#get a fucking pet instead and even then you’ll be disappointed that they’re not perfectly made to suit your mood and schedule

[multifandom-garbage-compactor]

Question for the void: how do you reinvent yourself when your efforts keep getting undone or get in the way of other things to the annoyance of others?

#I hope there’s not spyware on my phone or that someone has been going through it manually #y’all won’t even allow me to be stupid in private never mind that you let me know how irritating you find me whenever you can #it’s just the same same old same old and I’m beyond tired. it feels like there’s no growing or rising above this #like I’m just eating until I die. and even that I manage to do wrong. am I to blame for everything #(I realize that this is public but I havent been copying these so it’s too late to put these elsewhere) #I was a child once getting so many things wrong from the jump but how much can I blame on outside influence #and if it is my family’s fault then they’ve gotten away while I keep forgiving them and falling apart more each day #get a fucking pet instead and even then you’ll be disappointed that they’re not perfectly made to suit your mood and schedule #but god fucking damn it it has to be the dumbest heartless bitches that have kids and pat thrmselves on the back for a job well done #meanwhile all the pots are boiling over and when they finally turn around they’re only going to throw a tantrum about how unfair it is to #them. stop the press. dad missed his beauty sleep to get in the face of his quietly crying child and told them to be quiet and then sent the #problem upstairs to then rudely awake it for payback. nothing more. definitely not parenting. and you still walk around like a big man? #oh I would wish you worse than death but unlike you I still feel guilt and fear so you just get to keep wailing over the bare minimum and #never actually get your hands dirty or make up for lost ti #time. I just want it to be over. no more of this in the next life or just cut me out of existence entirely. don’t you dare do this to me #and I guess others again. I’m tired and have ruined my chances at life so don’t put me back in just so I can miss the point again and not #even have a way out. #gee was that too much

[ashintheairlikesnow]

OH ANTONI 🥺🥺🥺 my poor baby. I hope he will find it within himself to come clean to Jake or SOMEONE about this :((((

(((ALSO CANT WAIT FOR MORR))))

One Two Three Four Five Six

CW: Wound cleaning, burns, touch aversion, aftermath of torture, BBU, conditioned fucky headspace

"Lift your chin for me," she commands, and he doesn't really remember that he could choose not to obey.

Antoni dutifully shifts, his eyes moving to roam over a line of framed photographs along the wall behind her. A wedding photo, faded with time, a much, much younger version of the woman currently dabbing a cotton ball dipped in something cold and stinging to the fresh burn on his throat with a man he's never seen. The two of them are smiling, holding hands, looking right into the camera.

Bright white wedding dress turned cream with yellowing paper, with time, covered in lace. Powder-blue tuxedo. Brilliant smiles.

She touches the cotton ball to his skin and he hisses, hands tightening where they grip the edges of the chair he's sitting on. The sting rockets through him, only a pale echo of the original pain, but it's enough.

It's enough.

Fuck, that's hot.

He catches the sob before it can leave his throat, forces the burn behind his eyes to stay there and not turn into tears. He will not cry over this again.

Not now.

"There we go, just a bit more," She says, her voice gruffly compassionate. She presses a small rounded bandage against his throat, her fingertips are warm against his neck.

His skin crawls at even this slight, indirect touch, but he doesn't protest.

He wouldn't dare.

"All done. That's not s'bad, I think with a good bandaging it won't scar half so bad as all its little friends down south," She mutters, more to herself than him, really.

Where her fingers touch, he feels the echoes of other hands around his throat. Thicker fingers, heavy with rings. Smiling down at him.

Beg for me, love.

"Please-" It's automatic. He's drifting, in and out of this old kitchen that still looks like it must have looked thirty years ago, when the man in the wedding photo would still be here maybe cooking or cleaning or chatting up a storm to anyone who popped by for a visit.

"Hm? You say something, sweetheart?" Miss Ruth looks at him, and those dark eyes are shrewd. They know more than anyone is supposed to, they know things Nat hasn't told her. Hasn't had to.

"Ah, no," He whispers. "Just. I am very tired."

"No doubt. I'll finish these up and you can get back to your own bed and no doubt you'll be glad to get there." She looks him over, and his eyes dance to hers and away again. Back to the photos.

He sees a family photo, the two people from before and a daughter and son. Everyone is smiling, looking carefully just off to the side. They wear matching outfits.

"Get a look at 'em?"

There's a 35th wedding anniversary picture with a big banner behind the happy couple. The two people, much older, stand in front a cake nearly as tall as they are, surrounded by others. Everyone in the photo smiles in sort of the same way.

The next photo is a birthday, he thinks. There's a boy and a young baby in the photo, and the man from wedding and anniversary photo isn't there. Miss Ruth, holding her grandbaby he thinks, is wearing all black. The photo was taken in a church, and there's a spray of white lilies just visible at the edge of the picture.

Another, with Jaden, who Chris plays basketball with. The kid who more or less effortlessly opened his life for Chris when Chris badly needed a friend his own age, or closer to it, to remember what being a kid was like.

He is reading, in images, the story of this woman's adult life. Marriage, and death, and birth. Children. Life going on.

A life he won't have, that he gave up every possibility of having, because of... of whatever is inside him that Mr. Davies knew about, that the people who just hurt him could see in him even though he cannot see it himself.

He must look like someone who deserves to be hurt.

"Young man." She taps on the back of his hand and he flinches, blinking at her, struggling to pull himself out of his reverie. Her words filter through his mind, shift into the language all his thoughts are moving in, come back out in hers. He swallows, feeling a lump in his throat that refuses to move.

"I'm... sorry," He says softly, with difficulty. "I did not hear."

"I can tell. I asked did you get a good look at whoever did this to you." Her eyes roam over his chest, his stomach. The circle of new burns, placed so carefully compared to the haphazard placement Mr. Davies had favored, no pattern at all. "Looks like they took their damn time, anyway, to get you so much."

"N-... no." Antoni's eyebrows furrow, and he tries to think, but all he can remember is their hands holding the lit cigarettes, the quiet one touching his face, ruffling his hair. He can't... he can't remember their faces at all. "I am sorry."

You're fucking gorgeous, buddy, you know that?

"Hm." If she's disappointed in him, nothing changes about her expression, still held in a kind of skeptical compassion as she wets a new cotton ball in liquid from a small frosted plastic bottle and touches it to each burn, one by one, in the circle. It's like a ritual, the sting, washing away a bit of sin with each hint of pain. He clothes his eyes and breathes carefully through it.

When he is done, each circle covered with a bandage that is shades darker than his skin, she steps back to look him over, critically. She steps away and he takes in deep breaths free of her air, the powdery scent of her. He breathes in her absence, no one nearby.

She returns with a washcloth and he takes it, scrubs at his face until his cheeks are red but clean, until you can't tell anymore that he cried while they burned him.

Good boy.

"You can stay here," She says, voice low now. "Sleep it off for a while. I've got a guest room."

"No. No, I will go home. Thank you. I will... I want to go home." He looks out the kitchen window right at Nat's house next door. No lights are on... yet. But there isn't much time before they will be.

"Fair enough. You plan to tell 'em what happened to you?"

He looks back at her, searches for the judgement, finds none.

"No," He says. Confesses, really, his sin. "I will not."

I will lie to them.

"That's your choice to make, I suppose." She lays a hand on his arm. He doesn't pull away from her. He wants to unzip himself from his skin and step out of it, let them all have what they seem to want to touch so much.

Instead, he holds himself perfectly still, until she pats him a few times and steps away again.

"I've done what I can do. You come back over here tomorrow or the day after and we'll look 'em over again and make sure they're healing up nice, you got me?"

"Yes," He says. He is good. He can be good.

"Right. Off you go, then, before your people wake up and you get to come up with a story about why you're in an old widow's house at 4:30 in the morning, hm? You're pretty enough, but you're no Wilbur." She laughs to herself, a dry and crackly sound, and he thinks that her laugh was the sort that could set a whole crowd to laughing, when she was young.

It still is.

The corners of his mouth twitch in an answering smile.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and pushes himself off the edge, standing up again. No one has seen his scars, no one but this old neighbor woman who looks at them like they are simply part of living, not something to be pitied. "I go. S-... thank you."

"Paugh." She scoffs, waves a hand in dismissal. "Go on, now. You've thrown off my morning coffee time. Tell your young man that Jaden will be over this afternoon."

She all but shoos him out the door, and the air is clear and clean and quiet. The only dirty thing is Antoni himself, smudged and mussed, still feeling in his scalp the prickles of Quiet One's hands, still feeling on his arms the sharp pressure of the shirt tied around his wrists.

Still aware of every single burn under the slight pull of the bandages pressed over them, the gentle sting that feels like a return to how he was always meant to be.

Even the walk from one yard to another feels like too much. Antoni's eyes move over the empty darkened windows of the houses all around him. How obvious he must be, if three people saw him in the darkness and knew him for a pet pretending to be human.

He shouldn't have left, shouldn't have gone on those walks. He'd left himself open and vulnerable, hadn't he? His scars are deeper than skin, and they must shine like the streetlights to anyone who knows what to look for.

Antoni stops at the porch, where he carefully lifts a loose bit of board from the porch railing, finds the small box hidden inside. The slightest scrape of metal on metal as he pulls off the lid makes him freeze, but no one is awake to hear it. He takes the contents of the box, moves it quickly back to its hiding place, replaces the board.

Like nothing ever happened.

Everything can be made as good as new, as long as it isn't him.

He slips inside the safehouse, where everything is still quiet, in the silent inhale that comes before the exhalation of morning. The clock in the kitchen reads 4:45, fifteen minutes until Jake's alarm will go off, until he - and likely Chris - will stir.

Fifteen minutes for Antoni get upstairs and look so deeply asleep that no one will realize he was ever gone.

No time to shower.

He will have to sleep with the grime of their hands still ground deep into every single pore. He will sleep with Deep Voice's we know what you are in his ears, with Quiet One's fingers tangled in his hair, running over his skin. He will sleep with Lookout's eyes locked on his chest as he presses the cigarette in.

Antoni hasn't worn a collar in years now, but he buckles it on, just one notch too tight like Mr. Davies would have, and climbs under the covers, pulling them over his head.

He breathes in as deep as he can, to feel the constriction. Breathes out, and runs his hand up over his chest, over the bandages that cover his burns.

They knew what he was.

Everyone always will.

Good boy.

The ashtray falls asleep humming a lullaby, afraid that if he pulls the blankets back down he will see bars on the windows.

#antoni sings lullabies #aftermath of injury #caretaker and whumpee #fucky headspace #bbu #box boy #box boy universe #pet whump #internal dehumanization #(a little bit) #touch aversion #touch averse #recovering whumpee #wound cleaning #hurt/comfort #angst #angst angst angst #come get y'all angst #whump

[marvelous-space-nerd]

My dearest Bee

Hi dear tumblr people! I wrote a thing and I quite like it,,

Summary: Time travel, is, well something. Who would've thought that you would get stuck in the 1800's?? Well here you are, part of the Van der Linde gang, ready to face the past.

First chapter can be read as a stand alone chapter. It takes place a few years after Isaac died. The relationship between the reader and Arthur is platonic. Enjoy!!

ao3

My dearest Bee,

So I hope these letters- I can’t call them letters if they’re in a book right?- Anyways, I hope these will find you, I hope you’re home, safe. I hope you saw your dog again, I miss her. I have a horse now though! Maybe I’ll name her after you, or just wasp. If I remember correctly you weren’t the biggest fan of wasps. But really, I’m not sure if we timetraveld or were transported to another universe where everything just started like 100 years later, the latter case making it a whole lot harder for you to find this. I just really hope you’ll find this against all odds, because I said I’d write to you if I made it. And I did! I guess. After the whole thing blew up some cowboys found me, I think they call themselves the Van der Linde gang? But yeah, they feed me and gave me a bed for the small price of doing some chores. I’d like to do more though, did you know that the 1800’s are really boring even though you can die at any second? It’s spicy but in the wrong way. I’d like you to know though that it’s not all bad here. People are lovely when they’re not trying to shoot you. You should see a campfire evening- hell any evening- here.

Yours always,

(Y/N)

“(Y/N) get off your lazy ass and do the chores we asked you to do!”

“Mister Morgan! No need to yell, I got it perfectly under control. I was just, taking a break, that's all. Everyone who works all day has the right to take a break.”

“Boy as much as we want it workers are exploited ‘till they fall to the ground face first. You however are not so-” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes before speaking agian. Softer this time than the louder tone he was using first. “get to work, please.”

“Fine fine, but-”

“There better leave something good out of that big mouth of yours.”

“Hey that's just rude! But I want one of you lot to teach me anything. I can’t even ride a horse for Christ's sake.”

“I still don’t get how you can’t kiddo.”

“I told you I lost my memory at the explosion, maybe I lost my skills too.” You said avoiding his piercing gaze. Nothing is better at covering up lies than staring at rocks being sad over the skills you’ve lost.

“And we all know about that blatant lie.” Fuck, maybe rocks aren’t good at covering up.

“It isn’t-”

“Boy I don’t give a damn, you could work on your handwriting though, you’re almost worse than John. But fine, when you’re done with your chores I'll teach you to ride.” He said, finally giving in.

“Yay!” You said while doing little hand clapping motion. “I won’t disappoint, I promise. I’m a fast learner!” You said with smiling eyes

“And how’d you find out you were a fast learner boy?” He spoke out as he raised his eyebrows, just enough for you to feel them piercing right through you, poking at all the holes in your lie. You thought you’d last at least a few months, well here you are, exactly one month deep in this shithole being caught red handed.

“Fuck” Is all you managed to cram out while your eyes lost all their focus. You being back in your own mind instead of the wild world.

It made the silence hard. The only sound that of the other gang members and the birds and the bees to give you something to focus on. It’s so hard out here, no amount of scouts will ever prepare one for the real wild.vIt’s much scarier out here. The real wild is the place where you die if you trip over the wrong rock. The scouts will make sure the rock isn’t even there. Every bird will just put down another rock and god I want the silence broken, just as broken as my lie is.

“I know there’s probably a reason you’re not telling us anything.” Athur said, as he moved closer, his eyes smaller. Like they could see right in his head “You can’t hide forever, not who you are.”

“...”

“Use your words boy”

“I’m sorry, Mister Morgan, I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You’ll figure it out, but first geT your ass back to woRK.” His voice became louder this time, I mean this was the third time he asked. He put his hand on your shoulder, shoving you away from your shared tent towards the hay bales you were supposed to move. A bit harder than anyone in the twenty-first century would’ve done, but for Arthur it was just a friendly push.

“I will, I will mister Morgan!” You said trying to act cheerful. Arthur made a “tsk” sound and waved you off, absolutely done, it seemed. You moved to the hay bales that were still in the wagon, ready to be fed to the horses.

The hay bales were heavy, yet they seemed lighter than they were a month ago. Your hands weren’t soft no more and being covered in dirt and dust wasn’t rare anymore. The luxuries that the modern world gave you disappeared the moment you decided that Bee was the one who should go home. One to run to the portal the moment it opens, one to pull the lever and jump through afterwards. Both of you knew that people don’t want you touching their stuff, let alone interdimensional portals or time machines. You knew someone would be quick to show up the moment you turned it on. It was surprising to see the portal become unstable, blinking in and out, in and out of existence. It left you with 2 choices. Option a: jump in it praying it would still transport you back home, back to all you knew not leaving you in the empty pocket of a closed portal. Or option b: run away for the inevitable explosion.

Gods you hated thinking about it. It played and twisted your mind. You couldn’t even talk about it, no accessible therapists in the wild west. And you’d prefer not to tell anyone you’re a helpless time traveler. Stuck in 1895 traveling with a gang of outlaws. A surely unique situation only you could get yourself in. You don’t even remember what you chose. You just remembered waking up surrounded by a bunch of cowboys.

“And how is our newest member doing?” The man's smooth and easy voice was easily recognizable. Dutch Van der Linde. Isn’t it ironic that he has a dutch surname and that his parents called him, well, Dutch. It’s a question that always on your mind, why his parents did that and if it’s iconic or just stupid. Dutch was one of the first people who introduced himself, right after Arthur- who was very inclined on being called Mister Morgan- and Hosea. The trio who showed you the wild west wasn’t all bad.

“Dutch! It is absolutely lovely to see you.” You said while putting the last hay bale down. A little bit of healthy sweat decorating your face. “I am doing absolutely great. Arthur- Mister Morgan is actually going to teach me how to ride a horse when I’m done.” You said while eyeing Arthur. Clearly not being amused with the situation. “Eh, he said yes, it’s his problem now.”

“I’m surprised you got through that thick skull of his!” He said with a smile, each word a little louder than the last. He clapped his hand on your shoulder as he let out a little chuckle.

“I think he likes me even though he won’t admit it actually.” You lied, confidence was half of the battle, as they say.

“I think I don’t you annoying little bastard.” Arthur said, joining the conversation. Dutch clearly talks loud enough to make sure any gossip subject will show up to the gossip. Definitely not the fact that you made eye contact with him “Now get to your horse before I change my mind.”

“Arthur! Oh shit- Mister Morgan! I’ll be there before they can even give me a speeding ticket” You said, maybe it was a bit too modern this time, but isn’t the wild west about living on the edge?

“You speak a strange version of english boy.” Arthur said. “You know how to saddle up a horse right?”

“Hosea taught me so I could help around with chores. And Wasp already had a saddle when we found her so I’m all good to go Mister Morgan!”

“Great, now go get her saddled up so we can go.” He said, motioning towards the horses.

“See you in a flash.” You said while snapping your fingers, forming finger guns to point back to Arthur. You dismissed the look of confusion on their faces, clearly not used to the finger gun motion. You walked off to Wasp and gave her a little pet and a snack. As you were putting her saddle on you overheard the rest of the conversation between Arthur and Dutch.

“We can both see you have a soft spot for the boy, Arthur.” Dutch said with a chuckle.

“And we both know youngins have great hearing and that he’s spying on our little conversation.” Arthur said in response, eyeing you. You kept saddling Wasp up as if you heard nothing. Let the deaf chicken inside of you arise and all. Hoping they’d say more.

“I know Arthur, I know.” Dutch said with a chuckle. About to walk away. “Oh before you go, he’s a kid Arthur, don’t be too hard on him and be carefull.” You didn’t think you were a kid, maybe not a full grown adult, but at least you were half an adult, no kid. But you weren’t going to say anything, you were eavesdropping after all. “He’s all yours, (Y/N)!” He yelled at you, before leaving for real. You turned around and gave him a smile and a quick wave. Arthur walked

“Take her by the reins, we're walking to an open spot first.”

“Shoar '' You said, absolutely trying to mimic the western accent you hear all around here. Apparently it was just bad enough to make Arthur chuckle.

“We’ll make a cowboy outta ya yet.”

Traveling in the wild was absolutely amazing for the most part. Abandoned camps are in fact disgusting. They leave their trash! And it’s not like they cleaned their cans so it smells. But besides that the mostly untouched nature was beautiful and the air was so clean. It all felt much more, how to put it, real. No factories everywhere, no house on every corner of the street, just, the world how mother nature intended it. It was peaceful. There was an open field about ten minutes walking from camp, and that’s where you arrived. Reins in hand.

“You ready to go (Y/N)?” Arthur asked. You put your hand on your hips looking at your horse with abosute pride and stupidity because how to fuck were you going to do this?

“Absolutely.” You said. “Remind me how do I get on again?”

The words were taken by the wind as they made room for silence. Arthur’s expression could be described as a mix between surprise, disbelief and the OhMyGodAreYouStupid emotion. Yet it all quickly made room for a smile, or a laugh. He could definitely be laughing at you.

“I didn’t expect to need to teach an 18 year old how to get on a damn horse.”

There was no fire behind the words, but as they say, fight (fake) fire with (fake) fire.

“And I didn’t expect to end up here for the life of so I did not think horse riding would be a viable skill to know. So get your pretty ass in the saddle so I can.. mimic you or something.” You said making a hand gesture at Arthur’s horse.

He gave you one more smile as he turned to his horse, getting on slower than usual. He got on on the right side of his horse so he put his right foot in the styrup. He lifted his body up effortlessly and as elegant as a western outlaw could get. And there he was, in the saddle, in full western glory.

“Looks easy enough.” You said, an absolute lie as it turned out. The stirrups were way higher than expected, and the getting on could be called anything but elegant or the cool western movies you saw. Turns out your own body is heavy and there’s quite a lot on a horse to get stuck behind. But you ended up in the saddle, full western glory.

The rest of the riding lesson went about the same. Arthur did something really cool looking and whenever you did it it felt like you were some old slime blob.

“Squeeze your lower legs to get her to move, (Y/N)!”

“I am this horse is just broken- OHMYGOD SHe’s moving!”

“Never blame the horse for the rider's lack of skill, boy. Now steering.”

He explained it all to you. How to properly hold the reins and how to use them, how to do it with one hand and how to do it with two. Western and English style he called it. He taught you how to move your horse around and what not to do. The one and most important thing being to have no doubts and no fear. The horse will sense it.

It felt odd at first, to have control over another living being. It wasn’t easy no, Arthur had to tell you how to correct your posture every 5 minutes. But after a while of correcting everything you started to get confident. It started getting easier to steer. Every muscle of yours was getting tired but it was so worth it. Maybe one day you’ll look like an actual movie star.

Once you got the basics down you could go a bit harder. From a walk to a trot, a canter and even a little gallop. And as the wind brushed over your face blowing your hair away, it felt like something the 21st century didn’t have a lot of. Galloping through the grass hearing every step as more and more grass was thrown into the air. Arthur still giving you instructions on what to watch out for, riding by your side in case of emergency. And the horse, Wasp, god she deserved a cooler name. Her big strong muscles moving beneath you, her breath as she was running, the heat radiating from her skin, gods it felt so great. No modern bike or car could ever top this feeling of freedom.

Cars and bikes could however top the feeling of falling off. You lost control quite a few times, losing balance, a rearing horse throwing you right where you belong. But nothing modern could beat that feeling of getting on again. Of it working when you tried it for a second time. Hell, maybe the third time. Arthur was there to make sure you were okay, and you could have another go. And another. And just one more for good measure. Lying on the ground trying to see if this time you did break something wasn’t a strange thing after today. Hell it happened at least every hour. But determining it as fine and getting on again, it felt like a lot.

You didn’t even realize it was getting late until the sky started turning orange. The normally so bright sun started becoming more yellow and stopped burning at your eyes. Instead it just seemed pretty. The clouds became yellow just like the sun, and the sky turned a bit darker with every passing minute. Yellow and orange were happy colours, maybe this was an good omen, maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t think you’d die somewhere in a ditch. Bee would be proud to see you haven’t given up. You knew that for once.

“Time isn’t a real thing Mister Morgan, I swear.” You said looking at the sunset.

“Call me Arthur.” Said Arthur Morgan, though guy in the west in dire need of respect. Arthur “You call me mister Morgan boy” Morgan.

“Wait, did someone hide weed somewhere because this must be a hallucination! Can I really call you Arthur?”

“Wouldn't have said it otherwise boy.” He hissed, the mister Morgan just wouldn't leave Arthur.

“Well, Arthur, thank you. I’m happy I only have to say half the syllables now.”

“Shoar thing. Now let’s go back to camp before they send out a search party to see if you haven’t broken anything today.” He said jokingly

“I would never! I am obviously the best horse rider in the entire United states!” You said sarcastically, if you fake confidence long enough, it might become real.

Arthur laughed at that. “Well see about that boy. Now let’s go, we should be there soon considering you can ride now.”

“Of course, good plan. I can show off my skills now!”

“Shoar, go ahead boy. Don’t make your entrance too dramatic.”

“I will, I absolutely will. Oh and Arthur?”

“Hm?” He said, quite relaxed actually.

“Thank you, for everything today. I’m happy you let me bother you today.” You said with a proud smile.

“You’re welcome boy. Bother me all you want, we ain’t getting rid of you just yet.” He said as he ruffled your hair a bit. “Now let’s go home, I’m realll hungry.”

You absolutely couldn’t hide the smile on your face. “Hell yeah, I’m starving.” You said as you kicked the stirrups making Wasp move, you rode to camp in the beautiful orange sky. Maybe he did actually care about you, just a little.

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x male reader #BUT LIKE PLATONIC #Idk how else to tag it #sorry hehe #Van der linde gang #pre canon #fluff #dutch van der linde #arthur morgan

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Stalker X Stalker, Part 12

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Perma taglist: @nathleigh @peachmuses

Stalker x Stalker taglist: @aespades @jayjayspixiepop @blueslushgueen @fan-written @seraphichana @nerd-nowandforever @toodaloo-kangaroo @khneltea @raeuberprinzessin

Tim had exactly zero idea what was going on.

Marinette had disappeared into the shower so he’d figured that, hey, work was over and he was 90% sure it was the day she usually shaved (something he knew because every time she shaved she excitedly asked him to touch her leg because it was smooth) so he had time to kill…

He walked over to her jewelry box.

He’d already bugged all of the new jewelry he had bought her but her old stuff was perfectly intact and he kind of wanted more insurance. Sure, they lived together now so it was unlikely she would have much reason to leave without him, but he was known for his millions of plans and contingencies and he wasn’t about to mess up when it was someone he cared about.

So, he went to work on the first necklace he grabbed. It had a tiny cat with green emeralds for eyes.

He looked at the tiny black pupils that the cat had. He pulled a tiny pick out of his pocket and carefully started carving a circle in it for the bug.

And then a bug-shaped god came flying out of the door for something.

There were a few beats as Tim and Tikki stared at each other.

Tikki broke it with a loud groan.

He watched her float past him for the towel hung on Marinette’s bedpost and then go back inside.

Shit.

He darted towards the bathroom, only to pause at the door. He really didn’t want to burst in while Marinette was probably naked, that was a huge breach of privacy, but he also didn’t want Tikki to tell him about all the bugs he was planting! Shit! He bit his lip, considering.

“Here’s your towel, Marinette,” Tikki said with a sharp edge to her tone.

“... are you mad?”

“Not at you. Where are the cookies you baked last night?”

“Uh, the fridge --?”

“Thank you.”

Why hadn’t she told her? Tim wasn’t complaining, of course, but he was a little confused. She was clearly mad about it and he doubted that Marinette had made some rule that said ‘you can’t tell me about people bugging me’ because that was oddly specific and not a very good idea… so… what?

He didn’t know. He was just going to thank the god of luck -- he was pretty sure that was Tikki -- and continue what he was doing.

~

Marinette didn’t have to struggle to keep everyone inside the first night. She liked that. More time to plan.

But how did she get herself let out, you may ask?

Remember how Tim had said that all-hands-on-deck situations are the only exceptions to the Stay Inside While Injured Rule? Well, guess what had happened.

Arkham had had a huge breakout and Marinette wasn’t going to complain… even if her kwami might be a little disappointed in how happy she was about it.

She was even happier when she’d found out that one of the people that had broken out was Scarecrow. She’d been meaning to tell him about her guesses about his brownie recipe for a while and she hadn’t really had a chance to do it when she was talking to him through a phone with a thick glass between them.

Batman -- Bruce? -- didn’t need to know that they’d broken into a bakery for the night to test out their theories before she had taken him back to Arkham.

He’d thank them when he got the brownies (the missing ingredient was Mexican cinnamon!). Or, at least, she hoped he would.

~

Tim had to say… Marinette's plan to get everyone in her house was working.

He could warn his siblings but, honestly, he found it kind of funny.

He was surprised to see Jason show up first. He raised his eyebrows at his brother. “Didn’t know you were in town, Flamebird.”

Jason did an exaggerated eye roll that Tim swore he could see despite the domino. “Marinette said she had something she wanted to show me.”

And she did. She walked over and dropped the Harry Potter books onto the window ledge beside him. “This is terrible and I hate you for making me read them.”

“It gets better later on --.”

“I read two books. That’s six hundred pages. If you can’t get your shit together in six hundred fucking pages then you don’t deserve my time.”

He scoffed. “They’re not that bad.”

“Oh yeah? Read it. It’s been years for you, right? Get to book three and tell me it’s good.”

Jason scowled and grabbed the books, taking a seat in the armchair.

Tim grinned and rested an arm around his girlfriend. “You don’t actually hate Harry Potter, do you?”

“Only the book version.”

He frowned. “I think we need to break up.”

“Nope. Not allowed to break up with me.”

“Oh, well, if I’m not allowed then I guess I won’t,” he said, leaning down to press a tiny kiss to her lips.

There was a groan from the window and they both rolled their eyes, turning to look at Damian.

“Why must you sully my good mood so early on with your disgusting displays of affection?”

“It’s our apartment, you just so happen to be here,” said Tim, glaring at his brother. “We can do what we want.”

Marinette, bravely, stepped between the two of them with a bright smile. “Now, boys, it’s not the time.”

“It is not the time for your libido, and yet...” argued Damian.

“Please, that isn’t even close to libi --,” Tim started, only to get elbowed in the stomach.

She gave him a look that told him to let her handle it and, while he didn’t think that was a good idea, he held up his hands in surrender.

“Robin, it’s unbecoming of you to argue with everyone you meet,” she chided lightly.

… did she speak Damian or something? Because Damian actually looked a little reprimanded at that and Tim needed to learn her ways.

Then, she leaned down with a grin. He could see her hands start to rest on her knees but she thought better of it at the last second. “I got some new stuff from the pet store and I wanted to know if you wanted to help test them out on Vanelope.”

Damian narrowed his eyes slightly. “What kinds of new things?”

“A bunch of cat toys.”

“... I suppose I can test them out for you.”

“I mean, I said you could help --,” she started, but Damian was already heading towards Vanelope without her.

Tim looked over at his girlfriend. She didn’t seem all that put out by this.

“You really had something planned out for everyone?”

She smirked and took a seat on the windowsill. “Yep. It should take Flamebird about two days to finish the first two books -- assuming he can even get through them that quickly -- and Robin is sure to be very thorough in his testing of all the cat toys.”

“Oh? And what’s your plan for everyone else?”

She shrugged just slightly. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”

When Dick appeared she set him up with Beat Saber, saying that she was curious about why the VR glasses gave her a headache and wanted to see if he had the same problem. Tim knew the problem was that they were made for men and therefore sometimes had negative side effects for women, but he bit his lip before he could offer to get a set custom-made for her in favor of watching Dick select the poppiest pop song in existence and instantly get addicted to the game.

Tim raised his eyebrows slightly when Steph appeared, textbook in hand.

“How did you know everyone would show up?” He asked once Marinette had set her up with a particularly long and difficult worksheet to make sure she got the lesson.

“Well, Spoiler shows up every Saturday night for tutoring, Robin comes by every other day or more and he didn’t stop by last night, Nightwing pops by most weekends, and I called Flamebird over myself… speaking of which…” She pulled out her phone and tapped a few buttons. “Right, Signal said he’ll be here in ten minutes seven minutes ago… so, he’s almost here.”

Tim grinned. “You forgot Cass.”

“She only ever really shows up to get away from all of you guys so, with everyone here, she’d have no reason to come over.” Her face split into a sheepish grin. “Also, she’d see through me pretty quickly.”

“Don’t you want B to have no help?”

She shrugged. “It should be a light night since almost everyone important is in Arkham right now but that doesn’t mean that the two of them can deal with all of Gotham’s petty crime on their own. I give them until three or four before they crack.”

“... you might be a little scary.”

“You don’t last long as a vigilante if you’re not at least a little smart,” she chirped. “I just choose to turn my brain off most of the time.”

He smiled. “Oh? And the exception is what? Making you stay inside?”

She waved him off. “Kind of. It’s more that I only put effort into making sure I’ll never be bored. What’s the point of thinking about anything else? All that does is make you sad.”

Well that didn’t sound healthy, now did it? Tim was pretty sure that was just repression but, honestly, he had no clue. His family famously did not use therapists.

Before he could figure out how to address that there was a knock on the door.

Marinette grinned and opened it to reveal Duke, who was holding a computer.

Duke looked around the apartment, raising his eyebrows at all the people there. “Uh… should I ask?”

“I’m spiting Bruce.”

“Wild. Whatever. Ready for GBBS?”

“Sure. Tim, you gonna watch it with us?”

He hesitated. Steph had been sending him pleading looks since she had gotten her worksheet and he felt kind of bad for her… but then Duke and Marinette sat on the couch and she rested her head on his shoulder lazily to get a better view of the computer and Tim figured that Steph was smart enough to do the worksheet on her own if she really tried.

He took a seat beside her and smiled a little when she switched to lean against him instead.

“So, who’s your favorite person for the season?” He asked.

She thought for a minute before shrugging. “The guy that always wins but keeps being anxious about his bakes. Forgot his name, though.”

“Rahul?!” said Duke.

“Sure.”

Duke frowned. “I’m not sure whether to be happy you like at least one contestant, be proud it’s Rahul, or be annoyed you didn’t remember his name.”

“Character development takes time,” said Tim wisely.

Marinette scoffed a little. “Just put on the damn show. I’m tired of listening to you assholes talk.”

Duke grinned. “Fine. Fine.”

Time passed as the three of them watched the show.

Other family members slowly made their way over one by one. Damian brought the cat with him. Jason came over to give his brain a break after all the reading he had done (and then, when Marinette pointed out that you never take breaks while reading good books, had gone straight back to Harry Potter). Steph decided she didn’t want to pass her class and came to lay across the top of the couch. Dick eventually got tired and rested his body after the intense game that is Beat Saber.

… B released her at almost exactly three thirty. They ignored their comms in favor of continuing to watch the season finale.

~

Marinette bit her lip anxiously as she preemptively turned off the notifications on her phone. Tim did the same.

They typed up matching tweets about how they were moving in with their partners, tagged each other...

Their fingers hovered over the tweet buttons.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I’m sure one of my siblings will do something stupid in a few days and the media will leave us alone,” said Tim.

She smiled awkwardly. “That isn’t what I’m worried about.”

He frowned just a little and slipped his arm around her. “Well, can I help with whatever it is?”

She hesitated. It would be better to warn him, she supposed. “Not really. You’re going to get the ‘shovel talk’ --.”

“My dad is Batman, Bean, I’ll live.”

“-- by the person who currently controls the embodiment of chaos and destruction.”

His face paled a little (which is dangerous, considering he was already pale enough). “Does Chat Noir not know we’re dating yet?”

“Nope.”

“... so he’s going to find out through the media?”

“Yep.”

“Shit.”

She nodded her agreement, curling into his side and glaring at the phone.

Adrien was going to be pissed. Especially since he was going to learn through the media. Sure, that was the intention, she was hoping that Tim would be left more or less alone because her friend would be too busy being hurt about not being told to focus on his anger at her boyfriend… but, yikes, she didn’t really want to deal with that just yet.

Also, she thought with a wince, Adrien was going to be even angrier when he figured out that she hadn’t exactly given up, as he called it, ‘stalking’ the people she was interested in. Marinette was pretty sure that Tim already knew about some of it but she wasn’t completely sure and, just in case, she wanted to keep it a secret for a while… a few years, at least, and she wanted to be the one to tell him because she was sure that Adrien would be a lot harsher about it than she would. He already called it ‘stalking’ when it was clearly different, she didn’t want to know what he would say if she let him talk about it in more depth.

Unfortunately, though, Adrien wasn’t stupid. He’d eventually catch on. The longer they dated without him knowing the guiltier he would assume she was.

She sighed and took his face in her hands. “I’m leaving it up to you. I’m not sure. I’m leaning towards being public but...”

He bit his lip as he considered it. She fought the urge to stretch his face until he let go.

He smiled hesitantly. “Well, I’ve lived long enough, I think.”

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll summon a lucky charm for you,” she half-joked.

He gave a puff of laughter that wasn’t quite real and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Thanks, Bean, but I doubt that’ll be necessary. This is Gotham, no one dies here.”

“We don’t know how long that’ll take, though,” she said with a pout. “I’d prefer to have you back as soon as possible.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’ll always have my siblings.”

“But I want you,” she huffed. “You’re my favorite.”

She felt his cheeks warm beneath her hands.

“I’m your second favorite,” he reminded her. “Cass.”

She snickered. “True. You’re my favorite until Cass accepts my proposal.”

“Hm. I’ll have to enforce the bro code to make sure that never happens.”

“Oh no! I guess I’ll be stuck with you forever, then. What a shame!”

He smiled brightly. Sometimes she lamented the fact that he didn’t give a lot of genuine smiles. The grins and smirks were nice, of course, but she liked to watch the way he would duck his head slightly to try and cover his face with his bangs. Still, in the privacy of her own head, she had to admit that the fact she could get such a smile out of him when few others could made her heart rate spike. He smiled for her. Who wouldn’t be flattered by that?

She pulled the smile that she loved so much down for a kiss.

~

The first time they stepped out the door as an official couple they were hounded by reporters.

Tim wanted to ask how they knew where they lived. He settled for asking them to blur the area around them.

It was more than a little annoying to be harassed on your way to the grocery store. They had just wanted eggs, milk (Marinette kept leaving it out for some strange reason), some cat food, and enough miscellaneous snacks to keep Cass occupied. They did not want cameras shoved in their faces.

But years of being public figures had trained them to keep pleasant smiles on their faces and to answer questions with as little information as possible.

Finally, though, they made it inside and a manager kicked out the reporters.

Marinette let her shoulders slump a little beneath his arm and Tim flexed the muscles in his face before it could get stuck in that awkward half-smile forever.

He squeezed her a little. “You alright?”

She shrugged as much as she could without displacing his arm. “Yeah. Just… hate reporters.”

He nodded his understanding. He pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Want to buy some Oreos while we’re here?”

Her face lit up. “Can we?”

“I’m rich. Of course we can.”

And, so, they did. He made a mental note to start buying oreos in bulk. All the flavors, just in case she ever got sick of the normal version.

They glanced out the door and, though they couldn’t see the paparazzi waiting just outside, they were sure that they would be back soon. They ducked through back alleys to try and get away.

Only to stop in the middle of a dark alley at the high-pitched cry of: “Give me your money or else!”

Tim sighed and set down the cat food to hand over everything in his pockets. A glance back at Marinette confirmed she was doing the same --.

And then he stopped short. He turned more fully to look at their mugger and then started to laugh.

“I’ll… I’ll kill you!” Said the mugger, who was just a kid. They might not have even hit puberty yet.

“With a pocketknife?” Tim said.

Marinette turned around as well at that and a grin spread across her face. “Oh my gods, that’s so lame.”

“It’s Gotham, you gotta do better than that,” said Tim. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a butterfly knife. He handed it over. “Here, have this, at least. Christ, that’s terrible.”

The kid didn’t seem to know what to do about the fact that his would-be victims were laughing at her and apparently helping her mug people.

Marinette handed over everything except for the necklace Tim had given her. “Here, kid. And get a mask or something to hide your face, it’s not nearly dark enough in here for you to just go with a hood.”

“Oh, and here’s my address,” added Tim. He typed it into his phone -- damn, he should have brought more than a pager -- and then handed it over. “We always have a lot of extra food, so if you ever need it just knock on the window.”

“... thanks?” said their now adoptive kid (they didn’t make the rules, this kid was theirs now).

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Can we go now? One of his siblings is coming over soon and he will start our show without us.”

“Uh… sure?”

~

Marinette sat on the kitchen island, squinting at the cast on her arm. Was it worth taking off for the sake of doing work? Maybe --.

Tim’s voice crackled through her ear and she perked up a little at the sound, smiling. He was talking, greeting guests it seemed. Right. He had a meeting today, Janet had mentioned it earlier that morning.

Marinette sighed a little at the reminder that, while she might not care about her broken arm, her boyfriend did. Yeah. Tim would probably be stressed if she took off her cast before the doctor said it was okay. She settled to lay back on the counter, head resting on her good arm, and stare at the ceiling as she listened to his voice...

Only to dart up when she felt a tap on her arm.

She looked over, eyes blown wide, and only relaxed slightly when she realized she recognized the person.

Adrien stood over her, arms crossed over his chest despite the glasses/miraculous he had hooked to the collar of his shirt, but he apparently wasn’t angry enough to not accept the usual kisses on both cheeks that Parisians did as greeting.

He said something that she couldn’t really understand with the part of her brain still concentrated on Tim explaining some sort of chart.

She sighed and reached a hand to her ear to turn off the bug. “Hey, can you repeat that?”

He didn’t. Instead he squinted at her ear suspiciously. “Does your ear hurt?”

“... no?” She said slowly, a little confused.

“Whatcha listening to?”

She paled. Shit. He was going to be pissed (or, at least, more pissed than he already was) if he found out that her supposed ‘stalking’ was getting worse. She needed an excuse.

“Uh, that one rapper, uh --.”

“BS. You don’t listen to rappers.”

He held a hand out and, reluctantly, she handed it over to him. She might as well get her murder over with.

He set it in his ear and, after a few attempts, turned it on. His face soured even more, somehow.

“This better not be who I think it is.”

She gave a tentative half-smile.

That was all the answer he needed. He grabbed her by the back of her shirt and started dragging her through the streets.

No one helped. Not that she expected them to, it was Gotham, but it was still a little hurtful.

Adrien stopped suddenly after a few minutes of walking.

“... wait… where’s his office?”

#ignore me i need to yell about my dentist appointment in the tags #so they let me watch movies in there right #well i sit down in the uncomfy ass chair and guess what #i watch an ENTIRE FUCKING MOVIE before they even come over #and then the people doing it dropped things in my fucking mouth #and then they had the AUDACITY to comment on the fact that i was shaking #like bitch youve cut my mouth three times already of course I'm scared #fucking dumbass #alright im done #stalker x stalker #AND ANOTHER THING #jkjk #maribat #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #tim drake #red robin #timinette #timari #timmari #shutterbug

[paterson-blue]

Honey, You're Familiar (Like My Mirror Years Ago); Part 3

Part 3: The Date

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5

Summary: Things don't go exactly to plan. Clyde stresses.

Word Count: 4,010

Warnings: fluff, spice, grumpy Clyde Logan, pouty boy (but he's still in love), sentimentalism, sickly sweet pet names, smoochin', grindin', oral sex (male receiving), cum on body (not in!), original female character–let me know if I need to add anything else!

A/N: Thanks again to @paper-n-ashes for being my beta reader & quelling all my writing jitters. You're the absolute best!

Prefer AO3? I gotcha!

It’s a fuckin’ disaster.

Starts out nice. Juniper shows up on his doorstep wearin’ a slinky little black dress, one that shows off her curves and makes Clyde’s mouth go dry. She tells him he looks handsome and he feels giddy. He sweeps his newly styled hair out of his face, sayin’ she looks absolutely stunnin’. Juniper beams, grabs his hand, tells him they better get a move on ‘fore they’re late.

They’re late. They’re later than late.

They aren’ five minutes outta town when lightenin’ starts to streak across the sky. Clyde shifts uneasily, eyes cast upward towards the swirling heavens. It’s rainin’ cats and dogs in no time and Juniper has to slow to half the speed limit to drive safely. Clyde’s thoughts go to the river up ahead, the one the road crew was still tryna’ re-stabilize since the last storm flooded it.

Fifteen minutes from their destination and they have t’pull to a stop on the highway, suddenly blocked in a jam. Flashin’ red and blue lights indicate an accident up front, and while Clyde spares a thought to whoever was involved, he can’t help but check the time. They aren’ gonna make their reservation, he just knows it.

The car behind ‘em lays on its horn, the sound makin’ both Clyde & Juniper jump. The driver either doesn’ seem to understand the concept of bein’ stuck or plain just don’ care. Clyde clenches his jaw, glowerin’ into the rear view mirror—he can only see the driver’s silhouette behind the bright glow of the headlights. He’s keepin’ his cool until the driver reaches his arm out, in the pourin’ rain an’ all, just t’give Juniper the finger.

Clyde’s unbucklin’ his belt quick as can be, chest heavin’ as he reaches for the door handle. He’s ‘bout ready to stomp to the car and yank the man out.Teach ‘im a lesson on manners, teach ‘im t’treat a lady like—

“Clyde.” Juniper stops him in his tracks with just his name on her lips. He looks over at her from under his hair, expression tense. She reaches up to caress his cheek, holdin’ his face in her little palm so sweetly, thumb brushin’ over the sharp line of his jaw. “Leave him be. It’s not worth gettin’ into trouble.”

Clyde deflates, honey brown eyes downcast. He sounds miserable when he speaks. “… We’re gonna miss dinner.”

“I know, sugar. It’s okay.”

His heart flutters in his broad chest despite his distress. She’d called him ‘sugar.’ He likes that; wants to hear it again real soon.

By the time they get through all the traffic and make it to the restaurant, their reservation is indeed gone, table havin’ been given away. They stand together just outside the building, under the little awning in an attempt to stay out of the rain.

Clyde huffs, so morose that he’s unable to enjoy the way she was pressed up against his side. “M’sorry.”

Juniper frowns, reachin’ up to pat his stomach gently. “You stop that. You haven’t done anything to be sorry for.”

Clyde shakes his head sadly, heavin’ out a sigh. “It’s the Logan Family Curse.”

She looks up at him, brows arched, her hand still settled on his belly. “Oh is it now?”

He nods, brows pinched together. Juniper reaches for his hand, pulling it to her lips and pressin’ a kiss to his knuckles. “You aren’t cursed, Clyde Logan. And if you are, I’m perfectly happy to be cursed right along with you.”

Clyde doesn’ quite know how to respond to that, but luckily, he doesn’t have to right away. Juniper moves her lips to the pads of his large fingers, kissin’ ‘em gently before lettin’ him pull his hand away. Clyde cradles her pretty face in his palm, takin’ the time to admire her. Finally, he speaks. “Thank you, darlin’. That’s mighty nice of you t’say.”

Juniper nuzzles into his touch, sighin’ happily; it makes Clyde feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“I’m only saying what’s true. Now c’mon. I know it’s a Friday night but there’s bound to be somewhere we can eat.”

They end up findin’ an old fashioned drive-in burger place, somewhere they can park and eat in the car out of the rain. It’s not where Clyde wants to take her; she deserves to be wined and dined all proper, not greasy burgers and milkshakes. But Juniper doesn’ seem to mind; as soon as they’re parked she’s squintin’ up at the menu, a big smile on her face.

“This all sounds so fucking good.” She giggles, lookin’ over at him. It makes the disappointment in Clyde’s chest fade away, and he leans over the center console to peer out the window to see what choices they were offered. It puts him in her space, and Juniper leans in to press a gentle kiss to his temple. He blushes, his cheeks only getttin’ hotter when she brushes some of his hair out of his face. He desperately wants to kiss her but he doesn’ know if it’s the right time.

He’s finally acceptin’ the night’s change of plans—finally acceptin’ that this might be good, burgers and fries while dressed up nice, watchin’ the rain pour from the safety of Juniper’s little Corolla—when the carhop comes out to tend to them. Clyde’s already diggin’ into his wallet as Juniper rattles off their order; he holds his debit card out, arm reachin’ over Juniper’s lap.

The carhop doesn’ move for the card. Instead, they say “Card machine’s down. Cash only.” in what Clyde thinks is possibly the most bored tone they could muster. He tries not to bristle as he fumbles with his wallet for a second time, patience already worn thin from the night’s events. He’s only got a fifty in his billfold. The fifty.

Their fifty.

He hesitates, even though he knows it’s irrational; Jimmy always did tell him he was too damn sentimental for his own good. Juniper must realize—she always does, Clyde never seems to have to explain himself to her—because she grabs her purse from the floorboard. Clyde stops her, shakin’ his head as he tugs the fifty dollar bill out. “S’alright, darlin’. Y’told me t’save it for a rainy day.”

Juniper’s face softens at his words, and Clyde hands the money over to the carhop, who looks like they want to be literally anywhere else. Soon Clyde’s been given his change, and he quickly puts it back up. As soon as he’s done Juniper’s reachin’ for him, pullin’ him in by his collar. Clyde goes willingly, twistin’ in his seat to move his prosthetic to the middle of her back, arm wrapped around her.

“I’ll give you another one.” She tells him firmly, and Clyde huffs out a laugh.

“Well that’d be awful silly of ya, Junebug. You’ll run outta money real quick if y’keep givin’ it all t’me.” He tries to soothe her with a joke, wantin’ to let her know that it was alright. Sure, it had been special to him—reminded him of their meetin’—but it was just a piece a’ paper. What was a piece a’ paper when he had the most important thing right here in front a’ him?

He wants to curl up further into her, but their positions don’t allow for it—the vehicle doesn’ exactly allow for him to move his long limbs much a’ anywhere. If this was as close as he could get, he was satisfied. Juniper shifts suddenly, eyes trained on him as she leans closer. They share a breath, then two, and then she’s pressin’ her mouth against his.

It’s nothin’ if not chaste. Clyde gets the feelin’ she doesn’ exactly want to neck in the front seat of her car like teenagers—at least not in plain view of the drive-in’s staff and other patrons. Just a gentle kiss, a little more than a peck; firm and lingerin’ just enough that he knows it happened. Juniper follows it up with another one at the corner of mouth, their noses pressin’ against one another’s cheeks.

It’s more than enough for Clyde; more than enough to get his pulse to sky rocket. He can’t remember the last time he’s been treated so gently, so much love in such a small movement. She gives him a smile when she pulls away, and they both sit back in their seats, starin’ all heart-eyed at one another. She takes the metal of his hand in hers, holdin’ it, and Clyde thinks maybe he should reconsider the whole curse thing.

They head back home after finishin’ their meal, the storm slowly peterin’ off as they get closer to Clyde’s trailer. Juniper walks him to his door, gigglin’ when she offers him her arm to escort him. He takes it, grinnin’ like a fool as they stomp up the front steps. They stand there under the yellow porch light, humid heat surroundin’ ‘em. Clyde usually hated the humidity, but not when it was like this, creatin’ such a hazy, intimate bubble around ‘em. Juniper drops her arm, but only to reach for Clyde’s flesh hand, holdin’ it in both of hers.

“I had a really nice time tonight, Clyde. Best date I’ve ever been on—and I mean that.”

Clyde can feel himself blushin’, a pleased smile turnin’ his lips up. “I had a good time, too. Wouldja—wouldja wanna do it again? Sometime soon?”

“Yes.” She answers almost before he can finish askin’, and they both laugh. There’s a beat, a pause, a breath, and then Juniper is leanin’ up the same moment Clyde’s leanin’ down. It’s a relief when their lips touch, like the first drink a’ water in the mornin’. Clyde thinks he’s been parched his whole life and never even knew it.

Juniper’s the one who deepens it, the one who drops his hand to lean into him, to thread her fingers through his thick hair, holdin’ him close. And fuck, Clyde isn’ gonna fight it. He wraps his arm around her, prosthetic against her back as his hand moves to hold her face. His palm envelops her cheek, thumb under her chin to keep her head lifted. They kiss and kiss, and when she makes a little whine in the back of her throat Clyde swears he’s floatin’.

When she pulls away to breathe he makes a sound of his own, a disappointed little groan that she huffs out a laugh at. He’d be embarrassed if she wasn’ nuzzlin’ her nose against his cheek like she can’t get enough.

“Those lips a’ yours aren’t fair.” She murmurs, and Clyde hums, strokin’ his thumb along her jawline. He doesn’ want this to end, he thinks for possibly the thousandth time that night. He doesn’ wanna let her get back in her car an’ drive across town, over the train tracks, past the antique shop, until she gets to the bed & breakfast.

He wants her right here, and he’s never been the one in this position, but he doesn’ hesitate when he asks her, “D’y’wanna come in?”

She nods, and it sets his chest aflame. They straighten up, untanglin’ themselves from one another even as she leans into his side, not wantin’ t’be too far. Clyde’s hands shake as he unlocks the front door but he doesn’ care if she sees. He wants her to see, wants her to know what she’s doin’ t’him. Maybe then...maybe she won’t leave.

Clyde flicks on the lights, closin’ the door behind both of ‘em. He watches as Juniper assesses his things: his clumsily cleaned living area, the small kitchenette that was (thankfully) decluttered. The hallway leads back to the bathroom, and then his bedroom, but Clyde doesn’ dare look towards it, much less lead her that way. Instead, he steps towards the fridge, hand reachin’ out to brush against the door.

“Want anythin’ t’drink?” He asks, voice quiet, as if nervous to disturb the silence. Juniper shoots him a smile, shakin’ her head as she perches on the couch.

“No, I’m okay, thank you.”

Clyde nods, lingerin’ there even though he doesn’ want a drink neither. Her eyes look him over, amusement showin’ in them.

“Why don’t you c’mere? If you want, of course.”

He wants. Oh, how he wants. So he goes, movin’ across the distance between them in three long strides until he can sit himself next to her. He’s stock straight, heart thrummin’ in his chest; his nice button-down feels all tight against his skin, too itchy. He thinks only her touch’ll soothe it, but doesn’ wanna ask her. Juniper, however, reads his mind; she always can. She smoothes a hand over his jean-clad thigh, leanin’ in ever so slowly, like she’s gonna startle him if she moves too fast. Clyde’s breath catches in his throat as she kisses him again, and it's heaven, it's heaven.

It’s different from in the car, from on the porch. This time there’s more purpose to it. Juniper’s kissin’ him—tastin’ him— like he belongs to her, and Clyde thinks maybe it's because she knows he does. He’s tryna’ angle his body just right, tryin’ t’lean down without puttin’ a crick in his neck. Not that he’d care much, if he did--a crick was worth this, worth the feelin’ of her tongue brushin’ against his bottom lip, against his teeth.

Juniper makes a frustrated little noise, pullin’ back, and Clyde’s brows furrow in confusion.

“Wha--Wha’s--?” He stammers out, flesh hand flexin’ on her waist, the silky fabric of her dress feelin’ so soft and cool against his skin. Juniper’s lips are plush and kiss bitten; Clyde tries to take a picture of ‘em in his memory, eyes trained on their pretty color. He almost misses her question. Scratch that, he does miss her question; has to very ineloquently say “huh?” to get her to repeat it. She ducks her head, voice shy.

“Can I, uh--get in your lap?”

Shit. Shit. Clyde nearly feels dizzy for all the blood rushin’ down south. It makes him a little self-conscious; she’s not gonna want t’sit on his lap and have his cock pressin’ into her all demandin’ like. But damn, his little Junebug looks so eager, her eyes darker than he’s ever seen ‘em, and like he’d said: he wants. So he just nods, barely breathin’.

Juniper shifts, pushin’ him into the back of the couch and he goes easily, willingly. She hikes her dress up her legs and Clyde gets a barely there peek of dark green lace before she’s straddlin’ his lap. He moans, can’t fuckin’ help it, and Juniper dives in to capture the sound with her mouth. Her hands are on his face, in his hair, fingers rubbin’ the shells of his ears—he’s surrounded, he’s drownin’, suffocatin’. He’s never felt so alive.

His own hands are placed chastely on either one of her hips, though he knows his flesh hand must be grippin’ her somethin’ fierce. The thought flashes in his mind, of him leavin’ little fingerprint shaped bruises on her skin for her to feel the next day. It makes him shiver underneath her.

Juniper takes and takes, and Clyde lets her. Clyde wants to be taken, in whatever way she’ll have him. Suddenly she’s pullin’ away just enough to suck in a little air, lips still brushin’ against his. He presses his long nose into the soft skin of her cheek, breath hot between them. When Juniper speaks, her voice is strained.

“Touch me, Clyde. Please.”

He doesn’ hesitate. His good hand moves from her hip to her ass, grabbin’, kneadin’ as he pulls her tighter against him. She lets out the prettiest noise Clyde thinks he’s ever heard, and his lips find her neck as his other arm comes around to hold her close. God, she tastes so good; her perfume fills his head until he feels dizzy with it.

She's pressed flush to him like this, grindin’ her hips against his. Clyde’s hard and leakin’ in his brand new jeans and the only thing he can think of is hearin’ her little noises again. Her hands are back in his hair, pullin’ at it, sweepin’ it away from his face so he doesn’ get tangled in it as his mouth makes a hot path down the neckline of her dress.

It feels so damn good that Clyde doesn’ realize she’s tryin’ to get his attention until she yanks on his tresses, his scalp burnin’ from it. Honestly he thinks he groans, rough and wild in his throat, the pain shootin’ straight to his cock. But it makes him look at her, and she holds him from divin’ back into her skin.

“Clyde I wanna—I wanna taste you. Is that okay? Can I?”

Lord Almighty above. That should be his line, it really should. But how can he argue with her? He’d give her anythin’ she wanted, anythin’. And she wanted—wanted to put her mouth on him. Clyde spares a thought for all the trimmed and proper men he’s seen in porn, how much nicer they looked, how Juniper deserved the best. West coast mean surely didn’ look the way he did. But then,“Yes,” he’s sayin’, voice ragged, “yes.”

And she’s slippin’ out of his lap onto the floor between his legs. Clyde’s heart pinches, and he leans forward to pick her right back up. To say “oh, darlin’, y’don’ need to be on the hard floor like that. Lemme stand an’ you c’n sit right back on these here pillows.” But before he can get his legs under him she's pressin’ her face between ‘em, nuzzlin’ into the scratchy fabric of his jeans, right up against his cock. Clyde’s brain short circuits.

“Been wantin’ this.” Juniper murmurs, small hands workin’ at his belt, and Clyde arches his hips up, tryin’ t’help her get his jeans off. He can’t believe this—can’t believe this is happenin’. She tugs his jeans and pants down his legs, just enough that his cock is revealed. Clyde clumsily unbuttons the first couple buttons at the bottom of his shirt, not wantin’ to get the new fabric messy. Juniper seems to like his idea; she sighs and leans forward to press her lips to the bare skin of his stomach.

“Sweetheart.” Clyde whispers, voice all trembly. He stretches out a little, givin’ her more access to his pale abdomen. Her lips are so soft against his skin, against the dark trail of hair leadin’ down, down, down. She follows it, nosin’ to the crook of his thigh, teeth scrapin’ deliciously ‘fore she turns her attention to his cock—already plump and stiff, and very interested in her ministrations. She wraps a hand around it and Clyde’s breath catches in his throat. She studies his cock, gives it a gentle stroke, thumb rubbin’ at the velvety head.

“You’re so big.” Her voice is quiet, but it startles Clyde all the same—he’s been transfixed by the vision in front of him.

“O-Oh, I-m, uh—“

He’s attemptin’ to apologize—his first instinct, really. But his brain isn’t really functionin’ all that well, and then she’s leanin’ in to lave her tongue over his slit. Clyde groans, a sound comin’ deep from his chest as he zeros in on the pretty pink of her soft, wet tongue. Juniper hums as if she’s pleased, a little smile on her face, and then she’s slippin’ her mouth over his cock in earnest.

Clyde’s head drops back against the couch pillow, lungs strugglin’ to suck in air. Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck—it felt so good. She was gorgeous, she was perfect, she was a fucking angel doin’ this for him. She couldn’ take all of him into her mouth but goddamn she was tryin’. It didn’ matter—even if she wasn’ usin’ her hand to make up the difference, Clyde thinks he could cum just from seein’ her there between his legs, her silky soft lips on his skin.

He moves with her—not in a way where he’s pushin’ her or askin’ for more, but in a way where she’s pullin’ him; she’s the ebb and flow of the tide and he follows her willingly. His back arches, toes curlin’ up in his boots; his prosthetic settles on top of her free hand where it was grippin’ one of his large thighs. His other hand is too busy grippin’ the couch cushions to do much else. He’s lost to it—to her—an’ he doesn’ wanna be found.

It’s over far too quickly, embarrassingly so—it even surprises him. He’s ridin’ the high of his pleasure and his orgasm hits him so hard and fast that Clyde barely has any time t’warn her. All he can do is make a frantic noise, her name garbled in his throat as he quickly tries to push her off a’ him. But it’s too late—he’s cummin’ the same time that she’s pullin’ away, and Clyde can only watch in an odd mix of both arousal and horror as his cum paints her chin, neck, and cleavage.

Juniper’s mouth is held open in a surprised little ‘o’ shape, brows arched, and Clyde feels fuckin’ humiliated.

“J-Juniper, darlin’, m’so sorry, I—“ He scrabbles behind him for the throw blanket layin’ across the back of the couch, tuggin’ it into his lap so he can clean his mess off a’ her skin. He’s quick to tend to the spend on her cleavage first, hyperaware of how close it was to the fabric of her pretty black dress. “I’m sorry, I tried t’warn ya but it was too—“

“Clyde, it’s okay.” Her voice is all raspy and Clyde bites back a moan at the sound of it. She was so fuckin’ sexy, fuckin’ flawless. He’d cum all over her, messy and wild, and she was still lookin’ at him like he’d hung the damn moon. She pulls herself to standin’, and Clyde’s gaze dips down to where her knees were all red from kneelin’. Just another thing he didn’ know he found hot until now.

“But I guess it’s a little dangerous to keep this on, huh?”

His gaze snaps up to her face when she speaks, and she’s wearin’ a grin, eyes alight. Then she’s twistin’ her arms around, wrigglin’ out of that cute little dress until it graces the linoleum floor. She bends down to pick it up, drapin’ it carefully over one of the kitchen chairs. She moves like it’s nothin; like the sight of her in her heels and underwear ain’ makin’ his cock try to thicken up again.

“Yer so beautiful.” He tells her, gaze trained on her as she walks back over to him. Clyde feels so small with her standin’ in front of him; feels vulnerable even if he was still mostly dressed. Juniper steps out of her heels slowly, placin’ them to the side before leanin’ in, restin’ her hands on the back of the couch on either side of his head so she can kiss him.

Clyde runs his flesh hand over her bare waist, down the swell of her hip, toyin’ with the band of her underwear. He doesn’t push it down; he won’t without her permission. It’s enough to kiss her like this, soft and lazy, feelin’ her skin underneath his. He feels all gooey and happy from his orgasm, even if it had come sooner than he’d have liked.

He sighs into her mouth, content; chases her lips when she pulls away. Juniper starts to work on the buttons of his shirt, and he sits up to help her ease it off a’ his shoulders. She folds it neatly, settin’ it to the side; Clyde forces himself to speak, tryin’ to get his brain back in workin’ order. “D’y’wanna—wanna go back to the bedroom? You c’n lay down and I’ll—I’ll take care a’ ya.”

He thinks he sounds all awkward and silly, but Juniper gives him a warm smile, and his insecurities fade. She was always comfortin’ him, whether she knew it or not. She places one last lingerin’ kiss to his lips before noddin’ at him. “I’d like that.”

______________________________________________________________

taglist friends!

@paper-n-ashes @glassbxttless @mariesackler @leatherboundbirate @millenialcatlady @jynzandtonic @peachyproserpina

#clyde logan #clyde logan fic #clyde logan x ofc #logan lucky #clyde logan smut #clyde logan fluff #clyde logan x oc #adcu #feedback always welcome & appreciated! #clyde logan x original female character #tori writes

[war--lords]

Neighbors w/ Hideyoshi! 💕

Something always smells good at your neighbor’s place and you’ve only been living here for three days.

The newly renovated apartment building is better-looking and more on the affordable side, which is why you decided to make the move, and everything is going swimmingly except for one thing. Gifts. Moving-in gifts are tradition, one that you don’t like to break, especially when there’s really no excuse to do it. Your entire floor only has four occupants: 302, that’s you, the neighbor at 301 that always smells like something is brewing, an old couple down the hall at 312 and a younger couple living at 310. It’s a new building, after all. You’ve given the latter two their gifts yesterday—the couple at 310 has a pet poodle called Sally.

But gifting stresses you out, mostly because you hate the idea of disappointing people.

Take the situation you’re in, for example. You’re standing in front of 301, a box of sweets from a popular bakery in one hand, a vase of simply arranged flowers cradled in your other arm, and you’re thinking if you’ve gone overboard. Like, flowers? Really? There’s the slightly romantic subtext and the possibility of your neighbor being allergic, both of which would most likely be unpleasant for your new neighbor. And aren’t flowers more of a housewarming gift anyway? One that you give to someone who just moved in? Who knows how long this person (or persons, for all you know) has been staying here? In that case, your intention could be misconstrued as an indirect way of saying “hey, your place probably looks drab as hell on the inside, here’s something to make it look less depressing”. 

Maybe ringing the doorbell will stop me from spiraling, you decide, and press the tiny intimidating button. It rings, the two notes that make up ‘ding-dong’ echoing menacingly in your head. You feel it in your gut, the sensation that bubbles up every time you have to meet someone new. Anxiety.

A few moments pass and there doesn’t seem to be any sort of response, which doesn’t help with your nerves. Someone has to be home, otherwise it wouldn’t smell so nice. Maybe they’re busy with something and can’t answer the door? Or maybe they didn’t hear the doorbell because they have headphones on or something? Should you ring again???

Wait wait wait, you think. You don’t have to give the move-in gift in person. If your neighbor is busy, you can always run back to your place, write a note (”From 302. Nice to meet you.”), and place the gift in front of the doorstep. Done. There’s no need for social awkwardness or anything of the like!

Just as you are about to chicken out and go home, the door opens.

“Sorry, the water was boiling. Hi, how can I help you?”

If the guy in front of you isn’t the most handsome you’ve ever laid your eyes on, then you don’t know who’s gonna top this, because you’re already on the verge of blushing like a veiled virgin. Coffee-colored eyes, caramel locks (which look fluffy and well taken care of), the white dress shirt that’s rolled up to the elbows, conveniently revealing a pair of strong-looking forearms—he’s running his fingers through his hair—

Okay, focus. Get down to business. Introduction, give him the gift, and fuck off. He’s got stuff to do, and you don’t want to melt into the hallway carpet. Maintenance fees are expensive and you can’t pay the bills if you’re a puddle of nervous goo.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” you smile, acting completely courteous and perfectly fine on the outside. You even extend a hand for him to shake—a firm grip. You offer him your name. “I just moved into 302 a few days ago. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Pleasure’s all mine,” he replies, flashing you his own beautiful smile.

“Here,” you offer, handing over the items to him. The flowers, oh gosh, what do I say about them??? You panic, but maintaining your composure, you say, “I hope you like sweets? There’s citrus, chocolate—”

“From Sadaharu Aoki? You’re too kind!” He nearly exclaims after examining the box. “Isn’t it a really popular place? You shouldn’t have.”

“It’s close to where I work, so it really isn’t a big deal. Please enjoy the rest of your evening.” You politely bow and walk to your doorstep.

“Oh, wait!” He says. It looks like he’d place a hand on your shoulder if he didn’t have those gifts in his hand. You turn around.

“Yes, Toyotomi-san?” Oh god, is he allergic to pollen???  

“Hideyoshi, please,” he says. And why does he look like he’s blushing a little? “I brewed some tea. Would you care to have some? I’d be happier if we could share the desserts.”

“Oh—”

“I mean, if you have other plans…” 

You swear you don’t know what’s come over you, but you’re able to muster the guts to accept. And it feels different this time because you mean every single word that comes out of your mouth, and you’re comfortable with it.

“No, I was just going to say that the tea smells incredible. I’d love to have some.”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Little do you know that a few months after your first private tea party with Hideyoshi, he’ll reveal how he was actually rather nervous about inviting you in and that his thoughts were less composed compared to his actions. You’ll tell him about how you were the same, about how strangely comfortable you feel when you said yes to sharing the desserts. 

He’ll tell you he thinks it might be first love. You’ll tell him you don’t know because you’ve never considered the concept to be true (later on you’ll admit you found him hot at first sight instead), but you don’t have any other ideas, so you guess he might as well be right. And whenever anyone asks you about how you met, the two of you will agree on “great-smelling tea” as the correct answer.

He’ll still tell his close friends that it’s first love.  

#1.5k #toyotomi hideyoshi #hideyoshi #hideyoshi x reader #reader insert #gender neutral #ikemen sengoku #au #ikesen #cybird #scenario #imagine #imagines #thealtruisthideyoshi #sfw #fluff

[depressinglygay]

The thing about depression that really sucks is the fact that you could be perfectly fine one minute and literally the next minute you just keep fighting the urge to break down in uncontrollable tears.

It’s not like you have any kind of warning. You don’t always know your triggers. It doesn’t matter who you’re around at that given moment. It just hits you. It could be first thing in the morning when you wake up or it could be in the middle of the day when you’re with you partner or your friends. So then you go to music hoping it could possibly help even the slightest bit. But instead you find that the only songs you want to listen to are some of the most depressing songs that talk about suicide or cutting... or even just heart break. You may not be heartbroken then but it still hits you in a way is if you are.

Then there are those moments where you’re driving somewhere or driving home and you start to disassociate yourself from your own body. It’s like you’re not in control of your body at all and you’re watching yourself from outside it. You finally get to your destination and you don’t even remember how exactly you got there. You were zoned out the whole time cuz YOU weren’t actually there.

So you decide to have a drink... that drink turns into 3 maybe 5 bottles of whatever hard liquor you prefer. You’re sauced. Can’t walk. Can barely get up. Can’t speak right. That one day of drinking turns into 3 months straight. You stop going to class and then work and then your social life disappears also. Eventually you’ll be able to realize you’re developing a problem with drinking. To replace that you go to smoking weed every day. The strongest shit you can find. Not a day where you’re sober. Eventually the herb doesn’t do anything so you go to wax. Occasionally you mix that with alcohol to get a different feel just to feel even the slightest thing even though everything you just put into your body is making you numb.

Then you really want to know if you can actually feel anything. So what do you do? You go back to cutting yourself even though you promised your family and friends 6 years ago that you would never do it again. You once had 8 scars from that and so you decide to make 12. The iron smell coming from your blood is oddly satisfying. You feel the burn or even the stinging from the cut you just made and continue to make that deeper to see even more blood. You see it and still don’t feel as if you are alive. Eventually you save up some money to get tattoos. You get 3 in the same sitting and don’t feel a thing even though they’re all shaded as dark as can be. You have pets that can easily scratch you so you start to play with them to get them to the point of scratching you and biting you. You see the blood coming to surface then and you’re somewhat satisfied.

You find someone that has been through the same exact thing you’re feeling now. You develop a friendship and eventually more. You haven’t been out of bad in 2 weeks except to pee or to barely eat. You ask her to come over knowing it’ll take her a while to get to your house. “Just enough time to make one more cut.” You hesitate because you actually really like this girl and don’t want her to judge you or worse scare her away and leave you “abandoned” again. But you can’t help but put the knife into the flesh of your own skin on the lower right side of your torso. Perfect spot for your shirt or even your pants to cover. Bad spot for the seatbelt to keep rubbing it every time you go somewhere.

She finally gets to your house. You get up to let her in and give her a hug. “Damn... I love her hugs. I feel safe... even from myself.” You both go back to your room and just lay there in your bed. No tv no music. Just silence. “She’s the only person I actually want to be around.” She’s holding you in her arms and you break down. The only reason she realizes your crying is because she feels her shirt start to get wet from your tears. She looks at you moving your hair from your eyes so she can actually look at you. Asks what’s wrong and you show her what you just did. She asked when that happen and so you tell her “just before you got here.” You see the hurt and disappointment in her eyes but she just pulls you closer occasionally wiping the tears from your face. She asks if you’ve been to the counselor only to reply “no.”

The following week you decide to make an appointment with your counselor. You see him and tell him what you did. He’s shocked because he thought you were doing so well. He makes you sign a “contract” to never do such a thing and if you can’t stop yourself then to talk to 1 of 3 people that you named comfortable to talk to. Now you see a psychiatrist every few weeks and you’re on 2 antidepressants and 1 for sleep. You haven’t had a full nights sleep in months. You take meds every night just to knock the fuck out. You like the way you feel when you take them cuz you sleep the entire day after. Addicted? No? Can’t sleep without them anymore. Think about taking more than your prescribed dose... will you wake up? Will you go into a forever sleep? Would anyone miss you? Would anyone notice?

She assures you that you would be missed and a lot of people would notice your disappearance. She checks on you occasionally throughout the day even though you 2 are constantly talking. She asks if you need anything and you always want to tell her you need her. You’ve never NEEDED anyone before. You realize you have fallen in love with her even though you thought you’d never be able to love someone else ever again. You both realize you’ve spent every day together for the past year. You’ve already spent a New Years together and confessed your love to each other that same night. She helps you into the shower cuz you’re cross faded. You don’t remember how you got back to the hotel room with everyone. You don’t remember the entire shower just the fact she was in there with you. You practically throw yourself at her only for her to have the respect for you and your body and helps you to bed. You wake up the next morning hungover as shit. Everyone asks if you’re ok as they laugh cuz they’ve never seen you like that. You look at her with your eyes asking if you did anything stupid. She just looks at you with the softest look in her eyes and smiles only to kiss you ever so softly.

You’re friends express how much they love her and how good she is for you. Before you know it you 2 have been together a year and a half and are living together with 4 pets. You 2 are now engaged and almost done with college. You still have your days where you just break down for no reason but she never loves you any less than she does. She holds you close cuz she knows there isn’t anything you can actually say in those moments. You’ve never been so happy so in love. You’ve never wanted to be around someone so much. You’ve a lot of first with each other and your journey has been the best one. You realize your search is finally over and for real this time. You both talk about the wedding and how many kids you guys want. You’re happy and diagnosed with depression. You start having more good days than bad.

Moral of the story is that you can get through depression. It never goes away and you may never know how to prevent your bad days. You can find love even when you’re depressed. Even when you have scars on your body from yourself and not from something else. No it’s not easy and depression makes your life that much more difficult. I’m proof that you can get through one day at a time. Everyone is different and copes with their depression differently. Start out with a journal. It helped me to get my thoughts out. If that doesn’t help find something you like. A hobby for example. You can do it.

#depression #personal #lesbian #gay #strength #you can do it #mental health #my story

[desparikon]

Murdoc/MacGyver fluff (+ bonus Murdoc/Bozer)

I knew I wouldn’t commit to any Flufftober prompt lists, but I still wanted to post something, so here are a few ficlets/misfires/small-things-that-probably-won’t-turn-into-actual-fics.

First up is a gift for @murdocsmacattack:

Murdoc stretched out on the couch, letting his muscles relax. He already felt calmer, and he’d been in MacGyver’s house for maybe ten minutes. Great decision, extending his trip so he could force their paths to collide.

How could he be wrong when his heart’s pull to Angus is this strong? They belong together. Keeping them apart left their lives incomplete and unnecessarily painful. Why couldn’t the world understand that? He would always be part of Angus’ life. They were inseparable now, nosy friends and “The Law” be damned.

"What're you doing here?" Mac took a few hesitant steps into his living room.

The waiting, loneliness, near misses. They’d all paid off tenfold. He'd dropped in on a half-naked Angus. No shirt, just PJ pants. Murdoc always had an appreciation for the beauty that is Angus MacGyver. Perfect mind, perfect body, but he’d outdone perfection this time.

MacGyver had been working out. His abs were smoothly defined, with a visible six pack. And his arms. Oh fuck. His arms were huge. God. Murdoc needed to touch them, feel the strength. There were so many things MacGyver could do to him. Give him a hug, hold him, maybe even carry him, punch him--

Or Angus could hold him down with them. If he started a fight, Angus would be willing to use force. Let MacGyver get the upper hand, then pretend to tire himself out. Angus would think he’d won, but the real winner would be Murdoc, as Angus restrained his arms and pressed that hard body against him...

"Hey!" A blush started to spread across Mac’s cheeks despite his glare; Murdoc's ogling hadn’t been subtle at all.

Murdoc blinked. "Hmm?"

Oh. Right, yeah, he wasn’t looking at a screen this time. Angus could actually see him.

"Why're you in my house?"

"Because I wanted to see you."

He didn’t look convinced, so Murdoc changed the subject before he accidentally said something sappy in reassurance.

"I was going to ask what you've been doing with yourself, but obviously. Like damn, there’s no way to ignore your immaculately toned arms! You belong in an art museum. A perfectly sculpted marble statue!”

“I’m not all that. You say stuff like that because you’ve built a fantasy of me. Some ideal that I’m never going to live up to. Then I’ll disappoint you, so you’ll have an excuse...” Mac sighed as he pulled his arms across himself and let his gaze drop. “You should know by now what’s wrong with me. That I’m not a work of art.” Murdoc followed his line of sight down to where he was letting his fingers brush over a spot on his chest.

Ah, yes. His bullet wound scar. Lots of emotional baggage attached to that one. But this wasn’t just about that. He’d apparently caught Angus on a bad day, and while he didn’t mind being an outlet for Angus’ feelings, Murdoc was probably better at the physical side of comfort.

“Let me make you feel better.” Mac didn’t hesitate to cross the room and lay his hand in Murdoc’s offered one.

Murdoc smiled as he pressed a few kisses to the back of Mac’s hand. “Well, I think you’re perfect the way you are. You know you’ll always be the masterpiece in my art museum.”

A small smile appeared on Mac’s face. “You don’t know when to quit. I feel like you’re about to pull out a bad pick-up line, saying something sappy like that.”

“I can set a mood.” Murdoc broke out his most charming grin. “If I said you had a nice body, would you hold it against me?”

Murdoc planned to use Mac’s laughter as distraction to pull him down onto the couch, but he reacted too quickly and pulled his hand free, grabbing Murdoc’s wrist instead. He instinctively pulled his arm back, giving Mac momentum to flatten him back into the couch and straddle him. He pulled Murdoc’s arms above his head and ran his hands along them, firmly pinning them down when Murdoc tested his hold.

"Does this set the mood?" Murdoc fought back a moan as Mac emphasized the question by squeezing his wrists.

That little smirk was going to kill him.

"Oh, definitely."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I want to take a shower with you!” Mac playfully bumped against Murdoc as they walked down the hallway to his bedroom. “I’m gonna be lonely!”

“Should’ve thought about that before you pushed me into that bottomless mud pit.”

“Mud puddle. And I didn’t push you. You just lost your balance. Suddenly.”

“After-- Nevermind. Point is, now it’s dry, and it’s stuck to my skin, and it’s itchy.” He gestured toward his bed. “Why don’t you go make yourself at home on my bed? I know how much it appeals to your inner puppy.”

Mac couldn’t deny that. There’s something irresistible about a huge bed that begs him to roll around on it while rubbing his face on the soft blanket.

The sound of the bathroom door shutting caused Mac to whip his head around. “Hey!!” He rushed to the bathroom door and tried to turn the handle, even though he knew it’d be locked. “That’s cheating!”

“It’s not my fault you’re desperate to get into my bed.”

As he turned back, he noticed that Murdoc had forgotten his towel and clothes on the bed. Judging by the muffled groaning coming through the door, Murdoc had just come to the same realization.

"Ohhhh no! Who forgot this stuff on the bed?"

“Come on, MacGyver!”

“Oh my god! Are those--” Mac went over to the bed and picked up the pants Murdoc had laid out. “The best lounge pants ever! I love these! And they’re still warm from the dryer!” He kicked off his jeans and put them on, sighing happily at how well they fit. Why were Murdoc’s clothes always so comfy?

“These are mine now. Too bad for you, the dryer’s downstairs.”

“You think I won’t walk around naked in my own house?”

"Is it me, or is it a little hot in here? I’m gonna go turn the thermostat down, like, 10 degrees, and put this stuff back in the dryer, but don’t worry, I’ll be waiting right outside the door for you!”

It’d be great. Murdoc wouldn’t be able to dry off, so he’d be dripping water everywhere, with Mac hanging off him while he tried to get dressed—because how was Mac supposed to resist a naked Murdoc?

“Angus!” Mac knew from the whine that he’d won.

“I want a hand massage.”

“What?”

“You thought I was asleep that time, but I wasn’t.”

“Fine.”

“And I get to pet your hair! So. Fluffyyy~”

“You’re killing me, Angus.”

“I’m just acting as dramatic as you do.”

Murdoc opened the bathroom door and pointed toward Mac’s legs as he moved past him to get to his bed. “Take my pants off.”

“Gladly!”

Mac tackled Murdoc from behind, knocking him to the floor. Murdoc squirmed under him, trying to pry Mac’s hands from around his waist, where they were starting to unbuckle his belt.

"That’s not what I meant, and you know it!"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bozer hummed as he finished winding the last light strand around his arm, and placed it onto the driveway next to the other rolls. The sun’s heat was made comfortable by the light breeze. When the weather was nice like this, he didn't mind that he’d spent the day untangling a box of lights.

And really, the worst part of decorating was yet to come: getting up on the roof, being careful to not fall off and die while hanging the lights. It'd be worth it though. Mac and he enjoyed the aesthetic of Halloween lights, and he couldn't wait to surprise Mac with a decorated house. Plus, the soft glow of holiday lights seemed to make everyone happy.

Now that all the strands were organized, he could better see what designs had been in the box of "Mystery Assorted Halloween Lights" he'd gotten for cheap. Pumpkins, black wire bats, ghosts, friendly-looking spiders, icicle style lights with whimsical skeletons. Those were Bozer's favorite. They'd definitely be going above the front door.

As he began lining up the piles in the order that he wanted to hang them, his back made contact with something. Furrowing his brow, he turned to look. He wasn't even close to the basketball hoop…

"Hey, Bozer."

Of course. Murdoc has the uncanny ability to detect when someone's having a good day. Then he’d ruin it because how dare people enjoy life.

Bozer rolled his eyes at Murdoc's self-satisfied smile. "Can't you ever greet people like normal?"

"You bumped into me before I could yell boo."

Bozer huffed and he turned his attention back to the lights. "Look, I didn't untangle all these lights just to have you murder me five minutes after. You better be ready for me to come back as a ghost and haunt you."

"Why does everyone assume I only appear to commit murder? I'm visiting."

Bozer debated whether to admit that he was home alone. If Murdoc knew Mac was gone, he might leave since flirting with Mac is his main entertainment, but it could also convince him to get on with whatever he'd planned, which didn’t bode well for anyone except Murdoc.

"Well, you'll have to cut your visit short. Mac's busy."

"I know he's not here."

A rush of fear ran through Bozer’s veins. How long had Murdoc been watching?

He crossed his arms, hoping to feign confidence. "Then...?"

"I’m visiting you, Wilt. You looked lonely. Figured you could use some company as you make your house all festive."

“No way. You’ll decide to make things “fun” and knock the ladder over, and then I’ll fall 500 feet to my death.”

“What if I said I’d get on the roof for you?”

“...Really?”

Bozer’s excitement must’ve been contagious because Murdoc’s smile lacked malice as he shrugged. “Sure.”

“I’ll get the ladder!” Bozer headed into the garage before Murdoc changed his mind. He saw a blur of movement in his peripheral vision and turned in time to see Murdoc launch himself up from the nearby raised planter, run up the house, \then pull himself onto the roof. Murdoc lived for the dramatics, but did he have to make it look so graceful?

And why did he have to parade around on the roof like a model owning a catwalk? Tall and confident. He knew he looked good. Although, maybe Murdoc wasn’t doing it on purpose. Mac wasn’t around to impress. Surely Murdoc didn’t like Bozer enough to want to impress him, right? No, Murdoc probably just enjoyed being up high so he could pretend to be a king overlooking his kingdom.

“Halloween!!!” Bozer bounced along the front of the house, amazed that all the lights worked. They were going to look fantastic when the sun set! “See! Even you aren’t immune to Halloween spirit. It’s chaotic. Just like you.”

When he looked up, Murdoc wasn’t standing there anymore. He’d moved to the part of the roof above the driveway, apparently considering it an acceptable spot to jump down to.

“NO!” Bozer ran over, frantically waving his arms. “You can’t jump off there! You’ll splat on the concrete!”

Murdoc’s mischievous smirk made Bozer nervous, and he unconsciously took a few steps back.

“Not if I land on you.”

“You’re not using me as a landing pad! Besides, you could probably still break something!” Murdoc didn’t look deterred. Risking injury usually didn’t, but it’s not like the situation was urgent. If he was going to be stupid and not wait for Bozer to get the ladder, then he’d have no one but himself to blame when he got hurt.

...But Bozer knew he’d feel bad if Murdoc got hurt. He sighed in defeat. “Fine.”

Murdoc’s face lit up. “You’re going to let me tackle you?”

“If it’s between that and you getting hurt, then yeah.”

Murdoc studied Bozer, his head cocked slightly. After a few moments, he walked to the side of the house, and carefully lowered himself before dropping the remaining few feet. He strolled over to stand by Bozer.

“Crazy,” Bozer mumbled.

“I try!” Now that he’d gotten some distance, Murdoc could better admire the lights. “I like it.”

“You did a good job.” Bozer hesitated before throwing his arms around Murdoc, trapping him in a sideways hug. “Thanks, Murdoc.”

#macgyver #mine

[poppedmusic]

Kendal Calling 2017

Words: Gary Feeney Photos: Trust A Fox Photography

In my preview of Kendal Calling, I mentioned that organisers have a habit of claiming every year that that year’s edition has been their biggest and best. It seems, however, that reviewers do exactly the same thing because each time I’ve been at Kendal, I’ve came home insisting that it’s been by far my favourite yet and this year’s was no exception. It’s not just that it’s the freshest in your memory, it’s simply that it really, really does get better each time.

Sadly I wasn’t able to make the Thursday’s festivities, which was a real disappointment given the line-up which would have been impressive for one of the main days, never mind one for which only a limited number of tickets are sold. From top new acts like the Shimmer Band through to the legendary Happy Mondays and headliner Franz Ferdinand, it was a perfect bill to get those lucky enough to have been there right in the mood for the rest of the weekend.

After the rather muddy trudge to the campsite on the Friday though, we wasted no time in getting in to the thick of things. First up were Australian indie darlings the DMA’s who delivered a solid enough set without ever really setting the heather alight, although the closing pair of Delete and Lay Down made sure it closed on a high note.

After that, I scurried off to the Woodlands Stage for the night’s main Popped attractions, Ninth Wave, The Vegan Leather and Neon Waltz who were on back-to-back. The Ninth Wave made an immediate impression both with their most recent single Reformation and 80’s clothing – singer Haydn Park-Patterson is a particularly eye-catching presence – and by the time they closed with Human Touch you could tell they had well and truly won over the small crowd gathered in the picturesque clearing which hosts the stage. The Vegan Leather were equally quick out of the blocks with a storming version of Shake It, and from the first notes it was clear why the band are so highly rated with a blistering performance showcasing their unique electro-art rock sound. Not to be outdone were Neon Waltz, who had the good fortune of taking to the stage as darkness descended, allowing the Woodlands lighting installations to shine. For a band which excels in soaring, sweeping melodies, it was the perfect backdrop as the music washed over the crowd with the warmth as the lighting. This was my first time seeing all three of the bands, and they more than lived up to their reputations as being amongst the finest new acts Scotland has to offer.

Saturday was something of a marathon, with a list of around 20 bands who I wanted to see – suffice to say, the full set wasn’t achieved, but nonetheless, it was a very busy day indeed, with a dauntingly early start for Colonel Mustard & the Dijon 5 opening the main stage. Any cobwebs were immediately blown away as the Colonel and co delivered one of the most downright fun and engaging sets I’ve saw at a festival, a feat all the more remarkable for being on at 12pm. As I arrived, the band were mid-way through Dance Off, and the Colonel cajoling the sizeable crowd to join in with their dance moves as one poor security guard was lambasted for not driving his car. As you do. It didn’t get any more sensible from there as the next song, Cross the Road saw few thousand bodies move en-masse across the main stage to the soundtrack of a lesson in the Green Cross Code. The standout of the set for me was the sprawling, swaggering These Are Not the Drugs You Are Looking For, a sweeping Happy Mondays—esque groove which again had the whole crowd, down to the bar staff involved, but in truth the whole set was a bit of a masterclass in how to put on a festival show with too many memorable moments to mention. The Colonel is one of the most uniquely engaging performers you’re likely to see and I couldn’t recommend the Dijon 5 highly enough.

It was going to take something special to top, or indeed even match, such a captivating set, but it didn’t take long for just such a band to appear in the form of fellow Glaswegians White who turned in an incendiary performance to a crowd which grew considerably in size throughout their set. Opening with Be the Unknown, the band tore through a fantastic set including Living Fiction and Step Up with a style and energy which very few of their contemporaries can match – every member is entertaining to watch, including new guitarist Ruaraidh Macfarlane who fills the departed Hamish Fingland’s shoes with aplomb and every song is a stormer played as if it’s their last. It’s a crying shame White were on so early, but their performance at will surely have gained them a number of new fans.

Up next was the most painful clash of the day between Eat Fast and Declan Welsh & the Decadent West, a choice I ended up bottling and instead decided on a mad dash between the two. My first stop was Eat Fast in the Calling Out tent, where the Newcastle band turned in an energetic performance including the fuzzy goodness of Public Display of Affection and Immortal Kombat; as the latter drew to a close, I scooted round the Woodlands Stage for Declan Welsh. I had heard some of his work when he first emerged and was neither here nor there about it, but after hearing the brilliant punk-poetry of No Paseran I was impressed with the change in direction and was curious to see what he’d be like live. I was not disappointed. Although I only caught three songs, including a spoken word one which is the first time in my life I’ve ever really enjoyed such a thing, I was well and truly won over and will be going out of my way to see them again.

Another trip back to the main stage beckoned for Feeder and & Editors playing mid-afternoon slots which seem perfectly suited to them. Feeder were entertaining enough for the most part, although at times Grant Nicholas’ telling the crowd “you know this one” when it was clear most people actually didn’t at times made the set feel a bit forced. That said, when you finish with two of the ultimate festival anthems in Buck Rogers and Just a Day, any minor quibbles are quickly forgotten! Editors always largely passed me by at the time apart from the odd song, and so it was here too – apart from Munich mid-way through, not a great deal really seemed to happen and so off I trotted to try to catch an all-too-brief glimpse of the wonderful Honeyblood. The star attraction of Saturday’s line-up was undoubtedly Brian Wilson, and even before he took to the stage you could sense the anticipation in the air as a huge crowd awaited one of music’s greatest ever talents performing one of its most timeless albums, Pet Sounds. Opening with Wouldn’t It Be Nice, Wilson and his band delivered an utterly breath-taking performance, a true lesson in pop music that at times left you awe-struck, particularly when it came to God Only Knows and Good Vibrations – the latter in particular is surely one of the finest pieces of music ever written, a symphony in three minutes. It was an absolute pleasure and privilege to watch such a master at work and a moment which will live long in the memory.

The Manic Street Preachers were clearly in no mood to be outshone by anyone though, opening with a ferocious version of the majestic Motorcyle Emptiness – the song I was most excited about seeing over the weekend – and for the next hour proceeded to turn out one of the finest headline sets I’ve saw. Having never saw them before, I was utterly blown away by the power of their performance, from more recent numbers like Your Love Alone Is Not Enough to old classics like Kevin Carter which sounds every bit as fresh today, but a surprise stand-out was James Dean Bradfield’s solo section. Proving his worth as one of the most charismatic front-men of 90’s, Bradfield had the crowd in the palm of his hands with acoustic versions of The Masses Against the Classes and Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head before the band returned for a storming version of You Love Us. The Manics proved here that they’ve still got more fire in their bellies than most bands half their age and remain one of the most vital acts around, signing off with the mass sing-along of A Design For Life. After Saturday’s marathon, Sunday was an altogether quieter affair which was only to be expected given the bewildering number of good acts the previous day – as well as the ones I saw, the lack of a Popped TARDIS meant we had to miss a good few too, including The Jacobins, She Drew the Gun and Indigo Velvet. It seemed to be widely acknowledged that the Sunday was quite thread-bare in comparison, and if you’ll forgive the minor gripe, the scheduling could have been a lot better in that regard.

My first set of the day was the mighty Slaves, who I’m not sure I’d have entertained at all had it not being for seeing them in Glasgow’s ABC2 last month. As it was, I was looking forward to seeing them on a bigger stage and just like everyone else over the weekend, they didn’t disappoint – in fact, if anything the pair seemed to brim with even more energy in this setting. Powering through their arsenal of ridiculously aggressive punk numbers, the crowd was as wild as you’ll see at a festival with a sea of pyro on show throughout, although particular mentions need to be made of Fuck the Hi-Hat and Cheer Up London. There’s something ever so slightly ridiculous (for want of a better word) about Slaves, such as when as Isaac Holman demanded a group hug between the front-of-stage security crew, but it’s part of what makes them so captivating and in all honesty, they’re just about my new favourite thing in the world these days.

After Slaves, the day was mostly spent strolling around the site’s many nooks and crannies, although I did stop by the Calling Out tent to catch some of Blanaevon and Palace. I haven’t really heard much of either, but after Slaves, their relatively chilled-out melodies were just about perfect for the circumstances and I made a mental note to check both of them out when I got home which is surely the mark of a successful festival set.

Last but not least was the Coral who closed the Calling Out tent which seemed a perfect way to finish the weekend. As it turned out though (and it pains me a little to say this as I’m a massive fan of them), their set was a bit hit and miss, largely due to the presence of three or four songs from Distance Inbetween, an album I just can’t take to: the drawn-out instrumentals feel flat and unimaginative, and even the middle section of the otherwise brilliant Goodbye doesn’t really feel quite right without the invention of Bill Ryder-Jones. That said though, songs like In The Morning and Jacqueline are pop gems which make up for any wobbles elsewhere and closing with the stupendously brilliant Dreaming of You, it was a thoroughly enjoyable set and a fine way to finish off the weekend.

If I had to pick a highlight I’d probably have to go for Brian Wilson or the Manics, but as trite as it may sound, the festival itself is the star turn. This was my fifth time there, and every year I’ve loved every minute of it. It feels like every little detail has been worked on until it’s perfect, from never having to queue at the bars to the fact that almost every member of staff you come genuinely seems happy to be there. The food’s great, the music’s great, the site is packed with a seemingly endless range of things to see and do, from the magical Lost Eden to the secret sets in the Tim Peak’s Diner. There’s never a dull moment.

If festivals are your thing, make sure you get yourself to Kendal Calling next year.

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  Festival Review: Kendal Calling 2017 Kendal Calling 2017 Words: Gary Feeney Photos: Trust A Fox Photography In my preview of Kendal Calling,

#Festival Review #kendal calling 2017 #Live #Live Music #Music #new music