍♂️so get this.."

- all red and shy, trying to act casual, as if he doesn't wonder about the reaction you might have if he calls you other nicknames, like honey, sweetheart, even baby, or if he had the excuse to hold your hand, how would you hold it? Fingers interlocked or palms flat?

- Sam would also love to just marvel at your slit eyes; if he could he would take a picture and put it in his wallet; don't get me wrong if he had one where you were normal, he would cherish it just as much.

- Sam thinks your nickname is actually really cool (probably because it's a Stephen King reference, nerd), and you take that as a compliment. Sam is hard to entertain or please by his brother's antics.

- But he prefers saying your name

- there's something so intimate about the syllables rolling off his tongue so easily

- "_____, Are you okay? What is it? The soundproof earmuffs? I'll go get them." When everything, and I mean when every sound is just too much.

- Sam got them for you; he couldn't handle seeing you wince one more time whenever a car with a bad engine would pass by the motel (during a stressful hunt); its tires squealing under the concrete, making a faint sound for the boys, but for you so much louder.

- you know how pathethic it is to be affected by such small things when you're blessed with such powers? How can you call yourself a hunter when decibels, frequencies, and fucking tire squeals make you their bitch? You wish you could train yourself in a way that would make you less sensitive to certain sounds. It just adds to the reasons why hunters have the excuse or classify you as "the frail one" not only because you're a girl. When you used to hunt with your dad and sometimes mom, the amount of dog-shit comments from other hunters who had sons, were nothing but mysogynistic, curlish, and ruthless. "Are you sure the riffle isn't too heavy?", "Does she even know how to kill this thing?", "She's going to drag us down, do you want us to die?"— the type of comments that would make your dad shoot daggers into them, defend you "She's a goddamn ______, what do you think?", and whisper into your ear "Show em' what you're made of." and you would (stubbornly) listen to his advice to the damn letter after you almost mouthed them off.

Your dad believed in "Actions are sometimes louder than words." and all that adult crap, you were not as zen.

Your mom actually encouraged the sarcasm you have replied with in the past. The funniest memory your mother can recall is a story she tells at every gathering and every chance she gets to everyone, she praised you like crazy. When another hunter's son had the nerve to fuck with a twelve-year-old you. "Aren't you afraid of breaking a nail out there?" The boy sneered, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You stared at him with pure disbelief. "The only way I'm breaking a nail tonight is by kicking your ass, you cocky brainless jerk." You spat back, your mother and father were there and so was the boy's father; the gravity of the situation was on your shoulders, and their stares felt even heavier in comparison; intimidating him was 100% on the table. You felt like everyone had the same exact thought occuring them, an unspoken demand passed everyone there, even you: Do something. And you did. Your mother's jaw went slack; she doubled over, gripping whatever surface was near her and she started to chortle, with her shoulders shaking like never before. Your father was holding in a chuckle while massaging the bridge of his nose.

- Sam has to disagree with you whenever you complain about how your senses make you look or about the way you underestimate yourself. "What?! You can't be serious. _____, It doesn't mean you're weak. In fact, it makes you even more interesting. Everyone has an Achilles heel; yours is stronger because you're an amazing hunter who figured a way out. It makes you even stronger, I have no idea how you deal with this crap! Dean and I would've gone insane if we were in your shoes for more than a day."

- he is also forcing back his infamous (spectacular) bitchface

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

- he geniunely cannot glare at you, not when you're like this. He can make a few exceptions, like when you join in Dean's teasing/joking (the silly rambunctious energy Dean carries around had, unfortunately, contiminated you or awakened yours)

- or when you start teasing Sam yourself, he shoots you a glare that classifies as nothing but hot (in your book at least), the kind of Sam glare that makes you flush knowing he doesn't mean it at all.

- Dean making you those fake ass I.D's like "Joan Jett", "Stevie Nicks", "Kathleen Hanna" and when you asked him to make more subtle ones he was like, bet. "Kelly Hammer", "Diana Bowie", "Laura Ulrich".

a/n: I wanted to apologize again for taking so long and for the unnecessary amount of context that literally nobody asked for. Uhh yeah and feedback would be very much appreciated<3, sava out *mic drop*

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Bookmark my Heart

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Description: You're not the audiobook type. You much prefer reading over listening to books. It would just be your luck that an audiobook got you into this predicament. His eyes are piercing as you fumble with your phone to mute the volume, his voice blaring from the device.

Warnings: None! (Though I do believe Flirty!Rooster is a warning I should call out.)

Themes: Meet-Cute, Flirting, Coffee, Books, Smut Books

Word Count: 3456

A/N: So, if you all aren't aware, today is the lovely @roosterforme's birthday! I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate Em and all of the amazing things she does more than to write some Rooster for her. Happy Birthday! I hope your day is as wonderful as you are! So without further ado, I'm pleased to present you all with Bookmark my Heart, a fic where Bradley Bradshaw is an audiobook narrator and the reader, nicknamed Paper, runs right into him! All my thanks to @horseshoegirl and @desert-fern for beta-reading this fic and catching all of the places where I've missed commas as well as updating my phrasing!

My Masterlist

AO3: Cross-posted Here!

Wattpad: Cross-posted Here!

You’re not the audiobook type. Something about having someone read the pages, providing inflections and changes of tone to the otherwise inflectionless words tends to kill your imagination. So you much prefer reading over listening to the books you’re in the mood to peruse. It would just be your luck that an audiobook got you into this predicament. His eyes are piercing as you fumble with your phone to mute the volume, his voice blaring from the device. But maybe you should back up a little bit.

It all started, like it usually did for you, with a book. Unlike normally though, you aren’t talking about Keats, Byron, Shelley, or Austen. This time, the book that was your downfall was something you’d usually classify as chick-lit. Not that chick-lit is a bad thing. There are quite a few romance novels which are beautifully written and that you enjoy reading and re-reading. It’s just not normal that a romance novel, something smutty and provocative, would end up being talked about on podcasts and the news. That’s not considering how all of your female colleagues seem to be talking about the very same book. But that’s the other interesting thing. They’re not even discussing the book’s contents. More like they’re discussing the narrator’s voice in the audiobook edition - how deep and smooth and raspy it is.

It hadn’t even been a full day before the curiosity got the better of you and you purchased the book from Kindle Unlimited. It took you the better part of two weeks before you actually screwed up the courage to listen to it though. Maybe you shouldn’t have picked a Saturday morning when you were running errands to listen to the book. In your defense, there was no better time to listen to the book other than a day when you’d be spending quite a long time in the car with nothing else to do. You’d definitely miscalculated. Dear lord, this man’s voice?! It’s deep and raspy, something smooth and dark in how he voices the syllables. It’s the kind of voice you’ve once heard referred to as panty-wetting - an epithet you’ve never understood until now.

The book has you squirming as you walk through the grocery store. There’s sweat dripping down your spine as he talks about something involving fighter jets and the men (and women - you always feel like you have to correct) who fly them. You’d never have thought that flaps and ailerons could ever be that alluring. You have to take a minute as you leave the grocery store, sitting in your car in silence practically heaving just at the way the word “Doll” had dripped off of his lips. Maybe you can buy into the hype a little bit. It’s not often that you find a romance book in the male perspective after all. As far as finding the pilots sexy goes, though, what can you say? You’ve seen Top Gun - both movies - those boys in their dress whites are awfully sexy.

You send a little prayer of thanks to Rooster Bradshaw, whoever he is, for narrating this book. Just his voice has already made your boring Saturday running errands a thousand times better. You don't even mind that you're melting in the San Diego heat without the air conditioning on as you collect yourself. At least there is only one thing you have left to do today. As a reward for finishing up your errands, including odious activities like going to the bank and post office and grocery shopping, you'd vowed to treat yourself with a romp through your favorite bookstore.

Like you mentioned earlier, it all started with a book. What can you say? You're nothing if not predictable. The Breezy Bean is your favorite coffee shop and bookstore. It's a small shop nestled right in the midst of cobblestone streets and overshadowed by apartment buildings on either side. It's always a zoo trying to get parking, but you can't regret the competition for parking when the books are as good as they are and the coffee is even better.

Lara's not at the counter, but her business partner and best friend, Emily is, and you wave at her absentmindedly as you tangle the cord of your headphones around your index finger. The entire shop smells like coffee beans, paper and ink. You could spend forever here, and you're sure you have, at the very least, spent the entire day in the shop before. The shelves tower over your head, creaking under the weight of everything they hold. You're not a woman on a mission today, content to just meander until a cover catches your fancy. The eyes eat first, after all, isn't that what they say? If only you knew how true that statement would be.

The whole time you're listening to the book, tasting the words on your tongue seconds after Rooster says them, teasing the syllables out like you're trying to snatch them from his lips. Is it any wonder that after about four hours of listening to his voice, you're starting to imagine what the main character of the book looks like based on how Rooster sounds? You're only human, after all. It's quiet and dim in the back of the store, the shelves lit only by the small lights shining from the wall sconces. This is your favorite section of the store. There's a squashy green armchair here with a small table, and this is where you usually sit and wile away the hours.

It's rare that anyone ever ventures into this corner of the store. So it's a surprise when you see a man standing right in front of your favorite chair. He's tall and ridiculously handsome, wearing an eye-wateringly bright Hawaiian shirt and slim-fitting jeans. Like everyone in California, he's got Ray-Bans flung into the neckline of his tank top. The truly unique part of his look is the mustache he's carefully cultivated on his upper lip. He’s holding a book in long-fingered hands, lips pursed as he scans the pages, leaning gently against one of the shelves.

You try your best to squeeze past him in the narrow aisle, wondering if Em and Lara have squeezed more shelves back here or if you've just gained weight when it happens — your headphone cord snags on the buttons on his open shirt. You try to untangle it, unsuccessfully, but then your phone falls out of your pocket and rips your headphones right out of the jack.

You were just getting to a good part, something filled with innuendo but not quite at the sex. That's your only silver lining. Because when your phone nosedives to the, thankfully, carpeted floor sans your headphones, the audio keeps playing way too loudly for the hushed environment. To add insult to injury, your phone is closer to him than it is to you, and well, you've embarrassed yourself enough. The last thing you need is to get eye-level with a stranger's dick while your phone is narrating smut in a bookstore.

“Good book?” There's a smile on his face, and you nod timidly as he hands you back your phone. You pause the app and turn the volume all the way down before his words, or well, you should say, the sound of his voice sinks in.

If you weren’t mortified before, you're even more so now. Obviously, your brain does not compute, so your brain-to-mouth filter isn't working as you blurt out, “You're Rooster Bradshaw.”

It doesn’t surprise you at all when he starts laughing - a full body, belly laugh which fills the stacks with the mellifluous sound. If you had any doubts before that you'd run into the Rooster Bradshaw at your favorite coffee shop before (which you didn’t - see your intimate knowledge of his voice from earlier), you wouldn’t have any now. His character had actually laughed not fifteen minutes ago in the book. Well, now what are you supposed to do? You feel hot, embarrassment crawling its way up your throat as you shift your weight back and forth. Rooster's smiling at you as he stands back, lounging against the shelf like he's waiting for you to get your shit together. You'd hate to break it to him, but you don't think that's possible.

“I'm sorry.” You try your best to hide your face because he does not need to see what your facial expressions are doing.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” You shrug a shoulder as you busy yourself by turning around and trying to force yourself to read the titles. “It's not every day I run into pretty girls in my favorite bookstore, listening to me narrate a book about US Naval Aviators.”

Flirting shouldn’t be the thing which puts you at ease in this situation. There really must be something wrong with you. You’ve never done anything like this before. What happened to the girl who would have run away the minute the phone fell? She might not be facing down the sexiest man she’s ever seen, but at least that version of her isn’t at risk of heart palpitations.

“I hate to break it to you, Rooster, but a lot of pretty women are listening to you right now. This book has made its way onto podcasts and PBS. The author herself has been interviewed gushing about your professionalism and how you say the word “aileron.” Despite your mortification, you find yourself mirroring his relaxed position against the shelves. “Though I do have to correct a part of your statement there. What about yoga pants, glasses, and a messy bun makes me pretty? Because I’d call myself a mess.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re a mess, pretty girl.” Rooster grins as he tugs the shoulder of your cami up from where it is sliding down your arm. “Don’t you know exactly how devastating you look in those yoga pants?”

You’re left dumbstruck, reeling as he leans even closer to you. All of a sudden, you’re inundated with the scent of his cologne as he crowds into your space, and you’re forced to tip your head up to keep eye contact. Of course, the motion makes your glasses tip on your face, and you can’t lift a hand up to resettle them on your face without brushing up against every inch of the man, nearly squishing you into the shelf. There’s a scant few centimeters between you as you try to string words together.

“What makes you think I don’t know how good these pants make my ass look?” You smirk just a little, screwing up all of your courage to peer up at him. “But really, this outfit is comfortable.”

“Comfortable is not how you’re making me feel, honey.” There’s a heat in his gaze as his voice rasps out the words. “But maybe we can both get a little more comfortable and have a cup of coffee together?” 

Only two people will ever know if your hand strays right over the seam at the front of his jeans as you walk away. “I’d love to, but maybe you need to take a few minutes in seclusion, Mr. Chicken.”

You feel giddy as you walk away because things like this don’t just happen to girls like you. You don’t flirt with men you've just met. And you definitely do not brush over the dicks of men you've just met! The counter is nearly empty as you walk up, and you know Em has clocked onto the fact that your hands are surprisingly empty of books.

“Hiya, Paper!” You roll your eyes only a little. Buy a stack of paperbacks once a week from a bookstore for months, and this is exactly what you’ll be nicknamed. “No books today?”

“Hey, Em. Can I get a latte, please? And whatever the gentleman in the Hawaiian shirt orders is on me.” You grin at the sight of her eyebrows ticking up until they’re nearly in her hair.

“What has our sweet little Paper been doing today, huh?” You shrug just a little, grinning as she hands you your drink. “I’ve been reading, Em!”

“Of course you have!” You’re laughing as you make your way to a table for two in the corner.

You’re smiling outright when Rooster swaggers out of the shelves a few minutes later, and Em clocks the Hawaiian shirt on his broad frame. She’s half drooling when he orders an Americano. As she turns to make his drink, you get the messages in short order.

What the fuck, Paper!

This is the man you’re buying a coffee for?

Damn, girl! I’m going to need all of the details. STAT!

You put the device away only when the chair opposite yours slides out, and Rooster settles in. You'd promised a full detailing of the encounter to Em, and you wouldn't be surprised if Lara interrogates you the next time you see her as well.

“So, obviously, you come here often, then.” He’s smirking as he sips on his coffee.

“Yup!” You’re just as chipper as you blow over the surface of your own mug.

“You come here often enough that one of the owners just threatened me with the loss of my…” He pauses like he’s not sure if he should laugh or cry as he says the words, “...crown jewels…” and grimaces before continuing, “...if I hurt you.”

“She also called you Paper. Why’s that, Honey?”  

You lean forward, feeling just a little more confident as he mirrors your position. “Tit for tat, Bradshaw, if that even is your last name. You tell me something about yourself, I tell you something about myself.”

“Deal?” You stretch your hand out and gasp when he takes it and sets it down to the side of the mugs.

“Deal.”

“I’ll start.” Your faces are inches apart from each other. He's whispering, and you have to lean forward even further so you don't miss a single word. “My name’s Bradley Bradshaw. I didn’t want to use my real name while narrating those books.”

“And Rooster was what you decided on?” His chuckle and yours rise into the air in perfect harmony.

“It was a nickname I got in college. I was always the only guy in the dorm up before 9 A.M.”

You take turns sharing your life stories and quite a few secrets until your coffees are long gone. You find yourself telling him all about how you got your nickname and how you’ve been feeling stuck for the longest time. With Bradley, it doesn’t feel like another boring first date. If it weren’t for the faint hiss of the espresso machine and the clank of mugs and cutlery you wouldn't think there was another person in the room but the two of you. There are butterflies in your stomach, and your entire body shudders when he hooks his ankle around yours and tugs you closer. That point of contact has your blood turning into molten lava in your veins as his hand trails gentle patterns across your upturned palm.

“Hey, Paper?” It takes an inhuman effort to drag your eyes away from the magic Bradley Bradshaw is committing just with your hands in his own.

“Hey, Em.” As you say her name, you realize how dark it is. “The store’s closing, isn’t it?”

“Yup. It actually closed an hour ago. You looked so cute together that I called Lara, and we made an executive decision to let the two of you keep talking for just a bit longer.”

Your face feels extra hot because Em’s looking at you like she’s liable to start laughing at any moment. You don’t want to know what your hair looks like now, not after hours of running your fingers through it. It’s probably even more of a mess than it was when you literally ran into Bradley hours ago. A great first impression, right?

“Let me settle up then, Em.” If your voice is hushed and a little more subdued, it’s because reality and panic are settling in.

“No, sweetheart.” Bradley’s voice is even firmer as he stands up and places a hand on your arm. “Today is on me, I insist.”

You know exactly when Em puts it together, because her eyes widen to a comical degree. She was the biggest reason why you bought the book in the first place. “You’re Rooster Bradshaw!”

For the second time today, you find yourself laughing along with Bradley, though the sounds of his laughter doesn’t put you at ease in quite the same way as it did earlier. Em’s laughing too, and she looks gorgeous in the golden light. At least she’s put together in a way you’re so obviously not. Maybe you should have taken your mother’s well-meant advice when you were younger - dress to impress, for you never know who you’re going to meet. But you haven’t taken that advice, choosing to dress simply and comfortably. It works when you can’t wear any makeup when you work in a laboratory and when all of your nice clothes would be at risk of chemical spills at worst and covered by a lab coat at best. So you walk through life in a swirl of well-worn jeans, tee-shirts, yoga pants, tank tops, camisoles, sneakers and sandals. There are a few dressier items in your closet, but they’re so far in the back that you haven’t worn them in probably a year and a half. Em’s cute outfit and wavy, non-greasy hair probably feel like a breath of fresh air to him. The same goes for the timber of her voice and how she sounds so elegant. 

If you didn't know any better (because you know Em, you do), you'd think that the words the two of them are sharing by the counter now are flirtier than settling up a bill. It doesn’t help the green, envious monster sitting on your shoulder, though. Nor does it help when you run to the restroom and take a look at yourself in the mirror. You look worse than you thought you did. Your face is wan and pale, the bags under your eyes have bags, and your hair is so greasy that it lays limp when you release it from your bun. Your lips are chapped, and fuck, how did you manage to drip coffee onto yourself?! You only drank one cup! What's left to show you that you've made a huge fool of yourself?

Your hands shake as you splash water on your face and put your hair back in its sad bun again. Just a little longer and you'll be home, wallowing in peace at yet another failed potential relationship. At least the water has brought a blush to your cheeks and cleaned the worst of the smudges off your glasses. Bradley probably has Em's phone number by now, right? It's probably best not to get your hopes up too high, else you find yourself falling from a prodigious height.

Instead, you're pleasantly surprised to see him still in the shop.

“Hey!” His face lights up when he sees you, and you're sure your earlier pep-talk about managing your expectations hasn’t worked at all. This is going to hurt. “So, I know talking to a stranger for hours at a coffee shop probably isn't the best first date. So would you maybe want to go on a real one sometime soon?”

“Y-you're serious?” He smiles and hands you his phone, unlocked.

“Put your number in there, Paper.” Your mind's not working at all as you type the ten digits in. 

“Why me?” 

His smile is warm and fond as he takes the phone back, types something and hits send. Your notification tone goes off soon after. 

“It's not every day I run into a pretty girl listening to me reading a romance novel who doesn't fawn all over me once they realize who I am. It's been nice talking to you. I feel like you're the first person in a long time to see Bradley, not Rooster.”

He holds the door open for you, a hand finding its way to the small of your back as he walks you out to your car. He even opens the door for you, a chivalrous action which has your heart flip-flopping in your chest. “Baby doll?”

“Yeah?” He takes advantage of the height difference between you to tip your face up as he feathers a kiss across the apple of your cheek.

“It helps that your ass looks damn good in those yoga pants!” 

You're laughing despite yourself as you drive away. Maybe audiobooks aren't as bad as you think? Or, well, at least their narrators aren't.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

@desert-fern @horseshoegirl @dakotakazansky @sarahsmi13s @teacupsandtopgun @footprintsinthesxnd @roosterforme @beyondthesefourwalls @mak-32 @thedroneranger @chaoticassidy @shanimallina87 @kmc1989

[philon-awards]

PHILON AWARDS 2024: Nominations are open!!

After last year's successful relaunch of this beautiful celebration of fannish creativity, KiScon is honoured to once again host the Philon Awards. Established by Jenna Sinclair and Shelley Butler in 1997, they originally were an annual event organised by The K/S Press to honour outstanding authors and artists in K/S fandom. With the permission and support of Jenna and Shelley, KiScon is happy to continue this tradition.

There are 8 categories:

Short fic (word count under 10K)

Long fic (word count 10K-50K)

Novella/novel (word count over 50K)

Podfic

Traditional Art

Digital Art

Poetry

Zines

For each category the voters will determine a Gold (first place) and a Silver (second place) winner.

Rules

Nominating and Voting:

Nominations are open until 31 August, 2024. Each fan can nominate up to 3 works per category, but you cannot nominate the same work twice.

For a work to make it onto the voting ballot, it needs at least 3 nominations. Before we add it to the ballot, we will get in touch with the creator to ask whether they are fine with this!

Voting is open from 10 September to 27 October, 2024.

The winners will be announced during KiScon 2024. Each winner will receive a certificate and a small prize.

Nominating and voting both take place via Google Forms, and you need to be logged in in order to submit the form; this ensures that people do not nominate or vote multiple times for the same work. If we suspect sockpuppet activity, we will get in touch for clarification. We keep the nomination and voting process completely confidential! Only the KiScon concom will see the submitted forms.

While *we* won't talk about who nominated what, *you* can still discuss your faves and promote them, if you feel comfortable doing so. Making fellow fans aware of great works and sharing why you love and want to nominate them, is encouraged.

You can submit the nominations form only once, but you can edit your responses if you need to add or change something (just follow the link in the email you receive after submitting the form). Please make sure to include every fanwork you want to see on the shortlist. You cannot edit your responses after nominations have closed.

To answer a question we received last year: yes, you can nominate (and vote for) your own work(s). We won't judge you. ;-)

Fanworks:

The work must focus on the pairing Kirk/Spock or Kirk & Spock. Slash (romantic and/or sexual relationship) and gen (friendship) are equally eligible. If a fic includes Kirk and/or Spock in relationships with other characters, be they canonical or original, this does not disqualify the work for the Philon Awards, as long as the focus is clearly on Kirk and Spock's relationship.

Art must feature Kirk or Spock or both of them; additional characters in the artwork are allowed, but no depiction of Kirk/Other or Spock/Other.

All universes are welcome: TOS (series and movies), TAS, and reboot, Discovery and Strange New Worlds. AUs and mirror universe are equally allowed. Crossovers between different Trek franchises or between Trek and other media are permitted, as long as Kirk and Spock are the work’s main characters.

RPF works (e.g. Shatnoy) are not eligible.

All ratings and genres are allowed. If a work among your nominations includes strong elements that would merit a warning on the AO3 (e.g. rape, major character death etc.), we'd appreciate a heads-up on the nominations form, so that we can make sure to include the warning on the shortlist.

The work must be complete. It can be part of a series, but the work itself must not be a WIP (missing chapters or a draft/unfinished sketch).

The work must have been created and published (print or online) after last year's nomination period. So everything from 1 September 2023 onwards until the end of the current nomination phase (31 August 2024) is eligible. Reprints or uploads of earlier works (e.g. a fic you wrote and published a few years ago and uploaded to the AO3 only recently) cannot take part in this contest. If a multi-chapter fic was started earlier, but the date of completion falls within the eligible range, then it can also be nominated.

For podfic the creation/publication date of the actual podfic counts, not of the written fic that inspired it.

AI-generated fic is NOT allowed.

Traditional art means that it was hand-drawn or hand-painted; scanning or photographing the finished work in order to publish it online is allowed, of course.

With digital art, we mean art that was created by a fan artist directly on a tablet or computer, or art that started out as hand-drawn and underwent significant digital alterations in the next steps. We do NOT allow AI-generated art! Manips based on still images or photos of the actors are not eligible in this contest.

Zines: Both e-zines and print zines published between 1 September 2023 and 31 August 2024 are eligible.

Last but not least: these awards are meant to be fun and a celebration of the K/S fandom. The shortlist will double as lovely rec list! We get to talk about our faves and let the creators know that we love their works.

You can fill in the nominations form embedded on the KiScon website, or (if your device does not display it properly) you can find it directly at this link.

[anystalker707]

Infatuation

Pairing: Gerard x Reader Word count: ~ 5 100 Genre: Fluff / Comfort Summary: Mikey's quiet brother catches (y/n)'s attention, and they're up to doing anything to have him fall for them with the help of their friends, Mikey, Ray, and Frank. A/n: another venting fic, tbh, lmao. not proofread.

I was Mikey’s friend. Of course, I had gone to his place a few times, even spent the weekend, but even so, I hardly saw Gerard come out of his room in the basement. He would rarely make an appearance, only showing up when Donna or Elena asked him to do something for her, mainly to bring things from the store down the street.

I could remember clearly the first time I had seen him. After seeing Mikey through the window of the school's restaurant, my interest immediately sparkled at the sight of one of the other alt kids who roamed the school's campus, so I was quick to ask Pete who he was. Mikey happened to be walking by with his brother when Pete and I hung out by the parking lot.

"The Ways?" Pete raised an eyebrow, scratching the back of his head with his gaze on the two males in the distance, talking beside a gray car. "You wanna know who they are? Mikey and his brother?"

A brother. My eyes went past Mikey to observe the pale figure with dark hair. He looked at Mikey mostly expressionless while the younger one moved around frantically, sometimes motioning inside the car, past the open passenger door. He seemed as if he had come out of a romance by Lord Byron, Poe, Shelley, or Stoker, but bathed in the last century's pop culture. Untouchable, in a way because, after all, how was one supposed to approach him? His eyes judged his brother coldly, already, but something made me want to be close to him, someone who would walk into his room uninvited and have him over just because I don't want to be home alone.

"I mean..." I shrugged—what did he mean by that? "Are they nice people?"

Pete hummed. "Very nice! They are from New Jersey, actually. Gerard moved here so he could study in art school and decided to bring Mikey along with him so he can get used to it since Mikey is also looking for a college around the area."

With a quiet hum, I nodded. "I see."

Mikey seemed hard to be friends with, in the beginning, but things ran by quite smoothly. It started with a simple exchange of assignments that slowly turned into sending each other songs then daily talking before Mikey invited me over to his place because he was having a small Halloween gathering. That's when Ray and Frank came around.

That day, Gerard had only left his basement once. Still, even with small appearances like this, it was enough for the small infatuation in my chest to grow each time.

“What does your brother do, Mikey?” I furrowed my eyebrows. Gerard had walked into the house and shortly went to the kitchen, where Mikey and I did our homework, before going down the stairs to the basement with a seemingly heavy box in his hands. The silence had echoed in the room before I questioned him.

Mikey didn’t even look away from his notebook. “Art school.” And he didn’t say anything further.

Gerard had a quiet nature that was quite noticeable, but it also seemed hard to break. The most I had interacted with him was resumed down to asking him for Donna’s phone number so I could message her something regarding Mikey, as she had asked. It earned me a few murmured words before he held his phone out with the contact's profile.

Ray probably noticed my thoughtful form—things barely went unnoticed by him, after all; Ray had quite a talent for knowing everyone in the group to a base level, which had already shown just after a few weeks of friendship. “So, (n/n),” he said as he moved closer, arm wrapping around my shoulders, “what’s in that little mind of yours?”

My cheeks immediately heated up and my eyes averted away because, after all, thinking about this felt so wrong. It didn’t seem like Gerard wanted to be perceived. I gulped, staring at my shoes, my feet hanging from the short wall contouring the square’s flower bed that I sat on top of. Mikey and Frank preferred the bench beside it. It was a quiet afternoon we had decided to hang out, with the rare occurrence of Mikey and I having our afternoon schedules free after the teachers sent us dismissal emails, so Ray decided to take the afternoon off while Frank... just skipped classes.

“I... It’s nothing.” I shook my head, reaching for Frank’s can of Monster so I could take a sip of it, quickly giving it back to him. “I swear, there’s nothing.”

Ray raised an eyebrow, leaning back on the concrete, next to me. “Are you sure? Doesn’t it have anything to do with the sudden curiosity towards Gerard lately?”

Fuck. My face felt even hotter and I struggled to move away with the way he leaned in until he finally pulled away with a chuckle.

“If you’re afraid I’m going to find anything,” Mikey grumbles, “I’m, at minimum, gonna be happy because Gerard isn’t going to be such a sulking fuck all the time. Maybe he and his bedroom would smell less like mold. I mean, not to discourage you, but Gerard—”

“Mikey!” Ray clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “Y’know, (y/n), it’s more about... knowing how to deal with someone who got depression and some traumas on his back. I’m not trying to discourage you, it’s just that you might feel intimidated at first, but Gerard is actually a lovely person. You gotta break that first barrier he puts between himself and everything new, but it might be easy since you’re always around and stuff.” He finished with a wide smile. “I believe in you.”

Ray’s words somehow made me feel more flustered but in a good sense. He had such a way to change perspectives of situations—he would often help us sort things out whenever we had any problem. He was sort of an ideal being; he didn’t seem to have any problems, despite the hard times he occasionally went through just like everyone else. There were uncountable times in which he had spontaneously introduced himself to our issues so he could solve them because, according to him, it was his obligation as a friend. Of course, it can be concerning sometimes since he will blame himself for things he has nothing to do with, so we also do our best to help Ray out, and at least try to return a little bit of what he does for us.

His words didn’t discourage me. They had some use when I first grew the courage to walk up to Gerard and talk with him.

“That shirt you have,” I mumbled to Gerard. We were in the kitchen late at night, with the (maybe) fortunate occurrence of having met each other when getting out of bed motivated by thirst. “Is it themed after a movie or a show? Y’know, the one with a helmet. Reminds me of Star Wars.”

I was almost certain Gerard wouldn’t answer, that he would just put his glass in the sink and leave, leaving me in the thick night silence because I was too pathetic.

“The Mandalorian,” Gerard’s soft voice echoed through the room. “It’s a Star Wars spin-off. Do you like Star Wars?”

Something in my chest immediately warmed up as I looked at him for a second, still wondering if I was imagining stuff. “Um, yeah! Mikey and I watch a lot of movies when I’m over... Never got to watch The Mandalorian, though, since we end up mostly rewatching stuff.”

Part of me hoped Gerard would invite me to watch it with him, but of course, it was a step that was too wide yet. Instead, his eyes just fell to the ground before he nodded shortly. “It’s worth it.” His lips pressed into a soft smile at the moment his gaze met mine and the bottom of his glass met the sink in a quiet clicking. “Well, good night.” He walked out of the kitchen in swift steps.

Not surprisingly, Ray was quick to catch onto what was going on.

“What was going on?” He had asked, approaching me after I went silent for a little too long while he and Frank chatted while we hung out at his place. Frank was sitting weirdly on the armchair of the small dorm room while Ray sat next to me on the couch, where I comfortably had my legs tucked close to support my phone. I didn’t hear the question at first, humming confused as my eyes averted to watch Ray leaning closer to glance at my phone’s screen. “Oh, The Mandalorian?” The corner of his lips tugged up, his gaze already making me want to shrink and disappear. “Well, do you know who really likes The Mandalorian? Gerard even has a Din Djarin shirt!”

“Oh, really?” I tried, even if I could already feel my face burning hot. I really didn’t have a single second of peace.

Frank giggled. “Imagine humiliating yourself for a submissive!”

“I’m not humiliating myself!” I paused the episode so I could put my phone down and glared at Frank. “I’m just—” My thoughts just didn’t come up with anything coherent. It must have been so much fun for them.

“You’re troubling yourself with watching that boring stuff just because the submissive you like is a fan! Dunno...” Frank shrugged. “Sounds a little like humiliation, to me. Do you need a dick that bad, (y/n)?” His question was met with silence, of course. Because, like, what was I supposed to say? What could I possibly use as an argument that wouldn’t have Frank dropping sarcastic remarks? He muffled his laughter with his hand, head falling back against the armchair’s cushion.

Hell. It made me feel breathless, in a sort of bad sense. I wanted to escape that, but at the same time, I felt just like a goddamn puddle, unable even to look at anything other than the weird stain at the corner of the screen of Ray’s TV. It had been a while since I had been with someone or at least genuinely attracted to someone, so Gerard was sort of a game-changer. Something important, in two senses. If I did something wrong, it could affect Ray, Mikey, and Frank. On the other hand, it would also break me a little. Liking him so much while knowing so little about him felt so wrong. I sought anything that would get me closer to him.

“Why don’t you text him?” Ray raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t have his phone number,” I mumbled. I wanted to hide, but also for it to go further, for any hint or help that would get me closer to Gerard. “Nor any reason to do so.”

Ray leaned back against the couch with a thoughtful hum, scratching the back of his head ever so carefully so he wouldn’t ruin his curls. “You do. I’ll send you his number and you’ll send him a text, you see. You could ask him to send you the college’s application rules and calendar, telling him I told you to ask him for them since I don’t have the files. Then,” Ray said as he moved closer, his arm over the couch’s backrest, “you can tell him how much you’ve been liking The Mandalorian. Maybe share theories and stuff. He likes that. Thing is, Gerard is really introverted. You gotta talk to him first and all if you want anything."

As much as Ray was a good problem solver and peacemaker, his advice tended to suck, so we would always think twice before doing anything. I couldn’t even think once at the moment; thankfully, Ray wasn’t wrong this time.

Dealing with Gerard was... difficult at first, though it didn’t take me long to catch on how he had the same texting habits as Mikey, extraordinarily. They didn’t answer all of the texts you’d send them nor did they have the read receipts turned on, so it was a little hard to determine whether they did or not read your messages, at first. It was just like talking to a wall, even if he tended to be more extroverted over texts. That's why I didn't know whether Gerard was okay with the idea of hanging out with me while Mikey was out for a couple of hours.

In the first place, Gerard knew Mikey would leave shortly for a job interview, and later got aware that I'd be at his place since the morning. Those couple of hours of Mikey’s absence wouldn't exactly be awkward—I'd been at his place enough times not to feel awkward in his absence, even more considering how Donna was so sweet—, but it would be nice to hang out with Gerard. Plus, away from Mikey. Not that Mikey would do anything inconvenient; it was more about my sanity.

"You look good," I reassured Mikey from my place on the couch as he stood in the middle of the living room, adjusting his button-up shirt. Donna seemed as if she would die of pride, with a wide smile behind her hands that rested intertwined under her nose. "You're gonna do well, also."

"Of course!" Donna nodded. "Just remember everything we told you, alright? Ask about the workplace and the relationship between the other employees, don't subject yourself to a job that isn’t worth it!"

Mikey hummed with a nod. "Of course."

"Good luck, honey!" She hugged him tightly for a moment. "Go! You can't be late!"

"Right, thank you." He kissed her cheek and proceeded to hug me as well.

"You'll do fine!" I smiled, compelling him to do the same.

Mikey patted his pockets until he recognized the shapes of his phone and keys through the fabric, then left with another quick exchange of words. Donna and I were left staring at the door for a second before she disappeared inside the kitchen again.

The silence was almost deafening while the anxiety threatened to consume me from the inside out. What face would I put on if Gerard came out of his room and saw me sitting there pathetically, with false hope because he didn't even bother to answer me? It was the first time in a while that I felt out of place in the Way household.

"What episode of The Mandalorian did you stop in, again?" The sudden voice almost had me jumping in my place, turning around to see Gerard standing there behind the couch before he made his way around it, taking a seat about a foot away from me. When did he get there, in the first place? It always amused me how quiet he can be, just appearing and disappearing randomly. Mikey can be just like that when he decided not to be chaotic.

A sigh escaped my lips before I nodded, clearing my throat. "Sixth, first season."

Gerard raised his eyebrows with a hum. "We can finish the season."

It's awkward at first. I sat there not knowing what to do, or where to put my hands at. I rolled my shoulders back, trying to let out the breath I had been holding as slowly as possible while resting against the couch before my back started hurting.

Gerard, on the other hand, didn't seem nervous at all, to the point it almost put me to shame. His eyes watched the TV from behind his messy dark bangs with the same amusement as if watching it for the first time. He was still in his Star Wars-themed pajamas, with a loose black shirt that rode up a little with how he had his legs up on the couch.

His index finger rested over his lips, elbow over one of his knees. Sometimes his eyebrows would furrow and his lips would purse according to what happened, and—

His eyes met mine. Fuck.

Thankfully, all he did was look back at the TV the moment I looked away. Maybe I was just overthinking.

"Damn, that’s when he—" Gerard paused, looking at me. "Fuck, sorry. Are you okay with spoilers?"

At first, I pondered saying no because I wanted to be surprised and intrigued as things happened, but was it worth not hearing his excited little comments about something he liked so much?

"No, not really," I chuckle softly, "you can comment all you want."

Gerard’s lips curl up into a cute smile. "Okay."

I don't know at what point it happened, exactly, but Gerard was sitting right next to me. It was nice how happy he looked, moving his hand around while explaining stuff, sometimes pointing at the screen or just moving around to follow what he said.

"And— Din, you know who portrays him, right?" He raised an eyebrow at me. He was so close. Cute, though.

"Impossible not to know, with all the current repercussions on The Last of Us, y'know."

"Right," Gerard hummed with a nod, and whatever he said sounded like gibberish because, as he shifted, I could feel his arm right behind my back. "What do you think?"

"Huh? Sorry, I—"

"Sorry, am I bothering you?" He twists his lips a little. "Do you want me to let you watch it in peace or..."

It almost hurt a little that I had made him think that. "No! I like your comments! They're nice, I like the way you see it all and stuff."

Gerard pressed his lips together in a shy smile as his gaze fell to the ground at the same moment a red tone tinted his cheeks. "Well, thank you," he mumbled, scratching the side of his face.

Soon, the episode finished and the preview of the show was displayed on the screen instead, but it wasn't like we would watch anything else.

"—the character designs, you know? I think that's what really gets me! They're well built not just regarding their story, but also their visual, y'know? It's something that inspires me a lot!"

"Oh, Mikey did tell me you go to art school!" I grinned, watching his eyes lighten up. "I guess I have seen one of your works. Was it you who drew Ray, Mikey, and yourself in a cartoon sort of style? With blood and all?"

"Yes!" He nodded frantically. "I decided to make a little something for us because it completed around 10 years that we've been friends! What did you think of it!"

"Loved it! It looked very nice! 'Would love to see more of your works, even." My cheeks heated up a little with how I was advancing, but I still had confidence in myself. After all, Ray said he would like me and Ray knew both of us well.

Gerard’s lips twisted into something between his shy smile and a proud grin as his eyes wandered around the room for a moment. "Well," he mumbled, pulling the strands of hair away from his face, "I can show them to you, anytime."

"That’d be lovely—"

I interrupted myself at the sound of the door being opened, and Gerard and I turned to see Mikey walking in with a sigh. He closes the door behind himself and stands there in silence for a moment as if grounding himself. Only when he opens his eyes again that I dare to speak.

"Hey, Mikes! How did it go?"

Mikey raised his eyebrows a little as he saw Gerard and me on the couch. "Um, went well, I believe! They said they're going to call me in one week in case I'm hired."

"Congrats!" Gerard extended a hand, which Mikey high-fived with a wide grin. "Barnes 'n Nobles?"

"Yeah!" Mikey nodded. "It seems nice, will give me some extra money and the shifts are flexible." He paused and leaned back, glancing past the kitchen's doorway. "Where's mom?"

"She— Isn't she in the kitchen?" Gerard furrowed his eyebrows. "We didn't see her leave. I mean, I didn't. Did you?" He asked me, but I shook my head.

Mikey raised his eyebrows a little and glanced back at the TV before slowly nodding. "Right. (Y/n), I—"

Gerard interrupted his brother by clearing his throat as he slowly put himself up to his feet. The cold air embraced me, making me already miss his closeness. "Well, I got some stuff to work on. See you guys later." He nodded at Mikey and me, his gaze lingering over mine before he disappeared once again.

It was like a trigger. Just the sound of the door to the basement closing already had my cheeks flaring up, which quickly attracted Mikey’s attention.

"Spill it up, you whore," he joked. "C'mon, I'm hungry. I'll grab something then we can go to my room." He remained silent while we got some snacks from the kitchen then rushed upstairs into his room, closing the door behind us. "Tell."

My cheeks start burning again, and I can't meet Mikey's gaze. "There's nothing to tell." I put what I had brought on the desk, and pulled the chair to take a seat.

"Suuure..." He rolled his eyes. "Gerard was looking at you as if you were a brand new Star Wars action figure."

"What kind of comparison is that?" I scoffed, trying to think what it would look like.

"Don't you dare say I didn't warn you when he starts spending more time taking care of his collections than with you." Mikey hummed with a glare while opening a can of Coke, and I can't help but chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah! But Mikey— He's so cute," I groan, burying my face into my hands. I would give anything to spend more time with him like that again.

It was a couple of days later that Ray decided to call for a group hang out again, this time breakfast at a neat café downtown. Mikey didn’t lose time before spilling everything on the gc, so he was curious, being nosy as he was.

The café he chose was something near the dorms, which Ray liked to visit once in a while between lectures because both the price and quality were good. Soft colors took the place while some nice pictures hung from the wall, all of them contributing to a nice atmosphere that was completed by the ambient song.

"Tell me," Ray whined with a pout. "What did you two talk about?"

"I told you!" I widened my eyes a little, playing with the paper around the coffee cup. "We, um, finished watching the first season of The Mandalorian while talking about it then started talking about character design, drawings, and stuff. He even said he could show me more of his drawings if I was interested."

Ray's pout turned into a grin as he clapped lightly. "Wow, that's some good advancement! I can't wait for you two to get together! We can go out Christa and me along with you two!"

"Yeah, right?" I couldn't help but grin as well. "That would be cool."

"Have you two talked ever since?" Frank asked before taking a sip from the straw.

"No, no." I shook my head and pulled my phone from my pocket, getting to Gerard's chat. The last message was me asking to hang out while Mikey was on his job interview. It wouldn't hurt to text him now. It was a wild idea, maybe, but I ended up just typing it. 'Good morning, beautiful,' the message displayed on the screen without being sent yet. "Frank, what if I..." I showed him the screen. "What if I, hm?"

Frank furrowed his eyebrows as he read the message before giggling. "Yeah, yeah, do it!"

"Careful," Mikey hummed. "You don’t wanna die and have Frank advice as the cause on your gravestone!" Words that went ignored by Frank, who just giggled more.

Ray was pouting yet again. "What? What is it?" I showed him the screen as well, watching his eyes widen a little. "Oh, bold!" He chuckled, but it stopped the moment I sent the message. "Wait— You sent it?"

"What?" I almost feel my heart drop inside my chest. Shit, am I rushing things? "C'mon, you all were so positive about it!"

"Ironically!"

"Not me!" Frank shook his head.

"Nooo..." I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

"Well, at least you can know it's 50/50," Ray tried, "either he replies in the same level or... maybe a block."

"Don't exaggerate!" Mikey clicked his tongue. "Not a block, but maybe ignore you, I don't know."

My heart seemed to beat faster at the same proportion it sunk deeper into my chest. "You're not helping—"

Ding. A notification. Everyone fell silent, eyes focused on the phone. A message from Gerard.

Gerard<3:

Good morniiing!!!☀️

"My God," I cried out softly with a hand over my mouth. "He's so cute!" I ended up just letting Ray take my phone from my hand as I continued to freak out both in relief and also at how cute he genuinely was.

"Genuinely pathetically humiliating yourself for a submissive," Frank said in a reprehensible tone, clicking his tongue. "You're freaking out over a good morning with three i's!"

"But Frank!" I groaned, taking my phone back. "I like him so much it hurts..."

Ray hummed, touching my shoulder. "Maybe you should let him know. Like, there's nothing to lose. He is a chill guy, wouldn't be awkward or anything if you like him and all. Unless it affects you a lot, of course."

These three have some sort of power, sometimes, but nothing good. The way they encouraged me always had me acting by fucking impulse. It had its advantages, of course, though sometimes I would be left wondering how easily I could let these three get into my brain.

"Okay." I hummed with a nod. "It's worth a shot, right? And—"

"Me!" Frank raised a hand. "Let me be the one to tell him, please! I'll be like, 'Gee, hear me out, (y/n) wants your ass!' What do you think?"

I stared at him for a moment. "And I really trust you, Ray! I'm counting on you!"

That night, I didn't rethink my choices when I went home. Maybe it was me trying to avoid problems—or what I considered to be problems—, but my mind was troubled with other things when it hit the pillow before sleep took over.

In the morning, Ray had only sent me one message. Done. And there was no coming back.

Gerard hadn't messaged me after the previous day's conversation, and part of me also hope he wouldn't, even if I kept checking my phone every two minutes during classes. Part of it was increased due to how Mikey didn’t go to class that day, just sending me a 'crash by after class' during the lunch break.

I stepped into the Way household like a scared cat, even if the chances of seeing Gerard were small. Donna welcomed me warmly as always, so I just went up to Mikey’s room after she told me where he was.

"Why didn't you go today?"

"Wasn't feeling like it." He twisted his mouth. Mikey was sprawled across the bed.

"Right." I sighed and pulled my notebook from my bag, leaving it over the desk. "In case you need it."

He nodded as a quiet thank you. "Wanna watch The Last Of Us?"

"Can't watch it alone?" I smirked, chuckling at his grimace.

"Fuck you!" Mikey clicked his tongue and reached under his bed to get his laptop. "Be useful and go get us something from the fridge, c'mon!"

I rolled my eyes, sighing as I left my bag hanging from the desk's chair. "I didn't even sit down yet and I'm already being treated as a slave! Fuck you," I said as I exited the room, leaving him snickering behind.

Donna had already disappeared again when I reached downstairs, so I just walked into the kitchen, looking for something Mikey wanted before I grabbed myself something to eat and to drink as well.

"Hey." The quiet voice almost gave me a heart attack. Gerard stood there in the middle of the kitchen, just like a goddamn ghost.

"Hiii..." I said a little breathless, letting the cans of soda and juice on the counter before I closed the fridge.

"So..." Gerard played with his hands a little, eyes wandering around the room. "I, um, I don't want to beat around the bush because it would be harder for me, but... Uh, Ray told me, um, something, and I was wondering if it was true. Maybe not just regarding him, but also regarding you, because..." He ran out of air and cleared his throat, wetting his lips. "I'm sorry for rambling, but..."

The silence felt so thick. As if I was underwater, given how difficult to breathe and to move it felt.

"I..." My mouth felt so dry. "It's true, Gerard. I already had my eye on you a while ago, and I sort of just..." I shrugged a little.

"For real?" He blinked, but his eyes never met mine. "Isn't it some sort of dare or something? I mean, you must be nice if Ray considers you to be one of his best friends, but I wouldn't be able to handle it if it were a dare. I'm so sorry."

"No, no! It not a dare!" I shook my head. I didn’t know what to to with my hands, so I held them together in front of my chest. "I genuinely think you're nice, and cute, and pretty! I wouldn’t lie! Mikey is like, my best friend, I wouldn't dare to hurt you! Well, not just because of him, but also because of you!"

Gerard’s cheeks quickly gained the red tone that adorned them so many times. His hands weren't fidgeting so much. "For real?"

"For real." I smiled softly, and extended my arms in an inviting manner. "Um, a hug?"

Gerard was hesitant at first. He took a small step towards me, though then soon throwing himself in my arms and hiding his face in my shoulder. "Sorry, it's just... no one ever had interest in me or anything, I am always much like a shadow, so..."

"Don't worry about it!" I patted his back softly. "I think you glow, actually. You're so pretty, I— Sorry, I don't want to scare you away."

"It's fine," he almost chuckled. A smile adorned his lips when he pulled away a little, remaining close. "I... Um, I'm wondering if I can..." His eyes drew to my lips a couple of times. Fuck. He's adorable.

"Yeah, go on!" I grinned for a second before I let my lips rest proper, soon meeting his in a sweet kiss that made something stir in my chest in the best way possible. "Was that good!"

"Can I do it again?"

__________________________________________

Check out the masterlist

[thestoriesthatweweave]

“Would you like to hold him?” the Empress asks. The words stretch between them. They make Baoxiang wonder if this meeting was as accidental as it initially looked like. They make him wonder if the Emperor knows, if this is a trap or a test. It doesn’t matter. Baoxiang has been dead for more than a year, and if wanting to hold the son he’s made is what kills him it will have been worth it. It might kill him regardless of what the Emperor does. “Please,” he says, and his voice sounds rough and strangled to his own ears. He sounds, he realizes with an edge of hysteria, like Ouyang had. Wanting and not wanting, tearing himself apart over it. The baby is heavier than he expected, surprisingly muscular, twisting and turning in his arms like a cat. It takes a moment for Baoxiang to see his scowling little face, and once he does his heart throbs. He’d been prepared to see himself, or to see the Empress, but the Imperial Prince Zhu Di, at six months old, soft and round-cheeked and scowling, looks like he could be the son Esen never had.

After a new dynasty is established, Wang Baoxiang learns how to live again.

My Day 1 fill for @radiantemperorweek! It's a post-canon, Baoxiang-focused fic set in the TRE Next Generation universe that @mispatchedgreens , @gatoraid and I came up with.

[darcyfangirlsfrequently]

My reactions to episode 5 of season 2 of Criminal Minds Evolution

Didn't do one last week bc i didn't have time, plus it was just a weird episode. but people have told me they're excited for me to watch this one, so let's go!

i think this is penelope and voit's first time seeing each other face to face???

Voit's little nursery rhyme taunt i am CRYING laughing

Voit taunting the SHIT out of Rossi

"Somewhere in Iowa" has me rolling

Ooh so this is the beginning of the conspiracy theory. The FBI "assassinating" people

Side note: do they never change their badge pictures?? rossi's hair still has color in his

"Get out" Rossi????

Voit sitting at Reid's desk is funny bc Zach Gilford auditioned for Reid way back when

GARVEZ STANDING BESIDE EACH OTHERRRRRR. love collecting Garvez CRUMBSSSS

Luke she is standing slightly in front of you. you are not staring at her side you're staring at her ass. I see you.

"You can't bluff for a minute? You've been bluffing you're not Sicarius for a month" Tara i LOVE you

Someone: *mentions computer stuff* Luke: *looks at Penelope* Me: yeahhhh he knows his gf can do anything

"I'll come with just to make sure you [elias] behave" Luke i am sure that is the ONLY reason

"an online bulletin board where people post their not-so-secretly racist opinions?" Luke i love you

Voit: *touches Pen's things* Luke: Hands off, asshole YES MAN PROTECT YOUR GIRLLLLL

"What's up with you two? Because there's a vibe." AH HA HA HA HA!! I saw a mini spoiler that Voit picked up on them but I imagined he would be calling Luke out on it privately to taunt him I DIDN'T THINK HE'S ASK THEM BOTH TO THEIR FACE WHAT ALL THAT TENSION WAS

this is no longer garvez crumbs this is garvez ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Penelope why don't you have an answer? Why don't you have an answer, Penelope?

Couples who insult an inmates smell together stay together 🥰

"subtitle to Mary Shelley's frankenstein" the secret agenda to CME: make Luke super knowledgeable about classic literature. my "luke was an english major" headcanon is just proved more and more right

"Dr. Lews" look at least he's respectful of her title. i feel like ppl forget she's a doctor

Penelope holding up a handkerchief to her nose 😂

"Neglected to ask me that" luke was right, everyone IS a comedian

"You son of a bitch" I love how they are just having Luke call him every name in the book

Luke recognizing morse code like the little army boy he is 🥰

"what the fuck is north star?" that's an episode name, isn't it? does anyone remember what episode it is going to be?

Emily and Rossi plotting to let Voit try to escape so they can shoot him. Okay????

oooh that sounded SO scripted and forced and awkward 😭

"can you do that without fingerprints?" EMILY WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST ASK TYLER???

"Same deductive work as the BAU just... faster" 😂😂😂

"Wheels up" i was GAGGED when i saw that in the preview

Tyler found brian!!

Voit just taunting them all like a child has me cackling

Omg he knows about Greencia. If he tries to use it to blackmail them/her Luke is going to rip his head off

"Maybe not that crazy" AKA he noticed Garvez so he's not surprised she'd be messing around with ppl involved in her work

"That's enough" Luke is like "A. don't talk about her that way. B. i don't want to hear about this."

"Why is that enough, Luke?" STOP IT RIGHT NOW I'M CACKLING

"Do us all a favor and shut the fuck up" YESSSSSS JJ

"Tynelope is a thing and that drives Luke crazy." oh my GOD. there is so much here. Ig i can't say Greencia anymore it's Tynelope? and also Voit calling Luke out for being jealous in front of everyone????

Luke looking away from Penelope. BUT PENELOPE LOOKING OVER AT LUKE.

"I haven't thought about you at all" I mean i know it's a lie but it's funny

"Useful idiot" emily i love you

okay why tf is brian suddenly pretending not to know what Gold Star is

Luke back to his undercover rootsssss

ohhhhh this is gonna be the bomb we saw in the trailer isn't it (if it is then i am gonna get SO MANY DAMN FIC IDEAS from this ep)

yepppppp bomb!!

Forget Garvez, clearly the real ship this show is pushing is Luke x Bomb

Every time Penelope says "Luke" I get giddy

Penelope (slighly panicky) walking her bf through the bomb situation so he doesn't die

Penelope calling him "Luke" but Luke calling her "Garcia" is SO personal to me

Penelope that is a VERY happy smile (just tell that man you love him)

@lklvz you get gratuitous Luke saying "fuck" content and i hope it makes you smile

HAHA DAVE PUNCHING VOIT IN THE FACE

oh damn it all to hell, damien

"Teresa is in trouble" the FUCK?

tyler knows teresa??? or Penelope is teresa?

Luke following Penelope haha that's not a surprise

"I don't want to be alone tonight" FUCK YOU, REBECCA

NOOOOO TARA NOOOOO DON'T GO BACK TO HER

More emily smoking!!

EMILY CRYING AND ROSSI HOLDING HER 😭😭

guys that was SO GOOD

one of the best eps so far

[distortionenby]

"You know I love you, right?" For gentle prompts :)

(full under the cut) GerryMichael and DoorKeay in the same fic? Been a while! Thank you for the prompt! You can also find it on Ao3!

“Ice-cream? Michael, it’s storming!” Gerard stated, dumbfounded in front of Michael’s desk.

��So? You wanted to try that new place in Morden, didn’t you? And I’m almost done with paperwork, so I could leave early. We might still make it!”

“Michael, go look outside. We’re going to get soaked the second we step out”

“Plenty of people eat ice-cream in the rain.”

“Not this bad, weirdo”

“Now, don’t be a wuss. It’ll be our first date, and it’ll be special!”

“It’ll be wet and cold. And we’ll have watered ice-cream”

“Exactly! It’s unlike any other first date here, don’t you think?” Michael took a pause, bottling up the excitement of his idea for a moment to switch to a look of concern. “Do you really not want to go? I figured it’d be emptier in a day like this, and I have a pretty sturdy umbrella, so I didn’t think it’d be a problem…” The puppy eyes were making an entrance, and Gerard decided to stare at the ceiling. On one hand, not to fall for them, on the other, to hide how a blush was creeping on his nose and cheeks.

“Fine, we’ll go. But we’ll take the train. I don’t want our first date turning into our first being disgustingly sick for a month.”

“You know I love you, right?” Michael had stood and was nosing Gerry’s jaw to encourage a kiss.

“I know I love you. I’m a bit on the fence about the other way, considering you want to walk me around in the rain” The goth kept staring up, not giving his boyfriend the satisfaction just yet.

“Now you’re just doing it to be mean!” Michael chuckled and put some weight on Gerry’s shoulder to unbalance him. “Come on, let’s go grab my coat and we can head out”

“After you”

--

“Do you remember our first date?”

“I don’t think we have had a date yet” the long golden hair pooled over Gerry’s shoulders, Michael’s face upside down in front of him. It was standing right behind him, bent over forward to look him in the eyes with a grin. Spines do not do that, Gerry reminded himself. The presence of his late partner coming back seemingly going back and forth from a crude interpretation of human features, to a very real portrait of the blonde he had kissed goodbye some months ago, to a very inhuman creature in a matter of seconds and with so much ease throughout the day. It hurt. When tender skin was replaced with a cutting shrill sound, and smiles that had been nervous and with uneven teeth were now a perfect grid too long from one side to he other to not be a threat. When Michael was Michael too, but acknowledging so would mean burying Michael deeper in death’s embrace and yanking it from those fleshy dark tendrils that told Gerry about last minutes of cold, disoriented, painful fear.

“Right…” his sight took no time in getting slightly glassy, not sure whether it was the Distortion’s effect or the tears. His smile diminished, and he sighed.

“I did not mean to make you sad” Michael apologized immediately, standing upright, suddenly a more normal height, and only leaned a bit forward to hug Gerard from behind, hands carefully away from him, but arms comforting.

“I know, Michael… I just… Do you remember anything from when we dated? When you were… Shelley?” Gerry squeezed out, like it hurt to speak. He gazed into his coffee, lips pursed, and watching his own tears fall on his hand, firmly tight around his mug.

“I do hold all those memories, somehow. Michael Shelley’s mind is my own and I am his…” it paused, visibly struggling to elaborate. “I know of your first date. But that was not me, and the person you went on that date with does not particularly exist anymore, I’m afraid. Michael Shelley died in-” but it was cut off.

“Stop…” Gerard mumbled what should've been a sob. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, trying to wipe his tears without smudging his makeup. The Distortion used the edge of its coat to help dry them, a frown on its lips.

“You did ask”

“I did. I thought you’d, I dunno, tell me about that day, how Michael Shelley felt…”

“Would it help to tell you it was beautiful?” Michael asked, standing now next to Gerard, offering a normal hand to him. He took it, mumbling a half-hearted, confused “what?” like he hadn’t quite processed what was being said yet, before Michael smiled, looking around the room to distract itself from Gerry's stare. “He… I… I-it’s difficult… But I do remember the feeling of that day, somehow”

“Gonna tell me?”

“You know I have a hard time with these things, give me a moment” Michael scrambled its facial features, embarrassed. They all only settled in place like they had been tugged back when it heard Gerry chuckle with sadness.

“You don’t have to. It was… It was stupid to ask,” Gerry shook his head, breathing in deep to stop the tears “it’s not like all is gone, I should be concerned with the now. With you” he heaved a sigh and tried shooting a grin at the blindingly neon pile of “whatever” that seemed to be concentrating really hard.

“I said ‘give me a moment’, didn’t I?” it scoffed with a pout. How did Gerard know it was a pout? Maybe instinct. “I want to show you I mean it. Close your eyes” the creaking of a new door beginning to form.

“That doesn't sound threatening at all”

“Arse. You'd be dead if I didn’t care. Trust me a little”

“Are the last words I would hear before stepping into your architectural mind-blender” Gerry batted a hand in the door’s direction and somehow the thing stopped halfway, like he had just erased its top half. Michael seemed white hot with offense. “Sorry, sorry. I'm just- I'm not ready yet. In my memory you're still too human and too… him. My instinct still kicks in when you show me these” Gerry sniffled, the crying having died down. “Maybe we can do something about it though”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… it's pouring outside” he gestured with the mug at the window.

“And?”

“Michael, you said you remembered!” he tried pouting, even though the lack of expected response had deeply hurt.

“I did not, did I?”

“I mean… no. No, no, you didn't. I was being stupid again”

“For someone so ‘stupid’, you're quite clever,” the Distortion made a pause that did not read too well, apparently.

“Thanks?” Confused and thinking it was the end of the sentence, Gerry decided to give up and accept the compliment properly. “Thanks, Michael…–

“Clever enough to remember why Shelley and you felt so disappointed initially” it finished.

“So, you do remember. The shop was closed because nobody was having ice-cream in the middle of a storm. And Michael was so sad about it”

“It’s such a shame that I have no way to easily take you to the Italian café that had affogato that you led him to right after” Michael's door started recuperating, this time the wood had more grain and a rich coffee-like colour.

Gerry considered it, “we wouldn't be drenched by the time we walked in... But, I could do with a walk,” he insisted, standing up to go grab his coat and an umbrella, ignoring the new door completely. “Besides, I want to see what the water does to your hair like that.”

Michael’s incessant shape seemed to recoil, and vanished itself through the door, coming out of the bathroom door of the room looking quite like Michael Shelley, maybe slightly taller and with longer hair. The teeth in its smile perfect and white. Bright, spiral-shaped buttons on its coat and a patchwork scarf hanging almost to its knees. “You can be so rude”

“Almost as rude as you” Gerry said, kissing its shoulder and grabbing his keys.

As they went down the stairs, Michael held on Gerard’s hand with an air of uncertainty in the result of said action. Gerry gave it a short squeeze and turned to it. “You know I still love you, right?”

Michael grimaced, trying to keep its features together and looked away for a second, squeezing the hand back in response.

[yourstruly9489]

What is your OC passionate about?

I've seen stuff to help develop characters that's asking questions about them, eg. What do they want more than anything? What is their greatest fear? What are their dreams? etc. I've always had trouble with these for some reason. Possibly because they seem so impersonal to me, despite being directed at a person. But I discovered something the other day. I love crossover fics, and I sometimes imagine my own OCs going into a fandom I like. Because of this, and my recent interest in Ride The Cyclone, I found a way that works better for me.

Ride The Cyclone is a musical about six teens who died in a tragic roller coaster accident. A mystical fortune-telling robot, whose name is Karnak, somehow has the ability to bring one person back to life. He takes the six teens, Ocean, Constance, Ricky, Noel, Mischa, and Jane Doe, to a sort of purgatory. In this purgatory they are to decide which one of them comes back to life. Each character, excluding Karnak himself, sings a song about themselves so that they can judge amongst themselves who should be brought back to life. But they don't exactly sing about their actual lives, instead they sing about their passions. In the words of Karnak, "Tonight I wish to give them the chance to express not what they were perceived to be, but what they dreamt they were."

Ocean sings about what she's passionate about first: Wanting to be on top, first place, the best. She sings how she's better than everyone else. She sings how the world needs more of her, and less of others.

Noel is next. He sings about the art movement Romanticism, he is the most romantic boy in town after all. He sings about wanting to be a female hooker in post-war France. He sings how he wants to live a life of sin, to burn himself with cigarettes, to die in an alley. He wants to experience a tragic life, not just the good, but the bad.

The next to sing is Mischa. A boy from Ukraine who lost his mother to radiation poisoning. He starts by singing about his facade, a gangsta. He raps about how everything is awesome. How he's awesome. But then he breaks out of that character and sings about his true love. Of which is his fiance, Talia. He devotes himself to her wholly, singing with passion.

Next is Ricky. A boy who was mute and physically disabled his entire life. He was often avoided in life, with his parents and cats being the sole exceptions. He sings about an escapist fantasy. He sings about himself in a sci-fi world, sent to help the race of the cat people of Zolar. How he helps save their world from extinction, and becomes famous in history. He sings about being known and loved.

Then there's Jane Doe. The one unidentified victim of the Cyclone accident, she lost her head and no one knows who she was in life. She sings about how she doesn't understand. Why she couldn't remember her family, her friends, her name? Why can't anyone remember who she is. How she'll be eternally forgotten and how everything will eventually join her in death. She sings about not understanding why.

Finally is Constance. No one really knew her well, she was only known as nice. She sings how she used to think that her life sucked, and howit only got her down. Then she goes into how wonderful she realizes life is now that she's lost it. She sings about loving the life she used ashamed of.

All of them sing about their true passions. Without the fear of being judged, they're all dead anyways, no point in being self-conscious. Then imagining my own OCs in that situation, with no consequences for expressing themselves, really helps me deep-dive into their characters. Reframing the question "What are they passionate about?" Into what would they be like in this specific situation I'm familiar with?

So I think of my OCs and what they would sing about. For specifics, I have three OCs I've been working on recently.

Left to right they are: Henry Robinson, Victor Shelley, and Mary Robert. Their story is very much about wacky mad science and creating life where there was none. Definitely inspired by the idea/story of Frankenstein.

When I imagine what they would sing about in a situation with no consequences, just a chance to truly express themselves, I understand them far more than I would with just generic questions.

I imagine Henry would sing about his triumph in creating artificial life, he'd sing about how he's going to be known all across medical history as the man to prevent death. He'd sing about how betrayed he felt when Victor abandoned him. He'd sing about how he deserves more. Victor would sing about his grief. He would sing about how stricken he is at Henry's blatant ignorance of the laws of life and death. He'd sing mourning the lives lost in this pursuit of life. He'd sing about his care for others. Mary would sing about her lack of understanding. How she was brought into a world, not through love, but through science. How she woke up in a lab with only Henry there to help her, a man who is only using her for his own gain. How she doesn't understand why she couldn't have stayed resting in a grave. She'd sing about her confusion.

With just the question, "What are they passionate about?" I think that Henry's passionate about science, Victor's passionate about his disregard for Henry's actions, and I wouldn't even know about Mary. But with the question, "What would they do/sing about if there was no fear of consequences?" I come up with so much more.

And so, I ask you, dear reader. What would your character rant about, if only there were no fear of being judged?

(watch Ride The Cyclone, it's great)

[mantequillamcwhoremick]

hah i so knew someone would have already asked for Kenny lol if you are still bored - Kevin? 🫶

Omg thanks for the ask!!! Hheheheheh this is an interesting one....

Favorite thing about them:

There's literally so little about him so it's hard to pinpoint something canon to deem my favorite thing but I guess I would say his adult design. idk it just speaks volumes about his character, especially when you compare how well put-together Karen looks next to him. I have a million Kevin McCormick ideas and a oneshot about him and Kenny in the works.

Least favorite thing about them:

I have a hard time with this part of the ask meme bc most characters don't have something I blatantly don't like, even their worst flaws are interesting and engaging. So I'm just gonna say I hate how little info there is to him

Favorite line:

"'Just take a seat in there, kids.'" /mockingly (S15, "The Poor Kid") he has like 4 canon lines or smth but the way he imitates the police officer here just kinda speaks volumes to me about his character

brOTP:

lol idk I'm just gonna go with Kenny, they deserve some genuine screen time together

OTP:

this one is fairly common but Shelley & Kevin. It makes sense. Do they have any canon interactions? No. Have they ever even been in the same frame together? Not that I remember. Is that gonna stop me or all the fantastic fanartists I've seen draw these two from rooting for them? Absolutely fucking not. They're two very outsider-coded kids, and by what we've seen of Kevin's characterization and Shelley's boyfriend Larry Feegan (who died </3), he could definitely be Shelley's type. It would be an entertaining dynamic to explore in canon & fic.

nOTP:

/

Random headcanon:

I think he is autistic and/or has another developmental disability. It just checks out with what we've seen of him, how he's been characterized, and I'm pretty sure he has inherited his parents emotional problems as well, since we see him physically fighting and insulting Stuart in s15's "The Poor Kid" even though Carol is telling them both to stop and Karen is crying. In the "Bigger, Longer and Uncut" "Blame Canada" song it is revealed that Carol thought Kenny had the stuff to become a doctor or a lawyer, and given the aforementioned headcanon I kinda can see Kevin being written off as a good-for-nothing by his parents. This is supported by Carol calling him, alongside Stuart, a "drunk piece of shit". I can imagine him getting into lots of problems when he's older, as evidenced by how old and shabby he looks as an adult next to Karen, who probably looks as put-together as she does due to having grown up receiving support from Kenny.

Unpopular opinion:

I see him being characterized as a good brother to Karen and Kenny sometimes and as much as I would love that to be true, I doubt they have a good relationship, if any at all. He seems more like a super distant kind of older brother to me, who occasionally becomes Kenny's problem when he comes home drunk or high or when Kenny has to pick Kevin up from the police station because their parents are working or just being neglectful. I can imagine Kevin being an inspiration to Kenny for all the things he never wants to do to Karen, even if it never should have been Kevin OR Kenny's responsibility to step up for their younger siblings in their parents' place. I can see Kevin even resenting Kenny and claiming he's their parents' favorite, similar to how Shelley does with Stan.

Song i associate with them:

I'm sorry I can't think of one hsdjhaskjd but I'll edit this post once I do!!

Favorite picture of them:

It's a yucky picture I'm just a big fan of his adult design <3333

[robyn-i-guess]

gerrymichael enjoyers and writers i want your opinion 🎤

ok so i have this au fic for gerrymichael where it's college au, and it's a like the whole bad boy/good girl (minus the fact they're both boys, and even that's questionable)

basically, gerry is stereotyped due to his more alternative looks and everyone assumes he's probably doing illegal things or just sleeps around a lot

meanwhile michael is the head of student council "goody two shoes" type, who most are sort of aware of but don't know anything about

gerry thinks about michael. a lot. he sees them in the halls for only a few seconds a day but thinks about him for a lot longer. hallway crush vibes. and when they get put into a painting class together, suddenly they have an opportunity to meet, and gerry is freaking out a usual amount. (there's more to the whole plot but that's just the beginning bit)

putting a short lil concept thing under the cut

Gerard Keay does not know Michael Shelley.

The only reason he knows their name is because they're in the student council, meaning it's not uncommon for their name to be said during school events.

He has only seen them in hallways, passing by in a rush while holding papers or books that always seem like they're going to fall out of their hands. Even in those moments, most of what Gerard is able to catch is a blur of golden curls and eyes that are ridden with exhaustion.

So, it is safe to say that he does not know Michael.

That fact only caused confusion to him whenever Gerard realized his strange excitement once learning that Michael would be in one of his classes for the semester.

It was an art class, one that he had picked due to him already being practiced is painting and drawing. He assumed it would be a fun class, or at least one that wouldn't be too stressful. However, when he had first walked into that classroom and saw Michael Shelley sitting at an area in the back, Gerard had assumed the emotion he was feeling was stress. He couldn't pinpoint why, it wasn't like he was intimidated by their status, but he couldn't shake the feeling of nervousness he felt when he accidentally locked eyes with them. He turned his head quickly in that moment, deciding to sit in the front of the room despite that not being where he'd usually prefer to be. Something about Michael sitting there made Gerard think twice about sitting in the back as he normally would.

The lecture went smoothly, it mostly being an introduction to the professor and what would be happening throughout the classes. So did the next, and then the next one after that. That didn't get rid of the feeling he felt, however, every time that Gerard walked into that room and attempted to avoid looking at the one with golden curls in the back. He knew he'd have to talk to them at some point, it was inevitable, but there was something about them that meant he was more nervous to talk to them than he usually would be. And he very much denied the idea that it could be caused by any... feelings he may have. Gerard ruled it as impossible, as he had never spoken to them, and he wasn't that much of an idiot to fall for someone he'd only mostly seen in hallways.

Michael wasn't one to speak up in class, and instead they'd work silently on any research on the history of art they may have been doing, only giving simple responses or nods when the professor would come around and ask how their work was coming along. When Gerard thought about it, he didn't really know what their voice sounded like because it was always quiet or unintelligible from their distance. That only made him more interested in talking to them.

That day never came, though, much to Gerard's disappointment.

They both went through that class without talking to each other once, and when Gerard left that room for the last time he couldn't help but feel like he had failed at some kind of goal. A failure that had meant he would be left with only seeing the elusive Michael Shelley in hallway rushes again, which annoyed him in a way he didn't understand.

He did talk to them one day, though.

(note this is old as heck lmao i've gotten better at writing since i wrote this)

anyways yeah. should i continue it or is it too basic idk, i want to write it for me but it would also be multiple chapters long and my "1k-words-is-rare-for-me" self probably won't bother to write it unless someone else is interested

[hayleythesugarbowl]

Hey!! I saw your Thomas barrow headcanons and I was wondering if you could write a fic where the reader is a new maid and Thomas takes a liking to her and stands up for her and the reader then begins to fall for Thomas and he finds out somehow and tells her that he can’t love her and the reader understands and they end up as good friends? Thank you so much if you write this I love your writing!!

It’s Nice To Have a Friend || Thomas Barrow & reader • Part 1

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist • thomas barrow masterlist ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

summary: when your father dies and you’re forced to get a job as a maid at Downton you are greeted by Thomas Barrow who takes to helping you get settled in

word count: 1.4k

warnings: none

a/n: thank you so much for the request, I’ve been meaning to write for Thomas and so I decided to make this a series. this is the first of a three part series (part 2 and 3 are out now!!) enjoy <3🍒💋

<— another thomas fic • next part —>

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Downton Abbey. You took in the grand estate as you walked up towards the house, clutching your coat tighter around yourself.

     Saying you needed this job would be an understatement. What with your father’s death and your mother’s not being able to uphold the farm, you needed every penny you could get. Sure, being a maid wasn’t your ideal job, but it would do. There were less respectable positions than a housemaid in a estate such as Lord and Lady Grantham’s.

     You stuck your chin up. You were lucky to have gotten this job. And you would make a good maid—you would have to. It wasn’t where you imagined yourself when you were a little girl and dreamed of being the next Mary Shelley. But what were dreams to reality. You shook these thoughts off as you approached the house. 

     As you headed towards where you guessed the the servants entrance was, you thought about the decisions that had got you here. You hoped you’d made the right ones. You stopped for a moment, leaning up against the wall, hoping no one could see you. This had to go well. You took a minute to collect yourself. A door opened a little ways down and someone stepped out. You saw his figure walking towards you. 

     “Can I help you?” The man who now stood before you asked, with a slight air of suspicion. He had dark hair and dark eyes and you couldn’t help but notice how good-looking he was. God does have his favorites, you thought.

     “I’m (Y/n) (Y/l/n), the new housemaid.” You told him, standing up straighter.

     “I didn’t know we needed another housemaid,” the man said. 

     “Well I’m not here to mend cars,” you told him.

     “Ah, of course not,” he smiled, “I see you prefer to spend your time lurking in the shadows.”

     “I was merely looking for the servants entrance,” you countered.

     He looked you up and down, “Right. This way,” he led you farther down, towards the door he had previously exited. 

     “Well, now I’ve introduced myself, who might you be? I don’t suppose you’re the butler.”

     “In time,” he said mysteriously. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m Thomas Barrow, his Lordship’s valet. It’s a right here.”

     You turned right and were led into the servants quarters, a lively place, bustling with cooks and maids and footmen as they went about their work. As Thomas led you to the back of the room and into a hall you marveled at how many servants worked here. Sure, the house was large but you couldn’t imagine one family needing that much help. 

     “Here we are,” Thomas stopped in front of a room with the door propped open and you were met with a stern looking woman and an even more stern looking man. 

     “Ah, (Y/n), I see you’ve made it,” the woman greeted you, smiling, “I hope your trip wasn’t too rough.”

     “No ma’am,” you answered. 

     “We’re glad to have you (Y/n),” the man said, “Mrs. Hughes and I have been quite busy lately with such a limited staff. Thank you, Thomas, for showing her the way.” 

     Thomas nodded and as you looked around you, the door pushed open a tad and you saw that a maid with blonde hair had entered the room.

     “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said. 

     “We were just welcoming the new maid. (Y/n), this is Anna, the head housemaid. She’ll show you to your rooms.” Mr. Carson said. “You have a few minutes to get settled and then you’ll need to change. Mrs. Hughes can tell you when to get the girls rooms ready and when to turn the guest rooms. Daisy will wake you at 6:00 every morning.”

     The woman who must have been Anna led you down a hall. 

     “I don’t know how I’ll ever remember it all,” you said.

     “You’ll pick it up in no time,” Anna smiled encouragingly. She showed you to the room you were to be sharing with another one of the maids and you set your bag down that held your few possessions.

     Upon walking back to the servants dining room you found most of the people sitting around the table having a rest or mending something, their eyes on you once you walked in. 

      “So, has it always been your dream to be in service or did fate require it?” One woman said, not entirely kindly, you thought.

     “If you’re asking if I mean to be a housemaid my whole life then no, I can’t say that I do.” You answered honestly, maybe too honestly, you realized as the word tumbled out of your mouth. “I have my ambitions, just like the rest of us.”

     “You’ll do good to forget about them,” she drawled.

     “O’Brien doesn’t mean it,” Anna smiled at you, “I think it’s lovely that you’ve got dreams.”

     “You don’t mean to be here long then?” A kitchen girl asked you.

     “Oh I don’t mean that,” you said, “it’s a good position and I’m lucky to be here.”

     Suddenly, a cook with fiery red hair stormed into the room, glaring daggers at the girl who had just spoke. 

     “Daisy I said you could have a break not a day off!” 

     “Coming Mrs. Patmore,” Daisy scrambled off, glancing back at you with a worried look. 

     Thomas walked in just then, Daisy almost running into him, holding a cigarette, “Got a lot of ambitions, do you (Y/n)?”

     “I might,” you answered, looking at Thomas mysteriously. 

     “Well you mustn’t let Mr. Carson hear you talking about ‘em,” he lifted his cigarette to his mouth, “we’re not supposed to have thoughts and opinions down here.”

     “You have no trouble sharing yours,” O’Brien raised an eyebrow.

     “You’re one to talk,” he countered.

     You looked between them, and then turned to Anna, whispering, “They don’t get on, do they?”

     Anna turned to you. “They’re friends really,” she continued in a low voice, taking on a joking tone, “united in their treachery.”

     You didn’t think Thomas had seemed particularly treacherous. Cold maybe. Haughty sure. But not treacherous. However, first impressions were often wrong.

     Mr. Carson entered the room again. Everyone stood up, awaiting instruction. 

     “I’ve rung the dressing gong,” he said, “You must all begin to get ready for dinner. Everyone is ready to be dressed so you should head up at once. Thomas, His Lordship’s new shoes are in the boot room and they need brushing.”

     “Yes Mr. Carson.”

     Mrs. Hughes addressed you. “And (Y/n), if you could help Anna out by fetching Edith’s frock. It was being mended and I haven’t had a chance to send it up.” 

     “Yes Mrs. Hughes.” You went off with everyone else in a rush, heading in the same direction as Thomas.

     “Settling in yet?” Thomas asked you as you walked.

     “As much as I can,” you answered. “I hope so, at least.”

     He was silent a moment before saying, “Always rise when any of the family comes down here. Never appear in the dining room when dinner service is in progress. Prepare to serve long and tiring hours and don’t expect to be acknowledged for it neither. Remember that and you should be alright.”

     You looked at him. “Thank you, you’ve been ever so welcoming. I’ve no doubt you know this house like the back of your hand. If I was Mr. Carson I’d worry I’d be out of a job.”

     Thomas was silent.

     You accepted the silence for a few moments and then sought to break it. “So you seemed keen to talk about ambitions, what are your dreams, Mr. Barrow?”

     “Who says I’ve got dreams?”

     “Everyone has dreams,” you told him.

     “Not me,” he said cryptically. “People like me don’t have dreams.”

     “I don’t believe that. I think everyone’s got a right to hope just as anyone else.”

     “The world doesn’t share your views, my luck,” he said.

     As you pondered over what this meant, you followed Thomas into the boot room. He picked up a pair of shoes and grabbed a brush.

     “I’d like to become a novelist,” you said. “I like to write—that’s my dream.”

     He didn’t say anything

    You gathered a parcel that must have been Lady Edith’s dress and began to leave the room.  “That was a very interesting conversation, Mr. Barrow, thank you.”

     You turned back around before exiting. “I’d like to think we’ll become friends, you and I,” you told him.

     “Oh, (Y/n),” Thomas turned to you, stopping mid-brush, “I don’t have friends here. Everyone knows that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

<— another thomas fic • next part —>

ˋ°•*⁀➷ part 2 and 3 are up now hope you enjoyed this loves

[big-edies-sun-hat]

Watched Lisa Frankenstein last night—was really delighted by it. I can see why male critics weren’t, but it hit its marks.

There were things they remembered from the 80s that only women would, like the Mean Fat Goth Girl archetype. (This is not fatphobia, it is just a type of person you saw, like Pajama Pants Girl. I can think of at least two that gave me grief.) Also the tanning bed was used as a site of rebirth, instead of just a punishment in waiting for vanity. I did it a few times as a teen because I hoped the UV light would be good for my skin problems, and it was.

Spoilers

The more I thought about it in the night, the more problems I saw. Like, why wasn’t he writing to Lisa? He was clearly literate to a fault. Why did he only gain the power to speak offscreen at the end? And how did they solve the problem of him smelling “like a hot toilet at a carnival”? Or did they not?

Also, whenever I see or read about a high-achieving woman getting a boyfriend from The Past—either because of time travel or because she was born too soon—I have questions. Sure, he knows his Shelley, but what about his Wollstonecraft? Is he not racist, or at least just abolitionist? 

Speaking of anachronisms, the toughest girl from the 80s would not mention “changing her pad” in front of a guy unless he was a medical professional, and probably not even then if he was young. It was hard enough to take pads up to a male checkout guy. (My dad, a wonderful man, is still slightly unnerved by the sight of perfectly clean unused feminine items—)

But in any case I only think about a movie so much if I adored it or hated it, and I certainly did not hate it … does this mean fic—oh dear—