#to have a hummingbird hat is the only life I want

[to-a-merrier-world]

One Piece x Daemon AU

Straw Hat Pirates' Daemons

Luffy - Peregrine Falcon (separated by DF): Settling abnormally young—at only 7 years old when Shanks gave him his hat—Luffy’s daemon is associated with freedom, intuition, and bravery. The fastest bird in the world, these falcons are also associated with a number of gods, including the sun god Ra and the sky god Horus, and are sometimes considered king of the birds. Luffy’s daemon shape was heavily influenced by his Devil Fruit and the strength of his personal goals/dreams, since his own personality is already very open, honest, and straightforward (thus, he already bares his soul to the world, even without a daemon). The small size of his daemon also often leads others to underestimate him.

Zoro - Wolf-Dog: Is anyone surprised? Zoro’s daemon reveals his nature as a mix of wild animal and loyal pet. While dog daemons are associated with servitude, wolf daemons are neither docile nor friendly (to most strangers, at least). I found this mix of loyalty, wildness, ferocity, and an orientation towards pack/protection to be a good fit for Zoro. (Especially cause everyone calls him Luffy’s loyal attack dog anyway😛). (During the time skip, Zoro separated with his daemon under Mihawk’s instruction.)

Nami - Red Fox: Foxes have it all—associated with tricksters and hoarders, cuteness and sexiness, aggression and playfulness, Nami’s daemon works well with here, both when they’re trying to survive under Arlong and as Luffy’s navigator. While sometimes associated with thieves, foxes are also known as spirits who help those in need (and punish those who are arrogant). The fox is also sometimes depicted as a guide between worlds, perfect for a navigator.

Usopp - Great Horned Owl: Usopp is the only crew member whose daemon isn’t settled before joining. His daemon settles after Ennie’s Lobby, but prior to that, she often took the form of a cape hare. Associated with wisdom, intuition, self-actualization, and victory in battle, I chose an owl for Usopp in part b/c I wanted to relate and contrast him with Luffy (both birds of prey). I also chose an owl b/c of they’re “silent killers”—appropriate for a sniper! (During the time skip, Usopp would train to separate with his daemon, but ultimately only stretched their bond, unable to fully separate.)

Sanji - Slender Mongoose: This daemon is associated with boldness, rebellion, and resourcefulness, and they’re known for taking on predators that are much bigger and badder than them (look up the mongoose vs lion confrontation!). Mongoose are also considered a protector of gods, and can be very cooperative and family-oriented. I chose a mongoose in-part because of their unassuming, rodent-like appearance (and also for the mental image of Sanji cooking with his cute mongoose daemon hanging around his neck).

Chopper - Anna's Hummingbird (separated by DF): One of the only hummingbird species that sticks around during winter, this daemon is associated with luck, healing, life, and tenacity. Chopper’s daemon appeared after he ate his Devil Fruit (and gained a human soul), and settled after Hiriluk’s death. In part, I chose this hummingbird for its pink head and b/c it’d be really cute perched on Chopper’s antler.

Robin - Spotted Hyena (separated by DF): While they’re associated with evil, impurity, and stupidity, the hyena is actually an intelligent, nurturing, and courageous animal. Settling young, only a short year after her escape from Ohara, Robin’s daemon is a reflection of both who she is and who people believe her to be. Her daemon’s form was also taken for protection—for much of her life, Robin needed a daemon who could fight back when their backs were to a wall. Luckily, once she joins the Straw Hats, she and her daemon finally find the family group they’ve been looking for, where their kindness can flourish.

Franky - Painted Dog: Franky is by no means the type to have a domesticated dog daemon, but as someone who is family-oriented, friendly, and playful (and tough as hell), a wild painted dog is a good fit. After being hit by the sea train, Franky’s daemon ended up heavily scarred, giving her a fierce look.

Brook - White Satin Moth (separated by DF): With delicate, all-white wings, these moths are often seen as symbols of loved ones visiting from the afterlife. Prior to their death, though, Brook’s daemon was a mourning dove, chosen both for the symbolism of death/mourning and because they have my favorite bird call. Imagine the duets when they were alive…

Bonus (under Read more): Ace, Sabo, Shanks, & Law! Plus, some world-building thoughts:

Ace - Lion (separated by DF): While a large, threatening predator, lions are also one of the few big cats that typically live in family groups. Ace’s daemon took this form both as a form of defense, as well as misdirection—they deeply crave family, connection, and acceptance, but can be held back by their own anger and distrust. Lions are associated with royalty, but are not associated with pirates the way bird daemons are.

Sabo - Caracal: Associated with being protectors of gods, I mostly chose a caracal for their unique jumping (reminded me of Sabo’s fighting style) and the cute ears. Both he and Ace have individualistic/loner personalities that lend them towards cat daemons, but unlike Ace, Sabo is less concerned with a family connection. Caracals are associated with both hunting and protection. (Also, I can definitely see Sabo’s daemon playing with Luffy’s by jumping to catch them^^)

Shanks - Raven (separated): One of the smartest birds around, ravens are often known as harbingers of death and doom. They are also known to communicate with other ravens about who friends and foes are, and will be friendly or hostile accordingly. Shanks and his daemon separated the traditional way, by purposeful stretching of the bond until it broke.

Law - Black-footed Cat (separated by DF): I know, I know, everyone gives him a snow leopard, which I respect, but!! This cat is the deadliest wild cat in the world with the highest kill count. Deceptively small and cute, they are known for their tenacity, bravery, and ferocity. For Law, I wanted to highlight his upbringing as the child of 2 doctors & his connection to Cora—he had a normal childhood, before everything fell apart, but his experiences surviving in Flevance and with Cora led him to a smaller, quieter daemon that wouldn’t draw attention. Also, while fierce and dangerous, Law can still be quite cute, imo🥰. And with such a small/non-threatening looking daemon, Law would tend towards hiding them, making himself appear more threatening (as people are naturally off-put by a lack of daemon).

World-building:

When a person eats a Devil Fruit, the power also applies to their daemon. (Ex: When Bon Clay mimics someone's face, his daemon can also mimic their daemon.)

When a person eats a Devil Fruit, they and their daemon are separated. Unlike the traditional and artificial methods of stretching and separating from one’s daemon, Devil Fruit separation is largely painless.

Daemons can use haki, but it is very difficult, requiring training.

It's highly stigmatized in most of the world for daemons of strangers to touch, including in fights. Pirates' daemons, however, are often seen fighting each other. However, even among pirates, it's taboo to touch another's daemon without permission.

Bird daemons are stigmatized due to their association with piracy during the pirate era (Gol Roger's daemon was a golden eagle). (Each of the Straw Hats who have/had bird daemons do so because their dreams involve being a pirate specifically.)

All races in OP have externalized souls (ex: Minks have visible auras that can interact with each other. Fishmen/merpeople have sentient water—think Moana—that follows them or is kept in special jewelry.)

#one piece #daemon au #monkey d. luffy #roronoa zoro #usopp #one piece usopp #nami #cat burglar nami #one piece nami #tony tony chopper #one piece chopper #nico robin #franky #one piece franky #soul king brook #one piece brook #portgas d ace #sabo #revolutionary sabo #shanks #red hair shanks #one piece shanks #trafalgar law #one piece law #op x daemon au #sanji #black leg sanji

[immabethehero]

A Starry Night in the Encanto

I DID IT. CROSSOVER WEEK FINALLY COMPLETE. @wdtajn​ IT’S FINALLY DONE

So context: there’s a lovely musical called Starry, based on the life of Vincent Van Gogh. It’s written by Kelly Lynne D’Angelo and Matt Dahan, both very talented. Dahan also did a bit of Starkid. The soundtrack is on Spotify, go listen to it now!!!

🌠🌠🌠🌠🌠

“His hair is red like Mamá’s. Fiery red,” Dolores reports.

“He’s only got art equipment on him,” Isabela says.

“The hummingbirds say a door appeared from a hill and he emerged from it,” Antonio translates, the little birds fluttering around his head.

“He hasn’t said much to anyone, just kind of wandered towards the fields where the donkeys were,” Luisa recalls.

“He’s a lot like you, Tío, weird and artsy,” Camilo admits. This earns him a smack from Dolores.

“So… you think you could try talking to him?” Mirabel asks.

Bruno blinks rapidly, struggling to keep up with all the sudden information. He had just been dreaming of watching sheep and rats dance in a field when a tremor that made his bones rattle and his teeth chatter startled him awake. When he opened his eyes, he quickly surmised the tremor had been all six kids shaking him awake.

“And you want me to talk to him because…” he begins.

“Because like Camilo said in a non-helpful way, he reminds the town of you,” Mirabel answers.

An artist who avoids socializing? Fair enough. Bruno sighs and swings his feet out of the hammock. “Alright, just don’t expect any fascinating conversations to happen.”

“We won’t,” Camilo responds.

*

True to what Luisa said, Bruno finds the man sitting on a rock, painting the donkeys grazing in the field. The stranger wears blue overalls over a yellow shirt, both covered in dried paint splotches. He chews on a spare paint brush as he contemplates his next move. Red hair pokes out from under his straw hat.

Bruno slowly walks over to him, whistling absentmindedly to get his attention. The stranger’s head perks up, but he refuses to tear his eyes away from his masterpiece.

Bruno takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “Um, hi!”

No response. The man keeps painting.

Maybe he doesn’t speak English. “Hola!” Still no response.

“Uh… bonjour! Ciao! Habari! Konnichiwa! Guten morgen!” Please say something!

The stranger finally (finally!) turns around. His blue eyes have a sad, faraway look, yet twinkle with determination. They’re also very judgemental, at least to Bruno. “Didn’t know you spoke so many languages.”

Bruno feels his face turn red. “Not really, I just know how to say ‘hello’ and ‘where’s the bathroom’ in many languages.”

The stranger nods and turns back to his painting. Bruno peers over his shoulder to see the work.

“Woah…”

The colours pop out of the canvas, the sky dancing and twirling in a polychromatic tornado. The field boasts just as many hues, every shade of green far more eye-catching than Bruno’s ruana.

The man stops his painting and glares at Bruno. “Can I help you with something?”

“Teach me to paint.”

“What?”

“Can you teach me to paint like you, please?”

The man glances back and forth between Bruno and his painting, confused. “You actually like this?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve never seen the sky and fields painted like that before!” Bruno admits. “It’s… maravilloso!”

The man blushes. “You’d be the first non-family member to say that. My other friends would say it’s too… what’s the word…”

“Messy?” Bruno guesses.

“No… tacky. Something like that.”

Bruno scoffs. “You need new friends.”

The painter laughs. “You flatter me, sir. What’s your name?”

“Bruno Madrigal.”

“Vincent Van Vogh.”

As Bruno shakes Vincent’s hand, his heart begins to beat faster in excitement. There’s something very fascinating about this man.

“Do you need a place to stay?”

“Given my way here has suddenly disappeared, yes. Do you have a motel where I could spend the night?”

“I was thinking perhaps my place? My family's house is big enough to house a guest wandering the Encanto,” Bruno says.

“Encanto?”

“It’s where you are. Encanto, Colombia.”

Vincent’s pale face turns ghostly. “Colombia?! That’s so far from France! How did I get here? How do I get back?!”

Bruno waves his hands nervously. “Don’t worry! This town does all sorts of magical stuff. I’m sure once you’ve settled down and explained how you got here, a way for you to go home will arrive. For now, let’s just settle on finding you a place to stay. I promise my family doesn’t bite. But the pets might.”

Vincent squeaks in response.

*

As they near the brilliant “Casita”, as Bruno calls it, the man suddenly stops Vincent in his tracks.

“Before we get any closer, I need to warn you of some things. This town is known for… its eccentricities, to say the least. For one thing, my house moves independently.”

Vincent nods warily. “Like… it’s haunted?”

Bruno laughs nervously. “No, it just has a mind of its own.”

The two continue on their way, and Bruno motions to Casita. “As you see…”

The window shutters on the top window suddenly swing and the tiles of the roof roll in a wave. Vincent yelps in surprise.

The window shutters shake back and forth slowly, as if waving. Vincent meekly waves back. The door opens (on its own!) to welcome the men inside. Vincent marvels at the building’s beautiful colours. He’ll have to paint it once he’s made sure he’s awake and not just hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or completely losing his mind. Maybe he should have taken up Segatori’s suggestion to see that doctor from wherever-the-heck.

“My family has magic as well. Some are a bit more noticeable than others,” Bruno explains. “For example-”

A roar of thunder echoes through the courtyard, startling Vincent. He looks up. There’s not a single cloud in the sky, how-?

He is soon answered by a tall woman wearing a bright orange dress. Her red hair is pulled back into a pretty braid. She eyes Vincent suspiciously.

“Who’s this, Bruno?” she asks.

“He’s Vincent, he’s… new here,” Bruno explains. He turns to Vincent. “This is Pepa, my sister. She can control the weather.”

Pepa scoffs. “It’s not so much control as it is just summoning clouds when I get emotional.”

“It’s still a very cool gift,” Bruno says. Pepa smiles and shoves him playfully.

“Whatever you say, hermano.”

Vincent hears loud footsteps above and looks up to see six, well, five young adults and one child curiously watching him from the mezzanine.

“Oh boy, there’s two of them now,” the teenaged boy mumbles. The girl with the red headband elbows him hard.

“These are my nieces and nephews!” Bruno says, grinning. “Come on down!”

Once they’re all standing in front of Vincent, Bruno introduces them. Isabela, Dolores, Luisa, Camilo, Mirabel and Antonio.

“Pleased to meet you at last, Señor. What’s your name?” Mirabel asks, pushing her bright green glasses up. Vincent marvels at her beautiful skirt.

“I’m Vincent. Vincent Van Gogh,” the artist says. “Your skirt is very pretty.” So many colours…

“Thank you! I just added some new designs.” Mirabel twirls, allowing Vincent to see the skirt in full.

“Where are you from?” Luisa asks. She towers over all of the kids. Her muscular build would be something Johanna would fawn over.

“Arles. It’s in the south of France.”

“That’s over 8000 kilometers away!” she gasps.

A heavenly scent fills the room. Vincent follows it to another woman approaching, holding a pot. Her curly black hair is swept up in a bun.

“This is Julieta, my other sister. Her cooking can heal any injuries,” Bruno says. “Julieta, this is Vincent Van Gogh.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Julieta says, holding out a gloved hand. Vincent shakes it, startled by all the people. He’s never met a group with such colourful clothing before!

“Where did you come from?” Julieta asks.

“Arles, France.”

“That’s quite far. How did you get here?”

“I was just getting back from a long day of painting when I saw a door glowing in an alleyway. When I went to investigate it, I could hear people and animals inside. So I opened it and walked through and came here. 

“That must have been the door in the hill where the animals saw you come out!” Antonio cries.

“What happened to the door?” Mirabel asks.

“When I turned around, the door was gone.”

The Madrigals glance at each other nervously.

Mirabel holds up her hand. “Family meeting!”

While the Madrigals huddle in Dolores’ sound proof room, Vincent stays in the courtyard, entertained by Casita. The painter has never seen a house juggle before.

“So… what do you guys think? Should we let him stay?”

“Well, now that you’ve invited him, it’s not like we can just throw him out into the streets.”

“Besides, he came from a magic portal. We can’t send him back either. We’ll have to wait for the Miracle to find him another way home.”

“All in favour of letting Vincent stay, say I.”

“I!” twelve voices echo.

*

Casita conjures up a guest room with a reasonably sized window for Vincent to look out. As soon as he sees the view, Vincent requests another canvas and immediately begins painting. Bruno can’t wait to see the result.

He also can’t wait to get to his vision cave. He can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something important, significant, influential about Vincent. His artwork feels familiar, and Bruno knows his Gift can help him solve the mystery. The seer flies through his room and into his vision cave, taking the steps (which have thankfully lessened dramatically) two at a time.

Surrounded by sand, salt tossed and match lit, Bruno begins to search for Vincent Van Gogh’s future.

*

Bruno is the first person Vincent sees in the morning. Grinning, he holds up the finished artwork of his view of the Encanto. The clouds and sunset have never looked so vibrant before, the colourful houses below compliment the beautiful sky.

“You like it? You can keep it if you do! I have so much art in my flat, it’s kind of a problem. I really need to find new homes for them…”

Vincent looks up from his work to see his host’s eyes red and puffy. Without saying a single word, Bruno throws his arms around the shocked painter.

“Bruno? Are you okay?”

Bruno simply hugs him tighter.

*

Unsettled, Vincent decides to paint in the courtyard of the lovely house. Just before he begins pouring his paint, he notices the kids approach him, all holding painting gear. His stomach drops. They’re not going to- 

“Is it ok if we join your painting session?” the girl with the colourful dress asks. “We saw you sitting alone and well, we just thought a good way to get to know our guest is through his favorite activity!”

Vincent freezes. He prefers painting alone, when no one can judge him or tell him how to paint or-

“We’ll be as quiet as possible! We just thought it would be fun,” the tallest girl says. The rest nod, smiles nervous but… honest.

Vincent nods and gestures to the floor, hoping it doesn’t come off as curt. He jumps when the tiles on the floor suddenly move, rolling chairs, easels, and a large table their way. He’s never going to get used to that.

“Alright guys, let’s do it!” the first girl says, setting her painting supplies down. Vincent fakes a smile as the rest of the kids file in.

“Mirabel and Antonio are coming soon,” a girl with a red headband says to Vincent. “Tío Bruno as well, but first he needs to see Julieta because of a headache.” Vincent nods, puzzled. How does she know that? Wait, what’s her name again?

Vincent studies the people around him, trying to remember Bruno’s rapid fire introductions from yesterday. Isabela has the colourful dress, Louise(?) is really tall and muscular, Dora(?) has the red headband. There's also a teenaged boy wearing an orange poncho, or ruana, as Vincent has been informed. He’s already forgotten that kid’s name.

The painter relaxes a little when he sees Mirabel and Antonio (frankly the more approachable kids of the youth) show up. He stops relaxing when he sees what Antonio is riding on. Christ, he’s never seen a cat that big!

“What- what’s that?” he stammers, pointing a shaking finger at the giant cat with razor teeth.

Antonio looks down at his ride. “This is Parce! He’s a jaguar, and he’s one of my best friends!”

“And your parents are okay with this?” Vincent squeaks. Antonio nods happily.

“I can talk to animals! They all love me!” That checks out. Vincent keeps forgetting about the magic part.

“So… I’m guessing you all have magic too?” Vincent asks. 

“Yeah! Luisa has super strength!” the teenaged boy says, pointing to the tall girl. To demonstrate, Luisa lifts up the table with one hand. One. Vincent’s jaw drops. That’s why she’s so muscular! Johanna would love this girl.

“Dolores can hear anything from miles away!” Isabela says, pointing to the girl with the red headband. The girl in question suddenly perks her head up and smiles.

“It seems Tía Julieta is baking a treat for us.” Right on queue, Vincent begins to smell something delectable wafting from the kitchen. Incroyable!

“Isabela can grow any plant at will,” Mirabel says. Isabela waves her hand and a bouquet of sunflowers appears in her hand. She hands them to a stunned Vincent.

“And Camilo can shapeshift into anyone!” Mirabel exclaims, pointing to the teenaged boy. So that’s his name!

Camilo gets up and twirls. In seconds, he transforms into Vincent. The painter gawks at his own clone smiling back at him, though he thinks the smile would suit Gauguin more. Paul always has a smug smile.

“Tía Pepa can control the weather with her mood,” Luisa continues. “And our mamá, Julieta, can heal people with her cooking!”

Vincent realizes one kid hasn’t shown off yet. “What about you? What’s your power?” he asks Mirabel.

Mirabel shrugs. “I don’t have a Gift.”

“She’s our Miracle holder,” Dolores says.

“She keeps us sane,” Camilo adds.

“She’s the heart of this family,” Isabela concludes. Mirabel blushes with pride.

“And what about Bruno? You haven’t mentioned him.”

“Tío Bruno can see the future!” Mirabel says.

The future? As in, what’s to come? Or what could be? Could this explain why Bruno was crying when he saw Vincent this morning?

“Is that why he looked sad to see me? He was so happy when I came to stay, but when I saw him last, he was crying,” Vincent explains. The children exchange worried glances.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about!” Mirabel hastily says. “Why don’t you show us your talent?”

The Madrigal begin pulling out their art supplies, waiting eagerly for the painter to begin. Eyeing them all suspiciously, Vincent resumes pouring paint onto his pallette. 

Vincent decides to do a portrait of Parce, the jaguar lying by Antonio’s side. He begins sketching the outline.

“How long have you been in painting, Señor Van Gogh?” Dolores asks. 

“Almost seven years,” Vincent answers.

“What do you usually paint?”

“Whatever I feel like. Which right now is the giant cat and his fascinating pattern.”

“He’s a jaguar. They’re great swimmers and they can kill with just one bite!” Antonio says.

Vincent dares a peek at Parce, who winks at him. The Dutchman gulps and ducks behind his painting.

Bruno suddenly runs in, carrying his painting equipment and a tray of something that smells devine. “Sorry! Sorry! Got held up with Julieta. Anyone care for some carimiñola?”

Half the snacks are gone in seconds. Vincent quickly grabs one before they disappear entirely. He takes a bite.

All of his senses ignite at once. His skin has cleared, his crops are thriving- He’s found Heaven in this little treat! It’s as if the chef has made it specifically for him. They aren’t kidding when they say Julieta’s cooking is magical!

Bruno chuckles as Vincent begins snatching more for himself. “Julieta has some more left over if needed. Quite the chef, isn’t she?”

“This is magique! Remind me to get the recipe before I go home,” Vincent exclaims between bites. “Also, send my compliments to her.”

“Will do.”

After eating at least three more of the carimiñolas, Vincent continues painting. The rest of the Madrigals contentedly paint beside him, most of them humming or whistling to themselves as they work. Another thing Vincent has learned about the Madrigals: they’re very musical.

Theo and Johanna would love Encanto. Theo would be amazed by all the artwork here. The weather would do wonders for his health. And  the Madrigals! Johanna would consider the Madrigal women her sisters. Theo could chat with the husbands for hours… probably about how much they love their wives. The thought makes Vincent chuckle to himself.

Hours pass. As Vincent finishes his work, the Madrigals begin showing off their paintings. Isabela has painted a cactus with a large orange flower on it. Dolores painted a guitar with little swirly designs on them. Luisa shyly presents the lovely unicorn she drew, mumbling how art isn’t her strong suit. Vincent has to admit, he’s envious of the way she paints equidae. Mirabel shows off a giant butterfly with rainbow wings, while Antonio shares an adorable picture of Bruno’s pet rats. There’s at least fifty rats on that paper, just how many does Bruno own?!

“Camilo, you haven’t shared your artwork yet,” Mirabel points out. The teenager ducks his head, canvas facing his chest.

“It’s… uh… still ongoing,” he mumbles.

“I’m sure it’s fine, just show us already!” Isabela urges.

Camilo reluctantly turns his canvas around. The group stares at the photo, stunned by the results.

Mirabel finds her voice first. “How lovely! It’s a… is it El Mohán?”

“It’s a chicken. Screaming,” Camilo admits. “It’s from the chicken incident, remember?”

The Madrigals begin nodding and smiling. Apprently that’s a story.

Vincent ducks behind his own canvas to keep Camilo from seeing his amused smile. He really hopes the kid doesn’t want to make a career out of art. Oh god, the other painters would be appalled if they saw that. Gaugin would never let the poor boy hear the end of it.

“It’s bad isn’t it?” Camilo wails. “I can’t draw at all!”

“No kidding…” Bruno mutters a little too loudly. Mirabel shoots him a glare while Vincent giggles behind his artwork.

Camilo scowls and stands to face the snickering painter. “My art is very amusing, isn’t it? Why don’t you show us what you made, Señor Van Gogh?!”

Vincent, still chuckling a little, shoots the teen a smug smile and turns his painting around. Camilo immediately sits back down, gawking and stuttering. Vincent’s smile widens.

“I’ve never seen Parce so colourful before!” Antonio squeals. Parce roars in agreement.

“Look at all those colours!” Isabela and Mirabel gush.

“It’s so pretty!” Dolores sighs.

“You’re such a gifted painter!” Luisa exclaims.

Vincent blushes from all the compliments. He’s surprised it made such a hit with this crowd. The other artists would be whining about the bright colours, the Madrigals adore it. Maybe it’s a cultural thing?

Vincent hands the painting to Antonio. “Consider this a little gift.” The child gasps with excitement, warming the painter’s heart.

“Thank you, señor!”

At last, Bruno presents his artwork. It’s of two anthropomorphic rats in masks, one black with a red spider on its shirt, the other wearing a similar outfit, only white with hints of pink and black.

“What is that?” Vincent asks.

“It’s a scene from a movie about people who share magical spider powers! We’re gonna watch it tonight!” Bruno explains.

None of those words are in any religious writings. As far as Vincent knows. “What’s a movie?”

“It’s a thing in the future, it’s where… art moves on futuristic… canvases?” Bruno trails off, words failing him. Vincent looks even more lost.

“Could you show me these ‘movies’ with your Gift? Maybe I’ll understand then,” Vincent finally says.

Bruno’s smile disappears. “You… want to see my Gift?”

“You’re the only one whose Gift I haven’t seen yet, of course I want to!”

Bruno glances at the kids, who nod and motion to Vincent. The prophet turns back to the artist, forcing a smile. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

*

But first, Antonio wants Vincent to help him hang up the “Portrait of Parce”. Bruno silently thanks his sobrino for the extra minutes as he paces back and forth in his room, fidgeting with his ruana. The rats watch their master warily, some crawling to him for comfort. Bruno smiles and picks one up, stroking her back.

The door suddenly opens and Bruno nearly drops the poor rat in surprise. He sets the rat down and turns to see Mirabel.

“Tío? Is everything ok?”

Bruno whines wordlessly and flops face first into the sand. Mirabel crouches beside him and puts her hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t need to worry! Vincent has seen so much weird stuff by now, I’m sure your Gift will look normal compared to everything else!”

Bruno lifts his head up. “It’s not that I’m worried about. I… I saw his future. And I don’t want him to see it.”

Mirabel frowns. “Right… he did ask about that before you showed up.”

Bruno squeaks. “He did?”

“Yeah. He said you were crying. What did you see?”

Bruno hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “He’s been through a lot. Everyone thinks he’s odd, and his paintings aren’t selling. He barely has any friends.”

Mirabel hums to herself in thought. She finally says, “He kind of reminds me of you.”

Bruno scoffs lightly and gently elbows her. “How dare you? I have tons of friends. Human friends, that is!” That’s actually not true, but he hopes Mirabel will humour him.

“You and the town didn’t always see eye to eye, but look at you now! You’re loved and respected in the Encanto! I’m sure it will be the same for him!”

Bruno chuckles sadly. “It’s… it’s not the same where he’s from. It can’t be solved that easily.”

Mirabel huffs. “Well, there has to be something good coming his way! You need to look for the butterfly! Like you did with my future! Surely one nice thing appeared when you looked into his future!”

Bruno ponders this silently, picking at his ruana. He suddenly lights up.

“Actually… there is. It’s the reason I looked into his future in the first place! Gracias, Mirabel!”

*

“So how will this work? Will there be smoke? I’ve got some matches! Do I need to close my eyes? Are there cards involved?” Vincent’s questions are endless as he takes a seat in Bruno’s vision cave. Bruno sits across from him, slightly unnerved by how talkative the painter has become. And to think he didn’t even want to talk to Bruno when they first met!

“You just need to stay inside the circle I made,” Bruno says. “Also be careful of the flying sand. It lets you see my visions, but it also can get into your hair and clothes.”

Vincent shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s also going to get very windy.”

“Again, not an issue. I’ve painted in the rain plenty of times, the wind is nothing.”

“How strong is your immune system?”

“Very, now can we please begin?”

Bruno strikes a match and lights up the four leaf piles. He takes a deep breath. Look for the butterfly. Vincent watches with wide eyes.

The wind begins to pick up the sand. The room gently shakes as Bruno’s Gift awakens. Bruno feels his eyes glow and opens them.

“You might want to hang on,” he says, holding out his hands. An amazed Vincent takes them, his own hands trembling.

“Are you okay?” Bruno asks.

“Just shaking with excitement, I think,” Vincent says, gripping Bruno’s hands tightly. “Keep going.”

The sand swirls around them, creating a large bubble that envelops the gentlemen. Vincent gasps as bright green grains of sand begin forming images.

“This is what a movie looks like!” Bruno yells. Vincent watches with anticipation as the outline of a rectangle appears, the images inside moving as people below the screen watch.

“First they show them in these giant theatres before putting the movies on smaller vinyls for people to see whenever they want!” Bruno explains.

“That’s wonderful! Thank you for showing me!” Vincent says.

“While we’re here, there’s something else I wanted to show you!” Bruno exclaims.

“There is?”

“Your future!” Bruno closes his eyes in concentration, willing the good images to come to him. When he opens them, he feels a sense of relief rush through him.

Vincent watches as multiple versions of him appear, each one deeply engrossed in painting. Man, he really needs to fix his posture. When he looks closer, he recognizes a few paintings, but the rest are new to him.

The paintings then float together, each one receiving a fancy frame before lining up side by side. A ribbon holds back what seems to be crowds of people staring at the art. Vincent’s art.

“Thousands of people will come each day to see your art!” Bruno explains. “I’ve always wondered why your art looked so familiar, now I know. I’ve seen it before. These are revolutionary!”

Vincent stares at Bruno incredulously. “Are you sure it isn’t someone else’s art?”

“That was you painting all of them, right? I promise your paintings are going to change lives! People will come from far and wide to see them, inspired by your determination and passion. You’re quite the artist, Vincent Van Gogh.”

A slab of green glass materializes in front of the two men. Bruno takes it and uses it to shield them from the falling sand. He brushes off the last few grains and shows it to Vincent. The picture depicts a lovely view of Vincent’s art, hung up for people to see. The painting in the middle catches Vincent’s eye, one of a starry night over a town.

Bruno rubs his temples, blinking away any red spots in his view. When his vision finally clears, he’s surprised to see the artist wiping away a few tears, still gazing at the piece. Bruno gulps. Did he overwhelm the poor man?

“Did you get sand in your eye? Was it too much?!”

Without saying a single word, Vincent throws his arms around the shocked prophet.

“Vincent? Are you okay?”

Vincent simply hugs him tighter.

*

Mirabel is jolted awake when the door to Bruno’s room opens, tipping her over. She falls flat on her face. She feels a hand pull up her by the arm.

“Sorry, I didn't realize you were here.” It’s Vincent. When she pushes her glasses back up to see him, she’s surprised to see them glistening with tears. Her stomach plummets.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

Bruno appears behind Vincent, his smile bright, but his eyes rather red. “It’s fine, Mirabel. I think Vincent just needs some time alone.”

Mirabel nods and lets the artist pass. She watches him slowly walk to his room, clutching the emerald tablet in his arms.

Bruno gives Mirabel a hug. “Thanks for the advice, kid. I think he really needed to see that.” 

He pulls away from the hug, stumbling. Mirabel grabs his arms to help steady him.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m getting too old for double visions. I’m going to take a nap.” Bruno hobbles back into his room, the door shutting behind him.

“I will never understand artists.” Mirabel turns around to see Camilo leaning on the rail of the mezzanine.

“Camilo, you’re an actor. Isn’t that technically an art?”

“There’s a difference, prima.”

“No there isn’t.”

*

Bruno sees the door first, shimmering and glowing. The doorknob has an encrusted “V” written on. He calls for Vincent.

The prophet and the painter work together to get Vincent’s stuff packed up for him, while Mirabel wraps the vision tablet up in a spare blanket so it doesn’t get destroyed. Included is the recipe for her mother’s carimiñolas.

Vincent holds his painting of the Encanto. “Before I leave, I want you to have this. I don’t have any currency on me, so I hope you’ll take a painting as payment for letting me in.”

Mirabel excitedly takes the artwork. “Gracias! We’ll definitely have to find a nice place for this!” She throws her arms around Vincent. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Señor Van Gogh.”

“It was a pleasure staying here,” Vincent says. Mirabel runs off to hang up the art. She turns back and winks to Bruno.

Vincent turns back to Bruno, smiling. “I’ll miss seeing you every day. It’s not everyday I meet someone as kind as you.”

The compliment makes Bruno flush. “I’ll miss you as well. I’m… so honoured we got to meet. I don’t think I’ll ever meet a friend like you again.”

The painter pulls his friend in for a hug one last time. He feels Bruno’s arms wrap around him. He’s quite certain he’ll never feel the warm embrace of a friendship like this again. He’s never felt so seen before.

Bruno has never felt so seen, so connected before. He almost doesn’t want to let go, feeling a bit colder as Vincent pulls away. He never knew friends like Vincent could do that to him.

Vincent glances at the door. “So… do I just… touch the doorknob?”

“That usually does the trick,” Bruno advises.

Vincent apprehensively touches the doorknob. The glow of the door brightens, brightens, forcing Vincent to shut his eyes. When he opens them, an image of him has been carved onto the door, the outline sparkling with magic. The figure holds a paintbrush and a pallette, reaching up to touch the dancing stars. He gasps.

“Looks like you’re part of this family now,” Bruno says. “Goodbye, Vincent Van Gogh. I hope we cross paths again!”

“We’ll meet again! I promise! ” Vincent says. He opens the door and walks through.

*

Vincent lugs his gear through the door and right into his brother’s house. How convenient. The door closes behind him and the beautiful glow disappears. Vincent smiles sadly. He’ll miss Bruno. 

His thoughts are interrupted by someone running downstairs and into the front hallway. It’s Theo! Immediately Vincent is tackled by his younger brother in a hug. He’s been hugged a lot recently. Vincent happily returns it.

“Hello, brother!”

“You’re here! Oh thank God, I was so worried!” Theo exclaims.

“What?”

Theo pulls out of the hug and begins checking Vincent for injuries. “Where were you, Vincent? Paul wrote to us and said he hasn’t seen you for four days! You couldn’t be found! What happened to you? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. I feel great, actually!” Vincent responds. “A family looked after me.”

“I’ll be sure to send them my thanks,” Theo says. “Where was this family? In a different country?!”

That’s not far from the truth. “They live…” Vincent trails off. There’s no logical way to explain where he’s been, or even how he got there. Even if he did try, what if someone heard him? Arles would have even more to say against the artist. He shakes his head.

“It’s a long story… But I did get a new recipe I want you and Jo to try-”

Right on cue, Johanna appears from around the corner and runs to hug Vincent.

“There you are! I’m so glad you’re back, Vincent!” she cries. “Where were you?”

“Like I told your husband, it’s really complicated-”

“Why don’t you stay at our place for the night, then you can head back to Arles!” Jo immediately begins dragging her brother-in-law to the couch.

“Can I unpack first? I need to find a place for my stuff-.”

“No worries, there’s a free bedroom at the end of the hall!”

As they organize the free room, Vincent unwraps the vision tablet on his bed. Where could he keep this?

“Oh my goodness! That’s a gorgeous piece of art!” Theo exclaims. “Who made that?”

“My friend Bruno,” Vincent says. “It’s a… talent of his.”

“Then we’ll definitely have to find somewhere to hang it up,” Theo says. “He’s very talented.”

“He’s Gifted,” Vincent agrees. “And a great friend.”

*

“How come you never told us Vincent was a famous artist?!” Camilo whines. “It would have been nice to know that before I showed him a drawing of a screaming chicken!”

“You never asked, kid,” Bruno says with a chuckle. “Besides, he’s not famous yet, I don’t think. You still have time to right your wrongs.”

Camilo faints onto the couch, howling dramatically.

“This is amazing! I knew he had a Gift for painting, but this is exquisite!” Mirabel says, studying the painting. After much deliberation, the Madrigal family decided to hang it up in the mezzanine, where anyone passing by could be reminded of their friend. “And he really drew this from a view in his window?” Bruno nods.

“I can’t believe we got to meet an internationally celebrated painter!” Isabela gushes. “I the Miracle will let us meet him again.”

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” Bruno says. “He promised we would.”

Camilo sits up. “Oh yeah? What gives you the idea he’ll somehow magically appear again?”

Bruno winks. “20-20 vision.”

#bruno madrigal #mirabel madrigal #disney encanto #wdtajn #vincent van gogh #starry musical #encanto fanfiction #apparently i can write

[paleode-ology]

Favorite 🦜 go

bro I literally started answering this and saved a draft but I guess it got swallowed whole when I switched between mobile to desktop?? idk. anyway birdies. I'm also gonna do top three because!! birds!!! are so fun!!!!

firstly I highly respect the corvid love. I want to train a flock of crows to bring me gifts soooo badly. maybe when I am a homeowner. someday.

Red-tailed hawks! They're like the most common raptor in the US but I love them anyway. There's a leucistic one that lives in my neighborhood and I got some very subpar photos of it once lmao.

this may seem like poor quality tumblr image, but that's for real how grainy the photo is. I was using my biggest camera lens zoomed in all the way and I still couldn't focus it entirely properly :,)

2. downy woodpeckers! I love woodpeckers in general but downies are so small and very common birdfeeder birds so I get to see them more often! also they're not quite as loud as the bigger woodpeckers lmao. there's a (possibly pileated?) very large woodpecker we've seen and heard outside our house from time to time and boy. is he LOUD. i respect it tho.

here's a downy! damn this image is huge wow. anyway the female ones don't have the red spot! I appreciate their monochrome chic but I do like the red hat on the males quite a bit.

3. best for last!!!!!!! hummingbirds!!!!! my babies. my all time favorites. pollinators in general are like the theme of my life. butterflies, bees, moths. I love them all. but hummingbirds? most gorgeous perfect creatures ever. we only really get the ruby-throated hummingbird here where I live (and they don't stick around for the winter) but we get a couple accidental species every once in a while. I love them all. most perfect bird ever.

hummingbird!! baby!!!!! so everything!!!!!!! once I was sitting at the window seat of a cafe and one of these babies hit the window and fell to the ground. it was alive but just kind of sat on the ground looking traumatized for like twenty minutes and I started crying because I was so worried about it. when I say "once" I really mean "this summer".

thank u so much for the ask, star!!! i know i asked first but i was delighted to get a reciprocal ask lol :D birds are so cool

#asks #ode by ode #yay birds!!! #i made this post instead of cleaning my stuff and getting ready to move back to my dorm in a few days #also sorry for the delay i was doing errands and then i had to help my sister #she was finishing her xmas gift for her 'not boyfriend' #and was on a bit of a time crunch #insert skull emoji bc i'm too lazy to to the edit-emojis-click on the right emoji thing

[toloveandbelovedtoo]

Day 9: romanticizing life

I remember one evening a few years ago, my roommate and I were sitting in the living room when one of us, I can't remember who, got excited about the colors in the sunset sky. This was always something I enjoyed in the evenings was getting to come home to our third floor apartment (not so much the walk up though) and seeing the sunset from our west facing balcony. I do miss that apartment, it was such a nice place.

But that evening he and I were talking as we watched the sunset and he told me he appreciated having me in his life because I helped him enjoy the all things. I had helped him find joy in things that happen daily like sunsets, like morning coffee, like candles that we kept lit on the coffee table. They're all everyday aspects of our lives, but to me, I look to the sky to see a cloud shape I'll not see again, to see the new patterns the sun paints that night, how does this candle smell tonight with the mix of smells from the kitchen, my perfume, the air from outside. Everything changes even if it's a constant like the sun and the moon and clouds.

I had gone out at lunch time to the grocery store to get something to eat and ended up grabbing a few extra items like strawberries and blackberries that were on sale and the some dehydrated kiwi and a bag of freeze dried peach slices. I saw the peaches on an end cap and last minute grabbed a package because I thought it was cute. I'm a sucker for good package design. When I got home, I placed some of the berries in these new ceramic berry containers that I had gotten in a subscription box that wow, I've have for six years now.

But that was made me reflect on today, was the idea of romanticizing life and enjoying the little and small to the grand and huge. I got to see Venus and Jupiter sparkling brightly in the sky the last couple of nights and got to see the moon shine so full. My wildflower seeds I tossed outside are popping up and even now I'm wearing my cat ear headphones as I write this. I thought how I wanted to add things to my home like a jar of matches I have to strike to light a candle or a coffee mug shaped like a flower. I want whimsy, I want cute, I want to find joy in getting to strike a match against the container and watch it come to life.

I think about what I already have an appreciate the joy it brings me like the fluffy bison ottoman in my bedroom, the little hummingbird figurine that hangs from the taller coffee table that you can only see from the brown couch, the bedsheets on my rabbits' beds match my bedsheets. There's the bucket of like 30 rubber ducks that I bring out occasionally for bath time and the little gold koala that climbs the stalk of my golden pothos. Even my tattoos. I have a frog teapot and a cartoon Shiba Inu from a phone game that I've never played, but I love him so much with his little hat and overalls.

I want to find joy and awe and beauty in everything, but moreso I want to find heart and emotion in different aspects of my life. I'm happy I can cry, I'm happy I can feel sadness, I'm happy being able to give space to that. Because it reminds me I'm whole. I'm human. I am more than my skills and what I have to offer, I'm more than sunshine and rainbows, and more so, I'm allowed to be sad, messy, angry, tired, everything my mother wouldn't let me be. I find comfort in the crack in the plastic in this new picture frame I got, the water stains on my coffee table, the way my childhood teddy bear has holes and missing his nose.

Because to me, that's me. The painting in the frame is still beautiful regardless of it's crack, my coffee table holds so much and looks well loved, Bobo is definitely well loved and has traveled the world with me. I have my scars, the lines on my body that tell a story, I have things that I don't like like my weight or my chest. I know I have flaws, I have made mistakes and fucked up, I have hurt people I love, I have said the wrong words, and I haven't given myself the self-love and appreciate all that I am. But even with my flaws, my mistakes, the errors of my past, I'm still so beautiful, so loved, so full of love to give, so worthy of where I am and who I am and all that I have and can be.

In a way, I want to romanticize the things around me because I want to find joy and delight in the world and in myself. Growing up, it was all about appearing perfect. Even though my parents were divorced, we were expected to be picture perfect. The three kids who was supported by their martyr of a mother and siblings to a moderate to highly neirodivergent sibling. We were to look clean even though I had insanely bad dandruff as a child that left my scalp bleeding and hair greasy and my step mom said I was smelly when she first met me. We were to have the best grades, all the after school activities, the best clothes.

I remember being so controlled, I wasn't allowed to dye my hair, I had to bleach my mustache, I had to pluck my chin hairs, I could only wear Old Navy. I wasn't allowed to be around my older sister when she went through her punk phase because our mother knew we were close then and still are now. I couldn't wear the color yellow because my mother hated it. I had to call my mother when I was 19 and wanted to get my second set of ear lobe piercings to get permission. I was put on Atkins when I was 12 and my mother told me to stay away from certain kids who were too queer, despite her saying she supports LGBT students.

So now I look to the little details that catch the eye, I love the color yellow, I line my arms with tattoos because they make me feel gorgeous and they remind me to enjoy the whimsical and to romanticize life not as a way to avoid hard feelings and look through rose tinted glasses, but as a way to find the beauty in everything whether it's a sad beauty or joyous one. I want to find joy and be in the moment, I don't want to go through life feeling mundane. I have gone through it so much controlled and restricted and now I want messy, I want colors, I want details, I want imperfections, I want to be present.

[crocwork-clockodile]

Okay I’ve just had a thought about a story, and I think it could work in my Beatrix the Crow world (or a fanfic of Mercedes Lackey’s Heralds of Valdemar but I think I’d rather keep this one to myself) so here’s the premise:

As Beatrix was Chosen by Ailyah, sometimes the other three goddesses Choose a human to be theirs, too. This time, the goddess choosing a human is Phylla the Maiden, goddess of children, travel, divination, the arts, and spring. She expects that Wren, the Journeyman weaver fresh out of their apprenticeship and about to interview to join the local Weavers Guild, will be honoured to have been Chosen and grateful to serve her as her instrument. But they aren’t. They look like they’re about to have an anxiety attack.

“My life was just coming together,” they whimper. “Everything was just about to start.”

Basically, Wren is a pretty darn good weaver -- they’ve got tapestries down, they can knit and crochet like nobody’s business, they can even make baskets and hats out of straw! They love weaving, and they’re really excited about starting at the Guild. But Phylla decides that she’d rather have them serve her as her oracle, her dream-weaver. Being the Maiden goddess, divination and “looking to the future,” so to speak, are part of her domain, as well as the arts, which includes weaving. Wren had always tried to mind the Four Goddesses, but it was customary for artists to pray to Phylla more, and their mother had given them a medallion of Phylla (with her sacred ruby-throated hummingbird) when they first started their weaving apprenticeship. But they certainly weren’t clergy material like Beatrix, they hadn’t grown up with their goddess at the forefront of their mind all the time, they had a life! They want to live it! They do not want to suddenly upend the whole thing and do something only tangentially related to that! So they want Phylla to pick someone else, please.

But deities are stubborn, and will not suffer the embarrassment of implying that they had Chosen wrong. So she sticks around. I haven’t yet decided if this will be another buddy comedy type thing, or more angsty and about Defying Fate and stuff.

#my writing #Beatrix the Crow #do i just like writing gods as pushy annoyances? is that what this is? #is there anyone in this kingdom who actually LIKES their goddesses?? #'nobody who knows them personally' say Bea and Wren lmao

[mcfucker]

#to have a hummingbird hat is the only life I want #lmao #lol #best birbs #birb #hummingbird

[postwarlevi]

Farmers Market

Content: It's literally you and Levi at an outdoor market. Enjoy!

"Levi, look here!" You call to him from another stall.

It was your favorite time of year, fall, when the weather cooled down. The outdoor markets were starting back up and it was opening day at your favorite one.

"Look at the size of the peppers, only a dollar!" Somehow produce sales just got you excited.

"They look alright." He says, wondering why they're so cheap.

"We got a good crop right on time this year." The vendor says.

"Let's get some." You say, ready to pull some cash out.

"Gonna go any cheaper?" Levi asks the man behind the table.

"Levi! How much cheaper can they be?" You're a bit embarrassed that he's starting in already. But Levi knows that if it were near the end of the day and there's too much left they always give a better deal.

The vendor laughs though. "Maybe. You know what? You were such good customers last season, if you want to buy in bulk, how about half off? Anything you want today." There really was a lot and he remembered how much you always picked up.

"See?" Levi tells you, kissing your temple, looking at what else there is.

You were convinced Levi could talk anyone into anything, and were happy to use it to your advantage.

Soon your rolling fold up cart is already half full with bell peppers, cucumber, cauliflower, bags of kale and a huge butternut squash that Levi was sure you'd make him cut into, even though he showed you how last time.

He handed the vendor the cash as you thanked him and were already off to another stall. It really was a good deal, not that you needed ten peppers.

You were already haggling over dried fruit and nuts, coming away with eight bags for a decent percentage off, stuffing them in the tote you had.

"I got you hazelnuts and beets." You say, seeing a small smile from Levi. When you weren't looking he rolled his eyes a bit, knowing the vendors must love seeing you coming. But you always made sure to throw in his favorites, and since you didn't come as often as you would like, Levi never minded.

"I'm gonna go to the tea stall. You want the cart?" He asks and you nod.

"What kind of fruit do you want?" You indicate where you're headed next.

"Citrus." As if you didn't know. You kiss his cheek before parting for a little bit.

Levi heads to his favorite tea vendor and sees she has some new stuff this year.

"Hi there Mr Ackerman!" She always tries to remember her returning customers.

He gives a polite hello and soon has overspent on not only his favorites but some new assortments he doesn't remember her having last season. He makes sure to get cinnamon as well, one of your favorites.

Levi passes by someone selling hats, the wide brim straw sun hat with with a purple ribbon catching his eye.

He's pretty sure you've mentioned wanting one, especially on warm days. Picking one up along with some long stemmed sunflowers at the next vendor, he goes to find you.

You're no longer at the fruits, thank goodness, so he goes towards the back.

He stops dead in his tracks after he spots you. In the short time you've been away your hair has been done into one long braid and you're currently modeling a blue and yellow sun dress in another vendors mirror.

You're beautiful in anything, and Levi can hear his heart pounding. Truth be told you could probably wear rags and would still outshine everyone else.

"Levi! You like?" You say, bounding towards him and breaking this thoughts.

He can only nod, reaching to pick up your braid.

"Oh! Some young girls are learning about business and charging five dollars and I wanted to support them. Only took a few minutes. They did so good!"

Levi leans forward to give a quick kiss to your lips, place then hat on your head and holds out the sunflowers.

"This is so great! Thank you." You gush about the things he's gotten you.

You go back to the dress stall to pay and pick up the cart, leaving your other outfit in the tote. Levi takes both the cart and your tote bag, leaving you with the flowers and an extra paper bag you didn't put in the cart.

Levi sees you got the oranges he requested, along with apples, pomegranates, pears and a whole pineapple that, again, you'll probably make him deal with.

You both take a seat for a little while, enjoying warm pastries and agua frescas.

"What's in the bag?" He asks as you've not let go of it yet.

"Your favorite tea vendor? Well, her partner is running a second stall full of products." You pull out the things in the bag.

"It's a tea warming plate." You say as Levi examines it. "Charge it and it'll last for days. Now when you get busy with work it'll always be warm."

"Why don't I already have one of these?" He wonders.

You shrug and dive back into the bag. "Well, now you do. And also, Bath Brew Pockets, and socks."

Levi stares at what surely are gag gifts. "You mean, I can bathe in tea?"

"Or we, unless you want it all to yourself." You then hold up the socks. His black pair with pink writing reads 'If You Can Read This' on one and 'Bring Me Tea' on the other. Your pink pair with black writing reads 'If You Can Read This' and 'Get Your Own.'

Levi chuckles. "These are ridiculous."

You grin. "Well yeah. You gonna use everything?"

"Of course." He would always love everything you picked.

After finishing your snack it's on to grab multiple varieties of honey, apricot and also cherry jam, two loaves of fresh bread and some muffins from your favorite bakery stall, a focaccia and a dozen rolls from another one, and a two pound block of feta, which Levi says you don't need, but in the tote it goes.

You can't help but want the hummingbird mosaic wind chime, and Levi agrees if you promise to put it up, and not store it away. He then goes for yet another plush throw blanket for you to cozy up together under while you pretend there's room for coconut bowls with matching utensils in your cabinets.

It's soon clear that your tote, cart, and both yours and Levis hands are full.

"I think that's all we can manage, love." He tells you.

You know he's right but think there's something you're missing. You could pass on the chocolates this time, but there's something else.

"Oh, what about the orange juice? It's always so good!" You couldn't leave without that.

"Right." He sighs lightly. No use reminding you of all the actual oranges you just bought.

Balancing another bag on the carts handle he tells you to wait for him and is soon back with a gallon of fresh squeezed orange juice.

"Yay!" You are happy to see the new bag.

You start back with all your items and suddenly gasp, remembering one more thing.

"No, I'm sorry, there's no more hands." Levi says, trying to guide you forward with just his knee.

"But the soaps!"

"Yes and the candles and the olive oils and the pies and the goat milk." Levi lists off some random things you'll probably want next time you come. "I mean, we have to get through all this first."

"The pies." You frown at what you missed, but there really is a lot of food.

You get to the car and load everything in, settling into the passenger seat for the ride home.

"How about we bake our own pie with the stuff we have? We can always come next week." He says, taking your hand in his. You usually only came once a month during the season since you always bought so much, but there were exceptions. Besides, there were things he'd forgotten about, too.

You look at the sunflowers you're holding in front of you. It's been a lovely outdoor morning with the man who holds your heart. "What kind of pie?" Everyday with him was a good day.

He looks over and smiles, bringing your hand to his lips. "Anything you want, angel. But first, we nap."

You look back and return his smile, wondering if Levi knows how happy he makes you, and hoping you do the same for him.

Silently, he's thinking the same about you.

an- In honor of my favorite outdoor market that just opened for the season! I'll mention again that domestic fluff with Levi in everyday life is my favorite thing. And pairing him and reader with food haha.

#levi ackerman #captain levi ackerman #captain levi #aot #attack on titan #aot fluff #levi x reader #levi x y/n #levi ackerman fluff #levi fic #farmers market #levi fluff #levi fanfiction #levi

[tales-unique]

FAITH, LOST  II

Tagging @chelseareferenced so she can read this goodness first hand! ;3

Chapter 2

“You have got to be joking!” Heisenberg can’t contain himself, not that he ever censored himself in the past. This is beyond ridiculous, even for the high and mighty bitch herself. He’s quick to turn on his heel to stare down the deceiver but he doesn’t call her out. Not yet anyway. He doesn’t need to, not when Lady Goliath looks about ready to burst a vein. “Mother Miranda, I must protest!” Lady Dimitrescu hisses, eyes practically glowing with rage. “Heisenberg hasn’t the faintest idea of the gift you are giving, he’d sooner throw it to the dogs!”

You wince at how little she regards you, conflicted. As it stands Lady Dimitrescu is fighting viciously to no doubt claim you as her own, which bodes marginally better than the man who would sooner toss you aside without a second thought than look at you. The Countess stands tall but her posture reminds you of a petulant child, demanding to be given what they want. Albeit a regal one. All while Heisenberg stands there with a mean snarl on his lips that brandishes his impressive canines, aimed squarely at Mother Miranda. Lady Beneviento sits silent as the grave watching the exchange while her devilish doll wiggles in excitement on her lap. Lord Moreau lingers on the edge of the fray, wringing his hands; he’s clearly distressed at the fighting and you almost feel ashamed for being the cause of the turmoil. “My decision is final,” Mother Miranda states firmly, voice echoing unnaturally around the room, her form already receding towards the doors. “Mother Miranda, please!” Lady Dimitrescu calls out, a brief look of panic flitting across her porcelain features when she receives no response at all. The cracks are already showing — she will not get her way today. In a desperate attempt to regain control she turns to Heisenberg, who stands tense as he watches Mother Miranda leave. “Heisenberg!” She seethes, hands balled tightly into fists that threaten to snap the delicate neck of her opera length cigarette holder into splinters, “say something!” You watch, helpless, as he casually lifts his hammer, taking his sweet time under Lady Dimitrescu’s smouldering gaze. The others have already made a hasty retreat, following their Mother’s steps closely, leaving you at the mercy of the feuding siblings. When Heisenberg finally locks eyes with her, hammer set proudly on his shoulder, the tension is so thick you struggle to breathe. Then, he smirks. The tautness of his body melts away into a well versed confident swagger, complete with a wolfish grin, and Lady Dimitrescu recoils so quickly in rage that you fear she’s given herself whiplash. The tirade of pure and unadulterated hatred that spills forth is in no way befitting of a woman of such high standing but Heisenberg seems unaffected. In fact, it amuses him to see her become undone when he ignores her. You don’t understand how he’s so calm when faced with such venom, practically cowering when she turns to you, face twisted in indignation. “Now don’t be a sore loser,” he tuts, quickly tugging you to his side, “Mother Miranda made her choice, are you really going to defy her?” He teases, grin widening at the sight of faint colour spreading on the Countess’ face. Heisenberg always knew how to get under skin and make her squirm. Sparing you one last glance Lady Dimitrescu turns sharply on her heel to leave, huffing in annoyance and frustration. Neither of you are worthy of even a biting retort, it seems. “You can breathe, you know.” You startle at Heisenberg’s teasing remark, finally releasing the breath that you didn’t realise you had been holding the whole time. You had been so transfixed on the very real prospect of your demise at the hands of a nine foot tall Vampire woman that you may have neglected that small fact of life. Lightheadedness makes your vision swim and for a moment you think you’re about to faint. If ever there was something to make you feel like you had one foot in the grave that moment was very much it. It does not bear repeating. Heisenberg takes in your deer-in-headlights expression, chuckling at the way his stare makes your little hummingbird heart flutter more. You’re absolutely petrified. It’s understandable, he knows that he’s dangerous and your little flock has more than enough stories about the big bad Lycan master that lets his hounds descend from the ominous Factory to feast on the nonbelievers. Utter bullshit. Well, mostly. But they don’t need to know that, of course. “So,” he drawls, tilting his head, “Mother Miranda says you’re my new— what was it? Ah, right, right, my new servant.” It’s a statement, but you’re not sure if he fully understands what he’s supposed to actually do with you, just like Lady Dimitrescu remarked. You nod shakily, bringing your still bound wrists up in a feeble attempt to warm yourself. It doesn’t offer much, the metal is so cold it brings your skin out in goosebumps. Thankfully, Heisenberg notices. “Oh, uh, sorry about that,” he clears his throat, a sudden switch, and with a flick of his wrist the shackles snap apart and shoot off to the side. They clatter to the ground unceremoniously, rusted and broken. It’s almost sad how much you relate to them at that moment. “T-thank you,” you answer meekly, rubbing at your sore wrists. The blood rushes to your fingers, making them tingle. It’s an odd, but muted, sensation, given the gravity of your situation. He doesn’t reply, merely tips his hat at you before motioning for you to go ahead of him. You’re unsure if it’s because he’s a gentleman or if it’s a power play but you move regardless, your pace hesitant. You’re not eager to be thrust out into the chill of the mountain, not that it’s any warmer inside at this point. You can only hope that the Factory is better than this.

It’s so much worse. The heat— it’s humid, stagnant, and downright heinous. Steam hisses and spits from rusted, internal pipes that streak across the walls and ceilings of the corridors, making the air humid and cloying. Your feet ache through your boots as you try to keep up with Heisenberg's strides, echoing off the metal grating underfoot in an annoying clank clank clank rhythm. In an attempt to cool yourself down you try to sweep up your damp hair from where it sticks to the back of your neck, grimacing at the wetness that covers your fingers. You’re a sweating mess and you hate it. The elevator is your near breaking point. In such a small space the heat intensifies, stuffy and borderline unbearable. It’s normal, your muddled mind tries to rationalize, since the lower levels are closer to the furnace, and it’ll get better once you go up, but it doesn’t take away from discomfort. You notice with great irritation that Heisenberg is barely batting an eyelid, though it’s to be expected. He lives there, of course he’d be used to it. The ride to the upper levels is uncomfortable and not just because of the humidity. His eyes are on you the entire time, at least you think so given those round glasses that he wears obscure his eyes from your view, no doubt wondering just why he’d taken in such a mess. And a mess you most certainly are. Heisenberg can see how your desperately try to keep stringy, moist hair from plastering itself to your sweat-soaked skin, failing miserably as the rebellious strands slip from your fingers. There are dark patches to your simple dress, made worse by how it clings to your body from the heat. He can barely stop himself from smirking when you curse quietly under your breath, rolling your eyes in irritation as you fuss over your hair. It’s the first time that you’ve shown some real spirit. Your annoyance is refreshing on your flushed face, the dim, artificial light casting you in a dewy, warm glow. Sadly, it’s not enough to overpower how badly you need a bath and fresh clothes. “Well, here we are,” he announces as the elevator stops and the door opens up; your new home. It’s another long hallway that looks similar to the dozen odd that you walked through to get here, but you do notice that it’s comparatively cooler. It must be near the top of the Factory. It’s a pleasant relief and you follow Heisenberg to a cluster of rooms a little lighter on your feet. The tour is, well, barely that, as he shows you a bedroom, a kitchen, and a bathroom, all outfitted with the barest of necessities and far too much scrap metal, tools, and other engineering components. You linger in the doorway of the modest bedroom, staring at the single bed pushed up in the corner as though that’s the out of place object in the room. He leaves you for a moment, fumbling through papers and projects on the heavily cluttered desk that takes up the length of one wall, and you wander the hallway, peeking inside rooms with doors slightly ajar. Most are storage rooms with all sorts of junk inside, but one looks salvageable with an old, banged up couch and minimal debris. As you look about envisioning how to make it more homely, leaning against the door frame, you’re not paying attention and it gives Heisenberg the perfect opportunity to scare you. “Found yourself a room, huh?” He whispers into your ear, pulling back quickly as you shriek in alarm and swing out your arm instinctively to hit him. You can barely hear your heart hammering wildly in your chest over the sound of his raucous laughter, retreating from him quickly. “Why would you do that?” You shout, wide eyes staring at him. Heisenberg can barely pull himself together, breaking into small fits of laughter at the sight of your astonished expression, exhaling deeply to try and ground himself. “Couldn’t help it,” he explains, grinning at you, “it was a perfect setup!” Flabbergasted, your mouth falls open at his response; this man was one of the four Lords of the village, not some child playing tricks! Noticing the offense you take at his actions Heisenberg scoffs, his own expression souring as he turns away from you. What was he honestly thinking? You were just another haughty, stuck-up, loyalist to Mother fucking Miranda that clearly wouldn’t know a joke if it came up and slapped you in the face. “Bathroom is right there, you reek,” he snaps harshly, pointing into a small room lined with cracked, dirty tiles and rusting, dated appliances. You glare at his back, wordlessly going inside and doping your best to slam the door shut, but all you manage is a half-descent rattle. You look about yourself and suppress a shiver of disgust, staring at the old, rusting shower that has clearly seen better days, questioning whether you can forgo washing after all. Needs must, you think to yourself, as you dig out the cleanest towel you can find from a rickety old cabinet in the corner. Thankfully the water is fine when you turn the handle and you quickly strip to take advantage of the first good thing since you came to the Factory. As you stand under the tepid spray you wonder if you are, as Mother Miranda had said, perfect for this task. Doubt nips at your resolve and tries to whittle down your faith, but you refuse to let it win. You must succeed, for Mother Miranda.

#RE #RE8 #RE 8 #Resident Evil #Resident Evil 8 #Resident Evil 8 Village #RE Imagine #RE Imagines #RE8 Imagine #RE8 Imagines #Resident Evil Imagine #Resident Evil Imagines #Karl Heisenberg #Karl Heisenberg Imagine #Karl Heisenberg Imagines #Karl Heisenberg x Reader #Heisenberg Imagine #Heinsenberg Imagines #Heisenberg x Reader

[lnc2]

this time next year

Summary: Marinette is worried about the future. Adrien wants to know where he fits into it.

A/N: This piece was written for the @mlwriterzine and I’m so excited to finally share this with you!  I hope you enjoy it and also go check out the zine because there are so many amazing stories/art pieces collected there.

AO3

The party was well underway by the time Adrien knocked on Nino’s door. Alya was the one who answered, half of her face obscured by gold tin foil pinned to a green beret.

“Speak of the devil,” she grinned, leaning heavily on the door frame.

Adrien bussed her cheek and passed over the bottle of rosé he’d swiped from his father’s wine cellar. “Sorry, Alya. The show ran late. You know how those things go.”

She waved him in, whistling at the bottle in her hands, and shook her head. “Thankfully I don’t. Everyone’s in the living room.”

Adrien followed her into the kitchen instead, eyes straying over the tipsy, crowded apartment. Back against the wall, where Nino’s faded and cracked leather couch usually sat, was a long table covered in gold plastic sheeting. Green and gold hats of various styles were littered across, as well as glitter, rhinestones, netting, feathers, and any other number of crafting materials.

He smiled. “I see you’ve all started without me.”

“Naturally,” Alya said, putting his gift in the fridge to chill. “You’re several drinks behind us now, Agreste. Pick your poison.” She gestured to the half-empty bottles of liquor scattered across the bar.

“No tequila?”

She snorted. “You’ll have to track down Marinette for that one. She ran off with the bottle half an hour ago.”

Something warm filled his chest. “A cup of ice and a lime then.”

“Good luck with that,” Alya said, bumping his shoulder as she passed him the glass. Adrien laughed as he followed her into the living room, his smile widening as he spotted Kagami fussing with the green flowers on her gold newspaper hat.

“I’m not sure how I feel about this.”

Alya batted her hand away. “It’s tradition!”

She pressed her lips together. “It’s archaic.”

“Boo,” a familiar voice called from behind him. Adrien’s heart stuttered as a familiar pair of arms slipped around his waist. “It’s just for fun. No one takes it seriously.”

Adrien thought back to earlier in the evening and Gabriel’s annual Saint Catherine’s Day gala and couldn’t agree. There was a stark difference between the frivolousness and whimsy of Nino’s house party and the staid sobriety of his father’s fashion show.

As if reading his thoughts, Marinette’s eyes sparkled up at him beneath gold netting. “At least no one here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Alya said. She adjusted her hat and threw an accusatory look towards Nino. “Tick tock, babe.”

“You won’t let me propose until you’re out of grad school,” he whined.

Adrien hid his grin as the familiar argument ensued. Instead, he tipped his cup of ice towards the half-empty bottle in Marinette’s hand.

“You’re one of the few people I’d share with,” she said, filling his glass. Adrien leaned down to whisper his gratitude only to be pushed from the other side, causing them to knock heads.

Marinette laughed waving off his apologies with a squeeze to his waist even as their assaulter continued to elbow into the group.

“I’m never getting married,” Alix announced from her position on the back of one of Alya’s coworkers. There was a crown on her head but no decorations. She gestured wildly with her free hand. “Just call me Queen Catherinette.”

“All hail,” Alya said, clinking her wine glass against a reluctant Kagami’s. Her glassy eyes strayed towards Marinette. “What about you, girl? It’s been a while since I’ve heard about Emma, Louis, and Hugo.”

Adrien tried not to sound too interested when he asked, “Who?”

Marinette laughed, her flushed cheeks flushing further. “I’m afraid that future is on hold, Al. I need to find a boyfriend first.”

She removed her arm from around his waist then and Adrien had to restrain himself from pulling her back to his side. Instead, he took a healthy swallow of tequila and let the conversation drift into less turbulent waters.

Now was hardly the time to volunteer his name to the top of her list. 

Adrien could think of two, maybe three very important conversations they needed to have before he could even approach that topic. The most pressing of which weighed heavy on his right hand and sparkled like precious gems on his lady’s ears.

He watched over the rim of his glass as Marinette giggled with the other women in their silly hats. One of them—Alix’s roommate, he thought—burst out with a jubilant, “For pity’s sake, give us a husband!” only for the others to raise their glasses with various tipsy rounds of, “Hear, hear!”

He smiled as Marinette wrestled Kagami’s fidgeting hands away from her hat. It had only been a few weeks since their reveal but Adrien was struggling to see how he could have missed the woman he’d loved for a decade in his dear and wonderful friend.

“Some party, huh?”

Adrien coughed as Nino slapped him on the back just as he was swallowing. Nino laughed at his accusing glare. 

“Sorry man,” he said, grinning. “I thought you heard me coming but I guess you were distracted.”

Adrien ignored the teasing lilt in his friend’s voice.“It’s a good crowd,” he said instead. “I’m sorry I was so late.”

“No worries. Although if everything goes well hopefully this will be the last Saint Catherine’s party we’ll be hosting.”

Adrien laughed. “You think you’ll have worn Alya down by then?”

Nino shrugged. “Fingers crossed. I’ve had this ring burning a hole in my pocket for two months now.”

“Maybe you should be the one wearing the hat.” He grinned, only to receive a rough shove to his shoulder.

“You’re one to talk.”

Adrien pretended not to understand.

“Seriously, dude?” Nino shook his head. “You’re not that slick. If you like her you should just ask her out. I know for a fact she used to have a thing for you.”

And even though Adrien already knew that, even though Marinette told him so several years earlier when her crush was a thing of the past as she’d laughingly put it, hearing his heart’s desire put into words so matter-of-factly did things to him.

Things like make him want to punch a hole in the nearest wall or tear out his hair in frustration.

Because really, how was it fair that the one woman he’d spent years chasing had actually spent several years of her own chasing him right back?

It wasn’t.

Not when Adrien still found himself in the chase and she had apparently just … stopped.

“That was a long time ago, Nino.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that.”

“... Why?” Adrien stared, stomach clenching. “Did she say something? Did Alya say something?” 

His heart raced like hummingbirds wings in his throat as he tried to catch his friend’s gaze. 

Adrien grabbed his shoulder and shook. “Nino.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny anything.” He laughed, before hiding his smile behind his glass as they caught Alya’s attention across the room. Adrien met her suspicious frown with a wave even as his other hand tightened on Nino’s shoulder. 

“But …?”

“But … I wouldn’t count myself out just yet.”

Adrien’s hand fell to his side as all of his breath rushed out of him. “Oh.”

“Although, that may change if you don’t do something about it. Sooner rather than later if Kim’s roommate is anything to go by.”

Nino nodded towards the corner of the room where Marinette was chatting with a tall brunette. He was leaning towards her, his fingers playing at the edge of the netting on her hat as he whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Adrien was already halfway across the room when Nino shouted, “Good luck!”

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do to break up their little tete-a-tete but he needn’t have worried. As soon as he was in her line of sight Marinette’s smile lit up like the Eiffel tower and there was little left for him to do other than introduce himself before the interloper tried his luck elsewhere.

“Come outside with me,” she said, tugging his arm. “I haven’t seen you all week.”

“Your fault,” Adrien said, happy to follow her anywhere. “You canceled patrol.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “You know I had to finish up those pieces for your father’s show.”

“At least you weren’t forced to go.”

She laughed and leaned back against the balcony railing. It was cooler than usual tonight as fall slowly gave way to winter and they had the little patio all to themselves. “Perks of being a lowly intern.”

“Please,” he said, bumping her shoulder. “You’ll be a junior designer by next year.”

She hummed, taking a swig of tequila from the bottle only to cough as it hit the back of her throat.

“You can mix that with something you know?”

His lady winced and took another sip, smaller this time. “Who has time for that?”

“You if you’d just slow down.”

It was only half a joke. Lately, even before their Big Reveal, Adrien noticed something changing in Marinette. She was a little less scattered, a little more single-minded. There was almost a frenzied focus about her, like some great fear was nipping at her heels, spurring her forward.

It wasn’t until her timer ran out during an akuma attack that he began to understand why.

“It was ten years this September,” she murmured, turning out to face the cobbled streets below.

Adrien hesitated before wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into his side.

“We’ll get him, bug. I promise.”

“But when, Chat?” She started to lean her head against his shoulder only for her hat to get in the way. Frustrated, she ripped the little masterpiece off her head and crushed it in her hands.

“Stupid holidays aside, I do want a life, Adrien.” She ripped lightly at the netting. “You said I’ll make junior designer by next year? I don’t see how that’s possible when I’m running out of work every other day because someone couldn’t control their emotions.”

Her voice caught on the last word and he was horrified to realize she was crying. “I want to run my own business someday. I want –– I want to fall in love and get married and have babies.” She looked up, teary gaze meeting his. “How can I do anything when I always have one foot out the window waiting for the next catastrophe? Who could put up with that?”

“You’re not someone a person has to put up with, my lady.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Right. Tell that to my exes.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, because really that’s all he could do.

“Don’t be.” She sniffed, giving him a sad, sad smile. “You can’t do anything about it any more than I can.”

That wasn’t entirely true though.

Adrien turned his attention towards the scrunched up hat in her hands. Marinette followed his gaze and gave a watery laugh.

“I want it all, Adrien,” she whispered.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Do you?” she asked, eyes wide and blue and wet and angry. “Do you really?”

Adrien pulled her to him then, giving her the hug her fears deserved. Marinette clutched at his back, her arms sliding beneath his coat to wrap around his waist, giving as good as she got.

“I don’t want to wait anymore.” 

Tears stung his eyes and words, the right words, stuck in the back of his throat as she gave voice to desires he’d never been brave enough to even dream. Not when Ladybug said no and not when Marinette said not anymore and not when they merged and became everything he’d ever wanted but feared he’d never have.

She wanted it all. 

Adrien closed his eyes and breathed in his lady’s perfume. Freesia and jasmine and something he’d never been able to name. Marinette’s arms loosened around his waist when it seemed like he would pull away, but Adrien only held her tighter.

“I––” He stopped. “You said you don’t want to slow down?”

Marinette nodded.

“Well … how—how would you feel about a chaser?”

She pulled away so she could see his face. “A chaser?” she repeated, frowning.

Adrien bit his lip, feeling heat rushing up his neck and ears. “Ah, yeah,” he said, doing his best to hold her gaze. “Like—like a partner. To your tequila, I mean.”

Adrien watched as confusion gave way to understanding in the form of a perfect little open-mouthed oh. His heart was pounding hard enough he was starting to suspect she could hear it when her eyes glistened up at him beneath the dim porch lights.

God help him but he couldn’t trust himself. He couldn’t trust the gentleness in her gaze or the way her body went soft against his or the purse of her lips as she watched him with that pleased little half-smile as realization gave way to something and that something could only be called wonderful as she ducked her head beneath his chin, pressed her lips against the open collar skin of his neck and finally, finally whispered in that small, hopeful impatient way of hers,

“Are you volunteering?”

And even though he knew she knew and even though the question really didn’t require an answer, Adrien tightened his hold on her until they were swaying together chest to chest and repeated the only thing he’d ever wanted to give her.

Yes.

#miraculous ladybug #lnc2 writes #post reveal pre relationship #adrinette #ml writer zine #adrienette

[wintersongstress]

What Remains of a Butterfly

Summary: A glimpse into the after; of where you and Arthur find yourselves after the fall of the Van der Linde gang.  

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Tags: fluff, mild mentions of smut

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: a gift for the lovely and kind-hearted @actuallyhansolo​, though this piece was inspired by a prompt I received in my inbox ages ago. I hope you enjoy ♥ Also a big thank you to @the-halo-of-my-memory​ for being the best beta I could ask for :)

1905 — Gallatin, Montana; 

“Try not to squeeze ‘er with your heels, else the horse’ll canter. You wanna grip her sides with your legs,” calls out Arthur from across the front pasture. A little neigh follows, carrying through the heavenly sigh of the breeze whistling down through the forests and into the valley you called home. Thistle and larkspur waver in its wake, flowing and flawing with streaks and splashes of color, and the hum of bumble bees fills the air. The only intrusion to the symphony of nature’s awakening is the occasional creak of dead wood as your seat on the front porch leans, forwards then backwards.

Overhead, a flock of warblers glide across the sky. Their song, a rising whistle, twittering and sweet, melds with the leathered yet honeyed tone of Arthur’s voice. A gentleness he reserved for one special person laces his rough timbre. Your eyes draw away from your knitting needles at the sound, and the sight that greets you warms your heart.

Your daughter Cora sits astride a chestnut pony, the straw hat covering her head askew. From beneath the floppy brim the early morning sunshine warms her cheeks, revealing the determined twist of her mouth as she heeds her father’s instruction. She hangs onto the reins and her hat, her neat braid bouncing as the horse trots in circles in the grass. Autumn’s hooves below her thud the earth softly, her cinnamon tail flicking and catching the gold of the sun all the while.

A long, satisfied breath fills your lungs. The windsong, calm as a seaside, lulls you into a deep state of bliss as you listen to the harmony it inspires in the surrounding land. Your porch chair rocks as you hum a thoughtful melody, stitching together the tight, blue row of a sock while taking in the splendors of the hour.

From a thousand places in the grass, little gems of dew wink back rainbows in the sunrays. Clouds drift seamlessly along the horizon like the verses of a poem, embellishing a sky flushed the color of a ripe peach. The sunlight has breached the distant snow-patched mountain peaks, its golden warmth lifting the mantle of fog settled deep in the green dark shadows of the valley. The wind rises forever and again, breathing life into the lungs of the cottonwood forest and stirring all that lay deep within wide awake. Woodpeckers flit amongst the treetops in their quest for insects, but all around far and near bird song prevails.

Comforted by the gift of your present, you tug free more yarn from the basket beside you. A hummingbird visits the columbines growing along the side of your homestead as you knit, gone in a flash of bronze. You pause at the boon of its appearance, but your eyes distractedly settle across the way.

Arthur leans on the paddock fence with his elbows propped up as he watches over Cora. A cup of coffee steams in his hand. He raises it and takes a sip, and you note with amusement that only three of his fingers fit through the handle. His fingernails are clean and square against the tin.

In all of your time together you never tired of the way the morning light poured over his tall frame. A heavenly gold illuminates the outlines of his arms and shoulders in his cotton white shirt. His sleeves, rolled humbly up to his elbows, display his tanned forearms, and a pair of dark suspenders divide his strong back handsomely. You never ceased to appreciate how lucky you were to have this view daily, and with each day, your love for Arthur and your family grew tenfold.

After a hearty breakfast of pancakes and eggs, Arthur took your daughter out to the horse pasture to learn how to ride—much at her own insistence and prodding. From a young age Cora shared his deep respect for horses and spent time with the ones you kept every day, grooming, feeding, and bonding with them. In the mornings you washed the dishes together, and afterwards, Cora bolted outside eager to start her lesson.

Today Arthur had lingered in the kitchen once the porch door slammed shut behind her and you were at once alone. The tick of the clock on the floral-papered wall was the only sound for a moment, until Arthur withdrew from the table.

You stood before the washing basin, drying a plate with a dish towel and adding it to a stack on the counter when he slipped his arms around you from behind and held you close. All of your quiet thoughts of the arriving day paused. Together, you breathed in. Your eyes closed. No words were needed between you to speak of the content that settled in your hearts then. He had only hummed a deep sound that passed through you, and began to gently sway you in a dance as you both basked warmly in the window. A jar of amber honey on the sill bloomed light, pouring gold like a waterfall. The birds sang—they always sang in this heavenly place—and you tilted your head back against his broad chest. You melted in his arms when his mouth pressed upon yours and it was a long, blind time before he pulled away.

When the kiss ended his forehead softened against your brow, him stealing a moment to remember you like this. He traced his thumb along the curve of your cheek, a sense of deep wonder speaking through his touch, and you sighed your assent.

In the beginning doubts plagued him. Years before when he knelt before you with a ring amidst a meadow of lupines, his hands held the slightest tremble until you took them into your own, guiding the pale stone down your finger and kissing away his uncertainties. He made promises to do right by you, and he kept every one of them.

In time, he came to believe in the second chance life had granted you both. It made it all the more fortuitous that your first child was a girl.

The embrace in the kitchen was one of beyond number. Arthur was a man of few words but many looks, so you understood his silent language of showing thankfulness. From the careful touch of his hands, moving as if to measure and memorize your importance to him, to the curve of his blooming half-smile, his expression voiced an ineffable gratitude and a disbelief that you shared this life together. His devotion never waned, but the encumbrance of the past did, the fetters that once hindered your steps toward freedom breaking when he built this homestead for you. They shattered forever when you first told him you were pregnant, standing on the porch in the twilight, his arms in their favorite place around you.

When the tingle of his kiss dissipated from your lips, your eyes had been slow to open at last.

“What was that one for?” You murmured in the space between you.

His soft, sage green gaze found yours, and the love in his eyes could not be misunderstood or undervalued. As always, your heart melted like the April snows at the warmth that look bloomed in your chest.

“Nothin’. Jus’…all you do is make me happy,” he confessed, following the gentle ways the angle of the sun fell upon your face.

“Oh you.”

With your heart strings plucked, you turned in the circle of his arms to embrace him. You nuzzled your nose along the endearing divot of his and let the softness of his smile melt against yours once more. The tannic scent of oak and pine and the musk of gun oil seeped into your senses, and you let yourself get carried away and intoxicated with his nearness and the rasp of his beard beneath your touch.

Cora’s prompting from outside tethered Arthur to his promise and he broke away from you with a sigh, although his warm hands slid down your hips longingly before departing.

“Real eager, that one is.”

“You better get to it,” you laughed and made to finish putting away the breakfast dishes. The other chores of the household could wait for an hour, you decided, as you made to rejoin them on the porch with your knitting.

Cats lazed about beside you presently, preening and stretching their legs before turning their watchful golden eyes to the high grasses in search of mice. One of them stalks up to Arthur at his post, weaving between his feet and brushing a white tail against his knee with affection. He reaches down and scratches its neck, the cat lifting itself on its feet to meet him halfway.

Doubtlessly he was smiling beneath his hat, as you were. You could only imagine what the sunlight must be doing to the color of his eyes as the sides crinkle with amusement.

Cora’s pony begins to straighten its gait and walks in a line, causing her to squeal with delight from her saddle.

“Daddy! I’m doing it! I’m doing it!”

“There you go! Keep holdin’ the reins, just like that. Lead ‘em to the left and right to steer.”

“Mama! Look!”

Your joy is instant.

“You’re doing wonderful!” You cheer. Cora giggles, her cheeks dimpling from her contagious glee. The bow laced at the end of her braid flutters like a butterfly’s wings as she rides through the pasture gracefully. The image of her with her gingham neckerchief around her throat, sitting proud in the saddle struck you with familiarity. She looked so natural, so at ease; so much like her father.

They mosey along at a steady pace and Arthur laughs under his breath. “Well, look at that. You’re a natural.”

He was always so patient and attentive with Cora, shushing her cries and soothing her when she was a baby, encouraging her every little step as she grew. Long ago you envisioned how great of a father he could be, despite his own uncertainty and the paucity of his self-worth. It took years for him to believe he deserved any of the happiness you found in each other, but he always wanted to protect it, never wanting to lose what mattered most to him.

Dutch abused the protective nature of Arthur’s heart, channeled it for his own gain and allocated it to his benefit. For years he strove to bring pride to his surrogate father, giving his all. But he knew. Arthur knew before it was too late when he was being used. You were the first to confess the hidden fondness you held for him, and it was the push he needed to start thinking for himself. Much as he tried to convince you of his own lowly opinion of himself, you persisted in your beliefs that he was a good man, deserving of happiness. Regardless of whether or not he found it with you.

Moments like this were the ones you wanted to capture and hold. Because reaching this place was worth every pain you endured, every mistake, and every misfortune if it meant it all led to this moment.

A breeze stirs the porch wind chimes. Their soft notes tinkle, joining the songbirds singing the joy of another sunrise. In the warm blanket of the wind the scent of alfalfa chases up your nose. You close your eyes against it, listening to the earth and the skies and the peals of Cora’s laughter. When it settles you open them again, finding Arthur’s gaze fastened to you from across the prairie. Caught, he smiles to himself bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck while his gaze dips to the slight swell of your belly and the pair of baby socks in your lap.

Warmth floods through you at the remembrance of that same smile earlier this morning, when the first blue light of day came and slipped through the gossamer curtains. Thoughts of Arthur’s mouth—soft and warm with sleep against your bare shoulder—tucks your lip behind your teeth and turns your gaze shy under his. But it lingered all the same.

The way he traced your skin with the lightest drag of his fingertips as you laid side by side in the early dawn light. How his touches led to languid kisses along your neck until he reached the spot that always made you sigh, your hands slipping along the lovely angles of his stubbled jaw to get lost in the soft, golden brown strands of his hair. How you let him lay you below him before he settled over you, the bedsheets catching on the small of his back. The roughness of his palms sliding along the delicate lace of your chemise, raising it all until it bunched around your shoulders. Parting your legs and lifting them around his hips, his calloused thumb drifting between—

“I think horsey is getting tired,” Cora announces, and Arthur snaps his attention back to her. You cross your legs and take a deep breath to compose yourself, returning your thoughts to the chaste exercise of knitting.

“Let’s give her a rest, then.”

Cora pulls up on the reins and Autumn yields.

Arthur dumps the remaining dregs of his coffee and leaves the cup on the fence, swinging his way through the paddock gate. In a few minutes he would be leaving for town, a star pinned to his vest and a promise to return before sundown. It made it all the more precious that he spent this time with her.

He lifts Cora off the saddle, his hands swallowing her tiny waist. She yelps with delight as he spins her around once, twice, exclaiming how proud he is and how fast she is growing up. Her braid and her skirts swing around her small frame until Arthur sets her down, squatting down to her level. With a mellow voice he speaks, encouraging her to thank the animal and explaining how important it is to show your horse you respect them. Cora nods. She reaches out and strokes Autumn’s neck, patting it alongside Arthur until she whickers and leans into the girl’s touch. With a grin, Arthur produces a crumbling oat cake from his satchel and Cora obediently holds out the treat. She laughs when a wet tongue tickles her hand.

They begin to lead the horse into the stable and Arthur squeezes her shoulders, telling her how well she did. Their words fade into the barn, indiscernible from where you sit, but your heart swells with contentment and a great rush of affection floods through you.

The gold band of your wedding ring rests coolly against your finger. You admire the smooth facets of the oval stone, the mounted sapphire twinkling in the light, thinking again of the first time you saw it and the pure happiness it brought as you trace its edges. Long ago and far away were the days of turmoil and gloom, for as dark as the past was is how bright your future together became. For you were safe at last, harbored in the arms of one another, thriving under the roof Arthur built where your family could grow. And it was all more than you could ever dream of.

A butterfly alights the roses growing along the trellis on the side of the house. Orange and black wings dance, flitting among unfolded dark pink petals and seeking the golden centers within. From one, to the next, to the next, the butterfly graces each bloom and delivers the promise of a sweeter future from its visit, leaving your world also a little better from its passage through it.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan/reader #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption imagine #arthur morgan imagine #arthur x reader #red dead redemption fic #rdr #rdr fic #arthur morgan fic #rdr drabble #arthur morgan #*my writing

[waveypedia]

The Real Deal

Ao3

Lena comes to the Nine-Tailed Diner just often enough for the waiters to know her face, but not often enough for them to know her name. She prefers it that way. The anonymity is comforting, but she knows in her gut it’s just an illusion when the waiters give her familiar smiles as she slides into her usual spot in the corner.

There was a time, before she met Webby, when Lena would scowl and duck her head away from the waiters’ friendly greetings. Where the mere notion of being noticed would make her gut churn and blood boil.

Not anymore.

Lena taps her carefully manicured nails against the smooth table as she waits, watching the cozily bustling diner. She’s not usually one for nail polish, but Dewey was just so excited when he saw the color that perfectly matched her magic, and despite her snarky exterior she couldn’t say no to Dewey’s infectious excitement when he bounced up to her with the bottles of nail polish. She smiles at the memory.

If Lena from a year and a half ago could see her now, she’d be unrecognizable. That’s not such a bad thing, Lena muses.

She pulls out her phone and quickly scrolls through social media, smiling when a picture of Webby pops up on her feed. Webby doesn’t post much, but when she does, just seeing her face never fails to make Lena smile.

The noise of the city and the harbor outside eventually fades into a calming white noise in the back of Lena’s mind. She’s used to the city. It was her home for fifteen years. But the sound of a particular car pulling up to the curb jerks Lena out of her thoughts, and she presses her face to the window, filled with an almost childlike glee.

A familiar car, light green and blocky and just as eccentric as its owner, putters at the curb. Lena can only see into the drivers’ side, but she snorts as she spots a familiar stupid-looking hat and chuckles to herself. Soon enough, a familiar face pops out from the other side of the car, looks to the corner window expectantly, and waves enthusiastically. Lena grins and waves back.

The bell on the diner door jingles, right on schedule, and Lena’s friend nearly sprints over to her booth.

“Hi, Lena!” Boyd chirps, and Lena grins.

“Hi,” she responds, significantly less energetic but with the same sentiment behind it.

Every month, Lena and Boyd meet at the Nine-Tailed Diner, just the two of them. It started one day when it was supposed to be all of the kids, but the McDuck kiddos were called away on an adventure, Violet had a school project, and Gosalyn was busy in St. Canard. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize how similar Lena and Boyd’s unique situations and backstories are.

Lena didn’t realize how lonely she was until she had someone who shared her experiences.

Boyd rubs at his elbow. It’s a nervous stim, and Lena’s attention is piqued. If Gyro said something insensitive to him again, well, he may be tall, but he’s a skinny twink, I can take him—

“Lena?”

Lena bites back a swell of nervousness and feigns casualness. “Hm?”

“How… do you feel about Webby?”

Lena blinks. “Well, I like her. You know that, dummy.”

“Yeah, but… how does that feel? You know… liking someone?” Boyd won’t meet her eyes.

Lena frowns. “What do you mean? Doesn’t everyone feel that way?”

Boyd stares at the table, lip trembling, and Lena ponders.

She doesn’t entirely know how to describe how she feels about Webby. Before Webby, it was just her and Aunt Magica. The two of us against the world, Lena always told herself, but it was always the world against Aunt Magica, with Lena sandwiched in the middle. And then she grew to hate Magica as well, like she always should have. For so long, Lena only knew hatred and apathy, whoever it may be directed to.

And then she met Webby.

And then she met Webby, and everything changed.

Webby was—is—a literal ray of sunshine. When Webby’s smiling face pops up in Lena’s view, when her bubbling laugh or high voice makes Lena’s heart sing. It’s stereotypical and cliché beyond belief, much to Lena’s chagrin, but that’s how she feels . If Huey offered her a thesaurus he must have stored in his Junior Woodchuck Guidebook somewhere (that thing has everything — it’s kind of ridiculous, honestly) she wouldn’t change it. There’s no other way to describe it.

“I… don’t know,” Lena hums. “Just… whenever I see her, I instantly feel better. It’s free serotonin, y’know?”

Boyd hums in acknowledgement, and after a moment of semi-awkward silence Lena continues.

She’s never been all that good about putting her feelings into words. She’s not particularly wordy like Huey, and she doesn’t have Violet’s extensive vocabulary (although she’s picked up quite a few words and phrases from the Sabrewing family). Not that she cares about it. It makes these kind of conversations difficult, though. But for Boyd, she will try.

“She was the first person to ever care about me,” Lena muses, fidgeting with the hem of her oversized sweater under the table. She’s had it forever. It feels like home, in the same way Webby does. “She has a special place in my heart. She was my first friend, but it’s different than my relationship with the boys, or Vi, or you.”

Boyd nods and avoids her gaze. He’s unhappy with that conclusion, although Lena can’t fathom why.

“So… by that logic,” Boyd begins, “I should be in love with Huey, right?”

Lena shrugs. It is true that Huey directly parallels Webby in their respective situations. “However you want to define it, dude.”

Boyd flexes his fingers. He’s still unhappy.

“Look, I’m not gonna judge you,” Lena says, snorting slightly and raising her hands placatingly in front of her. “I know homophobia is A Thing, but I literally just talked extensively about how I’m head over heels for another girl, so…”

“Homophobia is terrible,” Boyd responds finally. “I genuinely do not understand how people could think such a thing! How does one act so cruelly to another just because of something so trivial as sexual orientation?”

Lena presses her lips together. “Beats me, dude.”

After a moment, she adds, “So what’s your problem, then?”

Boyd’s head jerks up. “Huh?”

“You’re clearly disappointed about something ,” Lena says, gesturing with her arms and raising her eyebrows. “I know you well enough, ‘cause of these dumb meetings. I’m just gonna point out they were your idea.”

Boyd smirks, ever so slightly. “You love them, though.”

Lena looks away and crosses her arms pointedly, but allows the smallest of smiles to slip through her mask. Boyd cackles at that.

“But seriously. What’s botherin’ you?”

“By all accounts… I should feel that way about Huey. I don’t care about genders, and I feel differently about him than I feel about you and the other kids. But saying I love him, it just doesn’t feel right.” Boyd rubs at his arm.

“Hey, that’s fine!” Lena replies. “That’s kinda how I feel about labels, y’know? Webby likes ‘em, but I don’t.” She narrows her eyes and leans forward with her elbows on the table. “Is Huey pressuring you? ‘Cause if he is I’ll—”

“No! Nononono, Lena, it’s fine,” Boyd chuckles nervously, raising his hands placatingly in front of him. “If anything, I guess I’m pressuring myself. Logically, based on all accounts I have consulted, I should be in love. But…”

Lena gives an exaggeratedly frustrated sigh, making Boyd chuckle despite himself.

“Look, Pink tells me aaaaalll the time that my magic isn’t logical. Especially friendship magic. It follows its own rules, and it’s about looove and the power of friendship or whatever. So cheesy. But I guess your love might be the same thing.”

Lena takes a deep breath and leans back in the diner booth. “Stop pushing your feelings into dumb little boxes they don’t belong in. They won’t fit.”

Boyd smiles at her, small but not muted. “Thanks, Lena.”

Lena glances away, staring pointedly out the window. “Whatever. Don’t expect it to happen again.”

Boyd just giggles at that. His laughter is frustratingly infectious, and after a moment Lena finds herself chuckling alongside him.

The rest of the afternoon flits by, and for the life of her Lena cannot recall what they talked about. But their first topic of conversation, and Boyd’s worry, sits heavy on her mind for a while to come.

--

When Doctor (unofficially, shh, if the news got out that he had never finished his doctorate because of those ridiculous geese Gyro would be ruined ) Gyro Gearloose secured a job with McDuck Industries, he did not expect his precious lab would be run afoot by small children. Not even by Fenton, who acts more like a small child than some of these literal small children sometimes.

It’s almost closing time, but that has never mattered to McDuck Industries’ research branch. Even if Fenton and Manny go home eventually, Gyro has spent weeks on end in the lab. He will outlast them all.

Well, he used to. Before his team and his boss dragged him out to see the sunlight. And before Boyd.

For the record, Gyro did not forget about closing time. Not this time. He was working with that infernal little rodent, who, along with the blue nephew, had somehow wormed Mr. McDuck into allowing her to take some freelance work in the research department. Gyro’s department.

...He did have to admit that Gadget Hackwrench was frustratingly proficient at mechanics and machinery. Especially since she was so small. She was a great help to Gyro’s newest project, which required a lot of rough mechanical know-how.

Gadget, unlike the rest of them, was not incredibly self-sacrificial and actually liked clocking out when she was supposed to. She had to go home to her Rescue Avengers, or whatever they were called. Gyro couldn’t wrap his head around her way of thinking.

So they were tinkering away at the panel of the machine when Gadget glanced at the clock and reminded him of her obligations. She was packing up when Boyd came in.

“Dr. Gearloose!” Boyd, chipper as ever, entered the lab and bounced up to Gyro’s workstation. He was a bundle of energy, reminiscent of the blue and pink children. His hands darted around him like a hummingbird, never quite staying in one place long enough for Gyro’s tired brain to process. After a minute of unconsciously trying to watch and comprehend it, Gyro glanced away and rubbed at his forehead under his glasses while Boyd greeted Gadget with the same enthusiasm.

Wait. Was it really enthusiasm?

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Gyro watched carefully as Boyd flitted around Gadget, mentally comparing his movements and stims with what he knew of happy Boyd. And yes. It was off.

Gadget packed up, and Gyro slowly but carefully placed his wrench down and turned to face Boyd, leaning against his desk in a facade of casualness.

“So.”

“Can you fix me?”

Gyro pinches the bridge of his nose. “What did you do?”

Boyd clasps his hands nervously in front of him. “No. No. Nothing! I just… I know how I’m supposed to feel, but I don’t feel like that! So I must be broken!”

Gyro stares at Boyd like he’s grown a second head —- which, with Gyro’s robotics, is actually plausible. “Pft, you’re not broken. You think you could be broken?! I made you, kid. I fixed you up after Akita tampered with you. The great Gyro Gearloose does not make mistakes.”

Manny taps something unsupportive, and Fenton and Gadget both —- purposefully badly —- hide their laughter. Gyro screeches something incomprehensible at them. It doesn’t matter what he says; the point gets across.

Boyd is still staring up at Gyro, with that hero-worship puppy-dog look in his eyes that he wears so well, and he looks so scared that Gyro’s heart twists. His body sags, and he sighs and rolls his eyes and gestures for Boyd to follow. He perks up, and is immediately at Gyro’s heels with a characteristic grin, but his hands are trembling. Did he teach himself to do that?

Gyro kneels in front of Boyd, behind his desk, and stares into his eyes. Not in a symbolic way —- if he focuses just right, he can see the circuitry in his head.

Gyro purses his lips. “Everything looks fine. I told you I don’t make mistakes.”

“But—- But Lena’s in love with Webby and Dewey’s had three crushes in the past month and I don’t feel anything like that, ever! Lena says it’s fine but she’s had one girlfriend and that worked out for her perfectly and I’m happy for her and Webby, I really am, but I don’t know how to make it work for me and it must be some sort of error in the programming and I—-I just want to be a real boy!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Gyro shoves his hands in front of him reflexively. He pulls them back, out of Boyd’s face, when he processes and realizes how overwhelming that gesture could be. Boyd buries his face in his hands. “You are a real boy.”

Boyd gives him a tiny nod and doesn’t respond. Gyro’s throat feels tight and constricting, bile building up inside. He wants to say something and break the tension and silence, but he doesn’t know what or how.

“Love isn’t everything,” he says lamely after a minute. “I didn’t fall in love until Fenton, honestly. Not for real. Della said something about ‘demiromanticism,’ whatever the hell that is, and she says Mr. McDuck is the same way, but honestly I don’t really care. I don’t need to compartmentalize and hyper-analyze every aspect of myself that way. But if you want to, you could talk to her. Or the red nephew. He’d know.”

It’s weird, being this open and honest about his thoughts and feelings that aren’t inventions and blueprints. A part of Gyro is screaming at himself to close, shutter the windows and pull the walls back up and raise the prickly spikes to defend against anyone who dares get close. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, really.

Strike that. He knows why. It’s Boyd . He’ll do anything to bring that kid’s sunny disposition back. And he knows why he’ll do that, too.

“Demiromanticism?” Boyd places a finger on his chin and tilts his head ever so carefully to the side, testing out the feel of the word. “What’s that?”

Gyro shrugs lazily. “I dunno. Some fancy way of saying I only want a relationship with people who get close to me. Which is a very exclusive circle.”

Boyd pauses. Blinks. Gyro can nearly see the wheels turning in his head. “If there’s a term for that, do you think… there’s a term for going all the way? A term for never wanting a relationship?”

Gyro raises his eyebrows. “Probably.” He reaches for his phone. Boyd could search for it in his internal search engine (proudly programmed by Gyro two months ago, since search engines didn’t exist twenty years ago, but for the record if he had thought of it Akita hadn’t had him on such a tight schedule he could have done it. For the record.)

“Aromanticism,” Gyro muses, reading out loud. “The lack of romantic attraction. Does that sound about right?”

“Hmm,” Boyd puts his finger to his chin again. “It fits! I like it!”

Gyro smiles, that soft and gentle smile reserved exclusively for Boyd (and Fenton, sometimes). “Perfect. Now get out of my lab. It’s past closing time.”

Boyd sticks out his tongue, playful. “Like you care. Don’t stay up too late!”

Gyro just smiles in response and resolves himself to not make any promises he won’t keep.

Boyd gives him a quick, tight hug goodbye. He always gives hugs, to say hello and goodbye and everything inbetween, and Gyro is never quite prepared for them, although he certainly doesn’t mind them. Gyro isn’t very comfortable with touch or affection in general when it doesn’t come from a select few people, but he never protests. Boyd is one of those “select few people”.

If today’s hug is a bit tighter and longer than usual (but still brief, since Boyd knows well how Gyro clams up with physical affection, even if it’s from him, and he respects that), neither Boyd nor Gyro say a word.

Boyd says his goodbyes to the rest of Team Science (Gadget is long gone by now) and skips out of the room. “I can’t wait to tell Huey about this! He probably knows all about aromanticism! It’s probably in his Junior Woodchuck Guidebook!”

Gyro leans against his desk, the cuffs of his shirt catching on the corners. “You do that, kid.”

“And Lena! She’ll be happy to know I figured it out, even if she won’t say so!” Boyd chirps. “Thanks, Dr. Gearloose!”

Gyro’s wry smile turns into something monumentally more sincere and real. “No problem, kid.”

The elevator dings and Boyd is gone. Gyro used to revel in the lab’s silence, but even with the background noise of Fenton, Manny, and Lil’ Bulb tinkering away at their respective projects (and decidedly not saying anything), it feels uncomfortably quiet without Boyd’s incessant chatter.

He hums softly to himself and picks up his phone to call Della before she hears about this from Huey and berates him for not telling her right away. He puts on a new pot of coffee for when he comes back, and lets Fenton know he’s going on his break.

“You know the workday technically ended half an hour ago, right? You don’t need me to clock you out,” Fenton replies, grinning. He can read Gyro like a book.

Gyro rolls his eyes and grumbles under his breath, but waves his former intern off.

As he walks out, he pictures Boyd. He would be sitting in the limo, brimming with excitement, tapping his fingers eagerly on his legs with barely contained enthusiasm. Launchpad picked him up for a sleepover at Mr. McDuck’s, so by this point he should be almost home. He’ll burst into the mansion and spill his discovery to Huey before he catches his breath, and he, Huey, Webby, and Violet will make a board and a list of thoughts and information on aromanticism while Dewey tries to catch popcorn in his mouth and Lena and Louie add snarky comments. They’ll all chime in with their own experiences and eat lots of sugary snacks until they eventually fall asleep in a pile of pillows and blankets and each other on the living room couch. Boyd will come into the lab on Monday and tell him all about it, and maybe Huey will as well.

Gyro smiles fondly to himself as he steps into the hallway outside of the lab and leans against the wall, pulling up Della’s contact on his phone. The tab on aromanticism is still open on his phone, and he scrolls through it idly, taking note of all the information and how it could relate to Boyd.

He’s not fit for this role in Boyd’s life. But he loves Boyd, so he’ll do his best. And Dr. Gyro Gearloose’s best is a feat they tell tales of.

Across town, in the mansion, sitting on her sleeping bag in her pajamas and sneaking handfuls of gummy bears behind Violet’s watchful eye, Lena shares a similar sentiment. Boyd explains what he’s learned, bursting with excited energy in the form of overenthusiastic gestures, and Lena wonders why this little, enthusiastic kid decided to choose her as a sister figure.

But she’s not complaining.

Lena sneaks another handful of gummies and wraps her arm around Webby, who makes a bright, contented sound and snuggles into her side. No, she’s definitely not complaining.

~

i wrote this almost a year ago actually, for the Because We're Family LGBTQuaranzine! (@ducktaleslgbtquaranzine) This is a nonprofit pay-what-you-want zine, with all of the money going to DirectRelief, a charity dedicated to Covid relief in countries that have been hit hard by it. I had a lot of fun working on this zine and this particular piece, and I worked with a lot of great people. The zine is chock-full of amazing pieces and really talented, skilled people, and all the proceeds go to a reputable cause. I cannot recommend it enough!

this piece is pretty close to my heart because it encompasses a lot of my favorite things - weblena, lena & boyd friendship (they have SO many parallels i think they would get along so well!), and gyro being a father to boyd! in all honesty, this was my very first zine and i was really nervous, but i had so much fun writing this and i'm grateful it was such a good experience!

a lot of boyd's confusion about aromanticism is taken straight from my self-realization process. that's some good ole projection, baybee! i didn't have anyone like huey, but it's certainly difficult to figure out what romantic love really is and how that affects you and your relationships. it's like a puzzle. it's not explicitly mentioned in the fic, but i'm autistic, and boyd is pretty heavily autistic-coded (and god i could go on for hours about that, and i have before, but i'll spare you all the tangent, although i'll happily talk about it if you want me to), which adds this whole other obstacle when figuring out aromanticism, because we struggle with social relationships and fitting them in boxes. sometimes labels feel really comforting and satisfactory, but sometimes it's a real puzzle to fit into these boxes that weren't always made for us. sometimes they fit, and sometimes they don't. it was pretty fun exploring that from a slightly different perspective, as well as putting some of my own thoughts and experiences into words.

if you ever wanna talk ducktales, writing, these amazing characters, or really anything hmu here or on my twitter! thank you for reading, and please leave a like/reblog/comment (i read tags) if you enjoyed it!

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #dt17 #wavey writes #boyd gearloose #lena sabrewing #gyro gearloose #ducktales fanfiction #ducktales 2k17 #ducktales reboot #dt 2017 #dt #weblena #lena de spell #lena lestrange #boyd drake #boyd beaks #b.o.y.d. #ducktales lena #ducktales boyd #dt lena #dt boyd #lena ducktales #lena de strange #boyd ducktales #gyro ducktales #dt gyro #webby x lena #ducktales gyro

[josiecarioca]

“Family...the real one.”

Summary: Emmet “Fin” Finnerty has found the love of his life in Doug Cleary. The next logical step is introducing him to his family...The real one.

Because “family” are those who take you in, when the ones who should love and protect you, fail.

Disclaimer: Fin and Doug are secondary characters of “Post War”, so while thechnically this story happens in the “Harry Potter” universe, it is not a fanfic as much as it is an original story, hence why it’s a tumblr publication alone. Evelyn is in this, but there will be no Snape, no magic and nothing of what my readers are used to see in my stories. I hope you still like it.

Warning: contains domestic violence, homophobia, homophobic slurs and emotions

Tagging, as usual:   @arabellafiggypudding @the-witches-son  @hummingbird-flying-in-the-rain @artisticreptilequeen @viper-official @be-zoar @violet-knox @mafagafobebum @marvelschriss @codename-thedoctor @zealouspickleeggdragon @green-oasis @drawnfromthedead @snapescapades @madshelily @serosvit  @snapecentric @hbprincealice @hayalee8 @lilythemadqueen @paracosim @oliverlandomens​ @sleepysnapesnake

“Family...the real one”

Dublin, Ireland

June 1998

“Full disclosure?” Fin was rambling. He knew he was. He usually did when he was nervous. Doug surely knew that by now. He even claimed he found it “adorable”. Only Doug could say something like that.

Three months. Three months and he was ready to make this official. He knew Doug felt the same. Unlike Fin, he had no problem showing his feeling, shouting them from the rooftops even. That didn't come so easy for Fin. It never did. But now, now he could do just that. Shout it from the rooftops. Make it official. And making it official started here. Introducing him to Lyn. It was a big step.

“Go ahead” Doug smiled, gazing at him with bright blue eyes full of endless patience.

Three months. Three months and Fin was starting to feel like this was it. He had found what he looked for in that handsome, sweet 6'ft tall dork of a man.

“You´re the first boyfriend I introduce to Evelyn since...God, I don't know...1995?”

“And why is that?” Doug asked, somewhat amused. After all, how much of a big deal could this possibly be? Sure, he was about to introduce his new boyfriend to his best friend, obviouly it was important, but how could he begin to explain it wasn´t just that simple?

“You know how it was...back then, I mean. I wasn't really being safe, and Lyn was just so worried about me and I never really thought she would approve of … Nevermind, now it's different. I want you to meet her. It's important.”

Fin looked around. He had picked a good place. The restaurant was nice enough that it felt like an occasion, but casual enough that it didn't seem like he was making a big fuss of it. But he was. It was a big deal. Fin wasn't the 'dating' type. But Doug was not like anybody he met before. Doug has this sort of tranquil aura about him, this kindness in his words and actions, such love in his eyes. Doug made him feel like he could just rest, breathe easy. This time he knew it was different. It just felt different. It felt like it could last.

Doug reached over the table to hold his hand, reassuringly.

“Her opinion means a lot to you, no?”

“Well, yes...this is my family we´re talking about. The real one, you know?”

Doug had been lucky. His parents loved him unconditionally, as parents should. He wasn´t kicked out of the house when he came out, he wasn´t told his entire being, his entire identity was an abomination before God. He wasn't made believe that no matter how good he was, how much of a good Christian he was, he would still go to hell for something he couldn't change. No, his parents loved him, protected him. Fin had also been lucky, but in a different, more complicated way. The family that loved and protected him wasn´t the one he was born into. It was Evelyn's.

“So, you told me you've known each other since you were kids...but, you never really said much more than that...”

That's right, Fin thought. He'd never told him. Not everything. He had to.

“I was friends with her brother growing up...Paul. We went to school together.”

There it was, that bittersweet ache in his heart. He hadn't felt it in a while

“I daresay I had a bit of a crush on him. Sometimes I wonder if he felt the same. But I guess I'll never know.”

“Why not?”

“Paul passed away. There was a fire in their house when he was just eleven. Lyn was there too. Their father pulled her out in time because she was closer to the door, but when he got to Paul it was too late. It happened too fast. ”

“I'm so sorry” Doug seemed stunned out of words. “I didn't know.”

“I didn't tell you. I should have. Specially today....we still have some time before she gets here, so....I think if we're serious about this, then you should meet Evelyn and her family...my family. That's why this is important to me. That you meet her and that you meet them.”

“Ok...So tell me. Tell me about your family, Fin.”

“I guess I should start from the beginning, then...Paul and I, we went to the same school. Catholic school...fun times.” he scoffed “Lyn was just a yar younger than us, and she went to an all girls school. Their father, Mr. Black was the headmaster, there. Paul took her everywhere with us when we weren't at school. Nothing could separate those two...Well, then...Paul passed away, and I was devastated, but her? I don't think there was a word in the entire dictionary that could have described how she was feeling, the poor girl. So I started going there to visit. They were all in such pain that I think Mr. Black let me spend as much time in their house as I wanted because he hoped it would help her. As it turns out it helped me. Being around her was a little like being with him. She looked so much like Paul it was eerie, nearly identical. I swear, if you could have seen them together, you'd swear they were twins. She was different though. Paul was like a hurricane in a boy's body. Lyn was much gentler. Anyway, the years went on and she just became...my sister, in a way. More than my own sister, to be honest. I'm pretty sure my parents expected us to date or something, but she knew, she was the first person I told. So she just came to my house, and smiled and nodded when my mother went on babbling about how we were perfect for each other and whatever nonsense. Then it happened...”

…

Doolin, Ireland

June, 1977

“What do you think?” Evelyn twirled, wrapped in meters of flowy, flowery fabric. The sun that came through the curtains filtered though the fabric, colouring the room.

“What am I looking at?” Emmet put down his magazine and watched her, trying to picture what she planned to do with the material she was showing him.

“My new dress, Fin!” she smiled, calling him by the nickname Paul had come up with years ago. Fin for 'Finnerty'. After Paul died, it was just the two of them. Fin and Lyn. “For my birthday. Since I'll be 15, mam said I can have it however I want.”

“Your birthday is in September!”

“It takes time to make a dress, and my grandma is going to have her hands full with Halloween costumes soon, so she's going to make my dress now. I want it long, with a bodice and medieval sleeves. Like Stevie Nicks in that magazine my dad brought from Dublin. He brought me the new Fleetwood Mac record too, here put it on.”

She set the fabric aside and fished the long play from the big canvas bag she had brought.

Whenever Lyn came over she always brought that huge bag, filled with clothes, magazines, records and books. She knew Fin couldn´t have any of that stuff at home. His mother didn't allow him to wear anything more colorful than a blue dress shirt for sunday mass, and his father was the one who decided which records, books or magazines were allowed in the house. Which meant no fashion or entertainment mags, no rock or pop music, and no books that seemed “suspicious”, which was pretty much anything that wasn't a school textbook. If not for Evelyn's father Emmet wouldn't even have read Oscar Wilde.

She handed him the record and he put it on, in the old record player Evelyn had snuck in for his last birthday. Her mother had got a new one, so she let Fin have the old 1967 Magnavox. His parents had no idea he had that thing in the bedroom, so he had to keep the volume low enough that his parents wouldn't hear it downstairs, or that they'd just think he had the radio on.

“We should ask my dad to take us next time he goes to Dublin. He promised me new shoes for my birthday. Red leather ones. With heels, I'm old enough for heels now. They only have those in Dublin.” Evelyn suggested, as both of them lay on the floor, staring at the reflection of the sun on the ceilling.

“You know my parents won't let me go.”

“They will if my dad is taking us. Or even better, if mam comes too. Your mother goes to church with her, of course she's going to let you go if she's with us. She's better to shop with anyway.”

“Maybe.” he trailed, knowing it wouldn't happen.

“We can buy some things for Halloween costumes. You should ask my grandma to make you one as well.Ooh, you know what? We can go as John Steed and Emma Peel! All you'll need is a suit, an umbrella and a hat, and grandma Liz can make me a jumpsuit. That purple one, with the chains! Or you want do do something spooky?”

“We´re not kids, anymore, Lyn.” he laughed

“And?”

“You really want to dress up for Halloween? We´re too old for that.”

“My grandparents still dress up for Halloween.” she scoffed

“It's different.”

“How?”

“They're...old-old. When you get to be their age you can do whatever you want.”

“They're not that old. I mean, if you...”

Evelyn's sentence was cut short by loud banging on the door. Emmet scrambled to his feet to turn off the music and toss a blanket over the record player. His father never banged on his door more than twice before yanking it open without waiting for an answer.

“You, downstairs now.” he barked at Emmet, before turning to Evelyn “And you can go back home, young lady. I need to talk to my son”

Emmet felt his stomach drop. His father never bothered to 'talk' to him, unless he was in trouble.

Evelyn picked up her things in a hurry and shoved it all back inside her bag, glancing over her shoulder at him all the while. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't know what.

“Now!” his father thundered from the stairs.

Emmet was frozen in place.

“Emmet is just helping me with my things, Mr. Finnerty. We'll be right there.” Evelyn answered, her voice slightly breaking.

“Come on...” she told him, holding his arm. “I'll go with you.”

“You have to go home.” he finally found his voice and his feet moved.

Emmet felt her hand grab his as they climbed down the stairs. His father was walking around the livingroom in circles, while his mother was talking to somebody. He heard her apologizing profusely. Then he realized why. She was talking to Connor Walsh's mother. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Mrs Walsh shot him a disgusted look on her way out.

“Evelyn, dear, you can go now.” Mrs. Finnerty said, and Emmet noticed she had a piece of  paper in her shaky hands. He knew that piece of paper. He looked at Evelyn, feeling like the world was a minute away from crashing down onto his head. She  looked back at him, knowingly. He had told her about Connor...about the letter. She knew. He felt her hand squeeze his again.

“I won't.” she whispered.

Emmet didn't want her to go. But he also didn't want her to stay. He didn't want her to see what he knew was about to happen.

Neither of them had the time to say anything else. His father snatched the letter from his mother's hand and grabbed Emmet by the collar, nearly shoving the paper into his face.

“Did you write this?” he roared

Emmet couldn't find his voice. He felt warm tears swelling in his eyes. He could hear his mother's voice, asking his father to let him go and telling Evelyn to just go already.

“Did you write this drivel, lad?! Answer!” his father insisted, pushing the letter into his chest.

“Answer, Emmet!” his mother was crying “This is just a prank isn't it?”

It was over.

There was no point in lying, he had the letter right there. His mother might try to lie to herself, to convince him it was nothing, but it was there, plain for anyone to see it. They read it. They knew. He was sure they had already heard the rumors, the talk, the othe boys calling him this and that.

They knew it. They couldn´t pretend they didn't

“I did.” he  barely whispered.

Next thing he knew he felt his body hit the wall in full force. It didn't even hurt. It didn´t feel real.

Evelyn screamed and, from the corner of his eye, he saw her run to him. His father stepped in front of her.

“You get out of my house now, before I drag you home to your father, so he can teach you to mind your own business, lass.”

“Fin, I'll be right back!” she cried, running out the front door.

“What the devil were you thinking writing this?!” his father pulled him to his feet by his shirt.

“Stephen, let the lad go. This was just a game, just stupid prank. Tell him, Emmet, tell him this isn't serious.”

This was it.

They knew it.

They read it.

There was no turning back now.

“I did it, mam. I did it, I wrote it. It wasn't a prank, I really wrote it.”

“You hear it, Edith?! Your son can't even have the decency to be ashamed!”

“Why?! Why would you do something like this?!”

“You know why!” Emmet nearly screamed, overwhelmed, dizzy “You read it, didn't you? You know why! Iwrote it because I love him!”

His parents stared at him as if they were looking at something alien, something they couldn´t comprehend.

“Mam...dad...” he felt the tears run down his cheeks, burning. But he refused to cry, to sob. He wouldn't do that. “I'm gay.”

Emmet had expected his father to hit him.

What he didn't expect was for his mother to slap him.

But she did. She slapped him hard across the face and left the room. Like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

Anything after that didn't hurt. He didn't even feel it.

It was as if he had left his body. He could vaguely discern some broken words, something about “bringing filth into his house”, “shame” and “hell”...he could see the blows coming, and his body acted on instinct, raising his arms to protect his head, his face. But he didn't feel it. He didn't feel any of it.  He just cowered on the corner and closed his eyes, praying it would be over soon. Praying he would get tired eventually. Before he hurt him too bad. Before...

“Stephen, what the devil are you doing?!” Emmet knew that voice, that deep voice filling the air around them like thunder. “Have you lost your mind?!”

The blows stopped and he opened his eyes.

Mr. Black was standing right there, with both his arms around his father, draging him away.

“Let me go, Marius!” his father shouted, like a man possessed, while Mr. Black kept holding him back.

“Leave the boy alone, Stephen! You're trying to kill him?”

Emmet tried to get up but he was too dizzy.

“Fin, are you ok?” Evelyn was kneeling next to him, frantically pushing his hair away form his face.

“You called your dad?” he was terrified.

“Of course I did!” she helped him up.

He heard a loud thump and looked up. Mr. Black had flung his father onto the armchair, and was now standing, looming over him. He looked taller than Emmet remembered him, much taller. And his father, sitting on the chair looked so small by comparison.

“Enough!” Mr. Black boomed, and Emmet could had sworn the ground under his feet trembled.

“You don't get it, Marius! You don't know what this...what this boy did!”

“Whatever it was, it doesn't justify this!” Mr. Black took off his thick rimmed glasses and pinched the brigde of his nose, in evident frustration.

His father got back to his feet, standing right in front of Mr. Black and he still looked small.

“This none of your business!”

“You made it my business when you sent my daughter back home in tears, scared out of her wits that you were going to kill her friend!”

“Then take your daughter back home and let ME handle what happen in MY house!” He pushed past Mr. Black and barrelled towards Emmet.

Mr. Black tried to hold him back, but he took a swing at him. Emmet and Evelyn both screamed, but Mr. Black managed to dodge it. He reached for his father again, shoving him so he'd back off.

“Linnie, get Emmet out of here!” Mr. Black told his daughter, and Lyn tried to pull him by his arm, but Emmet couldn't move.

“Stephen, for the love of God, stop! You'll regret this!”Mr. Black pleaded, stepping between Emmet and his father.

“What do you know, Marius?! You don't have a fecking faggot living under your roof! Count your blessings, Marius, because I rather have a dead son than this!”

For a second, a long, agonising second, time seemed to stand still. Emmet could see it on his father's face that he had regretted those words the moment they left his mouth. Not because of what they meant to Emmet. No, he knew his father meant every bit of that. But because he knew, of all the things he could have said to Mr. Black, that was the wrong one.

Emmet had known Mr. Black his entire life. He never saw him raise his voice, he had never seen him angry. He was a gentle man. A man who took them birdwatching on weekends, who bought them magazines and records whenever he went to Ennis or Dublin, who told them about his favorite poets and painters. Emmet didn't think he was physically capable of being anything other than gentle and kind.

But in that moment, he changed.

Emmet never thougth he'd see Mr. Black punch somebody. But he did it. A single punch, right to the side of his father face, so strong, so sudden, he fell to the floor  like rotten fruit falls from a tree.

“Never” he growled in a voice that didn't sound like his voice at all “you hear me, NEVER talk about my son again! You heard me, Stephen!? NEVER! I promise you, you mention my boy ever again, and it will be the end of your sorry life upon this Earth, I promise you!”

“I didn't mean it like, that, you know I didn't...” Emmet watched with disgust as his father tried to get back on his feet, stumbling, humiliated.

“I know exactly what you meant! And you know what you meant, you dirty coward!”

He kept trying to make excuses, but Mr. Black would have none of it.

“You don't know, you have no idea, what it is to bury a child, and I hope to God you never find out.” his voice was calmer, but there was a frightening coolness to it “Are you out of your damned mind?! This is your son! Standing right there while you´re wishing him dead! What I wouldn't give to trade places with you! To have my boy here, alive, like him!”

Emmet was numb. He felt Evelyn rest her head against his shoulder and weep, softly. He wanted to hug her, to do something, anything. But all he could was stare. Stare at his father, trying and failing to stand up to her father, as Mr. Black towered over him, his face filled with righteous, godly, ice-cold anger. And he felt so embarrassed, so ashamed that this man, this petty, pathetic, bumbling excuse of a man was his father.

“Easy for you to say, Marius, but if Paul had been a...”

“I won't hear my son's name from your mouth again, Stephen. Paul is dead. And if I could have him back, I would have him however he was. Trust me, nothing can worse than a dead child. Nothing!”

“That's a pretty sentiment coming from somebody who doesn´t have to live with THAT under your roof! But I won't stand for this! I won't have this in my house!”

“Fine, I'll take him!”

“What?!”

“You don't want him under your roof? I'll solve that problem for you, then. I'll take him. However he is. I'll take him.”

…

“What on earth happened to you, dear?” Mrs. Black seemed horrified when she laid eyes on him, as Lyn walked him throught the front door. Emmet, still dazed, wondered how bad he must have looked for her react that way. She put her hand on his cheek, and her blue eyes were filled with something he couldn't describe. “What has he done to you?”

Only then did he cry. Only then did he allow himself to sob.

It was Evelyn's mother who held him in her arms as he had, so foolishly, hoped his mother would.

“I...I...told them I...I'm sorry, I...” he pulled back and wiped his tears, suddenly aware that...she didn't know. Mrs. Black went to church with his mother. She didn't know he was...  A rush of panic coursed through him. What would she say? He couldn't. He couldn't go through this twice.

“Take a breath, pet.” she told him, pulling him to sit on the couch. “Linnie, love, go get the first aid kit in the kitchen, we need to patch this lad up a bit. And try not to alarm your sister, if you will. And where is your father?”

“He's waiting for Mrs. Finnerty to get him all of Fin's...I mean, Emmet's stuff.”

Mrs. Black nodded, as if she knew something. As if she had been expecting to be told exactly that. Lyn looked at her mother with the same knowing expression in her eyes and went to the kitchen as intructed.

Emmet felt like runnning away, as far away as he could.

“Mr. Black he said...I'm sorry,I have to...I have to go back, I can't...”

“Emmet, calm down.”

“Mrs. Black, I know you don't want me here. I...I'm...I mean, I...told my parents...”

“I know, pet. I know.”

“No you don't...”

“Emmet, my darling, why do you think I allow you to be in Linnie's room for hours with the door closed? I'm not stupid.” she laughed softly.

“How?”

“A mother just knows...”

“Mine didn't.”

“If she let your father do this, then she's not that competent of a mother is she?” Mrs. Black scoffed. “But, trust me...a mother knows.”

Then it clicked. Then he knew.

“You mean...” he trailed, stunned “...Paul?”

“I carried him inside me 9 months, I birthed him, clothed, fed him, cared for him till the day he left this Earth. Nobody knew him better than I did, except God.”

“God...” he spat out “My mother thinks God will send me to hell. Because the Bible says...”

“Oh pish-posh...I pray on the Bible as well as any Christian, but Jesus knows where I would be if I took  everything it's written in there so seriously. Thou shall now lay with a man, and whatnot, fine, but you don't see anybody that eager to give up their breakfast bacon because the Bibles says it's forbidden, now do you? Your parents didn't stone your sister in the town square when she left the house married for two days and pregnant for 2 months, did they? Like we all didn't know.  Enough of this nonsense, now, we need to get you fixed up. God, you're bleeding.”

“So I really can stay?”

“Do you want to stay?”

…

“So I stayed.” Fin smiled. He looked up at Doug and took a deep breath, hoping he didn't think it was sillly that he had tears in his eyes over this. But all he saw in Doug's expression was understanding...and love. So much of it.

“I stayed until we both left for college, Lyn and I. She studied history and I went for journalism.Mrs. Black was the one who got me my first camera, then Mr Black gave me my first professional camera, and books about photography and journalism. They did everything for me that a mother and a father would do. I stilll go back with Lyn to spend the holidays with them. Well, with her...He passed away a few months ago. His heart. Funny that of all things, it was his heart that would kill him.”

Doug's hands closed over his.

“Thank you.” he said, quietly. “For telling me all this. I know it wasn't easy.”

“I...” he didn't finish. Over Doug's shoulder he saw the restaurant door open, and Evelyn walk in, wrapped in a long, flowy, flowery dress. “There she is.”

#Pride month #fanfic? #Original story #Evelyn Black #not taggng this snapedom because is not #but happens in the Post War universe #Post War #Emmet Fin Finnerty #Douglas Doug Cleary #coming out story

[thiswasinevitableid]

93. I hire your matchmaking services but all the people you set me up with are horrible and I’m demanding a refund and you’re asking me for one more chance??? what are you going to do? be my date?

Indruck, nsfw, please!

Here you go! I was inspired by @kriskukko's incredible art for the orc designs in this, and I highly recommend checking them out!

“Indrid? Some from Kepler House is here to speak with you.” Ned pokes his head into Indrid’s rooms.

“Drat” Indrid hisses, dressing gown whipping about him as he scrambles to put the apartment in order while also dragging his notes on the man in question to the forefront, “I didn’t forsee anyone coming by today, goodness, he had his first engagement with Lady Austens daughter last night, what on earth could they need to see me for?” He tosses his spare pens aside, landing them in his second set of house slippers.

“Well, dear boy, given the luck you’ve had with them lately-”

“It’s not luck, it’s simply very unlikely futures. Please just, just stall whoever it is a moment, Leo is usually patient and-”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that my friend.”

“Why not? I watched you once talk an entire flock of constables away from your door. Praytell, why can Ned “Silver Tongue” Chicane not get rid of a single attendant?”

“Because the attendant ain’t here this time.”

Indrid slams the drawer of his desk, looking up as an orc in a deep brown suit steps into the room, tossing his hat onto the table. He’s shorter than Indrid and Ned (stout and strong, according to the notes Indrid received), wavy black hair streaked with grey at the front. One eye is blue, the other brown, and both regard the harried matchmaker with casual annoyance.

“Mr. Newton, I, ah, I was not expecting you to visit me.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to be on a date where she found me so damn dull she hailed a cab as soon as dinner was done. I was already in town on some business for Minerva, so I decided to come tell you I ain’t in need of your services anymore.”

“I beg your pardon? Your benefactor employed me to find you a suitable match and I intend to do just that. I know there have been missteps, but such things are to be expected when searching for one’s lifelong partner.”

“Uh huh. And the fact I’m Lady Minerva’s chosen heir, which means there are a bunch of folks waitin to mimic my style and choices, has got nothin to do with it.”

“I, ah, I can’t say that I’m ignorant of the potential repercussions of being the one assigned to locate a spouse for you.”

“Which is the long way of sayin you know damn well that if I decide to stop askin you for help, no one with money is ever gonna come to you again.”

There’s a determined set to his rounded jaw, and a glimpse at the future suggests Indrid will have better luck with a different tactic

“....were they really so awful?”

“Yes. They were rude, or thought I was rude, or thought I was dull, or we just had fuck-all in common.”

“Have you considered you might just be a tad more demanding than average?”

“It ain’t demandin to want the person I spend the rest of my life with to actually like me.” He sighs, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cold, but unless you got a real winner up your sleeve, I’m done.”

All responses, all timelines show Duck ending his time as Indrid’s client and walking out the door.

“You could try me!”

“Really?” Duck looks deeply unconvinced.

“I will admit it’s unorthodox, but I, I foresee us having a perfectly nice time together. It will let me prove that I am capable of choosing companions for you.”

The shorter orc looks him up and down more deliberately and Indrid fights not to draw his dressing gown tighter. He will not be intimidated by some newcomer from across the sea.

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. I got to go to this concert tomorrow; someone from Kepler house is expected to show and Minerva is busy. You’re comin with me.” He holds Indrid’s gaze, daring him to renege on his offer.

Indrid summons his best, professional grin, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

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

Indrid smooths his waistcoat and jacket as he steps from the cab, tucks a strand of his silver hair behind his ear. It’s his only concession to the nerves skittering up and down his spine.

Gatherings such as these are nothing new to him; he goes to them to gather new information and new clients, to remind the well-to-do families of London and beyond that he is the matchmaker extraordinaire. But there is always the moment between when they see him and when they recognize him, when every face in the room wonders why someone like him dares to enter their space.

Somewhere in Indrid’s ancestry is a love story between an orc and a goblin. His silver hair, very angular features, and complete lack of tusks or fangs is the proof. The red eyes don’t help--they unsettle everyone who sees them--but his mother insists they’re evidence of other orcs gifted with rare magic on her side of the family. He wears red spectacles over them just to be safe; he rather likes how the color stands out against his skin, and his glasses let him avoid prying questions.

Duck is waiting for him under the awning outside the music hall; he’s in a grey day suit this time, looking just as understatedly handsome as he did yesterday morning. Indrid must admit his desire to save his reputation is not the only reason he agreed to this; he cannot understand why Duck is having such trouble meeting his match. He’s good looking, moneyed, American--an exotic background in the eyes of the average, sheltered upper-class orc--but still has family history here in England. All Indrid’s matches showed a high probability of success. The point of failure must lie with the orc himself.

“Afternoon, Mr. Cold.” Duck smiles with everything but his eyes.

“Indrid is fine, given the reason for our meeting.”

Duck nods. Indrid wishes the ground would swallow one of them up. When the pavement fails to oblige, he offers his arm. The shorter orc takes it, both of them doffing their hats as they step inside.

“I, uh, like the earring.” Duck indicates the moth cuff on Indrid’s left ear, a stark contrast to the single gold hoop in his own.

“Thank you. A friend gave it to me. I, ah, I rather enjoy working moths into my wardrobe; I find them fascinating.”

“Y’know, back home we got moths that look like hummingbirds.”

“Really?” Indrid’s ear twitches, “how big?”

Duck holds up his hands to indicate the size. Indrid is about to demand details when they’re waylaid by their hostess and pulled into a cluster of families. Indrid breathes deep, feeling crowded in, and notices Duck routinely being cut off in conversation or given disapproving looks behind his back. Yes, Indrid supposes his manners are a bit rough, but there’s no harm in that. Too, everyone seems far more interested in the goings on at Kepler House and with Lady Minerva than with Duck himself. By the time they’re seated, their arms feel locked together from shared tension.

The violinists are quite good; Indrid enjoys strings, his recordings of them being his favorite music to listen to while drawing. But his mind is so consumed by futures and by thoughts about the orc beside him that he struggles to focus on the music. Duck is having a similar issue, though he hides it well; were they not side by side, Indrid would miss the way he fidgets with the knee of his trousers.

“Are you alright?” He whispers under the applause.

“N-ye-uh. Fuck. I, the musics real nice but I gotta say I’m gettin kinda bored. But I got no fuckin clue if leavin will piss everyone here off.”

“Intermission is soon. When it comes, keep quiet and follow my lead.”

When the guests rise to stretch their legs and fetch refreshments, Indrid guides Duck to their hostess.

“I’m so very sorry, but I’m afraid my stomach is rather angry with me and it’s best if I go home. Duck has agreed to accompany me so I do not pass out in the street. I’m sure you understand.”

She nods, and in a matter of moments they’re out on the street, each breathing deeply.

“Thanks for that.”

“My pleasure.”

“Guess I oughta just head back to the hotel.” Duck sighs.

“You could. But, ah, we’re not far from Kew Gardens and the weather isn’t miserably cold for once. If you’d like-”

“Hell yeah. Wait, fuck, sorry, tryin to swear less in public.”

“I don’t really mind.” Indrid starts them down the street.

“Lots of them do” Duck tips his head back towards the concert hall, “I mean, at least that rule is easier to figure out. It’s not that there aren’t weird rules and class stuff back home, but I grew up learnin them. Here I always feel like I’m one move away from makin an ass of myself. No one’ll say anything because of Minerva, but I know if it weren’t for her, none of ‘em would give me the time of day. It makes every interaction so goddamn stressful.”

Indrid twinges with sympathy, “When I first started in these circles, I wrote myself notecards and had Ned test me on them.”

Duck giggles, so absurd and loud it draws stares from passersby, “why? You seem to know your stuff.”

“I didn’t come from money, and I don’t always read social situations the way others expect. It was learn or live as a penniless artist for all my days.” As the gardens come into view he adds, “I know the basics of your life in America but if you weren’t here, what would you be doing there?”

“Workin in the Yosemite valley. I was a ranger there for a few years before Minerva called me here.”

“What was that like?”

Duck tells him as they wander the first stretches of the gardens. He’s midway through a tangent about bears when he stops.

“Holy fuck, you’re really still listenin.”

“Of course I am, this is fascinating.”

His companion smiles, “Glad you think so. But it ain’t polite for me to dominate the conversation like this. Now you gotta tell me what you do when you’re not gettin fancy folks together.”

“...You promise you will finish the story about the bear and the tent later.”

“You know it.”

Indrid knows that time passes more quickly with good company, but he’s still startled when the sun sets. The Savoy, where Duck is staying, is closer than his home, so their cab stops there first.

Duck pauses halfway out the door, “Meet me here for dinner tomorrow?”

Indrid grins, “I’d like nothing more.”

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

“I didn’t know the line even went this far.” Indrid watches the moors race by them out the window of the train.

“You and me both.” Duck rotates his map, glances at the letter he received a week ago, “okay, once we get off at Amnesty, we need someone to take us down Greenbank road. The house is at the end of it, somewhere around here.” He taps a patch of moor miles from anything else. Indrid studies his fingers and is glad that, of his more rugged habits, one he elected to keep was letting his nails stay claws rather than filing them down.

“My visions suggest that as long as we don’t ask anyone to drive us out after dark, we should have no trouble reaching it.”

Indrid tries not to be too giddy at the prospect of spending weeks and weeks more or less alone in the countryside with Duck. They’re going because an anonymous note informed him that he did indeed have a family estate and--once they determined that the house near Dartmoor did indeed legally belong to him--it was decided he would go to see how the old place was doing and perhaps take up residence.

He asked Indrid to come without even glancing up from the telegram from the solicitor. Indrid agreed without looking away from his drawing. If two months of semi-courtship in a crowded city got them close enough for that, Indrid dares to hope that being out here together will bring them closer still.

Amnesty is small, as they both expected, the air chilly and fog threatening to swallow whole buildings as they make their way to the Lodge where they’ve been told they can find a driver. When Duck asks the young woman working the counter for help getting to Greenbank Hall, she quirks her lips in a frown.

“I’m not sure there’s even a place called that around here….OH! Do you mean Beacon House?”

“Maybe?” Duck looks at Indrid, who quickly looks at the futures.

“Yes, it seems we do.”

“Okay. Since it's still light, I should be able to find someone to get you out there. If it comes down to it, I can, like, drive you out myself.”

They end up being driven by a friendly young man named Jake, who deposits them and their bags on the steps of the massive house with a friendly wave farewell.

“Agh” Indrid shivers as they step through the newly unlocked doors, “I think it’s actually warmer outside.”

“No kiddin. Damn fog means it’s already gettin too dark to see too. I’ll go get some kind of fire started, you see if you can find some lanterns or candles so we ain’t trippin all over ourselves.”

Indrid begins his search, comes to the kitchen and finds some matches and a candle. The solicitor arranged for food and other supplies to be brought in ahead of time, so in theory lanterns should be somewhere nearby. He’s just glad that the paltry light shows no signs of rodents getting into their food.

When he gets upstairs, he discovers two things; one, all the lamps are gas, so he’s able to light them easily. And two, a mother tortoiseshell cat is nesting with her kittens on a guest bed.

“Well, that explains the lack of mice.”

Footsteps behind him, “Got a fire goin in the sittin room, if you wanna pick a room for yourself I can light one th--awwwww” Duck moves past him towards the cat, who hisses at him, “now, there ain’t any need for that, missy. I ain’t gonna hurt you or your babies. But we oughta bring you somethin more’n mice to eat.”

“I saw some tinned food in the pantry.”

“Perfect, lemme go find a bowl.”

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

Beacon House has seen better days, but Indrid discovers the houses loss is his gain. Duck decides they can do many of the repairs themselves, and sets about ordering supplies from London or bringing them in from Amnesty. The few times they need help, the cook and several others from the Lodge come to assist in the project. These gatherings are far more pleasant than any Indrid had to attend for work (well, except for the ones where he was with Duck). And they always end before dusk.

Indrid occupies himself with figuring out why. There was no mention of this house when he first researched Duck, and even using the local name turns up very little. It’s not until he finds a diary belonging to one H. Newton in the library that he understands.

October the 15th, 1805

I fear the worst is upon me. I cannot leave the house, dare not even peer out the windows for fear of what I shall see. Lucy says it is my health, that we should travel to warmer regions so it will improve. But I know it is not so simple. Were we to flee, it would merely wait for our return. It may even waylay us before we reached town. I am cursed. We are cursed. We always will be.

Beneath the words is a hastily sketched image; yellow eyes and sharp fangs peering from between the bars of the front gate.

There are no more entries.

Indrid is unsure whether to raise the matter with Duck. On the one hand, he wishes him to know of any possible dangers. On the other, his friend is so very content these days, coming in from some project or other with grime on his skin and a smile on his face. Indrid’s own desire to stay with him here, in a house he can pretend is theirs, threatens to drown out all other reasons.

Eventually, his conscience shouts it down while he and Duck are on their evening walk.

“Oh yeah, Barclay told me about that a few days ago. Some ghost apparently wanders around the moor at night; got somethin to do with a murderous ancestor.”

“That does not alarm you.”

“You know I don’t believe in curses and destiny or anythin like that. People make up all kinds of stories when they’re alone in wild places.”

Indrid’s foresight guides his arm, gripping Duck and keeping him from moving forward.

“Does that look like a story?”

Directly ahead of them, a tor rises like a spike. Atop it, revealed by the rising moon, is a gigantic, fur-covered shape.

“See” Duck whispers, “were we back home, I’d say that was a bear.”

“And now?”

“Given there ain’t been bears in this part of the world in decades, I say we get the hell outta here.”

They take off back down the slope, the hall a collection of yellow squares of light in the darkening distance. A howl splits the air behind them and Indrid quickens his pace, keeps his eyes on the future in hopes of protecting them both.

This means he doesn’t see the burrow in the path until his ankle goes sideways in it.

“‘Drid!”

“Under no circumstances are you to try and help meAH!” He yelps as Duck swings him over his shoulder and continues his flight towards the house. As he’s bounced about, Indrid watches a glowing shape bounding closer.

“Thank fuck.” Duck crosses the gate, slams them closed, and lowers Indrid to his feet. Nothing glares at them from the path. But a growl creeps from the shadows and follows them until they shut the door.

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

“How’s the ankle?” Duck drops his coat on the chair opposite Indrid before tending to the fire.

“Better than yesterday. I should be up and moving tomorrow, if the futures are to be believed.”

“You know you don’t gotta rush. I’m happy to take care of you.”

Indrid picks at the ends of the blanket in his lap, “but I miss being able to aid you with work.”

“There’ll be lots of time for that. We got plenty to do to get the house to where we can live in it full time.”

“We?”

Duck goes completely still, then fails to put the fire poker back in place three separate times. When he finally meets Indrid’s eyes, he looks worried.

“‘Drid? What’s your endgame? With, uh, with me?”

“I…” Indrid grabs his teacup, intending to drink it to buy time and finds it empty, ‘I...I don’t know. I, I wanted to prove to you that I could find you a companion who made you happy, hoping you would give me another chance to locate your perfect match. But lately I, ah, I struggle to see that plan working. As I do not wish you to have any match but me.”

Duck moves across the rug, shadows on his face making it hard to read.

“I know that shows great selfishness on my part. If that is not something you wish to have in your life I, I…” he shrinks back as Duck leans down, certain this is the timeline where he accuses him of being a conniving monster.

“Funny you should say you’re bein selfish” Duck braces his arms on either side of the chair, “because I’ve been beatin myself thinkin’ I was selfish for keepin you out here so long.”

“Keep me here forever.” Indrid whispers. Duck smiles, closes the remaining space between them. His lips are still a bit chilly from working outside; Indrid does everything he can to warm them with his own.

The shorter orc straddles him and he whines so needily that Duck snickers in reply.

“What’s wrong darlin? Kissin too much for you?’

“On the contrary; it is far too little, but my injury means my ability to drag you to my bed and beg for more is greatly impeded.”

“Good thing we live alone.” Duck pulls the blanket from Indrid’s lap, nibbles his ear as the seer catches on and begins frantically undoing the buttons of Duck’s workshirt and shoving his suspenders. When at last he pushes it open he loses himself a moment, tipping forward to tongue at the golden ring in Duck’s left nipple.

“AHheh, gettin right to it. Good” Duck unbuttons his pants, “because I’ve been wantin to fuck you since before we even came out here.”

“Oh I see” Indrid purrs, “you lured me into the countryside to sully my virtue.”

Duck laughs, full throated, as his tusks catch in the firelight, “You forgettin the time we got drunk instead of goin to the opera and you told me you convinced two sailors to take you home?”

“Only if you’ve forgotten telling me about the young ranch-hand you gave several rides to” Indrid nibbles along his neck, his twitching oddly in their quest to grind against him without jostling his ankle.

“Not a chance. But I don’t care about reminiscin right now; right now, I got the best lookin fella in the world beggin for my dick.”

“I’m not begging.” Indrid tilts his head back to help Duck get his shirt open some.

“Not yet.” Duck grins, then shoves his hand down his trousers.

“Ohhhhhyes” Indrid reaches for him.

“Keep your hands on the armrests until I say you can move ‘em.”

“But, but” it’s hard to argue when he’s trying to stare a hole through Duck’s remaining clothes. His partner notices and makes a show of moaning louder.

“Only good boys get to watch the show. You gonna be good for me?”

“The best.”

Duck kisses the tip of his nose, then wiggles and kicks his pants and underwear off. Indrid can only watch, growing more envious by the moment, as he fucks himself open and rubs a thumb along his cock. Indrid tries bucking his hips, only to discover Duck is keeping himself out of reach.

“Cruel creature.” Indrid groans.

“Cruel? I’m giving you a seat to the best show in town.”

“I’d rather you take the best seat in town.”

Duck laughs, is still doing so when he bends to kiss him. Indrid whimpers, nails digging into the upholstery to keep his promise of good behavior. Duck notices.

“Good boy.”

“AHHHnnnthankyou, thankyouthankyouthankyou” Indrid moans as Duck drops his weight into his lap, grinding on his clothed cock with abandon. He flings Indrids hands up to his shoulders. The seer glides them up to his hair, burying them there where he’s now certain they’ve always belonged. Duck mirrors him, lips only leaving his to bite the tip of his ear.

“Fuck, Indrid, that’s it darlin, lemme ride you like the sleek little beast you are.”

He whines, loses his thoughts as Ducks hips quicken.

“I know ‘Drid, you like bein mine, like that I’ll bounce on this fuckin perfect dick as often as you want as long as you’re my good, sweet, ohsweetfuck, fuck, darlin’” Duck drops his forehead to Indrid’s shoulder with a groan as he cums, soaking the fabric of his pants. Before Indrid can think about stopping, Duck picks up again with as much force as before, growling in his ear to be a good little social climber and cum for his lord.

Indrid cums at that with a chirping sound he thought he’d stopped making long ago, legs spasming from the force of his climax. Unfortunately, this means his pleasure is chased by a burst of pain. He whimpers, flinches, and Duck spots the problem.

“Oh, oh darlin I’m sorry” He drops to the floor, rubbing Indrid’s thighs, “thought the position would keep you from hurtin.”

“Apparently not. I, I want you to know I don’t regret it in the slightest.”

Duck smiles, relieved, and rests his head on Indrid’s stomach, “Guess you did find me a match, huh?”

Indrid bends slowly, nuzzling his hair with a hum, “Yes, I believe so.”

#indruck #meet ugy #indrid cold/ duck newton #orc au #victorian au #trans duck newton

[liron-ao3]

Valid

Dean sets the moving box on their new dining table.

Their.

It still feels strange to say and think that. But this is their house. Castiel's and his. Fully furnished, a back garden with a bee-friendly meadow, and a huge garage at the front for Baby and whatever eco-friendly monstrosity his partner will be able to talk him into.

They fixed this house for months, working with their bare hands, sweating ridiculously, stealing kisses in between. They have been the best months of Dean's life, and even though his joints creak just a little more now and his knee is acting up like a bitch, Dean wouldn't change it for the world.

It's a house to be filled with memories. A home, like maybe only the bunker ever was to Dean. It's full of things, some shiny and new, some old, given a second life. Just like them.

Dean has never owned so many things before. Even in his year with Lisa. He had always known that he was only a guest in her life. He lived in her house, loved her son, mowed her lawn. Maybe that would have changed over time. Maybe a year is simply not enough to create an 'ours' from 'mine' and 'yours'.

It's their house already though, even though they are only moving in today.

Dean opens the box that holds the few things he might call his own forever, though. Like the picture of him and his mum before she died. Well, the first time when he was a kid. There are bits and bobs, knick-knacks picked up on the road, too. A tiny drawing that a little girl made for him after he saved her and her parents on a solo hunt. It's yellowed and crinkled. He smiles at it. That had been one of the good days.

Some pieces remind him of the women he used to love. A ring that he had meant to give Cassie more than a decade ago. He doesn't even know why he kept it. Maybe as a reminder? Of what, he isn't so sure. Maybe that someone once loved him, simply for being himself. It's a fucked-up, twisted way of thinking, but well. He's Dean Winchester, after all. Not the best boyfriend material.

He looks up and through the wide windows that give the impression of the garden reaching into their living room. He watches Castiel for a long moment, the way his shoulders twitch as the angel seems to be in deep conversation with a hummingbird. Dean huffs a laugh. Castiel is a weird little bean, avenging angel and little puppy cramped into an unfitting trench coat. At least, his boyfriend owns more clothes now. He simply wears it out of nostalgia.

It's still hard to believe that this man wants to be his, saw his very soul and fell in love with it. Dean still struggles, but he's tired of running away from himself, from love in the fear of losing it. Castiel is his best friend and the third love of his life. Hopefully the last.

Dean has slept with many, girls, guys, and non-binary people. It didn't matter. There only had to be the sparkle, the special tension that pulls two bodies together until they collide in an explosion of passion, fast-burning, the flame already extinct come morning.

It was all he thought he deserved. Everyone who stayed with a Winchester was destined to die for them. He can count the women in his life that didn't die through Chuck's stupid games on one hand.

Dean clicks the ring box open. He hopes that Cassie is happy with whatever bastard is blessed enough to have her at his side. She still holds a special place in Dean's heart. And he loves that he can talk about her with Castiel, that there is no jealousy, just happiness that Dean once had someone who loved him, and grief that it wasn't meant to be.

Like with Lisa. But that was different. Dean still doesn't know what he loved more—her or the idea of loving her, the version of himself that he was at her side. It doesn't matter now. Castiel made all their pictures disappear, along with the memories in her and Ben's heads. He left one photograph of their little family on Dean's pillow, though. The one he crammed into his duffle bag and put into his bedside drawer in the bunker.

Leaving Lisa and Ben had hurt like a bitch. And Castiel held him after a nightmare in which Dean dreamt they were taken by vampires. He had been so angry at him, shouting that it was all his fault. And Castiel had looked at him with sad eyes, saying, "I know."

But he was wrong. Dean knows it wasn't anybody's fault. Both of them tried to do the right thing. Even Castiel as he watched him raking the leaves and decided to let him go. Out of love, even though Castiel didn't have the word for this emotion back then.

Dean runs his fingers through the items that he only spilt from the drawer in a rush, already too late because of a hunt popping up. Castiel didn't comment on his tardiness. Dean knows that he worries about losing him. He can see it in his eyes, every time he needs to heal him. But Dean is worried about him, too. He has seen him die too many times. Castiel may be an angel, but he's far from invincible.

Dean stops still when he touches a small magnet, nestled between a soldier figure he played with growing up on the backseat of the Impala, and a flyer for a wedding venue that was haunted by a ghost before he and Castiel banished it. He took the leaflet, just in case. It's stupid, of course. He's officially dead and he won't marry Jimmy Novak. No way! And it's not as if he would think about marriage, or giving kids made orphans by the supernatural a home or something.

He takes the magnet and looks at it. It's bent a little, the colours slightly chapped. But the pink, purple, and blue are still recognisable. He got it many years ago when he stumbled into a pride event hunting a werewolf.

"So, what letter of the alphabet are you?" a gum bubble making twink had asked him, scanning him from head to toe, sending a rush of endorphins through Dean, better than the one after killing the rogue wolf half an hour earlier.

"B," Dean had said, flashing him his most winsome smile. He had never said it out loud before that moment. Why define who you are if you only share a bed for one night?

Sam had been surprised when he and Castiel got together. Eileen much less so. Maybe because she had known it all along, kindred souls and all that crap.

A smile tugs on the corner of Dean's lips, and he looks up from the magnet to the garden again. Castiel is standing on their porch, watching him with a soft, close-lipped smile.

"Creepy," Dean calls, heat rising into his cheeks. He's still not used to being looked at like this. With so much love and devotion. Castiel said he had to learn to live with it. Dean's trying, but as of yet, it still makes him squirm. But in a good way.

"Mind if I put these on the fridge?" He holds up the photographs and the drawing with a questioning, vulnerable look.

Castiel smiles even wider. "Of course. They're all family."

Dean takes out a breath, feeling like he hasn't drawn air for days. He nods, walks to the kitchen, and fixes the items with magnets on the fridge. Then he looks at the three-coloured magnet in his hand. He may not really have hidden his sexuality, but he didn't show it proudly either. Maybe it's time for it now.

He bends it so that it is plane again, and presses it under the pictures of him and his mum, a snapshot of him, Sam, Eileen, and Castiel. Next to the picture of him with Lisa and Ben, and the drawing of that little girl who drew him with a cowboy hat. He looks at the fridge door and nods. This is him.

Loving son and brother, friend, saviour, bisexual man, surrogate father, and boyfriend. He's more than a hunter, more than a piece on Chuck' checkerboard, more than the sum of his mistakes. He has loved, and he has failed. And despite it all, he is proud. Not too much. But he can feel it, burning in his chest. He is valid and worthy of having it all.

#dean winchester #bi dean #bi dean winchester #oneshot #destiel fandom #deancas fandom #bi visibility day #bi visibility #bi pride #destiel #deancas

[sexycraisinthanos]

I’m gonna infodump about my favorite movie

Rise of the Guardians

It’ll be under the readmore, but TL;DR: Watch Rise of the Guardians and read the books

Rise of the Guardians is a 2012 animated film released by Dreamworks. The story is childhood figures (Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, Sandman, and Jack Frost) trying to defend the children of earth against Pitch Black, (The Boogeyman) 

It’s based on a book series called Guardians of Childhood, written by William Joyce. Who, if you don’t know, writes children’s book. Guardians of Childhood is more of a “Young Adult” series compared to his other Guardians books (The Man in the Moon, Sandman: The Story of Sanderson Mansnoozie, and Jack Frost are all part of the series, but they are picture books.)

He’s also written other books you may be familiar with.

The Leaf Men and the Brave Good Bugs and A Day with Wilbur Robinson 

Sound familiar?

Maybe you’d recognize them as their movie counterparts, Epic (animated by Blue Sky Studios) and Meet the Robinsons (animated of course by Disney)

Also Rolie Polie Olie, which was a favorite Disney Jr cartoon growing up for me, and was also a book series. 

I could honestly go on and on about William Joyce, his work was a part of my childhood a LOT (even credited for working on some of my favorite films like Buddy, Robots, Toy Story, and A Bug’s Life) and that’s probably why I love ROTG so much.

I read all of the Guardians books and own all of them save for Jack Frost and The Art of Rise of the Guardians and the books are not cheap, but what books are? I have HARD COVER BITCHES. Half of them were gifts and I also own the ROTG DVD.

The art in the books (all drawn by William Joyce himself) is really good (this is my favorite art from the books)

And the animation in the movie, as expected from Dreamworks, is beautiful. 

You get to see all their unique homes and they’re such varying types of environments. Of course, you have the North Pole, where it’s chaotic and wonderful. Just look at this concept art 

And then you have the Tooth Palace, where the Tooth Fairy does her work

It’s very obvious that there are some Indian inspirations in the design because Tooth herself is actually Middle-Eastern (in the books it’s explained in depth more and one of my complaints about the movie is that they whitewashed her even though her concept art in the ending credits shows her with brown skin)

The Warren, where the Easter Bunny paints his eggs

Which is something you never really think about because people only focus on the North pole so seeing so much thought put into it is really nice

We never see where Sandy works/lives (in the MOVIE. But the GAME on the other hand lets you explore EVERYONE’S homes and that’s a whole nother story)

We DO however see Pitch’s lair and

it’s rightfully spooky. When you actually see the scene play out in the lair, you get all confused and don’t know which way is which and it always unsettles me which is GOOD because that’s what it’s SUPPOSED to do

What’s really unique about ROTG is that there’s a source material (and as of now there are eight books (five novels, three picture books) and the series isn’t DONE yet) and instead of turning the books into a movie even though the plot is literally RIGHT THERE, they took the source material and turned it into a prologue. The movie takes place about 300 years after the books do and since the books are supposedly still ongoing, and William Joyce was CONTINUING to write the series while the movie was in production. (Three books have come out since the movie came out.)

I love how challenging that must have been for William to try to include stuff from his previous books in the movie AND to try and link the movie to his newer books despite some continuity errors (also worth noting that he has written a book about Santa and his wife, but Mrs. Claus is YET to be seen or even mentioned in the movie) but I appreciate the effort he put into it and I can’t wait to see what else he’ll come up with.

The characters look a BIT different from their book counterparts

Jack is voiced by Chris Pine and his voice is WAY TOO DEEP and the creators can’t agree on an age for him (book age is 14, but he can age himself up and down to a certain point and some producers said they imagined him 17 or 18) and (imo) I think Jack’s design was pretty lazy (a blue jacket with brown pants) compared to everyone else’s. I mean you have North, who is 

BIG

His design is based more on the worldly Father Christmas than the Saint Nick/Santa that we know. 

When he’s not in the Pole he’s wearing his big red fur coat and a cossack hat

Because he’s Russian

I’m pretty sure he canonically was raised by bears but that may have just been me imagining it. His book appearance is way different because when we meet him, he’s not Santa yet. So he’s still young

Of course, as the books go on, he looks like Santa

Bunny has the most drastic character change from his book design, as depicted by this fanart (which i couldn’t find a credit for that wasn’t pinterest so if anyone knows please tell me)

And there’s a CANONICAL reason why he looks so different (two actually)

Once they put Hugh Jackman in the role, they wanted a more dry Australian ranger-type design for him, and then the robes got in the way because of how he was moving, even when they changed him to just a lab coat, so they decided to forgo clothes altogether

Fun fact about Bunny. He’s a Pooka, a shapeshifting folklore creature that can turn into either a rabbit, goat, cat, dog, or horse. (or even a human with animal like features) Which actually gives a lot of people the headcanon that Pitch uses the souls of all Bunny’s dead people (yep he’s a sole survivor) as Nightmares

But he’s a different kind of Pooka. He’s an alien technically. And this breed of Pooka CANNOT eat chocolate because it does things to their body. Like giving him six arms. Or making his ears into helicopter propellers. 

This is relevant because he uses chocolate in battle multiple times. So the canonical explanation for why Bunny looks so different is that he ate too much chocolate and it permanently changed his body.

Which I love. I could go on about him but all the characters are interesting

Tooth has probably the second most confusing design

She’s based off a hummingbird with dragonfly wings, which aesthetically makes so much sense, but in the books she has regular feather wings. I also don’t like how weird her proportions are. Her feet are tiny nubs, her head is too big for her body (her body is actually pretty nicely designed it’s just every other part of it that bothers me) and I already mentioned the whitewashing

PITCH on the other hand had the biggest glow down compared to the books

He’s just wearing a black robe and, apparently, he doesn’t even have sleeves, which you can’t even really tell because it’s just all smudgy and shit

I mean I guess that’s the point, that he looks like he’s clothed in shadow, but it’s frustrating to look at especially compared to his book design where he’s wearing a FABULOUS coat

Meanwhile Sandy has the PERFECT character design

He’s just ROUND and wears a bathrobe made of sand. Like it’s not even that different from his book design (his hair has more frills than the book version) because it’s such a perfect design and I love how he’s animated. You can’t see it that well because the gif quality, but the sand also sparkles and it just makes it so fun to watch on screen 

The movie itself has its share of flaws. (the movie likes to pick and choose the rules it wants to follow about its universe, a huge plothole, and some cheaply constructed arguments between characters that really just make me annoyed because I don’t want to see the easter bunny making a child cry I want to see him get into a fist fight with Santa it’s like you don’t even KNOW your demographic) But I love it and there’s SO MUCH I could talk about. There are characters in the books that weren’t in the movie and there were characters in the movie that weren’t in the books (because they weren’t born yet but IRRELEVANT) 

It was a HUGE flop despite critics praising it. Like 8,000 people lost their jobs over it that’s how big a flop it was. But it’s such a dear movie to me and it’s clear that William Joyce holds this series close to his heart (dedicating it and the movie to his late daughter) which makes sense because it’s based on stories he told her when she was young and I’m so honored that he chose to share these stories with us. I just love the series and I should do a re-read at some point

#long post #SUPER long post #i spent like four hours writing this

[hand-crushing-crusher]

BAKUDEKU FIC REC 

Hey all! Quarantine has been dragging on, so here are some BKDK fics to fill your time.

All fics are completed works unless the [∆] symbol is next to it. Please note there will be no ABO fics in this rec, just cause I made a seperate list for that HERE

Enjoy!

1. ∆ The Space Between by Kanae_vR

Holding his expensive camera tightly between his hands, Midoriya Izuku looked up at the once-white letters displayed on the black storefront banner. “The Hard Luck Bar,” he murmured to himself, unsure if he was getting ready to enter or flee.

Amateur photographer Midoriya Izuku is stuck in a rut and desperate for a change of pace. Deep in his city's grimy underbelly, he finds exactly what he's looking for in the form of an underground punk sensation on the verge of their big break, fronted by a foul-mouthed firework of a human being.

Loud, brash and passionate, Izuku may have just found the creative spark he needed, as well as something new to set his soul ablaze.

2. Album Title in Progress by bkdkink

"I mean, technically, sure. Anyone able to sing can sing. But am I good at it?" Deku left the pen alone so he could gesture as though he was weighing two different invisible objects. "...Yeah, I'm okay."

Now that got a chuckle out of Katsuki.

"I wouldn't call that just 'okay'." -- OR; Izuku's singing makes Katsuki realize sex is Real™ and uses those feelings to make a bomb-ass(lol get it? cuz his quirk is...) album while also helping a self-doubting Izuku realize how fire his mixtape is.

3. After Hours by Morpheel

Dialing a wrong number was no unusual occurrence. Everyone did it once in a while, and Katsuki was well aware of that fact.

However, possessing this knowledge made it no less aggravating for him to discover — a full two minutes into his rant about his day — that he’d been venting his frustrations to a complete stranger. As if that wasn't enough, said stranger was also inexplicably determined to hear his story to its end.

4. While You Were Sleeping by Belkacaramelka (annabelleg)

The one where quirkless fanboy Midoriya Izuku rescues Pro Hero Todoroki Shouto, gets mistaken as his fiancé while he is in a coma, and gets caught up in the most unlikely fake engagement... until his childhood enemy and Todoroki's classmate Bakugou Katsuki tries to catch him out, and they both end up discovering a lot more about each other than they'd expected.

Quirkless AU based on the film; endgame BakuDeku. -- Katsuki didn’t know when the change had happened: how he had gone from asking why Todoroki chose Deku of all people, to wondering why it was Todoroki that Deku chose. Troublesome Deku, who cooed like an idiot at cats, tripped at a random catcall and sang badly. Who, despite everything, proved that it wasn’t the quirk that defined a person. Deku, who was too much, not his, and undeniably off limits to begin with.

5. ∆ Hummingbird Heartbeat by Tokiji

“The knife went through his fucking chest, Kirishima.” Katsuki spat his name into his face, mouth twisting into a vicious snarl, teeth and all. “You know that's where his heart is, right? And his fucking lungs? All the vital shit?”

Kirishima blanched. “I-I know, I just meant—”

“What, you mean to tell me that your stupid fuckin’ ass is so ignorant to forget that he lost a shit ton of blood, hah?! Yeah, it was a flippin’ knife wound, oh hoo-ray, but look at the nerd now! He’s fucking dying because of it!”

6. Addiction by MiraChaDoodles

An abundance of freckles smatters his sun-tanned cheeks, and dark green waves curl around his face. But Katsuki gets hung up at his eyes. They’re huge and green, innocent and filled with tears, just li—

Wait.

Holy shit.

Is that... Deku?

---

Or... the first time that Katsuki gets off to a porno, Deku turns out to be the star.

7. In Another Life by hollyandvice (hiasobi_writes)

Katsuki's never been one for gentle words, but from the wild panic in Deku's face, he knows this is the time for it.

"Deku—" The weapon presses a little harder against Katsuki's forehead and he stops, getting his bearings. "Fine. Midoriya, then. Look. I'm not going to hurt you. I swear. I'm just looking for some answers I'm hoping you can provide."

After a battle gone awry leaves Katsuki stranded, he seeks out one of the few people he really trusts: Deku. Except when he finds his hero partner, he looks completely different, and the first thing he does is put a gun to Katsuki's forehead. So that's different.

Canon-divergent future fic where Katsuki gets sent to a parallel universe during a villain battle. One where Izuku's a cop instead of a pro hero, and Katsuki himself has been dead since middle school. In a world that's different enough to be strange and similar enough to be familiar, Katsuki does whatever it takes to find his way home.

8. F.U. by warschach

Izuku smiled; Katsuki understood why people warned that the devil wore a Sunday hat and fine clothes because deception worked better if no one expected it.

Not anymore. He knew Izuku’s evil ways, and his ass might be a 20 on the hotness meter but Katsuki held grudges.

“Izuku,” he sneered; he too could be evil right back.

(or Katsuki's a football player; Izuku's a cheerleader; they have a rivalry until it isn't one)

9. Oh My God They Were Roommates by Maginot

Bakugou had really, actually moved in with Deku.

They were roommates.

Oh my god, they were roommates.

In which Bakugou's hero insurance bills seem to climb with every explosion he makes, and Izuku happens to have an extra bedroom and an absurd amount of patience for his childhood best friend.

10. And It All Keeps Coming Back to You by GuardianMira

Ground Zero and Deku are the world's top two heroes, constantly knocking each other out of the number one spot. Their rivalry keeps them both sharp, and while Katsuki would prefer to be the undisputed champion, he’s not unhappy.

The thing is, he’s still a virgin. It’s not like he’s shy. He just doesn’t want to waste his time with people who aren’t good enough for him. But he’s admittedly let his personal life fall by the wayside so that he could focus on being a big damn hero. Anyway, now that he’s finally thinking about it, it’s clear there’s only one person who’s worthy of being with him. His oldest friend. His rival. His permanent pain in the ass. The only hero alive who comes close to being Ground Zero’s equal: Deku.

#bkdk #dkbk #bakudeku #katsudeku #katsuizu #bakugou x izuku #bakugou/izuku #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #bnha #mha #fic rec