#will add link to ao3 when I add it there

[gaasuba]

Butterflies

ChaiPunkFlower fluff

link to AO3

This is so not cool. Pavitr tries to make himself leave. He should definitely leave. Instead, he stays frozen in the doorway, staring at his two friends as they stare at each other with expressions he is certain he's never seen them make. If not for the fact that his arrival hadn't triggered either of their spider senses, he would worry he wasn't even allowed to see them like this. Hobie sitting on the couch, Miles in their lap and facing them. They're smiling at each other like they're the only things in this world they can see and, since they haven't noticed him yet, Pav figures that's true on some level.

He shivers when Miles traces his fingers up Hobie's cheek to cup their face. He remembers the feeling of Gayatri doing the same thing before she… Miles kisses Hobie gently and they slide their arms around his waist, pulling him closer. Suddenly Pav wants Hobie to hold him like that, wants Miles to touch his face like that, wishes Gayatri was here to kiss him and calm some of the butterflies raging in his stomach. He had considered the possibility he was poly since the existance of the option was mentioned by Gwen, Gayatri wasn't even weirded out by it, but this is too much confirmation all at once. His face is getting hot and the butterflies are determined to fill every hollow of his body.

Miles sighs into the kiss and Pav's heart skips a beat. Hobie chuckles against Miles' lips and Pav is starting to worry the butterflies might choke him. Hobie pinches Mile's side, causing him to yelp and jerk back.

"Dude!" Miles complains.

Too cute. It's all too cute.

Miles finally notices him.

"Oh shit. Sorry, man," Miles says while trying to move off of Hobie's lap. He huffs in annoyance when they hold him in place.

"He's been over there watching us snog the whole time," Hobie's words cause all the heat to drain away into cold panic. Their smirk is unbarable. They had noticed and not said anything?? This was so not fair.

"Well that's kinda weird," Miles says and Pav really wishes he shared his ability to turn invisible. This is so embarrassing. He wants to cry. Hobie speaks again before he can swallow the lump in his throat to apologize.

"Nah, love. Hush with that," they lift and set Miles aside to where he had tried moving earlier. He rolls his eyes but allows himself to be placed. "Sorry for putting you on the spot, mate," they say, standing and walking to Pav who is feeling even more embarrased now they both of them have apologized and he still hasn't said anything. "And sorry about him. Physically impossible for Miles to not be a little shit innit?"

"Hey, what!?"

Hobie is standing in front of him now and Pav really hopes it's not obvious how badly he's shaking. Oh no they can definitely see the tears he's holding back tho, and their unreadable, serious expresion isn't helping with that battle.

"Hey, Pav," they say in their higher register, "You're alright, yeah? We're not mad at ya."

No one is mad. He nods then closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, repeating their words in his head. His friends are patiently silent as he works to calm himself.

"Sorry," he finally manages to say, "Sorry. Miles is right. It was rude." He bites his lip. That wasn't the word Miles had used and Hobie was still staring down at him with that serious look. What excuses could he even give that would make this better? "You were just…" You were just what?? Idiot! Now you have to say something! "So cute." He couldn't think of a lie fast enough and now the heat is returning to his face.

Hobie's expression shifts to a smirk and they raise an eyebrow. Pav would be releived if he wasn't freaking out!

"Oh yeah?" they verbally poke and Pav just knows the question is a set up for an even bigger teasing than their expression and tone already were. And of course the asshole is waiting for him to reply before doing it. He loves his friend but why do they have to be like this?

"Yeah," he answers uncertainly. Their smirk opens into a grin and he's really wishing he could figure out how he fucked up that bad!

"So tell me," they start, tilting their had back and shoving their hands in their pockts. How?? How was it that bad!? "What is it that's got the multiverse's number one shipper so flustered about sayin' somethin like that?"

Oh… Oh no. Oh that was how. The heat is back in full force and his ears are burning. Hobie bends over laughing, probably at the horrified face he's making. Miles runs over to stand next to them before he speaks.

"Yeah, that is weird." That word again, but it sounds more concerned this time. "What's going on? You ok?" Pav can't think of any answers and he's worried Miles will ask more pressing questions but what Hobie asks is so much worse than anything he was wishing against.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

Pav glares. He hopes there's less of a pout to it, he's been practicing.

"Come on, bro! Don't you think this is taking the teasing too far?" He should have known Hobie couldn't stay serious for more than five minutes.

"I'm not teasing," their expression softens and they lean against the doorway, "We've been good friends for along time and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't ever noticed how attractive you are." The glare long lost and the butterflies rushing back, Pav turns quickly to look at the opposite side of the doorway where Miles is leaning. Is he ok with this??

"Don't look at me," Miles straightens his posture and holds his hands up defensively, "this is between you two."

"Do you want to kiss Miles?"

Pav's attention snaps back to Hobie and he curses himself for not catching any of Miles' reaction. The butterflies are threatening to choke him again. Hobie slides their hand around his waist to rest gently on his back, giving him plenty of time to reject them and making sure he doesn't feel trapped. They are both waiting, as patient as they always were when he needed them to be.

First he thinks of Gayatri. He knows she's fine with him seeing other people. He had checked and double checked so many times that she had threatened to start setting him up on blind dates.

Second he thinks of Gwen. But clearly neither Hobie or Miles were worried about her feelings right now and he knew for sure they would be if it was an issue.

He resists looking back to Miles. If he has a problem with what's happening, he had been allowed a lot of time to voice it.

That left Hobie, whos patient gaze is still searching him for any signs of body language. Whos cool confidence melts away into hopeful excitement as Pav's fingers gently glide across their face and cup their cheek. They lean down slightly so he can reach them easier. Were their eyes always this beautiful?

He pulls them into a gentle kiss and can't stop the sigh caused by finally getting some relief from the merciless butterflies. They surge back when Hobie's arms tighten around his waist, pulling him close, and flow away again into the feeling of their lips moving against his. No one besides Gayatri had ever made him feel this way before.

Hobie's wonderful kisses leave too soon and he grips their vest as they straighten away from him, desperate to keep them close. They look just as kiss dizzy as he's feeling so he isn't sure why they pulled away until he feels Miles' fingers pressing lightly against his cheek. He answers the silent request and turns to face him.

Miles is staring pointedly at his lips and the hand not still cupping his cheek slides around his waist. Hobie's arms loosen to allow Miles to pull him closer and he switches one of his hands' grip from vest to hoodie. Miles is the one to close the distance this time. His kiss is more tender than Pav was expecting and he wonders how much longer he can stand the flustered waves of emotion the two were pulling him through.

He pushes them both away and takes a step back.

"Could we just," he pauses a moment to figure out what he even wants to ask, "hold hands or something?" He can't look at either of them. The request feels so insignificant and silly, especially compared to what they had just been doing, to what he had debatibly initiated.

"Yeah," Miles says, shifting gears faster than expected, "we were actually about to start a new show until someone got handsy." He crosses his arms and looks at Hobie accusingly.

"No idea what you're talkin about, love," they reply, taking one of Pav's hands into their own and lacing their fingers.

"Uh-huh…." Miles tilts his head and shifts his gaze to their hands like they're proof to his point. He laughs and kisses Hobie on the cheek before returning to the couch. When they follow, Pav allows himself to be lead along.

"How are you both so cute," he whispers to himself.

[agerefandomstuff]

little soldier boy???

I think he'd be small but also have bigger ages? But if you could write about him being a small guy it be much appreciated!

Soldier Baby - Is it Him or the Drugs?

Content warning: not kids’ appropriate media. and has not been censored to be even though it involves sfw age regression.

(if you’ve watched The Boys you have an idea of what to expect from the characters’ vocab and personalities.)

Word count: 3175

Tags/warnings: Regressor Soldier Boy - Ben, Caregiver Billy Butcher, Hughie Campbell, poor hughie’s always bullied, Soldier Boy and Butcher accurate cursing and sexual jokes, general vulgarity, Ben being borderline racist/sexist/homophobic/ OUTDATED THINKING except I didn’t actually wanna make it as bad as he actually can be and I also don’t know how to be, anxiety, mentions of drugs and alcohol, mentions of violence, threats, insults, French fries dipped in frosties, if that’s something that disturbs you idk, my American attempt at writing a British man played by a Kiwi man, first time regressing, confusion, panic, misunderstanding, I don’t know, Ben commenting bad things about The Little Mermaid, Butcher being dumb, Butcher taking charge and being a dad, not beta read. Never beta read. I don’t know who I would be if it was beta read.

Perhaps it was because he had taken too much. Or more likely Butcher gave him something laced since his body filtered out most drugs within minutes and he'd been feeling this way since he’d started yawning a couple hours earlier. His yawns started while watching dumb new century movies, one moment he was bitching to Hughie about how his generation relied too heavily on special effects instead of getting creative (like back in his day) the next he was getting asked when the last time he slept was. As if he was some toddler and not a grown fucking man who can occasionally yawn if he wants to damn it! Hughie might’ve been his “babysitter,” as Butcher titled it, when they were alone but he wasn’t a fuckin child for him to fuss over like some sniveling house wife.

“I’ve stayed awake for over a month before partying, kicking ass, and slinging pussy all while doing my damn job as a hero. Then I was asleep for decades because of Russian scum. This is nothing.” He growled at Hughie, the poor boy shaking like one of those fuckin rat dogs he use to see rich women carrying around at those mind numbing Vought galas. “I am not tired. And you'd be wise to stop assuming I was.”

Although if Hughie hadn't said something about it he probably would've put more thought into it. because… beyond just yawning he was feeling… uncharacteristically spacey, even though he really hadn't been awake long enough to excuse that. He hadn't been here for more than a week, right? Doesn't matter now. He was stubborn and would purposely not give it any more thought because Hughie was a cunt.

...that was until his eighth yawn of the day. It was like he was yawning all the time. He couldn't stop himself and at this point he wasn't even watching the movie let alone making his usual commentary. His mind was just focusing on fighting the yawns and the odd feeling in his mind. He couldn't remember a time he felt so unfocused like this. Even in his most fucked up state at the first Herogasm party he threw, he didnt feel this way.

It had gotten to the point that even Butcher had noticed once he had come back from his food run. However Butcher’s attention on him only fed into Ben’s theory that he’d been slipped something and they were just waiting for him to go down so they could do something to him. Maybe the food he’d brought just had more of whatever supe roofie was inside and they would use it to get a second dose in so they could drag him back to the Russians to be tortured again. Maybe they were working with the evil sons of bitches to turn him into this perfect weapon they wanted and this had all been a ruse to gain his trust.

“The fuck you lookin at?” He snapped out at Butcher but the man only raised his hands in surrender, not even putting up an argument which almost made him feel bad since he… had respect for the guy. He was a badass leader that did–albeit unintentionally–released him from his permanent cyro torture. Even if he was suspicious of him right now… He somewhat owed the man.

Also he was placating him with his favorite things. Drugs, trashy food, his own movies. Only things that would make his time better would be to not be spending it in this shithole hotel unless it was with a woman.

Or a few women.

Aged-like-wine women.

Maybe he was overreacting to this spacey-feeling bullshit.

He probably just needed to do a couple lines to get rid of the yawns and he would be good as new.

“Didn’t say nothin, mate. Calm yer pretty little ticker down.” Butcher responded, glancing down at his chest in warning, reminding them all what would happen if he didn’t get over whatever he was getting so defensive about. “Take some pills, take a nap fer all I care. Whatever keeps this buildin from shambles and our goals within sight.”

The nap line was really all he heard and it was definitely the worst thing to say. The bottle in his hand shattered between his fingers like it was nothing more than a breakaway and Hughie’s face drained of color in time with the beer that dripped down his arm.

Ben stood up his finger pointing at Butcher in a real warning, “Whatever the fuck you think you accomplished–whatever shit you roofied me with–it’s best you undo it right now before I turn your queer side piece into– into…” he couldnt even think of a clever threat. It's like his brain was completely malfunctioning leaving him to just angrily settle for a more embarrassingly simple correction. “Before I fucking kill him.”

The Brit raised his eyebrow as he had to take a second to actually will his mouth to hold back a sarcastic comment about the tongue trip, shockingly actually valuing their lives for once since he was so close to getting Homelander with Soldier Boy in his pocket. “A’right.. hold on now. I ain't got a clue whatcha accusing me of but we ‘aven't done it.” he closed his laptop softly, never taking his eyes off Ben the same way he would never take his eyes off a wild horse. “Why d’ya fink we roofied ya? Beyond the actual roofies yew requested, that is?”

His reaction made Ben second guess his theory again. He never second guessed himself like this. Even when he was wrong. And he sure as shit didn't share his feelings. Feelings were for pussies like Hughie. You didn't have feelings in war or at Vought. Yet…. he felt oddly compelled to answer Butcher’s question honestly and without more threats. He couldn't rationalize this strange compulsion other than maybe it was the way Butcher talked to him or managed to not be afraid of him. Or maybe it was because he was potentially slipped something–he still hadn’t ruled it out!

“I feel… wrong. My head ain't clear but everything I’ve taken should’ve worn off by now.” His hand dipped in the air like a physical indicator of his current lowering confidence and defenses which Butcher–in true Billy Butcher fashion–promptly took a shit on.

“Sounds like someone’s backed up. How boutcha go have a wank in the shower while we plug our ears and pretend we hadn’t noticed yer on edge?” Ben scoffed at the suggestion, his defenses rising back up. Butcher didn't get it. He didnt have blue balls, he had a fucked up head!

“No, you fuckin foreign– guy! ” this was really getting pathetic.. “I-it’s like… like–”

“Like PTSD…?” Hughie nervously piped up from where he was watching, still frozen to the couch. The other two men looked over at him and Ben opened his mouth to shut him down but hesitated. While he was actually kind of glad the little runt was taking him more seriously than Butcher had.. he also didn’t have an answer. He wanted to say no, I've seen shell shock, idiot. I don't have it! He wasn't really sure this time because he really didn't feel normal which was only making him feel more… antsy.

Picking up on his discomfort and hesitation, Butcher turned back towards Ben and watched him for a second, actually deciding to have a good look at him beyond his front of anger. He was tense but his body language was severely lacking its usual arrogant confidence. Like he wasn't comfortable within his own space right now. Once Butcher really looked, even his face, which normally lacked any expression beyond irritation, was practically screaming; I don’t know what’s going on! Someone fix it!

He’d seen that look more times than he could count in his life with his line of work but something about it reminded him more of a little kid than an adult in the middle of a PTSD episode. The look was similar to the one that made him call Hughie “kid” regardless of him being a full adult and insisting on it all the time.

He could see something in Ben right now that activated the part of his brain that had always taken care of Lenny as a kid.

The softer part of him that insisted he help the poor sod’s silent beg for help.

“Oi..kay, kid.” Butcher softened the gruffness in his tone and stood up from his seat at the table, snagging a bag of greasy fries and the frostie he had yet to dig into. “Let's get on then, yeah?” He slung an arm around Ben’s shoulder and led him back to the hotel bed in front of the TV he had long set up shop on.

Although still confused, Ben didn’t stop him. Instead following on autopilot while his mind still reeled with thought until his knees bumped against the mattress.

“No– I'm not tired. I told you I'm not tired–” had he told Butcher that or had he only yelled at Hughie today? “I’m not taking a damn nap–!” christ, he sounded like a whining child! Sleeping wouldn’t kill him for fuck’s sake! If the Russians hadn't figured that out after this many years surely they never would– unless they did. He didn't want to be tortured more– how long would it be before his mind broke for good? Before he died?

“No, y’ain’t so hush and stop yer worrying. Were jus’ gonna sit and eat the food I boughtcha before my money goes ta waste.” Ben looked surprised to have been effectively told to shut up and do what he's told but what he was most shocked about was the fact he didn't immediately get the desire to punch the shit out of him for having the audacity to do so. He just felt… odd. Like there were butterflies tying uncomfortable knots in his stomach. Like… it was almost nice to have a direction to go into so his thoughts would pause.

“Come on. Don’t make me wait. Fries ain’t neva last too long outside the frya.” Butcher pat his lower back, almost like he was a little kid getting encouraged forward and he listened. He crawled up onto the bed and sat in his spot looking at him with big eyes, clearly at a loss with the situation. He felt like he didn't know himself. This was a part of him he’d never experienced and he didn't know what to do, yet Butcher… seemed as at ease as ever. Like he’d dealt with a hundred men with nukes in their chests yelling at him.

Though he knew him longer than Ben did, even all Hughie could do was watch with the same odd mixture of shock and amazement when Butcher sat down beside the supe, tossed the fries between them, then changed the channel. No one had touched the remote since Ben had figured it out just enough to channel surf onto his own films. He had guarded that thing like a kid who found a new toy he didn't want to share.

“I.. was watching that.” Ben struggled to get out in a mumble that had never left his lips before.

“Won't spoil the ending for ya then, just say it ain't worth more than a prostitute that's got the clap.” Butcher casually informed him while he looked through the menu. The hotel, although shitty in every other aspect, actually had a Vought+ subscription, which begrudgingly had a pretty good selection. “Hughie, be a good lad for me an name a tolerable animation that aint Disney.”

“The Little Mer…maid..?” Hughie stuttered out, his brain automatically picking the last Disney movie he’d watched with him, too scared to really absorb the question.

“That’s Disney, Champ. Lookin fer somethin on Vought+”

“Oh. Right. Um..” He racked his brain for a moment trying not to mess this up and get his butt chewed by Soldier Boy later for choosing a movie he would hate sitting through. But the more he thought about everything the grumpy old man complained about when they were alone the less movies he could think of. In fact all he could think of was Ariel. Ariel.. Ariel, save me. Oh wait. “Isn't… isn't there a Disney princess section on Vought+ now?”

“Hn.. There is. Good thinkin.” Butcher cleared his throat a bit as he clicked on the movie then tossed the remote to reach for a fry, not paying attention to the way Ben was currently staring at him like he was an alien. “Redheaded broad it is.”

“Disney.. prin…cess? Like… the films for.. little brats..?” Ben slowly asked out, his voice not really feeling like his own with how insecure and… small it sounded. This all felt like a drug fueled dream. A really weird one, not one of the fun ones. Maybe he’d already fallen asleep and was back in some cyro-coma.

“Mmhm. Hughie likes em. Usually he leans more towards that lil boffin Belle over the glorified sushi princess but–”

“I like Ariel!” Hughie instantly defended but his cheeks went pink as he realized he meant to defend himself in a different way. Like one that might keep his reputation intact or keep himself from being relentlessly bullied by resident tough man, Soldier Boy. “I-I mean–” He gave Butcher an embarrassed, desperate look as he hissed out between his teeth a clear plea. “Butcher..! Come on..!”

Ben’s head swiveled between Hughie and Butcher feeling like he was missing out on something. He felt like that a lot recently since the world was so much different than it was back when he was last in it but this felt like he was out of the loop on something he should know.

“Why… why does Hughie like–” Before he could even finish his question, Butcher had slipped an ice cream dipped fry in his mouth, surprising him further. His reaction time was lacking, he hadn't even seen the man’s hand until it was too late. His senses were dulled. Could only imagine the foul shit his father would say if he saw him now.

“Film’s startin, kid, eat yer food.” Butcher spooned a mouthful of frostie into his own mouth with the grace expected of a grown man whose shirt was stained as much as it was and Ben watched him as he slowly followed instructions and chewed what had been given to him. His gaze flicked over to Hughie still trying to figure out what was going on but all Hughie was telling him was that he’d rather be swallowed alive by the couch than make eye contact with him.

The sound of water splashing alongside loud music on the tv stole his attention away from his less than stellar detective work and he watched for a few seconds as sailors began to sing. His brows furrowed and he turned to Butcher to protest and ask again about why the hell grown men would watch cartoons like this but the moment his mouth opened he was spoon fed some frostie. And while it was more careful than how the Brit had fed himself the action was aggravating. Ben looked at the Brit with an unhappy glare that probably looked more harmless than his usual happy expression if the rest of him looked as pathetic as he felt. But when he was given no attention from it he finally turned away to begrudgingly watch the stupid movie they insisted on making him watch instead of dealing with his problems.

Twenty minutes was all it took for Ben to be fully enraptured, his thought process having melted away with the colorful fish on the screen without his knowledge. Butcher had kept a casual eye on him after he’d realized he was dropping, mildly worried that the loose cannon might start to get anxious again if he broke out of his distraction. It was a little rockier at the start of the movie when he was still incredibly uneasy with the situation and unhappy with having been fed twice without permission; however Butcher was stupid and confident. An that’s what got ‘im this far in life, right?

So sue him if he let himself feel a bit smug as Ben obliviously settled into this new headspace, watching the movie as if it were the most interesting thing he’d ever witnessed. The only time he occasionally turned away from the screen was for the brief moment it would take to be spoon fed another bite being offered. Nothin beat the tried and true combination of an age regression classic an comfort food t’keep someone perfectly satiated in a headspace, eh?

Kid would barely wait to swallow before pointing at the screen to yell something about it because he was trying so hard to listen after having been told “ta swallow ‘is food ‘fore speakin,” but still NEEDED to give his commentary on everything since at his core he was still Ben. He might be acting younger but he was still who he was for better or for worse. And that included movie commentary.

Ben: “That crab is such an ass-munch! I mean look at him! He’s practically makin out with King Trident’s butt.”

Butcher: “His name’s Sebastian, you’ll like him more later on, bud.”

Ben: “I don’t like commies.”

Butcher: “Now why’dja go an call the poor ol bastard that?”

Ben: “He’s red.”

Butcher: “That don’t mean… he’s a crab, mate.”

Ben: “And? Crabs can be commies.”

Hughie: “That’s weirdly the most inclusive thing I’ve heard you say.”

—

Ben: “Hell yeah King Trident!”

Hughie: “You can't cheer for him, he just destroyed his daughter’s most prized collection!”

Ben: “Uh yeah. She didn't do what he said so she earned it. And she was probably kissin on that statue like a weirdo. Anyway he looked cool doing it.”

Butcher: “An how’dja know she was doin that?”

Ben: “I dunno.”

Hughie: “Ariel wouldn't kiss a statue!”

Ben: “Shut up, Hughie, you don't know that!”

Hughie: “Yes, I do! I’ve watched this movie more than you!”

Butcher: “Boys.”

Hughie: “Sorry..”

Ben: “Well I’m not sorry.”

Once the junk food was gone, Ben started his yawns again but Butcher counted himself lucky that his anxiety didn't notice them this time since that was the only thing he could guess set him off earlier. That or he just took too much while he was gone and got paranoid. Supe was a nutcase anyhow and Butcher probably trusted him even less than Hughie did.

Near the end of the movie though was when the brick of a man made himself comfortable against Butcher’s side and without making it a big deal, the infamous bloke wrapped his arm around his shoulder to pull him in tight. He was softer than he looked. Maybe that level of comfort he was providing was why Ben’s aggressive commentary died away before he could give a final scathing review and instead slipped asleep the moment the next movie started. But Ben would certainly deny that to anyone that brought it up. Including his own thoughts. He’d rather blame those supe-special roofies he never confirmed.

[arecaceae175]

trick or treat~ 👻

(First Part) (<- Previous Part)

“Is he still talking?” Wind moaned.

Time nodded. "Go on to the next house, squirt. If he's not done by then, we can resort to drastic measures." Time gently pushed Wind's bandana, steering him towards the next house. Wind squeaked in protest and shoved his hands away.

"Not a squirt!" Wind shoved his finger between Time's ribs then ran to the next house before he could recover.

"Trick or treat!"

A generic couple opened the generic door Wind had knocked on. They smiled their generic smiles and offered him some generic candy.

"Aren't you cute. Now, what are you supposed to be?" They asked in unison.

"I'm a pirate," Wind answered, because he was. If he had to blend in, he might as well make it easy for himself.

"Aw, you sure are. Have a fun night!"

"Thanks!" Wind called as he skipped away. Time was waiting at the end of the sidewalk, and Warriors was still talking to whoever he was talking to.

"So..." Wind said. "Should we just leave him?"

Time hesitated. "...No."

"You thought about it!" Wind said, pointing at Time.

"You can't prove that."

"You so thought about it." Wind laughed. "Drastic measures?"

Time smirked. "Drastic measures."

Wind sucked in a breath and cupped his hands around his mouth, but Time stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Keep it PG. There are kids around," Time said.

"Hm. Yeah, ok, fair." Perhaps 'Hurry up, I gotta take a massive shit!' wasn't the best thing to yell in a neighborhood of trick-or-treating children.

"Wars!" Wind yelled instead, as loud as he could. "Quit flirting, we gotta go!"

Warriors held up a middle finger over his shoulder and continued talking. Wind huffed in frustration, but Time squeezed his shoulder again. "Count to twelve. That's as long as I usually give him to finish a conversation."

Wind rolled his eyes and started counting. By the time he got to ten, Warriors turned and sauntered back to them. Wind, again, rolled his eyes.

Warriors held out his arms gleefully. "Guess who got a commission?"

"Really? Well done," Time said.

"She was so impressed by my handmade Corpse Bride that she wants me to make her cosplay for a convention next year!" Warriors said.

"Cool," Wind said, in the tone of someone who very much did not care about textiles and wanted to eat candy. "Can we go now?"

"Yes, you little heathen. We're due back at the ranch soon. Two more houses, go."

Wind scampered away.

(Next Part ->)

[billdenbrough]

BACK TO SCHOOL BLUES

aftg · kevaaron · 2.9k, t. kevin has a growth spurt. aaron copes (poorly, says andrew). for a flash fic game with @merceyca & @vykio – kevaaron + fire alarm, growth spurt

“I missed you this summer,” he says casually, which is terrible. It’s so fucking Kevin—he won’t say a nice word upon pain of death on the court, and he barely knows how to say thank you when Aaron chucks an energy bar at him to make sure he doesn’t fucking pass out at practice or fixes his bandages for him (in Aaron’s defence, he only took over because Kevin’s attempts were incompetent and therefore annoying, not because he wanted to) or whatever the fuck help he’s providing the walking irritant, but sometimes he’s just so honest that it makes Aaron want to shove his head into the school pool and scream underwater. “Uh-huh,” Aaron says, because he’s not that easy. “Yeah, I’m sure you had a lot of time to just think about your schoolmates when you were lying on the decks of yachts and elongating your spine.” Kevin pauses, processing that. “So you noticed?” he says, rubbing the nape of his neck. Aaron stops, turning to look at him incredulously. “You look like the Lighthouse of Alexandria,” he says. Kevin’s face starts to break out into a slow smile, so Aaron turns on his heel and starts speed-walking forward.

So now Aaron is wet, his schoolbag is wet, and—least acceptable of all—Kevin is wet.

In his stupid white shirt and his stupid summer yacht tan and with his stupid hair.

read on ao3

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Returning from camp after dealing with the gnolls and the fire at Waukeen’s Rest, Majexatli dropped their pack and staff at their tent and immediately went off into the trees without looking back.

Their muscles ached, not just from exertion, not just from the flames that had licked their skin, but from something unnamed, a painful restlessness, a hunger to have their bones snap and reshape into something else, anything else.

Ash and blood still stuck to their skin, their hair, their horns. They needed to clean themselves off, as they were certain their companions were also doing, likely at the water's edge closer to their camp. 

While Majexatli walked, they pulled the tie and ribbon from their hair, combing their fingers through and undoing their braid, wincing as they pulled at knots and strands matted with blood. 

As they began stripping off their leather armor, laying it out on a rock near the river’s edge, they heard a twig snap behind them. Majexatli froze, the warm, electric feel of imminent wildshape enveloping them, the tension radiating off them as time nearly stood still. Their ears twitched as they analyzed the sounds of the forest around them, holding themselves on the precipice there, as they listened for information, warning signs.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,”

And suddenly Majexatli was pulled back from the edge, a chill washing over their body even as they stood in the sunlight, an emptiness settling inside them even though they could still taste—

Majexatli looked over their shoulder to see Wyll, standing on the path a little ways away, hands half raised as if to show he meant no threat. Part of them hated how they believed that.

They couldn’t remember the last time someone had seen them with their hair down.

“It’s alright,” Majexatli said, even as the tension didn’t leave them, “My reflex would be to wildshape, not attack,”

Not a lie, but Majexatli didn’t know what the truth would be. Would they have run? Would they have tacked Wyll to the ground, snarling and pressing bloodied teeth to his throat? Would he fight back? If it came down to it, would he drive a rapier through their heart? Could he bring himself to? Did he already know? Did he plan on this, has he been waiting to get them alone like this so he could—

“Majexatli?”

They blinked, coming back to themselves, seeing Wyll’s face look at them with concern that cut them more deeply than a knife.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day, I’m a little… out of it,” They smiled politely, forcing their shoulders to relax as much as they could.

Sitting down on the rock, they began unlacing their boots, mimicking nonchalance, all the while watching Wyll out of the corner of their eye, every nerve in their body focused on the weight of the dagger on their hip. Wyll took a few cautious steps forward.

Is he afraid of me, or is he afraid that I am? In his eyes am I wounded prey or a predator?

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright, as soon as we got to camp, I turned around and you were already gone.”

“Apologies, I just…needed to get away,” Majexatli said, leaning back on their hands with a sigh, now stripped down to their breeches and laced tunic, rumpled and stained with blood, “I’m not used to… this. People. Before the Nautiloid I would go weeks without seeing other people, now there’s countless every day.”

Part of them wondered if he would take the bait, if his face would twist in confusion, finally piece together the lies. Don’t ask me a question where I can lie, I can’t speak the truth aloud, don’t fall for the mask, please.

“You’ve been doing quite well, if you ask me,” Wyll smiled, stepping a bit closer, “Genuinely, you’ve gone out of your way time and time again just to help people with no promise of reward. Today was no exception.”

Majexatli nodded. They could still taste gnoll blood in their mouth, the adrenaline buzzing in their veins. 

Did you see? Did you watch me snap the neck of that hyena? You were horrified by the sight of the gnoll transformation, by the mindless consuming hunger. Did you condemn that hunger and politely look away from mine? Did you avert your eyes so you didn’t have to watch me tear out throats with my teeth? Rip open flesh and stain my maw red? Does it scare you? When I lifted that burning beam off that man in Waukeen’s Rest, did you know I still had raw flesh between my teeth? In my stomach?

“It hardly seemed a choice, it was the right thing to do,”

“Not everyone would see it that way,” Wyll smiled, “But I didn’t mean to intrude, I can let you be,” 

Wyll bowed slightly, stepping back. It shouldn’t bother them, like they said, they were used to being alone, they didn’t like being around people, they had come this far from camp to get away from everyone. So why did their stomach drop, blood run cold as Wyll moved away? 

“It’s alright, I was just going to clean myself up in the river, I’m sure you could use a dip as well, and I’m hardly standoffish about something as trivial as nudity,” 

It wasn’t quite a lie.

They hoped they didn’t seem too quick in turning away, beginning to unlace their shirt and breeches. Their own heartbeat was loud in their ears, the warmth of the sun paling in comparison to the shame and anxiety curling in their belly uninvited. While they avoided looking back—not wanting to meet his eyes, not wanting to let him see the scars, not wanting to let him see the fear in their eyes—they tried their best to listen, hear if Wyll was walking away or not. 

I am unarmored, I can show you which ribs you should drive your sword through. You win, show your true colors and I’ll show you mine. Please. I am the monster you are supposed to slay, don’t look at me like you are the selfless knight and I am the prince who needs saving.

Folding their clothes and placing them neatly next to their armor on the rocks, Majexatli tried to force a relaxed posture, tried to force the knot in their stomach to release. 

The river's water was refreshingly cool as they stepped into it, it might have even felt nice

“You make it look easy, not catching your shirt on your horns. I suppose you have far more experience with them, though,”

They heard movement, a rustle of fabric, a disturbance in the water behind them. If they were someone else, they might not have been able to tell how far away Wyll was, a respectable distance, as though he was trying to respect their privacy, their space. Majexatli didn’t look back at him, but they glanced at the riverbank out of the corner of their eye. Wyll’s rapier lay next to his armor and clothes. 

The metal of the dagger in Majexatli’s hand burned.

“It happens to everyone. They weren’t always like this, they betray my age. When I was 20 I think they were barely even starting to curve,”

You would have liked me back then, when I would giggle and blush like a schoolboy and braid flowers into my hair and sing songs of Silvanus and peace. You want them, not me.

“Really? It seems hard to picture you without the beautiful horns you have today,” There was a fondness in his voice that felt misplaced, Majexatli could hear Wyll’s smile and they hated that they wanted to turn and see it.

“You’re not alone, that was a lifetime ago,”

“I suppose I’ve never thought about it, do horns continue to grow over time?”

“Somewhat. They start to come in when you’re quite young, and usually by the time you’re an adult they’ve grown into their full shape. But they still grow a bit,”

“Yours weren’t grown in when you were 20?”

Shit. A slip, careless.

“It—it can depend. Growth can be stunted in plenty of ways,”

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to pry, you needn’t tell me anything you don’t want to share,”

Oh, he sounded so genuine, an alien feeling welled up inside Majexatli at his voice. A feeling so tender that Majexatli felt their nails digging into their palm hard enough to draw blood, their grip on their dagger turning their knuckles white as they fought an urge to rip and cut and tear into their own chest and strangle whatever was budding in their chest before it could take root.

“I don’t suppose you have any tips for caring for horns, or tails for that matter?”

“I— someone else probably has better advice than I could give. I didn’t grow up around tieflings, don’t think I even met another tiefling until I was already an adult. I’m sure I’m doing something wrong with them,” Majexatli said, another slip, a careless truth falling from their lips.

“You must be doing something right, you’re quite handsome,”

He probably even meant it.

“For the horns, a little soap and water works well, doesn’t have to be anything special. If I want to do something special, I have a balm of sorts, easy to make. You only need a bit on them, sometimes I use something to sand off the driest outer layer beforehand,”

They shrugged.

“I might have to ask you for the recipe then, sometime,” Wyll paused for a moment, Majexatli could feel him considering something, “I—as I said before, I don’t mean to pry, and you needn’t answer if you don’t want to—”

Here it comes, Majexatli thought, here’s where you drop the kind facade.

“Yes?”

“You said earlier you didn’t grow up with tieflings, I can’t imagine that was easy…”

There was a beat of silence before Majexatli responded.

“It wasn’t. For a while, I considered cutting my horns off. Same with my tail. Not that it would have changed anything, but I couldn’t stand looking in the mirror or seeing the way people looked at me like I was a monster,”

They should have lied, they knew, but the exhaustion that seeped through them was from more than just the physical.

“How did you make it through?”

I didn’t survive. Not in any way that’s meaningful. I let it consume me. If I didn’t look like this I would have been married, had a home, maybe had children. I didn’t find any meaningful lesson from my suffering. All I found was that the world is cruel and so many gods are indifferent. I spent years cutting my teeth on the bones of animals that still squirmed and cried out as I ate them raw. I’m no different than that hyena in the road, infected by hunger and reshaping my bones into something feral and monstrous.

He wouldn’t want to hear that, he didn’t want the truth, Majexatli knew. He wasn’t asking advice from them, he was asking for advice from the the gentle sage druid that they wore the skin of. He didn’t want a tragedy, he wanted a happy ending. Wyll wanted to see the light at the end of the tunnel, wanted to know things ease with time, that bodies and worries eventually settle like houses and dust. He wanted advice from the other side, not realizing Majexatli was in the dark, miles behind him.

“I realized how rare and beautiful existence can be, that I am the fruit of a tree planted centuries ago. And though it’s never easy, I remember that the hatred in my heart when I look in the mirror was not my own, is not a truth or some innate part of me, it is an echo of words spoken by others, and I should not offer those people a hoe to sow their seeds of hatred in my mind,”

There was a beat of silence, the only sounds were the water of the river, the distant chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves in the wind.

“Do you believe that?”

A soft question.

“...Sometimes,”

A half-truth.

They finished bathing in silence, Wyll returning to camp soon after.

Under the moon, hunched over an elk carcass, maw dripping red, bones crunching beneath their teeth as they split open ribs to feast on its heart, Majexatli’s eyes fell on a patch of wild lavender growing nearby, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. They weren’t sure what gripped them when they dropped wildshape and carefully picked the flowers, trying their best to keep from staining them with the blood and bits of viscera that stuck to their hand. Nor were they sure what motivated them when they returned to camp to clear off a space on their makeshift table with their herbalism and alchemical supplies.

Majexatli had told the truth to Wyll earlier; it was a simple recipe. Even simpler mixing it with the lavender and a touch of cedar oil, carving a small wooden jar to place it in.

The moon was still high in the sky when Majexatli placed it outside Wyll’s tent as he slept inside. He would find it in the morning, knowing Majexatli left it for him. The thought was discomforting. It would be easier to slip into his tent, get him to draw his blade, bury it in their chest, let him kill the monster in self-defense. The kindness, the vulnerability felt too much, too raw, but they swallowed it down, at least that was familiar. Majexatli was used to eating things raw.

[trealamh]

Albatross

Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight.

Arthur is a sailing instructor and Alasdair is a local marine carpenter who likes taking his smoke breaks on the pier. There is an accident.

-

He doesn’t think twice and wouldn’t have had the chance to change his mind even if he had tried. One hand on the forestay, one foot on the gunwale, only barely; moving so quickly that he loses his sandals and cuts a gash across his knee on something and does not feel it. His life vest is upstairs, dry and hanging from a coat rack in the office. Arthur had left it there this morning, a radio clipped to his hip, and said to their admin, Michelle, that he’d missed the sunrise by an hour, his phone dead and unplugged, silent between his matress and the headboard.

She’d shown him a picture she’d taken on her way to work that morning, the harbour crowned in crimson so deep it looked like dusk.

Arthur has worked at the sailing centre every summer-to- fall for the last three years and in that time, they’ve had a fair share of accidents. Only a handful of major injuries, including three concussions. Arthur has never been involved in any; the worst he’s ever had have been blisters, rope burn, bruises that bled green across his skin and healed over a week. Usually he’s one of a pair playing rescue, confident enough in what they’re doing that they have never had to call in the rescue service. They have two dinghies that they use to herd in their youngest students and chase after their racers, heavy enough that they whip against the waves as they cut through the contrails of the commercial vessels that dock further down the coast, where the strips of piers give way to industrial docking. They can tow students and stranded tourists in no trouble. On slow days, if they have enough gas to spare, Arthur takes the larger of the two on joy rides, packing in his youngest students like sardines and riding waves out to the cove to make them squeal.

The first thing he does most days when he clocks in is pick up the keys from Michelle. Only this morning he was late, so he’d arrived to find he keys gone, and their storage half-cleared of equipment, boats by order of size and the age of their crew lined up on the slipway already. Arthur had waved as they set off, dry and tasked with putting together reams of lesson plans and patching up the hull of their oldest Vaurien instead of shouting orders against the wind. His kids had waved back, smiles wide, and during his lunch break he’d come to see them back into port, letting them recount the hours they’d spent drilling short manoeuvres like while they sorted their lines and pulled their boats up over the tideline for a couple hours, waiting out the worst of the sun and giving them all a chance to rest. The forecast

(Arthur had been mindful, then, of the eyes on him, watching from the railing overlooking the public slipway the centre uses. In the three years Arthur has worked here they have talked properly maybe twice, enough at least that Arthur to know his name. Alasdair.

He works a trade, somewhere on the coastline, and runs a shop right across the street, keeping hours during the height of tourist season and watching over the centre like a disgruntled gull. He smokes sometimes, and the parents complain when they catch him at it, like there is anything the centre can do. Arthur is sure that if it didn’t require him walking up the office to Michelle, Alasdair would file as many complaints about them. It’s not rare that they have an audience and Alasdair is as good as a dock-cleat by now. He greats Arthur with a nod, if at all, eyes dark and set under the seemingly permanent burrow of his brow. He makes Arthur feel clumsy with his silence and hot in the face when he has to walk past him. Last summer Arthur thought he saw him sitting by the bar of his once-favourite pub and was so absurdly, inexplicably shy that he’d walked right out the way he came and spent the rest of the summer sober.)

So, Alasdair had been there at midday, rolling his tobacco with a filter between his lips and catching Arthur’s eyes. Arthur had walked past him on his way back to the office, and had considered (briefly, briefly) stopping on his way up the slipway, right below where Alasdair stood. He almost had, hesitating for a moment before picking up the pace and filling in quickly for another instructor. It’s just that he hadn’t known what to say and had felt in that split second that it would have been worse to trip over his words than walk away. Alasdair would be back tomorrow, or if not then next week. Next month, before the season ended, or next year. Time enough for Arthur to find something clever to say. Alasdair would be there, forearms resting on the railing, his hair whipping in the wind. There would be time.

It is strange, but it’s the last thing Arthur thinks of before he hits the water. Alasdair’s hands and the weight of his attention.

-

In Alasdair’s opinion, he’s the best they’ve got.

He has lived and worked by the water his entire life, coming and going with the seasons since their small town turned from trade to tourism some twelve years ago, now. In that time, he has watched the marina grow from salt-rot to fresh planks on the boardwalks. Late last spring whoever is in charge of things like gave the iron railways in fresh black coat, glossy and cool to the touch. There is no chipping rust off with his thumb anymore, eyes lost on the horizon. Maybe in a year or two the paint will wear, and the iron will flake again, eroded by the sand and salt that blow into the bay.

The children like the railings that run from the sailing centre down to the promenade leading into town. They hang off them, chasing gulls and waving out the smaller fishing boats when they set out in the morning. Alasdair is not much better, coming down here with a pouch of tobacco he should quit on and a faint excuse.

It’s not that Alasdair comes down to see him; he’d been coming down to smoke and watch the boats for longer than he’d care to remember and would continue to do so long after the lad moved on, as he would inevitably. He’s southern and pale and leaves every autumn with some warmth leeched into his skin, stark tan lines on his shoulders from his life vest and the uniform shirt he wears beneath it. The first time Alasdair had seen him had been his first day at the centre; couldn’t have been older than twenty-and-some, tripping over his own feet like he hadn’t expected Alasdair to turn to look at him when he did. Alasdair isn’t sure why he had, truth be told but since then he’s had a hard time looking away.

Alasdair has seen him head out in one of the sleek racers, late in the afternoon. He’s also been around to watch him tow wrecked boats in a few times. What’s more is the children like him; the older ones try to impress him. He’s good with them, the right amount of involved and patient with them. None of them seem to notice how he keeps out of the way with the rest of the instructors, subtly awkward in a way the weans can’t pick up, not like Alasdair has. They look at him with, with poorly-disguised awe and make up in heads who they expect him to be and will remember fondly come autumn. Summer gold and brave.

In this too, Alasdair is not much better.

The old radio he keeps on the counter tunes into the forecast. Around half past, he half-pays attention to talk of a windstorm and resolves to pack up for the day. This time of the summer anyone who needs him already knows where to find him and he has an early start tomorrow working on a luger someone’s towing in from Balliemore. It’s late enough that the fleets will be turning in, clearing the horizon for the larger commercial vessels and making way for the last ferries to dock before dusk. The centre will have gotten word on the windspeed, and he is half expecting that he will walk past to find the slipway cleared already. Turns out he is half right.

From across the street the view is half obscured but Alasdair can see enough to know that something is wrong before he hears shouting and the splitting crash of metal. Arthur is already sprinting from the centre, faster than Alasdair has even seen, and it must be bad, if even from a distance Alasdair can make out the fear in the clench of his jaw.

He is running after him before he even realises he’s made the choice to.

It still happens too fast. Later the girl from the office, Michelle, will tell him it started when two of Arthur’s students, anxious and off-kilter, had lost control of their boat. The instructor in charge of them had left them to it, only realising too late that with the wind coming at the speed it was, and with another three boats, there was no getting the dinghy in between them. They had crashed, first into another Vaurien, mast to mast, and then into the side of the slipway. That’s when Alasdair had spotted Arthur running blind down when one of his students had screamed his name. Alasdair had missed him jumping onto the boat closest to the slipway, line in hand to lock it in place while another instructor and two of the parents waiting rushed to his aid. He had managed to get a hold of the second boat, somehow, and grab onto the forestay to keep it close enough for the kids to climb from one boat to another and into their parents’ waiting arms.

That might have been it; some injuries, Arthur’s bleeding knee and bruises on the weans, and damage to the hulls of both ships. But in the panic and rush to bring the boats in, the instructor on the motor boat had turned in at full speed, missing a turn and ramming into the boats and Arthur, who’d been standing on the gunwale.

Alasdair had watched it happen without slowing his pace, feet slipping on the wet stone of the ramp. The mast had tipped, giving under the strain of Arthur’s weight and the impact of the dinghy on its hull. Arthur had gone under between the boats, silent under the audible fracture of one of the hulls when the boats knocked together again. Alasdair had felt sick, the whole useless lot of them frozen in terror as they all realised that Arthur might have drowned then, knocked unconscious by the impact or killed by the blow outright.

The children had been rushed away, adults crowding near the top of the ramp where Michelle was shouting to make herself heard over the wind, directing people away and screaming someone’s name. No one tries to stop Alasdair when he scrambles onto the dinghy, soaked up to the thighs and reaching shoulder deep into the water while someone holds on to his trousers to keep him in the boat, all in a mad dash to push the boats out of the way as best they could, clearing the space to try and catch sight of Arthur under the surface. The second dinghy wouldn’t dare come close and risk Arthur under the sharp blades of its propeller.

When Alasdair feels skin and then fabric under the surface he makes a strangled sound and pulls up, desperate and hopeful.

Arthur coughs, half limp in Alasdair’s grip once he realises that someone has him and knowing in some dormant way that struggling now would do more harm than good. Already he can feel his shoulders starting to shake, reedy tremors from deep in his muscles which come from the adrenaline crash. He kicks against the side of one of the boats to help Alasdair bring him into the dinghy and only realises then that it’s him who’s got him, broad and panting almost as hard as he is, still trying to catch his breath. Rather than let him go, Alasdair goes from gripping his side to the front of his shirt, letting him settle and spit saltwater while keeping him at arms-length.

His nose and his ears hurt. He’d hit the water so hard he lost half the breath in his lungs and held onto the rest out of instinctual desperation. He had let his body sink out of shock, feeling the temperature drop with every inch he lost to the depths, eyes stinging and set firmly on the last refraction of light under the surface. The crashing boats miss him by a handspan and even then, he does not recall feeling afraid; only a sense of stillness. He remembers thinking that if he’d been wearing his life vest he would have stayed afloat and that would have been it. But he wasn’t, and so he slipped deeper, eyes to the sky, and only started kicking up when a silver of light had come back into view.

On the boat, now, he is barely aware that someone is talking. Speaking to him, harsh and loud and shaking his shoulders. Arthur blinks saltwater away from his eyes and blinks up at Alasdair like he is seeing him for the first time. Looking up like he had earlier, from the slope of the slipway up to where he’d been standing on the gangway.

Alasdair cannot help his anger; the way it hardens his voice and makes him grip Arthur tight. He is vaguely aware of the other instructor in the dinghy, so he turns to him as well, calls him an imbecile worse than Arthur for having caused this god-forsaken mess in the first place. He would have cursed them both out hoarse if it weren’t for Arthur hand just then, reaching to up to grip his forearm where it is still crowding Arthur in close to his body.

“Thank you,” he says, working hard to collapse his breathe and release the tension from his body, eyes falling to half-mast and back coming to rest in the cradle of Alasdair’s body.

Sitting on the floor like he is, he can tip his forehead against his own knee, so he does, feeling for the first time in his life something like motion sickness. Alasdair letting go of his shirt feels like coming unmoored, but it is only for a moment. Alasdair puts his hand on his arm, squeezing gently and murmuring something that gets lost under the wind and the breaking waves but feels reassuring nonetheless. Arthur still has a hold of his forearm and does not even think of letting go. They breathe in tandem with the rocking of the boat beneath them and Arthur shivers. Alasdair presses closer and when Michelle runs down the slipway, a clean, dry fleece jacket in hand he reaches out to grab it and wraps it around Arthur before helping him to his feet and back onto land.

He sticks around. Some of the parents approach them to thank Arthur and shake his hand; a few others have concerns they want addressed and Michelle quickly steps in to lead them away. Some of the children cry, frightened. A handful of the older crew disguise their worry under banter but linger until they see Arthur standing with his freshly bandaged knee and then offer him a ninety-nine from the ice cream truck that rounds the pier every day at five. Arthur accepts, awkward and tired and mindful of the fact that they are watching him. Alasdair doesn’t get any ice cream but does get one more glare in when the second instructor comes to apologise with a few of Arthur’s other colleagues, who slap them both on the back.

When Arthur goes to collect his things Alasdair is still there, standing in his wet boots and his damp jeans. Arthur stays in town and offers his shower and tea. Despite the fact that Alasdair’s home is closer, he accepts, and they walk in silence.

Dusk comes late in the summer and bleeds gold-red. Alasdair’s clothes smell like Arthur’s detergent, and his skin like the bar of soap in his shower. Arthur’s temple smells clean and his hair is softer than Alasdair would have thought. He brushes a kiss there before he goes and can’t place the scent that lingers on his nose after. He sleeps deeply that night and wakes up thinking of something sharp and sweet.

He greets dawn on the deck of the luger, a smattering of clouds in the sky tinged gold in the first hours of the day.

(Lingering by the fenced boardwalk, a figure watches him work, lazy and listless, forecasting mild winds and clear skies; waiting patiently for midday when Alasdair might be tempted to step away and take his Saturday easy and slow. They have time.)

[stargazing-enby]

All my memefic images are gone from AO3 😭😭😭😭😭

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Emotional stuff aside, the biggest realization SW has brought me is how different my sleep schedule is from some of you guys’. Like it’ll be 20:30 and I’ll go “sleepy now 😴 time to spend less time looking at screens” and generally stop replying/reblogging because I won’t be as coherent as I’d like. And then I’ll take one last look at my phone at around 21:30/22:00 and someone four hours ahead of me will have just posted something amazing they literally just finished.

What the hell. How do you have the braincells to not only be awake but be creative that late?

[fragilelovelythings]

Not quite prejudice, not quite pride

Summary: Greg has been utterly obsessed with Mr. Darcy for years, terribly yearning for a man like him, yearning for a meeting of sorts in life where he’d be blinded by his existence and absolutely wrecked by the touch of their hands.

So he spends his days getting high, watching and rewatching his favorite movie, daydreaming about his crush, and also jerking off furiously to the man's frozen image on the TV screen.

This goes on and on for years. His teen years are spent nurturing a nonhealthy obsession until one day he’s grown up, at odds in his life, and forced to look for some help with his mom’s family name. He’s never cared about being a Roy or whatever but once he takes a glance at Shiv’s fiancé, he knows it.

He’s fucked.

Chapters: 2/?

Tags: E, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, masturbation, unhealthy obsesesion with a fictional character, Greg is IN LOVE with Mr. Darcy, Freeform from Pride and Prejudice, buckle up mfs, we are getting unhealthy obsessions, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Greg should stop smoking that much weed, Greg you nasty horny piece of shit, I Love You, no beta we die like logan

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52649014/chapters/133173706

[micamicster]

Entertaining myself by fucking around putting all my fics into that Penguin Classics cover generator today! Link to my ao3 <3

[misslisamiray]

Here's Chapter 10 of Down With the Rickness! This chapter does not feature any characters other than Rick and Morty. It's alll fluffy(ish) caretaking, Rick being grouchy, and Morty being worried... but also rightfully annoyed. I hope you enjoy it!

This chapter also contains what is probably my favorite line I've ever written (definitely favorite humorous line). See if you can guess what it is. 🤣

This picture isn't exactly relevant, but

I have to get ready for work, like, as soon as I finish this post. Yay opening shift instead of my usual closing. 🙃

I didn't realize until this morning, but of all the Rick and Morty images I have saved... very few of them are actually of our favorite dysfunctional duo. And most of the ones I do have are from Unmortricken and Fear no Mort and reaallly wouldn't fit, so umm, here.

Anyway, new chapter is below the cut!

“Well, looks like it’s just us again.” Morty said wearily.

“Good. It was kinda fun watching Jerry get so close to realizing the Mimicking Disease thing is a lie, only to just miss figuring it out. But you being here to see me be a pathetic mess like this is bad enough. Don’t need your dumb dad here for the show, too.” *Cough!* *COUGH!* You really can get lost anytime too, y’know.” Rick griped.

“Yeah, ‘cause leaving you alone has worked out great so far today. Forget it, Rick. I know you don’t like it, and I’m not exactly thrilled, either. But I’m not going anywhere. Here. I read that keeping your head elevated is supposed to help. How’s this?” Morty said, placing two pillows under Rick’s head.

“Alright, I guess. At least I’m finally warm.” Rick mumbled in response.

“Well, that’s good. Try and get some sleep. Maybe you’ll feel a little better when you wake up.” Morty smiled a little as Rick drifted back to sleep. Finally – Rick seemed more comfortable, and Morty mistakenly thought he’d get a little peace and quiet. Of course, it didn’t last.

A few minutes later, Rick woke up coughing and sat up as quickly as he could manage with the many layers of blankets tangled around him. The pillows fell to the floor.

“Now what’s wrong?” Morty asked apprehensively.

“It’s too fucking hot in here!” Rick whined, struggling his way out of the blankets and throwing them aside once he’d finally managed to get free. Of course, most of the pile ended up on top of poor Morty, who looked annoyed, but not surprised.

“It’s too hot, and I can’t sleep. I can never sleep right when I’m sick.” Rick continued to pout, pulling his labcoat off and dropping it to the floor.

“Uh-huh. You do need to rest, but maybe food first? Maybe that will help?” Morty suggested. “How’s your stomach feel?”

“Eh, not great, but in a ‘least of my problems’ kind of way. Food probably is a good idea.” Rick answered with a shrug.

“Okay. Stay here, and I’ll get you something to eat. Stay. Here.” Morty instructed. He placed the blanket pile next to Rick and backed out of the room so he could keep an eye on him longer. He went into the kitchen, but immediately peeked back into the living room.

“Morty, relax. I’m not gonna do anything that involves having to get up. Trust me, that part of the day is *COUGH!* done.” Rick told him crossly. Morty went back into the kitchen.

Waiting for him to get back, Rick tried to focus on the TV. The boring fishing show was done, and now there was a home repair show on.

“People say watching paint dry is boring, but let me tell you, those people are idiots. There’s so much to see! Are your strokes even? Any bubbles? How close does the finished product look to what you pictured when you started?” a middle-aged, lumberjack looking man rambled. Rick looked for the remote, and, seeing that it was on the arm of the opposite end of the couch, immediately decided it wasn’t worth bothering with.

Sitting and literally watching paint dry, he realized something felt off. Well, everything about the way he felt today was off, to say the least. But this particular unpleasant sensation was newer, and not related to his cold symptoms. He pulled his shirt over his head and stared at it for a few seconds, trying to figure out why it had been on backwards. Unable to think of a reason, Rick just shrugged and put the shirt back on normally. He fixed his crooked, unbuckled belt and took his flask out of his labcoat again, then leaned back on the couch, trying to get comfortable. The man on TV continued to drone on about paint, and how weather could affect its drying time. Speaking of weather, the meteorologist on the other station hadn’t been exaggerating – it was now pouring outside. 

A few minutes later, Morty came back, carrying a loaded tray and once again looking at something on his phone. He scowled and made a disapproving noise when he saw the flask in Rick’s hand.

“Besides another lecture, what’d you bring me?” Rick asked.

“Chicken soup. People on TV always seem to eat that when they’re sick, and we had a can, so that was lucky. Orange juice. Some websites say the vitamin C is good when you have a cold. But some other sites said it helps prevent getting sick in the first place, but won’t do much if you already are. And then there’s some that say both of those claims are bullshit, so I’m not sure if the juice will actually do you any good. But even if it doesn’t help, it won’t do any harm, either. So, here. There’s crackers and ginger ale, too. Figured they’d help if you did feel sick to your stomach at all.” Morty said, setting everything down in front of Rick. Rick screwed the cap back onto his flask and looked the items over.

Morty thought he might get a thank you, but instead, Rick commented, “Soup for breakfast? Really? And what are you doing – getting ideas on how to deal with this thing from Facebook and Wikipedia?”

“You asshole. You don’t get to be drunk before 8:00 A.M. then complain that it’s too early for soup. Just shut up and eat.” Morty told him crossly. He sat at the opposite end of the couch with a bowl of cereal and his own glass of juice.

“Fine. I *COUGH!* guess you have a point there.” Rick conceded. Without further complaint, he started eating the soup. After four spoonfuls, he decided that was enough  and put the bowl down. Morty stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

“What? Just because I can’t complain about it being too early for the lousy soup, doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to complain about it *Cough!* being lousy, does it? All I can taste is the can it came out of. The liquid is too hot, while none of the solid ingredients are warm enough. I guess the chicken is otherwise okay, but don’t get me started on the *Cough!* texture of the noodles. Blah.” he complained.

“Fair enough. Do you want some cereal, too? I can’t cook, and even if I could, I’d have to leave you alone too long to do that. So if you don’t want the soup, that’s what you’re getting until Dad decides to come out of hiding again.” Morty offered. Rick glanced over at Morty’s bowl of Strawberry Smiggles. Normally a favorite of his, the colorful cereal did not look remotely appetizing at the moment.

He quickly turned his head again, answering, “Nah. I’m, I’m good with these, I guess.” and tearing open the sleeve of saltines. The pair ate in silence for a few minutes, listening to the rain and the boring TV show.

“Ow. Dammit.” Rick whispered, rubbing at his throat a little and placing the crackers down with a sigh. They tasted a lot better than the soup and had the added bonus of no unexpected temperature changes or gross chewy parts. But the dry crumbs and his already badly irritated throat were an unpleasant combination. Of course, Morty had to notice, and was staring at him again.

“What? I’m just not hungry, after all.” Rick lied, gulping down the orange juice.

“You’ve got a pretty bad sore throat, huh?” Morty asked sympathetically.

“Dammit, when did you get so perceptive? *SIGH!* It’s nothing, Morty. Are you forgetting I know what it feels like to have limbs torn off? And internal organs become very external? A few times even when they were still fully organic? This barely counts as pain. It’s just annoying as shit. *COUGH!* *COUGH!* *COUGH!* Ugh. That’s definitely not helping, though.” Rick replied, trying to sound casual. He hoped Morty would brush it off if he did.

“Uh-huh. I’ll be right back.” Putting his breakfast aside, Morty gathered up the things Rick didn’t want, plus the empty glass, and headed back to the kitchen. Rick stared after him and took another swig from his flask.

A moment later, Morty was back, carrying a refilled glass of juice and a bowl of vanilla ice cream.

“Here. This technically counts as food. Close enough, anyway. And it’ll be easier for you to eat.” he said, handing Rick the dish.

“I… Y’know, you really didn’t have to do this, Morty. Thanks.” Rick replied softly, mumbling the last word around a mouthful of ice cream.

“It’s not a big deal. This is by far the easiest thing I’ve had to do for you this morning. Anyway, we needed to get something into your system besides alcohol and expired cough syrup.” Morty said before he resumed eating his cereal. Rick chuckled in spite of himself.

“Ha ha. Very funny, ya little smart ass.” he said sarcastically, but there was no bite to it. The duo went back to eating, half listening to the TV. The lumberjack was now reading off a list of stores that carried his favorite brand of paint. Rick finished eating before Morty did – so much for not being hungry.

“You want any more? I’m not sure if the expression is ‘Feed a fever, starve a cold’ or ‘Feed a cold, starve a fever’, or exactly what that’s supposed to mean. People apparently argue about that online, too. And that guy who screams at everyone in all caps about viruses not being real keeps showing up on every website. Doesn’t he have a job? Or maybe that is his job? Do people get paid to just… yell nonsense at other people on the internet? Oops. Guess I got a little sidetracked there. Sorry. What was I saying?” Morty rambled.

“It’s fine, Morty. And no *Cough!* thanks. Rather not push it, y’know?” Rick went to take another drink from his flask, but reconsidered and drank about half the glass of orange juice instead. Morty smiled at that… until Rick filled the glass the rest of the way with some of whatever was in the flask, then downed the entire glass in one gulp. Morty shook his head but decided not to say anything. He’d gotten Rick to eat something and drink two glasses of juice – even with the addition to the second glass, Morty was counting this as a win.

Rick went to put the flask back into one of his labcoat pockets and decided to put the coat back on. A shoe fell out when he picked it up. Rick looked down and noticed for the first time that he was wearing one shoe and one slipper. A confused look on his face, he stared at his feet and the shoe in his hand, trying to recall what the reason for this was. If there was a reason in the first place, that is. Coming up with nothing, Rick decided he didn’t care, and tossed both shoes and the slipper behind the couch. Morty finished eating and started gathering the empty dishes.

“Did eating something help?” he asked.

Rick shrugged and answered, “Eh, maybe a little. *SNIFF!* Except now I’m cold again. Fuccckkkk.” He grabbed 5 or 6 blankets from the pile and started wrapping them around himself, shivering. Unsure whether to be amused or concerned by Rick’s whining, Morty decided he could sort himself out, and just continued cleaning up. Once he was satisfied with the blankets, Rick decided to drink the ginger ale as well, and added that empty glass to Morty’s assortment.

“Get some sleep. I know you said you can’t sleep well when you’re sick, but try, okay? If there is one thing these idiots online all agree on – well, except for screaming virus conspiracy guy -it’s that the best thing for you is rest.” Morty told him, heading back to the kitchen.

“Fine, fine. I’m going to sleep. *COUGH!* *COUGH!* But it’s because I’m tired, not because you told me to. You’re *YAWN!* not my mom.” Rick reluctantly agreed as he laid down again. Morty chose to let him have the last word, not bothering to reply to that before going back to the kitchen.

When he came back to the living room, Rick was stretched out across the couch, snoring. Morty let out a sigh of relief – he’d half expected to find the room empty. He debated sitting in the chair near the sofa, but opted to stay closer to Rick, squeezing into the corner opposite of where he’d been sitting before. Pulling a pen and small notepad out of his pocket, he started to take notes on the information on his phone screen. The home repair show ended, and an infomercial for supposedly indestructible dentures came on.

[lunar-lattice]

He Followed You Home

So I saw a post from @raccoon-in-a-dumpster (original post) and I was so intensely inspired that I just had to write something! (In fact, the idea kept me up for a whole hour past i meant to)

The timeline for this isn't too important so don't think tooo hard on it. What you need to know is FNAF1 has happened (though Michael had nothing to do with it) but Sister Location hasn't (because it felt important Michael look...human).

Michael's taken a seasonal job at Fazbear's Fright where the owner swears up and down that he's still looking for a working, real animatronic for it. He expects nothing of it. However, the next day a banging at his door wakes him up. Someone followed him home. Someone he never thought he'd see again.

Michael wasn’t quite sure why he let the old animatronic into his home. He didn’t really know why he did a lot of things nowadays. Maybe he was curious. Maybe he felt bad for it. Maybe he didn’t want it to get rained on. Maybe he was just lonely.

It was a dreary Saturday morning. Clouds gathered overhead and thunder grumbled somewhere in the distance, promising rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Mike hadn’t been home that long. He had picked up a night guard job at a horror attraction called Fazbear’s Fright. It was a seasonal job but jobs in Hurricane weren’t really in abundance and well, he was nostalgic.

It seemed like it was going to be easy sailing. Just watch over the place and make sure no one got in. ‘Or out!’, Logan, the owner, joked with him before admitting he hadn’t yet found an actual working animatronic for the attraction. He had a few leads but Mike, cynical as ever, doubted they’d go anywhere.

He was awoken only a few hours into his sleep by a loud banging at his front door and a sharp, electric keening. He jolted up out of a dead sleep, still groggy, head swiveling to find the intruder. None to be found but the noise still persisting, his confusion morphed into fear. What was that? Wary, he retrieved the metal bat he kept beside his bed and went to investigate.

The noise only seemed to get more frantic. Michael could count how many people might visit him on one hand and even all those seemed unlikely. He lived a quiet, unassuming life and that’s how he liked it.

He made it to the front door and peered out the peephole.

Fredbear’s face stared back.

He stumbled back with a swear. What was this?! Karma come to collect after so damn long?!

Did it maybe follow him from the attraction? Logan swore up and down he hadn’t found a functioning animatronic quite yet. So either he was lying or...he didn’t know what he had.

Michael dared to look again. From what he could see, Fredbear had really seen better days. His face was no longer brilliant gold but a sickly green-yellow. Only one of his eyes shone in a single, almost ghostly, blue hue. Despite all the years that had gone by, his muzzle still had a faint brown discoloration.

He knew he probably shouldn’t let the animatronic in but…

...he looked so sad.

Fredbear keened again and scratched at the door. Michael’s icy heart melted and he sighed, “What am I doing.”

He raised his voice and lowered his bat, “I’m going to open the door. No funny business, alright?”

Fredbear made a happy chirp, which was agreement enough for Michael. He opened the door and the animatronic lurched inside, looking all around the entryway then at him. Fredbear, even with all the decay, still towered over him and Michael had to will himself not to visibly panic. Up close, he could see the extent of his wear. There was only half of his foam covering remaining over a rusted endoskeleton. As he moved, the metal grinded against itself in a low, pained groan.

The animatronic tilted his head and then did something curious: he reached out and touched Michael’s face.

Michael flinched and Fredbear did so in turn, as if he had been burned. He chittered anxiously, pulling his hand back. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” Mike murmured but still took a step back.

Fredbear lowered his head, looking the part of a sad, depressed kid. Mike hissed through his teeth and ushered him in, “Um, come in, come in.”

He led the animatronic into the living room, babbling as he did, “This is my home. Um, well, it’s my father’s home but no one’s really seen him for a while and I’m his next-of-kin so. I guess that does make it my home.”

He stopped in the middle of the living room. He really was lonely, wasn’t he?

Fredbear seemed to have forgotten the incident and was investigating the living room, circling the couch then stopping in front of the TV and entertainment center. His joints screeched as he bent over to look at the DVDs and VHS tapes and Mike made a note to go look for some oil. Probably out back in the workshop.

Suddenly, Fredbear made a noise, a sort of strangled keen. Mike wandered over to see what he was looking at.

Arranged neatly in order was Evan’s collection of Fredbear and Friends tapes. Michael asked, “You...want me to put one in?”

Frantically, Fredbear shook his head then whined again. Michael frowned, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

That struck some chord inside the animatronic who bowed its head. It was almost...contemplative. A very human emotion to assign to a machine. Then, without more of that, Fredbear rose and went wandering down the hall. Michael followed.

They went past Lizzie’s room, which had been closed since...she passed. Then his own childhood room, which he had been sleeping in. Finally, they stopped at Evan’s at the end of the hall. Like Lizzie’s, it hadn’t really been opened since his passing. Fredbear opened the door, much more gently than one would expect from an animatronic of his size, and went inside. He stopped in the middle of the room, between the bed and the closet and just...stood there.

Michael lingered in the doorway, “This is...was my brother’s room. Dad left it like this and I really didn’t feel like I should mess with it either.”

Fredbear wandered around, ears raised in what seemed to be happiness. He stopped in front of the bed where a quartet of plushies sat. Bonnie, Chica, Freddy and even Foxy was there. Last time Mike had seen the fox plush it was after he had decapitated it in his youth. He couldn’t even remember why he did that. But now it looked like someone had sewn him back together. He imagined it was probably his father, in a quiet moment of grief he kept privy to everyone.

There was a glaring omission and Fredbear noticed it. He made a series of clicks, pointing to each plushie then the empty space beside. Michael furrowed his eyebrows, “Ev had a Fredbear plush too but dunno where it went.”

He tried to think back but it really had been a long time ago and the stress of his teenage years had chewed a lot of his memories up. Maybe his father had taken it somewhere. Maybe he had ended up putting it in Evan’s casket, so the pair would never be apart again.

Fredbear made a disappointed whirr as he gathered the plushies. He went next to the toy box and put them down before he began to rummage inside. Michael couldn’t help but smile. He didn’t think Evan would mind very much. At least he hoped so.

A thought came to his mind and, determined to follow it, he said, “Are you going to be fine by yourself?”

Fredbear turned to him then nodded. He went back to setting up some sort of town with the blocks.

Michael disappeared into the attic for fifteen minutes and returned, standing at the doorway. “Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, landing on the term of endearment rather than call the animatronic by its name.

In the time he had been gone, Fredbear’s town had grown and he appeared to be playing out a story with the plushies. Michael held out two new plushies, a dusty but otherwise new Fredbear and Spring Bonnie, “We still had a bunch in the attic. Fredbear’s not the same and his hat’s not the right color but um. You have the whole set now!”

Fredbear accepted the plushies, looking from one to the other. Fredbear was set with the others in the town but Spring Bonnie was tossed dismissively onto the bed where she rolled off between the bed and the wall. “Huh,” Michael wondered but decided to look no deeper into it. Maybe he just didn’t like Spring Bonnie and it amused him to imagine how huffy his father would get about that.

The silence of the room was broken by his stomach growling. Michael blushed, his cheeks flushing red. Fredbear chittered in amusement and made a gesture, shooing him out the door. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make breakfast. If you need me, the kitchen’s right off the living room. You’ll see me.”

Once in the kitchen, Michael got a chance to ask himself what the hell was he doing? Fredbear, the animatronic who haunted his nightmares for years, shows up and he just lets him in? Treats him like a kid, acts like nothing was weird about this? He hung his head.

The house was lonely enough when it was just him and his father but now that William had disappeared, it felt like a mausoleum. Everywhere Michael looked was memories of a time long past. He couldn’t bear to go into his siblings’ rooms (at least, before today) or even his father’s. He mostly stuck to the living room and his own room, but those still stung with the pain of memory.

He wasn’t going to deny himself this little scrap of happiness that had wandered into his home. Even if he wanted to, Fredbear seemed too happy for him to. He didn’t really understand why but decided maybe it didn’t matter. And if this was all some ploy for the animatronic to kill him...well, that would just be karma, right?

He had just finished breakfast, a giant plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, when Fredbear came back in. Clutched between his hands was a piece of paper and, excitedly, he offered it to him.

Michael took it and it felt like a vice had closed on his heart. In messy but careful strokes, Fredbear had drawn a little yellow bear in a striped sweater and a fox in a tank top. The pair stood outside a house that looked like the one they were inside. A giant red heart was between the two. Unbidden, tears welled up in his eyes and he couldn’t choke back the ragged sob that tore through his chest.

Fredbear chittered quietly, sadly and he turned to him. Through his tears, he assured, “No, no, it’s alright! We’ll...we’ll put it on the fridge. Just like Mom would’ve.”

He crossed the kitchen, hands shaking as he held the drawing like it was sacred. He carefully pinned it front and center on the fridge. How did Fredbear know?

A thought came unbidden to his mind and, as fast as it appeared, he dismissed it! There was no way! He couldn’t still be around! Pained, he imagined stuffing the notion into a box and latching it shut. He couldn’t have consigned his brother to such a fate!

He wiped his eyes then turned, finding Fredbear had moved his plate to the table and was trying, very carefully, to lower himself into the chair. It protested but, miraculously, held. Michael smiled through the last of his tears and joined him at the table, “I’d make you something but...you really can’t eat, I guess.”

As if he made a joke, Fredbear chittered again and he smiled, wider this time.

After breakfast, Fredbear led him back out to the living room by the hand. He stopped in front of the VHS tapes again and looked at them. He picked one out and offered it to him. “You want to watch one, after all?” Mike asked and, determined, the bear nodded.

While he made sure the VHS player still worked and put in the tape, Fredbear left to retrieve his plushies and the blanket off Evan’s bed. He came back and sat in front of the couch, gesturing for Mike to drape the blanket over his shoulders. Just like…

He did all the animatronic wanted and, once the tape played through the theme, he settled on the couch. It really did feel like a lazy Saturday morning back in the early 80s. The house was pleasantly cool, the Saturday morning cartoons were playing and he had no worries in the world. Fredbear was clicking happily as he watched. Maybe for once, in a very long time, he did something right.

He settled his head against the pillow, listening to the TV until he nodded off.

Evan watched through the first episode before turning to see his brother’s reaction. Michael was sleeping, curled up into a ball with his arms around himself. He was cold. As quietly as he could, he rose and pulled the red quilt off the back of the couch and over his brother. Then, for good measure, he took Foxy and tucked him between his arms.

Michael was so different now. Obviously, he was much older now and looked painfully like their father but, if Evan looked, there were differences. Just like their youth, his hair was grown out into a messy mullet. When his eyes were open, they were silver-blue, like a mix of both their parents’ eyes.

He was kinder now too. And sadder. And lonelier.

Michael hadn’t realized yet who he was. Evan wondered if he even had an idea and, if he did, if he was even willing to face it.

If only his voice box wasn’t as damaged as it was! He needed to communicate with him, with more than mechanical sounds and pantomiming. He had so many questions to ask and so much to tell but...he really just wanted him to know who he was first and foremost.

Evan missed his brother. It’s why he wasn’t mad, not anymore. What point was there to hold a grudge when all he wanted to do was see his brother again? It was like a wish come true seeing his brother led through the halls of that rundown building. He had almost thought it wasn’t him until he saw his eyes. Even with how sad his brother was, they weren’t their father’s steely silver. They sparkled with life.

He let the second half of the tape play as he mulled over his dilemma. Trying to contact him through dreams was too risky. He was rusty with it and the last thing he wanted to do was accidentally scare him.

The tape ended when it came to him. There was a way. A way that was so surefire, he knew it would work.

It was late afternoon when Michael awoke. He was covered up with a blanket and the Foxy plush was tucked in his arms. The tape has ended, lighting the room up with a blue hue as it bid him to rewind it. Fredbear wasn’t in the living room anymore and he had left his blanket and plushies. “Kiddo?” he asked into the empty air.

Fredbear was where he expected him, back in Evan’s room. When he entered, the bear excitedly waved him over and gestured for him to sit beside him. Still groggy and a bit confused, he followed suit, “What’s up? Wanna show me something?”

Fredbear nodded and laid a drawing in front of him. It was a drawing of Evan and himself, smiling in front of their house. He tapped Evan then presented a second drawing.

This one was of himself, older (evidenced by how taller he was and the fact he was dressed differently) and of Fredbear in front of the same house. Fredbear arranged it so it was directly below the first drawing, so the two pairs lined up perfectly. He tapped the teenager him then dragged his finger down to the older him. He repeated the gesture between Evan and Fredbear.

Michael stared. Fredbear repeated the gesture, slowly this time, clicking as he did.

There was no way...but yet…

He looked at the pair of drawings then at the bear, his brother, and croaked, “Evan…?"

Evan clicked happily and nodded. This time, Michael couldn’t stop himself from full-on sobbing, “Oh, Evan!”

It felt absurd but he couldn’t stop himself from throwing himself at the animatronic, hugging him as tightly as he can and muttering apology over apology. He could apologize a thousand times and a thousand more and it still wouldn’t have felt like enough. Evan whirred at him, so softly it could have been a comforting purr, and returned the embrace.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Michael pulled away. He sniffled, “Evan, oh my god, I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to get hurt. I never meant for you to end up like this!” he gestured to him.

Evan made a waving gesture, like he was asking him to not worry. Still, Michael continued babbling, “I’ll make this better, alright! Your brother’s gonna fix it, no matter what! We’ll get you cleaned up even! I think maybe Uncle Henry will understand, if I explain what’s happening, I don’t think he’s mad at me even though we haven’t talked in a while. I never really got all the animatronic business but I bet I can learn and make you comfortable and—“

He was cut off by Evan laying his hand over his mouth and chittering sternly at him. “Right,” Michael imagined pulling himself back, “One step at a time. So...what first?”

His brother made a show of thinking then pantomimed putting a VHS into the player. Michael laughed, “More Fredbear and Friends?”

Evan nodded so he agreed, “That sounds perfect.”

[cesium-sheep]

dear ao3

sorry for marking fics for later so rapidly you have to stop me occasionally for fear of ddos, I appreciate you looking out for everyone and I promise I'm neither a robot nor acting maliciously but I'll wait anyway

love sheepy

[i-am-beckyu]

how the heck do you tag stuff on ao3??? Like it feels like I’m always missing a tag!!!! And summariessssss! Bro why are they hard to write?!?!?

I also forgot I had an ao3 account so currently uploading all my fics there now lol.

[dwtdog]

If you're still taking karlnapity/quacknap requests, can you write something domestic with a farm setting? It can be fully karlnapity or quacknap. Whichever you're feeling :) (also sorry if the request comes in multiple time, I kept getting error messages)

thank you so much for the request :DDD

I finally got it done, and it got away from me a bit, oops:

Quacknap early mornings on the farm, soft and domestic and very fluffy <3 (also very rough and unedited </3)

If anyone wants to send requests I'm still taking them, just might take me a bit to post them :)))

edit to add: ao3 link

Quackity wakes slowly, a combination of light creeping into the room and the noise of stirring animals rousing him from pleasant dreams of nothing in particular. Mornings are warm, lazy in a way that leaves him feeling ready to start the day by the time he does finally roll out of bed. 

On this particular morning, he's woken up before his boyfriend, made obvious by the gentle snores he feels against his chest. Said boyfriend is a walking heated blanket, and they tend to sleep on top of the comforters when spring turns to summer. Quackity snuggles in closer, fully intending to drift back into dreamland, when one of their rowdiest chickens starts kicking up a fuss. 

They have what Quackity likes to affectionately call 'A Lazy Farm,' or the kind that doesn't require waking up before the sun or chores that take all day. Or even living too far from a city, as he still has a business to attend run. Some days. He's the boss, if he only wants to work two days a week who's going to stop him? And he makes more than enough to provide for the two of them and their wildly unproductive farm, so most mornings are like this. 

Until, of course, the roosters decide they want things their way. 

They could never agree on names for the chickens, or the horses, or the houseplants (they were equally as deserving), so every living thing had a hyphenated name- one chosen by Sapnap, and one by Quackity. And on the exceedingly rare occasions when they agreed on a name, they would still hyphenate. For example, the rooster that was determined to ruin their quiet morning and secure his spot in the oven was George-George. 

Quackity quietly curses whichever unfortunate hen had laid the egg that hatched that bastard, and prays to whatever god listens to nonbelievers that it won't wake his human pillow. 

"I'm going to turn that fucker into an omelet." Sapnap mumbles, breath warm where his face is pressed to the top of Quackity's head. 

"That's not how it works dumbass. Go back to sleep and you're only allowed to wake up when you remember how chickens work," He whispers into the golden air, wrapping his legs around one of Sapnap's and tightening his arms around his middle. 

Sapnap shifts in his hold, pressing the side of his face further into a pillow in a futile attempt to escape the noise. "Ok bird boy, go tell your cousin to shut his trap or I'll prove that I can make an omelet out of anything." He punctuates his statement with a gentle brush over the hair near Quackity's ears, where small tufts of yellow feathers grow. 

Quackity leans into the feeling, ignoring the comparison to a goddamn chicken (even if hybrids could be related to animals, he was a duck not a chicken, thank you very much), silently asking his partner to continue petting him.

They let the conversation drift off into the not-so-silent air, with George-George still crowing and rousing the rest of the animals with him. Sapnap happily complies with the request, careful fingers threading through long dark hair and contrastingly bright feathers, always so, so careful in his ministrations.

The world goes pleasantly dark as Quackity lets his blinks grow longer and longer, eventually falling into a light sleep to the repetitive motion and the small shivers of pleasure it sends through his limbs.

When he wakes again, it's to Sapnap attempting to escape the circle of his arms. 

"No," he grumbles, voice low and raspy from sleep. 

His hostage groans, but gives in quickly, wrapping his own arms around Quackity tightly enough that it's unclear who's holding who. He intentionally avoids putting too much pressure against delicate wings, and Quackity can't help but to smile into Sapnap's chest. 

"That's what I thought," he speaks again, feeling the way bare skin twitches as warm breath ghosts across it. 

"You only love me for my demonic warmth," Sapnap pouts back, his voice also rough from sleep.

"And your demonic attractive-ness," Quackity giggles, drawing in a sharp breath when Sapnap pinches his side, right beneath his ribs.

"Shut up," he says, switching to pokes as Quackity tries to squirm away from him without releasing his hold. 

They must look ridiculous then, shaking off the last dregs of sleep with a playful fight, pinshing and poking and tickling without releasing arms from waists or untangling their legs. It's a tribute to the truth that underpins their relationship; the way they fit together and never want to let go but will always be the first to tease or prod the other, until they may as well be the only two people left in the universe. Caught in the orbit of warm mornings, a planet and its moon forever moving in tandem.

It's only when Sapnap manages to catch his hands that Quackity takes action, moving so he's finally face to face with his lover.

Sapnap's eyes are gorgeous in the morning light. Quackity has tried to describe them before, in an attempt to annoy George (the man, not the chicken), although there was always a touch too much fondness in his voice for even George to be mad at him. He would pretend, say it was gross to hear anyone be all lovey-dovey about Sapnap, but Quackity new George was happy for them.

His eyes were dark, black in the way the night sky is. And like the aurora borealis on northern nights, flashes of red were prominent in them when one looked hard enough, or the sun hit just right, or if he was in the midst of a fun battle. Quackity could look into them forever and find new things to wax poetic about, but he hadn't moved from his favorite spot (as close to Sapnap's chest as possible, tied closely with his lap) for only his eyes.

They breath each other in for a moment, before Quackity darts his eyes to plush lips like a teenager hoping for their first kiss. Sapnap gets an evil little grin to his face, knowing he's about to have more ammunition for their ever-ongoing argument about the merits of kissing with morning breath. Quackity will argue his side, it's gross, until he dies, but he can never resist when Sapnap is right there, and he doesn't want to wait until after they've brushed their teeth or whatever.

He leans in first, and Sapnap lets him come, not moving at all. Quackity bites at his lower lip in protest, and they both giggle before their mouths fully meet. The angle is bad, they both can't stop breaking away to laugh, and the cursed morning breath is ever present, but Quackity thinks this might be the best kiss of his life. How could it not be, if Sapnap's the one he's kissing? You can't expect him to think any is worse than the last. 

The kiss is lazy and simple as the sun fully crests over the horizon. When George-George let's out a particularly ludicrous cry, they both break apart to laugh, warmth spilling into the warm air and warm morning and Quackity thinks he doesn't need any other words ever again. Everything can just be warm for the rest of eternity and he'll be happy. 

Of course, it's then that Sapnap leaves him. Yes, cruelly, unjustly, leaving him to die and succumb to the cold. He slips out of bed before Quackity even has a chance to react, fully awake as he makes a beeline for the bathroom. He sighs, left alone in the fading heat of the bed, his source lost to the world.

He gives Sapnap a few minutes alone, before the urge to be close wins over, and Quackity follows. The bathroom door is only lightly closed, falling open with a gentle push. Sapnap stands at the sink, brushing his teeth. He smiles into the mirror as Quackity rewraps his arms around his waist, pushing his face into his back. The gentle motion of his muscles through the rhythmic movements of brushing are nice, and Quackity accepts his own tooth brush when Sapnap offers it.

They stand, pressed close together, in their small bathroom on the farm they bought with the money Quackity had earned through long nights of studying in school and stressful meetings and convincing men in suits that he wasn't just some dumb kid. This was theirs, for as long as they wanted it. 

Eventually, they leave the bathroom, hands linked, breaths much more pleasant. The kitchen is downstairs, and neither lets go even as they have to turn awkwardly to maneuver through the narrow stairwell. 

They have eggs for breakfast, Sapnap cooking and Quackity happy as a clam, pressed to his back. The eggs are all from their farm, and none have chicken in them, even as Sapnap shakes whatever he's holding threateningly in the direction of the chicken coop every time George-George makes a sound. 

They eat quietly, neither committing fully to sitting down, instead electing to stay pressed side to side, leaning against the counter. Quackity likes his eggs runny, which Sapnap says is a crime against humanity, and then they'll argue the ethics of Quackity even eating eggs in the first place. Quackity wins their arguments most of the time, putting his law school training to good use. Sapnap wins sometimes, usually by saying something so ridiculous Quackity has no choice but to kiss his stupid face.

"Thanks for breakfast hot cakes," he says, pressing a kiss to the side of Sapnap's face.

"That one sucks," Sapnap replies, finishing the last of his eggs.

"Why do you hate all the ones with puns," Quackity whines, the ongoing pet name struggle rearing its head.

"They're too easy," he says in response, moving from Quackity's side to place his own dish in the sink.

Quackity follows, rinsing both their plates as Sapnap stays close. "Well you always cheat." he jabs his elbow into Sapnap's side to emphasize his words, reaching for a towel to dry the now clean dishes.

"What are you talking about darlin'? I would never cheat!" Sapnap leans in close to his ear, letting his country drawl loose on the name. 

Quackity flicks water at him, then pats his own cheeks with damp hands to chase the inevitable blush away. He doesn't even know where Sapnap got that stupid accent, neither of his dads sounds anything like it. It's so not fair.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, I hate you, I'm putting George-George in your pillows tommorrow!" Quackity waves the towel around dramatically, hands now dry. Sapnap is just out of reach, holding on to a chair from how hard he's laughing. 

Quackity continues swearing at him as he cleans the pan used to make the eggs, explaining with as many expletives as possible his plan to replace Sapnap with the rooster and to let the bastard destroy everything he loves.

Sapnap watches him with the sappiest expression the whole time, and Quackity ignores how it makes the blush return to his cheeks as he focuses on scrubbing every crumb off the metal surface and thinking of every English swear he knows. 

He saves the Spanish for the chickens.

When he's finally done, both with his long-winded threats and the dishes, Sapnap has moved and stands close behind him. He hasnt't realized, too caught up in intentionally ignoring him, and jumps slightly when he takes up the position Quackity had had on him all morning. 

"Don't you dare-" he starts, relaxing in the hold even as he protests.

Sapnap cuts him off, moving them both so they're face to face again. "Think of the animals sweetheart, we can put our differences aside for them, can't we?"

And the combination of the accent and his eyes so close is more than enough to break Quackity. He pulls his dumb boyfriend into another kiss, this one deeper than the first.

Sapnap, curse him, doesn't let him get away with the distraction for long, pulling away after a few moments and pulling their hands together.

Quackity sighs, finally resigned to actually starting the day. All of the chickens have started making noise, and even the horses have gotten in on the fuss, distant whinnies reaching into the kitchen. 

[jonny-b-meowborn]

yippee today I finally got my ao3 account