#what if it was like. okay now I’m venturing into the realm of headcanons. but his parents having an unhappy marriage and cheating a lot

[purecommemasolitude]

Thinking about how if we accept Paul’s narrative of the night as truth (barring the holding hands of course) Bob fully thought Cherry was putting the moves on a 14-year-old

Are you sure he wasn’t a jealous man buddy 🤨

[adverb-slut]

Poison Apple Crêpes (Fanfiction) Part 2/2

This was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but a few people were asking for a follow-up to this story from Lucifer's perspective, so I finally decided to buckle down and write one!  I really hope it met your guys' expectations! 🤞  Read it on AO3 here!

Also, I included some of my headcanons in regards to Lucifer's feelings about angels and stuff, and I hope that doesn't bother anyone.  In fact, it has a lot to do with another story I am working on for Obey Me!.

Title:

Poison Apple Crêpes (Part 2/2)

Summary:

An incensed Mammon recalls a fond memory he has of Lucifer from when they were younger.

(Essentially just a fluffy oneshot about Luci doing his best and Mammon just realizing it because he is a dumbass.)

Genre:

Fluff

Rating:

G

Word Count:

1824

First Part:

Read the first part here!

-

Lucifer’s mouth gaped open in a yawn, as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.  Blinking lazily, he cursed himself when he realized that the arm he had apparently rested his head on while he slept was covered in drool.  He sighed in relief as he remembered that he was in his private study and none of his brothers were there to catch him in such a state of disarray.

More awake now, he glanced at a small clock situated on his desk, and his eyes widened in surprise when he realized what time it was.  Had he really been asleep for so long? He knew that skipping sleep last night in order to finish the last round of R.A.D attendance reports for Diavolo would no doubt tire him, but he hadn’t expected it to cause a bout of weariness that lasted for this long of a time.

Lucifer’s stomach rumbled slightly, reminding him that in his desperation to finish the reports on time, he had forgone breakfast that morning, as well.  

He shook his head, trying to relieve himself of the last dregs of sleep, and took a deep breath to reorient himself.  

He realized that he never did end up completing his work.  Lucifer reached toward the left-hand side of his desk, where he had originally placed a pencil holder filled with pens and highlighters, but found nothing.  Surprised, he noticed that someone had shifted it over to the right side of his desk.  He nodded in appreciation at the act—after all, he was right-handed, so it made sense for his pencil holder to be on the right side.

With that, Lucifer’s eyes widened as he realized that not only was his pencil holder’s location changed but many of the other objects’ on his desk, as well.  They were artfully displayed, and although he appreciated the neatness of their arrangement, his eyes narrowed when he realized that all of this meant that  someone had entered his private study.

His face reddened in fury; he had explicitly told his brothers that while in his private study, he was not to be bothered, hence why the room was locked through voice security and none of his siblings were allowed inside. 

And his codeword—Eine klein Nachtmusik!   How did any of his brothers even guess that phrase?  ‘Eine klein Nachtmusik’ had been his most precious composition as Archangel of Music back in the Celestial Realm, but he never expected the other six demons to remember something as trivial and personal as that.

For a moment, Lucifer was touched that someone would make the connection between his beloved piece and the code phrase, but he couldn’t dwell on the fact when he noticed the sheet in front of him.

He grit his teeth; on the front of the sheet was a glaring pink slip—the telltale sign of test failure.  He yanked off the pink paper and nodded once when he saw the name on the test.

Of course, it’s Mammon’s.

Lucifer leaned back in his chair and put his hand on his temple.  Was it so much to ask for his money-grubbing second brother to take school seriously?  

It was no small fact that Lucifer wanted his brothers to perform and be the best students at R.A.D—after all, they were an elite demon family and considered to be the Rulers of Hell. And of course, excelling in their schoolwork would surely get Lucifer and his family on the good side of Diavolo.

This was motivation enough for him to work hard and maintain his grades, but indeed, there was something else that propelled him to encourage his brothers to put their best foot forward …

All his life, Lucifer had been taught that demons were the scum of Creation—horrid things, with no respect or love for the Father; he himself had considered demons to be absolute worms beneath his feet.  

When he was an angel, he was among the many who despised demons—that is, until he was forced to rely on them and therefore become one himself.  And for all his bravado about being proud of going against his Father and living a demonic life, a small part of him still considered him and his brothers to still be holy angels (with the exception of Satan, who he sometimes believed could be an angel by proxy).

And as he had been ingrained to believe, angels were better.  Angels were the  best.  Angels were sons of the Royal King, with blue blood flowing through their veins, superior to all other life.

A minute part of him wanted the demons in the Devildom to know that, to never forget that the Seven Rulers of Hell were always going to be above them.

Being the best at R.A.D was such one reminder.

And yet, his brothers refused to take themselves seriously in regards to school, and Mammon, with all his potential, was the worst culprit.  

Lucifer realized Mammon must have snuck into his private study to leave this refuse on his desk.  He violently grabbed a fountain pen from his now rightly-situated pencil holder and signed his name on the designated line on the pink slip with a flourish.

More irritated than he had ever been, Lucifer shoved the paper forward, leaving it upside down, so he wouldn’t have to see the abhorrent failure notification, again.  As he did this, he noticed that he almost knocked over a white paper bag that was balanced on the edge of his desk.

He cocked his head curiously and pulled the bag closer.  On it was a sticky note and in Mammon’s very loud handwriting, it read, WOW bro I just realized you drool a lot in your sleep XP hopefully that means you’re hungry!!.  Lucifer couldn’t help but blush … and here he thought he was lucky to not have anyone notice his drooling.

Going against his better judgment, Lucifer peeled off the sticky note and opened the bag.  As soon as he did, his anger melted away, for his nose was immediately graced with the warm, fruity scent of poison apples.

He froze; it had been years since the homey aroma had entered his nostrils, and instantly, he was brought back to a small café on the outskirts of the Devildom, where he and Mammon would used to enjoy a stack of crêpes when they were much younger.

Without thinking, his eyes zoomed toward a mini picture frame on his desk, where he and Mammon sat underneath an umbrellaed patio table at the café and beamed into the camera of a stranger, who had been so taken with the cheerful pair of brothers and insisted on photographing them. 

“Lucifer,” pouted Mammon, his bottom lip sticking out profusely.  “I don’t like these creeps.”

Lucifer shook his head and cut off another bite of poison apple. “They’re called  crêpes, Mammon.  And here, we can try another filling, if you’d like.  Choose something else from the menu.”

“Hmph, okay.”  He poked their waiter, who was walking by.  “I want this!” He pointed to ‘Super Salty Tuna Fish Surprise crêpes.’

Lucifer bit his lip.  He knew Mammon well enough to remember that the young demon did not enjoy salty foods.  

Lucifer had hoped Mammon would enjoy this outing with him, and there was no way he would if he couldn’t find anything he liked.  He took another bite of his poison apple crêpes, disheartened that despite it being his first time eating at this café, he had already found something he liked, while Mammon was left hungry.  

“Wait one moment,” Lucifer told the waiter.  He turned to Mammon. “Let me see that menu.”  For a moment, he perused the list of foods, before landing on ‘Blackbelly Newt Legs Macerated in Vanilla Simple Syrup crêpes.’  He knew Mammon loved spicy foods—blackbelly newt legs were renowned for their heat—and the sweetness of the simple syrup would make sure that the flavor wasn’t too hot for his little demon palate.  “Actually bring him this, please.”

“Boo, Luci, you suck,” Mammon grumbled, as the waiter walked away. “What if I don’t like those?”

Lucifer bobbed his head.  “I’m sure you will.”   

And he was right.

“Yum!  This is tasty!”  Mammon mumbled between mouthfuls of crêpe, and he grinned.

Lucifer beamed back.  “I’m glad you like it!”  He spooned the last bit of purple poison apple sauce off his plate.  “We should come here, again.”

“Yay!  We should!”

Lucifer sighed.  That had been the first of many trips to that café.  Over the course of many years, he and Mammon had tried every crêpe filling on the menu, but nothing ever came close to dethroning their favorite fillings of blackbelly newt legs and poison apples.  

However, as time drew on, Mammon and he had become quite the busy demons, with various responsibilities to look after.  Lucifer had always tried to make time to ensure that they still could frequently satiate their desire for crêpes, but Mammon constantly seemed to be occupied, being instantly taken with the glitz and glamor of the Devildom’s exclusive shopping districts.

He shook his head, momentarily wondering why he never thought of venturing to the café by himself, but then he realized that the trips wouldn’t be the same without his silly younger brother.

Lucifer carefully pulled out of the bag a fork and knife—it seemed as if Mammon had thoughtfully pilfered them from the House of Lamentation’s kitchen before bringing the crêpes to him—and a cylinder rolled in white paper.  

He unwrapped said cylinder to reveal three crêpes, each oozing with several extra helpings of poison apples, just as he liked.  The jewel-tone purple of the sauce glittered under the lights of his study, and he breathed in again the fruity scent of it. He nudged a chunk of apple with his fork and smiled when he realized that it was nice and tender, cursed to perfection.  

Lucifer put a hand to his mouth—eating the filling would stain his lips mauve for days … but could that really be helped?

Overcome with nostalgia, he brought his knife down into the crêpe and forked a piece into his mouth.  He smiled; it tasted just as sweet and sticky and delicious as it had the first time he had tried it.  

Chewing thoughtfully, he noticed some scribbling on the back of Mammon’s test.  It read, Mammon already signed up for tutoring ;(.

Perhaps it was the nostalgia talking, but seeing as Mammon was making an effort, Lucifer decided that maybe that was enough.

Putting his fork down, Lucifer pulled out his D.D.D and texted his secondborn brother.

Mammon Lucifer: Crêpes next weekend?

Immediately, he saw three bubbles pop up, indicating that Mammon was typing.  A moment later, his response appeared on the screen.

Mammon: I guess the Great Mammon can spare a minute or two!

Mammon: Sounds like a plan! 👍👍

And from that moment on, all was forgiven.

THE END

[slashthedice]

hii! is it possible for you to write a nsfw imagine of Billy letting you go in a trial? similar to a micheal one uwu

This is a little different from the Michael one because I think if you want to get down and dirty with our hillbilly boy your relationship is definitely going to start out different than your relationship with Michael would (´▽｀*) This ended up becoming a full-length one-shot because I don’t know how to not go overboard, apparently. Also, I just want to explain that I headcanon that Max is capable of speaking, but it’s hard for him and can be painful. Sometimes he can’t get the words to come out right, and he gets frustrated, so he prefers to just not say anything at all. Okay, now that that’s out of the way, NSFW below! (Also tried some switching of perspective, kinda an omniscient POV going on… lmk if you guys like it or not)

It all started with you getting lost in the woods. All you had wanted was to get away from your fellow survivors. A group of them had come back from a trial and immediately started blaming each other for how it had gone. It had all come to a head when Ace made a smart comment and David threw a punch. From what you could gather, they had found themselves attempting to escape the Clown, and David blamed Ace for getting him caught. Whether or not there was truth to the accusation was unknowable, but you did know that you didn’t want to stick around for the ensuing fight. So you left.

Turning your back on the campfire was easy. However, allowing yourself to slip into the shadows between the gnarled, monstrous trees was like diving into freezing water. You immediately felt the sheer emptiness of the forest. The silence was deafening, and for the first time since you had been pulled into the Entity’s realm, you felt alone. You had never known such intimate loneliness. The knowledge that it was just you out there was stifling, without even the hollow mimicries of crow calls to give you comfort.

You should turn back, you thought as you began to waver beneath the weight of your solitude. However, you were quick to realize that you were no longer sure from which direction you had come. The trees all looked the same, and it wasn’t as if you had been following a path to begin with. The underbrush crunched beneath your feet, twigs snapping and dry leaves crackling loudly. Your body buzzed with anxious energy as your thoughts chased each other in fruitless circles of panic and fear. Your wide eyes scanned the horizon, but you saw nothing as you continued to weave between tree trunks.

You paused to take a moment to ground yourself, trying to place your train of thought back onto a more rational track. That was when you heard footsteps that were not your own. You whipped around, attempting to locate the source of the noise. Maybe one of the others had noticed your absence and come to take you back. You hoped they knew the way better than you did. Yet as you looked around, you did not find another survivor.

You saw him before he noticed you.

The misshapen, knobbly silhouette of the Hillbilly lumbered through the trees. His crooked gait and uneven steps caused his movement to be even louder than your own had been, crashing through the forest with reckless abandon. The closer he got, the more you could hear his labored, gurgling breathing as it rattled through his chest and out of his open mouth. You looked for the chainsaw and cattle hammer that you had learned to fear through repeated exposure to the acute pain they caused, but found him empty handed. You should run, you thought, but for some reason you were rooted to the spot. As you continued to watch him, you realized that there was no purpose in his steps as he limped along, he was not a predator stalking prey, but merely someone out for a stroll. He meandered past you, seemingly without a care in the world.

Once his back was to you, whatever spell it was that had frozen you released its hold. Not taking your eyes off of him you took a few steps backwards, intent on heading off in the opposite direction from where he was headed. One, two, three-- crack! The sound of a twig snapping under foot was louder than a gunshot, and unfortunately you weren’t the only one to hear it.

He stopped suddenly, straightening up as best as his distorted spine would allow before turning in your direction. His glowing eyes were visible through the mask-like coverage of his own malformed skin, and they sought you out in the gloom. You expected him to come flying at you when he found your form, to run you down like he did in trials, carving through you with the teeth of the chainsaw between the whispering stalks of corn. But he seemed just as frozen as you were. He did not move, he hardly seemed to breathe as the two of you were caught in each other’s gaze.

Finally, after a few seconds that each felt like an eternity, he began to move. You mentally began to count down the moments until he would fall upon you and tear you to shreds or bludgeon you until you were little more than a pulp of mangled flesh and bone, but instead he turned tail and ran off into the forest, as fast as his crooked legs would allow. You blinked as you watched his retreating form meld into the shadows, leaving you achingly alone once more.

He was afraid of you, you realized with a jolt.

It was mindboggling to think that a creature with the capacity to murder in such excruciating ways could possibly be scared of someone so blatantly solitary and defenseless. Even without the tools of his trade at his side, he was bigger and stronger than you, and would have no trouble bashing your head in with a rock or against a tree. He had proven time and again that he could hoist you over his shoulder with one arm like you weighed little more than a sack of potatoes, and yet you had just witnessed him flee from you in much the same manner as you and your fellow survivors had run from him in a trial. It was a puzzling turn of events to say the least.

You eventually managed to stumble your way back to the campfire. You mentioned your misadventures to noone, and none of them asked. Yet as you sat within the comforting ring of light surrounding the undying flames, you could not stop turning the nature of the encounter over in your mind. You found a dangerous sort of curiosity building within you, and it bubbled and clambered to be satisfied. Ever a servant to your own inquisitiveness, you found that you could not deny yourself.

You began to venture out into the darkness with increasing frequency in the downtime between the pain, torture, and dying. More than once, you encountered him as he meandered with the same lack of intent as he had the first time, but each time he spotted you, his demeanor changed abruptly and he ran. It was frustrating because each time you emerged with no more answers than you had entered, but more than anything these brief chance meetings were perplexing.

Finally, you decided to be more than a quiet observer, filled with a need for an explanation. As the Hillbilly turned his back on you once again to flee, you realized that you had had enough of whatever cyclical exchange (or lack thereof) the two of you had been engaged in. You were putting your foot down.

“Wait!” You cried, shattering the stillness of the darkness.

You weren’t sure how effective your plea would be in halting his retreat, but you were pleasantly surprised when his getaway was stalled. He glanced over his shoulder at you before hurriedly looking at the ground, like he wasn’t supposed to see you. But still, he remained.

You were struck momentarily by an unsureness. You honestly hadn’t expected to get this far, and suddenly all of the burning questions you had seemed to vanish from your mind. You stumbled over the multitude of possible words and phrases you could string together, finally settling on a question you had not thought to ask originally.

“Can you talk?”

His sloped shoulders were stiff as he shuffled around to face you. A sharp nod left him after a beat.

“Why do you keep running from me?”

He shrugged noncommittally, eyes flitting back and forth between you and the ground.

“What’s your name?”

He remained silent for a moment, and you thought perhaps that he either did not want to tell you or did not have a name to give.

“Max,” he said finally, voice surprisingly fragile in comparison to the rest of him. It sounded brittle, and almost as if it was painful for him to form the word.

“Okay, Max,” you felt breathless, adrenaline and excitement pulsing through you as the reality of your situation set in. You were talking to a killer! And he wasn’t trying to end your life or sacrifice you to the Entity! “I’m (Y/N).”

“(Y/N),” he repeated, and it sounded even more pained than his first word to you.

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for what you wanted to say next. “You don’t have to run, you know. I won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt me.”

He seemed to consider your offer before shuffling a little closer to where you had planted yourself. You offered him a broad smile, and that was that.

It was strange, indulging your darker more morbid desires and seeking out companionship with one of the creatures set forth by the Entity to take your life in new and torturous ways again and again and again. Still, there was something undeniably honest in your time spent with Max. He didn’t say much, preferring to listen to you tell him stories about your life before all this. You asked him once why he didn’t speak and he had merely shrugged and said “Hurts.” When your memories failed and you ran out of things to talk about from your old life, you began to supplement with new stories about your fellow survivors. You told him about the time that Jake had somehow stolen one of the Trapper’s-- Evan’s, Max had corrected you-- bear traps and then goaded David into trying to disarm it by punching the pressure plate and pulling his arm out really fast. It went about as well as could be expected, but the story seemed to delight your new found friend.

Friend. It wasn’t a word you thought you would come to associate with a killer. Hell, it was a word you were hesitant to use for the other survivors. The significance of it flitting into your subconscious thoughts was not lost on you as you smiled up at the twisted, crooked man sitting next to you on a fallen tree trunk. You realized that you had begun to harbor soft, tender feelings in the hidden part of your heart that were reserved exclusively for him. Max was awkward and unpractised in the art of friendship and human interaction, but he tried his best and it was endearing. You felt a warmth flood your chest any time he made an effort to say your name, or when you saw the way that his disfigured face would light up and he would attempt to mimic your smile when he saw you. It was a slippery slope between friendship and something more, but you were happy to dive into it headlong. 

You had not encountered Max in a trial since beginning your relationship. You tried not to think about what would happen when you did. He would have to kill you, you supposed. You doubted that the Entity would take kindly to its killers playing favorites in trials. Still, the thought of feeling the chainsaw carving through your flesh and bone was not one you took comfort in, even if it was wielded by someone you cared about. No, you concluded, that would probably make it worse.

The Entity apparently was capable of monitoring your thoughts, and as always loved a cruel sort of irony. The next trial you found yourself partaking in saw you coming to in the center of a seemingly endless sea of gently shifting and swaying cornstalks. The air smelled of freshly tilled earth and distantly of smoke. All was still for a moment, but the harsh mechanical sound of a chainsaw suddenly tore through the silence and bore into your skull.

Your chest tightened with an unfamiliar dread. It wasn’t the same as what you felt at the outset of every trial, this wasn’t colored by terror but instead a sort of despair. Max had cut you down any number of times in the past, but it was different now. Before you hadn’t known him. Then he was simply the Hillbilly, one of the monsters whose only defining feature was that he was there to kill you. Now he was Max, your friend, someone you cared about far more deeply than you had admitted even to yourself.

It seemed like no time at all before you heard the first unmistakable sound of a survivor meeting a gory, ghastly fate under the bite of whirring metallic teeth. You tried to block the sound from your mind, but the screams pierced you to your core, rattling your resolve and sending your thoughts into a tizzy. The growling of the chainsaw never seemed to cease, and you could not steady the trembling of your entire body as you tried desperately to finish the generator you were working on near the horrific Sacrificial Tree beneath which you imagined you could still hear the mournful mooing of cows. You heard a grunt and the thick, meaty sound of a hammer striking someone, and chanced a glance over the top of the machine.

Jake dashed forward, limping distinctly as he headed for the crumbling stone walls surrounding the tree. He could stall Max there, you knew, if he could find the right number of turns and leaps, and time when to drop the pallet perfectly. However, you were working diligently on a generator right here, could Jake have taken him nowhere else?

“Come on, come on,” you urged yourself under your breath. If you could finish the generators and get out, you wouldn’t have to worry about Max catching you. You wouldn’t have to face what would undeniably be a dark spot in your relationship, even if you did understand why he had to do it.

With a triumphant cry, you connected the last wires that caused the generator to spring to life. You stood quickly despite the stiffness in your knees from crouching for so long. As you did, you looked towards where you thought Jake would be only to make eye contact with Max. Time slowed to barely a crawl as you held his gaze. You fancied you would have been able to see the turning of the chain on his favored weapon if you had bothered to look, but as it was your eyes were affixed firmly upon his. For a moment, he forgot about Jake entirely as he kept looking at you. You wondered if he had considered what he would do if he encountered you like this in a trial. Something in the way he looked at you told you that he hadn’t.

“Run!”

The sudden cry from Jake startled you out of the moment in time that you had almost allowed yourself to believe you were sharing with Max alone. You turned around and fled much in the same way Max had done to you all those times, and you heard his grunt of pain as Jake dropped the pallet on his head. You felt guilty for being glad that Jake had stunned him, but you would have felt guiltier for celebrating if Jake had been caught.

Another generator clicked on a considerable distance away. You wove between corn stalks, searching for the flickering of lights that indicated an incomplete generator. You heard someone working on one before you saw the lights. You burst through the corn to find Nea crouched, elbow deep in the mechanical guts of the generator. You stumbled up next to her and immediately got to work.

“I finished one,” she said by way of greeting. “He already got Feng Min, and the Entity took her before we could get to her.”

“I did the other, last I saw Jake was looping him by the cow tree.”

It felt normal, routine to talk to a fellow survivor so matter-of-factly. You could almost forget how heartbreakingly different this trial was from normal. You put your head down and got to work, repairing as quickly as you could. You thought back to what it had been like before all of this, before the trials and the running and dying. You had known nothing about repairing anything. Now it all seemed second nature. How long had you been here? You weren’t sure.

The generator sputtering one last time before beginning it’s consistent put-put-put as it ran on its own scared you, nearly causing you to fall backwards onto your butt. Nea looked unimpressed as you staggered to your feet, and she grabbed your sleeve to drag you forward. 

“Let’s go,” she commanded, ushering you forward.

Your entire body tensed as you heard Jake scream in agony. Max had apparently finally caught up to him. You looked to Nea and she clucked her tongue as she realized the implications. The two of you had just been nearing the next generator.

She dragged a hand down her face and sighed as if the whole trial was just one massive inconvenience. “I’ll go get him,” she said, sounding none too thrilled about the rescue mission at hand.

You knew it was an act. She was skilled at avoiding killers and smart when rescuing other survivors. She wasn’t about to put forth a half-assed unhook attempt. She stalked off into the fog and corn with all the grace of a cat, leaving you alone once more.

You had trouble focusing on the generator. It had been some time since you had heard Max’s chainsaw, and there was no sign of Nea or Jake. It was quiet with the exception of the occasional crow call or the artificial wind whistling through the stalks. Your objective felt as if it was of secondary importance when compared to watching your surroundings, and on more than one occasion you caught yourself right before you were about to make a critical mistake and set back your progress. You hoped the others would emerge from the corn to join you, but they never came.

Finally you felt more than heard the burst of energy as the Entity tore its way through the sky to bear down on what must have been Jake still on the hook. How had Nea not made it to him in time? That was when a shrill scream of pained despair rang out, drowned out only by the grinding growl of the chainsaw. That wasn’t the scream of someone about to be hooked, no that was the undeniable scream of someone dying in agony. It was only you and Max now.

Since you had gotten to know him, you had never felt disquieted by the knowledge that you were alone with Max. Most of the time, you took great comfort in the solitary dynamic that the two of you had built, but in that moment seeing him was the last thing you wanted. 

You had to find the hatch.

You broke into a sprint, pushing yourself to run as fast as you could through the field, listening for that strange, otherworldly hum that the Black Lock always emitted. You craved the darkness that would swallow you whole only to deposit you back in the light of the campfire. You couldn’t bear the thought of dying at Max’s hand. You needed to escape so that you could run off into the forest afterwards to sit with him in that same aura of comfort and companionship without your blood on his hands to taint it.

Of course, nothing could be easy. Soon enough you heard the telltale grinding of chain and gears and felt your heartbeat kick into overdrive as Max sprinted at full tilt towards you. He was too fast, and there were no walls or windows for you to duck behind or jump through. Phantom pains sparked through your body as it prepared itself to be reacquainted with the exquisite torture it remembered. You dared to look at the speeding bullet of twisted skin and muscle barreling towards you, and it was hard to reconcile in your mind that this was the same Max that liked to sit quietly and listen to you tell stories.

As he closed the final few meters between the two of you, you screwed your eyes shut and waited for it to all be over. You didn’t want to see his face when he did it, didn’t want to know if he took any joy in cutting you down and carving you up. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Although at this point you think whoever “they” are, they’re fools.

You heard the whirring come to a stop with a clunk and a grind, and after a couple seconds of silence, you dared to crack open one of your eyes. Max stared at you almost expectantly, chainsaw and hammer lowered, and posture unassuming and passive. He was waiting for you to do something, apparently just as unsure of how to deal with the situation as you were.

You opened your eyes fully and immediately felt them begin to water, a cocktail of varied emotions sweeping through you, relief and affection for the large man standing before you being the foremost. You wiped fruitlessly at the tears that now spilled over your eyes and streaked down your cheeks. Max shifted uncomfortably, obviously unsure of how to deal with your crying.

“Oh, Max,” you blubbered.

You tried to think of what to say to tell him how happy you were, how grateful. The Entity surely wouldn’t take kindly to him not harming you. It wanted a full meal of survivor souls, and Max had just denied it dessert. Words failed you, and you were at a loss, so you settled for throwing yourself bodily at him and wrapping your arms tight around his neck.

Max went stiff in your arms, clearly not expecting your display of affection. In the past, you had only been so bold as to hold his hand once, and even then only fleetingly. Max had never been hugged, had never experienced this kind of genuine, tender human emotion. He didn’t know how to respond, what was expected of him, so he froze. You would have liked for him to wrap you up in his arms in return, but you had learned enough of him by now to know that he probably had no idea that that was what he was meant to do. Max wasn’t unintelligent, but he was ignorant to many of the intricacies of human interaction.

You released your hold on him slowly, allowing yourself to lower back down to your feet. You cupped his face in your hands, smiling brightly up at him through the tears. Your heart fluttered happily when he returned it with his own crooked smile. God help you, you thought, you might just love him.

“Come on,” he prompted in his strangled, guttural voice that you so rarely got to hear. 

He led you through the corn and you were more than happy to follow. He limped just ahead of you, and you wished that he didn’t have his weapons so that you could hold his hand. You heard the hum that you had been so desperately searching for only a few minutes prior, and a fresh wave of tears gathered in your eyes. Max saw the waterworks when he turned back to present the hatch to you, and you saw the confusion and concern in his body language. He thought he had done something wrong.

You shook your head vehemently in response to his unvoiced question. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Max. I’m so happy and grateful.”

Not knowing how better to reassure him of your sincerity, you grasped the front of his ruined shirt in your hands and pulled him down to you. He could have easily resisted, but he allowed you to tug him towards you so that you could pepper his face in kisses. His skin was warm and leathery beneath your lips, but you didn’t let that faze you. In the face of your overt affection, he froze again, a reaction that was not unexpected.

The loud thunk of the chainsaw and hammer hitting the ground simultaneously startled you, but did not deter you from your continued assault of his cheeks and forehead with a flurry of hurried pecks. You could not help the joyful giggle that bubbled up in your chest when he wrapped his arms around you in the first hug he had ever given anyone. His own gurgled laugh came in response as he lifted your feet from the ground and spun you in a circle. You wrapped your legs around his hips to anchor yourself, and feeling bold, planted your lips squarely against his.

The action gave him pause. This was a new form of affection he hadn’t expected. Your lips on his face had felt nice, they kind of tickled with their feather-light brushes, but this felt entirely different. You had closed your eyes despite the way his widened, and your arms were locked firmly back around his neck. You made a sound in the back of your throat and he was suddenly acutely aware of how warm his body felt and the way you were pressed against him. He wanted to reciprocate, to let you know that he very much liked this feeling and wanted more of it.

For your part, you were enjoying kissing Max as much as he was enjoying being kissed. You would be lying if you said that you hadn’t considered what it would be like. What would his lips feel like? Would it be very difficult with the way his mouth was formed? Would he even want you to kiss him? In one moment of throwing care to the wind, you had answered all of those questions. His lips felt very much like the rest of his skin, leathery and slightly twisted, but not unpleasant in their warmth. It was not too hard, just required a slightly abnormal approach. And if the way his arms tightened around you was any indication, he definitely wanted you to continue kissing him.

You shifted against him, pelvis grinding against his, and you could not contain the gasp that left you when he whined at the feeling. There was no mistaking the heated hardness you had felt against your sex despite the separating layers of clothes. Much like your initial interaction, you found yourself at a loss, never planning for a moment such as this. You unwrapped your legs from around him and lowered your feet back to the ground. He made a sound of displeasure somewhere between a moan and a whine at the loss of friction, and looked near distraught when you pulled your lips away from his. He kept his arms wound tightly around you, unwilling to let you go just yet, not with the way his whole body was burning. The way you made him feel.

“I need you to trust me,” you whispered breathlessly, despite the fact that no one was around to hear you.

You pushed on his chest just enough to create enough space for you to maneuver. Your fingers worked quickly to unbutton your shirt and then you slid it off of your shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Your bra was next on your list of clothing that needed to come off as quickly as possible, fumbling with the clasp behind your back and sighing with satisfaction when it finally came loose. You slipped the thin straps off and you watched it tumble down to mingle with your shirt in the dust and dirt. Glancing up at Max, the best word you could think of to describe the look on his face was “awestruck”.

He had an unfamiliar desire to be the one removing your clothing, but he was loath to put a stop to what you were doing. As more and more of your silky skin was revealed to him, he felt more and more of that all consuming heat building under his skin and settling in his groin. His pants were far too tight suddenly, and he wanted them off almost as much as he wanted to peel the rest of your clothing off of you.

You felt a bubbling sort of embarrassment at the intensity with which Max stared at you, but along with it came a sense of pride. He wanted you, quite badly apparently, and that knowledge was accompanied by a warm feeling and a whole new confidence. You halted your stripping before you came to your pants, wanting to get Max out of some of his clothing. You started with the shredded tank top that hardly even qualified as a shirt anymore, coaxing him to raise his arms and allow you to divest him of the ruined garment. It was another piece added to the rapidly growing pile of clothing you were accumulating.

His exposed chest hardly appeared human, little more than a twisted mass of flesh with hardly anything you would be able to identify as anatomically natural musculature, but that did not stop you from running your hands over the expanse reverently. You glanced up at him from beneath your eyelashes, looking for any sign that he wanted you to stop. When you received no objections, you followed your wandering hands with your mouth, pressing opened mouth kisses across his chest and torso. He tasted like salt and sweat, and reacted extremely positively to this new treatment. You allowed your hands to drift lower, fingers dancing across his torso and teasing at the edge of his pants. You heard him suck in a rattling breath, and you watched him clench and unclench his hands at his sides.

��Do you want to keep going?” You asked, marveling at the husky tone of your own voice.

Max nodded sharply, a needy sound erupting from the back of his throat and surprising you both. You could not help the grin that overtook your features as he raised his hands to tug at your jeans. You obliged him, unfastening the button and sliding the zipper down before wiggling the denim down your hips with your underwear. You gave him no time at all to take in your nudity before your fingers were back at his waistband, undoing his belt and tugging it through the loops. 

As you worked at the fastenings on his dirty, distressed jeans that were just a little too big for his hips, you considered dropping to your knees and taking him in your mouth. You wondered if his cock would be as rough and irregular as the rest of his skin. What would it feel like to drag your tongue up the underside of it? What would he taste like? You could tell that he was already hard beneath the barrier his pants provided, you were willing to bet that he would be leaking precum when you finally freed him, and the thought of collecting its saltiness while lapping at the head of his length left your mouth watering.

You knew that you didn’t have the patience to follow through with that plan, and you doubted that Max would last that long considering what your admittedly tame kissing had done to him. You were fine to put that fantasy on the backburner, already wet and aching for him to fill you up. You released a shaky breath that you hadn’t known you were holding when you finally dragged the jeans down his legs and his hardened length sprung free, already twitching with precum spilling from the slit of his swollen head. His cock looked surprisingly normal, with the exception of some extra skin bunching around the base and some interesting discoloration along the shaft. The most noticeable thing about it was how big he was. Max was a large man, and his member was more than proportionate.

You wrapped your hand around him as best you could and gave him a few quick jerks with a flick of your wrist. He keened, panting under your touch and curling forward to lean his forehead against the top of your head, burying his face in your hair. You watched with nothing short of fascination as his abdominal muscles rippled and his cock twitched in your grip.

You wanted to feel him inside of you immediately.

“Max,” you cooed, prompting him to look at you.

He whined when you took your hand away from him, but was intrigued when you wrapped your arms back around his neck and pulled him down with you to the ground. You reclined backwards, ignoring how strange the dirt and soil felt against your bare skin. You parted your legs and prompted Max to kneel between them. Your hungry eyes soaked in the way his cock bobbed as he settled himself between your spread thighs. He in turn studied the way your pussy dripped with arousal, the heady scent overwhelming his senses and sending his thoughts scattering. His heart beat loudly in his chest, and he thought it might just stop when you took his hand that wasn’t supporting his weight as he loomed over you and brought it to your folds.

You were so warm and wet beneath his rough, calloused fingertips. You guided his fingers on where to touch and how much pressure to use. Your breathing came out in harsh, heavy puffs of heated air the rolled across his neck and chest. You gasped when he found your entrance and slipped one crooked finger inside. He was nearly stunned by the feeling of your silken walls clenching down on his finger. You were so tight, it was thrilling to imagine that feeling on other parts of him. Every instinct he had was telling him to bury his cock as deep as he could into that dizzying heat between your legs and to not let you go until he had filled you with everything he had.

Your instincts were apparently driving you to the same conclusion, because he had barely just began his exploration of your body before you were pushing his hand away and pulling his hips closer to the cradle of your own with your legs around his waist. You spread yourself for him and wrapped a hand around his length to guide him in. You both moaned as his head dragged along your slick, spreading his fluids across your lips and becoming coated in your arousal. His hips bucked of their own accord at the feeling, and all of his senses were suddenly screaming that it was absolutely imperative he be inside of you. You couldn’t agree more, moaning wantonly at the unbearable friction caused by the drag of his sex against your own.

“Max, please,” you begged, wiggling your hips towards him.

He didn’t need any convincing, but the sound of your pleas tumbling from you pretty lips sent a jolt down his spine and straight to his cock. With a little less delicacy than was probably due, he thrust forward, pushing into you and drawing a high-pitched wail from you as the head popped past your entrance. It took all of his self-control not to lose himself in the feeling of being wrapped in the tightness of your walls. He forced himself to still his hips in order to check on you.

Your face was flushed and glistening with a sheen of sweat. He watched a bead of it form on your forehead and drip down your reddened cheeks. You hair was slicked with it already, and your lips were parted to allow your heavy breathing and intoxicating moans to escape. Your chest heaved with each panting intake and exhale of air. Your eyes were half lidded, pupils blown wide as you took in the sight of him above you. He looked down to where the two of you were joined, and the sight alone was nearly enough to make him come undone.

He felt even better inside of you than you had thought he would. The stretch was unlike anything you had ever experienced, leaving you feeling more full than you knew you could. Every twitch and pulse of his cock was like electricity sparking through your core. You knew that he had paused for your sake, and the gesture was appreciated, but you thought you really would go insane if he didn’t start moving. You knew that anything you would try to say would come out as nothing more than garbled nonsense, so you took matters into your own hands and rolled your hips into his.

That first undulation of your pelvis grinding into his had Max seeing stars. He never knew he could feel anything like this. He must have done something very right for the Entity to allow this, to allow him to have a chance to experience this. You had to be a gift, a reward that he couldn’t imagine he could possibly deserve. He was frozen by the immense pleasure that threatened to overwhelm him.

You cupped his face in your smaller hands and forced him to look at you. “Max, I need you to move.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His first few thrusts were stuttered and jerky, but he soon fell into a rhythm that rapidly pushed you both towards your ends. His hips pistoned into yours, drilling his cock into the most sensitive parts of your eager cunt. The sound of skin against skin and varied grunting, moans, and gasps comprised the soundtrack of your coupling. Your hands gripped his biceps as you clung to him for dear life, fingers dragging over his twisted skin and feeling the metal staples embedded into parts of his flesh.

Max looked down at your body beneath his with a sort of disbelief. Each sharp slam of his lower body against yours sent a jolt through yours. Your breasts bounced tantalizingly, and he had the sudden urge to capture one of their rosy peaks in his mouth. He lamented that your current position didn’t allow for him to fulfill that fantasy comfortably, and saved such an idea for if he should be so lucky that you would allow him this again. You gripped him so well, your body tight and wet and warm around him. He felt a sort of tightening in his lower body and was spurred on to thrust faster into you, causing your staccato moans to turn into unintelligible mewling.

You knew Max was close, his thrusts were becoming sloppier and more disjointed, and his breathing was harsh and strained above you. You were quickly approaching your own climax, but you knew that you wouldn’t come before he finished. That didn’t stop you from meeting his thrusts as best you could with what little leverage you had. The fire burning in your core was white hot in its intensity, and you were so close to what you wanted-- no, needed.

Max’s hips slammed into yours one final time as he hilted himself in your cunt. You couldn’t help the gasp that was ripped from you as his head bumped up against your cervix right before you felt a rush of warmth flood through you. The groan that accompanied his release was borderline inhuman, and you wanted to hear more of it. You felt cum leak from where you were still joined and drip down your ass. You were still right on the precipice, but your pleasure would wither and die if you didn’t maintain some kind of stimulus.

You tried to continue rolling your hips into his, but Max was stock-still above you, basking in what you were sure was the warm glow of his first orgasm. You wanted desperately to join him in that paradise, but you needed some assistance first. You gripped his forearms harder.

“Max, honey, I need you,” you pleaded, voice low and sensual despite your desperation. “I need you to touch me like I showed you. Can you do that for me?”

He shifted his weight to one arm in jerky, pleasure-addled movements. He did not withdraw from his place inside you, but he allowed his thumb to fall to the little nub you had shown him before, above where the two of you were still joined. You whined as he circled your clit just a little too lightly for your liking, and instructed him to use a little more force. He listened to each of your words with an eagerness, he wanted to do everything just as you said. As luck would have it, he learned quickly enough and soon you were dangerously close to tipping over the edge.

You thrashed beneath him as finally, blessedly the tightness in your core shattered and electric shocks of ecstasy danced through your body. They burned away and left you buzzing with an all encompassing satisfaction. You gently guided his hand away from your oversensitive sex as you came down from your high. Max withdrew his rapidly softening length from inside you and it was followed by another gush of your combined fluids that dripped messily down to the ground below. He thought he had never seen anything better.

“That was perfect,” you sighed. “Was it good for you?”

Max nodded, but when he realized that you couldn’t see the motion through your closed eyelids he added, “Perfect.”

You wanted to lay in Max’s arms forever, but you soon realized that if you didn’t appear at the campfire soon, the others would start to wonder what was taking so long. In most cases, after this much time you would already be dead or have escaped. It wasn’t normal for a lone survivor to last for so long.

You slowly disentangled yourself from him. He didn’t want to let you go, but he did. He watched you stand and gather your clothing, wiping away would you could of the dirt that clung to the sweat on your back. You looked down at the mess that was your pussy before resigning yourself to a few minutes of discomfort as you slid your panties back on, delicate fabric cradling the cooling cum against your lower lips. You quickly redressed yourself before turning back to Max.

“I can still have the hatch?” You asked as you handed him his clothes, only half teasing. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Max nodded while struggling back into his jeans. After all that, he would have happily taken a thousand years of punishment from the Entity.

You smiled before leaning in to kiss him lightly, chastely on the corner of his crooked mouth. You let your hand linger on his arm for another moment before heading to the place where the Black Lock hummed continuously. “I’ll see you at our normal spot,” you promised.

With a hop, you dropped into the blackness beyond the opening of the hatch, leaving Max alone in the cornfield. He waited eagerly for the darkness to settle over his vision that meant the Entity was removing him from the trial. The sooner he was out, the sooner he could get back to you, and the thought of you waiting for him filled his heart with warmth. Letting you go was the best idea he had ever had.

[ohmyohpioneer]

my best friend’s brother is also on this snowy vacation queliot headcanon:

So I just got back from a snowy vacation and I was a little winedrunk on the plane and I thought (and consequently typed) a truly idiotic headcanon. 

Quentin is invited (ok bullied into but with good intentions) last minute by his friend, Margo, to come on her big annual ski trip and even though he doesn’t ski because his parents never had the money he says yes because it feels nice to be invited and, well, he likes Margo. It can’t be that bad, right?

Except that it kind of can because he didn’t realize Margo’s older brother, Eliot, is also invited (why did this not occur to him because of course he is) until Eliot steps out of the car, all regal and long legs in a crazy expensive but ok pretty cute Canada Goose parka.

And he knows Eliot. It’s not like they’ve never met before. Which is kind of the problem because Quentin inexplicably just really likes him. I mean, yeah, he’s attractive, sure, but the last time he went to one of Margo’s parties they ended up talking and laughing for, well, a long time and it was all knocking knees and shared bottles of tequila. And Quentin–

But it’s all beside the point because Margo is a good friend and Eliot is off limits and absolutely unattainable for someone at Quentin’s level. Also potentially involved with that guy Mike - who has bad hair - regardless. Just. Not anyone he should be sweating.

And ok. Eliot seems delighted - which is not a word Quentin uses with any sort of frequency - to see him and gives him a hug. A big one. Like, the kind with great arm pressure? And a shoulder sniff? Fuck, Quentin is weird. God. Why can’t he be normal?

But of course Eliot is charming and immediately they’re all in the little rented chalet with hot toddys heavy on the toddy (assuming that’s the whiskey part), and he really needs to keep himself in check.

Quentin’s only frame of reference for ski lodges or ski culture or whatever is from movies, namely romcoms, and it seems exactly right that the rented chalet is tiny and there are only a few, cosy (the rich word for cramped) rooms and he ends up sharing a room with Eliot. It’s a bunk bed because sure. And Eliot immediately claims the bottom (“I am a top in all other realms” he smirks and is that flirting or just witticism?)

Josh and Margo and Penny and Julia all immediately go to the double and triple and quintuple diamond and rhombus hills (it is all utter nonsense terminology to him and maybe this is what people feel like when he talks Fillory) but Eliot stays with him while he rents skis and insists on joining him on the bunny hill (“It’s where all of the cute instructors are. All you have to do is ask about the french fry pizza technique and Marcel, who is here for the winter from Switzerland, is buying your après aperitifs.”)

Quentin falls. A lot. But Eliot laughs and picks him up and it’s sort of okay. But cold. People like this?

They call it early because “the chalet is calling, and so is an adequately made, intensely overpriced cocktail” (Eliot, not Quentin)

Somewhere around day three, with less falls and a lot of Eliot insisting he’s ready for at least one of the lesser diamonds, he starts calling him Q.

Quentin (Q) absolutely does not blush when Eliot cheers and hugs him in a clacking frenzy of skis when he makes it down his first real hill without so much as a stumble.

They’re all very drunk and playing the Forehead Game, pieces of masking tape stuck to their heads, names written in disorderly Sharpie letters (person, fictional or real rules: no you are not real, yes you can talk, yes you are animated, fine yes, you are the Brave Little Toaster, you cheater) when Josh and Margo start making eyes and not-so-subtly tell each other that Margo is Jon Snow and Josh is Kylie Jenner so that they can “sneak off” (stumble out of the room making out with disturbing vigor) to do whatever it is they plan on doing (subtle)

And Penny and Julia decide to go on a starlight walk or some uber-saccharine romantic beautiful thing

And then it’s just. Quentin and Eliot. And a lot of wine. In front of a cracking fire in a moonlit chalet and they slump even further in their chairs by the mantle and they’re talking about something so inconsequential and great (“Ugh. Margo usually has flawless taste in friends but Back to the Future III?? No one with any decency is allowed to like that movie, Q.”)  and fuck Quentin is giggling and they’ve fallen to the floor (“How can you have not read any of the Harry Potter books?”) and if his head lolls just a fraction closer to Eliot’s wild curls, it’s because of some sort of scientific, magnetic pull or something.

He’s pretty sure that Eliot is leaning forward, or maybe somehow the wooden floors have slanted, or-or the world has moved and slid him closer to Eliot - his face in particular. And lips. His lips are like just molecules away, and–

Penny and Julia. Back. Snow dusted. Glowing. In love or some shit.

He accidentally calls him El. It just happens when they’re both at the breakfast table drinking coffee one morning. (“Of course you like it black, Coldwater. All tortured 50s existentialist.” “Just shut up and pass me the butter, El.”) And Eliot doesn’t correct him, just smirks and sips daintily at his coffee (no sugar, lots of milk) and nudges the butter at him.

Quentin really likes the way Eliot says Coldwater. He just. Does.

It’s Vermont during ski season so there’s a giant snow storm. 

Obviously.

All that snow has knocked the power out. It’s getting increasingly cold inside the cabin the longer they’re without heating, and Penny and Julia Do the Brave Thing and venture out to see if they can scrounge up a generator or something to make this less miserable. Margo and Josh beeline for their room without a word and that’s that, apparently.

His bunk is fucking freezing.

He can hear Eliot on the bunk under him turning and turning. He wonders if he’s any warmer.

“Q. For the love of all things unholy, could you please get down here and help me generate some body heat before I go full Ötzi the Iceman. Not that a millennia of future generations wouldn’t benefit from seeing my beauty preserved in icy mummification- but I’m not that altruistic. Oh. And please bring all of the blankets you have.”

Eliot’s bed is. Really small. Well, it’s the same size as the top bunk, but with two people on it, it’s notably less spacious. Eliot is big spooning (as a verb), and Quentin is small spooning (silently freaking out), but it is really helping to keep the chill off. The four blankets Princess and the Pea style stacked on top of them probably aren’t hurting either.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, the heat must have kicked back in - or Penny and Julia had succeeded in their quest - because Quentin wakes, sweating, pushing off cover after cover after cover and Eliot has somehow lost his shirt (and Quentin quickly loses his shit), but mostly he just lays back down and doesn’t go back to his own bunk.

He wakes up again because there are lips on his shoulder.

Not like, random, disembodied dream lips. But specific lips.

Eliot lips.

It’s still dark outside.

Quentin had kind of forgotten that feeling? That one low, low in your stomach when you wake up in bed with someone, someone who is against you and kissing your skin and you feel warm and dazed and blissed the hell out.

But he definitely remembers it now.

And he turns and they are for sure, absolutely, 100% full-on making out now and it’s really small in this bed.

Somehow Quentin loses his shirt, too (Eliot is good at somehow misplacing clothing)

“Just making sure you’re warm, Q.”

“Yeah. Taking off my shirt is definitely helping.”

They wake up in the morning and it’s hot and sticky and the opposite of Ötzi and Quentin says so. 

Eliot agrees and doubles down.

They decide to stay in the chalet for the day while Margo and Josh and Penny and Julia spend their last day on the slopes. They drink hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps and Quentin hates it (the schnapps), but doesn’t tell Eliot, and Eliot loves it (burrowing into the couch with no clothes, but wool socks on, next to Quentin) but doesn’t tell Quentin.

“This hasn’t been that bad.”

[askcatvirgil]

What would happen if Cat Virgil got lost? I know they're in the mind-scape so maybe Roman accidentally leaves his bedroom door open and Virgil wanders in and gets lost in Roman's world of imagination and creativity. The others get so worried about him and Virgil is completely freaked out. Sorry about the really long idea, but I'm just pondering story possibilities....

Ah, a very real possibility, as cats wander away from home frequently! 

I’m going to answer that, but first, I’m going to use your ask as an opportunity to talk about--

What To Do If Your Kitty Runs Away

A lot of these tips are lifted directly from Pet FBI. I’m just distilling them into a list and adding a few of my own suggestions from experience. :) 

First and foremost: most kitties don’t go too far from home!!! This is the number 1 thing to remember. Cats have a great sense of direction and an even better sense of smell. They know where home is. 

 If this is the first time they have gone out, they are probably scared and hiding. You can check around your home in nooks, crannies, hidey holes, etc--under bushes, in your house’s crawlspace (if you live in a house), 

But remember: cats are VERY good at hiding. You are far more likely to have success luring your cat back than you are finding him on your own. Here are some tips to do that: 

- Leave something that smells familiar to the kitty outside, like a pillow they slept on or even a scoop of used litter. I know that sounds kinda gross but cats tend to return to familiar smells. 

- Leave out some food. The stinkier the better. Tuna, anchovies, sardines, etc. Heat it up for an even stinkier enticement! 

- If you have a garage door, leave it cracked open far enough to let kitty slip in. 

- LISTEN. Cats meow and scratch at doors but they tend to be most active at night. Make sure you’re paying attention! Pet FBI recommends you sleep near the door or even use baby monitors to alert yourself to your kitty’s return. 

- Sit outside and talk. Don’t call for your kitty or cry or plea, but sit outside and talk on the phone or with a friend in your normal speaking voices. Cats respond well to that. 

If your kitty doesn’t return, make sure you check the ‘found’ sections of your local message boards. You can call shelters as well. Alert neighbors to keep an eye out, or make ‘lost’ posters. If kitty hasn’t returned on his own after a few days, there’s a good chance they’ve gotten stuck somewhere, so remember to look UP, too--trees, rooftops, etc. Cats are much better at getting UP than they are at getting DOWN. 

Cats can get stuck in other people’s garages and sheds, too. Take a walk around your neighborhood and chat on the phone, pausing to listen now and then. If kitty is stuck nearby and hears your voice, he may start mewing to get your attention. 

The big thing is don’t panic, and don’t give up! Cats are very independent creatures, and even animals who have been raised indoors have very good instincts for survival. I’ve had cats missing for months who returned one day, pert as you please, like ‘oh yeah mom no big deal, just back from my world tour.’ Keep these strategies in mind, and remember, the sooner the better. Enticing a cat back early is always the most successful method!

Now, for those of you who read this far, a quick little headcanon: 

CatVirgil gets into Princey’s realm when Roman accidentally leaves his door open. Roman runs in after him but Virgil quickly disappears because Roman’s realm is huge and expansive, with forests and meadows and castles and just about anything else you can imagine. 

Roman admits what has happened to the others, and the three of them venture into Roman’s realm to find him. They spend days searching, calling for Virgil, following clues and whatnot. Then one night, they’re sitting around the campfire just talking, and Roman breaks down and starts to cry because he feels so guilty and afraid for Virgil. What if Virgil is hurt? He’s got to be so scared, out there by himself. If anything happens to him--

Just then, the others gasp, but Roman doesn’t notice, because he’s too busy berating himself between his tears. But he does notice when he feels a tiny bump against his elbow. He jerks up and looks down and there’s Virgil, staring up at him, eyes wide and concerned. Roman immediately picks him up and hugs him, crying and laughing because Don’t you scare me like that again, Virgil! and I’m so glad you’re okay!!! 

And Virgil curls in against him and purrs like “yeah no big deal, but i knew you loved me.” 

[itsladykit]

1, 4, 38, and 44! (i love your work so much!)

(Aw, anon, that’s so sweet! Thank you so much!)

1: Things that inspire me?

I’ve actually already answered this one here. But I can add a few things to that list, now that I’m thinking about it. Real life is a huge inspiration to me too. Sometimes it’s things that have actually happened to me--see ‘The girl next door’ for a particularly obvious example--but a lot of my headcanons regarding Swapfell and Underfell are based on real-life circumstances, specifically fascist dictatorships. I particularly like to make use of the ‘shades of grey’ we encounter in our daily life. No one is all good or all bad. Everyone has a story, and everyone has reasons for the things they do. (Even if those reasons are awful. Even if nothing can possibly excuse their behavior.)

I also take a lot of inspiration from science and nature, biology in particular. I’m a science nerd, and I love using biology and anatomy when either characterizing non-human creatures or creating ‘monsters’ from scratch, if we’re talking original fiction. (This isn’t really prevalent in my writing so far...but when ‘Coming of age’ is posted, anyone familiar with [SPOILERS] will know exactly what inspired this piece.)

4: Name three authors that were influential to me and why.

Okay, in the realm of fanfic writers, take a walk through my bookmarks on AO3, because each and every one of them helped shaped my headcanons. I literally cannot narrow it down to three people, and I’d feel bad leaving anyone out.

So let’s venture into the realm of published writers then, shall we?

Brandon Sanderson: Holy crap. This man’s world-building stuns me, and his magic systems? Stars on fire, I love his magic systems! He uses what I’m going to call ‘hard’ magic systems, meaning the magic functions more like a natural law than magic. There are rules, and the rules cannot be broken. But, more than that, his systems are elegant and simple and I just-- Sorry. I could go on and on. Anyway, I also love that his bad guys are almost never just bad for the sake of being bad. They’re complete, functional characters, and I will always love him for that. (I have a soft spot for good bad guys. I really do.)

Stephen King: Say what you will about his use (overuse?) of certain tropes, his writing is visceral and tangible. He doesn’t shy away from the cruelties of human nature or physiological reality. When you read his work, you can smell the reek of rotting flesh and you can feel the fear-sweat running down your back. It’s exactly the kind of grounding in reality that true horror requires, and I will always admire him for that.

Steven Erikson: I have never read world-building quite like this. It’s not just a single world, but an entire multiverse--and its spun out of his knowledge of history, anthropology, and human nature, so it all feels so stunningly, fantastically, shockingly real even when he’s dealing with non-human entities. Not to mention he loves playing with traditional fantasy tropes and twisting them to suit his needs, and I love that sort of thing.

38: Do I reread my own stories?

I’ll reread bits and pieces if someone comments on a particular scene. I’ll also reread scenes to maintain continuity for my longer fics or series. But I’ve usually had to reread them so many times during the editing process that the fic sort of feels like its been burned into my brain by the time I’ve posted it, honestly. So, by and large, no. 

44: Do I write linearly or do I write future scenes if I feel like it?

I have to write linearly. I may sit down with an outline in mind, but so often, the act of writing can change things pretty drastically. Either I find out something I never realized about the character, or I just realize that what I initially had in mind simply doesn’t make sense. So, yeah, I can’t write scenes out of order--unless I just plan on rewriting them entirely. Besides, if I’ve got a scene I really want to write, then that can motivate me to get through a less appealing scene. 

Thank you for your questions, anon!

(I feel I should apologize for the length of this post. So. Um. Sorry, I guess.)

[elan-morin-tedronai]

Rare Pair Fest Letter Thingy

Dear Creator! 

First of all thank you for signing up and creating content for whichever of my ships happens to be your cup of tea so to say. Whoever you are, I’m happy you’re out there, enjoying the same obscure fandom things~

Then, to the point.

AO3 name: Tedronai

General likes & dislikes:

Likes: emotions, epic friendships, complicated dynamics between unlikely allies, politics & court intrigue, complicated relationships, enemies to lovers, aro/ace characters, aro/ace characters navigating romantic/sexual relationships, ships with good communication.

Dislikes: plotless porn, plotless fluff, crack humour, A/B/O dynamics, redemption = death trope, mpreg (of the cis male variety), pregnancy or kid fic in general, most modern AUs for fantasy fandoms, domestic fluff.

I have no triggers nor any serious squicks so you can do basically anything that feels right for the ship without worrying about that.

Then for the fandom-specific stuff...

Fandom #1: Endeavour Ship(s): Joss Bixby/Endeavour Morse

Oh dear. Ride was the first episode of Endeavour that I properly watched, and Morse’s relationship with Bixby just hit all of my buttons at once, I was devastated when it ended the way it did. I just wanted... more. Of anything. Everything.

So that gives you fairly free rein... Which, I understand, may not be super helpful so I’ll try to come up with a few more specific things. Just expanding on any possible stolen moments during the episode would be lovely. 

If you want to go down the angst road and destroy me, which you have my full consent to do, expanding on Morse’s feelings and thoughts from the point on when he hears the gunshot... The heartbreak, the regrets for things that could have been but never quite did. Or maybe something did happen between them and that makes things worse, because obviously Morse hasn’t been through enough.

Or maybe, if you feel like venturing into the AU realm, maybe Bixby didn’t stay behind to be shot, maybe he went home with Morse... And how far you want to take that AU scenario is up to you because if it goes far enough, you’d still have to deal with Bixby’s real identity coming to light and that may be too much of a hassle. But hey, if you feel like it!

Maybe Bixby goes with Morse, they spend the night at Morse’s cabin and Bixby gets shot upon leaving in the morning? I don’t know, I’m just throwing things out here at this point.

But like I said, I’ll be absolutely delighted with anything you come up with, sad or bittersweet or even -- gasp! -- outright happy, though that might take some imagination, considering... Morse and Bixby both. x’)

Fandom #2: Final Fantasy XIV Ship(s): Gaius van Baelsar/Livia sas Junius; Nero tol Scaeva/Livia sas Junius

Look, I’m not gonna say Livia deserved better... but, you know. She did.

I’m gonna be happy with almost anything for Livia/Gaius, but with certain restrictions. Anything sexual between them must be consensual, and my headcanon is that Livia initiated the relationship; she certainly wasn’t coerced into it by the older and more powerful Gaius.

Also for the love of whatever Garleans worship, let’s not do the daddy dom thing here. I mean I absolutely do see dom/sub elements being a thing, and Livia is probably the subbest sub to ever sub (or maybe I’m just projecting here, who even knows), but... daddy kink is personally something I’ve never really understood, and in the context of Livia and Gaius... let’s just not, okay.

As for Livia/Nero, I admit that this is mostly a thing I ship because I (used to?) RP Livia in an AU in which she survived the end of the 2.0 MSQ. But that doesn’t need to restrict your creativity! I’m absolutely fine with pre-Castrums Livia/Nero hookup brought on by frustration or alcohol or both, or whatever you happen to feel like. Just maybe no romantic feelings in that case.

If you do want to go for the AU in which Livia survives... the possibilities are endless. We know Nero ends up in Mor Dhona afterwards; maybe Livia did, too? It’s one place in which it’s easy to blend in, go unnoticed. And from there it can develop into anything at all, including romance if you feel like it.

Fandom #3: Wheel of Time Ship(s): Moridin/Mazrim Taim; Logain Ablar/Mazrim Taim; Min Farshaw/Elan Morin Tedronai

Okay so Taim/Moridin is a ship that just... happened. It started as a crack ship, things happened, now it’s one of my favourite ships in the WoT ‘verse.

It has its own fic ‘verse here. Just in case you’re interested. Though obviously whatever you come up with -- whether fic or art -- doesn’t have to be compatible with my ‘verse.

I’m looking for... anything, really. Maybe Moridin himself recruited Taim and was the main Forsaken contact for the Black Tower stuff. Maybe things happen around when Taim is promoted to the ranks of the Chosen. For this ship I’m totally cool with PWP, too, though if confused emotions are involved, all the better.

Then... Taim/Logain, the tragic love story of our time. (I don’t even know.) I’ll never buy that their relationship truly amounted to mutual hate at first sight. If Taim had hated Logain from the start, nothing would have been easier than to get rid of him before he gained a cult following among the Asha’man. No, Taim must have had a reason for letting Logain live, and to get away with the things he did, and the only explanation that makes any sense is that he wanted Logain on his side. (Or by his side, or in his bed, or whatever.)

Again, I’ll take anything with these two except some wild shit like, I dunno, Taim sexually abusing Logain while the latter is held prisoner. But if you really want my eternal, undying love, give me an AU in which Taim comes back to Light (or never turns to the Shadow) because with Logain, he can actually tell the Forsaken to fuck off and have a fighting chance of survival. 

Or, you know, when the Forsaken demand that Logain be Turned, Taim nopes out because that’s where he draws the line and survival doesn’t even matter anymore. Honestly, in this scenario, feel free to kill him if you like.

And finally Min/Elan. If you got matched for this ship, you’re probably either Lise or offered “any ship” for WoT. (In the case of the former, hi! In the case of the latter... I’m sorry? xD)

So if Taim/Moridin was a crack ship that got out of hand, this is like... this one skipped the crack phase, went straight from a really weird concept into “yes! this is the ship I’ll go down with!” territory. Basically this happened, and the rest... is... history? Not that there’s really anything yet that comes after the thing I linked. but. yeah.

The obvious route is probably to go with the post-AMoL AU, because Elan and Min don’t even exist in the same Age otherwise. Unless you can sell me a Min/Moridin that doesn’t venture into icky darkfic territory, because let’s not do that to Min. If you feel you can do it right, go for it. I have faith in you. But the AU in which Elan lives again is probably easier.

And within that premise... Anything, really? Like I said in the general likes/dislikes section, I appreciate communication in my ships, so honestly I’d be delighted with just them trying to figure out what exactly they want from their relationship. Or uh. You know. Kink negotiation? If you felt like it?? Elan is a sub, for the record. Hell, I’ll even take something vaguely domestic for these two (or three if you want to keep Rand around but he’s optional) because Elan and domesticity is such a strange combination.

Fandom #4: Kushiel’s Legacy Ship(s): Imriel de la Courcel/Lucius Tadius da Lucca; Imriel de la Courcel/Mavros Shahrizai/Lucius Tadius da Lucca; Mavros Shahrizai/Lucius Tadius da Lucca

So basically what I want from any of these is let Lucius be happy and not stuck in a duty marriage because you didn’t want to give Imriel a male love interest, for fuck’s sake.

Any scenario in which Lucius comes to Terre d’Ange is an absolute delight. At the end of Scion? Perfect. For Imriel’s wedding at the end of Mercy? Beautiful. Anywhere in between for whatever reason you come up with? Yes please. I don’t care if you ship him with Imriel or Mavros or both, just let them be happy.