#his fur is like way darker than that but for the sake of my eyes bKAFMOFW

[park-ranger-is-my-comfort-animal]

Strangers, Jackalopes and Home-Brewed Coffee || Jerry & Wynne

TIMING : Mid April LOCATION : Ranger station no. 22, Wicked's Rest State Park PARTIES : Wynne @ohwynne & Jerry @park-ranger-is-my-comfort-animal SUMMARY : Wynne intends to go on a short hike, but a wounded animal derails their plans and they end up having to spend an ill-prepared night in the woods. Fortunately, Park Ranger Jerry is on hand to provide hot coffee and assistance. CONTENT WARNINGS : n/a (just softness)

The scene in front of them was vaguely familiar, if only because of its naturalistic nature. No bells and whistles: a simple wooden building with limited electricity, all the information one might need and the bare necessities taken care of. Wynne found some peace in it, even if the rest of the situation made them halt. On the cot they kneeled in front of was a creature, rabbit-like but not quite, making soft squeaks. They’d wrapped it in their jacket after their attempt to dry it off, but it seemed far from enough.

They had considered reaching out to Emilio, asking the other if this was an animal to be wary of — but one look at the critter had made Wynne certain this wasn’t something to fear. Besides, their reception was awful, so it seemed to be just them and the small thing, shivering and hurt in ways they weren’t equipped to solve. Protherians weren’t healers, after all, especially not the likes of Wynne. Their touch had once been thought of as sacred, but it did little to help the small creature now.

So instead they hummed, tried to feed it a bit of dried apple from the emergency rations hidden in the small enclosure. It seemed good enough for now, at least until it cleared up and they could make their way back to town or at least to where their phone might pick up service again. Wynne’s head whipped around when they heard a branch snap, eyes falling on the silhouette of another person. “Hi?” Their called out greeting was more like a question. “Could use some help here!”

The silhouette took up most of the cabin’s doorway. Broad and tall, it was a shape darker than the night which it had stepped from, with the Moon’s glow unable to illuminate its features, except for the eyes which caught a little of that light and shone with an inner luminescence like an animal caught in the momentary path of a hunter’s flashlight.

“What have we here?,” a voice rumbled from the shadow figure, as it took a step into the room and the light that had been held behind it seemed to spill in, illuminating Jerry’s moustachioed face. “Seems you’re a long ways off the designated path, Miss.” 

State Park Ranger Jerry Melano was a big man, in both size and presence.  He seemed to take up more space than he actually occupied, which was considerable anyway as he wasn’t someone taken with the idea of exercise for its own sake and healthy eating was generally something that happened to other people.  In Wicked’s Rest, those who knew him would say he was Cuddly or Fat, depending on their relationship, but Jerry just described himself as Solid and so he was;  dependable, loyal and resolute.

Removing his hat and running calloused fingers through his thinning hair, Jerry took in the scene with a glance.  His night vision was already better than any human’s, but his sensitive sense of smell had given him initial impressions of what he would find, even before reaching the door to Ranger Station no. 22.

Human sweat, damp fur, the faint tang of dried apple all hung in the air, but no smell of woodsmoke or burning oil. Unprepared hiker then, most likely lost after heading off the trail and not expecting to spend a night in the woods. They’d clearly found the dry food stores, but hadn’t managed to put flame to any of the lanterns or the woodburning stove. That suggested either they didn’t have the facilities to light them, or their priorities were focused elsewhere… which brought Jerry back to the smell of damp fur.

“Let’s get a little light going and we’ll see what’s what,” Jerry continued, taking an all-weather lighter from his pocket and putting it to one of the lanterns hanging from the low ceiling.  

“Well now, ain’t you a sorry sight,” the Ranger said wearily, placing hands on his hips as he surveyed the scene, although it was unclear whether Jerry was referring to the hiker or the softly panting critter wrapped up in their coat.

Wynne was so very tired of being afraid. As the silhouette grew closer and gained a voice, they wondered if the hairs in their neck were really standing up or if it just felt that way. Life kept proving to them that it was better to be wary, that their fear was a right instinct — but it had proven so often, too, that there was goodness to be found in strangers. Wynne was not just tired of their being afraid, but of trying to figure out the right balance in distrust and naivete too. 

Perhaps it would be better to hide at home forever. To disconnect themself from the parts of them that wished to see nature, that desired the continuous movement of a hike and the sound of birds and wind and trees. To go to work and go home and to work and home and subscribe to a life of less risk. But then, if they hadn’t gone out, no one would have found the rabbit-creature and it would have died.

Maybe what Wynne missed most was the ease of Protherian black-and-white thinking.

“Not a miss,” they murmured, glancing up at the stranger before focusing on the creature. They tried to nudge the apple towards it again and tried not to think of how many rabbits they’d seen die before. But this wasn’t like them: this creature had antlers, like the ones you could find everywhere on the estate but smaller, shorter. Their thumb brushed against it. 

When there was light, they glanced up towards the other, letting their hand drop. “I found it in a creek, one of its feet all tangled in a root and some trash.” The trash could be found on the cot, too. Wynne intended to throw it away as soon as there was a fitting place for it. “Thanks, for the light.” They looked a little better at the stranger. “Are you a ranger?”

Offering a nod and muted grunt of affirmation in reply to their question, Jerry bent closer to get a better look at the small animal. He had to lean a little more towards the other person to avoid blocking the lantern’s glow, but it was enough to finally see the creature properly.

“Looks like you found yourself a Jackalope,” Jerry said, placing a massive paw gently on the animal’s side and feeling its tiny breaths coming in a rapid panting, the heart pounding rapidly behind the ribs. “And I reckon this here is just a youngster at that,” he continued, briefly touching the small antlers that sprouted from the creature’s rabbit-like head, still covered in their soft velvet.

“Poor little fella, he’s probably exhausted from fighting to get free of that trash. Good job you came along when you did, plenty of bigger things out there would’ve seen this one as an easy meal…”

Speaking of which, it was getting difficult for Jerry to resist the waves of fear that were radiating from this person. It wasn’t fresh fear, like someone initially shocked by his sudden entrance (although there was a hint of that), this was much older. It had the taste of a life lived in constant fear and was weary from the living; anxious and tired, virtually indistinguishable from the vessel that felt it… Jerry drew a shaky breath and stepped away from the cot, choosing to put a little distance between himself and the hiker before he succumbed to the primal urge to gorge on this fine, vintage terror.

“How about I gets this stove going and we can have ourselves some coffee?,” he said, a little too cheerfully for the situation, already loading the woodburner with kindling and tinder. “And then y’all can tell me how come you’re out here so late, since not many folks get far enough off the trail to run into old Two-two.”

Jackalope. Another strange thing, unmentioned in either Protherian or outer world lore, another creature Wynne would have to wonder about. But this one didn’t seem malevolent, like the ustras had seemed. Maybe Wynne was just good at recognizing those similar to them: fellow prey creatures. With humans this was harder, though, as they tended to be good at predatory moves too.

And so there was a hint of trepidation as the other inched closer to the jackalope and with that, them. “You reckon he’ll be alright?” They drew back their hands, laid them on their knees and stared at the antlers. “I’ve never seen a creature like this.” He’d be better at defending himself than a regular rabbit, what with his antlers and all — but a snap of the neck would still be easy to do. They would have loved this, back home, but as a decoration: they would have snapped his neck and stuffed him, sewed his bones in their dress sleeves and fought for the skull.

Wynne didn’t want to do any of those things, they found. It seemed like just another unnecessary death for an invisible cause. If the man next to them was honest – and they wished to assume he was – and he was a park ranger, then he’d know what to do. 

Their trust in people seemed to sway between being given out too easily and not easily at all, and in this case Wynne simply laid it out on the floor for him to pick up, should he wish to. They were tired of fear. And so, they returned to the jackalope, checking on the jacket’s position and nodded. “Coffee sounds good.”  

They glanced at the park ranger, wondering if there was suspicion in the air after all. They’d slept in a place like this, some time back, but it had been a different park. Different times. “I just tend to go on long hikes when I have a day off. And this one kept me distracted for a good while. The … um blue trail, I think? Was the one I was taking.” 

“If he makes it through the night, then I reckon he’ll be just fine,” Jerry said, taking a wax taper from a carved box next to the stove. “Best we can do for now is to keep him warm and hope he’s strong enough to recover.”

Using his lighter with the taper, Jerry quickly put a flame to the kindling, which cracked and popped inside the woodburning stove.  Once he was satisfied that everything was alight, he began adding split logs from a small rustic basket and soon the cabin was filled with the homely smell of wood smoke and the flickering glow of a roaring fire. Unlike the harsh light of the lantern, which only seemed to outline the shadows rather than dispel them, the warmth and radiance that gleamed from the open door of the stove made the cabin feel suddenly cosy and hospitable.

“Don’t surprise me that you ain’t seen one before,” the park ranger continued, taking a large battered percolator coffee pot from a wooden chest and dipping it in the water barrel outside the cabin door. “Jackalopes are pretty rare these days. Got hunted almost to extinction about a hundred year ago. Wicked’s Rest is one of the few places you can still find them, if you’re lucky.”

Jerry shrugged, opening a sealed bag of coffee grounds and adding a generous portion to the percolator. “Actually… you both got lucky, I reckon.”

“You mean The Blue Owl Trail?,” Jerry asked, with surprise and concern in his voice as he turned to look at the hiker. “Damn, you’re luckier than I thought… That one don’t often let folks go. I figured we’d managed to close off all her entrance ways after last time.”

Taking a seat on the wooden chest, Jerry finally turned his attention fully on the young person, bright eyes scrutinising them as he stroked his moustache. “Well, since we ain’t going nowhere ‘til the morning and we’re in for a long night babysitting this critter, I suppose proper introductions are in order.  Jeremiah Melano, Senior Park Ranger… but most folks hereabouts just call me Jerry.”

Why did it bother them so, the idea that the jackalope might die? Wynne knew things died, they had seen it aplenty: from the sacrifice of lamb and a young man to the deaths on the farm, cattle born wrong or too weak or rabbits succumbing to a virus that spread like wildfire. Why did this one have to be saved, when nature had ruled it ought to die? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it just felt good to have something to care for. “Alright. Let’s keep him warm, then.” Never mind that Wynne themself was freezing.

But there was the fire, at least, a familiar smell spreading around the pair and their jackalope. Wynne missed the heat that came from fire, which was so very different from that which came from central heating. They turned around, resting their back against the cot and crossing their legs. 

“That’s very sad. Hunting should only be done if you don’t disrupt the ecosystem.” There had been hunters among their people, back when they were still part of the community. It was a privilege to wield such weapons, not extended to Wynne, who had little interest in it anyway. They looked over their shoulder at the creature, observing it for a moment. “Is there anything special about them, despite their appearance?” 

His comment made them look back. “I’d have been fine.” It’d be good to make that clear. Wynne wasn’t in need of rescue. They were quite fond of this newfound feeling of autonomy, anyway. They frowned a little, wondering if that was rude. “But it’s nice, to have company.”

They nodded. “I guess I found a way. Sorry if I wasn’t supposed to walk it.” But they had liked it, how quiet it was. How their mind seemed to finally be at ease when there was nothing but nature surrounding them. 

“Nice to meet you, Jerry.” Wynne rested their hands on their knees, judged the others uniform for a second time. “I’m Wynne. I …” They weren’t sure what to add to that. “Like to hike.” They grimaced a little at their response. “You want to stay here all night?” They almost pulled out their phone to text Zack, until they remembered that they had no service. Wynne just sized up the other and wondered when a risk was calculated and when it was not. 

Jerry shrugged non-committedly at Wynne’s comment about hunting, but kept his opinions to himself. The truth was that hunting was allowed under permit in certain areas of the State Park and, as a Park Ranger, Jerry was expected to police the hunters, not oppose them. Besides, Jerry was no stranger to hunting, even though he preferred to do it as a bear. It just felt more natural.

“Special?,” he scoffed, raising an eyebrow at the question, “What do you mean? Like, are they Magical?” 

Jerry stroked his moustache and frowned as he regarded Wynne for a moment.  He was going to be sorely disappointed if this one turned out to be just another woefully under-prepared cryptid groupie, but that didn’t feel right somehow. Their fear wasn’t from being in the wilderness, it tasted wrong for that. They felt… different. Not exactly like prey, but… something. 

“Well now… there’s always been plenty of myths surrounding Jackalopes,” he said, turning his piercing gaze away from Wynne and taking a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Some folks used to reckon their antlers were potent virility symbols since only the males have ‘em.  Others believed their milk was a panacea and could cure everything from a sore tooth to a witch’s curse. Ya know, there are even stories about Jackalopes mimicking human voices or singing.” 

“But they’re all just tall tales,” Jerry went on, mumbling around the cigarette between his lips as he offered up the all-weather lighter and inhaled. “Like myths ‘bout werewolves or the sasquatch. It’s just a rare or afflicted animal that folks didn’t understand, so they made up stories to explain it or to scare other folks.”

The tip flared orange in the cabin’s half-light and Jerry exhaled a plume of blue-ish white smoke as Wynne apologised for walking the Blue Owl trail. He just shrugged again and shook his head. 

The ranger knew of at least a dozen people over the past five years that had gotten trapped on that trail, never to be seen again. Visitors to Wicked’s Rest who probably had families and loved ones still waiting for them back home, while they were endlessly hiking along a trail with no return. All because he hadn’t managed to find and close all its pathways. That was part of his duty as a Park Ranger, and one he’d nearly failed at again tonight. 

Once again, Jerry gave a non-commital shrug in answer to Wynne’s question. “Unless you wanna be hiking back in the dark. The forest can be a pretty dangerous place after sunset, but if that’s what you want…”

“...Of course, we’d have to leave the little guy behind,” he said, dropping his voice low and looking out at Wynne from under heavy brows. “He’s too weak to move right now and something could get into the cabin while we’re gone.”

Their cheeks threatened to flush at his scoff, at the use of the word magical. Was there even such a thing like myth and fairytale, any more, if so much of it seemed true? Jerry called werewolves nothing but a tale and Wynne wanted to pipe up and point out they were real, as well — that maybe this world just bursted at the seams with it. Vampiric creatures, demons from lakes and sea, antlered rabbits.

Back at home, they’d have bought into the idea that the antlers brought some kind of power or fortune, and Wynne was close to considering such a thought as true. “People tend to do that. Make up stories. So it’s just like any other rabbit, except better at defending itself?” They couldn’t help but think of home and tap into their uncertainty. How much of it had been a man’s creation, a folktale? How much of it had been true?

“I think they’re very pretty, anyway. And I hope this one makes it.” He had to, they thought, their entire being dedicated to saving this small creature they wouldn’t have thought twice about a year ago. Their mentors had often called them soft, though never in a kind way. It seemed that time away had only made them weaker. Not that such thoughts made them want to help the jackalope any less.

Wynne tried not to cough at the smoke that filled the cabin, reminding themself that they’d been around plenty of burning things in their lifetime and that it’d be rude. Still, they cleared their throat a little. They pushed their lips in a small line. “It got dark so quick, I meant to leave before …” 

But the creature and the small cabin had fallen on their path instead. They weighed their options — face the woods that possibly crawled with all kinds of creatures Emilio had taught them about or stay here, with just one potential monster. Or, if they were lucky: a rather nice park ranger. Wynne was glad for their knife. “I’ll face the forest in the morning, then. Probably for the best, and especially for the little one.” They reached out, brushing its fur for a moment before looking up and trying to very seriously add, “No funny business.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jerry replied, his face an unreadably stoic mask as he drew an X over the breast pocket of his shirt. “Cross my heart.”

Behind him, the coffee pot began to rattle and pop on the stove as the water boiled, coffee bubbling over to replace it. Jerry opened the wooden chest again, taking out a pair of tin mugs and a box of Sweet ‘n’ Low sachets.

“There’s no creamer,” he said, sliding the sweeteners across the floor towards Wynne, “but it’ll be hot and caffeinated, which are the most important things.”

Retrieving a thick leather glove from where it hung on a bent nail hammered into the cabin wall, Jerry picked up the coffee pot and poured the steaming brown liquid into the two mugs. The strong, but homely smell of fresh coffee mingled with the scent of woodsmoke from the burner and leant the place a pleasant, almost welcoming, atmosphere. Providing you could forget the reasons for ending up stuck here.

“Leaving in the morning is the sensible choice, I reckon,” Jerry continued, passing them the mug with the least chipped enamel. “There’s plenty of firewood, so that’ll keep it burning through the night, and we got plenty of coffee. All we need now is a guitar and some scary stories and this’ll be jus’ like a proper camp out.” The ranger raised his own mug in mock salute, before slurping from it loudly.

He wasn’t used to entertaining people. In fact, Jerry would’ve prefer if his job didn’t involve other people at all, but his dad had been clear that it was just as much a part of a Park Ranger’s duty to make sure that visitors enjoyed their trip to the forest, not just that they left with the same number of children, pets, limbs & digits as they arrived with. 

It wasn’t that Jerry didn’t like people, he just didn’t really spend much time around them. Generally, dealing with mythical creatures seemed to be easier than humans.  They usually had a need or drive behind what they did or how they acted. Understand that drive and at least you could start to relate. But humans… They were inconsistent and contradictory, with most of them changing what they wanted from one moment to the next.

Take this one for example.  What exactly was their story? Out in the forest far later than was safe, unprepared, following a cursed path and they just happened to stumble across one of the most notoriously shy legendary beasts in the Park.  Jerry shook his head; it all just seemed so unlikely.

If it was the sensible thing, then it would be what Wynne would do. They wanted to be a sensible person, after all — to not be guided by fear or emotion, but a clear mind. It was a constant learning curve, failure after failure after failure as they were so often blind. Being sensible had not put them here, in this cabin, agreeing to spend the night with a stranger presumably twice their age and twice as strong. 

“I like black coffee,” they said, as they took the tin mug and let their fingers be warmed by it. It could still get cold at night in these early spring weeks, as if the world was trying to cling to those wintery temperatures. Wynne was glad for the warmth spreading through their system as they took their first nip, even if it burned their tongue slightly. There was a sound of approval. Despite working as a barista, they weren’t very picky when it came to coffee.

The other did genuinely seem like a kind individual, and Wynne was tired of looking for ulterior motives. It wasn’t in their nature to do so, and that lack of instinct had gotten them in nasty situations before, making them more wary these days — but even so, it was easily relinquished.

So they smiled a little. “I don’t much like scary stories, if I’m honest. And I don’t know if we know any of the same songs, though I do like music.” Singing around a fire was reminiscent of home, something that they often longed for when they sat at home with their roommates. But with them they’d developed their own little traditions, or so they hoped. Wynne hoped Zack wasn’t worried.

“If you have a kinder story, though? One about the woods?” They shrugged a little. “I’m sure you have plenty, in your line of work. I’d like to hear one.” It would be a distraction, as well as a way to gauge what kind of person the other was. 

“Well, most of the stories I know are meant to be scary,” Jerry said, stroking his moustache as he considered their question. “Plus I ain’t much of a singer and I ain’t even got my harmonica handy, but I reckon I might be able to summon up a tall tale related to our fuzzy friend over there.” He nodded towards the sleeping jackalope, wrapped up on the cot and snoring gently. 

Sipping his coffee, Jerry leaned back against the wall of the cabin and let his mind wander. As much as Jerry wasn’t always comfortable around people, he loved to tell stories. There was something about the act of weaving a tale that caught the listeners’ attention and led them on a journey of his choosing which was almost intoxicating. His adoptive father had once told him that it was a big part of a bugbear’s nature, to capture their prey’s focus and frighten them with illusions so that they could feed off the fear. 

‘If more bugbears had good imaginations, a solid grounding in classic literature and a touch of the theatrical about them… Well, they’d never need to go hungry’, Luis Melano had explained to his son, and Jerry had taken that advice to heart.

“Okay, I’ll tell you a story, but it won’t be one about male Jackalopes, like our little fella. Ya see, aside from fightin’ and ruttin’, there aren’t a whole lot to tell about Jackalope Bucks. They’re ornery little cusses pretty much of the time, except when they sleeping.

“No,” said Jerry, a smile teasing the edges of his mouth as his eyes sparkled in anticipation, “I’ll tell ya a story about the Jackalope Wives.

“See, unlike the bucks, the Jackalope Wives had something in common with the Selkies of Scottish myth or the Skin-walkers of Navajo legend. They were able to take off their rabbit skins and set them aside a while to become beautiful women. Now they could only do this for three nights out of each month, when the new and full moon was balanced in the sky… neither waxing nor waning… betwixt and between, just like the Jackalope Wives themselves. That was the time when they’d take off their skins and dance.”  

As Jerry spoke it was almost as if the shadows darkened in the cabin and the flickering light from the fire took on a fresh intensity. Shapes born of flame and darkness twisted and leapt wildly on the walls, just as the Jackalope Wives did in his tale. The more that Jerry spoke, the easier it became to see the shapes as part of his story, as silhouettes and shadow puppets acting out their roles; Impressions of people and places that only existed in words, filtered through the listener’s imagination and given form by firelight.

Something about this felt so eerily familiar, comforting and discomforting all at the same time. The flickering flames, the absence of hyper modern technology, the tale that unfolded in the comfort of this small cabin. They had done this a lot, back at home, where there was no buzz of the internet to distract them: they’d tell stories. The people of the commune would gather in mess hall or outside, around the fire and tell stories of the past. Myth and legend and horrifying truth, all mingling together, Wynne always listening intently.

They had always been more listener than teller. It was like instinct to curl up and let their ears do most of the work, gaze drifting and imagination filling itself. Jerry reminded them vaguely of Collen, something about that ruggedness in combination with what seemed to be a softness.

“Jackalope Wives,” Wynne repeated. “I’m listening.”

And they were, sipping their coffee and imagining these women appearing. Maybe this wasn’t a myth, but a story that had some truth to it, much like the other things they had considered fables before. It mattered not, for now, as Wynne only thought of that damned moon. How many more people had their lives determined by the waxing and waning of that thing? But where the moon had brought these wives some kind of freedom, or at least transformation, it had only brought them cyclical death.

But they didn’t focus on it too long, in stead being swept up in the tale of one of the wives being caught in a state of in-between. Is that where I am? Half-protherian and half-not, only half-alive by their own design. Something that should have returned but hadn’t and now was some twisted thing with no place of belonging.

They found themself yawning, vision growing darker as the flames danced around the room. Wynne didn’t want to fall asleep, both because it would seem rude to do so as the other was telling a story and because he did remain a stranger. And yet, eventually, their eyes fell close, their body curled up in front of the jackalope, head resting against the side of the cot. 

Jerry couldn’t help but smile to himself as he heard Wynne’s breathing take on that characteristic rhythm of the sleeper.  It takes a good listener to be a good storyteller, knowing whether the audience is with you on the journey by the quickening of breath and the gasp of surprise. Steering the tale according to where they needed it to go and how ready they were for another confrontation or resolution.

Or, as in this case, they had been lulled into Nod by the vaguely hypnotic combination of voice, comfort and story; conjuring up memories of bedtime fairy tales in front of a warm fire, feeling safe and warm, even if those memories were never yours. There was something tribal in the practice that harked back to generations past and beyond them to ancestors in caves, keeping the darkness at bay through the long night.

He didn’t stop the story of the Jackalope Wives - you don’t stop a tale once it’s begun, except at its ending - but Jerry did lower his voice a little. Then, removing his padded jacket, he draped it over Wynne’s sleeping form. They murmured a little at the extra weight, but quickly snuggled into the warmed down padding and gave a relaxed sigh.

There were many hours until dawn, but Jerry was used to passing the time in his own company. He poured more coffee, added wood to the stove and settled back into his spot, all while the words continued to roll around the walls of the tiny cabin, transporting it to another time and place.

And when that tale was told, he started another, weaving a new story to keep the darkness at bay as his young charges slept through the long night.

FIN.

If you're interested in reading the story of The Jackalope Wives which inspired Jerry's tale, then you can do so here! https://apex-magazine.com/short-fiction/jackalope-wives/

#jerry-wynne-scene-001 #ohwynne #park-ranger-is-my-comfort-animal

[petrikaira]

The Maid

Ch 7, Agni

pg 3 (previous)

Rating: G for General Audiences

Once they were past the large doors on the right, they passed a few more doors on the left. Gleaming white doors with golden trim, perfectly closed. There were other portraits lining the walls like so many fruits in a fruit cake, each with faces that looked very similar to Queen Aikaterine or Prince Yuki’s- same small noises, small chins, and often very similar haircuts.

“These doors here go to the heir apparent’s room, and the second heir’s wings,” Agni explained. “At the moment, they remain empty as her Majesty the Queen and his Highness the prince have not had the opportunity to have children, yet. As a maid you will still be required to do a cleaning in them at least once a week.”

Mai nodded, following after as she glanced at the fancy doors. Once a week. She could do that, she was certain. “Got it,” she said.

The hallway continued on for a long while. It was as long as the main street on her island town, with just one hallway branching off to the right. Everything beyond the hallway was shadowed, and Mai couldn’t see beyond it. She furrowed her brow.

“It’s so dark,” She said.

“Her Majesty has a headache, at the moment, so we have kept all the candles to the upstairs rooms where the other maids are currently cleaning,” Agni explained.

Mai worried at her lip for a moment. “Does she get headaches often?”

“She often suffers from migraines. When that happens, the castle will be much darker than average- though, it is large enough we often keep much of it dark, anyways.”

Mai had been lucky throughout her life in that she rarely got headaches. “Do we have to stay quiet?” She asked. 

“Only near her chambers. Otherwise the castle is large enough that she will be fine.”

They passed a few more doors, and Agni turned to stride through a grand archway. Mai stared at it, taking in the fishing net that was draped over it and pinned in place, and the shells and dried seaweed so neatly knotted in. Up against the now light blue walls, it felt kitschy in a way she hadn’t been expecting for a castle, and then they were down a flight of steps and into a room. The room was ringed by bookcases, most of which were full of what seemed to be shells, models of sailing ships, and taxidermied seagulls.

Standing in the center of the room stood Zillah, in a neatly starched cream colored maid’s dress, and a thin and wiry looking wolf of a man. As they got closer, Mai could see he really was a wolf, on two legs. 

He turned to look at her, his tail bobbing behind him and his ears up. His fur was a mousey sort of brown gray, and his eyes a shocking yellow- but what was most shocking of all was his snout. Unlike most wolves Mai had seen in fairy tale books, as Byipi had none, his nose was bulbous like he had been stung by a bee.

“Welcome, I’m doing orientation for you two new hires,” Zillah said.

“Thank you,” Mai said, hurriedly following into step beside the wolf man. She didn’t want to comment on his snout. What if it was that way all along, and he had not actually been stung by a bee?

Somehow, it was nice to know that she wasn’t as bothered by men who were wolves as she was dead men walking. 

“Go ahead, introduce yourselves, and we can get started,” Zillah prompted. 

The wolf man looked her over, his tail held high. Mai could hear the sound of Agni’s bones clicking as he walked away. Well, it didn’t seem like the wolf man was going to be the first to introduce himself.

“Hi,” she said, and realized she could say anything. This wolf man didn’t have to know her name was Maid, either. “I”m Cornelia.”

Oh for goodness’ sake. She’d gone with the stuck up sounding one.

“Cornelia.” The wolfman sneered, his black lips in his rounded nose pulling back over a variety of glittering fangs. She could see one of them was broken. “You don’t need to know my name, Cornelia. I’ll be a coworker, not a friend.”

Cornelia felt that burning in her chest. “Well I’ll have to call you by something,” She snapped. Was that the name, talking? Was she being stuck up?

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” Wolfman said flatly. He turned back to Zillah with a finality, like they were done. Cornelia supposed they were. “Go on.”

The tasks were easy enough- the wolfman, taking over for Agni, would have to learn how to manage a household over the course of his tenure as assistant butler, as well as take care of wine menus, overseeing the cleaning. Cornelia’s tasks were much easier. She would be given her rotation on the weekly, each part of the castle she was to clean blocked out. For her first week, she would be working with one of the other more senior maids. 

She learned there were seven others besides Zillah, and a team of three laundresses who primarily worked in the laundry. There, all she would have to do is get the dirty laundry to them, and take clean laundry from them. All tasks that would not be too hard for her first month working, as she was assured she would always be paired with one of the older and more experienced maids.

When Zillah began going over the wolfman’s tasks in more detail, Cornelia’s mind began to wander. Cornelia. It really did sound stuck up, and now the wolfman thought she was Cornelia and Zillah might think she liked going by that. Did she? It felt a little sandpapery on the skin. She grimaced. Was it too late to change it now? Was she Cornelia? 

She didn’t like it.

Cornelia, Cornelia, Cornelia. Each repetition made her hate it even more. Besides being stuck up, it felt too old fashioned for her.

“Now that we have gone over your duties-”

Zillah’s voice brought her back to the present. She blinked and looked up at the older woman.

“I’ll be showing you two to your chambers,” Zillah said. “Unless either of you have anything you’d wish to say?”

Cornelia swallowed. “Uh- actually, yes, can you call me Nele?”

It was the cuter option. Zillah didn’t even bat an eyelash at the sudden name change. The wolfman, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes at her. Nele decided to push it down and swallow that. She didn’t have to let that bother her.

“Of course,” Zillah said. “Follow me.”

#fantasy #the maid #ch 7 pg 3 #ch 7 #writeblr #writing

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Li’ll more on that Burnt Marshmallow!Monkey King AU thing in the form of a doodle set I did for a height comparison chart a while back. Did i forget to mention he’s small? BGKLAMWEF; 

#HE'S A MONKEY #a little taller than Pigsy I think #I actually don't know if this one's quite accurate #he might be closer to chin height rather than shoulder height on Mk #Burnt Marshmallow!Monkey King AU #Burnt Marshmallow!Monkey King #ANYWAY THO #his fur is like way darker than that but for the sake of my eyes bKAFMOFW

[marowreck-archive]

sorry but my homestuck brain rot mandates me to ask you this;

do you have any headcanons as to how trolls look/are Different from humans? like their more alien features and such, or do you just see them as grey horned humans?

hi for the sake of god HELLO. anon, i have so many headcanons it truly is a mistake to open these floodgates. I also can't draw at the moment due to wrist pain so I hope a written answer will have to do for now :')

draft edit: THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY ASKBOX FOR SO LONG. Anon i am gripping you by force, i literally have so much, and this is what i can think in like 10 minutes of pondering.

I don't think trolls are gray humans. In fact, i believe they're more like bug-like bipeds, being closer to bees than they are to mammals. This is a fun bit there are three "sexes" to trolls: females (the mothergrub!), males (the actual trolls!) and the workers (drones!). All of them have their roles and etc.

Since you're asking for the Looks, here are the basics:

Juvenile trolls (the ones we see more often in homestuck) are the most human-like ones both in shape and stature because they’re still young. At that stage their height equals human teen height, and sometimes humans can even be taller.

Their first puberty, or pupation, sets in at an older age than humans usually, so where a human teen starts getting their stuff slowly rolling at around 11-14, a troll would only get their puberty at around 17 or 18, but all of it comes in at the same time via molt.

Trolls go through several pupations, or molts. Two of them are the most important ones: The pupation from their larval grubby stage to juvenile, where they go from straight up looking like an insect to a child, more human-like. Then the maturation molt, where they leave their juvenile forms to get an adult appearance that makes them taller and their skin darker, with every subsequent molt to that being basically an "update" to their form, to make them even taller and stronger. They will keep doing thay up until they die, like lobsters! Even lowbloods get taller and buffer than the average human, and from indigo and up they only get taller and taller. Below is just a VERY simple height chart, no other body hcs applied.

More often than not, trolls are STOCKY. They’re beefy and their structure is naturally heavy than a human. A troll weights a round1.5 of a human the equivalent size and body type. Even the skinny ones. They’re dense, but they’re also much much stronger and much sturdier.

And as you might have already noticed if you’ve looked at my art, NONE of my trolls really are grey humans, or at least i try not to make them that way! i always make sure to give them both bug-like traits and other animal traits. They all have little tails that vary in shape and lenght by caste, VERY often digitigrade feet and sometimes other face structure modifications, such as multiple eyes, chitinous face with big mouths and such and also fur and body markings. YES all my trolls glow under UV light also, it wasn’t just an one off headcanon thing, their vision is adapted to see the patterns, and i’m pretty sure their range of vision differs from ours, specially if you judge they’re night-time predator bugs.

Also! fun fact, but i classify seadwellers depeding on their most comfortable position on sea depth:  pelagic (shallow to middle water level, most common, can go deeper but not live long term down there), benthic (bottom feeders, but not from deep sea), deep sea/abyssal (inhabits naturally below the bathypelagic zone + abyssal, CAN go deeper and survive the pressure of the bottom of the sea but definitely couldnt live there), strict abyssal seadwellers (extremely rare, cannot live outside water at all. all mutants). Each one of those is built similarly, but they all have different functions and traits that differ!

#troll lore #homestuck headcanons #alternia #asks #anon #FINALLY #GOD DAMN IT I HAVE BEEN MEANING TO GO THROUGH THIS #hc #hcs

[empressbitch]

Rat Introductions

It appears I have siblings now, so it’s time to introduce everyone to their nieces and nephews. They are rats. If you don’t like rats, I don’t like you (unless you have a phobia, that’s understandable and not in your control).

I have two rat groups which I call the upstairs and downstairs group. I think you can guess by the name that their cage has two floors.

I’ll start with the upstairs rats!

This is Caligula. He's my oldest boy at 1 year and a few months. He lives with girls because he's been neutered. He's aggressive to other boys and can't live with them. He is the first rat I had along with his deceased brother, Nero. I named them after "crazy" Roman emporers (I realize that might be myth, but it's still funny).

Caligula loves to "stare into the abyss" (aka stare into the empty void below him when on the couch), loves cuddles, and is probably the smartest rat I have.

The white rat is Elizabeth, named after Elizabeth the first of England. She is albino and best friends with Caligula! We also called her Lizzy. We got her after Agripina died. Unfortunately, her sister Mary was very sick and died a week after we got them. I got her spring of this year shortly after mother's day.

Elizabeth is a crazy bitch! She climbs every where, had water sprayed on her face once and opened her eyes more as if to say "COME AT ME BITCH". She definitely has the most character.

This is Catherine Parr (Light grey) and Anne Boylen (darker grey). They are named after Henry VIII's second and sixth wife. I just got them last month and they're still babies! Anne is best friends with Elizabeth. They are crazy Bitches together. She copies Elizabeth. Catherine is very gentle, has the softest fur, and is very demure.

Time for the downstairs group!

I got the boys all at once in late August from a breeder! I picked them up at the train station. It was quite an adventure.

The white rat is George, named after George III. Yes. THAT one. He's really dumb and follows Henry. He copies him. He's the sweetiest of the boys and loves to cuddle.

The brown rat is Henry, named after Henry VIII. He lives up to his name sake! He's the fatest of my rats, loves food, and is SO reckless! He does what he wants and it always the one causing trouble.

The black rat is William, named after William the Conquer. He's the only one of his brothers who isn't dumb. He's aloof and does what he wants, but he's way more sneeky than Henry. Together they both beat up George.

Those are all my rats as of now!

#pet rats #rats #fancy rats

[themurphyzone]

PatB Oneshot: Poor Unfortunate Soul

Summary: Brain doesn’t think Pinky would be a very good villain. Pinky decides to prove him wrong (but mostly he wants Denny's).

AN: I’ll be honest, Dark Pinky isn’t for me. So how to compromise writing a villainous Pinky with normal Pinky? Well...you’ll see. 

AO3 Link

Pinky gasped at the TV, crumbs of popcorn falling out of his mouth. Brain stopped chewing and looked away from the screen, unable to stomach the scene of Lupin and Sirius forcing Pettigrew out of rat form as he attempted to flee the Shrieking Shack. 

No matter how many times he’d seen Prisoner of Azkaban, Brain always found it uncomfortable to watch Pettigrew transform into a pathetic, sniveling human who acted like he hadn’t sold his own friends out to a homicidal madman.  

Sure, Voldemort was the villain while Umbridge was the personification of government corruption, but there was just something downright insidious about Pettigrew. 

Pinky’s eyes were blown wide open as Pettigrew pitifully tried to plead his case. The simpleton was always so surprised about this plot twist no matter how many times he’d seen this movie.

The more he pondered, perhaps Pinky was the exact reason he found Pettigrew worse than the larger threats of the Harry Potter world. The man played into the worst of rodent stereotypes with his cowardly and backstabbing nature.

But Pinky?

Not a single disloyal bone in his body. It was a lesson Brain had taken to heart after his disastrous second birthday. Pinky was far too sweet and simple to even think about betrayal. 

Tears flowed down Pinky’s face as Lupin transformed into an emaciated werewolf, so Brain discreetly nudged a pack of Kleenexes his way. Pinky flashed him a grateful, wobbly smile, then reached for a tissue and blew his nose. 

Pinky always cried at this part. And while Brain found the scene emotionally gut-punching too, he considered himself above displays of crying during movies. 

Mufasa’s death didn’t count. Dirt always lodged in his lacrimal ducts whenever he watched that scene. That was all.

Brain’s fists clenched as the cowardly Pettigrew abandoned everyone to die. 

Though his escape was an essential plot point for the rest of the series, Brain wished the protagonists could’ve caught Pettigrew and delivered justice for betraying those who called him a friend.

He knew how the movie played out, but Pinky acted like he was watching it all for the very first time. Sometimes, watching Pinky when he didn’t care what happened on-screen was much more interesting. Especially when Pinky insisted on not skipping Order of the Phoenix. 

Pinky hugged his knees, tail draped tightly around him as the Dementors attacked Harry and Sirius. The rest of the movie would be loaded with those undead abominations. Brain had learned from unfortunate experience that Pinky would have nightmares if he didn’t cut off the fear before it took root in his subconscious. 

Slowly, Brain moved towards Pinky, careful not to make a sound lest Pinky catch him in the act. He took a deep breath to steel his resolve, placing a hesitant hand on Pinky’s back. 

Pinky turned to look at him. 

“Eyes on the screen,” Brain commanded. It was easier to do this when Pinky wasn’t watching him. 

Pinky obeyed, humming softly as Brain patted soft fur. A long, flowing tail wrapped around a crooked one. Pinky sat up a little straighter. 

The Dementors wouldn’t haunt Pinky’s dreams tonight. Not as long as Brain had something to say about it.   

o-o-o-o-o

“-and I’m so happy Sirius and Buckbeak got away! D’you think I could ride a hippogriff? Why are they called hippos when they’re not hippos anyway? I don’t think wizards know their animals very well, Brain.” Pinky’s chatter continued into the ungodly hours of the morning. Only the people unfortunate enough to work early morning shifts on Saturday would be awake at this time.

Brain rolled onto his stomach, covering his ears with his pillow to block out all the extraneous noise. One con about taking nights off from world domination was that his body just didn’t want to sleep even when he was tired, and Pinky’s exuberance only amplified the issue. 

“Troz! Prisoner of Azkaban is my favorite out of the Harry Potter movies. But my favorites are also Sorcerer’s Stone and Chamber and Goblet...oh! And Order has Luna Lovegood of course! Love her! What’s your favorite, Brain?” Pinky asked. “Ooh, you shouldn’t lay like that. You need to breathe!” 

The pillow was completely ineffective as a sound buffer. Brain was sorely tempted to keep up his current position out of pure spite, but he had to give up and lay on his side so he wouldn’t suffocate.

“No favorite. Hippogriffs are fictional. Hippo is Greek for horse and does not refer to a hippopotamus in this context. You think cows cluck and chickens moo, Pinky. Now go to sleep,” Brain sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Perhaps he could trick his exhausted mind into believing Pinky wasn’t there if he couldn’t be seen. 

He had an urge to stay awake though. If his subconscious latched onto hippopotamuses, he’d just have that nightmare with the rich hippo couple and Rockefeller baby all over again. He shuddered at that memory. The pain and humiliation from that hippo-sized booster shot had been oddly vivid. 

“Okay. G’night, Brain.” The bed shifted as Pinky flopped onto his back. 

All was quiet. 

Brain curled into a more comfortable position, ready to drift off to a dream world where he was an emperor on a golden throne, Pinky was dressed in royal finery while leading a resounding chorus of We are the World, and all knelt before their authority. 

“Brain?” 

And there went the dream. 

“What?” Brain snapped. Part of him wanted to knock Pinky out himself, but that would require moving his arms. He didn’t want to move out of his current position.

“Just pondering. Poit,” Pinky yawned. “Before sleep ponderings. Those kinds are the best, Brain. Cause they get weird and tangerine-y. Bet you get those too.” 

It was true. When his plans weren’t derived from Pinky’s inane ramblings or current events, they were often the product of pre-sleep thoughts. While he wrote down all he could remember afterwards, the plans pulled from those tangents tended to be the craziest and illogical in hindsight. 

He tried not to rely on them too much, but if his conqueror’s block was high or creativity levels were low, he didn’t have much choice.

“Yes,” Brain confirmed. 

But his curt answer wasn’t enough to deter Pinky. 

“Cause I was pondering about villains,” Pinky said. “Like Pettigrew. Cause what if I had something that makes me a villain?”

As much as Brain wanted to dismiss the idea of a villainous Pinky due to the sheer absurdity of the concept, he supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility either. 

But Pinky as a villain? A mouse who gave up his soul for the sake of Brain’s desires and argued against promoting harmful cigarettes to children? 

It was just ludicrous. 

“Pinky, you lack many prerequisites for proper villainy,” Brain said. “Except for the dramatics. That’s the only trait you have in common.” 

“Oh. Well, I could certainly try,” Pinky replied. 

Yes, and someday pigs would evolve and develop flight capabilities. 

If he were in a clearer state of mind, he would’ve argued out of obstinance. But right now, it was incredibly early on a Saturday morning and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Discussions on villainy and world domination could wait a few hours. 

“If you can prove me wrong, you can select the next restaurant we’ll go to,” Brain yawned.  

Pinky rarely got to choose the restaurant, given Brain’s sophisticated palate, but at this point he was willing to try anything to get Pinky off his back. 

Then Pinky went from figuratively being on his back to pressing against it, his tail curling around Brain’s. Pinky’s jaw rested against the back of Brain’s head. The added pressure released a tenseness around Brain’s shoulders, one that he’d been previously unaware of. 

“Denny’s,” Pinky murmured, nuzzling the back of Brain’s ear. The sensitive appendage flicked. Nobody was around to witness that involuntary reflex, so Brain let it pass. “A Grand Slam with pancakes and syrup and bacon n’ eggs…” 

Within seconds, Pinky was out like a light. He wouldn’t remember this conversation, too busy thinking with his stomach instead of properly pondering with that fluffball of a mind. 

With Pinky’s warm fur against his back and soft narfs against his ear, Brain’s thoughts gently trickled away and yielded to peaceful sleep. 

o-o-o-o-o

Though it was probably noon by now, Brain still didn’t want to open his eyes. Why bother? No scientists to pester them, no leftover plans or materials to hide away so they wouldn’t be discovered, no tedious mazes to run on Saturday. 

Pinky had gotten up sometime before him, and the space beside him was empty, giving Brain room to stretch out in whatever way he liked.  

Then he heard a harsh scraping noise, like someone was dragging something heavy across the counter. That wasn’t unusual for Pinky if an object caught his short attention span for some inane reason. 

However, there was also the sound of laughter accompanying the noise. Pinky was giggly and bubbly to a fault, but this brand of laughter was different. 

Almost malevolent. 

A chill ran up his spine, but Brain ignored the feeling. Pinky’s evil laugh was still firmly in Saturday morning cartoon villain territory, he told himself. 

Even if he sounded a little too good at being evil. 

Apparently, Pinky had remembered the bet after all. 

Brain slowly opened his eyes, about to find Pinky and tell him to knock it off, only to find that it was much darker than it should be for daytime. But it wasn’t dark enough to impede his vision. When he looked up, he found a sheet had been pulled over the entire cage. He couldn’t see anything outside the cage.  

Pinky being secretive would surely spell disaster.  And it hadn’t been there last night, so Pinky was the only culprit. 

The wheel stood empty, a fresh oil can beside it. Brain rubbed his eyes, partly to wake himself up and partly out of disbelief. He was normally a light sleeper, but if he hadn’t heard Pinky maintain his wheel at all, then he must’ve had a deeper sleep than he thought.

He climbed out of bed and marched towards the unlatched cage door, though the corner of the sheet was pulled over it. He would’ve swept it aside, but an unopened cup of Rice Krispies with a half-empty bottle of milk, napkin, and spoon conspicuously placed next to the door gave him pause from leaving the cage. 

His stomach growled. 

“Well played, Pinky,” Brain admitted. A breakfast barricade to delay him? It was rather creative, not that he’d ever let Pinky know. 

The Rice Krispies made satisfactory snap, crackle, and pop noises as Brain poured the milk inside. Then he scarfed down the cereal, half-expecting Pinky to come in and drag him outside for whatever he planned. 

But Pinky seemed content to let him eat first. 

Once he finished eating, he dragged the empty cereal cup and milk bottle behind him. But even his simple two-step plan of throwing his current load into the garbage and finding Pinky were laid to waste the moment he set foot outside the cage. 

For Pinky had unleashed his inner interior designer and completely transformed the room in such a short timeframe.

Large, sweeping blackout curtains covered the windows, even the skylight. According to the digital clock atop the TV, it was 12:30 in the afternoon. But if Brain didn’t know any better, he would’ve believed it was midnight. 

No wonder he’d been so inclined to sleep in. 

Long strands of Christmas lights hung on each dark blue wall, which was otherwise untransformed. Other than the digital clock, they were the only available light source. But rather than their usual festive association, the unblinking reds, greens, and blues lent a rather ominous, otherworldly quality to the room.  

Brain dispelled the fear. It was irrational when he’d traversed the dark lab at night a million times before. 

Perhaps he was focusing too hard on dumping the leftover milk into the sink. With absolute concentration, he pushed the empty cup and bottle over the counter’s edge and into the garbage can below. 

As he backed away from the edge, he saw a large mixing bowl with a stepladder set by it. Wisps of steam rose from the inside of the bowl. This must’ve been the source of the scraping sound he’d heard earlier. Curious, Brain climbed the stepladder and peered inside. 

It was just warm water though. 

He tried not to feel too disappointed. But even if it was mundane right now, surely it had to be here for a reason, right?

Or Pinky didn’t have any reason at all and he just wanted to fill a mixing bowl with boiled water. Both options were possibilities.

As he continued his search for Pinky, he walked past rows upon rows of test tubes filled with brightly colored substances. Electric green, dreadful purple, deceptively calm cerulean…

He wasn’t sure what kind of chemistry experiments they were running, but he wished someone had enough sense to label the test tubes.

Beakers and tubing distorted his reflection, a prickling sensation traveling down his spine and forcing his fur to stand on end. He smoothed it down so he didn’t bear a passing resemblance to a cotton ball. The slightly colder than normal temperature wasn’t helping. 

The distortion was simply a natural refraction of light passing through liquids. That’s all. There was no reason to get worked up over natural phenomena.

That didn’t stop him from leaping back when a wide, smiling human face suddenly appeared as he navigated a sea of flasks. 

His heart threatened to leap out of his chest, his breaths growing heavier.  

There weren’t any humans in the lab right now, he reminded himself. And the smiling face was frozen and unmoving. It wasn’t real. 

Brain cautiously poked his head around the flask, keeping it as a buffer between himself and the unknown threat. 

Against the wall, several of Pinky’s Barbie and Ken dolls sat in a row. The one whose face appeared on the flask was on the far left, her blonde hair in a ponytail. All of the dolls were in colorful swimwear. One of the Ken dolls had a pair of sunglasses perched on his head. 

The dolls were normal. No creepy alterations or missing body parts. 

But as Brain approached and inspected the dolls closely, their positioning seemed...odd.

Yes, their plastic visages displayed smiles as if they were en route to a Miami beach party, but their arms were stretched above their heads or out to the sides in warning. Their legs laid flat against the ground. Duct tape trapped their legs to the ground and wrapped against their torsos, sticking them firmly to the wall and preventing them from falling over. 

An interesting choice for decor, to say the least. 

But enough was enough. Time to find Pinky and force a coherent explanation out of him. 

One of the Barbie's arm pointed to the back of the room, so Brain followed her instruction. It led him straight to Pinky’s dollhouse, and Brain cursed himself for being so taken in with the environment that he’d neglected to check one of Pinky’s favorite toys. 

The pink plastic door was wide open, a deadly invitation into danger. Brain’s ears pricked as a song floated through the air. 

“Things are working out according to my ultimate design,

Soon I’ll have that little rodent and the planet shall be mine!”  

The melody was accompanied by a sinister cackle. 

Brain wanted to barge in and demand Pinky to cease his foolishness immediately, but his fingers curled against the doorframe instead, urging him to heed caution. 

“I can hear you!” Pinky singsonged from behind a section of dollhouse that was curtained off with jingling Mardi Gras beads. “Won’t you come inside so we can talk properly?” 

Brain rolled his eyes, sweeping the bead curtain away. “Pinky, I’m aware of our deal, but this is rather excess-” 

Then his mind registered the scene that lay before him. 

Pinky perched on a stool in front of a mirror as he applied a red coating of lipstick. That wasn’t unusual for him. 

But he was also clad in a backless floor-length dress with thigh-high slits. The dress was dark as night, leaving his shoulders and arms exposed. His fur was dyed a light lavender, save for his messy white tuft, which was gelled so that it stood straight up.

A small seashell necklace sat just above the low cut dress, purple earrings hanging from each ear. Pinky didn’t turn around, blinking coyly at Brain in his reflection, which sported heavy blue eyeshadow. 

He set the lipstick down, and Brain stared at the enchanting movement of manicured, polished red nails as deft fingers picked up a small brush and dipped it into a makeup kit. Then Pinky applied a beauty mark next to his lips.

The next thing out of Brain’s mouth was a very intelligent ‘um’. 

“You shouldn’t lurk in doorways,” Pinky purred, his voice low and sultry. “It’s very rude. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” 

She didn’t have time to teach him a lot of things, given his kidnapping at an early age, but that wasn’t the point.  

“Why in Ptolemy’s name are you Ursula out of all villains?” Brain asked, once his voice came back. 

At least it explained why Pinky had redecorated the room to resemble an underwater cavern that doubled as a villainous lair. It was an excellent use of space. 

And the Barbies and Kens...those were the stand-ins for the helpless sea polyps.

Pinky must’ve been deriving a lot of satisfaction at seeing that realization dawn on Brain. 

“Why not?” Pinky shrugged. He puckered his lips and kissed his reflection, leaving a red lip-shaped mark behind. “Besides...isn’t there something you’re after? Something you want oh so very much, but haven’t been able to get?” 

Brain scowled. “You know perfectly well that I’m trying to rule the world, Pinky.” 

Pinky snapped his fingers. “And that’s what I can help you with! The only way to get what you want...is to become a human yourself.” 

Well, he’d never considered that before in the pursuit of world domination. There was something about manipulating his genetic code and changing his species that didn’t sit well with him, even though he detested the challenges that came with being a lowly lab mouse.

But it made sense. 

Humans only respected humans. Becoming a member of the dominant species would be an asset for sure! 

But Pinky didn’t have the means to make that happen...right? 

“You don’t know how to manipulate mouse DNA into a human one,” Brain said. 

“Oh my dear, sweet Brain,” Pinky crooned as he stood up, slinking over to Brain. Brain crossed his arms, forcing himself to stare Pinky straight in the eye and not show any signs of yielding. He made a point out of not watching those sashaying hips and tail. “Helping poor, unfortunate mice like yourself is my one passion in life! Why, without it, I’ll have to slink away and become a crazy cat lady! And then who will those poor souls turn to?” 

“A glass of alcohol, I presume,” Brain replied. 

Pinky’s tail came to rest around Brain’s shoulders. The tip tickled Brain’s nose, and he held it away from his face as Pinky pulled him out of the dollhouse and back to the tied up Barbie and Ken dolls. “Maybe, maybe...but a real person they can lean on, I mean. One that knows a little...magic.” 

He flicked his finger at a beaker filled with a lavender substance. The beaker sailed through the air, dumping its contents into the mixing bowl. A purple haze rose from the bowl. 

“That’s telepathy, not-” 

Pinky gently pressed a finger to Brain’s mouth to hush him. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he scolded. “It’s true that I did some rather — how would you phrase this gently — unsavory things before. But I’ve repented! Turned over a new leaf! Seen the light! And now I use my talents for those lonely and miserable enough to seek my services.” 

Then Pinky moved away from Brain, flicking his tail against Brain’s nose to direct his attention to the wall. Pinky wrapped his arm around the Barbie with a red polka-dotted bikini. “You see, Barbie here grew up where she didn’t have much opportunity. Poor girl had to work two jobs to make ends meet, and hardly a cent to show for it! So I offered her a chance to get away from it all...and she took it.” 

Brain gulped as Pinky moved onto the Ken doll next to Barbie. He was awfully convincing, even when the subject in question was inanimate. Pinky played with the ascot around Ken’s neck. “And this young man? Well, he wasn’t having much luck with the ladies. So I gave him a few pointers, maybe a knickknack or two to help speed things along. However…” 

Pinky indicated the tape that bound the dolls to the wall. “I wouldn’t worry about this too much, since you’re a mouse of your word, but sometimes...they couldn’t pay me back in time. So I found a different way to collect their debt.” 

“Yes, I’m sure you have much to gain from restraining children’s toys,” Brain said, tilting his head up to hide his uneasiness. 

They looked less marketable and more like hapless victims wallowing in despair, despite their smiling faces. He chalked it up to the wall’s resemblance to a dimly lit marine cave. 

“Oh, I get some odd complaints every now and then,” Pinky shrugged. “But alas, that’s what happens in this business.” 

He plucked a purple sash from Barbie and wrapped it around his head, fluttering his eyelashes innocently. 

Not that he was fooling Brain. 

But he didn’t have time to process that nonverbal gesture, for Pinky threw the sash around Brain, his tail looping around Brain’s waist. With the sash locking his arms against his sides, he was helplessly corralled to the mixing bowl. He dug his feet into the surface beneath him, but it was no use. Pinky was far stronger than he. 

In physical terms of course. He tried to keep his eyes on Pinky’s face and not his...well, he was a male mouse...he didn’t have...unless he padded...

Stop, Brain. 

A finger slipped under Brain’s chin, tilting his head up. “Not to worry,” Pinky purred, and the room suddenly went from cold to sweltering. “I have your solution right here.” 

To emphasize his point, blue and green test tubes poured their contents into the bowl. The colors melded together, the resulting haze forming a rough image of the world. 

“Here’s the deal. I’ll make a potion that can turn you into a human for three days,” Pinky declared, dragging his finger along Brain’s chin. Now that Pinky’s grip had loosened, Brain ripped the sash out of Pinky’s hands and threw it aside. 

The stroke of Pinky’s finger along Brain’s fur was enticing, and he pushed it away exactly for that reason.  

“Before sunset on the third day, you’ve got to find someone of royal blood,” Pinky said. A golden liquid swirled out of a beaker and formed a crown in the center of the world. It was an image of which Brain had dreamed of for so long. He tried to touch it, but it was far out of reach for him. “Then this charming person has to fall in love with you.” 

That sounded...feasible. Three days was a rather generous deadline. Most of the time, they were on a time crunch between eight to twelve hours.  

Pinky produced a pink felt heart and held it between two fingers. “Then you have to seal your love with a kiss. And not just any old peck on the cheek, but a kiss of true love.” 

A what? 

Brain huffed. Of course this plan would have such a ridiculous stipulation. He’d gotten his hopes up for nothing. 

...and why was he treating this like it was real? 

Because Pinky. 

Yes, that was the only explanation. And not even a rational one. 

“Oh dear, don’t pout so,” Pinky smirked. The expression was fogging up Brain’s mind. “What else is there to seal amour but with true love’s kiss? It’s a tried and true method, after all.” 

He chuckled at his own joke. Brain rolled his eyes. 

“If this certain someone kisses you by sunset on the third day, you’ll have the world permanently. But if they don’t, you turn back into a mouse.” 

Pinky tossed the felt heart into the mixing bowl, the solution emitting a pink puff of smoke. 

“And you belong to me.” 

A dangerous edge crept into Pinky’s tone as he whispered into Brain’s ear, and the appendage fluttered uncontrollably until Brain forcefully snatched it to cease its movement. 

Pinky tossed a hair tie, penny, and eraser nub into the mixing bowl, then leaned against a long pencil case as he awaited Brain’s reply. 

“Suppose I agree to your deal. What then?” Brain asked. 

“Well, there’s the matter of payment,” Pinky admitted. He stretched his lower limbs and tail as he rolled onto his stomach, exposing his long lavender-dyed legs. Brain tried not to watch the motion too closely for fear of hypnotism. “If you want something so badly, something of equal value has to be given. Equivalent exchange, as they say.” 

“And what exactly do you want?” Brain asked, though he knew the answer. 

He’d seen the movie. 

“Your voice.” 

Pinky’s smile was too wide and manic for Brain’s comfort. 

“In other words...” Pinky hummed as he leaned forward, his nose was just an inch away from Brain. “...no more talking, singing, zip!” 

He popped the consonant and mimed zipping his mouth, throwing away an invisible key.  

It was so warm that Brain couldn’t feel his face. 

“Now, now. Don’t be alarmed, Brain.” Pinky stretched luxuriously as he stood up. His tail slinked around Brain’s waist again. “You have your pretty face. And you shouldn’t underestimate the importance of...body language.” 

Pinky’s hip bumped into Brain’s, his leg sliding all the way out of the slit of his dress. He batted his eyelashes and blew a kiss to an invisible audience. 

Brain covered his face, ears flat against his back. He was fine. Just had to think about...something. What was he trying to picture exactly? 

No mathematical formula could save him from the horror that was stupid, sexy Pinky. Curse those mathematical miscreants! They abandoned him in his time of need!

Pinky climbed up and down the stepladder, tossing chemicals and liquids and all sorts of things inside. The bowl rocked back and forth dangerously, bubbles spilling down the sides. 

Brain didn’t dare get close. The inside of the bowl surely were an unholy abomination. 

But that didn’t stop Pinky. 

“Now a dash of zort, a sprinkle of poit! Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble! Fire burn and cauldron bubble!” Pinky cackled, throwing his arms up in the air. “Abracadabra troz! Bibbidi bobbidi narf!” 

The mixture now to his satisfaction, Pinky flicked his finger at a notepad and pen, sending them hurtling towards Brain. 

“Just sign on the dotted line, you poor unfortunate soul,” Pinky said.

Well...playing along couldn’t hurt. Even when there was a biohazard right in front of him. 

And no, the bowl’s contents weren’t the biohazard here. 

Brain took a deep breath and signed his name. 

The moment he finished, the notepad and pen flew out of his hands and into the bowl. 

Pinky wiggled his fingers over the bowl, green smoke rising to the ceiling and seeping past the edges of the blackout curtains to the outside. No smoke detectors went off, though Brain wasn’t surprised. ACME was rather lax on safety protocols. 

“Beluga sevruga, come winds of the Caspian Sea! 

Larengix glaucitis

Et max laryngitis

La voce to me!”

With a wide grin that spread from ear to ear, Pinky climbed down the stepladder and placed one hand on his seashell necklace, the other tickling the base of Brain’s neck. Brain ducked his head instinctively to stop the ticklish sensation, trapping Pinky’s hand under his jaw.

“Now sing.”

It was rare that Pinky commanded. Brain hated taking orders, yet something compelled him to obey.

Those coy blue eyes demanded, so Brain willingly gave.

And he sang.

Though he was hoarse from surprise at first, Pinky’s finger traced the outline of his neck, up his chin, to the corner of his mouth. Brain imagined his voice growing stronger...could see his voice taking physical form, flowing out of him and into Pinky’s seashell necklace.

Pinky doubled over in laughter as an explosion rocked the counter. The bowl sparked and smoked, its base clattering against the surface with loud metallic bangs. 

Brain broke out of his trance as a sludge-like wave with various melted objects slithered down the rim, creeping ever closer. 

He wasn’t taking any chances. 

Grabbing his maniacally howling companion by the arm, Brain quickly bopped him over the head to halt the laughter, then dragged him over to the window for a quick escape. Pinky recovered from the bop and shimmied past the blackout curtain. Brain took a moment to collect the ACME credit card he’d pilfered from an employee several weeks ago, then followed Pinky onto the windowsill. 

Pinky jumped first, safely landing in the bushes below. Holding the credit card above his head, which was no easy feat since the card was about the same size as him, Brain jumped as an explosion rocked the building, and his ears flattened instinctively to shield him from the worst of the noise. 

As predicted, he landed in Pinky’s arms. 

And it was somewhat mortifying now that Pinky’s eyes had gone from coy to blindingly innocent, even with the heavy eyeshadow. Shoving the card between himself and Pinky’s face, Brain climbed out of his arms. 

“Narf! So how’d I do, Brain?” Pinky asked. “Was I convincing?” 

Brain dusted off a bit of lavender dye that had rubbed onto his arm. He hoped it was fur-friendly. “You created a dangerous biohazard, toyed with my perception of reality, and overall you were a flirtatious nuisance.” 

Pinky’s tail stopped wagging. 

“So yes. You were indeed a convincing villain,” Brain said. He tapped the credit card. “And to fulfill the conditions of our original deal, I shall now treat you to Denny’s.” 

He was a mouse of his word. 

“Hoorah!” Pinky cheered. He twirled around in excitement, his black dress swirling around him as he danced all the way to the sidewalk. “Let’s go, Brain! I wanna look at all the lovely pictures on their menu!” 

“You’re going like that?” Brain called after him. Didn’t he want to change out of the Disney villainess ensemble? 

“Well you’re naked! So there!” Pinky stuck his tongue out at him. 

With a sigh, Brain joined his companion on the sidewalk. Pinky skipped over to a patch of white flowers blooming next to the sidewalk, gently cupping the petals and cooing at a ladybug which landed on a blade of grass next to his foot. 

Truly a convincing villain. 

And Brain’s poor unfortunate soul was helpless under his power. 

End AN: I deny selecting Poor Unfortunate Souls over other villain songs specifically for the body language line. You can’t prove anything. 

I HC that Brain would hate Pettigrew more than any other Harry Potter character. I was trying to write a villainous Pinky...somewhere along the way he turned into Pinky Suavo. I don’t get it either XD

There's some folks taking care of the biohazard the mice left behind. Don't worry, the lab's still standing. It's just their problem while the mice get Denny's. 

#patb disney #patb fanfiction #pinky and the brain

[sassyfreakshepherdgiant]

Notice Me - Chapter 3 (Jack Kline x Reader!Winchester)

A/N - This chapter was prompted by the song by Nine Inch Nails called “Something I can never have”, which I think I’ll build on later. Thoughts? Also here is Chapter 2 which is recommended before reading this! PS - Jack Kline is so poorly underwritten on here its SAD.

Summary - While the cats away, the mice will play. Jack decides to explore his feelings for Y/N but how will it go? 

Warnings : THIS IS A SLOW BURN STORY! Light SMUT, Jack Kline OC, angst? Generally bad writing? IDK! This WILL take a dark turn I think!

"I need to leave town. A good friend of mine passed away, I need to attend his funeral." Dean said. "I'm sorry Dad, I will take care of everything here" Y/N said without hesitation. Dean looked between you and Jack, as if he sensed a change. "Alright, just no funny business ok? Sammy will be here too.” Dean said. "So no jokes?" Jack said eyebrows furring together. "Hahahaha isn't he great dad? No need to worry!" you exclaimed throwing your hands up. "Yeah, sure, just be safe." And with that Dean took off for a week.

__________________________________________

Frustration had been eating at you, why did you feel guilty for your progression with Jack? He knew what he was doing and so did you. Hell your dad made out with THE darkness for Chuck sakes, what did you have to feel bad for? You ran into the gym to blow off some steam.

"You are hitting with the wrong side" Jack said pointedly as you hit the bag. You groan in frustration. "Let me help" Jack grabs your arm from behind, standing close to you. Jack leans in, whispering in your ear, "Start with your right and swing upwards". A sharp shiver shoots down your body as you do what's asked of you. "That's a good girl" Jack says and your breath hitches in your throat. Jack was innocent, of this you were certain, but the more you began to learn of the Nephilim, the more you began to realize otherwise. Jack had grown up fast, and learned even faster.

"Lets hit the mat" Jack said, walking over to the tumbling area. "First, start off by swinging with your arm pushing upward rather than forward" Jack stated as you swung. Next thing you knew you were on the ground looking up at the beautiful angel who had become your best friend. "Not so bad for a full human" Jack said jokingly.

I tossed off my gloves and decided to push my luck, finding the angels ticklish spot, which happened to be his sides. My fingers grazed his side but before I could even get my second giggle out Jack had me pinned on the mat with my hands above my head.

"Jack?" Y/N questioned worriedly, Jacks eyes were glowing as he bent down to meet your mouth to his. If you wanted to put up a fight there was no way you could, Jack's body hummed around yours, as if his grace reverberate within you.

Jack lifted his mouth from yours, enough time for you to collect air before he traveled down to your throat. It was no secret, you had not experienced this before. Being a seventeen year old with your dad left little room for these kinds of things, but my Chuck, how magical they were.

Jack's tongue dipped out to taste the sweat on your neck, a guttural moan left your throat and was met by a low, animalistic growl from Jack. Your heart rate began to pick up pace," was this your moment?" you thought to yourself.

Before either of you could continue what was happening, a loud thud rumbled through the bunker. "Y/N?! Jack?! I’m back!" Your uncle Sam echoed through the halls, next thing you knew you were on the floor by yourself, Jack gone. "What the hell?" you thought before Sam entered the gym. "Do you want any food?" Sam asked, "Uh sure" you said, trying your best to act as if you were not just in heaven with the best angel you ever met.

__________________________________________

Later that night you sit in your room, the earlier events of the day ringing in your mind. You were naïve, innocent to sex, but since Jack had come into your lives all of that had changed. You wanted Jack, craved him, and he was a constant in your mind.

You decided to take a cold shower to get Jack off of your mind and to release some pressure. You hadn't touched yourself much since reaching puberty but Jack had awakened something new in you, something that couldn't be sated.

You started touching yourself, the hot pulsing water burning your skin and relaxing you all at the same time. Suddenly you were hit by a wave of pleasure, it was more than that though, it was humming again in your body. The vibration hit your core, pushing, teasing, and tempting you to cum over and over again. You never knew anything like this and your body screamed that recognition.

Without hesitation your mind flashed with images, images of Jack and you. These weren't just any images though, these images were explicit in detail. Jack looming over you, eyes glowing, Jack commanding you to beg him to please you. Jack between your legs, eyes once again glowing. Jack laying on top of you, panting, expressing his love for you.

That was all you needed before your eyes shut and you exploded, yelling Jacks name. Fireworks flashed behind your eyelids as you lay your head against the shower wall. You pant, clean yourself off, and pray no one had heard you. "What had gotten into you?" You thought to yourself. It was the best feeling you had ever had but something didn't sit right with you.

You quickly climbed into your comfy pajamas before you set off to find Jack, someone needed to make dinner and it was your Friday movie night together. You rounded the corner out of your room before you came head to head with Jack himself. This Jack was different though, he looked darker, more disturbed. His stance was strong and his eyes grew bright, worrying you.

"Did you enjoy your shower Y/N?" Jack said.

#smut #jack kline smut #jack kline #jack kline x y/n #jack kline x reader #jack kline x you #jack kline x winchester!reader #spn #spnfamily #spnfandom #spn fanfic series #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel

[jaskierswolf]

What Form Love Takes

Summary: Geralt and Jaskier return once again to Kaer Morhen, only this time they're travelling high in the skies.

- Can be read as stand-alone - Part 8 of my Shapeshifter!Jaskier AU

CW: Non-sexual/non-graphic nudity (they take a bath)

___________

The fire in Jaskier’s lungs burned as he flew over the mountains. Another year on the path had come and gone. Winter was creeping in, a slow frost carpeting the Continent, tendrils reaching further south with each day. Both Jaskier and Geralt were anxious to return to their home in the Blue Mountains. They’d spent most of the year searching for Yennefer of Vengerberg with no success. Sorceresses were funny people and hard to track down. Jaskier had no doubt that the witch would turn up when she was ready. He roared as the crumbling keep came into sight, a pillar of flames bursting free from his lungs. The colours of the flame danced in front of his eyes, more vibrant in this form than any other. He could see the heat haze rippling through the air and he had to resist the urge to dive and spin through the air, dancing in the waves his flame had created.

But he had a rather fragile witcher on his back who would not be able to hold on if he were to dive the way he wanted. Geralt’s arms already had a death grip around his neck and the flight had been pretty steady so far. He heard his mate groan and felt the slight pressure of Geralt’s head pressing into his scales.

He snorted a smoke ring and flew through it. Flying was a phenomenal feeling. Geralt was just whining for the sake of it.

“Jask…”

Jaskier snorted again. There wasn’t much else he could say to his darling mate in this form without using telepathy, and he had never quite mastered that skill. He had a habit of barrelling into memories instead of placing his thoughts in the other’s mind. So he preferred to avoid it. Instead he just sniffed the air. The scent of roasted venison hit his senses, making his stomach rumble. He peered out over the horizon, a small smoke stack was puffing above the keep. Vesemir already had dinner on the go. Jaskier let out a happy rumble, not too dissimilar to a purr, and he felt Geralt’s finger brush the scales of his neck.

“What have you seen?” Geralt asked, still sounding a little queasy from their flight from Oxenfurt.

He pointed his snout towards the keep that was growing larger the closer they approached. Geralt should be able to see it now with his witcher senses.

“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt hummed and Jaskier nodded. He resisted the urge to dive towards their home. Instead he started a slower descent. When they got closer he still he began to circle the keep, getting lower with every turn.

He roared when he spotted Eskel and Vesemir waiting for the in the courtyard, another pillar of fire tore through the sky before he landed with a heavy thud on the ground. The two witchers waved them down.

“Always a dramatic entrance, bard,” Eskel laughed, reaching out his hand so that Jaskier could bump his snout against the palm of Eskel’s hand.

“We were late setting off.”

“We were starting to worry,” Vesemir huffed, arms crossed in front of his chest. Jaskier felt a swell of bitter pride in his chest. How dare this witcher insinuate that he couldn’t look after his mate? He was a dragon! He let out a low snarl, warmth heating up in his lungs.

“Easy, Jask,” Geralt rubbed the back of his neck in a warning. It wasn’t enough to incapacitate him but it did send a slight ripple of warmth down his spine. He blinked, forcing down his more draconic urges, and focussed on the voice of his mate. “Where’s Lambert?” Geralt asked, not removing his grip from Jaskier’s neck.

“He got caught up in Nilfgaard with that cat of his,” Vesemir grunted “they’re alive.”

Jaskier snorted, tail flicking against the ground. He was looking forward to having his family back together again, the disappointment was almost overwhelming. It wasn’t fair. They already had to walk the path alone throughout the year and now he couldn’t even see them for winter. Geralt must have sensed his distressed as he nuzzled his face against Jaskier’s neck.

“Wintering in Nilfgaard seems pretty cushy to me,” Eskel noted. “A lot less cold.”

Jaskier hissed at the blond witcher, earning himself a laugh from Geralt. “We miss them too, Jask.”

“We’ll get together in the summer for one of the festivals?” Eskel suggested. “There’s always plenty of contracts around then, I think the wine gets to everyone’s head.”

“Good idea.”

Jaskier let out a rumble of agreement before shaking Geralt from his back. The smell of venison in this form was too much, it was making him hungry and he had to dig his craws into the stones to stop himself from charging through the keep to the kitchens. He needed to change from this form, and fast.

Geralt landed next to him and pulled off the makeshift saddlebags with their belongs. Jaskier closed his eyes, letting his magic loose, rippling out in waves over the shiny red scales until pink skin morphed back into view. He landed on his hands and knees on the stone, the chill of the mountainous winter breeze quickly seeping into his bones. “Bollocks,” he hissed and launched himself into Geralt’s waiting arms. “It’s fucking freezing.”

Geralt chuckled and wrapped his arms around Jaskier, shielding him from the wind. Jaskier felt the press of Geralt’s lips on his hair and he sighed happily. The wind might be like shards of ice cutting into his skin but his lover was attentive and Jaskier felt safe in his arms. “We’ve had a long journey, we’ll be down for dinner,” Geralt told the oldest witcher before pulling Jaskier inside the keep. They dumped their bags in the entrance hall before making a beeline for the hot springs that lay deep within the keep, the only part of the building that remained unscathed from the battles of so long ago.

Jaskier shivered violently in Geralt’s arms. He should have transformed into something with fur first but he’d been stuck without words as they flew over the continent for hours, barely taking a break.  His back and shoulder were aching from the journey, a phantom pain where his wings had been. The hot springs would do wonders for the aches. “H. Home,” he stammered through chattering teeth.

Geralt hummed, fingers rubbing circles into his upper arm as they walked. The corridors grew darker as they walked further down, soon the light from the windows and cracks in the wall faded away and the only light left was the glow from the torches along the wall. Geralt held his hand out in front of them, a tiny little ball of fire in his palm. It wasn’t much but the heat from the flames was blissful.

Fuck, humans really weren’t meant for the winters of Kaer Morhen. This year must have been colder than usual, as Jaskier could have sworn that he could usually at least stand outside long enough to strip out of his clothes, perhaps the weariness from the journey had worn him down more than he thought. Now that he thought about it he eyes were starting to droop and Geralt was practically carrying him through the corridors.

“‘M tired…”

“I know.”

Jaskier wanted to make a joke about Geralt’s ever eloquent ways but his tongue felt too heavy in his mouth. Bath, food and a good sleep. That’s what he wanted.

The air was thick with steam as they pushed the door open into the springs. Jaskier sighed happily as the heat prickled against his skin. He took one look at the pools of water and shifted. Geralt’s hand reached up to hold his medallion as Jaskier’s magic whipped out around them, the crack of bones bouncing off the walls. The room grew bigger and he fell to the ground on four paws, scratching against the wet stones as he scurried to the water’s edge. He chosen this form well. He knew he was too tired to bathe without falling asleep and he would really rather not drown. He squeaked up at Geralt before diving into the water.

It was warm, hotter than the water he’d usually have liked in this form. The otters of this species were used to cold open sea water but he wanted to float. He swam under the water for a while, letting the warmth seep into his fur before breaching the surface. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, keeping his paws tucked into his chest.

“Jaskier,” Geralt chuckled and Jaskier felt himself float a little further, the water rippling as Geralt finally joined him. “We can’t stay here for too long, love.”

Jaskier squeaked, not opening his eyes. He would stay here forever if he could.

“Are otters really that fluffy?”

Another squeak, and he cracked one eye open to glare at Geralt. His anger didn’t last long when he saw the look Geralt was giving him. It was unbearably fond, head tilted and a soft smile on his face. His hair had come loose from the leather hair tie on the back of his head, and water was clinging to his chest, caught in the dark grey tuffs of hair. Jaskier felt a swell of love in his heart, it was almost too much. He’d spent so many years worrying that he would never find a partner that would accept his true self, hiding his magic away like it was a dirty secret. If he felt himself falling in love then he would sneak out of the window in the dead of night, never to return.

He’d been convinced that no one would ever love him when they knew what he was, and he wasn’t willing to give his heart away to someone that couldn’t accept him. Geralt had blown past all those walls in an instant, and somehow Jaskier had managed to worm his way past the witcher’s own defences, finding both a lover and a new pack to call his own.

He pushed at the water with his paws and floated over to where Geralt was sat at the edge of the pools, he didn’t want to lose Geralt. He couldn’t loose Geralt. He reached out to his partner with his paws, with a quiet squeak.

“I love you too,” Geralt breathed in a soft voice, like he was in awe of Jaskier. As if the witcher wasn’t the most incredible creature on the whole Continent.

Geralt let Jaskier hold onto one of his fingers, tiny paws wrapping around the digit as if it were a lifeline. Jaskier chattered happily before closing his eyes, finally letting the exhaustion wash over him. He was safe, he was home, and Geralt wouldn’t let him float away.

He woke up to a gentle rocking movement, his face pressed against Geralt’s chest as the witcher carried him back to his room. He blinked, flicking his tail out behind him. It was only when he started purring that he realised he’d shifted forms in his sleep. His ears flicked out and he pawed at Geralt’s shirt.

“You only changed once I picked you up,” Geralt answered his unasked question, scratching him gently behind the ears. “I don’t think cats like the water very much.”

Jaskier meowed softly and nuzzled against Geralt’s chest. A gentle bite against Geralt’s collar was all the warning the witcher got before he let his magic ripple out over his skin. Geralt grunted under the sudden weight of the human in his arms, changing his hold so Jaskier was being carried bridal style up to their rooms. “Hey,” he mumbled sleepily “how long was I out?”

“Nearly an hour. Vesemir came to find us a few minutes ago. he’s keeping our food warm.”

Jaskier yawned and then pressed his lips to Geralt’s shoulder, sadly now covered by the tattered black shirt he wore under his armour. “I love you, darling.”

Geralt’s laughed rumbled in his chest and Jaskier smiled, still half asleep, as he buried his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck. Geralt’s hand cradled the back of his neck, carding through his hair, and Jaskier was asleep again in seconds.

The next time he woke they were back in Geralt’s bedroom, the witcher was now fully dressed in his thick winter clothes that the witchers preferred to wear in the evenings once training was done for the day. Jaskier was buried under thick furs on their bed, still naked. A roaring fire was blazing in the hearth, filling the room with its heat. “Dinner?” he asked as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. His stomach rumbled as if to repeat his question.

Geralt chuckled and crossed the room to kiss him on the top of his head. “Ready when you are.”

His stomach growled again and he grinned sheepishly. “I’m starving,” he whined. “why did you let me sleep?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. “You just flew us halfway across the Continent, Jask, you needed the rest.”

“But I’m hungry,” he pouted.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Bloody bards, never win.”

Jaskier grinned and pulled his boyfriend into a kiss, cupping Geralt’s face in his hands. “Au contraire, my love, I think you win every single day.”

“So modest,” the witcher grumbled against his lips, rubbing their noses together.

“You love me,” he purred.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier giggled and kissed Geralt again, lazily, pouring all his love into the kiss, but he blasted stomach rumbled again before the kiss could get anywhere. He whined as he pressed his forehead against Geralt’s. The witcher laughed, stroking a thumb along his cheek. “Let’s go find the others,” Geralt suggested.

“Hmm,” Jaskier replied, still pouting then with a heavy sighed he pushed Geralt away. “fine, spoilsport. Just let me get dressed first.”

Both Eskel and Vesemir were finished with their food by the time Geralt and Jaskier made it downstairs. Jaskier was wrapped up in thick wool lined clothes, a vibrant turquoise compared to Geralt’s dark navy blue ones. It wasn’t as thick as the fur he could have but he really did want to say hello to his family properly. He’d not seen Vesemir since last winter and they’d only run into Eskel once on the path.

“Greetings,” he waved at the two witchers “sorry we’re late.”

“He fell asleep again.”

“Well I’m sorry! You’re the one that lost Roach in a game of Gwent. It’s not my fault we had to fly all the way here.”

Geralt’s growled at the reminder. He’d been so sure that he could beat the arsehole but the bastard had cheated and they’d practically been run out of town, leaving Roach behind. Eskel gave a full bellied laugh, his tankard of ale crashing onto the table. “I wondered what had happened to her, it was a little soon to be replacing her.”

“She’s not dead,” Geralt grumbled, shooting daggers at Jaskier.

“We’ll find you a new horse in the spring, dearest of hearts,” he cooed, fluttering his eyelashes at his lover in attempt to soothe his anger.

“Not the point.”

“Oh ho ho!” Jaskier laughed, pulling his plate of food towards him. It was venison, of course, with thick gravy and roasted vegetables. On the side was a freshly baked roll, now a cold sadly but he really had needed to rest so he wasn’t too upset. “Grumpy witcher.”

Geralt growled again, which only made Jaskier laugh and this time Eskel and Vesemir joined in. Jaskier reached across the table to poked Geralt on the nose. “You know you don’t scare me, love.”

“Hmm.”

The dining hall echoed with the laughter of witchers, and for a brief moment Jaskier could imagine what Kaer Morhen had been like before the siege; full of witchers, brothers in arms, loyal friends and family. It made his heart ache. As much as he adored his pack, they didn’t deserve the pain of losing so many. Contrary to popular belief, these wonderfully kind beings were not meant to be alone.

He gazed around at his family, a pang of regret that Lambert and Aiden were not with them for the winter, and smiled fondly. He took Geralt’s hand under the table. The witcher raised an eyebrow at him but he shook his head. There were no words to describe this feeling, the warmth in his chest for finding the place that he belonged, the bitter pain of yearning. So many different and conflicting emotions in one single moment. How could he possibly find the words that could encompass all of that? He settled for holding Geralt’s hand under the table as they ate, joking and laughing with their family as if they’d never been away.

_____

Next

#the witcher #geraskier #kaer morhen #shapeshifter!jaskier #shifter!jaskier #shifter au #wolfie's witcher writing

[writingstarling]

Comfort in You

Adrien needed to get out. He curled deeper into himself as the walls chased down to cage him like a determined hunter.

It was a trick of the mind, he knew. He knew his room was spacious enough to support a relatively large apartment. That it would be impossible for him to be closed in.

He knew. But his brain couldn’t process that.

Today wasn’t what Adrien would call a good day—and he certainly had better. Just thinking of it sent him into a spiral of his own thoughts.

The air in his room were lego blocks he's forced to inhale. Smothering his nostrils in full force. And was it just him or was the ground starting to sway?

“Breathe,” a voice brought him back to reality. Adrien didn’t even notice he was holding his breath.

He had to calm down. Gain his head back.

Breathe, Agreste. Just like the article said, 4 7 8. Inhale through the nose for 4. Hold it for 7. Exhale through the mouth for 8, Adrien did as so.

You’re alright, you’re okay. Just calm down and you can get out of here!

Somehow he had managed. His surroundings were clearing up. The walls didn’t look like they were about to collapse on him anymore. The air filtering through his nostrils lightened in weight.

He was fine.

“Fine” was an overstatement really. He was far from it as it is.

But in his situation and for argument’s sake, “fine” would fit in nicely.

Exhaling one last shaky breath, Adrien fixed eye contact with his furry companion and smiled.

“Thanks, Plagg. I needed that.”

The black cat rubbed his cheek against his chosen’s. Not for long though. Despite appearances, Plagg had a reputation to keep. He couldn’t let Tikki make fun of him!

Plagg did loops in the air before favouring a spot in front of his chosen. His flipper like hands poised on his waist and a sly smirk played on his lips.

“So, you ready to break out of this place?”

Adrien mirrored his smirk with a fresh new glint in his eyes, “Plagg, claws out!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life had been considerably unpredictable for Marinette. With her secret life as a superhero and the sudden debut of a supposed supervillain—or magical terrorist with the ability to grant people magical powers through the aid of butterflies, Marinette had thought that she was beginning to gain the capability to be unfazed by the unexpected. That with all the bizzare events in her life she became acquainted with it.

Apparently she was wrong.

Never had she expected for a certain cat—or perhaps Chat to be perched on her veranda. It rattled her at first. Chat’s last visit had been... interesting, to put it nicely. It wasn’t his fault per se, nevertheless the escalating events left a bad taste in her father regarding the cat themed hero. The bad blood died down, but finding the very person that broke your daughter’s heart on your balcony would certainly summon a very irresistible impulse to jettison him; and Marinette really didn’t want to explain to Paris why one of their heroes managed to become roadkill near her bakery (the suit would probably protect him, but Marinette did not want to take that chance).

That put aside, Marinette shuffled under her sole protector from peering—or in this case, Chat Noir’s eyes. A hand stationed at her trapdoor as her eyes spied on her partner.

His back faced her as he surveyed the city; his cat ears were flat on his tousled gold locks while he hummed a song Marinette became familliar with as “Little Cat on The Roof”. Her lips twitched into a knowing frown.

Being partners for so long they were bound to notice habits the other owned. At the moment, it was Chat’s occasional croons. Marinette recognised the song as Chat's solace. A safe haven achieved by focusing on the assortment of melodies the song offered. She came to the conclusion that her kitty was distressed; presumably due to family circumstances.

Marinette weighted her odds. It didn’t seem like Chat had noticed her yet—which was good. She hadn’t known what action to take. On the one hand, it would be wise to not nose around and let him solve it in his own time. But on the other hand, seeing him lack his usual jubilant and bright attitude sent a jab to her heart.

She wanted to help. To be of service to him like the terrible jokes and over the top shenanigans he did for her. No matter how stubborn she was to clung to her sour mood, he would do almost everything that came to mind to alleviate her spirits. She wanted to do the same for him.

“Marinette?”

The mentioned girl tensed before sighing internally. She knew she was bound to be spotted (HA!) somehow, though she did wish it would be from her own volition rather than a slip aided by Chat’s observation skills. Marinette didn’t loiter on that thought longer and pulled herself up. Red bloomed on her cheeks as the crisp autumn air caressed her skin while embarrassment added an even darker shade of red.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to spy,” she found great interest in the floor as her fingers busied themselves by connecting and disconnecting themselves, stealing peeks as she did.

She expected, hoped, for him to take the chance to chaff her of having an infatuation on him or alleging her of being stunted by his self-proclaimed dashing looks (Marinette has thrown herself into a spiral of denial), albeit begrudgingly. She had, because if he did—there lied a glimmer of hope that it would be easier to buoy her partner. Chat, however, had other plans in mind.

Chat offered her a smile. Impeccably centered and hollow like a well crafted porcelain doll, “It’s okay, it was rude of me to steal your balcony.”

Internally Marinette cringed at the sight. Her stomach wrapped itself in knots of discomfort. It reminded her of the smile Adrien would plaster whenever Chloe or Lila claimed possession of him. That night Marinette vowed that she would never let that smile abide on either boys ever again.

“It’s all right,” she spoke as her feet planted herself next to him.

A pregnant pause held them hostage. Both fearful of breaking the fragile semblance of peace between them despite the mutually felt inquietude.

“So,” Marinette threaded with rightfully earned prudence. Voice soft and light like footsteps on thin ice.

“...So...”

“I have some croissants.”

Finally a piece of her kitty came to light in the form of a grin on his lips and a glint in his eyes.

“You would indulge this poor stray to the finest pastries in the world? Truly, you are the most a-meow-zing purr-incess in the world!”

Marinette fought the giggle bubbling in her throat with no success before sending him a playful glare coupled by a smirk that flourished nothing but friskiness, “Careful now, those awful puns might just cost you.”

Chat’s hand sought his heart above the magical leather suit as an overly inflated gasp found freedom from his peach pink lips.

“How could you Purr-incess! My puns are widely ad-mew-tted to be fur-ry paw-esome,” he retaliated, voice brimmed with feigned smugness.

Snacks and chagrins were soon forgotten as they fell into an easy rhythm of banter. Jabs aimed to Chat’s puns would immediately be reciprocated with a flimsy defense along with an additional pun. Each one personally designed to perturb her further into submission. But despite it, Marinette couldn’t brush away the warmth buzzing through her entire body as they went back and forth. The once brisk air nipping at her skin replaced by a fervour akin to a hug from a dear friend.

After a particularly long laughter from both parties as Chat had finally managed to delivered a humorous pun - “EXCUSE mew Purr-incess, my puns are always funny!” - they settled in another lapse of silence. Consisted of feather lightness and melodic sweetness.

The city was exceptionally beautiful, they had agreed. Perhaps it was due to the occurrence of a full moon, offering the city a better lighting to its beauty; perhaps it was the fiery orange lining the streets with its playful gradient; or perhaps the most immediately discarded thought in their heads, the company they had.

It was a territory they never dared to venture. A land littered with minefields yet to be discovered, yet to explode with much more uncertainty and a set of emotions they were far too fearful to label. Because trying to label the unknown might shatter the bits of understanding of their emotions they barely possessed. Putting the hesitantly glued pieces into shambles; and as a teenager finding their place in the world, it was a risk they were walking eggshells on.

Neither allowed themselves to loiter on the thought longer than a second.

“I, I should get going.” Perhaps it was her imagination, perhaps it was reality how Chat’s ears drooped as he spoke.

“Uh, yeah, it's getting late...”

Chat took the initiative to climb the rails of her balcony, hunched and ready to set off. Baton in hand and his leather-covered thumb hovering over the button to extend it the moment he leaps.

Swivelling his head to face the pig-tailed girl, he gave her a smile, genuine and sincere. “Thanks Marinette, I’ll see you next time.”

For reasons unkown to Marinette herself, a giggle burst forth from her throat. Tickling the air around them with her bubbly laughter. All at once, the air felt warmer to Chat Noir.

“Sure thing, you silly cat.”

Marinette had expected for Chat Noir to make his way. However, still he was in his previous position, unmoving. Marinette was one breath away from uttering her worries when Chat Noir’s voice cut through the air in slight whispers timid and uncharacteristic.

“Can I,” he paused for a minute, but persevered nonetheless, “can I come here again?”

The question sounded child-like in Marinette’s ears. Like a shy little kid trying to make friends while shouldering a large fear of rejection. He sounded so small, so vulnerable.

Marinette took a breath to ease the tenseness she felt from Chat’s question. She needed to deliver an answer appropriate from her words down to her tone in order to fully put Chat at ease.

Gentle and fluffy, sweeter than all the candies in the world with a tone of loveliness, she spoke. “You’re always welcomed here, Chat.”

A weight could visibly be seen lifted off Chat’s shoulders. Shoulders once guarded and fearful of rejection came to relax for the first time that night. With a nod, Chat finally made his way back to his house.

The journey was something he didn’t desire, but he can’t impose Marinette with his overdue stay. At the very least, he came back with a new feeling better than anything he had in a long time. A feeling of warmth buzzing in his heart. Perhaps, he’s finally starting to remember the feeling of home again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

HAHAHAHA SO-

I uh, I forgot about this thing’s existence and neglected it for 2 years...

Well so that’s also why the writing style is a bit screwed up but I tried and honestly I was too lazy to rewrite the whole thing so you can have this mess instead ❤️.

#miraculous chat noir #miraculous ladybug #miraculous #miraculous marinette #marinette dupain cheng #adrien x marinette #ml marinette #mlb #ml adrien #marichat #fanfic #fanfiction #chat noir #adrien agreste #miraculous adrien #mlb fanfic

[mintyfrosty]

Simple Melodies (A Medieval AU Fanfic)

Melody echoed through the abandoned avenues of the garden pathways, a small, deep humming following along and hypnotising whoever heard it with its minor notes. It wasn't often that particular individual placed his lute. But there was always a time for anything, and tonight was one of those times. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do. Well, other than lie his bed thinking about the same thing over and over and over again.

"Thank you, Right--!"

The sensation was still on his hand from the prince placing a small kiss there, even if it had been a couple of hours ago now.

It wasn't as if it a bad thing. At least, the peasant didn't seem to think so. It was a comforting sort of feeling. The prince was one of the big things in the castle that kept Right from losing his mind. Heh, sometimes the royal brought a fuzzy feeling in Right's stomach. Reginald always tried to make time for him; powered through his work to talk to him. It, well, made him feel valued. Special, perhaps. People didn't give a damn about him, generally - unless you wronged him and had a cold plate of revenge on the way. However, for some reason, those small moments with the prince touched him. And after today's events? Heh-- oh man. A blush blotched over his face, fingers drifting over the instrument.

But... sigh

There were so many factors at play. Reginald was a prince, a prince, for God-sakes. A prince who happen to talk to him and ask about his day and...

...

It was probably for the best that he came out to the garden to play his lute. More for his sake to get his mind off of the prince. Right was a commoner; he had to remember that.

Stupid royal code.

Granted, it had only been able four or five days since he got 'assigned' this job. Yet he already found himself growing close with the brunette, even when he shouldn't. Well, 'close' was a stretch. It was more so comfortable acquaintances. The prince was a mystery; no one should be 'close' with him, even if he wanted to. 

There were rules.

And who was he to opposed them?

He was simply a peasant with dreadfully bad luck.

Amid his thoughts, his caramel eyes caught sight of a shadow moving behind a tree in the near distance. Curious, the guard turned his head slightly, only to see the shadow completely conceal themselves at his gaze. Odd. Someone was watching him. And judging by its reaction, it was either someone scared of him or scared of being caught. Or both. Maybe he'd be able to catch them in the act, his mind thought, cheeks beginning to brighten with a smirk.

And so, the guard returned to his song, looking back forward, yet making sure the corner of his eye could still catch sight of the tree. Casually, of course, even adding a small whistle to the melody. That bundle of shadows proved to be way too curious, sneaking forward out from the tree's protection to see the music come off the instrument. A small grin met the guard's face, now tapping his foot to appear to be lost in his music, trying to lure in the unexpected audience. He waited, kept strumming the strings of the lute until the person had come out enough for their face to be visible. Right quickly snapped his head in the direction, slamming the music to a holt with his hands.

Ah.

The prince.

Said prince made a small 'eep' at being spotted, quickly slinking behind the tree as though he wanted to stay hidden, even if he wanted to watch. A small sense of curiosity filled Right's soul, putting the instrument down onto the bench he was setting out, gesturing a hand to himself.

"Aye, it's a'right! I ain't gonna report ya."

...it seemed to have work, as the brunette slowly pushed himself into the light. It was much more casual attire the commoner had ever seen the prince wear. It was a simple combination of a baggy, long shirt and pants for nightwear with a fluffy robe over his shoulders. Big azure eyes of the young royal filled with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. The commoner caught sight of it, lips curling up in a bright smile and waving over the prince with a friendly wave of his hand. It message got to the prince, Reginald taking a small seat next to him with a tight posture and stressed muscles.

"I apologise--" Began the prince immediately, fumbling with the gloves on his hands.

"I just-- heard it from my room and wanted to hear it better--"

Mm...

Nervousness covered the prince's posture, gloved hands reaching up to grab the edges of his robe sleeves and looking down. There was a small dash of crimson that painted over the young royal's face, a shy look in his eyes. In a way, the guard found himself to be surprised. The prince, the prince, coming down from his room, fully dressed to be asleep, to watch him play his music. The commoner plucked an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat and propping a leg up against the other, his right ankle rested against his left knee. There was a mixture of pride and satisfaction that filled his spirit, even when he intended to play music without an audience. Heh, almost ironic. In his efforts to get his mind off the prince, he only lured him out of his room.

"Izat so?" Murmured the guard, picking up his lute again and letting it rest in his hands. The hue on the prince's face deepened. To hide his embarrassment the royal buried his face into the fur, nodding slowly to answer his question.

Uh...hm.

Right never considered himself to be good with his words, but the prince looked so embarrassed that he felt the need to say something. But nothing came to surface, brown eyes drifting down to the instrument. It was a rickety old thing. Some of the wood was peeled off and the engraves had lone since eroded.

"Well..." Began the commoner, turning toward the smaller male with a grin. "Might as well giv' ya a front-row seat t'en." The commoner kicked up his song again, careful fingers strumming along with the notes. The emptiness within the garden evaporated immediately, now replaced with its minor notes. Despite the melancholy tone, there was a brightness that filled the space. It was obvious with how the prince slowly began to uncurl from his tight posture, eyes glued to the stringed instrument. As if a burden had lifted off of his exhausted shoulders. A grin of giddiness grew to Right's face, voice beginning to hum lowly in sync with the string's song, creating somewhat of gentle harmony.

"So, ye like music, eh?" Commented the guard, glancing over to the prince with one eye whilst his fingers still danced across the strings. Reginald gazed his eyes up to meet the commoner's, a hand falling to the back of his neck and rubbing it.

"I, erm..." There was a hesitation in his voice. "I do-- I haven't heard it in such a long time--"

...what?

The music slowed down the smallest bit, the commoner caught off by the comment. Never heard music for a long time? How much was a long time? Ah-- maybe that was a bad question. Skewing his lips in thought, the commoner turned his head completely toward the prince, who now looked down with shyness.

"W'y not?"

God-- he didn't even think about the implications of a question like that. It spewed out without a second thought, unlike the first question. Goddammit Right. The commoner facepalmed in his head. It was probably sensitive--

"Oh, uhm--" Surprisingly, the prince answered, gaze still refusing to look up. "I, uhm, just don't know how to play anything-- th-that's all..."

Don't...know how to play?

Well, that was NOT the answer he was expecting or anything along those lines. Didn't the royal have endless entertainers to play for him if he wanted to hear it? People would do anything for a royal. Royals were above everyone. Everyone. The prince had that power, didn't he?

The music had come to a stop at that point, Right putting the instrument to the side and turning toward the royal to make the conversation more one on one. "Can ya not...I dunno, ask someone to play f' ye?"

Whether it was because of Right turning to him or the prince acting on his own according, Right wasn't sure, but the royal turned his eyes up to meet those caramel ones that belonged to him. The crimson still lingered on his face, even more, a few shades darker. After a visible swallow, the prince's voice came to surface. “I...I don't like...asking people. Everyone's always, erm, busy with something--"

...

Ah.

Never in Right's whole life did he think he'd meet a noble such as Reginald. A royal that had all the power to command people but far too humble to use it. Even though his heart cried to hear music, he didn't want to disturb anyone. A pity formed into the guard's heart grin long gone and replaced by a deep frown. Right himself got the idea that the prince was hesitant to do a lot of things, but not to hear music?

That was upsetting.

"Aye, well..." The commoner wiped his mouth. "We ain't busy now; 'ow's 'bout I teach ya?"

The prince's reaction was immediate, blinking his eyes that went wide. There were probably a million thoughts going through the young royal's head, the prince probably needed a second to digest the thought. Right needed that moment too if he was being honest. The words tumbled out again (he found that happened a lot when he talked to the prince), and he just offered to teach him music. It was a mixture of a mystical feeling and a flustered one, heart pounding hard in his ears when his mind caught up with him.

Heh, maybe it was a bit dumb but it was worth a shot.

A small shot to see that amazement in the prince's eyes when he first saw the commoner playing.

Until eventually, very eventually, the prince found his voice again.

"R-Really--?"

It was giddy, filled to the brim with excitement. The frown that once rested on Right's face curled up into a smile. He didn't see the prince giddy often, since he was usually so busy with the ridiculous amount of work he had. But now there weren't any deadlines or paperwork. Just a simple offer to teach the prince something.

Heh. That'd be a first.

With a nod, the commoner felt a grin grow to his face, picking up the instrument again. "'course. Now, c'm'here. 'll show ye the basics."

XxX

Minty: I got in a fluff mood so have a smol fanfic :D

#medieval au #medieval fanfic #mintyfrosty au #mintyfrosty's au #mintyfrosty #princey #medieval!Regianld #medieval!Right #fluff #fanfic #thsc au #thsc #the henry stickmin collection #the henry stickmin collection au #reginald copperbottom #right hand man #rhm #long post

[beyondthetower]

Poppies in the Graveyard (Byleth x Felix)

Summary: In an attempt to make sense of what has happened in the past five years, Byleth finds herself at her parents grave.

Characters/Pairing: Byleth x Felix

Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings: Lil bit o’ angst

A/N: I’m marrying Felix in my VW play-through and I didn’t think I would have that many feelings for him but man did I fall hard for this brooding boy.

It rained all weekend. Rainy days had a way of squirming their way into Byleth’s heart and hardening it. It reminded her of her father’s death. Reminding her that soon as he had passed, had smiled at her one last time, the heavens opened up. Symbolic: that’s what people called it. People that didn’t know the truth of who she was. It was like the Goddess wept with you, Mercedes had said a few days after it happened. Byleth wanted to correct her, to tell her that the Goddess wept whenever she wept because they were one in the same. But it didn’t matter much to her who understood and who didn’t.

That had been so many years ago that Byleth wondered if people even remembered her father’s death or if it had become just another nameless sacrifice in the sake of somebody’s “greater good”. It broke her heart to think that it was a possibility.

Now, on rainy days, Byleth would move without thinking. She would wake up, eat, grab some flowers from the greenhouse, and make her way to the cemetery.

Before her father told her the story of her mother, she would often find him standing by her gravestone. One day she had been walking back from training with Dimitri and noticed him hovering over the site with flowers. She had brushed it off at first. Surely he had known plenty of knights that were buried there. But the flowers made her wonder. And the frequency of his visits did too. She probably should have realized before he told her.

“Hi father. Hi mother.”

Byleth placed the flowers by the weathered stone. She sat down in the wet grass, ignoring the cold. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she smiled at the site of her father’s name resting beside her mothers. While she had never known much about her mother, Byleth could still feel the love he had for her. The few times he would mention her, the love on his face was rivaled only by the look he’d give her after she’d done particularly well in battle: a heart-swelling pride. It made her feel a connection she never realized she needed. She often told them that. On these visits, since the rain kept most people inside, Byleth often found herself talking to both of them.

“Whenever I was in a bad mood, father would always bring me whatever flowers he could find where we had set up camp that day.” Byleth smiled at the memory. “I always thought it was so out of character, as much as I loved them. But I see now that isn’t the case.”

She shuffled her feet into the dirt and watched the rain pool into the divots her heels made.

“The poppies were my favorites. I don’t know if I ever told you that, but they were. You must have known because you’d bring them often. Although, don’t think I didn’t notice you would bring them here, father. Does that mean they were my mother's favorite too?”

There was a low rumble of thunder in the distance. She hadn’t realized a storm was coming. It was still far off, and she hoped it wouldn’t blow away her flowers. It made her wonder about what Mercedes had said. Did the heavens open for her? Did storms manifest when she felt them start to stir within herself? Did she subconsciously make the rain when she needed an excuse to see them the most?

“Professor?”

Byleth was surprised to see Felix standing over her, his figure a silhouette in the dim light of the flickering oil lamps. His thick, fur coat hung loosely on his shoulders, like he was only wearing it because someone told him he had to. “Felix,” she said quickly, with a wrinkle in her brow.

He scoffed. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he said. “I might have hated the guy but he was still my father.” He nodded toward the freshly planted stone beside her.

Byleth had forgotten that Rodrigue was buried there. He had only been gone a few weeks, and Ingrid had tried so desperately to figure out a way to get him back home for a proper burial that Byleth assumed that she had had happened. But on the grave beside her parents, Duke Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius was etched in large letters. She felt guilty for not bringing him anything.

“Is that Captain Jeralt’s grave?” Felix asked, squatting down beside her.

She nodded.

“Is there another name there?” Felix squinted at the fading text.

“My mother.” Byleth felt a warmth in her chest at the mention of her. She liked the sound of it. She wasn’t much for sentimentality, and she had never known her to begin with, but the past few months had made her softer. She wanted to know more about her past, and to pass that on to others.

She had a mother.

“I didn’t realize your mother was buried here,” he admitted. “In fact. I’ve never really thought about your mother at all. I just kind of assumed it was always just you and the Captain.”

“It was,” she agreed. “I never knew her. I was told she died from illness when I was small, and I just assumed she was buried in some far off village somewhere.”

“Told?”

Felix was a lot more perceptive than people gave him credit for. It made sense with how good he was in battle. He picked up on small things to use them to his advantage. But he never seemed to turn it off. He could pinpoint things about people that they thought they could hide away. Or, in Byleth’s case, pick up on words that only heightened the mystery that was her past.

“I didn’t find out the truth until later. Until after my father died,” she admitted.

“And she’s buried here,” Felix pointed out. “But I thought you had never been to the Garreg Mach before you started the job here.”

“I was born here,” she told him, and glanced back down at her parents stone. “Apparently. But my mother didn’t make it. The reasons behind it were...complicated. My father had been skeptical about it, and once I was born the church had this weird fascination with me that made him nervous.” She hadn’t meant to tell him this but she was glad to. It felt nice to talk about her family, as foreign as it was. And a reassuring calm had washed over her, urging her on.

“There was a fire that year apparently,” she went on. “One that claimed a lot of the living quarters, ours included. Father had used the opportunity to steal me away. After the death of my mother he didn’t feel much of an attachment to the place, and he was worried about the church’s growing obsession with me. So he hid me in a bundle in the stables and went to deliver the news to Lady Rhea that the baby had perished in the fire.”

“Risky move,” Felix said. “Hiding a baby in the stables. What if you had cried? He would have been killed.”

“I never cried,” she told him.

Felix looked at her, an eyebrow raised. “All babies cry.”

“That’s why it was so weird that I didn’t,” she added. “When my father died, I found his journals. That’s how I found all of this out. In it, he said that I was a very stoic baby. I never laughed, never cried, never made a sound. I only spoke when I was older when I absolutely needed to.” She smiled to herself again. “As weird as it was, Father kind of loved it. He always said I was the perfect person to live with, not being one for idle conversation.”

There was a huff beside her that Byleth thought might have been a laugh.

“When the Captain died,” Felix said finally. “Everyone was so sad at the passing of a great knight that I feel like…” He paused, either to choose his words carefully or to recall himself. “Did anyone check on you?”

Byleth was quiet for a moment. She felt the sting of tears rising in her eyes and she wondered why such a simple question would incite such a reaction. The truth was, it wasn’t a straight forward answer. She didn’t have time to be checked on. She was thrust into the work of teaching, preparing her students for battle, and devising new tactics to fit the new enemies they were facing. She wasn’t quite sure she had time to be checked on.

Felix shifted uncomfortably beside her. “One of us should have...I mean...someone should have…”

“It was complicated,” Byleth tried.

“It always is. That isn’t an excuse.”

“You didn’t know,” she added.

“I did though.”

He looked down at his Rodrigue’s grave then. Byleth had almost forgotten that there had been a reason he was there in the first place. She felt a pang of guilt at having blubbered on about her own parents when Felix’s wound was still fresh. The grass hadn’t even begun to sprout on his father’s plot yet.

“How are you doing?” Byleth asked to break the tension. “After your father, I mean.”

Felix huffed again, a dark smile spreading across his face. “It’s complicated,” he parroted.

“I’ve been told that’s not an excuse.”

“Too true.” Felix pushed himself back up onto his feet and tore his gaze away from his father’s stone. “Maybe some other time. That storm is coming this way pretty quickly.”

Byleth looked over the cemetery walls toward the forest beyond. The clouds were darker now. Blades of lightning struck silently in the distance, hinting at the impending chaos. She wondered if they would affect her at all.

He nodded over toward the low glimmer of the dormitory windows. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you back.”

She agreed, and pushed herself up onto her feet. “And you’ll tell me how you’re doing on the walk back?” she tried. “Complications and all?”

Felix huffed another amused breath and gestured toward the stairs. “Another time, perhaps,” he told her. “I don’t think the walk is quite long enough.”

#fe3h #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem #felix fraldarius #felix hugo fraldarius #byleth eisner #byleth #Byleth x Felix #felix x byleth #fe3h fanfic

[babybatscreationsv2]

A King on a Leash ch4

Marvel | Starker

Tony Stark is a powerful man with a beautiful husband and a loyal crime  family, but it looks like he didn't keep his husband on a short enough  leash. After turning Peter lose on a Cuban gang leader, Peter's life is  in danger. The real trouble is that Tony now realizes that Peter is the  only thing in this world that he cares about and he never meant for that  to happen.

Sequel to A Doll on a String 

Rating: Explicit

Full Fic

A Doll on a String

Warnings under the cut*

Warnings: consensual somnophilia, mentions of murder, brief violence

The basement of Steve's cafe smelled like perfume and pussy. Which he supposed was it's own perfume. The girls all purred and cooed as he came downstairs, trying to get his attention. Capos were allowed their time free of charge, well Steve paid them himself, anyway. Tony used to visit, himself, every now and then. He always brought gifts as well. Jewelry, fur coats, a Lamborghini. Once, on his birthday he'd had every last one of the twenty-four men and women that Steve employed. It took him the entire day and a bottle of Viagra, but he'd pulled it off. It didn't hurt that all of Steve's people were damn gorgeous. The kind of people who could have been actors or models, but they either looked too similar to someone famous or they just really liked sex.

Tony offered familiar faces a friendly greeting as he passed. It wasn’t until he stepped into the office that he laughed to himself, realizing he hadn't looked at a single nearly naked body. If anything, the sights and sounds of the brothel just made his dick miss Peter even more. There wasn't a memory made in this place that rivaled his husband's appeal.

Tony brushed off thoughts of sex and turned his attention to the man making himself very small in his presence.

"Afternoon, Marcus."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Stark." He clenched his fists and clenched his jaw, trying and failing not to tremble. Tony wished Peter were here to witness this. Nothing turned him on like watching people cower at the sight of Tony. Fuck, he needed to stop thinking about Peter.

"I hear you went and bought a building down the block."

"Yes, sir. I- I thought opening a gym would be- well it would be discreet-"

Tony waved his hand and the guard behind him grabbed Mark and bent him backward over Steve's desk, holding him tightly by the throat. He gave him a moment to calm his panic then he walked around the desk to stand over him. "What it would have done is create competition with Roger's business. Don't you think? And don't you think you should tell your boss about your business endeavors so you can pay your proper dues? Or were you planing on skipping out on your contributions to the family?"

"I was going to tell him-"

"After it was done?"

He nodded, shaking more visibly now.

"No, you see, that's not how things work." Tony took a step forward. He put a hand on the desk, casting a shadow over him. "We have a system. And in that system you do exactly as you're told. Nothing more, nothing less. I don't give out a lot of warnings, so know that if I had to step in then you're on thin fucking ice."

"I'm- I'm sorry, sir."

"Sell the business and whatever you bought for it. Give the money to Rogers as penance and we'll let this little mix up disappear. Got it?"

Mark nodded. "Yes, sir."

Tony smiled. "Good boy." He took a step back and nodded to the guard. He let Mark up and straightened his jacket for him. A real gentleman. "Now if you can fix things with Rogers, he might give you a chance in the future, but no girls. That's his thing."

Tony turned, sweeping from the room as the man stammered his agreement once again.

He passed back down the hall to go upstairs, but he was stopped by an old... friend?

"Tony," she said. In her voice was worry, not lust. So he let her pull him aside.

"Yamile? What's up?" Dark skin, darker hair, blood red lips. She looked just like he had left her.

"I need to talk to you." She pulled him into her room. She closed the door and pulled Tony away from it. Yamile was one of the few who had her own apartment in the basement. The front room was for friends and lovers. The room in a back was for clients and Yamile only took the wealthiest clients. "Is it true about Ramon?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Why is everyone obsessed with this guy?"

"Did your husband kill him?" she pushed, exasperated. She cocked her hip to one side, a hand on each hip.

"Of course not." As if he would answer a question like that honestly. She knew better. He wondered if it bothered her that he still didn't trust her.

She nodded. Yamile knew him well. She let her hands fall away. "I thought so. Listen, Tony. Suarez's cousin, Ricardo, is tearing his own country apart trying to find someone who knows where to find him. From what I have heard, he already knows you were involved." She caught both his hands.

"I don't want anything to happen to you. Or anyone that you love." She had these giant expressive eyes. Tony wondered if he didn't have a thing for big brown eyes.

"I'll be careful," he promised.

She smiled. "I'm glad you've learned how to listen, Viejo. And that your ears are not yet failing you."

Tony smiled back. "Keep your ears open, dear. And look after your own self while you're at it."

She rolled her eyes and let Tony's hands go. "Don't worry about Mark. He's just another ambitious type, starts to wonder why he should run errands for Steve when he could be making his own money. Happens once a month." She flicked her dark hair over her shoulder. "The trouble is, they always try to take one of us with them. And we are loyal to the family."

No, you're loyal to Steve, Tony thought. If Steve decided to stage an uprising Tony would have two dozen prostitutes breaking into his home to murder him.

"You still have my number, right?"

"I'll call if I hear anything," she nodded.

"And if you need anything," Tony added. "Don't think I won't take care of you."

"I'm pretty sure you specifically promised not to." She raised her eyebrow at him.

"Why? Do you still want me to?" Tony tucked his hands into his pockets.

Yamile laughed. "Knowing that you have a wildcat waiting for you in your bed, I will find a new love."

"So you haven't then? Found someone else."

"Are you jealous?" She smirked, but it was playful. She knew better than that.

"I just want to know that someone is watching your back."

"I don't take lovers after the last one broke my heart, but we take care of each other down here. And what we can't handle ourselves, we trust Steve to take care of. You should see him when one of us is hurt. El Diablo."

"As he should." He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a fond smile. "Be good," he said.

"No promises there."

He left her room. He really did hope she was okay.

Tony went back upstairs. Steve was in the front, taking orders, but he'd left a box of treats for Peter. Tony scooped it up on his way out the door. He couldn't wait to surprise Peter with the box when he picked him up, but looking at the time, Peter wouldn't be finished for another hour. He spent a minute debating how he could fill his time until Peter was finished. In the end, his car pulled up to curb in front of the performance hall and he waited.

He saw one of Peter's guards come outside, then a moment later Peter himself. The other dancers were a blur behind him. He longed to step out of the car and gather him into his arms, but it wouldn't be wise. Tony put a lot of effort into making it seem like Peter was typically picked up by a chauffeur alone. For Peter's sake, he needed to be cautious.

A guard opened the door for Peter, who slid inside with a smile on his face. He was visibly tired and his hair oily in the front from sweat.

"Work hard today, angel?" Tony reached over to cup his face. Relief flooded his brain at the contact. He bent and pressed a kiss to his lips, feeling Peter relax and settle into his touch.

"Yes, daddy," he breathed against his lips. Tony's hand slipped into Peter hair. He tugged just enough to make him gasp. His teased Peter's bottom lip before slipping his tongue into his open mouth. Peter shivered. His cheeks were pink when he pulled away and his giant brown eyes were wide.

"Got you a present." He handed Peter the gaudy, red, white, and blue, box.

Peter smiled. "For me?" He took it and flipped it open, giving a happy little 'mmm' as he found blue sprinkled sugar cookies and a red frosting cupcake. "I must have been a good boy." He gave Tony a flirtatious look that made him smile. He could sense a yawn coming though. He counted down the seconds and sure enough, Peter yawned wide enough make his eyes water.

"Have some cookies and rest, baby."

Peter curled up against his side with his legs up on the seat. He put the box in his lap and picked out a cookie. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

Peter laughed. "I can tell when you want me." He slid his hand up Tony's thigh. Tony caught his hand.

"I'll wake you up on my dick later. How's that sound?"

Peter moaned. "You promise?"

"You can count on it, baby."

Tony played with his hair, watching Peter slowly grow more sluggish as he drifted off. He made it through a cookie and a half before he fell asleep.

Tony carried him inside when they got home. Peter barely stirred. Poor thing must have been pushing himself too hard again. His Peter was a perfectionist when it came to ballet. He believed his every move had to be exactly perfect and if it wasn't, he would practice until his feet were blistered and some times bleeding. Normally, if Peter were doing something Tony found unhealthy then he would force him to stop, but dance was the one thing that belonged exclusively to Peter. Tony wasn't going to take that from him.

He laid him in bed and tucked him in. Peter made a happy little sound as he sunk into the mattress. Tony smiled, watching him sleep for a moment. Then he went into the bathroom to clean himself up. He hoped Peter hadn't caught the perfume smell that was clinging to his hair. He wouldn't want him to feel jealous.

Squeaky clean, he went back to the bedroom. He settled into the bed next to Peter and let him sleep a while longer. Then he grabbed himself a bottle of lube and started to gently pull Peter's sweats off. He swallowed down a groan at the sight of his perfect, perky, ass. He wanted to smack it pink, but he held back.

Tony pushed one slick finger, slowly into Peter's hole. He made a soft noise, but didn't wake. Tony fucked him with his finger, testing the water. Peter didn't seem like he was going to wake up so easily, so he slipped in another. He made the sweetest, sleepy little noises, but his eyes never fluttered. After a few minutes of teasing, he gentle curled himself against Peter's back. He pressed his cock against the slick opening.

He pushed in, oh so slowly. The tight squeeze of Peter's absolutely perfect ass, wrapped around him. He took his time, whole minutes passing before he was buried inside him. Peter was slowly beginning to stir. Tony smiled, watching him wake gently as he slowly pulled back his hips. As he pushed back in, Peter made a small noise and his eyes fluttered open. He smiled.

"Daddy." He reached back and grabbed Tony's hand. He pulled his arm around him and held it like a teddy bear.

"Enjoy your nap, dear?"

Peter moaned. "I'm enjoying your cock more."

Tony kissed his neck. He felt the way his body shivered as buried his cock to the hilt. Peter took his hand and kissed it, the back, the palm, his fingers.

"Love you," he mumbled, still sleepy. "I love you so much."

Tony kissed him again. "I love you, Peter."

"I want you to hold me," he said, in that same adorably sleepy voice.

"Of course, my angel." Tony wrapped his arms around Peter, holding him tightly against his chest. He slowly rolled his hips. Peter moaned, enjoying the slow, deep thrusts of his cock.

Peter turned his head and Tony caught his lips in a lazy kiss. Warm and slow wasn't often on the agenda, but fuck if it wasn't nice. Tony was more than happy to spend the rest of the day fucking and kissing lazily. Peter even seemed to be falling back to sleep in his arms. It was too good, too perfect, and Tony followed him into sleep.

#starker #marvel #somnoph*lia #violence #mafia au #a king on a leash

[chaseatinydream]

sly san who sacrifices (ii) || c.s (atz)

➳ pairing: reader x choi san (ateez)

➳ word count: 2396

➳ genre: badboy au; fluff; angst

➳ synopsis: to the school, he may be a bad boy, the worst of the worst, but to you, he’s choi san, father of three cats, your best friend and ultimately, the boy you’re in love with.

>>>

The second you step out of the car, you can already hear the mewing of cats.

“Yobu!” You laugh as the tiny grey ragdoll leaps into your arms, fingers brushing its fur back. The tiny feline lets out a content mew and you press a kiss to its adorable nose. You love all of San’s cats, having helped him in taking care of each and every one of them, but you have a soft spot for Yobu in particular. After all, he’s the cat that had allowed you and Seonghwa, one of San's friends, to meet.

San looms up behind your shoulder.

“Yah, Yobu, that’s my friend, not yours.” He scolds the kitten sternly and you give San a flat look of exasperation. He doesn’t look intimidating in the slightest, not when he looks like he’s about to topple over any moment. Concern wells up in you once again and you call over your shoulder to Claude, who’s still at the car.

“I’ll bring him up, Claude!”

The chauffeur nods acknowledgement and before San can protest, you’re already pulling him into the mansion after you.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the grandeur and luxury of San’s home. A sprawling, lavish mansion made nearly entirely out of white and grey marble, and designed by a famous architect whose name you can’t quite pronounce, this place screams luxury and wealth. Built all for the sake of your best friend Choi San, only son to a globally successful business mogul and fashion entrepreneur, you sometimes wonder how cheap money is to people like them. San tries his best to make you forget the gap between the two of you, but other times, it’s near overwhelming for you.

You remember him asking you once, “Why would people buy knock-off goods when they can just get the real ones?”

You had never been so tempted to slap him.

The floor is cool against your bare feet and the helper bows to you as you drag San up the stairs to his bedroom. You’ve been here so many times you could your way around this mansion blindfolded, and the mansion is huge. Your best friend trails after you silently aside from the odd cough, and when the two of you emerge into his room, he merely flops onto his king sized bed with a tired groan.

He must have been really exhausted.

“I’ll go get some warm water and medicine for you!” You chirp and San merely lets out a tired noise of agreement, the sound muffled in the soft, downy pillows on his bed.

When you return with the essentials to make your best friend comfortable, San is curled up in his bed with his face buried underneath his Shiber toy plush, specially customized and hand sewn to look like Shiber. Tapping on his shoulder, you rouse him from his fever induced slumber.

“Hey, San, you need to drink some water and take your meds before you go to sleep.”

He grumbles a little but still complies, sitting up in the bed to face you with a pout, hair mussed from tossing about on the bed. You press the glass of warm water to his dry lips and he tilts his head back to drink, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows it all greedily. Concern wells up in your chest as you look at his pallid face.

He’s probably a lot more sick than he’s letting on.

But that’s just like San, you sigh under your breath as you watch him drink thirstily, rubbing at the bags under his eyes. You wonder why he hasn’t been sleeping enough. Has he been out clubbing again?

You don’t really want to think about the answer.

When that’s done, you grab the pills and tear out two tablets for San, holding them out for him to take. “For your fever. You should be fine when you wake up if you just take a couple of these.” You tell him as you set the now empty glass on his bedside table, but you don’t feel him take the pills from your hand, so you turn around to glance at him.

He stares at you expectantly.

You stare back, befuddled.

“What?”

“Well, aren’t you supposed to put them in your mouth and kiss me like in those movies?” San’s wearing a shit eating grin so wide that you’re not sure whether his brain has really been fried or if he’s just plain crazy. You stare at him in horrified disbelief for a second longer and he merely continues grinning at you like a cat that just got the canary, seemingly pleased with how red your face is becoming. “I’m not eating those on my own, they’re bitter, you know.”

Your mouth falls open at the sheer audacity of his words. Where on earth had they come from?

Then you shriek and clobber him hard over the head with a pillow.

“Ow! Ow! Yeowch! Stop hitting me, woman!” San yelps, scrambling away from you as fast as he can with the blankets tangled around his legs. You chase him with the heavy pillow held high above your head, bringing it down on his head again and again, intent on beating out the stupidity in him. He’s not nearly fast enough in this ill state and before he can reach any relative safety, you’ve already grabbed him by the ankles and are dragging him back to you.

“No! Spare me!” San thrashes about comically, trying to wriggle his way out of your grasp much like an actual cat, but you sit on his back, firmly trapping his flailing arms under your legs and then proceed to attack his sides with an assault of furious tickles.

“Aieeeee! Mercy! Have mercy on me!” Screeches fill the air, San’s voice getting increasingly high pitched when your fingers move to his armpits. Only when he’s crying and shouting and laughing weakly through tears all at once do you finally pull off him, smacking him over the head one more time for good measure.

“That’s for saying all those stupid comments!” You shout at him breathlessly, still flushed from a combination of exertion and embarrassment. San sits up next to you, still choking on a few final exhausted giggles, red streaked hair thoroughly mussed from the little roughhousing the two of you just had and the biggest, fondest grin on his face.

You hate how your heart just melts at the sight.

To distract yourself, you shove the pills into his mouth with one hand and San obediently crunches them down this time, watching you intently as you wring out a few damp towels next to him, gesturing for him to lie down. His heart warms in his chest at the sight, and when he closes his eyes, sometimes he just wishes that he could be the right one for you instead–

He purges the thought from his mind before it can go too far.

“Here you go, San.” Your voice is gentle for him, soft, sweet, innocent, a polar opposite to everything he is, so familiar and warm.

He counts it a blessing that you still remain at his side despite everything he’s done, no matter how many tears you shed over him and the times your heart has been rent in two because of his misdoings and fights.

He lays back down on the pillows, eyes shut tight against the sight of your face hovering above his. But as if you’re trying to tempt him unconsciously, you move his head into your lap and he nearly goes rigid in a panic.

“I’ve been talking to Seonghwa a lot recently, you know. He’s a great friend.” You tell him absentmindedly as your soft fingers brush the hair on his forehead back. Something in him twists, a sense of satisfaction that his carefully laid plan is falling into place, but also something darker, something more selfish, a certain sort of gut wrenching emptiness that he doesn’t want to think too much about.

San is still your best friend.

And that’s all he’ll ever be to you.

The cool cloth rests against his forehead and he sighs at how good it feels against his heated skin, but it probably has to do more with how your hands are gently kneading against his temples rather than the actual cloth itself. Upon hearing his little exhale of comfort, you glance at his face with a content smile, shaking your head with some kind of exasperation and warmth settling deep in your chest.

“Are you close to Seonghwa-oppa, San?” You ask as your fingers thread through his hair and he presses into your touch, for some reason desperately craving the feeling of your skin on his. He wants to treasure every last time he gets to be close to you like this, because it might come to an end all too soon.

Why does it hurt?

“He’s a nice guy. Boyfriend material.” San has never had to force a smile around you and it feels wrong on his lips, brittle like cracked glass against his skin. You are the one person he would never want to lie to, but if it’s for the sake of you and Seonghwa’s happiness, who is he to stand in the way?

“Yeah! He’s nothing like you.” You laugh cheerfully, teasingly bopping his nose with a finger and San barely manages to hold back a flinch at your words, his expression twisting in pain as if you’ve just shoved a knife into his chest straight. Honestly, he’d rather you just do that instead, it’d probably hurt a lot less.

“San? San, are you alright?” You frown in concern, bending down to glance at his face. The tips of your hair tickle his face gently and he can feel your breath against his cheeks, and maybe, just maybe, he wants to reach up and just pull you down to him–

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He lies again through his teeth. Maybe if he lies enough times, the pain in his chest will go away. Some part of him wants you to call him out on his deception, but you’ve always been too innocent for the things of this world and San is perhaps just a little too good at hiding his true feelings behind a carefully painted mask. “So, what were you saying again about Seonghwa?”

And he watches your face light up as you chatter animatedly to him about one of his best friends, Park Seonghwa, wondering why his chest hurts so much even when your eyes shine with excitement and joy.

He’s a selfish bastard, and he hates it.

He really needs to get the two of you together before he does something he regrets.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez san #ateez fanfiction #san fanfic #san fanfiction #w; san #w; fanfiction

[hannahcoursey]

A Girl’s Best Friend

Author: Hannahc56

Word Count: 2,109

Triggers: Dog dies :( So sorry.

Request: Hey so I don’t know if you do request but my dog is really sick and is dying and I was wondering if you can do one where dean x reader are dating and her dog is very sick and he helps her come to terms with it. Something along the lines of “I know he’s dying but I’m not ready for him to go.” Also I love your writing so much!

The afternoon was coming to a close. The sun was dancing along the treeline, sleepily falling below the horizon with every passing moment. The sky was cotton candy pink and blue, getting darker and fading out as the drive home pressed on. Sometimes between watching the turning sky and listening to Dean’s music lightly playing through the speakers, you’d lulled off to sleep, your head bobbing against the window over the bumps in the road. Before you knew it, the creaky Impala door was opening up and your eyes fluttered open slightly. Dean leaned over and pressed a kiss onto your temple. A dazed grin rose to your lips and you turned and met him in a soft kiss. He ran a hand over your head. 

“Morning princess,” He laughed lightly at your half conscious grumbles, “We’re home.” He placed a kiss on your forehead and got out of the car, unloading the trunk into the garage. You rubbed at your eyes and looked down at your phone. It was only 9 at night, leaving you enough time to unpack before crashing in the bed you and Dean shared. You opened the car door and climbed out, leaning back and stretching your legs. 

“Come here baby!” You yelled as you finished cracking your back, waiting for your dog to come out running. He’d get so excited when he heard the Impala pull in the garage, it bothered you how lonely he got when you were on hunts, but no one was happier to see you than him. You grabbed your bags and slung them over your shoulder. “Baby, come here!” You yelled again, peering over the open trunk. You waited. Instead of the jingle of his collar running to greet you, you heard Sam’s footsteps as he walked back towards you.

“Where is he?” He leaned out around from the doorway that led into the garage and looked at you, his eyebrows meeting in concern, “His food bowl is full still.” He said before turning and walking back in the bunker. You looked up, only to meet Dean’s eyes staring into yours. Your heart dropped to your toes. You let the bags slip out of your hand and the other one off your shoulder. You quickened your pace, Dean’s footsteps close behind. 

“Baby?” You called, your eyes scanning through the bunker, waiting to see a wagging tail, but no signs of him showed. Dean’s hand fell on your shoulder.

“Hey, I’ll go check the rooms on the left wing, alright?” He said, nodding in an attempt to reassure you. You nodded back, half listening to his words over the pounding in your ears. You turned down the hallway and walked past the empty room. You could hear Sam and Dean calling his name from other parts in the bunker. You flicked on the lights in some of the rooms and peered around. Just when you were about to turn to go down the other side of the hallway, you noticed that one of the doors was open the tiniest sliver. 

“Baby?” You called, a small whimper answering you. “Dean! Sam! Over here!” You yelled, pushing open the door. Your breath caught in your throat as you took in the sight in front of you. He laid on the ground, limp. His tail hardly wagged and he couldn’t muster enough strength to look up at you. Tears filled your eyes as you rushed to him, holding his head in your hands. He whimpered but licked the inside of your palm. “Baby, what’s wrong?” You whispered, tears blurring your vision. The boys' heavy footsteps were loud, hunting boots pounding down the hallway, until their shadows filled the doorway. You turned and looked at Dean, his eyes wide and his brows crunched. “Something’s wrong.” You said, your voice hardly audible. Sam moved past Dean and knelt on the ground beside you. He laid a hand on your precious companion, his hand hardly rising and falling with the shallow breaths Baby took. After a moment, Sam looked up at you. Your eyes moved between his, waiting for him to say something. Instead, his gaze shifted down and he slowly shook his head. You let your head hang, tears dropping onto Baby’s fur. Dean’s hand found its way to your shoulder as you gave up on trying to blink away the tears streaming down your face.

“Y/N,” Sam said lightly, “I’ll take him to the vet, alright? Maybe they can do something,” He struggled to find the words, looking up at Dean before continuing, “And if not, at least they’ll make him comfortable,” He took a breath, “I think it’ll be better for him.” He finished, his voice low, his heart breaking as the words hung in the air. You wiped at your eyes and took in a few shuddering breaths. Dean rubbed small circles into your back and Sam’s hand rested on top of your own. You nodded slowly, unable to muster the words that didn’t need to be said. You leaned down and kissed his soft fur, his tail wagging a little more enthusiastically at your touch. Sam leaned down and shifted his arms underneath the large dog and lifted him effortlessly to his chest. Baby didn’t make noise as he carried him through the room and out of sight, down the bunker hallways. You sat on the ground, your back against the concrete wall. Dean sighed before slowly making his way down next to you. You pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, trying to stifle the shudders that wracked through you. Dean’s arm snaked around your shoulder and pulled you in, your head resting on his shoulder easily. The two of you sat in silence, the tears slipping down your cheeks, wetting the denim jeans that covered your knees. The depression that came with losing the best dog you’d ever had began to settle in your chest, the reality of it breaking your heart into tiny pieces you knew you’d never be able to pick back up.

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” He said under his breath, his deep voice rumbling in the part of his chest where your head laid, “He lived a good life, you know? He was a good dog.” He reminded you, pulling you in a little closer. You merely nodded, not bothering to wipe the tears off your cheek before being soaked into his flannel.

“I know he is,” You said, your voice tight and your stuffy nose eviden in the grumble of your voice, “I know he’s dying, but I’m not ready for him to go.” You whispered, as if saying out loud made it even more real. He leaned his head on yours. 

“I know baby,” He answered, his lips moving your hair as he spoke. The two of you sat there, the only noise was the creaking plumbing behind the walls of the bunker and the air conditioning clicking on and off as the time passed. Neither of you said anything. There was nothing to be said. There was no cure, no spell, no deal that could be made to save him from the inevitable curse of old age. It felt like hours had gone by before Dean’s phone rang, effectively pulling you out of your dazed state with a jump. He looked around and rubbed his eyes before leaning down and grabbing his phone off of the floor where he’d set it next to him. His brother’s name flashed brightly across the screen and you saw him hesitate to answer. He looked at you, his lips forming a tight smile before he answered it. 

“Hey.” He said into the phone. You could hear Sam’s voice on the other end, his voice low. You knew he assumed that you were directly next to Dean’s side and most likely kept his voice quiet on purpose for your sake. “Mhm,” Dean nodded, “Mhm, okay… That’s what I thought too,” He let out a long breath and rubbed his hand along your thigh, making your heart drop in your chest. “Alright, we’ll see you soon Sammy, thanks.” He finished before putting his phone back on the ground next to him. He turned towards you. His eyes said it all. You slowly nodded and closed your eyes right as hot tears slipped out the sides of them. Dean stood up and wiped his jeans off before he leaned down and put his arms underneath your knees and across your back. Pulling you towards his chest, he carried you through the bunker halls, careful that your feet didn’t hit the walls, and brought you into the room the both of you shared. Gently, he settled you down onto the soft mattress. You wiped at your eyes and gave him a weak smile. 

“Thank you D.” You said, your voice as small as you felt in the moment. Dean went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of his flannel pajama pants and one of his worn-in band shirts. You graciously accepted them, pulling off the shirt you had on and slipping Dean’s over your head. You kicked off your tight jeans and settled into the comfy flannel pants, instantly feeling a little better. He followed suit before laying down on his side of the bed, opening his arm for you to lay his chest. He turned on the television and put on one of your favorite movies to try to relax your mind. Halfway through the movie, a soft knock filled the room. Dean rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and paused the movie. A moment later, Sam peeked his head in.

“Hey Sammy.” Dean welcomed him, his voice gruff with sleep. Sam walked in and over to your side of the bed. His eyes were rimmed with a lighter shade of pink and a part of you felt guilty for making him take care of Baby alone. 

“Hey Y/N/N,” He said quietly, pushing his hair back, “How are you holding up?” He asked, reaching forward into a warm embrace.

“I’m okay, thank you Sam.” You touched his shoulder, “Honestly, it means the world to me you were there for him. I just don’t think I could’ve done it,” You rambled, but Sam’s hand covered yours. 

“Y/N/N there’s nothing to explain, I get it, alright?” He gave you a weak smile, “He did good. He’s not in pain.” He finished. And for the first time all day, you found yourself with a sincere smile. You shook your head and grabbed Sam’s hand tight.

“Thank you,” You sniffled, “It meant a lot to him.” You told him before he patted your hand once more and gave Dean a small nod, before standing up. 

“And,” He started, fishing around in his back pocket, “They gave me this to give to you.” He said and handed you a small package before walking out of the room, shutting the door behind him as he went. You sat up a little straighter and tore open the small packaging that was undoubtedly the handiwork of Sam’s poor wrapping skills. When you pulled it all off, you saw what it was. In a small clear container, there was a paw print from Baby with his name inscribed on the plastic. Dean leaned over and inspected it, a big smile appearing on his face.

“Nothing beats that.” He said, kissing your shoulder before turning over and shutting off the light on his side of the bed. You stared at it. The paw print had small impressions where the cracks in the pad of his feet were and you felt a type of content settling in your chest. 

Things would be different. The bunker would be lonelier without him and quieter without the sound of his collar roaming around, but it was going to be okay. You took a deep breath and sunk in the bed, thankful for every single moment you spent with him and swore you’d never have another love like Baby again. With the thought of him running and happy wherever he was, you drifted off to sleep with a smile, your heart a little more broken than usual.

----

I hope you guys liked it :) And to the Anon that requested it, I hope you’re holding up okay - My messages are always open.

#supernatural #dean #sam #dean and sam #sam and dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #sam x reader #dean x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x reader #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #jensen #jared #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #j2 #dean x y/n #sam x y/n #dean winchester x y/n #hannahc56

[mopeytropey]

a beer buds series: chapter 5

newest update available below the cut and on AO3 here :) those of you anticipating more of gay disaster!Lexa should be pleased ... 

Timeline: takes place between chapters 4 and 5 of 'apu' after Clarke attempts to host a dinner party only to have Lexa arrive as her only guest

Beer: Sunday Paper IMPERIAL STOUT WITH COFFEE

The smoothness of this beer belies it’s 9.9% ABV. Fresh roasted coffee nose leads into a smooth and rich roasted dark chocolate and coffee flavor with hints of dried black cherries.

ABV 9.9%

Sunday Paper Imperial Stout: Exhibit A (Framingham, MA)

Lexa has settled into the worn comfort of Lincoln’s sofa for all of six minutes before a large, curious ball of grey fur is sitting beside her. The cat blinks up at her with its owlish eyes the color of rust, and Lexa smiles while rubbing behind its ears.

“I still can’t believe you’ve named your cat after my father.”

“Come on! Tell me she doesn’t look exactly like Gus!” Lincoln shouts from the nearby kitchen.

The cat begins to purr at Lexa’s doting touch, and she thinks it enhances the resemblance even further. A docile temperament hidden beneath the imposing stature of her father. Uniform grey coloring gives way to a wide swath of darker fur beneath the cat’s chin, cascading down its chest like an unkempt beard. Lexa smiles again. Gus the cat has a bulky frame but is gentle and affectionate. She thinks the comparison is entirely apt.

“She’s bigger than when I was here last,” Lexa observes as Lincoln enters the room carrying two glasses of dark beer with heavy foam.

“She eats like a horse,” he laughs, setting a drink in front of Lexa before collapsing onto the other end of his couch. “Plus, I’m fairly certain Octavia is spoiling her with extra treats. Cheers, buddy.”

Gus abandons her immediately for the comfort of Lincoln’s lap while Lexa retrieves her glass.

She reaches down the short expanse of sofa cushions to clink her glass against Lincoln’s. “How drunk am I going to be after this one?”

“Imperial stout. 9.9%,” Lincoln smiles. “But, I’ve got lasagna and garlic bread in the oven to compensate.”

“So I’ll be hungover and doubling my running route tomorrow. Thanks a lot.”

“What are friends for?” Lincoln beams. “Hey! We should do 1A down to the island and back—weather is supposed to be super mild tomorrow and I’m done with my meetings by 4:00.”

The route past Clarke’s house.

The new information of Clarke’s residence is like a hot coal buried deep in Lexa’s stomach. The architecture. The pungent smell of the marshes. Seeing Clarke backdropped by her own surroundings had completed so much of the picture Lexa has been composing for months. Everything about the house, and Clarke in it, made sense—from the colors of her open kitchen to the art hung on the walls to the spiral staircase that Clarke practically forbade Lexa to ascend.

She swallows, wondering if the blush she feels on her cheeks will show in the low light of Lincoln’s living room. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“So, how was it on Tuesday? Sorry we bailed.”

Not for the first time, Lexa wonders if Lincoln has somehow infiltrated her inner thoughts based on the timeliness of his ask. The inquiry does nothing to lessen her blush, but Lexa hides further embarrassment behind a large sip of stout.

“You mean showing up for a dinner party to find you’re the only guest in attendance? Not awkward at all, that’s for sure.”

Gus seems to vacillate between the two of them for a moment, finally curling against Lexa’s leg and pushing her paws into Lexa’s thigh when she sinks her hand into thick, soft fur. The sound of Gus’s purring is amplified by Lincoln’s quiet apartment, and Lexa begins to relax with its perpetual hum.

“Yeah, but it’s Clarke,” Lincoln laughs. “I’m sure you guys had fun without us anyway.”

Lexa can’t decide if he’s really so oblivious or playing dumb for her sake, but she looks at him like he’s sprouted a second, immaculately shaved head anyway. She is tempted to recount every movement, and look, and smile, and gesture that she was forced to endure in Clarke’s company that made her feel, in fact, incredibly awkward. And, unsure. Anxious. Elated. Questioning every decision she’d ever made in her life to that point.

But, sure: fun is more succinct.  

“We had a nice time.” Lexa smiles into her beer, remembering. “I think I talked a lot.”

“I’m sorry—what?” Lincoln further mocks her by cupping a hand around his ear as if to hear her more clearly.

“You’re such an ass. Why do I even hang out with you?”

“I’ve been grandfathered in,” Lincoln shrugs.

“When we were out on the boat, Clarke shared some things with me—personal things—and it felt like it was time to reciprocate.”

“Her dad?” Lincoln asks in a far more cautious tone. Lexa nods, taking another sip of the dense, dark beer. “The way the girls talk about him, he sounds incredible. A great guy to have lost so soon. O says the Griffins practically raised her. She really loved Jake.”

“I think Clarke’s connection with him was quite strong.”

Lincoln slowly nods through a heavy sigh. “So, how much of the backlog did you offer up in return? How far back into the Brooklyn archives did chatty Lexa venture?”

He’s broken the mood, and Lexa gives him a grateful smile. “Quite a bit, actually. I was also sort of high at the time.” Lincoln almost chokes on a sip of beer as Lexa shrugs. “But, I’m glad I told her. It felt good to talk about it.”

“Yeah.” Lincoln’s dark eyes have taken on a distant quality, and Lexa suspects he may be thinking of Octavia. Perhaps he’s thinking of all the parts of his dark history that he’s been able to share with someone as strong and resilient and unwavering as her. For someone as reticent as Lincoln, it must feel like infinite relief to give that part of himself to someone else. “We beat some shit odds, didn’t we?” he finally says.

Lexa exhales a humorless laugh. “Understatement.”

It had been a childhood of survival for them both. Anya too. But then they found each other, and it started to feel less harrowing, less isolating and alone. Even when they lost track of one another—transported from one family to another, in different boroughs, different schools—Anya taught them to rely on a network of trusted contacts. Information from other kids in the system became the string that kept them tied together.

And then, during that frightening summer when Lexa was thirteen and Anya disappeared, lost to another state—shipped halfway across the country—Lexa wouldn’t let them rest until she and Lincoln found her. It would be another eight months before Anya landed back on New York City asphalt and Lexa could breathe steadily again.  

A timer sounding off in the kitchen breaks the atmosphere again, and Lincoln sets his beer down to briskly stand from the couch. “I’m gonna check on the lasagna. You good on beer?”

Lexa eyes him, incredulous. “I’ll be drinking this same beer in an hour. Quit trying to get me drunk.” Her phone buzzes while Lincoln exits, his laughter trailing after him.

Clarke’s name on her phone screen has Lexa shifting around on the couch, setting down her beer and resting her elbows on her knees. That now familiar coil of excitement swirls in her stomach as she opens the message.

Clarke Griffin (6:07PM): new artist featured at the coffee shop has some amazing photography of NY

Clarke Griffin (6:07PM): red hook, I think?

Lexa gives in to the tug at her lips, the way Clarke’s innocuous observation blooms warmth in her chest because of its casual consideration.

Clarke had been thinking of her.

She more often tries to suppress the way her mind wants to calculate just how much Clarke thinks of her. But tonight, she allows it. Even a momentary concession has Lexa biting at her lips to keep her smile from spreading.

(6:08PM): Clarke, please tell me you are not drinking coffee at six pm.

Clarke Griffin (6:08PM): Ok. Lexa, I am not drinking coffee at 6pm.

Lexa is readying her next reply, gently chastising Clarke for her irresponsible caffeine intake for what is likely the hundredth time, when Lincoln’s voice announces his return to the room.

“What’s Costia up to tonight?”

A lurch in her chest has Lexa nearly dropping her phone onto the floor. Mention of Costia while staring at an innocent message from Clarke is like a head-on collision in her brain. She blinks, closing her phone all together and setting it carefully on the table beside her beer.

It shouldn’t feel like an irritant, like vinegar in an open wound, but Lincoln asking after Costia grates the skin at the back of her neck.

Lexa works to remain calm, grinds her jaw, and goes for vague nonchalance. “Boston. Working late.”

“Damn, that sucks. Again?” Lincoln returns to the sofa and stretches his arm along the back cushions. Gus had since wandered off during Lexa’s less-than-scandalous text exchange about photography, but she returns to nuzzle at Lincoln’s calves.

“Par for the course,” Lexa exhales, willing herself to ease the raised hackles she feels along her spine.

Lincoln’s tone is sympathetic. “It’s been happening a lot lately, huh?”

After another sip of beer, Lexa turns into the couch, folding one leg beneath the other. “I’ve lost track, honestly.”

“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to, but I have a lot of questions.”

Lexa runs her fingers through her hair and stares at the drink held in her right hand. She doesn’t like to think about all the ins and outs and what-ifs of her current relationship, let alone voice her wandering thoughts aloud. But, Lincoln is a good friend—more than that, he is an integral part of her found family. She finishes the last quarter of her pint in two or three gulps.

“I’m probably going to require more beer.”

Lincoln smiles kindly, patting her kneecap before taking the empty glass and standing once again. “More of the same? Or do you want to try something else?”

Lexa stops herself from asking for an entire bottle of whiskey. “What else do you have?”

“Come have a look,” Lincoln offers.

She follows him into a petite kitchen, further dwarfed by Lincoln’s immense stature.

“It smells amazing in here.”

“Should be ready in the next half hour or so,” Lincoln tells her as he swings open the fridge door. There is a low shelf stocked entirely with various cans of beer. “Pick your poison.”

Lexa squats onto her haunches to examine a few of the labels, in the end deciding on an IPA she remembers seeing on the taps at Dockside.

“That’s a good one. Octavia is obsessed with it,” Lincoln tells her as he opens his cabinets for a fresh glass and snaps the tab on the beer can for her. He hands over the new glass of beer before rinsing the can and tossing it into a squat recycling bin beside his trash can.

Lexa rests the small of her back against the edge of his kitchen counters and enjoys her first sip while Gus winds around her ankles and flicks her bushy tail.

“Octavia has good taste.”

“Tell me something I didn’t already know,” Lincoln smirks.

Lexa shakes her head in mock astonishment. “Legitimately. Such an ass.”

His smile transforms to something more genuine as Lincoln props his weight against the counter opposite. “She’s a complete workaholic—never stops thinking about the job, reading up on new techniques, emerging brewers, hop varietals. All of it. The success of that bar is her life. She lives and breathes it, and it shows.”

“But she—” Lexa adjusts the fit of her plaid button down, swallows her uncertainties with another sip of beer, and forces herself to engage in a conversation she has long since ignored. “You two still spend a lot of time together?”

“I think the fact that our mutual interests and careers virtually overlap sort of helps. But, yeah, I think regardless of that, we would still make time for each other.”

Lexa can only nod in response, returning to her beer in lieu of anything profound to say in turn.

“Are you guys able to spend any time together at this point? Costia’s schedule seems heinous.”

“We are. Here and there,” Lexa shrugs. “We went to see an exhibit at the MFA last weekend, which was nice.” Lexa frowns at the floor. “None of this is her fault. She tries.”

“There’s not always someone at fault when things stop working,” Lincoln says, not unkindly.

It doesn’t stop Lexa from grinding her jaw on instinct.

“I moved here for her. If we were to—I don’t even know what I would do if that happened.”

“Lex, you told me months ago that you were moving here to sort things out—not just with Costia, but with yourself, too.”

Lexa nods again and answers softly. “I know.”

“Let me ask you this: if Costia’s schedule were different, if she were able to do what she loved in school while also making more time for you and her, would it make you want to hang out any less with, you know, other people?”

Not so oblivious then.

He doesn’t have to say her name explicitly—the knowing look they share speaks volumes. Lexa looks away and licks her lips, stalling a response as her pulse quickens.

“I don’t know if—”

Her half-formed response is interrupted by Lincoln’s phone ringing on the counter beside him. He grins as he picks up the call.

“Speak of the devil. Hey, Clarke.”

Lexa sips her beer helplessly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as her mind races. He’s answered the call on speaker, and Lexa braces for the distinct rasp of Clarke’s voice.

“Hey, it’s me,” Octavia answers, her voice sharp and distinct in it’s own way, and Lexa relaxes by a fraction.

“Oh! Hey, it’s you. Why are you calling from Clarke’s phone?”

“I can’t fucking find mine. Have you seen it at yours?”

“Uh, no,” Lincoln answers, nevertheless casting his eyes around the kitchen surfaces for any sign of it. “I can look around for it though.”

“We’re actually parked outside—”

“Hi, Lincoln!”

Clarke’s voice pipes through at a distance—as if Octavia hasn’t put the call on speaker but Clarke wanted to be included anyway. Lexa tenses in an instant.

“—on our way to Abby’s for dinner. Do you mind if I run up for a sec?”

“No, of course not. Come on up.”

“Are you sure? I’m not trying to interrupt your bro date with Lexa.”

“Hi, Lexa!”

“Clarke, is it possible for you to have any chill for longer than ninety seconds?” Octavia snaps.

A short and hushed squabble ensues over the next several seconds, likely within the confines of Clarke’s car. Lincoln shares a smile with Lexa across the small expanse of his kitchen as her stomach jumps with nervous energy.

“I’ll be up in a second,” Octavia grumbles.

She’s at the front door a moment later, and Lexa lingers by the kitchen doorway while Lincoln greets her with a brief kiss.

“Hey, Lexa.”

“Hi.” Lexa offers a half wave.

“I’ll be out of here so quickly, I swear.”

“Don’t worry about it. Do you want help looking?”

“Nah, I’m good. Clarke wants to talk to you anyway.”

This jolts Lexa to a standstill where she had begun to move slowly towards the sofa with Gus at her heels.

“Oh, she—I uh,” Lexa swallows down a fresh set of nerves that Octavia doesn’t seem to notice.

“Babe, can you check the back deck while I look in your bedroom? I was out there this morning for a little while, and I might have left it on one of the chairs.”

“Sure,” Lincoln answers, his arm still slung around Octavia’s waist as he leans down to kiss the top of her head.

They’re both gone from the room in another instant, leaving Lexa standing awkwardly between the front door and the couch where Gus has perched herself atop the back cushions. Lexa hesitates for long seconds, adjusting the rolled sleeves of her shirt while gnawing her lip as the decision to stay or go to Clarke flits irritatingly against her conscience.

Gus observes her solemnly, and she swears it’s the same look her own father pinned on her during that summer she turned sixteen and formed an unwavering desperation to impress Nathalie Rivera, who Lexa did not, irrefutably, have a crush on. Even going so far as to bribe Lincoln into teaching her the Spanish he’d picked up from his new foster mom. Lexa’s determination to get her attention could not be deterred, but she was not romantically interested in any way, Anya’s accusational taunts be damned.  

“Don’t give me that look,” Lexa tells the cat as she rests her beer on Lincoln’s coffee table, slips into her shoes, and heads for the door.  

She practically sprints (without logical cause) down the flight of interior stairs to the main door, which opens onto a front walk, at the end of which sits Clarke’s silver car. Lexa manages to calm her breathing enough by the time she reaches the driver’s side of the car that she’s not visibly out-of-breath, but her lungs feel constricted nonetheless.

“Hey!” Clarke beams as she slips from the driver’s seat when she notices Lexa approaching.

“Hi.”

Lexa forces her mouth closed to keep from audibly stuttering. Clarke is often dressed at Dockside in an expansive wardrobe that feels like a personal attack on Lexa’s wellbeing. But, something about seeing Clarke in jeans and a warm sweater, looking casually elegant for a dinner with her mother, has Lexa stumbling over basic conversation skills like she hasn’t in years.

“You’re, um, you guys have—” she clears her throat, completely ineffectually, and Clarke very poorly hides her amusement.

“We’re on our way to my mom’s. Raven just got this major promotion so we’re celebrating by letting her cook us dinner.”

Lexa places her hands into her front pockets and smiles at Clarke as if her whole body doesn’t feel like a brittle, shaken leaf.

“You maintain very bizarre friendships.”

“That’s an interesting take coming from one of my best friends.”

“I didn’t know what I was getting into,” Lexa smirks. “Clearly.”

Clarke looks away with a laugh and leans against the side of her car to cross her arms along her stomach. The gold of her necklace pendant glints in the streetlamp above them. She nods towards the house at Lexa’s back when her laughter has subsided.

“Sorry we crashed.” Clarke’s face scrunches prettily with guilt, and Lexa makes the wise decision to avert her eyes with a shrug.

“It’s totally fine. Unavoidable emergency, right?”

“Or, they just devised a pathetic excuse to makeout for a few minutes.”

“Right,” Lexa laughs. She cranes her neck to look back at the house. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left them alone.”

“At this rate, they could be grabbing a quickie.”

It’s now Lexa who is twisting her mouth at Clarke’s overt sexual reference, hiding embarrassment behind disgust. “Clarke, ew.”

It only serves to make Clarke laugh again, and Lexa is forced to look away a second time.

“So what’s up? Did you need something? Or, did you just really miss me?”

“What?” Lexa must look horror-stricken because Clarke is sputtering more laughter. “No, I’m just—Octavia said you wanted to see me.”

Smooth. Very smooth.

“I didn’t—” Clarke starts to protest, looking a little unnerved herself before rolling her eyes. “She’s an ass.”

The familiar insult makes Lexa laugh, and Clarke smiles in kind. “She’s well matched then.”

“Lincoln? An ass?” Clarke looks scandalized. “No!”

Lexa shakes her head with a long sigh. “You have no idea.”

A charged moment between them stretches taut, as it so often does, and Lexa is reminded of all the other moments that have preceded it.

Tuesday night spent salvaging a failed dinner party.

A blissful day on the water in Clarke’s boat.

Coffee along the harbor.

Aimless walks about town. Lingering goodbyes.

And, countless other instances in which Lexa must fight this same impulse. She’s not at liberty to admit to such wants, let alone act on them, but the thought of kissing Clarke persists behind a veneer of practiced composure.

Sometimes Lexa thinks that if Clarke were to lean in, make the decision for them both, she would let her.

Clarke is too good a person to make such advances; even hoping for such an outcome is wildly unfair, and Lexa hates herself a little bit for it.

She wears a regretful smile that she presumes Clarke has come to recognize—the way it is reflected back to her as Lexa sighs. “So, I guess I’m going to head back up. Lincoln has promised me twice my weight in carbs.”

“Ooh!” Clarke’s eyes light up as they so often do at the mention of food. “What’s on the menu?”

“Lasagna.” The answer comes from over Lexa’s shoulder, and she turns to see Octavia ambling down the front walk with a small plate and a mouthful of pasta. “And, it’s so, fucking good.”

“Aren’t you two on your way to dinner?”

Octavia shrugs, “Appetizer.”

“I hope you know you’re sharing that with me,” Clarke tells her as Octavia rounds the car and opens the passenger door.

“You’ll have to pry the fork from my cold, dead fingers.”

Clarke scoffs, opening her own door. “As if cutlery has ever stopped me from stealing food off your plate.”

“I’ll see you guys later,” Lexa smiles, taking one or two backwards steps towards the house.

“Later, dude,” Octavia answers before closing herself into the car.

Clarke smiles warmly, her eyes softening even as Lexa creates more distance between them. “Bye.”

Lexa can feel the warmth of Clarke’s gaze at the base of her stomach, swirling lazily. “Bye.”

She ascends Lincoln’s stairs briskly, determined to figure out her emotional baggage sooner rather than later and finally get her life together.

:::

#a beer bud series #apu #a pleasant undoing #brewkru! #clexa fic

[witchy-lili]

Sander Sides Coffeeshop AU! Part 2

Well I didn’t expect part one to get that much attention..

Thank you all :)  Trigger warning : Hum, alcohol ? I guess ? tell me if I have to put something in there ! 

The first one was originally just a simple shitpost, but seeing this positivity encouraged me to write more ! So have that ! Oh and, use this song for a certain part of the chapter. Enjoy~

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

Damn was this a tiring day for the owner. Logan closed the cafe’s door after the last customer, not even turning the key, before dropping down on one of the angle sofas, sighing loudly. He lifted his rectangle glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was tired, but now wasn’t the time to sleep.

The cafe, as much as he loved it, wasn’t enough income to maintain a stable life. He wasn’t in debt, lord knows how much he hated seeking help from others. “I always counted on myself, why change now ?”. The day was not the only time he was behind a counter. After closing his eyes for a few seconds, he stood up and went to look in his bag and looked at the hour on his phone. Eleven twenty four pm. It started at one am. He had enough time to freshen up. And so he went out, his blazer on his shoulder walking under the moonlight after putting the key in his pocket.

Home sweet and dearly home. It wasn’t much, just a simple black and white apartment with hints of deep navy blue. Hanging his blazer on the hook present on the back of his door. A soft creature came, rubbing against his legs, calmly purring.

-Well hello Plato..

The cat answered with a soft meow as Logan gently patted his fluffy cream fur which composed the majority of his body. The face, tip of the tail and paws being darker, almost black, but the cherry on top was the two icey sapphires eyes, as cold as his master’s. Only the hue was different, Lo’ having more greyish eyes. Speaking of the devil, he walked up to the living room connected kitchen, taking out a can of cat food to pour it into one of his little fuff ball’s bowl then filling the second one with water.

-There you go, you cuddle head.

Question remained, why would someone who struggled with money have a pet ?

Logan was always in control, trying his best to think about the most logical and brainey solution to a problem or way to improve his life, but even he could not just walk away from a crying kitten under the rain. He remembered the day. He was still a college student, his life was a wreck, a twelve sided Rubik’s cube with the colors constantly changing every single time he moved them. It was the same period he decided to close himself off and focus on school work but even he couldn't stay unmoved by a crying dirty kitten under the rain.

He smiled thinking about it again, all the nights worrying about Plato, putting him in his sweater while he was studying just to keep him by his side, all the books he read to learn how to properly take care of a cat, all the scratches he got, but also all the kisses and head rubs. Logan absentmindedly looked at the clock. Almost midnight.

-Shit.

Who thought he could lose himself thinking about how much he loved his companion ? Now he had to be fast. He’d usually take the time to enjoy the warm water on his skin, usually hugging himself in the process, trying to emulate the feeling of a long lost embrace, but now it was pretty late. He needed to go. Where ? Well his side job. Logan quickly dried his dark chestnut hair before putting on an elegant uniform. A white shirt buttoned to the top under a navy vest and a pair of jeans. Simple but efficient. Just like he always did.

The dark haired man arrived in front of a bar’s backdoor. Just on time after a really painful sprint considering he wasn’t the athletic type. He entered and went to the changing rooms, just to put down his bag and finally go to work. That was the program, but apparently the strawberry blonde seemingly pissed man bursting in. Only a thought crossed Logan’s mind “Oh for fuck’s sake.”.

-Oh my god Lo’ you’re here i thought i’d never see the light of day !

-..Pretty normal considering it’s past one am. -Now calm down. i’ll make you a quick drink and look for your gloves, your makeup is perfect. Just go sit down.

He walked towards him clutching his arms, the barista cringed at the contact but kept a straight face before finally realising that his friend was in a long cherry red all sparkly dress and same colored heels.

-You got a representation tonight Roman ?

-Yes and it’s an ever-loving catastrophe ! I can’t close this fucking -but amazing- dress by myself, i don’t know where my gloves are and i start in five minutes ! Jesus, am i sweating ? Am i sweaty ? Is my makeup dripping ?

The usual scenario, Logan sighed before kindly pushing his friend away and turning him to, first of all, close the dress, having to stand on his tiptoes to reach the end. Roman was already a bit taller than him, but with those heels, phew, how could he even walk in these ?

Such a drama queen. Literally and mockingly. He tapped the performer on the back before straight up going to his dressing room, the gloves were just here, sitting on the edge of the mirror. Pretty sure Roman missed them because of his stress. He then went to the bar, discreetly pouring him a bottom of whisky and coming back with the two items. Blondie jumped on his heels to hug him again, making his poor friend spread his arms to avoid damaging the gloves or spilling the drink before giving them after the embrace.

-You are a lifesaver you nerdy coffee man !  

-Don’t mention it. I have to get working, good luck.

Finally. Putting on a black apron, he came behind the bar and started serving the clients. Tonight was going to be busy. Why ? Well, Roman was performing, his angelic sultry voice brought everyone in. The lights dimmed in the club, only the stage was illuminated. The singer walked in, projectors reflecting against his strass covered dress and gloves. Claps and whistles welcomed his grand entrance as he took the microphone, glazing over the room. Logan gave him a nod and a thumbs up to encourage him. The instrumental started to play.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LqbV36OhtQ&ab_channel=CalebHyles

Where have you been? Been searching all along Came facing twilight on and on Without a clueWithout a sign Without grasping yet The real question to be asked Where have I been?

The tone always sent chills down Logan’s spine. He often heard him sing, but he could never not be surprised by his talent. He forgot himself, slowly breathing, calmed by the jazzy tone of the song. Forgot himself so much that he didn’t notice the new customer sitting at the bar and calling him for the last few seconds. The barista shook his head and turned, starting his usual pitch… -Sorry for that. What can i… ...only to be met with the amber gaze of a familiar face. The man of this morning. What was his name again ? Janice ? Janelle ? Jamil ? Logan’s eyes became cold and stern again, along with his voice. -..serve you. -Looks like i was right. You’re not as boring as you seem to be. -Do you want to drink something ? I have other clients. The man in the melon hat turned his head left and right with a smirk. He was the only one sitting at the counter. -A Snakebite, if you know how to make it right. Logan raised a surprised eyebrow. It was literally two ingredients. He was clearly mocking him.  Without a word, he took the honey flavored whiskey and lime juice and put them in the shaker with some ice before energetically, well,shaking it and straining it in a shot glass, putting it in front of the snide individual then turning back to look at his friend. -Delightfull isn’t it ? I’ve rarely heard such a sultry and heavenly voice at the same time. -Well, it is Roman. They looked at each other for less than half a second before having their attention taken by the singer. Roman got compliments and flowers thrown at him at the end of his performance, and after some quick talk with fans, he sat down at the bar, sighing happily. -Damn that felt good ! Sooooo~, how are my two favorite boys doing ? Logan seemed surprised and pointed the curious man.

-You know him ?! -Yeah of course you dummy dumb ! I was the one who gave him your cafe’s address ! Ain’t he the loveliest ? -My my, thank you Romie, you’re going to make me blush. His eyes were still on Logan, still mocking him, he could have sworn even seeing this snake of a man quickly stick out his tongue to taunt him. Well. Looks like this was going to be a long night.

--------------------------------------------------------------- Surprise surprise ! You probably realized by now that I was really inspired by the talented Caleb Hyles with his “Beneath the mask” cover for this song. I just love the atmosphere. Hope you lovelies enjoyed this piece of writing ! 

#sandersides #sander sides #sanders side fic #coffeshopau #coffee shop au #logan sanders #logan #roman sanders #roman #sides in dresses #humanau #sander sides human au #sandersidesau #sander side au #janus #sander side deceit #deceit #loceit