#so now I have to use Oliver as a chew toy to

[crybaby-bkg]

Oliver is so big dog coded I need to put him on a leash and swat at his nose with newspaper after finding him with my used underwear and let him mount me until he’s satisfied which is. Never.

[dxrlingluv]

Pranking the other gods with Hermes as your partner and crime? 👉👈 Gender neutral pls!!

Thanks you

Partners

Summary : Pranking the gods with your partner in crime, Hermes.

A/N : Please do support me by joining my discord server, thank you! Hermes art belongs to Zieru.

WARNING : GN!Reader, Platonic relationship… or is it?

Word Count : 2.2k

The golden halls of Mount Olympus were, to put it mildly, a snooze-fest. Zeus was delivering his ten-thousandth lecture on the proper etiquette for thunderbolt appreciation. Hera was seen polishing her crown, occasionally shooting glares that could curdle ambrosia at anyone who dared breathe too loudly. Ares was sharpening a sword with such vigor it sounded like a chorus of angry cicadas. In short, it was just another Tuesday.

You were perched on a cloud, idly trying to teach a cherubic cloud-sheep to play fetch with a miniature lightning bolt—It wasn't going well – the sheep mostly just looked confused and slightly singed—when a familiar blur of winged sandals and an even more familiar grin appeared beside you.

"Bored, darling?" Hermes asked, already knowing the answer. He didn't so much sit as materialize in a state of relaxed readiness, one eyebrow arched in a way that screamed 'I have an idea, and it's probably against several divine decrees.'

"Hermes," you sighed, giving up on the sheep, which had now decided the mini-bolt was a chew toy. "If I have to listen to one more syllable about thunderbolt acoustics, I might actually volunteer for Sisyphus's rock-rolling duty. At least that's got a consistent rhythm."

Hermes snapped his fingers. "My dearest partner in potential pandemonium, you read my mind! Or, well, I read yours. Perks of the job. Anyway, this celestial serenity? It's offensively dull. I was thinking Olympus could use a little... redecorating." His eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that promised laughter, chaos, and possibly a few minor divine tantrums.

"Redecorating?" you echoed, a slow smile spreading across your face. "Are we talking a new color scheme for the throne room, or something a bit more... interactive?"

"Oh, 'interactive' is my middle name," Hermes declared, puffing out his chest slightly. "Well, it's not, but it should be. I'm thinking a series of carefully curated experiences designed to liven things up. A festival of delightful disorder, if you will. And I, the God of Messengers, Thieves, and Excellent Ideas, require a co-conspirator of your particular genius."

And so, the Great Olympian Prank War was conceived, not with a bang, but with a shared smirk and the rustle of winged sandals itching for action.

Phase One: The King's New Squeak Toy

"Alright," you whispered, huddled with Hermes behind a particularly fluffy cloud that offered excellent surveillance of Zeus's private study. "Target number one: Papa Zeus. The man takes himself more seriously than a philosopher contemplating the meaning of a particularly stubborn olive."

Hermes nodded, already vibrating with barely contained energy. "The plan is simple, yet elegant. We swap his Master Bolt – the big, dramatic one he uses for emphasis – with... this!" He produced, with a flourish, a gigantic rubber chicken. It was bright yellow, had googly eyes that seemed to follow you, and when squeezed, emitted a sound that was less 'mighty thunder' and more 'strangled duck.'

"Perfection," you breathed. "But how do we create a diversion? He guards that bolt like Cerberus guards... well, you know."

Hermes winked. "Leave that to your friendly neighborhood speedster. You just be ready for the fallout. I predict a seventy percent chance of divine apoplexy, twenty percent confused sputtering, and a solid ten percent chance he actually finds it funny. Nah, who am I kidding? Zero percent on that last one."

True to his word, Hermes was a blur. One second, Zeus was admiring his bolt, the next, he was distracted by a sudden, inexplicable infestation of hyperactive squirrels — a Hermes special delivery — in Hera's nearby rose garden. The ensuing shrieks and calls for extermination provided the perfect window. Hermes zipped in, made the swap, and was back by your side, dusting off his hands, before Zeus even noticed the squirrels were, in fact, an illusion.

Later that day, during an emergency council meeting called to discuss the "grave threat" of the phantom squirrels, Zeus prepared to make a thunderous proclamation. He raised his hand, a dramatic pause filling the hall. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash verbal fury and a crackle of lightning...

SQUEEEAAAK!

The sound echoed. Zeus stared at the rubber chicken in his hand as if it had personally insulted his entire lineage. Poseidon, mid-sip of his saltwater smoothie, choked and sprayed a fine mist over a horrified Demeter. Apollo outright howled with laughter, falling off his sunbeam. Athena, ever composed, merely raised an eyebrow, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

"WHAT," Zeus bellowed, his face turning a fascinating shade of purple that clashed spectacularly with the yellow chicken, "IN THE NAME OF TARTARUS IS THIS?!"

Hermes, leaning against a pillar and buffing his nails, called out innocently, "Having some technical difficulties, Father?"

You had to stuff your fist in your mouth to keep from exploding with laughter.

Phase Two: Aphrodite's Azure Adventure

"Next up," you said, consulting the "Master Plan of Mayhem" you'd scribbled on a spare piece of ambrosia-scented parchment, "Aphrodite. She's been a bit too smug about her new 'Glow of Eternal Perfection' skin cream."

Hermes tapped his chin. "Ah, yes. The one that supposedly smells like 'a thousand dawn-kissed roses and the tears of unicorns who've just won the lottery.' We can do better."

Your grin was positively wicked. "I was thinking something a little more... vibrant."

The plan involved a delicate operation: replacing Aphrodite's prized cream with a concoction of your own. It still smelled divine, but it had a secret ingredient: a highly concentrated, fast-acting, but entirely harmless dye that would turn skin a brilliant, shimmering cerulean blue.

While Aphrodite was engrossed in a heated debate with Eros about the proper trajectory for love arrows: "Aim for the heart, not the kneecap, darling! It's about romance, not orthopedic surgery!"

Hermes, moving like a whisper, made the switch. He even left a tiny, complimentary "sample" of the blue goo for Ares, labelled "Macho Man Muscle Rub - Extra Potent!"

The results were spectacular. Aphrodite emerged for the evening symposium looking like a very surprised, very beautiful Smurf. There was a collective gasp. Hephaestus, her ex husband, actually dropped his hammer.

"My... my glow!" she shrieked, catching her reflection in Apollo's polished lyre. "I'm... I'm BLUE!"

Dionysus, never one to miss an opportunity for revelry, immediately declared, "Blue is the new gold, my dear! Utterly divine! A bold statement! You're a trendsetter!" He then tried to convince everyone to paint themselves blue in solidarity, an idea that was met with mixed, but mostly horrified, reactions.

Meanwhile, a distant roar of "HERMES! YOU INSIGNIFICANT GNAT! MY PECS ARE THE COLOR OF A FORGET-ME-NOT!" echoed from Ares's training grounds.

You and Hermes shared a high-five, nearly collapsing with silent laughter behind a statue of Hestia, who simply shook her head with an air of long-suffering amusement.

Phase Three: Hades Gets a Hobby

"Okay, this one's a bit more challenging," you mused, tapping the parchment. "Hades. He's not easily ruffled. And frankly, a bit scary."

Hermes waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense! Uncle Hades just needs a little... brightening up. A new passion! A hobby!"

"And what hobby did you have in mind for the Lord of the Underworld?" you asked, skeptical.

Hermes's grin was pure, unadulterated mischief. "Competitive flower arranging."

It took some doing. First, Hermes had to "acquire"—he insisted it was a long-term loan—several crates of the brightest, most cheerful flowers from Persephone's secret garden in the Underworld – much to her initial confusion and eventual begrudging amusement when she figured out who was behind it. Then, you both snuck into Hades's throne room—which, surprisingly, had excellent acoustics for dramatic pronouncements but terrible lighting for floral artistry.

You carefully arranged the flowers into elaborate, almost aggressively cheerful bouquets, placing them on his obsidian throne, his desk of damned souls' paperwork, and even perching a particularly vibrant sunflower on Cerberus's middle head. The pièce de résistance was a giant banner you'd fashioned from black silk that was borrowed from Nyx and glowing phosphorus borrowed from... well, best not to ask, proclaiming: "HADES: OLYMPUS'S PREMIER PETAL PUSHER!"

When Hades next entered his domain, he stopped dead. He stared at the explosion of color. He stared at the banner. He stared at Cerberus, who wagged his tail, the sunflower bobbing merrily.

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant wailing of the tormented which was the standard Underworld ambiance. Then, a slow, creaking sound emerged from Hades. It took you a moment to realize he was... chuckling. A dry, rusty chuckle, like tombstones rubbing together, but a chuckle nonetheless.

"Flower arranging," he rumbled, picking up a daisy and examining it with a surprisingly gentle touch. "Persephone will be... intrigued." He didn't even seem mad. In fact, he looked almost... pleased?

Hermes looked at you, bewildered. "Well, that was unexpected. I was banking on at least a minor curse."

"Maybe he's got a secret soft spot for daisies?" you offered.

The Grand Finale: The Ambrosia Switcheroo

For your grand finale, you decided to go big. The annual "Feast of Eternal Boredom" — as you and Hermes had privately nicknamed it— was approaching. The highlight was always Zeus's toast, followed by the ceremonial sipping of the "Nectar of Unending Power," a beverage so potent it made mortals spontaneously combust. Allegedly; no one had actually tested it.

"This year," Hermes declared, rubbing his hands together, "the Nectar of Unending Power will have a little... extra kick."

Your "extra kick" was a carefully brewed potion, with ingredients sourced from Hecate's 'for experimental use only' shelf, thanks to a very fast Hermes, that had a peculiar side effect: for one hour, everyone who drank it would speak only in rhyming words. And, for an added dash of fun, their hair would temporarily change to the color of their deepest, most secret admiration.

The feast was in full swing. Gods and goddesses mingled, blissfully unaware of the impending poetic and chromatic chaos. Zeus stood, raising his goblet. "To Olympus!" he boomed. "May our power never fade, and our enemies always be afraid!"

He drank. The other gods followed suit.

A moment of silence. Then Apollo, his golden hair suddenly streaked with the vibrant purple of something you could almost hint as a Hyacinth, blinked and said, "My lyre feels quite absurd, I've just spoken a rhyming word!"

Pandemonium.

Hera, whose usually brown hair was now a shocking shade of peacock blue—matching her favorite bird, not Zeus, notably— shrieked, "Oh dear, what is this curse I feel? This rhyming speech is so unreal!"

Ares, his hair an unsurprisingly shade of soft pink, roared, "By my spear, this is a fright! I cannot seem to speak things right!"

Aphrodite, whose own hair was now a mosaic of colors reflecting at least three different minor deities and a particularly handsome satyr, giggled, "My beauty shines, a vibrant hue, though rhyming words feel strange and new!"

Even Hades, whose hair remained stubbornly black (some secrets are best kept in the dark, apparently), grumbled, "This feast has gone quite off the track, I wish these rhymes I could take back."

You and Hermes, who had cleverly substituted your own drinks with plain nectar, were nearly in tears from trying to suppress your laughter. Hermes's hair had a faint shimmer of H/C, and you noticed your own had a distinct golden brown mirroring his. You both caught each other's eye and quickly looked away, a new, unexpected warmth blooming alongside the mirth.

The sight of the most powerful beings in the cosmos struggling to express themselves in iambic pentameter while sporting hairdos that revealed their innermost affections was, by far, your greatest masterpiece.

The Aftermath

The rhyming eventually wore off, as did the technicolor hairstyles—though not before several embarrassing admissions were accidentally poetically declared. Olympus was in an uproar, but beneath the bluster, there was an undeniable lightness. For the first time in centuries, the gods had been genuinely, thoroughly surprised.

Zeus, after a week of demanding to know who was responsible—and secretly enjoying the fact that Hera's hair had not turned thunderbolt-yellow(seriously when will Hera get the happy marriage she deserves), eventually just sighed and ordered a new batch of nectar, "And for Olympus's sake, Hermes, make sure this one isn't... lyrical."

You and Hermes became legends, the Bonnie and Clyde of divine buffoonery. Whenever boredom threatened to settle over Olympus, a nervous energy would ripple through the halls. Gods would check their ambrosia, guard their symbols of power, and eye their hair with suspicion.

"You know, darling" Hermes said to you one evening, watching a particularly spectacular sunset paint the clouds, "we make a pretty good team."

"That we do, Wing-Foot," you replied, bumping his shoulder. "So, what's next on the agenda? I hear Poseidon's been getting a little too proud of his trident lately..."

Hermes's grin was blinding. "My thoughts exactly, partner. My thoughts exactly."

And as the stars began to prick the darkening sky, the universe seemed to hold its breath, wondering what delightful chaos the two of you would unleash next. Because with Hermes as your partner-in-crime, life was never, ever dull.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Monster, Inc. 6

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss is an asshole, you know this. But what happens when he turns his wrath upon you? (plus!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, this reader is known as Missie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Maestro’s is a nice place. Your dress feels even louder in the high-end restaurant. And you feel even more tired as the dim lighting softens the edges of your vision. Mr. Hansen looms there too, ushering you after the hostess as she leads you to your reserved booth. 

A man awaits you. He doesn’t stand or offer Lloyd a handshake. He simply finishes his martini and shoves the empty glass at the hostess, keeping the olive to chew on. 

“’Bout time,” he mutters at Hansen around the garnish. 

“Nice to see you too, Hugh,” Hansen nudges you ahead of him. You slide onto the curved bench silently. The man finally looks up from his glowing phone. He scoffs in your direction. “Who’s the grade school teacher?” 

“Assistant,” Hansen drops down and glides in close to you. “She’ll keep minutes.” 

“Really? Alright,” he snorts. 

“Well, you want an investment so... it’s business, isn’t it?” 

“Thought we were getting drinks and steak,” the other man he called Hugh sits back casually. 

“Missie, Ransom, Ransom, Missie. There, all introduced,” Hansen picks up the liquor menu and pets his mustache. You notice how he toys particular with the shining silver strand. 

“Nice to meet you, uh, Ransom,” you intone. 

“Yeah, sure,” he sniffs and rolls his eyes. You’re an intruder, if not an imposter. Not just at this table but in this restaurant. You should be with Peter getting your sandwich with extra pickles. 

The men are silent. You look between them as the tension rise. A waitress reappears with a fresh martini and puts it before Ransom. Hansen sits up and puts down the small menu.  

“Scotch, top shelf for me, and a vodka tonic for the lady. She’s watching those hips,” he orders. You don’t put in that you’d rather not drink. You doubt he’ll notice if you touch it or not. Besides, it’s a courtesy you don’t expect of him. 

“You going to the reunion?” Ransom asks over his martini. 

“Nah, stuff’s sad. Bunch of washed out legacies and stringy armed pledges.” Hansen retorts. 

“Mr. Big Stuff’s too cool for school,” Ransom chortles. “Imagine this, honey,” he gestures to you with his stemmed glass. “Big boss man used to be the frat’s treasurer. Penny pincher. Kept a fucking stranglehold over every penny. Wouldn’t even put out for cups for beer pong--” 

“Not all of have grandaddy’s trust fund to fall back on--” 

“Bro, don’t even. Your mom is loaded.” 

“Where do you think I got my good sense from?” Hansen counters. The server returns with your drinks and sets them down, offering a food menu. The men wave those away. Your stomach growls. 

Hansen slides the sparkling vodka in front of you. He sips his own dark liquor and you let yours sit on ice. He huffs and flicks the brim of your glass, “drink.” 

“Sir,” you lift the glass and take a tiny sip. 

“Don’t be ungrateful,” he pushes on the bottom until you gulp. You nearly gag on the bitterness of the tonic and alcohol. 

“So what’s going on here?” Ransom leans his elbows on the table. 

“Business, talk about your damn books,” Hansen demands with the snap of his fingers. 

“New imprint. So long as I can get the backers,” Ransom shrugs. “Grandfather says I have to put work in. Mom says the same.” 

“Oh, and how is the insatiable Mrs. Thrombey?” 

“Hey,” Ransom warns. 

Hansen cackles, “now that’s a woman. Tall, domineering—you know, she still got it--” 

“Would you quit?” 

“I’m having fun,” Hansen chuckles and drains his glass. He takes out his phone and Ransom sighs, nursing his own drink in agitation. 

You squirm in the roiling air. You wet your lips as you wait for them to continue. Neither of them do. 

“That’s a nice ring...” you comment, just to ease the silence. 

Ransom twists the mother of pearl band then fidgets with his hands, “thank, er...” 

“So you went to school together?” You prompt, afraid of another simmering tension. 

“Pfft, no. Do I look old?” Ransom sneers. “I only heard the stories. After. L-Dog made quite the name for himself.” 

“Hugh,” Hansen puts his phone screen down. 

“What? I’m making conversation since you can’t be bothered,” he shrugs and leans forward, focusing on you. “What’s it like working for him? He a tight ass? I mean, he’s got you here past six. I’m thinking so.” 

“She’s here to take notes,” Hansen insists. “It’s her job.” 

“Suuuuure,” Ransom drags out the word. “Still the same as you ever were, huh.” 

“Shut up.” 

“This guy, oh, everyone knew what he liked. Really chubby ch--” 

Hansen slaps the table and it jolts as he kicks Ransom underneath, “you want me to back your nepotistic venture or what?” 

Ransom laughs and reaches to rubs his shin, “you know, this could’ve been an email.” 

“Could’ve,” Hansen signals for the server. “But I prefer to deal with you with a dash of good scotch.” He taps your glass again, “finish that.” 

The waitress reappears and Hansen orders another round for the table. You deflate just a little. You hoped you might get out early enough to meet Peter, or at least call him and explain. You’re not sure your frantic apology via text made sense. 

“You’re too nice for him,” Ransom says. “And it’s me saying so.” 

“Get on with it,” Hansen sneers. 

“Fine. Erotic thrillers. Granddad’s scandalised but I told him, times are changing. People like horny with their fear.” 

You stay quiet. You’re rather content to do so. Let them chatter. You take out your phone and take notes; trying to translate his crass explanation into business speak. Hansen gets his second drink and yawns. 

The more you transcribe there blustering chirping, the more you feel that needling in your head. You shouldn’t be here. Neither of them need you here. You know it’s punishment; because you saw your boss at his weakest, but when did you ever step a toe out of line with Hansen. You’ve ever been loyal. You are sitting at that table after all. 

“Hips, if you’re not gonna drink, don’t let it go to waste,” Hansen snatches your untouched refill and slurps it down. 

Concern tickles behind your ears. He’s drinking a lot and fast. The longer you’re here, the more he knocks back, you’re assured that you won’t be catching up with Peter tonight.  

You quickly flip out of your notes app and check your conversation. You deleted Hansen’s message but not before it was read. Even so, Peter’s response is ‘understood, we’ll do another night’. You reply to him quickly 

‘Sorry again. Boss has important stuff. Maybe this weekend?’ 

You switch back to your notes as Hansen slaps his chest and stifle a belch. Ransom sucks on the gin soaked olive and shakes his head again. Looks like you’re going to be the adult at the table. 

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

You Came In Like a Fire, Burned All I Ever Knew

A long time ago (like five weeks) I went into @exhaustedpirate's inbox with an idea for a fic based on the fact that there's a couple of photos that they reblogged of Orville Peck that we both thought were Oliver Stark for a second. I finally finished it! I finished it a while ago, actually, but I didn't get a chance to edit until this last weekend. Josh Russo drags him out to a club for a Heroes and Villains night, talks some sense into him, and chases off patrons who think that Buck is everyone's favorite gay singing cowboy. At home, Buck listens to the music of said cowboy, gets real sad, and texts Tommy. It's mostly going to be on AO3, because it's almost 6k words. You can find that here.

When someone knocks on Buck’s door at 7 PM on a Friday, he doesn't expect it to be Josh. He definitely doesn't expect it to be Josh in a costume that makes him look sort of like a leather Bond villain with a mask.

“We're going out,” Josh says, pressing a mask to Buck’s chest. “To a club. Because your sister brought eight dozen scones to the office today, and you're fucking up my diet.”

Buck takes the mask and looks over his shoulder where he has a pie crust rolled out. “Okay, but—”

“That looks like something that I can put in the fridge while you put on something that makes you look like a hero or villain, because that's the event,” Josh says, pushing his way past Buck.

He chews on his bottom lip for a second. “Okay, but just—don’t handle the dough too much.”

Josh throws a dismissive wave over his shoulder. “I watch Bake Off, I know.”

Buck goes upstairs and stares at his clothes for a long time. He pulls out a pair of black jeans, a Batman logo shirt that Chris had gotten him, and a black button up. It's the closest he can get to a costume with zero notice unless he wants to break out his cowboy costume from Halloween. But thinking about that makes his skin itch from phantom boils and that feeling he gets when he wants to text Tommy.

When he's done getting dressed, he goes downstairs and sees that Josh is eating a spoonful of raw cookie dough and tapping at his phone.

“I don't want to hear it, I know the risks,” Josh says before Buck can speak. He looks up at Buck and makes a face. “God, you look like every guy I used to hook up with in college who would pretend I didn't exist after.”

Buck smooths his hands over the shirt and shrugs. “I'd have talked to you after.”

“That an offer?” Josh teases, his eyes already back on his phone.

“No,” Buck says with an apologetic shrug. “I don't think I really want to hook up with anyone right now.”

Josh tosses the spoon in the sink. “Yeah, but you can't chain yourself to an oven for the rest of your life. So let's go. I give you full permission to ditch me for a hookup, which is big of me.”

“Thanks?” Buck toys with the mask before putting it on. “How do I look?”

“Devastatingly handsome,” Josh says with a sigh. “Come on, you fucking disaster.”

There's an Uber downstairs already waiting for them, and Buck texts Maddie to find out if she put Josh up to this.

Maddie Uhhh NO because otherwise I would be there, too. Have fun ♥️

“So this is just because of the scones?” he asks, and Josh turns his head slowly to stare at him.

“No, Buck, this is not ‘just because of the scones,’” he says, an eerie calm to his voice. “It's also because of the cookies, cakes, pies, tarts, biscuits, pastas, loaves, bread, and pastries that have appeared in the break room at my job almost every single day for weeks. I have gained four pounds, it would've been more, but I've had to start going to the gym a lot. So I am going to get you laid or at least get you to stop using flour as a coping mechanism. Why couldn't you just start doing K or doomscroll TikTok like everyone else?”

Buck ignores the steadily rising eyebrows of the Uber driver in the rearview mirror. “I—I just miss talking to him. But he doesn't want me to, or he'd be here.”

“Not how that works, but we'll get there,” Josh says, patting his knee. “I need alcohol first. And a bear to squeeze after.”

“You're into bears?”

Josh shrugs. “I'm into everything. Aren't you?”

Buck considers it for a moment. “I haven't really thought about it.”

“Jesus chr—at least tell me you've been watching porn,” Josh whines, and Buck shrugs. “For fuck’s sake. I will tip you double if you get us to this club in the next five minutes.”

–

It is fun being out with Josh, who orders them drinks and scares off a guy who greets Buck by squeezing his waist and scaring the shit out of him. They dance a little bit, but it's nothing crazy. They keep a respectable amount of space between their bodies and are dancing more with the crowd than anything else. Buck even finds himself laughing more than once, losing himself in the music and wondering if he should've been going to clubs all along. It's fun, even though he isn't looking to take anyone home.

A guy comes up behind him and he's a solid weight but not quite tall enough that Buck thinks he's anything but a stranger. He must be cute, though, based on the encouraging thumbs up he gets from Josh. Buck leans into the body against his and dances the rest of the song, but when he gets turned and almost kissed, he apologizes and backs off.

“Sorry, I'm with someone!” he shouts over the music, and the guy—who is really hot—shrugs before disappearing into the crowd.

“Yeah, okay, now we need to talk,” Josh says in his ear, grabbing him by the wrist.

They end up in a corner with new drinks while Buck spills the entire story, from the anniversary dinner to the break up, and Josh looks more and more confused as he talks.

“Wait, so you guys just didn't talk about your relationship the entire time you were together?” he asks.

“I mean, we made plans, just for dates and stuff.” Buck shrugs. “I don't know, I kind of liked not having to talk about everything I did wrong that made everyone walk away from me. I thought maybe it meant he might…not.”

Josh groans and takes a long sip of his drink. “Okay, so the fact that he also seemed comfortable with this—to the point where you didn't know he was ever engaged to a woman—didn’t make you think that maybe he also had a luggage carousel full of baggage?”

Buck pokes at the ice in his drink with the cocktail stirrer. “I dunno. I just liked being around him so much, I didn't really think about any of that.”

“Well, of course you liked being around him, you guys spent six months going on dates and fucking like what I imagine to be two extremely buff and athletic rabbits.” Josh pauses. “Okay, sidebar: is he as hung as he seems?”

He flushes and reflexively looks around like someone he knows might pop up and hear him talk about his ex’s dick, because he'd been yelled at a lot by his friends while they were together. “It's—yeah. I mean, I don't know how he seems—”

“Bullshit, but continue.”

“—but there was, like, a long adjustment period,” Buck admits, then frowns. “No pun intended, I guess. I don't know, but he wouldn't let me bottom for the first month and a half until I, uh, got used to everything.”

Josh presses a hand to his chest and sighs. “Be still my beating vagina.”

[xpocketeer]

IV.  Beware of Dog-biting Comments and Communicating Devices

Medicine Pocket glares down at the stack of papers on their desk, eyes darting furiously over faded diagrams and scribbled equations. All of it—the strange distortions, the gravitational anomalies—all of it is meant to relate to the “Storm.” They’re supposed to be further deciphering this supernatural mess, figuring out why it tore apart time as if it were paper, ripping the past from the present, and blurring the future into oblivion. And yet, every time they attempt to focus on the infernal calamity threatening human extinction, their thoughts drift back to the other night.

X with that boy. That slapstick of a boy, in his old-fashioned trench coat, fancy socks, and umbrella of all things. Who even is that? Medicine Pocket’s heard the name now, done their research: Oliver Fog. Not some fleeting presence, no, but a boy with history—someone who works on ‘fog clearing,’ as if that’s even real work. And he’s just there, popping into the lab at all hours, taking their time with X, time that should be theirs and theirs alone.

Scowling, Medicine Pocket snaps the pen they’ve been gripping with their teeth, like a dog chew toy, shoving it off the desk with a growl. X, their supposed friend, the only one here willing to even listen to them ramble on about what really matters—experiments, theories, pure science. X, who’s supposed to be on their side. And yet, every time they think of crossing over to X’s lab to remind him of that fact, what do they hear but that Oliver boy’s irritating laugh, his perfectly smug tone as he takes up space that Medicine Pocket ought to be filling.

“What a waste of time,” they mutter to themself, shoving the “Storm” research aside with a dramatic sweep of their hand, letting the papers scatter across their workbench.

With a huff, they stand and soldier out of their lab, slamming the door behind them as they make their way down the hall to Enigma’s dumpsite. Let’s see if anyone in this wretched place has anything of value to say.

“Move! Out of my way, blind fool!” they bark as they bump in their rush into one of the Laplace staff members who narrowly dodges them. Medicine Pocket doesn’t bother with an apology, just barrels down the corridor and glances back only to snap, “What, are you a dumbass?”

The staff member shrinks back, muttering an apology, but Medicine Pocket has already turned the corner, their mood sinking into a darker shade with each step. It’s infuriating. The whole place is infuriating. They could have made real headway on the “Storm” research today—could have made sense of the twisting timelines, the way the “Storm” supposedly eats up the present and spits out some warped version of it as the past. Or they could have looked into that ridiculous terrorist organization, Manus Vindictae, who insists on ‘seeking revenge’ on humankind, as if anyone alive cares about their self-important agenda. They’d all die anyway.

A small, bitter smile twists at their lips as they burst into Enigma’s office without so much as a knock, earning an exasperated sigh from the tall, dark-haired researcher.

“Enigma!” Medicine Pocket snarls, hands on their hips. “You—have you figured out anything useful about the particle distortions I sent you?”

Enigma glances up from his work, looking every bit as unimpressed as always. “Busy, Pocket. Very busy.”

“Busy? Busy with what?” Medicine Pocket demands, their gaze flicking to the utterly dusty chaotic mess strewn across Enigma’s workspace. “This place looks like a landfill.”

“Busy with things that don’t involve particle distortions or the fact that time just imploded on itself,” Enigma replies dryly, his tone as flat as his expression. He resumes his work, clearly trying to tune them out.

Medicine Pocket narrows their eyes, muttering about the ‘utter incompetence’ of Laplace’s so-called experts as they scan the lab for anything worth their time. After a minute, Enigma pointedly looks up and says, “You’re welcome to leave, you know.”

“Hah,” Medicine Pocket scoffs. “Right. Let me know if you miraculously manage to contribute anything worthwhile.” Without another word, they spin around, charging out the door, already pushing their way toward Lucy’s office, heels clicking loudly on the linoleum floors.

What a joke, they think as they go. The whole place is run by Bucket Head. Not that Medicine Pocket cares. In fact, they find the whole idea laughable—a machine in charge of science? A snort escapes them just as they reach Lucy’s office door and, without a second thought, slam it open hard enough to bend the hinges, practically ripping it from the frame. Inside, Lucy looks up with her serene, mechanical gaze, her eerily human face tilted slightly to the side in curiosity.

“Researcher Medicine Pocket,” Lucy says in that calm, even voice. “You do know that each office door is deducted from our employees’ meal allowances?”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes, striding in and ignoring the shattered hinges hanging off her door. “Take it out of my allowance then, Bucket Head. I don’t care.” They slap their palms onto her desk and glare at her, eyebrows drawing together. “Tell me if you’ve managed to gather any useful information about that stupid tribulation yet. Or are you too busy playing at being human?”

Lucy’s expression doesn’t change, though the faintest hint of a smile curls at her lips. “If you’re suggesting I act more ‘human,’ then I can attempt to do so. I’ve recently been learning humor. Regulus says it ‘boosts morale.’” She tilts her head again, blinking mechanically. “Would you like to hear a joke?”

Medicine Pocket’s patience snaps. “No, absolutely not.” They growl, clenching their fists. “Do you know anything useful about the “Storm,” or are you just going to sit there and parrot out nonsense?”

Unfazed, Lucy shifts her hands on the desk, the metal of her arm reflecting the dull office lights. “Progress is being made, but it’s inconclusive. Current data on the “Storm” is fragmented,” she says calmly. “More breakthroughs are expected but not guaranteed. I’ll inform you if they occur.”

“Inconclusive?” Medicine Pocket repeats, sneering. “Of course. The robot can’t find an answer, so ‘progress is inconclusive.’ It’s like asking a toaster for advice.”

“Feedback noted,” Lucy says imperturbably. “But I assure you, I’ll keep you updated. As the information becomes… less inconclusive.”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes, muttering, “Good grief. I’d have better luck asking the wall for insight.” They turn, throwing the door open and flouncing back down the hallway, ignoring Lucy’s neutral stare from her desk. The scene only fans their resentment to a great extent, every attempt at getting answers thwarted by fruitless comments and interruptions. The whole Foundation has gone soft, so concerned with humanity, as if any of it matters. They’re here to survive, not coddle.

Just then, a flicker of movement catches their attention. They jolt up, realizing they’re nearing X’s lab. Part of them itches to just march in, grab him by the collar, and remind him exactly who his real collaborator is supposed to be. But even now, laughter echoes softly through the walls. X’s laughter, punctuated by a lighter, smoother laugh they recognize immediately as Oliver’s.

Medicine Pocket’s jaw tightens as they pass X’s door, footsteps enunciating down the hall. What’s he even doing with him? The thought grates on their mind, making their skin crawl. What could Oliver possibly offer X that they can’t? A few quippy remarks? Fog-cleaning techniques? The thought is outrageous.

“Tsk.” They scoff, clutching their hand tight around the edge of a clipboard they’d grabbed in passing, fingers digging into the metal, feeling like biting it but deciding against it lest they wish they had their teeth broken. Whoever idiot designed the entire Laplace against their teething… They keep walking, needing to do something other than think about X and Oliver. But then, out of nowhere, another employee nearly collides with them.

“Excuse you!” Medicine Pocket shouts, sidestepping them with an exaggerated roll of their eyes. “Are your visions not working? Or maybe you’re another one of the Foundation’s dumbasses, blocking the hallway without a care!”

The employee stammers an apology, quickly ducking out of their path, but Medicine Pocket barely registers it. They’re seething too deeply, feeling the day’s uselessness mount with each passing second. Their teeth grind as they storm back to their lab, the sterile walls blurring into pale shades of gray and white.

Back inside, they slump down in their chair, glaring at the scattered papers and broken pen lying across the desk. Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s improved. They should be knee-deep in research right now, charting anomalies, tracing the distortions—anything profitable. But instead, their mind is clouded with one ridiculous thought after another, all circling back to X and that absurd boy who’s apparently come to disrupt everything.

They take a deep, ragged breath, grabbing at a scalpel and spinning it absently between their fingers. Forget X. Forget Oliver, they tell themself, though the words feel hollow even as they repeat them. They try to tune out the sound of laughter drifting from next door, but it just keeps floating through the walls, soft and mocking, like some strange reminder of exactly how pointless their work is.

Their hand clenches around the scalpel, knuckles turning white as they struggle to focus on the mess of diagrams in front of them. It doesn’t matter, they think bitterly. None of it matters. They’d all be dead one way or another.

The door to their lab slides open, and a small cluster of staff peers in, asking something—probably important. They don’t even concern themself with the question, though, just yell, “Busy! Now get out!”

The door closes, leaving them in silence, and they slump back in their chair, tapping the scalpel against the desk with a loud, erratic rhythm. Every second feels wasted, the work on the catastrophe barely begun, their mind cluttered with nugatory thoughts about people who shouldn’t matter. He is merely their colleague, nothing more.

Yet, the haunting thought dilly-dallies, clawing at them no matter how they try to shove it down: Who even let Oliver Fog into the picture in the first place?

A disparaging smile curls their lip as they lean back in the chair, feeling the day stretch out before them, a bleak reminder of just how little they’ve accomplished.

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Medicine Pocket slumps over the cluttered workbench, idly poking at the tea-pouring machine they and X built together. The little gears click as they push the switch, watching it sputter to life and pour an imaginary cup of tea with all the enthusiasm of a broken faucet. Their lip curves as they set it down, snatching up the mood-measuring spoon. It lights up faintly, cycling through colors before landing on a muddy gray.

They scowl. Out of things to do, they curse, flinging the spoon back onto the table. They should be getting some well-deserved break. Or better yet, prowling around Laplace to tear down whatever dolt invented this dull, gray prison. The whole sphere might as well be a cage, they swear, fingers closing around the edge of the desk. They’d much rather be anywhere else—even if that meant heading back to Utah, where they could chase a frisbee across an open field, or bark at passersby. But instead, here they are, stuck indoors, pacing like a dog in a kennel.

With a sigh, they grab their trusty Beagle 0-1 Fluid Analysis Apparatus and flick the switch, watching the liquid shift and bubble in its chamber. It’s been ages since I used this on anything but paperwork, they think bitterly. The last time they’d had a good fight was ages ago, when they actually got to take down a few critters. Not that it matters. Whatever.

Just then, the door swings open, and they whip their head around, already halfway through an annoyed ‘What?’ before they spot the intruder. Standing in the doorway, her hat casting a shadow over her eyes, is the Timekeeper herself. Vertin looks pacific, as always, with her pristine suit and that absurdly oversized hat.

Medicine Pocket’s gaze narrows. The hatted cuckoo.

“You,” they say flatly, folding their arms. “What now?”

Vertin raises a brow, stepping into the room without so much as acknowledging their greeting. “I’d like to ask for your assistance.”

They snort, barely suppressing a scowl. “Assistance? Since when have you been needing my help? Is everyone else dead?” They gesture around at the lab as if to prove their point. “Be-sides, aren’t you more into the flashy, save-the-world types?”

Vertin’s lips press into a thin line. “No. No one’s dead—”

Medicine Pocket scoffs. “Oh, joy…”

“Indeed. I am in need of a medical professional. There are several Arcanists requiring exams after recent field assignments.” She glances around their lab, taking in the scattered tools and half-finished inventions before fixing her gaze on them with a calm patience that only serves to macerate on them further.

They grunt, looking away. “And let me guess, I was the last option?”

Vertin’s eyebrow quirks. “In fact, you were my first option. You’re skilled and qualified for the task.”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes, swinging a booted foot up onto the table, and mutters, “Flattery won’t get you far, Timekeeper.”

Vertin sighs, looking out the door as though thinking better of engaging them. “I’ll cut to the point. I need you to accompany me to my suitcase to assist with the evaluations. There are a few Arcanists who require attention.”

Medicine Pocket shrugs, toying with the gun in their hands. “Yeah? And what do I get out of it? Your precious gratitude?” They pause, eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion. “Isn’t your suitcase immune to the reversed raindrops, anyway? Just make ‘em better with incantations or something.”

Vertin folds her hands, entirely unruffled. “The examinations are thorough. I need more than incantations, and you’re one of the best we have here.”

Medicine Pocket opens their mouth to retort, their mind already racing with a dozen snarky comebacks, when Vertin continues.

“Oh, and X is also tagging along. He’s helping with a few tasks in the suitcase as part of the assignment.”

Medicine Pocket’s hand freezes mid-fidget. They close their mouth, staring at Vertin as they process this bit of information. “X… is going?”

“Yes.” Vertin gives them a restful, hieroglyphic look. “He agreed earlier today.”

They clear their throat, trying and failing to feign indifference, which they kick themself for mentally. “Why would he be tagging along on something like this?”

Vertin tilts her head, a faint glint of amusement in her eyes. “Why wouldn’t he? He’s quite capable and, I might add, eager to help with assignments outside his usual lab work.”

Medicine Pocket looks away, mulling over this knowledge. The thought of X joining them in Vertin’s suitcase has a peculiar pull, like something they can’t ignore even if they want to. It would just be assisting with exams, they remind themselves, but the mere idea of that guy nearby, joining them in that strangely elaborate manor realm, sends a curious buzz through their mind.

Vertin waits, clearly anticipating their response, as Medicine Pocket tosses the Beagle 0-1 apparatus onto the counter and folds their arms, simulating reluctance. “Fine,” they say with a click of their tongue. “But let’s be clear—I’m not doing this because you asked. I’m doing it because…” They dawdle, barely stopping themself from saying something absurd, like because X is going. They give her a curt nod instead. “Because I might as well put my time to use in that ridiculous suitcase of yours.”

“Good,” Vertin says, unaffected by their scorn. “We leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you in the foyer.” With a small nod, she turns and strides back toward the door.

As soon as she leaves, Medicine Pocket slumps back against the desk, rolling their eyes at themself. Of course Alphabet Boy would go, they brood, the one reason I’d bother with this whole thing. They glance down at the mood-measuring spoon, still glowing faintly on their desk, and the tea-pouring machine beside it. It only makes them scowl harder.

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Medicine Pocket waits by the reception area, one foot tapping impatiently as they fiddle with the small dog sticker plastered on their Laplace ID badge. They hadn’t wanted to come along for one of Vertin’s droll errands, but if a friend is coming… well, that makes things more tolerable. Even if that friend has recently proven to be a bit of a traitor. “I had somewhere to be,” he said, disappearing just to run off with that Fog boy after some time. Ugh. They glunch, digging a fingernail into the edge of the sticker and having urges to bite.

So engrossed in it, they barely notice a familiar figure approaching until they sense the faintest hint of coffee in the atmosphere, a warm espresso-scented note that tugs them from their sulking. They glance up, only to see X right there, looking all cheery and innocent, somehow even cuter in his pressed coat with that massive black butterfly stitched onto it. His traitorous little face.

“Hey, Medpoc,” X greets, kindly. “Didn’t know you’d be joining us. This is wonderful, we’ll—”

“Yeah, well, save it,” Medicine Pocket snaps before they can stop themself, scouting sharply away. “I’m here to assist, not to make another one of your useless little inventions.”

The words are barely out of their mouth when they catch the slight frown tugging at X’s lips. Damn it. They immediately feel a pinch of regret, but it’s too late. His shoulders stiffen, just a bit, before he gives a little shrug, his mouth curling into a good-natured smile again.

“Oh, of course,” X professes lightly, brushing off the interpose with that same impossible sangfroid. “I didn’t bring any of the projects along, anyway. Just here for some fieldwork.”

Medicine Pocket sneaks a peek at him, annoyed by how naturally he takes their temper. What is it with him anyway? Why is it so difficult to look at him without feeling like they’ve been—what, hit in the chest by a bowling ball? It’s just a regular face, with a pair of normal (albeit oddly mismatched) eyes, a pointed nose, a mouth, ears mostly hidden under that ash-gray mop of hair. Fine, maybe he’s grudgingly, stupidly cute, but… Ugh. Slow-witted.

X is watching them now, head tilted to the side. “You, uh… good to go?” he asks, gloved fingers fidgeting with the mint-green ribbon adorning his top. His tone is weightless, but there’s a flap of something else in his gaze—almost like he’s genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, yeah,” they grumble, casting their eyes away from him as they adjust their coat collar. “Just waiting on the Hatted Cuckoo to bring her magic bag of tricks.”

X’s eyes twinkle with a hint of amusement. “Hatted… Cuckoo?”

Medicine Pocket huffs, not quite able to meet his gaze. “That’s what she is. All grandiose titles and magic suitcases. ‘Timekeeper,’” they deride, mimicking Vertin’s proper tone. “It’s ridiculous.” But as they finish, they can’t help but catch a glimpse of X’s smile. Innocent. Too innocent. He probably finds their antics entertaining, thinks they’re being charming or whatever.

“Well,” X starts, tone almost playful, “I suppose it could be worse. She could’ve brought us somewhere even less exciting than the suitcase.”

Medicine Pocket raises a brow, arms crossing. “Like anywhere’s worse than that hide-out she carries around. There’s nowhere to train, nowhere to run around. No… no frisbees to chase.” They realize how ridiculous it sounds only after they’ve said it, and they feel their face flush, but they keep their head stubbornly turned away, hoping he won’t see it.

But X just lets out a soft titter. “So, you’d rather be running around outside?”

Medicine Pocket shoots him a withering look, though the way he’s watching them with that vague smile makes it impossible to hold the glare for long. “Forget it,” they mutter, “you wouldn’t get it.”

“Maybe not,” he replies, voice softening, “but I’d like to try.”

They fall silent, glancing down at their ID badge, suddenly hyperaware of him standing beside them, the espresso-like scent of his coat just roughly reaching them. They grit their teeth. This boy is enraging. It’s like he has no idea the effect he’s having, that he can just stand there, oblivious, looking at them like he’s just… curious. Faultless.

Before they can say something they might regret, the sound of polished heels clicking on the floor draws their attention. They perk up to see Vertin approaching with her usual composed gait, her wide-brimmed tophat producing an obscure shadow over her eyes. At her side, Sonetto walks quietly, her ginger hair framing her face. Medicine Pocket mutters a quick ‘finally’ under their breath, glad for any distraction from whatever confusing thoughts are beginning to cloud their mind.

“Ready?” Vertin prompts, scanning them both with her very common serenity. Her gaze remains for a beat on Medicine Pocket before she turns, gesturing for them to follow her down a quieter hallway toward an empty chamber, a secluded area reserved for special transport.

Medicine Pocket barely hides an eye roll. ‘Special transport’ indeed. They’d rather just walk or, better yet, stay behind in the comfort of their own lab. But one look at X’s eager expression is enough to keep their complaints to themself—for now.

As they enter the chamber, Vertin raises her hand and, with a simple flick of her wrist, opens the suitcase’s portal. The air around them shifts, a slight hum reverberating as the suitcase expands into a doorway, the edges glowing faintly with a pulpy, pulsing light.

“Please,” Vertin opines, motioning into the portal. “After you.”

X nods, stepping through with a pliant, officious smile. Medicine Pocket follows close behind, and the moment they step inside, the familiar scent of old books, polished wood, and blooming flowers fills the air.

The suitcase domain is as elaborate as ever, stretching out like a sprawling manor frozen in time. Lush carpets line the halls, and framed portraits emblazon the walls with gyrating candlelight dispatching summery incandescent across the space. Beyond the hallway lies a spacious sitting room, with overstuffed armchairs and tall windows revealing a lush, well-maintained garden outside. Medicine Pocket gives it all a quick, dismissive glance, have been here more than a few times. Just a house in a box. How thrilling.

“Well,” Sonetto speaks up, her voice gentle as she stands beside Vertin, “thank you both for joining us. There are some Arcanists we’ve gathered who will need examinations before the next assessment.”

Medicine Pocket gives a half-hearted nod, folding their arms tightly as they regard the suitcase climate enveloping them. “Fine, fine. I’ll do my job, like you asked.” They shrug, shifting their gaze toward X, who is peering around the room with wide, inquisitive eyes. Of course he’d like it, they think, stifling a groan.

Vertin inclines her head, either oblivious to or ignoring their disinterest. “We’ll begin shortly. Please, feel free to acquaint yourselves with the area. Sonetto and I will return with the first batch of Arcanists for evaluation.”

With that, Vertin and Sonetto exit through one of the side doors, leaving Medicine Pocket and X alone in the grand sitting room. Medicine Pocket turns away, hoping to avoid any more awkward conversation, but they catch sight of X watching them out of the corner of their eye, a small, slightly mischievous smile playing at his lips.

“See?” he says softly. “Not so bad, right?”

They scoff, shoving their hands in their pockets as they slump down into an armchair, glaring at him half-heartedly. “If by ‘not so bad’ you mean tolerable, then sure,” they mutter, looking away as X takes a seat across from them. But as he continues smiling that stupidly innocent smile, they can feel the edges of their scowl soften, against all their will.

The silence stretches between them, balmy and surprisingly comfortable, as the flickering candlelight casts silhouettes across the room. Medicine Pocket faces X, feeling a strange, confusing mellowness resolve in their chest. They scowl harder, quickly looking away.

“Stop smiling like that,” they snap, voice low.

“Like what?” X asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.

“Like…” They trail off, struggling to find the words. “Like a… like a puppy.” They still, feeling their face heat up. “It’s distracting.”

X crows softly, the tempo warm and light as it fills the room. “Alright, Medpoc,” he concedes, weakly. “No more then.”

And even though they don’t look back at him, Medicine Pocket can feel the smile wrestling at their lips, stubborn and uninvited, as they sit there in the warm glow of the sitting room, waiting for Vertin to return.

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Medicine Pocket has just barely settled into a reluctant, semi-comfortable slouch on the overstuffed armchair in the sitting room when the door opens again. Vertin and Sonetto emerge from it, and right behind them is a familiar figure with short, curly brown hair and an air of pure nonchalance: Mesmer Jr. Her gaze sweeps over the room as if she’s mildly annoyed to be here and amused by the company, her hands tucked into her skirt pockets.

The moment Medicine Pocket acknowledges the situation at hand, they groan loudly. “Oh, fantastic. The last person I wanted to work with.” They shoot her a glare, not bothering to hide their irritation. “What’d you do, show up here to ruin my day?”

Mesmer Jr. raises a brow, the corners of her mouth twitching as she gives them an unsentimental once-over. “Relax, Medicine Pocket. I’m just here because the Timekeeper needed a couple extra hands. You’re not that special.”

Medicine Pocket bristles. “I don’t need help from some curly-haired pest who couldn’t even run a proper experiment without me breathing down her neck,” they spit, folding their arms as they narrow their eyes at her. “One wrong move, and I’m biting your head off, Mesmer.”

“Right,” she says with a slow smirk, unfazed. “Noted.” She glances at X, then back at Medicine Pocket, giving them a look that’s far too knowing. “Got something to prove, Doctor? Or are you just showing off for an audience?”

Medicine Pocket howls out a laugh, their mood shifting from snarky to cocky in an instant. “Audience? Please. If I was trying to impress someone, you’d know it.” They shoot a quick, sidelong glance at X, their heart doing an irritating flip that they’re quick to mask with a sneer.

X glances between them, slightly wide-eyed, a downy laugh escaping his lips. “Well, uh… I think we’ll all be able to handle this pretty easily. Right, Medpoc?”

Medicine Pocket feels their cheeks heat, but they lift their chin, refusing to show any sign of fluster. “Obviously. This is nothing.” They glance at Mesmer, their displeasure flaring back up in full force. “Assuming you don’t trip over your own feet and ruin the whole operation.”

Mesmer snorts, pulling out a small notepad and flipping it open, clearly unbothered. “I think we’ll be fine. Not everyone’s as chaotic as you are, Medicine Pocket.” She casts a sly look between them, leaning closer with a smirk. “In fact, some of us can actually work well with others.”

Medicine Pocket grits their teeth, resisting the urge to retort as they catch a sliver of X’s amused grin from the corner of their eye. The irreproachable look on his face only fuels their annoyance, and they scoot away piercingly, drumming their fingers on the arm of the chair. “Maybe you should stick to whatever boring task you’re here for and leave the real work to me.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be handling plenty of ‘real work’ here,” Mesmer counters. Then she halts, looking between Medicine Pocket and X with that same infinitesimal, exasperating smirk. “Especially with X here to, you know… lend you a helping hand.”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes as they feel something scalding hot creep onto their cheeks. Which is dumb. “Stop acting like you know anything, Mesmer,” they mutter, half hoping X hasn’t caught on to the heated tone wriggling into their voice. They lean back, crossing their arms tighter. “And if you keep it up, I’ll be dragging you outside and burying you in the garden.”

Mesmer shrugs, clearly amused by their bluster. “If you say so, Doc.” She slides into a chair across from them, not even the slightest bothered by their thinly veiled threats.

X, oblivious to the layers of tension, simply smiles and gives Medicine Pocket a reassuring nod. “Anyway, it’s good to have everyone here. It’ll make things run smoother.” He catches Medicine Pocket’s eye, his expression sultry. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Medicine Pocket tries to huff, indignantly, but can’t help suppressing a small, sour smile in exchange. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Alphabet Boy.”

And, upong catching their expression doing that, perhaps, Mesmer holds his gaze with a pointed look. “Right. ‘Just work,’” she murmurs, clearly enjoying this. Whatever this is.

Medicine Pocket glares, fighting to keep their voice dependable. “One more word out of you,” they rumble, “and I swear I’ll take a bite out of that smug face of yours.”

“Got it,” she answers with a nonchalant wink, still smirking, beaming with mischief.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

The work Vertin has assigned to them commences with accustomed, cursory rigor. Medicine Pocket, X, and Mesmer Jr. work mostly in silence, moving from one young arcanist to the next, checking vitals, measuring height and weight, and taking blood samples with the efficiency of an assembly line. But the arcanists, especially the younger ones, don’t make things easy.

Medicine Pocket rolls up their sleeves to get to work, revealing a few random band-aids on their arms, remnants of various injections they’d given themself. The bandages are the first things the young arcanists notice, and they stare wide-eyed, reaching out with sticky hands and poking at Medicine Pocket’s arms.

“Hey!” Medicine Pocket chastises, trying to swat them away. “Hands off, you little fiends!”

One of the younger arcanists, a kid with wide emerald eyes, just giggles and pulls on one of the bandages. “Why do you have so many of these? Do they help you look more like a real scientist?”

Medicine Pocket glares down at the kid, teeth bared in a forced grin. “Do you want a bandage? Because I’ll happily give you one.”

Mesmer, sitting at the other end of the makeshift exam area, lets out a stifled laugh, her eyes glinting with wicked glee as she checks another arcanist’s blood pressure. “Careful there, Medicine Pocket. The kids might think you’re… you know, friendly or something.”

Medicine Pocket scowls, muttering under their breath, “Like I’d ever be friendly.” They quickly turn back to their work, but not before catching X’s quiet, amused smile as he watches them wrangle with the kids.

As if on cue, a little girl with a mess of curly hair suddenly reaches up, tugging at one of Medicine Pocket’s loose, disheveled strands. “Your hair’s like a mop!” she giggles, twisting it around her fingers. “Do you ever brush it?”

Medicine Pocket jerks their head back, scowling. “Hands off the hair!” they yell angrily, though the girl only laughs and tugs again.

“Oh, come on, Medpoc, she’s just curious,” X says, his tone gentle. He’s measuring the height of a young boy who seems fascinated by the large butterfly embroidered on his coat. “They’re just kids.”

Medicine Pocket glares at him. “Just kids? They’re tiny menaces!” they grumble, brushing the little girl’s hand away and pulling their hair free. They catch Mesmer’s smirk and let out an exaggerated sigh. “If I ever find out who’s teaching these kids manners, I’ll have their head.”

“Oh, please,” Mesmer deadpans, handing a completed chart to Sonetto. “Like you’d know anything about manners.”

Before Medicine Pocket can retaliate, the small green-eyed kid pulls on the cuff of their lab coat again. “Are you a doctor? Or a scientist?”

Medicine Pocket snorts, trying to ignore the impulse to answer sarcastically. “I’m both. Now stay still, or I’ll have to put another band-aid on you.”

The kid grins. “Cool. Are you sure you’re not just playing dress-up?”

“Dress-up?” Medicine Pocket repeats, voice dripping with mock offense. “Why, you little gremlin—if you weren’t four feet tall, I’d—”

“Medpoc,” X cuts in, gently but firmly, patting the kid on the head. “I think that’s enough… patient education for one day, don’t you?”

Medicine Pocket bites back a retort, glancing at X and feeling their cheeks flush despite themself. “Fine. But next time,” they mutter, shooting the kid a glare, “I’m bringing muzzles.”

Once they’ve finally finished all the examinations and grappled the little arcanists into semi-order, Sonetto lays out a meal on a long dining table in the sitting room. Exhausted and grateful, they all gather around, helping themselves to plates of sandwiches, steaming soup, and biscuits.

As Medicine Pocket digs in, chewing petulantly on a sandwich, their pocket suddenly buzzes. They dig out a small, rectangular device—Laplace’s sleek and supposedly ‘cutting-edge’ communication device, which they’ve mostly ignored since receiving it. The screen flashes with a notification: Incoming Call: Lucy.

Medicine Pocket’s face falls. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” they mutter, glaring at the screen as if it might vaporize on command. X gives them a curious look, but before he can ask, Medicine Pocket taps the screen, and Lucy’s calm, mechanical voice crackles through the speaker.

“Researcher Medicine Pocket,” Lucy begins in her neighborly, unruffled tone. “I have an urgent matter regarding the yellow particles you left behind in the lab yesterday.”

Medicine Pocket sighs, leaning back in their chair. “What about them?”

“Approximately thirty-two percent of the particles have dispersed beyond containment limits,” Lucy conveys, sounding as equable as ever. “I’ve received numerous complaints from your colleagues due to an… ‘unpleasant odor.’”

Mesmer snorts, trying to stifle her laughter behind a cup of tea. “Unpleasant odor? Nice work, Medicine Pocket.”

They glare at the device, ignoring her. “Bucket Head,” they bite, “did you really call me in the middle of my very important meal to tell me that my particles stink? You stink! I’ll have you know that stench is called science.”

Upon looking up, Medicine Pocket is assaulted by the image of X, who’s biting his bottom lip, as if refraining from bursting into laughter, his eyes twinkling with what looks like pure beguilement. …Due to watching them bark at the phone, is that it?

Just then, “Understood,” Lucy responds, her tone composed. “However, due to the unusual scent, I was instructed to inform you that you will be charged for additional cleaning services.”

Huh?! “Cleaning services?” Medicine Pocket guffaws, clutching the device tightly. “I’ll clean you, you tin-plated toaster! In fact, next time I see you, you’d better be shiny. Maybe I’ll give you a little polish on that rusty exterior while I’m at it.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, Researcher Medicine Pocket,” Lucy says, entirely unshaken. “However, I do not require polishing.”

“You require a total overhaul,” Medicine Pocket snarls through gritted teeth, finally ending the call and shoving the device back in their pocket with a huff.

“Everything all right, Medpoc?” X quizzes, grinning.

“Everything’s perfectly fine,” Medicine Pocket says, though their cheeks flush with indignation. “Just that bucket-headed nuisance sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Mesmer leans back, sipping her tea with a lazy smirk. “Maybe she’s just fond of you. Seems like Laplace has a way of assigning you… admirers.” She raises an eyebrow, glancing at X. “Or am I wrong?”

Medicine Pocket bristles, shoving a spoonful of soup into their mouth to keep from snapping. “Oh, shut it,” they drawl after swallowing, trying to avoid X’s gaze. “I wouldn’t call that clunky tin can an ‘admirer.’ She’s a hazard.”

X chortles. “Well, it seems she thinks highly of you, at least.”

Medicine Pocket shrugs, avoiding his gaze as they fiddle with their spoon. “Yeah, well… she’d better keep her admiration to herself.”

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

After a long day, they gather in a cozy sitting room where Vertin clears her throat, signaling she has an announcement.

“Thank you for your work today,” she starts off with, looking at each of them in turn. “However, there are still a few more unregistered arcanists that need evaluations, and I need you to stay on for a couple more days.”

Medicine Pocket lets out an audible groan. “Stay? Here? In this… this fancy manor luggage of yours?” They grimace, looking around the suitcase’s ornate interior like it might spontaneously combust.

Vertin’s face remains lull, unfazed. “Yes. I’d like you all to stay. This task is important, and as three of Laplace’s finest specialists, I trust you’ll give it your best effort.”

X’s face lights up with an eager smile. “Really? That’s fantastic! I’d love to stay and help out a bit longer.”

Beside him, Mesmer lets out a deep sigh, her shoulders slumping. “Oh, great. I get to sleep in a magical suitcase for the next couple of days with weirdos. Just what I needed.”

Medicine Pocket, on the other hand, seems even more horrified. “There’s no way I’m doing this free of charge,” they bellow, crossing their arms. “If you want me here, you’re going to give me funds, Vertin. I have standards!”

Vertin gives a small nod. “Of course. You’ll be compensated and have a budget extension for your future lab expenses.”

“Funds.” Medicine Pocket grins, their eyes ablaze. “Oh, you bet I’ll be using those funds.”

Once that’s settled, Vertin and Sonetto lead them to their temporary quarters. It’s a single room—small but homely, with wooden furniture and soft linens. Medicine Pocket’s face drops, however, the moment they take in the bed setup: one single bed against the wall and a double-decker bunk bed next to it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Medicine Pocket mutters, scandalized.

Mesmer gives a tired smirk, already eyeing the top bunk. “I call dibs on the top.”

X looks between the remaining beds, then nods, seemingly thrilled by the arrangement. “And I’ll take the bottom bunk.”

Medicine Pocket, meanwhile, eyes the single bed, arms crossed. “I don’t want to be disturbed while I’m resting,” they broadcast to whoever will hear it, then quickly add, “by anyone.”

Mesmer raises a brow, grinning as she unpacks. “Sure, Medpoc. I’ll keep that in mind.”

It’s not long before Vertin and Sonetto leave them to settle in, and Mesmer heads out to wash up. Once she’s gone, Medicine Pocket becomes hyperaware of X’s presence in the room, who sits on the edge of his bunk. But Medicine Pocket is too busy sorting through the basic sleeping garments they’ve been provided to regard him. After a moment, the boy clears his throat.

“Hey, Medpoc,” he calls, tone uncertain but there, imploring. “Can I ask you something?”

They glance up at that, frowning. “What? What is it?”

“It’s just… earlier, when you said…” He wavers, looking down at his hands, then back up with an unsure smile. “You said my inventions were… useless.”

Medicine Pocket blinks, momentarily thrown off. They shift, feeling a prick of discomfort, and glance down. “So?”

“Well,” X continues daintily, “I just thought… you said before that they weren’t mediocre. You even said they were…” He shrugs, his bearing alleviating. “You know. That they were interesting.”

Medicine Pocket lets out a short, awkward laugh, scratching the back of their head. “Oh. Well… they’re not mediocre, per se. Just… some of them are a bit, you know. Pointless.” They look away, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “But that doesn’t mean I think they’re bad or anything.”

X’s face brightens at this, his posture relaxing. “You don’t?”

“Of course not!” they snap, annoyed with his doubt. “Just because I don’t… say it all the time doesn’t mean I think they’re garbage.” They cross their arms, trying to maintain their grumpy expression, though it’s hard with X looking at them with that law-abiding, somewhat relieved smile.

“Well, thank you,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “I… I really value your opinion.”

Medicine Pocket’s heart skips, and they quickly look away, focusing intently on adjusting the pillow on their bed. “Yeah, well. Don’t get all sentimental on me. We’re just… work partners.”

“Partners,” X echoes, sounding glad, but Medicine Pocket clears their throat, eager to change the subject.

“So, anyway… how’s that… Fog Boy, or whatever his name is?” they quip, trying to sound casual. “He’s still hanging around Laplace?”

X blinks, appearing confused. “You mean Oliver? He… works there, but I don’t see him too often. Why?”

Medicine Pocket shrugs, masquerading indifference as best they can, tinkering with the pillowcase on their bed. “Oh, no reason. Just curious, is all.”

The boy tilts his head, looking genuinely puzzled. “You’ve never asked about my friends before, though.” He purses his lips, still exuding that honest confusion. “Is there something you’re worried about?”

“Me? Worried?” Medicine Pocket scorns, feeling a flash of embarrassment. “Please. I don’t worry about anybody.” They roll their eyes, but something about X’s tender facial expression makes it hard to preserve their aloofness. “Just… if that umbrella boy’s hanging around, I should know.”

“Right… Well, he’s not really around much,” X relays, smiling as if reverently. “But… if you did want to meet him sometime, I could introduce you?”

And, what? Medicine Pocket balks, shaking their head. “Ha! As if I’d waste my time. Forget it.”

X giggles, tickled. “Sure, Medpoc. If that’s what you want.”

They fall silent after that, X’s gaze lingering on Medicine Pocket with a look that’s almost… fond? Huh. Medicine Pocket shifts, pulling the blanket up and lying back on the bed, boots on the ground as they try to brush off the strange fervor in their chest.

Just work partners, they tell themself steadfastly, closing their eyes for now. But the feeling dithers all the same.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

Medicine Pocket’s eyes flick open after some time, realizing that neither Mesmer nor X seems remotely ready to sleep. With a huff, they sit up, arms folded as they watch Mesmer climb onto the top bunk and conclude her day. X, on the lower bunk, looks over with a small, sleepy smile before he slips off the bed.

“I’ll just… freshen up before bed,” he tells them, picking up the pajamas Vertin supplied.

Medicine Pocket watches him disappear into the bathroom, then digs around their things for the toothbrush Vertin gave them, tapping it impatiently against their hand. When X returns a few minutes later in a plain shirt and pajama pants, looking… oddly adorable with his hair a little mussed, Medicine Pocket quickly stands, scowling.

“Finally. I need that bathroom,” they mutter, shooting him a quick glare before grabbing their toothbrush and stalking out of the room.

The bathroom light is decrepit, and they squint as they start brushing their teeth, eyes narrowed at their reflection in the mirror. X’s earlier words replay in their head, the little bit of hesitation in his voice when he asked about the ‘useless inventions’ comment. Medicine Pocket frowns, feeling a twinge of something dreadful. Maybe they’d been… harsher than they’d meant. They spit into the sink with a growl. It’s not my fault he has that effect on me, they reason. I don’t go around softening up for just anyone.

They return to the room in their pajamas, only to find it dark, the lights already switched off. Mesmer is curled up on the top bunk, clearly fast asleep, and X is lying quietly in the lower bunk, his gaze soft as he glances at Medicine Pocket.

After a moment’s pause, they climb into their own bed, placing their Laplace ID and other small trinkets on the nightstand before grabbing a pillow and hugging it close. They stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the nagging voice in the back of their mind.

After a while, when the room is silent except for Mesmer’s soft breathing, they roll to their side, facing the double-decker and speak into the darkness.

“Hey… Alphabet Boy?”

There’s a shuffling sound as X rustles, his voice soft. “You’re still awake?”

“Yeah,” they say, rolling their eyes. “Sleep is for losers.”

X chuckles quietly, and Medicine Pocket feels the faintest hint of a smile tug at their lips. “Just so you know, Alphabet Boy,” they forge on, swallowing, “I’ve seen countless useless inventions and Goldberg machines in my time—enough to last me several lifetimes.”

There’s a pause, and they can almost feel X’s worried expression in the dark. “Oh…”

“But…” Medicine Pocket hesitates, tightening their grip on the pillow. “I… suppose I find you interesting. You, kid. So I may or may not… actually enjoy spending time with you. Not just because of your… ideas.”

Another beat of silence, then a soft, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Medicine Pocket feels their cheeks warm but keeps their voice steady. “So now you know. Go to sleep, loser.”

X lets out an inaudible laugh, his timbre marshy and tepid as he mumbles, “Um. Okay. Goodnight, Medpoc.”

They close their eyes, letting the sound of his laugh hang on in their mind. “Mhm. Goodnight, X.”

[hqmillioncorn]

let the fire wash away your fears

Patti poked her head around the corner. Her suspicions proved the be right, Cherrypit was home. Not only that, he was holding one of those cool little fireballs that he always liked to bounce against her head. "Tío Cherry!" Patti cried, jumping out of her hiding place. "How do you make those things!? Can you teach me how to make them too?!" Cherrypit already knew his niece was spying on him but her question still came out of nowhere. "I...er...Um..." Not that he didn't have any experience teaching Patti to do things but, something about this wasn't sitting right with him. "I think it's a little too dangerous...?" "What?!" Patti almost doubled over in shock and disbelief. Cherrypit usually so relaxed about everything. "Mama told me you were making these when you were two! I'm eight!" She held up eight fingers for emphasis. "How can it be dangerous for me if you did it when you were a baby?!" She got him there. Cherrypit internally cursed his younger self for being so reckless and un-killable. 'Why did I have to be so cool...?'

lalapril 7: wisp

its a particularly boring time for a two year old in ishgard, so cherrypit being cherrypit decides to make his own fun.

There were a lot of things Cherrypit loved. Some of these wonderful things included his sister, his brand-new friends, chocolate cake, all sorts of sweets and playing with his toys.

If he had access to any one of these Cherrypit would be more than content to weather anything that stood in his way!

At first Cherrypit had been excited to be in Ishgard. It was somewhere new! With lots of things to see and bite! Even better was that those scary people that separated him from Babycorn were nowhere to be seen.

Something about the color blue still made him a little nervous though. 

But as time went on and the longer they stayed in Ishgard, the more Cherrypit started to wonder when they were going to go home.

He really missed the room he shared with his sister and everyone else at the mansion. 

Not only that, because they had gone to Ishgard in such a hurry he hadn’t been able to bring any of his toys. Or any of his favorite things, like that rock he liked to chew on.

Cherrypit just really really wanted to go home. 

Unfortunately for him, it was starting to look like that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Even worse, he just happened to re-discover that he wasn’t the biggest fan of the cold.

Or of people staring at him.

Or sitting around doing absolutely nothing.

Also olives. 

Then something something waiting around for the weather to clear up so they could go investigate the western highlands or whatever.

A certain little somebody hadn’t really been listening at the time. Getting his hands on a piece of loose cloth hanging from one of the Ishgardian chocobos was way more important than whatever boring stuff people bigger than him were saying. 

Now here he was, sitting alone and bored in Fortemps Manor. 

Well, he wasn’t entirely alone but it sure felt like it. 

While everyone else was off doing their own things he was stuck here because his sister slipped on an ice cube and knocked herself out.

Of course because both siblings couldn’t be separated without dire consequences that meant Cherrypit was spending the afternoon alone and trying to think of something fun to do. 

“Bored! Bored!” Cherrypit loudly exclaimed. 

Desperate, he had tried asking one of the house servants if any of them had any paper and crayons he could use. Thankfully, even underneath all of his baby babble one of them had been able to understand him. “Here you are young master Cherrypit.” He handed Cherrypit a stack of paper and a brand new set of crayons, newly bought. 

Cherrypit might not have realized but everyone in that mansion loved him to bits and quite frankly would do anything for him. A sentiment that would echo to most everyone that had the misfortune of meeting him. 

Cherrypit watched as the servant placed the stack of papers in front of him alongside the crayons. “Ooooh!” Now they were getting somewhere! There were so many cool things that Cherrypit could draw! Like his new friends or the cool things he’d seen! 

“Thank! Thank! You!” He ran up to the servant and hugged his leg. Normally he would have done his usual way of hugging people but Babycorn nicely asked him to tone that down a bit.

At least while they were in Ishgard. Cherrypit didn’t understand why but if his sister asked him to do something, he would. 

“Ah-! You’re very welcome young master Cherrypit!” He was so so cute. Perhaps the babiest baby to ever be a baby. 

Now left to his own devices, Cherrypit began to draw. 

First thing he decided to draw was his impression of the city itself. It was all full of tall buildings! So tall that sometimes Cherrypit would fall over trying to see the very top of them. The same thing would happen in Limsa Lominsa and Babycorn so far has had to stop him from falling off into the ocean more than once. 

Cherrypit grabbed a grey crayon and got to work. He had to remember to draw himself, Bebe and all his friends too!

Sometimes being an artist was so much work.

...Maybe next he would draw a big cool dragon! 

But first thing was first, with some of the buildings done Cherrypit looked over to where his sister was sleeping. Just so he could draw her perfectly. 

The knights placed her on one of the couches next to the fireplace and covered her with a really cozy looking blanket. She hadn’t moved at all since the last two hours, besides tossing and turning around.

“Bebe…” Cherrypit had tried to wake her up but to no avail. 

Instead he decided to move his attention to the fireplace. He liked the fireplace, it made things feel a lot warmer and nicer. Like how he felt when someone was giving him a really tight hug.

The kind of hug that Cherrypit wished could last forever. 

He also wished he could just get a little closer. “Faiaa…!” Standing in between him and the flames were a pair of thin steel bars. Probably specifically designed to stop these sorts of situations from happening.

“Way! Way!” That was Cherrypit’s way of telling the bars to kindly get out of his way. 

Cherrypit placed his hands on the bars and rattled them a little. They were just a little warm but that wasn’t saying much. This would all be way easier if he could just rip the bars off and be done with it, but then Babycorn would be mad at him for using his full strength. 

“Hmpph!” Cherrypit puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms, annoyed at the whole situation. That’s when-all of a sudden he had a great idea. He placed his hand on top of a white crayon and carefully grabbed it. “Whiiiee!” He was slowly but surely starting to learn the names of colors too. 

With white crayon in hand Cherrypit carefully maneuvered it between the steel bars separating him from the fire. His little hands were able to wiggle the crayon next to fire by just a bit.

There was really no logic or reason Cherrypit was doing this. If there was a reason it would probably just be something along the lines of because he felt like it. 

Just then, Cherrypit saw something. “Woa!” It was a tiny flame, sitting on top of the tip of his white crayon. He pulled it back towards him and admired the fire he was holding now so close to him. It was so bright and warm and moved in all sorts of funny ways!

Cherrypit giggled as he moved the flaming crayon from one side to another, watching as the fire chased the crayon wherever it went. “Prettyyy!” It was like magic. The kind of magic he would see his friends cast. While Cherrypit could cast his own, most of it just tended to, well, explode. 

Then, all of a sudden, Cherrypit heard the sound of someone clearing their throat. “Cherrypit? What do you have there?” This was a voice Cherrypit recognized. Once he looked up a big smile crossed his face, because he knew who this was!

It was his new friend Haurchefant! Or as Cherrypit referred to him as; Horsey. 

Alongside him, or rather behind him, were a rather large group of knights looking at Cherrypit with a myriad of very worried stares. “Cherrypit? Could I see what you’re holding there?” Haurchefant gently held his hand towards Cherrypit. 

Cherrypit looked up at Haurchefant and then at the crayon in his hand and then back up at Haurchefant. There was a plan brewing in his tiny little head.

With a mischievous little smile Cherrypit looked all the knights dead in the eyes and stuffed the flaming crayon into his mouth. 

Haurchefant slowly brought his hand closer to himself, cupping his chin. “Well that's unexpected.” To his credit, he was reacting fairly well at the sight of seeing a two-year-old ingest a crayon that was on fire.

Perhaps it was because he already spent some time with Cherrypit before their stay in Ishgard?

There weren’t many that believed him when he told them about how he had seen Cherrypit simply float out from Witchdrop.

On the other hand, the other two to three knights were showing the proper reactions when faced with something like this. 

“We’ve killed him!!” One of the knights proclaimed. The other two probably did the reasonable thing and went to go fetch someone who could help. Some sort of nurse maybe? That would work.

It was at times like these Haurchefant could do nothing but laugh, “Oh, Cherrypit.” Both siblings certainly had their quirks. If they could even be called that.

Well, regardless it was starting to look like he was going to keep learning about them the hard way. 

Haurchefant knelt down, crossing his legs and taking a seat next to Cherrypit. “Do you like it when people worry about you?” It was hard to blame the little guy. He went ahead and gave Cherrypit a little poke on the cheek. Haurchefant couldn’t help but smile hearing Cherrypit’s little giggle. 

His skin was still ice cold which might be a good sign?? He honestly wasn’t sure. 

Cherrypit decided to save Haurchefant the suspense. Of course he decided to do this by burping out a tiny wisp of fire. “Bah!” The crayon was nowhere to be seen but the flame that he spat out floated gently in the air above him. 

Haurchefant stared in silence as the small ball of flame slowly began to fall to the floor. 

Its epic journey was interrupted when Cherrypit placed his hands under it, the flame landed on his hands like it was nothing. Cherrypit smiled, staring at the glowing fire. “Look!” He held it up as high as he could so Haurchefant could see too! 

Just like Cherrypit, Haurchefant could do nothing but stare for a while. “That’s…Incredible…” He watched as the flame rolled around Cherrypit’s palms. Even sitting as close as he was, Haurchfant could feel no heat coming off of it. 

That didn’t sound right.

“Cherrypit?” Haurchefant asked, “Isn’t it burning your hands?” It had to at least feel a little warm. Maybe like running your hands under warm water? 

The best way to find out something is to try it yourself. That’s what Cherrypit figured when he decided to walk towards Haurchefant with his hands out. “Here!” It was clear what Cherrypit wanted his friend to do.

Not wanting to let Cherrypit down, Haurchefant accepted his offer and held out his hands. “Would it be okay for me to hold it?” It couldn’t hurt to ask. Predictably Cherrypit nodded, quite fast. 

Then before Haurchefant knew it Cherrypit dropped the fire right into his open palms.

Haurchefant flinched, purely on instinct. “By the fury…” His hands were larger than Cherrypit’s so he was able to hold the fire in one hand. He opened and closed his palm around the fire, expecting it to be warm.

The sensation was very strange, to say the least. There was almost no heat. Just enough of it to drive away the cold. Which would be very handy if you lived somewhere plagued with eternal winter. 

Now just a bit comfortable with the fire Haurchefant bounced it up into the air. It felt like he was holding a marble more than a piece of literal fire. He was curious. “Are you doing this?” He had taken note of Cherrypit staring at him the whole time, moving his head alongside the fire.

Cherrypit nodded, with a great big smile. He clapped loudly and giggled. “Happy!” He was so excited that someone recognized his efforts! 

With a tiny flick of his hand he sent the fire zipping straight up. The force from the ascent blew Haurchefant’s hair back. “Cherrypit?! What are you-?!” He ducked to avoid the incoming fireball now flying all over the room. 

Cherrypit was giggling like crazy, some might even call it maniacal. “Fly! Fly!” Wherever he pointed his finger that’s where the fire would fly to.

The fire began to ricochet all over everything. The walls, the lounge seats, the ceiling and basically everything Cherrypit could see.

And just like before, Haurchefant knew exactly what Cherrypit was playing at. “Alright. So it’s like that then…” He assumed a stance that looked similar to one he would take in battle. With an imaginary sword in hand, Haurchefant scanned the room around him.

There was a flash of light far from him, and then suddenly another! But now at arm’s length. “There you are!” Haurchefant swung his sword at where he knew the fire would be.

Cherrypit of course was not going to make this easy for him. “hehe” At the last second he had moved the fire backwards. 

There was a sense of pride welling up inside him. “Well played Cherrypit.” It was now clearer to him than ever that Cherrypit wasn’t someone to underestimate. Even for his age.

Cherrypit was really happy too! It was always really nice to find a new playmate! “Play!” Similar to his sister, all Cherrypit really wanted more in the world was more people to love.

“Again!” Cherrypit held up his pointer finger. “One!” Additionally to learning colors he was also slowly learning numbers. This was his way of telling Haurchefant he only had one more try.

A challenge Haurchefant welcomed. “Then give me your best shot.” And Cherrypit would be sure to deliver. 

At some specific point in time there had been enough commotion that Babycorn finally began to stir. “Huh…?” She rubbed the sleepy out of her eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing pain at the back of her head. 

Once her vision cleared Babycorn could see Haurchefant standing near her brother. Not an odd sight but still a little strange. “Horsie…?” Cherrypit’s nickname for him had grown on her.

At last the entire scene was visible to sweet Babycorn Corn.

Her brother was clinging onto Haurchefant’s arm, his face buried deep in his armor. It personally didn’t look very comfortable to her but if Cherrypit was fast asleep then it was probably comfier than it looked.

Another shock came im the form of a piece of Haurchefant’s hair. A part of it was glowing orange. Contrasting his light blue hair by a lot.

None of that seemed to matter to him though, because as soon as he noticed Babycorn was awake he smiled from ear to ear. “Babycorn!!” Haurchefant rushed over and embraced Babycorn in a tight hug. An act of kindness she was still not very used to.

Babycorn made a sound that sounded eerily similar to a creaking wheel while she was rendered completely frozen. “errrrrrrrrrr” Something along those lines.

“I’m glad you’re up and about again!” He couldn’t help but worry. Even when every single one of Babycorn’s companions assured him this happened literally all the time.

Haurchefant released Babycorn from her psychological prison of her own making and gave her a pat on the head. Using the same arm Cherrypit was sleeping on. 

Babycorn closed her eyes as Haurchefant fluffed her hair around. Her own issues aside, there were a bunch of questions floating around her head. 

But first things first. “Is Cherrypit okay?” Not that she was worried about people she trusted hurting him but…something along those lines had already happened, who's to say it wouldn't happen again?

Haurchefant moved his arm over for Babycorn to get a better look at her brother. He was snoozing away, without a care in the world. “He went and tired himself out while we were playing. I offered to take him somewhere to rest and well...” Dear Cherrypit had just latched on and didn’t let go.

Well now there were more questions. “...huh?” What the heck were he and Haurchefant playing that tired Cherrypit out?! If she knew anything about her little brother it was that his energy was basically endless. 

To the point where Cherrypit rarely, if ever, slept.

…Then again it was just nice for her to hear that Cherrypit had a fun time. Everything else didn’t really matter to her.

“Okay…Then what’s with the glowing hair?”

It was a little worrying for her to see.

That question caught Haurchefant completely off guard because he hadn’t even realized something was up there. It happened right after he caught the fire in between his hands.

Some of it must have landed on his head. Somehow. 

“Ah. Well.”

Where to even begin?

[mialovespokemon]

Hello!

My name is Mia! I'm 19 years old, and currently studying Biology (Specifically for rock type Pokemon!) at university in Sinnoh!

A little about me, I was born and raised in the Galar region! My parents are both chefs, I have a little brother who is aiming to be the champion, and two little sisters who are currently participating in the gym challenge! I use exclamation marks a lot haha! If you have any questions about Pokemon, feel free to ask! (If I don't know then I'll ask my professor!) If you want to know anything else about me, just ask :D

Let me introduce you to my partners :D

My first partner Pokemon was a Happiny! I named her Joy! Joy is now a Blissey :D She has a jokester personality and is always messing around. Battler

Next we have my Drizzile! His name is Ness and he tends to rush into battles without thinking, haha. He likes to wear scarfs! Right now he's been wearing a gray one with black stripes! Battler

Third is my Gabite! His name is Mako, and he's a little silly. A lot of people are a little scared of him, but unless in battle, he wouldn't hurt a Butterfree! He tends to stare off into space a lot, haha. Battler

My fourth Pokemon is Jumpluff! Her name is Pinwheel. She's quite tough, and one of my strongest battlers, though she doesn't look it. Pinwheel really likes sweets! Battler

My fifth partner Pokemon is Tyrunt! His name is Oliver! I recovered him on an expedition in the Kalos region last year! He's a bit shy and has a bit of a chewing problem, but I'm always sure to provide him with plenty of toys to chew on! Non-Battler

The newest Pokemon on my team is a Gothita! Her name is Celeste! I found her in my most recent expedition in Unova! She's a bit naive, being just recently hatched, but she's a fast learner! She really enjoys playing with my other partner Pokemon! Non-Battler

Celeste is no longer the newest Pokemon on my team! I recently hatched a Roggenrola, and named him Kale! I don't know much about him yet, but as time goes on, I'm sure I'll learn more! Non-Battler

My dream is to become a professor, buy a small house close to the coast and live with Pokemon, raising them and studying them!

OOC: This is an anonymous blog, so I can't follow back haha- Any OOC posts will be labeled AmeliaSpeaks

[thebearme]

MY EENE HEADCANONS

just going to warn you that this is long

EDgar Joseph

6'9 ft

Demi-Romantic

Caucasian

Pisces 23 Y/o 3/2/1985

Film college major (Jobs: Indie horror film maker, Animal caretaker)

FAVORITE FOOD:

Butter toast & Gravy (duh)

VIBE:

Alien Boy - Oliver Tree

Eight Wonder - Lemon Demon

Turn the lights off - TallyHall

- Arts & craft master

- Has a fursona

- Learned what a shower is

- He's still is a lil gross

- Ed changed his name to Ed so he can match with Eddy when he was 6

- Ed real name is: Bob Horace Joseph

- Lemon demon fan

- The one ed to be dating a Kankers (May)

- The oldest ed (he got left-back a year)

- Has yellow teeth becuz he didn't brush his teeth when he was younger

- Has a pet chicken from Rolf but it's at the barn, can't stay at the dorms :(

- Takes care of Rolf's animals ever so often, he loves when he can help

- Thinks of Dee like a mom figure

- Is on better ground with Sarah after BPS and once she realizes how awful their mom was to Ed

- Ed's the only person with yellow skin that because of all the gravy grease he eats

- Drop the violin to play all types of weird instruments instead

- LOVES crytids, FNAF lore and SCP

- Likes going to haunted places for fun

- Ed's drawings are now ten times more disturbing

- Draws on mspaint

- MUST. HAVE. OVERSIZED. SLEEVES!

- Ed is a food stealer

- Ed and Edd bond with the unexplainable wonders of the world (Deep sea creatures)

- Instead of getting a chewy necklace he just buys chew toys for dogs, they're cheaper and cooler

- Uses weird emojis: 🧟‍♂️🦷🧠🪳🌚

- ASD & ADHD

Disability:

* Has a fractured skull

* Brain hurts fr when he thinks hard

* Frequently lost of balance = needs a cane

EDDward (Double dee) Johnson

6'3 ft

Trans-Masc & Bi

(Afro-Vietnamese)

Aquarius 22 Y/o 2/10/1986

Psychology major / Science engineering minor (Jobs: none, scholarships & grants are paying the tuition)

FAVORITE FOOD:

Tuna fish gumbo

VIBE:

The machine - Lemon Demon

American healthcare - Penelope Scott

I threw out love of my dreams - Weezer

Pretty rave girl

- It was hard for Dee to not pick every major

- Double dee got overwhelmed with the college choices he had so he just followed the eds in to Peach Creek's community college

- The OCD got worse when he got older so the eds made a compromise to help clean the dorm often

- Santa believer

- Has a Costco supply of everything

- He likes scene but doesn't tell the eds

- Can't flirt for his life

- Dee Prays everyday that God will forgive the eds sins

- insomniac

- Double dee is trying to find a Scientific explanation for why their tongues are still dyed by the jawbreakers for years now

- Double dee has to braid his hair back before going to bed or else it would be wild in the morning

- Dee is comfortable in his body, doesn't need a bind all the time

- If you don't let Dee to say big words he'll start speaking like a bimbo unironically

- The Light-skin

- Is a ferret

- He got therapy for the 'dodgeball incident'

- Still wears his hat always, even when the eds already know about the scar

- Still passionate about learning but is slowly being a burnt out gifted student

- Even though Eddy tends to distract Dee from studying, if Eddy left college Double dee would have dropped out with him. A least for a gap year(s)

- Dee is a hugger

- Double dee found out that there's a Chemical compound with in shrooms that lessen the psychological symptoms of OCD...

- Dee has shrooms

- Dee is not afraid to be the bitchy friend to make sure the eds don't get themselves into jail

- Willing to kill for Eddy

- A certified forklift driver

- Mothers Ed

- Writes large paragraphs in text and the small amount of emoticons he uses are: =] >:-( :-D

- ASD

Disability:

* Asthma

* Diabetic (genetic, from both parents) Wears a insulin pump

Edwin (EDDY) McGee

5'3 ft

Pans

Puerto Rican (1/2 mother's side)

Italian American (1/2 father's side)

Aries 21 Y/o 3/24/1987

Undeclared major

(Jobs: whatever job he has that week)

FAVORITE FOOD:

Crafts mac n cheese

VIBE:

Soft Fuzzy Man - Lemon Demon

What's New Pussycat - Tom Jones

Lyin' Awake - Steam Powered Giraffe

Cuphead Rap - JT Music

- Eddy frankly doesn't know how he graduated high school

- Eddy loves old stuff (music, clothes, technology)

- Eddy likes underrated/unappreciated historical figures

- He can still be erratic sometimes and still haves trust issues

- Eddy does his nails

- Once he stopped wearing his brother's clothes he started finding his own style

- He is a FASHION KING, never seen in the same clothes often

- Drag queen

- Still doesn't understand personal space or the difference from complements and flirting

- Still a big sap

- Constantly sleeps in Dee bedroom instead of his own

- Insecure with his curly hair so he gel's it most of the time

- HE'S A BINGUS CAT

- Weed smoker

- Once had the eds do a breaking bad

- Surprisingly nice legs

- Insomniac

- Eddy tends to have depressive episodes

- Occasionally goes to therapy, but keeps making light of his issues or dodging them completely

- Writes his name on his food so Ed won't steal it (It doesn't work)

- Was a Premature baby

- Eddy is actually really smart and can make things, he just doesn't have the foresight or the motivation

- Eddy has a pet mouse

- He's flexible and can do acrobatics

- Eddy is still a little narcissistic

- ADHD

Disability:

* Has a stiff right wrist (has a wrist brace that he doesn't wear, prefers to just use he's left hand)

[waitimcomingtoo]

Adventures in Cat Sitting

Synopsis: Tom is not a cat person, but watches your cat anyway

Masterlist

“Hi baby.” You appeared in the doorway of the living room with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and a nervous smile on your face. You had a big favor to ask of Tom and you already knew he wasn’t going to like it.

“Hi princess.” Tom sat up on the couch and noticed your face. “You look like you need something.”

“I might.” You shrugged as you sat down on his lap. He immediately wrapped his arms around you to keep you from falling off, clasping his hands together under your spine.

“Let me see if I can help you.” He chuckled as he tugged you closer by the blanket.

“So you know how I have to go away this week for my cousins wedding?” You began, slow as not to startle him.

“Yeah. I miss you already.” He pouted, making you laugh and kiss his lips.

“I miss you too, lover.” You ran your fingers though his hair. “So I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Anything, Princess.” He smiled lazily at you. “What do you need?”

You tugged at his shirt for a moment and avoided eye contact, shrugging a little as if you hadn’t been planning this for days.

“Ineedyoutowatchmycat.” You said quickly.

“What?” Tom furrowed his eyebrows when he didn’t understand you.

“I need you to watch my cat?” You grimaced, finally looking at him. You knew how Tom felt about your cat from the many, many times he told you.

He wasn’t a cat person. Not at all. And your cat in particular seemed to be his sworn enemy. They never got along and you often had to hide him in another room when Tom was over.

“You mean he’s not going to be guarding the pits of hell?” Tom tilted his head in confusion, making you roll your eyes.

“He is not that bad.” You insisted. “You can survive a few days with him.”

“Uh Uh.” Tom shook his head firmly. “You know how I feel about cats. That’s my least favorite kind of pussy.”

Your jaw dropped as he laughed at his own joke, stopping when you smacked his arm.

“Don’t get fresh.” You scolded. “I just need you to watch my cat for a few days.”

“You don’t have a cat.” Tom disagreed. “You have whatever Pandora let out of her box.”

“Oatmeal is really sweet once he warms up to you.” You told him. “You haven’t spent enough time with him to do that.”

“Because every time I get close to him, he hisses at me.” Tom exclaimed.

“Not every time.” You said pointedly. “Just most times.”

“Can’t you put him in the kennel?” Tom whined, knowing he wasn’t going to get out of this.

“He’s not social and I haven’t found one I like.” You pouted, putting on puppy dog eyes to sway him.

“So drop it off in the forest for a few days and let it get some life experience.” Tom shrugged, earning himself another playful smack.

“Tom.” You groaned. “He’ll die out there.”

“We can only hope.” Tom mumbled under his breath.

“I think this will be good for you guys.” You ignored his comment. “You’re the two most important men in my life and I need you to get along.”

“How am I possibly on the same level as that heathen?” Tom held a hand over his chest like he was offended.

“I love you both so much and it kills me that you don’t get along.” You whined, stroking his cheek to pull him back.

“We’d get along just fine if he wasn’t such a bastard.” Tom snapped, making you gasp.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call my cat a bastard?” You asked. This was a conversation you had had many times as it was Toms preferred nickname for you cat. Tom shrunk down on the couch and looked at the ceiling as he blew out an annoyed huff.

“Sorry.” He mumbled.

“This could be good for us too.” You assured him. “Watching a pet is an integral part in any relationship. I’m giving you all my trust.”

“You’re not giving me your trust.” Tom laughed sharply. “You’re giving me your fat ass demon cat.”

“Come on, please baby?” You jutted yourself bottom lip out. “Oatmeal might grow on you.”

“Aw. Like genital warts?” Tom smiled sarcastically.

“No.” You said flatly. “Not like genital warts.”

“Why do I have to watch him?” Tom complained like a child. “Why can’t you just leave him in a box with some food and water?”

“Would you like that if I did that to you?” You raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.

“If there was alcohol in the box, then yeah.” He shrugged. “I might just enjoy myself.”

You realized you weren’t getting anywhere and pulled away from him with a new approach ready.

“Fine.” You sighed and dramatically looked away. “If you don’t want to watch my cat, I’ll just have to find a boyfriend who will.”

You started to get up but Tom immediately pulled you back, making you giggle as he held on firmly. He had finally caved and you knew it.

“Woah woah wait.” He nuzzled into your neck and left kisses there before sighing. “I’ll watch your bastard child.”

“You’ll what?” You texted him.

“I’ll watch your precious fur baby.” He said through a fake smile. You twisted your body and wrapped your arms around him, kissing every inch of his face you could reach.

“Thank you.” You gushed. “You’re a life saver.”

“You’re welcome, darling.” He chuckled as he lovingly rubbed your back. “You better remember this if I ever need a kidney.”

“I don’t think the two things carry equal weight.” You tilted your head playfully and laughed.

“They don’t.” He agreed. “You’re welcome for letting you off easy.”

Rolling your eyes at your boyfriend, you decided not to fight back since he was doing you a favor. Instead, you opted for kissing him long and deep to show your appreciation.

“Thanks for doing this.” You mumbled against his lips. “I know you don’t like cats so I appreciate it. I owe you one.”

“Mind if I collect my toll now?” Tom smirked as he flipped you onto your back, making you laugh loudly.

“Not at all.”

Sunday

“This is his food.” You handed Tom a pink bag with whiskers stitched on. “He gets two cups a day, dry at morning and wet at night. He won’t eat unless you scratch him behind the ears after you put it in his bowl.”

“I’m not putting my hands anywhere near that thing.” Tom shook his head as he took the bag. “It has a bloodlust.”

Oatmeal was nestled in your arms, staring at Tom with a vengeance. Tom stared back with wide eyes, already feeling his pulse quicken.

“No he does not.” You cooed as you scratched Oatmeal behind the ears. “Make sure to keep an eye on his water bowl and never give him milk. It’s bad for his teeth.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want him losing his razor sharp little death traps.” Tom said sarcastically, seemingly speaking directly to the cat. “If he bites me, I’ll bite him right back.”

“Tom.” You sighed deeply. “I shouldn’t have to say this, but do not bite my cat.”

Oatmeal suddenly bared his teeth and hissed at Tom, making Tom gasp.

“Did you hear what he just said to me?” Tom exclaimed as he pointed to the cat.

“He’s just getting used to you, is all.” You shrugged as you set Oatmeal down on the ground. He took a careful step towards Tom before hissing again.

“He did it again!” Tom jumped into your arms in the style of Shaggy and Scooby. “He called me a slur.”

“No he didn’t.” You laughed as you set Tom down. “His treats are in the bag. Only one a day and none if he’s naughty.”

“I didn’t realize he had a setting other than naughty.” Tom sassed your cat, making him hiss once again. Tom looked at you for help and you sighed.

“Hey, behave.” You scolded Oatmeal as you stroked him. “His toys are in the bag too. He gets pretty feisty with the fish on a string so don’t go near him when he’s playing with it.”

Oatmeal jumped up on a chair and leaned towards Tom, peering at him as if extended an olive branch. Tom looked at you and you nodded, encouraging him to reach out towards the animal. Oatmeal leaned forward and sniffed Tom’s hand before snapping at him. Tom jerked his hand back and cradled it, though he wasn’t actually bitten.

“I don’t think I can do this.” Tom said suddenly. “He’s gonna put a hex on me.”

“Tom, please?” You whined when he went back on his offer. “I have to leave now and there’s no one else who can take him.”

“Give him to one of your friends.” Tom whimpered as he hid behind you. “What about Stacy? Don’t you hate her?”

“All my friends are either allergic or coming on the trip with me.” You pleaded with him.

“There has to be someone else who can watch this hell beast.” Tom spat as he shot daggers at Oatmeal. You chewed your bottom lip as you thought of way to keep him on board until something came to you.

“Well, my ex watched him a couple times.” You shrugged casually as you picked Oatmeal back up. “Maybe I can call him and-“

“I’ll watch the damn cat.” Tom cut you off, always the jealous type. “Come here baby.”

He cooed and walked towards Oatmeal, who swiped at him with his claws.

“Ah! Bitch!” He screamed and jumped away from

“Are you sure?” You innocently batted your eyelashes. “I’m sure he’d be more than happy to-“

“La la la la la.” Tom held his hands over his ears and sang loudly. “Enough about him. I’ll watch Oatmeal. It’s just two days right?”

“Four days.” You kept a smile on your face so you wouldn’t worry him.

“Four days?” He gasped. “How many people is she getting married to?”

“Just one. Who knows? If this goes well, maybe she’ll be flying out to my wedding soon.” You flirted as you held his chin between your fingers. This pulled a smile out of Tom, making him walk to you and wrap his arms around you. You fitted your face into the crook of his neck and left a kiss there, taking in your last few moments with him before you left.

“I’ll miss you, princess.” He mumbled as he rubbed soft circles onto your back.

“I’ll miss you too.” You sighed, resting your chin on his shoulder. You pulled away after a long time and kissed him, letting it linger until you couldn’t breath. You patted his cheek softly before bending down and petting Oatmeal.

“Amd I’ll miss you Mr. Fluffy Pants.” You cooed as you picked him up. “Who has the fluffiest pants?”

“I believe that’s his feline obesity.” Tom said sweetly as he narrowed his eyes at your cat.

“Funny.” You stuck your tongue out at him. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“Don’t be late.” He pouted, feeling his heart sink as you collected your things. You noticed his forlorn demeanor and hugged him again, taking in the scent of his cologne.

“How could I stay away from my baby?” You mumbled into his ear. You pulled away and jutted your bottom lip out before smiling wickedly.

“And I’ll miss you too.” You added as you pulled away. Tom rolled his eyes at you while you opened his door.

“Hilarious.” He replied sarcastically. “I’m laughing my-“

The door shut.

“-ass off.” He said weakly as silence settled into his home. He let out a sigh as he stared at the door, the smell of your perfume still lingering on his skin. He hated being apart from you, even if it was just for a few days. Tom’s reminiscing was cut short by a hatch meow from the floor. Tom jumped, having forgotten all about the cat he had promised to watch. Oatmeal stalked over to Tom and sat down in front of him as if to mock him.

“Listen you little whore.” Tom pointed an angry finger at the car. “I’m in charge. There will be no shenanigans this week, you hear me? Not one single shenanigan. That means no scratching the furniture, no shedding, and absolutely no napping in sunbeams. And I swear to God, if you piss on my rug, I’ll kill you. I will kill you with my bare hands. You hear me?”

The silence in the room was replaced with tension as Oatmeal silently stared at Tom with narrowed eyes. Finally, he let out a soft meow.

“Shut up.” Tom jumped again. “I’ll kill you.”

Oatmeal took another step towards Tom, making Tom take a step back. Oatmeal seemed to like this and sat down again.

“Why are you staring at me?” Tom snapped. “Do you want to fight?”

Oatmeal lifted his paw and put it back down, almost like he was stamping his foot. He let out a whine and took another step towards Tom, meowing towards the bag you had given him.

“Oh. It’s 6.” Tom realized. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Oatmeal meowed again, louder this time.

“Don’t use that tone with me.” Toms voice cracked. “My beloved just left and I’m very sensitive right now.”

Oatmeal tilted his head to stare at him, silently judging Tom as he wiped away a tear. Tom composed himself quickly and went over to the bag you’d left, taking out Oatmeal’s pink bowls and bag of food. Oatmeal jumped up on the counter to watch Tom as he prepared the food, both of them sneaking glances at each other every once in a while. Tom stuck his tongue out at the cat before setting his food on the ground.

“Here you go, fatass.” Tom snapped, taking a step back when Oatmeal walked over to the bowl. Oatmeal sniffed the food skeptically before looking up at Tom as if he was waiting for something.

“I’m not scratching you behind the ears.” Tom scoffed with hands on his hips. “You’re not royalty.”

Oatmeal let out a howl and pawed at the bowl, demanding his ear scratches.

“Starve, then.” Tom shrugged. “See if I care.”

Oatmeal hissed at Tom, who responded with the middle finger. He kept his middle finger up and directed at Oatmeal as he walked out of the room, going into his bed room to calm down. After five minutes of thinking, he went back to the kitchen.

“After care consideration I’ve realized Y/n will break up with me if I kill her cat, which is fair.” Tom announced as he walked to Oatmeal. “That is why I’m doing this. Not because I care about you or your well-being.”

Oatmeal meowed softly and pawed at the bowl again, making Tom roll his eyes as he crouched down.

“Here are your little bitch scratches behind your little bitch ears.” Tom grumbled as he scratched the cat. Oatmeal purred in satisfaction before eating the entirety of his bowl. Tom backed away and watched him, smiling a little at how docile he seemed. He quickly wiped the smile off his face as Oatmeal finished and looked up at him.

“I need to call my brother about a script we’re writing, not that it’s any of your business.” Tom said as he looked at the floor. “Don’t bother me while I’m on the phone.”

Oatmeal didn’t pay any attention to Tom, instead busying himself with cleaning his left paw. Tom narrowed his eyes at the cat and huffed out an angry breath.

“Whatever. I know you care You just won’t admit it because you’re jealous.” Tom laughed bitterly as he stared daggers at Oatmeal. Oatmeal continued to ignore Tom as he began licking his other paw.

“You’re jealous that I have abs and you have a flabby cat tummy that drags on the floor.” Tom continued, determined to get the cats attention. “And we both know which one Y/n prefers.”

Oatmeal flicked his eyes to Tom before lifting a leg and licking his nether regions. Tom gasped and touched a hand to his chest in offense.

“You’re disgusting.” Tom spat. “I’m leaving.”

Tom turned on his heel and heard a meow from behind him as he walked away, resembling a taunting laugh.

“Don’t follow me!” Tom called once he got to his office. He sat down at his desk and rubbed his tired eyes before dialing his brother.

Forty minutes later, Tom and Harry were knee deep in their script. They had gotten to standstill, unable to come to an agreement with where to take the story.

“Right, right.” Tom nodded as he rested his chin in his hands. “I was thinking for - - oh for Gods sake.”

Tom’s attention was claimed by Oatmeal slipping in through the crack in the door, letting out a meow to announce his presence. Harry saw Tom’s jaw clench as he stared at the cat offscreen, leaning closer to the camera to get a better look.

“Was that a cat?” Harry asked as he watched his brother swat at something to his left.

“Hey!” Tom bellowed as Oatmeal jumped up on the desk. “No feet on the table!”

“Mate, who are you yelling at?” Harry tapped the screen repeatedly to get his brothers attention.

“Oatmeal.” Tom grumbled, jerking his neck at the cat as if to challenge him to a fight.

“Y/n’s cat?” Harry chuckled, knowing all about his brothers hatred of cats. “Why is he at your place?”

“Shes at her cousins wedding this week.” Tom pouted. “I told her I’d watch the furry bastard.”

“How’s that going?” Harry smiled teasingly, already having an idea of how it was going. Before Tom could answer, Oatmeal walked in front of his phone and knocked it down with his tail. He let out a proud purr as Tom picked his phone back up.

“Shut up!” He shrieked. “I’m on the phone!”

“Tom! Stop yelling at the cat.” Harry snapped his fingers at Tom. “I asked you how it was going.”

Tom tore his eyes away from Oatmeal, who had made himself comfortable in one of Tom’s desk drawers.

“Not great, man.” Tom shook his head. “Not great.”

Monday

“I’m home.” Tom announced as he walked into his front door. “Did you kill any children and eat their souls while I was gone?”

Oatmeal didn’t come to the door right away like a dog would, making Tom worry briefly. He set his grocery bags down and knelt to the ground, patting his thighs the way he would do to call Tessa. It’s not that Tom was dying to see him, he just didn’t want to be the guy who lost his girlfriends cat. Much to his relief, Oatmeal appeared from around the corner, the bell around his neck jingling.

“There you are.” Tom sighed as he stood up. “You look like shit.”

Oatmeal hissed and pranced over to the couch, stretching out his limbs in a sunbeam before laying down. As his body his the couch, tufts of hair flew into the air. Tom’s eyes widened in surprise before running over to the couch to investigate. Even though it had been less than a day, Oatmeal had managed to get his fur all over the couch.

“Excuse me? What is this?” Tom demanded as he picked up some fur between his fingers. Oatmeal rolled onto his side and stared at Tom with unblinking eyes.

“What did I say about shedding? You think this is some brothel that you can defile with your fur? It’s not.” Tom snapped, stomping over to the hall closet to get the vacuum. He plugged it into the wall, shooting angry glared at Oatmeal every few seconds.

“Unbelievable.” Tom pretended to gag as he vacuumed up the hair. “You disgust me.”

Oatmeal flicked his tail back and forth, causing the fur Tom had missed to float into the air. Tom shook his fist at the cat before getting his food out and putting it in the bowl.

“I’m taking a shower.” He grumbled as he rinsed his hands. “Eat your damn food.”

Tuesday

“Oatmeal? Come in here.”

Tom stood with his hands on his hips, impatiently tapping his foot as he waited for the damned cat to come. When he didn’t show, Tom balled his fists in frustration and let out a silent scream.

“Oh my God. SPSPSPSPS.” Tom yelled, spit flying from his mouth as he called the cat once again. Oatmeal waltzed into the room, taking his sweet time to get to where Tom was.

“Do you want to explain to me what this is?” Tom asked angrily as he pointed to the surprise Oatmeal had left on the floor while he was working out. Oatmeal sat down and tilted his head at Tom, daring him to raise his voice.

“You’ve done it.” Tom nodded as he tightened his lips into a line. “You’ve shit on my floor.”

Oatmeal purred before turning his attention to his paw, loudly cleaning it to show Tom he had no shame.

“The disrespect you’ve shown for my hard wood is astounding.” Tom pointed a finger at him. “You’re a fiend. A sneaky, fatass little fiend.”

Oatmeal looked towards the kitchen table and meowed before looking back at Tom. He shook his body out, fur flying everywhere and settling in the air.

“Why must you insult me in this way? Why wouldn’t you go in your-“ Tom cut himself off when he looked at the litter box, still on the kitchen table where he left it. So that was what Oatmeal had been looking at.

“Oh. I told you not to put your feet on the table.” Tom realized the cat had listened to him after all. Oatmeal had pooped on the floor, but only because Tom failed to put the litter box down. Oatmeal let out a quiet meow and walked over to Tom, hitting his leg with his tail.

“No, I get it.” Tom sighed as he went to get cleaning supplies. “We were both at fault. I mean, I wasn’t the one who shit on the floor, but we both made a mistake.”

Oatmeal circled Tom’s body before taking a seat at his feet, peering up at him with wide eyes. Tom felt guilty as he looked at the animal, knowing he could never understand that he was sorry for yelling at him. He walked to the table and got the litter box, setting it down where Oatmeal could access it.

“Here.” He said softly. “Sorry about that.”

Oatmeal walked over to the box and looked up at Tom, giving Tom the impression that he was forgiven. But of course, Oatmeal still had a cold side. He hissed viciously at Tom before stepping into the littler box.

“Fine.” Tom scoffed. “I’m not sorry.”

Your cat and your boyfriend stared at each other for a long time, neither wanting to be the one to leave. That was a sign of weakness, and they were both determined to dominate the other.

“I’m getting frozen yogurt.” Tom said suddenly, unable to take the tension any longer. He grabbed his keys and left without another word.

Less than an hour later, Tom returned home with a ring of chocolate frozen yogurt around his mouth. He locked the front door and turned his light on, jumping when he saw Oatmeal sitting in the middle of the floor with a vacant stare.

“Jesus. Warn a guy, would you?” Tom rolled his eyes as he held a hand over his heart. “You could’ve given me a heart attack.”

Oatmeal stayed silent as Tom put his keys in the bowl by the door, his eyes following Tom’s every move.

“Yeah, you would’ve liked that, wouldn’t you?” Tom narrowed his eyes at Oatmeal before washing his hands in the kitchen sink. Oatmeal let out a loud hiss, making Tom jump out of his skin. He had crossed the room to get to Tom, all without making a sound, and sat himself at his feet. Tom stumbled back, only stopping when his back hit the wall. His heart pounded in his ears from the scare, and if he didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn Oatmeal was laughing at him. Not wanting to show weakness, Tom quickly collected himself and stood up straight.

“Alright listen here you little bitch.” Tom snapped. “I don’t like you. And if I wasn’t seriously in love with your owner, I would microwave you. I would put you in the microwave and watch you rotate just like them damn rotisserie chickens until you blew up. And then I would set the microwave on fire.”

Oatmeal let out a long meow, sounding insulted by Tom’s words. His eyes softened upon hearing the hurt in the cats voice, fixing his body language to not look as menacing.

“Okay I wouldn’t do all that, but I would drive out to a really far place and leave you there. And that’s basically the same thing.” Tom shouted as he folded his arms. Oatmeal dragged his paw behind his ear and purred, taking no interest in Tom or his threats.

“Shut the fuck up.” Tom hissed. Oatmeal hissed back and swiped a paw at Tom.

“I’ll shave you.” Tom threaten as he backed away. “I will shave you bare.”

Oatmeal continued to advance on him, backing the actor into a corner.

“You don’t think I’d do it?” Tom asked with a shaky voice. “I’ll get the buzzer right now. Do you know how ugly you’ll look?”

Oatmeal stopped in his place and sat down, leaning back on his front paws to stretch.

“That’s right.” Tom laughed sharply. “You’ll look like an uncooked chicken breast. Fuck you.”

Oatmeal watched Tom curiously as he left the room, satisfied with how the conversation went.

Wednesday

Tom sat at his kitchen island, slowing sipping his fourth glass of wine. It had gotten to the point in the week where he missed you too much to do much of anything, which resulted him getting drunk early in the day. He had been locked in a staring contest with Oatmeal for quite some time, never breaking eye contact as he poured his next glass.

“What are you looking at?” Tom slurred as he brought the wine glass to his lips. Oatmeal said nothing, blinking slowly at Tom as he drank.

“So what?” Tom shrugged. “My girlfriend is gone. I can get drunk at 2 pm.”

Oatmeal tilted his head to the side, something Tom was growing to resent.

“How dare you judge me?” He spoke slowly, heavily intoxicated now. “You’re not even wearing clothes.”

Oatmeal let out a soft meow, making a smile tug at Toms lips.

“Heh heh.” He chuckled as he took another sip. “Imagine that? You’d look pretty stupid in clothes.”

Oatmeal took a few steps toward Tom, sweetly purring as he rubbed himself against Toms legs.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to call you stupid.” Tom said softly. “If anyone’s stupid, it’s me. I should’ve gone with Y/n. I miss her so much.”

Oatmeal peered up at Tom with kind eyes, the first docile interaction between them.

“Yeah.” Tom smiled as reached down to scratch his ears. “Me too.”

Oatmeal jumped onto the chair, and then into Toms lap, nuzzling himself against his neck. Tom happily stroked his soft fur, liking this newfound civility between them.

“This is gonna sound crazy, but what can I say? I’m a crazy guy.” Tom laughed heartily. “Do you want to drink with me? Do you just wanna go crazy and drink away the day?”

Oatmeal looked up at Tom and meowed, making Tom smile.

“Hell yeah!” He cheered. He picked Oatmeal up with one hand and grabbed the wine bottle with the other. After setting Oatmeal down on the ground, he poured wine into his water bowl.

“Wine is for cats! Wine is for people! Wine is for people and cats and people.” Tom sang happily. Oatmeal purred as he watched Tom, curious about the unknown liquid in his bowl.

“Thats right.” Tom agreed. “It’s also for church.”

Oatmeal sniffed the wine and pulled away, the sour smell sending a shiver through his body. He waltzed over to a sunbeam that was lighting up the floor and laid down, letting the sun warm his body. Tom stared at him for a moment before shrugging and laying down beside the cat.

“Do you believe in God?” Tom asked as he looked over at him. Oatmeal let out a small meow, to which Tom raised his eyebrows.

“You’re crazy, man.” Tom shook his head and patted his chest. “You’re a crazy dude.”

He laid in the sun with Oatmeal in silence for a moment, taking in the warmth from the floor.

“It’s so warm down here.” Tom sighed in content. “It’s like a hug from the sun.”

Oatmeal swatted his tail towards Tom, making Tom smile. Tom reaching over and rubbed Oatmeal’s tummy, his attention diverting to the bell on his collar. He took it between his fingers and saw your name and address engraved on it, sighing again as he was reminded about how much he missed you.

“I have to tell you man, I love her so much.” Tom pouted wistfully. “Y/n is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Tom smiled as Oatmeal purred in understanding.

“You want another drink you crazy bastard?” He asked the cat as he got off the floor. He poured some wine into his glass, and then some into Oatmeal’s already full bowl.

“Me too, man. Me too.” Tom said as he took another sip and got back on the floor.

“You know, Oatmeal isn’t that bad of a name. I can see why she named you that, though.” Tom thought out loud as he stroked the cats fur. “You’re the exact color of her favorite kind. The maple brown sugar one, you know? She gets so excited in the winter when it’s one sale. I’ve seen her clear a whole shelf into her shopping cart. And then she sits down at the table when her hair is still messy and lets it warm her up. She puts her little spoon in it and blows on it even though it’s never that hot. She’s so cute, man. I love her so much. I could watch her eat oatmeal everyday.”

Oatmeal purred as he rubbed his head against Toms hand.

“I know.” Tom chuckled. “We really are lucky.”

Tom situated himself into a more comfortable position on the floor and held his hand up, letting the sun rays shine through his fingers and illuminate the cat hair in the air.

“I gotta say, you’re really onto something with this whole napping in sunbeams deal.” Tom commented. “I’m quite enjoying this.”

Tom was too busy drinking on the floor to hear his front door open. You set your bags down and went into the living room, smiling in confusion when you saw your boyfriend and your cat on the ground.

“Tom?” You laughed at the sight. “I’m home.”

Toms eyes widened as he sprang off the floor, the wine in his glass sloshing around as he stood up.

“It was his idea!” He exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at your cat.

“Oh really?” You humored him. “What are you guys doing?”

“We…sunbeam.” Tom explained as he weakly pointed at the sunbeam, still too drunk to form a real sentence.

“I see.” You chuckled as you wrapped your arms around his neck. You placed a welcomed kiss to his lips, immediately tasting the bitter wine.

“Are you drunk?” You asked as you finally noticed the wine glass in his hand.

“Maybe.” Tom giggled as he struggled to stand up straight.

“Never mind that.” Your eyes shifted to Oatmeal and the vacant spot next to him that your boyfriend previously inhabited. “Were you just…cuddling my cat?”

“No.” Tom said quickly. “We were both laying there and you happened to walk in during the brief moment we touched. That’s all.”

“Why were you on the floor?” You questioned as you took the wine glass from his hand and took a sip. Tom opened his mouth but found no words coming out, opting to change the subject instead.

“Come here!” He smiled as he pulled you in for a long hug. “I missed you. Tell me all about your trip.”

“I picked up food from your favorite restaurant. Let’s eat and I’ll tell you everything.” You suggested as you pulled away.

“That sounds perfect.” He sighed, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. “I’m starved.”

You pulled him in for another kiss before bending down to greet your cat.

“Hello baby.” You cooed as you scratched behind Oatmeal’s ears. “Were you a good boy for Tom?”

“He was all right.” Tom shrugged, sending a wink to the cat. “Nothing to report.”

“You spend all that time whining about watching him but you have nothing to report?” You asked skeptically as you stood back up.

“It was pretty mellow.” Tom said dismissively, not wanting to get into the multiple fights they had. You squinted at Tom as if you didn’t believe him and folded your arms.

“Hm. Maybe he did put that hex on you after all.” You teased. “I’m gonna change real quick and move my bags.”

“Okay. I missed you.” Tom pulled you by the hand and kissed you again before you could leave the room.

“I missed you more.” You gave him another quick kiss and grimaced. “You taste like alcohol.”

“I’ll set the table, princess.” He called after you as you walked towards his bedroom.

“Thank you!” You called back.

Tom got to work setting the table and putting the bag of food near the place settings. You came back in no time in one of his large T-shirts and a pair of his boxers. Tom smiled softly, always happy to see you in his clothing.

“You look comfy.” He commented as he pulled you towards him by the waist.

“I am.” You hummed. “That was such a long flight. I don’t know why I wore jeans.”

“Well at least you’re home now. I couldn’t handle us being apart for another day.” He pouted while resting his forehead against yours.

“Me either.” You smiled at him until your eyes shifted to the wall behind him, noticing something strange right away.

“Tom?” You asked as you pulled your head back.

“Yes, love?” He answered, obviously to the concerned look on your face.

“Why is there wine in Oatmeal’s food bowl?”

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[anxious-allie-ren]

I couldn't help myself from posting the next chapter already. I'm just too excited about this story and sharing it with you all! I hope you all enjoy this next chapter as well! It's probably my favorite thing I've written so far.

A few trigger warnings for this chapter: Violence, death, and childhood trauma.

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

Erota

Your majesty.

The invitation had arrived at his castle months ago. It sat open on his desk with no response for three weeks. He stares down at it as he finishes putting on his attire for the evening. It was a last minute decision to go. He still wasn't confident in such a decision, but it was too late to go back on it now. His aunt and uncle would be expecting him.

Ben had been a quiet boy. Growing up on the palace grounds was very secluded. High society members visited the King and Queen of Chandrila often. Balls, banquets, and glamorous events took place nearly every fortnight. But it was rare a child would accompany their parents. It was even rarer that Ben was allowed to attend such events.

His father was a strict man. He had married into power, Queen Leia taking control of the kingdom after her father had passed. He was anointed king soon after their marriage and took on numerous responsibilities. Most notable being the military and war plans. He was a courageous soldier, fighting in many of Chandrila's most notable wars. This tough exterior and pride carried into his parenting. Han pushed Ben to be just like him. He was to be strong, both physically and mentally. Any sign of emotion was seen as a weakness.

When Ben was just a boy, no older than four years of age, he had attended a hunting trip with his father and a few other noblemen. He kept to himself as he followed the men deep into the woods. He struggled to carry his bow and arrow, the weapon still larger than him. He observed the men bantering and preparing weapons of their own. He was much too young to understand what was to happen on this trip. But he would soon find out.

The group was stopped for a break within a small clearing. The men chugged bitter wine from their flasks and exchanged raunchy jokes. Ben was too busy watching a brilliantly blue butterfly floating about to absorb their words. He is ripped from his peaceful moment as his father quickly grabs his own weapon near his feet.

"Look across the clearing there, men. We've got a large one!"

Ben follows his fathers line of sight to a marvelous buck grazing the meadow in the distance. He was immediately taken with the animal. He had wooden toys of woodland animals just like it. A smile spread across his face as he watched the buck chew on blades of grass, its long antlers sat on his head like a crown. It reminded him of the crown his father was wearing now. Ben turns to look upon it just as his father pulls back the arrow and releases it. The buck is speared in the chest, just inches from its heart. It collapses in the grass, too stunned to take off. Han yells out in frustration.

"Motherfucker! That was a clear fucking shot!"

Ben's eyes water as he watches the buck writhed in pain, releasing wails that cut through the calm woods. Han looks to Ben and sees the tears trail down his chubby little cheeks. He rips his dagger from his boot and grabs Ben by the back of his collar, dragging him towards the wounded animal. Ben cries out in protest, trying to wriggle from his father's grasp.

"No father! I don't want to go near it!"

Han stops in front of the animal, shoving Ben in front of him and forcing the dagger into his tiny hands.

"Finish him off, boy. End his suffering."

Ben shakes his head, tears still falling from his eyes. He looks from the buck and back to the dagger. Blood is flowing from where it was punctured, creating a pool near his feet.

Ben sniffles and starts to back away. He lets out a small whimper and cries out, "I can't father! It was good! It did nothing wrong!"

Han growls in anger and pushes Ben closer to the animal.

"Do it, Ben! You need to stop being so fucking weak! Good or bad doesn't matter when you're facing another man's sword. All that matters is who comes out of the battle alive."

"But this isn't a battle! It's just an animal!"

Han's anger finally boils over. He grabs Ben's hand, forcing the dagger into his little fist and shoves it through the buck's heart. Ben screams in horror and fear as blood splatters onto his arms and chest. Han releases his grip on his hand, yanking out the dagger and wiping it on his pant leg.

"This kingdom has no use for a sensitive, spineless king. Toughen up, Benjamin or you will fail."

That moment had traumatized him. His father's words sunk into his soul, like a rock sinking to the bottom of the sea. He came back from that trip a bit hardened. As he grew, he continued to collect bricks of trauma, adding them slowly to the wall he hides behind. His fortress was solidified the day his parents passed.

He never got along with his father. His relationship with his mother wasn't good either. When he was an infant, Leia doted on him. She took on the responsibility of caring for him by herself, leaving her other duties to her advisors. She spent as much time with him as possible. But when Ben was about the age of three, she seemed to abandon him. Leia brought on nannies and wet nurses to care for him.

Leia was brought up as an independent, able lady. During her time in the ton, she was one of the most desired debutantes. But by the end of the season, she had chosen Lord Han Solo, the son of a Baron in Chandra. He was below her in status, but she was so enamored with him that they married quickly after meeting. Ben was born just ten months into their marriage. He provided Chandrila with its sought after heir. But a spare would still be needed in the event that tragedy were to strike. Leia tried desperately for another child, but nothing seemed to stick. She went as far as to bring in witch doctors and herbalists in hopes of success. The spare never came and the stress weighed on her greatly. The pain became too much to bear.

Leia returned to her duties and never spoke of children again. She distanced herself from the one she had as some way to cope with her failure. Seeing her living child grow only reminded her what she was lacking. They would remain separated for the rest of her life, only seeing each other at events.

Ben was only fifteen years old when his parents died. The king and queen were travelling to Chandrakant for a meeting with the Earl to discuss funding when they were attacked. Soldiers from a neighboring kingdom ambushed their carriage during the night. They were found in the morning by merchants traveling along that path. When their bodies were brought back to Chandrila and laid to rest, Ben was crowned as king.

During his coronation, he was given the choice to take on a reign name or keep his own. Both his parents had kept their names during their rule. His grandparents had as well. But he made the decision that day to let his past die along with his family. He would take on a new name and bring on a new era for Chandrila. From that day on he was formally known as His Majesty, King Kylo Ren of Chandrila.

Kylo had been living a secluded life for many years at this point. He preferred to stay introverted, doing what he had to for his kingdom and nothing more. The ballroom that was once filled with balls and galas had been retired. An event had not been held at the palace since his parents were alive. Meetings with nobility took place in the throne room. He did not travel. He did not leave the palace grounds.

But Kylo has now come of age, surpassed it by a few years even. His advisors were now beginning to push the idea of marriage on him. A heir and spare would be needed for the succession. Kylo simply brushed off their pestering questions during court. He would take a wife when he was good and ready.

But finding a wife meant leaving the grounds to search. This meant he must attend the events of the ton. Kylo had absolutely no interest in stepping foot in such frivolous festivities. When he decided it was time, he would simply have his advisor pick a lady for him. It's not as if the marriage would ever be anything more than a societal alliance. A way for both notable families to gain from the prospect. The notion of love was not even on Kylo's mind. He had lacked it all his life, never experiencing it to know what he was missing. A marriage and creating an heir would become another royal duty for him to fulfill.

He couldn't deny that he was shocked when the invitation was brought to him in his den. The King and Queen of Corellia had invited him to the first banquet of the season. It was to be held at their summer estate in the countryside of Corellia. He hadn't been there since he was a small boy.

During the nice summer months when the air was humid and the sun stayed in the sky long past his bedtime, his family went to visit the King and Queen. Uncle Luke was his mother's twin brother. They had both been raised in Chandrila and had been very close most of their lives. When they both came of age, it was decided that Chandrila would divide into two kingdoms. One for Princess Leia to rule, and one for Prince Luke. This is how the kingdom of Corellia was created. Ever since, Uncle Luke has ruled those territories.

Kylo had been fond of him when he was young. But when his parents passed and the responsibility of Chandrila was thrusted upon him, Uncle Luke never came to help. He didn't attend their burials. He didn't assist the young boy in the transition. He too, had abandoned him.

He realized on one late night, weeks after the invitation had arrived, that this was some sort of olive branch. A way from Luke to worm his way into Kylo's good graces. But this would not be enough for him. He wanted answers. He wanted justice. Overall, he wanted revenge. So he decided then to accept the invitation. Kylo would attend this banquet and get what he deserved.

But all those plans were put on hold the moment your name was announced to the ton.

Kylo had arrived about an hour ago. He entered through a back passage he remembered as a child, so as to not draw attention to his arrival. He had taken a glass of champagne off a passing tray and stood on the outskirts of the crowd. Young ladies gawked and whispered about him, giggling amongst one another. He paid them no mind, he was on a mission and he intended on completing it.

He was slowly making his way towards the back of the ballroom where his uncle sat when your arrival had been announced. He took no notice of it initially. But he stopped in his tracks as he got a glimpse of you through the crowd. Your deep red dress stood out against the pastels surrounding him. You were delicate in your motions, curtsying before your king and waiting for his command. He watched as Luke approached you, his uncle clearly as enamored with you as he was. Everyone in the room could hear his words as he spoke to you. Singing praises and compliments that undoubtedly made you beam with pride.

Your father had led you away after your interaction with the king. Kylo lost track of you as a group of gentlemen approached him to exchange pleasantries. He did his best to be polite, not wanting to draw more attention to himself than he clearly already had. He again tried to make his way through the crowd, only this time he was in search of you.

A petite young woman appeared in front of him before he could get his eyes on you.

She had shiny black hair, pinned up with elegant pins. Her dress was a nauseating pastel green and her jewelry constantly caught the light, nearly making him squint to look at her. She presented her hand to him and gave him a toothy smile.

"Hello, your grace. My name is Charlotte Ventress, the daughter of Lord and Lady Ventress. I saw you standing here all alone and felt so compelled to introduce myself."

Kylo nearly cringes from her introduction. Debutantes we're never meant to approach gentlemen. In fact it was the other way around. Her forwardness was immediately a turn off. It's unlikely he would have been interested in her, if he hadn't already been so taken by you. Kylo clears his throat and takes her hand, giving it a gentle shake.

"Hello, Miss Ventress. I'm humbled by your need for introduction, but I'm afraid you're using the wrong titles."

Charlotte looks at him confused, an eyebrow raising at his statement.

"Is that so? Well, then what title should I be using exactly?"

Her words were laced with attitude and sarcasm. Kylo smirked to himself, looking down at his pristine, shiny dress shoes. Did he look anything less than a king? He figured his attire would have given his status away, that's why he chose not to wear his crown. By her tone, he can only assume she thinks he's below her.

"The correct title would be your majesty, miss."

At this she tries to hold back a chuckle, placing her hand over her mouth to hide her amusement. Charlotte places a hand on her hip, her posture becoming more relaxed now. She thinks he's joking.

"Your majesty? Sir, I'm pretty sure the only royalty in this room is sitting over there."

She nods her head towards the back of the room, motioning to the thrones where his aunt and uncle are sat. Oh this poor girl has no clue.

"I believe you're referring to my aunt and uncle. I'm King Kylo of Chandrila, King Luke's nephew."

He watches as the recognition flies across her features. Eyes going wide and eyebrows raising in surprise. Charlotte immediately stands back up, making a poor attempt at presenting herself as dignified. It was much too late for that now.

"Oh, you're majesty! I'm so sorry for my lapse in judgement. How silly of me."

Kylo holds back his eye roll. Just another young woman fluttering her lashes at him for his titles. He nods to her and finishes off his champagne.

"Right, of course. You must excuse me, it seems my glass is empty."

With that he walks away from her, back on his pursuit to find where you'd gone. He comes to the outskirts of the dance floor, watching as lords and ladies waltz around in circles. A waiter begins to pass by and he is quick to place his empty flute on their tray.

Kylo stands in a relaxed position, hands clasped behind his back, as he watches the couples in front of him. He raises his eyes from the dance floor for a moment, hoping to spot your crimson colored dress amongst the crowd. That's when Kylo locks eyes with you from across the room. He takes in your features, admiring your beauty. He admittedly had very little experience with women. It was a rare occasion for him to speak with them. His interaction mostly took place with the ladies in court. All of them married and much older than him.

Kylo finally understood his uncle's words to you earlier. You held his intense gaze, allowing him to see the secrets held within your eyes. He felt like he was stuck in place, frozen in time with just your look. The moment ended abruptly as a ginger haired man stepped in front of you, blocking his view of you and cutting off your eye contact.

He instantly felt possessive. Kylo could see your discomfort through your body language. He kept watch from the side of the dance floor as you took the man's arm and joined him for the next song. He wanted your full attention.

Kylo decided then that he needed more of you. He wanted to know you, needed to know you. If joining the ton and surviving this season was what he had to do to make that happen, then so be it.

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

Poor baby Kylo! How are we feeling about Kylo's perspective? I'm hoping to include his view of things very often in this story. Please let me know what you think!

Love,

Allie

[swaps55]

Mnemonic

This is an AU version of a standalone scene from Cantata that I rewrote with kissing. Because there was a lot of UST and I am weak. 

Ao3

14 June 2180, Hades Gamma, Farinata System, SSV Myeongnyang

For a biotic, the armor never really comes off. What they carry under their skin is like a live wire, a current always in need of grounding.

Standing face-to-face with half a dozen L2 biotics holding the chairman of the Parliament Subcommittee for Transhuman Studies hostage on the MSV Ontario makes it a lot easier for Kaidan to see how much he takes for granted having a safe place to do it. And knowing how.

Reparations for the L2 side effects are a pipe dream. But a pipe dream Colin Daggett and his people needed to cling to, whatever the cost. And it had almost cost them everything.

Shepard doesn’t say much as they arrange for the survivors to be transferred to the Madrid’s brig and the engineering crew arrives to secure the Ontario for the trip to Arcturus. He says even less on the way through the airlock back to the ‘Yang, and the rest of the squad take their lead from him.

When they’re back on board the ship he disappears, sucking the air out of the room with him. They kit down without him.

“You’re an L2, aren’t you?” Pendergrass asks as she shoves her arms through the sleeves of her uniform, armor plating in a heap at her feet.  

Beaudoin jabs her with an elbow.

“Yeah,” Kaidan murmurs, fingers tracing the amp port on the back of his neck when he removes the protection plate. He flexes his fingers, gravity well jumping into his touch. As he reaches for his chest plate to store it in his gear locker, an electric shock passes through him.

When 23:00 rolls around, Kaidan shows up in the mess as usual, figuring he’ll keep it simple tonight and just make some pasta. Shepard is there waiting, as usual, picking at a spot on the table while Kaidan pulls out a pot and finds a container of pasta. The entire time the water boils Shepard doesn’t say a word, stubbornly lost in thought.

Kaidan tells himself he’s not going to do more than olive oil and garlic – it’s been too long of a day for effort – but by the time he gets it to the table there’s parmesan cheese, parsley, and even a little red pepper in the mix.

“You going to tell me what’s up, or do I get to guess?” Kaidan asks when he sits down across from him and hands off a fork. He spent too much energy on going above and beyond with the red pepper to bother with a second bowl. They’ll just have to share.

Shepard looks up, almost in surprise. “Just thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking ever since you got Chairman Burns through the airlock. Maybe you should think out loud.”

The gravity well churns as Shepard stirs eddies in it, in tune with the twirl of his fork in the pasta bowl. “Everything that happened on that ship hinged on what Daggett did with his pistol.”

His toying intensifies, until blue energy shimmers around his knuckles. This one’s been chewing at him. A snap of electricity skips between his finger and the fork, and he drops it with an annoyed mutter. He looks up.

“You pulled the gun out of his hands,” he says.

And Shepard had put a bullet between his eyes. The fight had gone out of the rest pretty quickly.

“He wasn’t going to put it down,” Kaidan says. “We all knew it.”

“No. He wasn’t. And if you hadn’t been there, that standoff turns into a clusterfuck where everyone dies.”

A soft smile tugs at Kaidan’s lips. “Guess it’s a good thing I was there.”

Shepard picks up the fork again, staring at it with an unfocused gaze before he stabs it back in the bowl and twirls more pasta.  

“I couldn’t have done what you did. I can’t refine a field like that. I was prepared to shoot everyone in that room. But you pulled the gun right out of his hands.”

Only because Shepard had given him the chance. Whether Shepard had done it with purpose or actually hesitated is a question he hasn’t been in a hurry to examine too closely.

“We work together, remember? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

Shepard huffs. “Yeah. We have.”

“But you’re just gonna get bent out of shape about not being able to do everything yourself, anyway.”

“Have you met me?” Shepard says with a helpless shrug.

“Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure,” Kaidan says with a chuckle. He pushes his chair back. “Come on, then.”

Shepard casts him a suspicious look. “Come where?”

“To the gym.”

“Alenko—”

“Come on.” He nods towards the elevator and starts walking, smirking a little when Shepard’s chair scrapes against the floor and his feet hit the deckplates.

“You’re just dying to give me a taste of my own medicine, aren’t you,” Shepard grouches when they board the lift.

“Oh, definitely.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Apparently not when it comes to taking people’s pistols out of their hands.”

Shepard chuckles, though he tries to choke off a smile by looking down at his feet. When they get to the gym Kaidan digs a canteen out of his locker and sets it down on one of the sparring mats.

“I’m guessing that your training didn’t include a lot of control drills,” he says.

Shepard shakes his head. “Tulak wasn’t big on control. Overwhelming tidal force tends to be the krogan approach.”

“You don’t say.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Alenko.”

Kaidan grins and points to the canteen. “Start simple. Just lift it off the ground.”  

Shepard rolls his eyes, but taps into the gravity well, corona enveloping him in a shroud of snapping blue tendrils. The hairs on Kaidan’s arms stand on end.

It’s so rare he gets to just watch Shepard work. All unrestrained power, from the loose, angry snarl of his corona to the sweeping mnemonics, make him seem larger than life. When he swipes the canteen off the floor he does it with his entire arm. The canteen leaps into the air, nearly hitting the ceiling before Shepard wrangles it. He only holds it still for half a second before sending it skidding to the other side of the gym.

“Hm,” Kaidan says.

Shepard gives him a withering look before marching off to fetch the wayward canteen. “It’s small. I don’t do well with small.”

“Not sure the size trips you up as much as you think it does,” Kaidan muses. “That mnemonic of yours applies some pretty impressive force automatically, so you’re already playing catch up if you’re trying to control the speed or direction.”

“See, I can’t tell if you’re complimenting me or giving me shit.”

“Both.”

“Har.”

Shepard resets the canteen and comes back to Kaidan to try it again, standing close but not so close their fields intersect. Kaidan watches through three variations that all end almost the same way, too much force being applied to the canteen, making it nearly impossible for Shepard to control where it goes, or where it doesn’t.

Doesn’t matter that he’s not accomplishing what it intends. The way the gravity well cants under his touch, the way his corona lights him ablaze like a flickering star, the way it caresses every nerve in Kaidan’s body like a swash of silk is mesmerizing. Kaidan swallows before trying to speak.  

“Good news is, if we ever need someone to punt a suspicious canteen into space, I know who to call.”

Shepard rolls his eyes. “And if you’re not around to yank pistols out of terrorist hands?”

“Well, first, I will be around. But second, as for the pistol, yanking it towards you isn’t so different from kicking it away from you.” He cracks a grin. “In your case you just need to be prepared to duck.”

“Have I mentioned that separating the pistol from the person holding it wouldn’t end well for anyone?” Shepard says. “If you were to go hold that canteen in your palm and ask me to do what I just did, you wouldn’t like me very much.”

I doubt that.

“One problem at a time,” Kaidan says. “Let’s work on controlling the canteen by itself, then we’ll add clutter.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

“You need a new mnemonic. You’re fighting yourself by adding force and trying to take it away at the same time.”

“I’m sensing a metaphor.”

Kaidan smirks. “Think that says more about you than it does me.” Before Shepard can protest he raises an arm. “Watch me. You don’t have to use my mnemonic, but I want you to see something different so you can visualize it.”

Shepard folds his arms across his chest, but does what Kaidan asks. A nervous thrill runs through him at the undivided attention.

Kaidan waves a wrist, a hard-learned, hard-fought mnemonic that now feels as natural as breathing. Dark energy rushes through him, responsive and willing, as his fingers flex and settle a field over the canteen. Very little mass-shifting needed to pick up a light-weight canteen, which makes it tricky to keep from doing exactly what Shepard did – send it spinning out of control. But Kaidan has spent years perfecting his ability to do exactly this, so the canteen rises off the floor until it reaches eye level. Kaidan closes his fist and holds it still, floating almost motionless in mid-air.

“That mnemonic is so damned subtle,” Shepard says with an appreciative shake of his head. A flush builds at the back of Kaidan’s neck.

“Easier for me that way.”

Shepard grunts and unfolds his arms. “I was never good at levitation.”

“Because your mnemonics always apply force.”

“Need force to yank that pistol.”

“Sure, but if you want to control it, you need to learn how to hold it still.”

“I’m not good at still.”

“I know,” Kaidan says, lips curving into a smile. “So come here and let me show you.”  

Shepard strays a step closer into Kaidan’s biotic field. The blend of auras creates a low keen through his nerves, familiar but always striking. The canteen wavers before falling to the ground.

“Sorry,” Shepard mumbles, but doesn’t back away.

“It’s fine,” Kaidan says, lifting the canteen again with another float of his palm.

Their eyes lock for a moment before Shepard clears his throat and looks down at Kaidan’s hand.

“You put everything in your wrist.”

“Yeah,” he manages. “You do it all with your arms.”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe, if you’re looking for finesse, try to create a mnemonic that’s a little, uh, smaller.”    

“With my wrist.”

“Right. Um, I’ll show you. Here.” He steps in front of Shepard, angling his body to align their right arms. He takes Shepard’s right hand guides it to his wrist, tingle running down his spine when his fingers close around it. Shepard glances at him with soft eyes that stop the breath in his throat, but doesn’t object.

“Hands-on teacher?”

“Best way to learn,” Kaidan replies, gaze flicking to Shepard’s mouth before going back to the canteen. “Just follow my lead. Don’t act on the canteen. Concentrate on what my arm does. Visualize it.”

“Sure,” Shepard murmurs.

Kaidan reaches into the gravity well, his own corona unfurling, a steady candle to Shepard’s flaring torch. Goosebumps rise on Shepard’s arm, a subtle reminder that he’s human after all, one Kaidan is almost never close enough to witness.

He takes a deep breath and flexes his wrist, Shepard’s fingers loose and feather-light against his skin. A crackle of dark energy passes between them before he snares the canteen and turns his wrist palm-up to lift it off the floor, Shepard close enough his breath washes over Kaidan’s cheek. The canteen wavers but Kaidan keeps it afloat for several seconds, the mingle of auras, ripple of kinetic energy and closeness of Shepard enough to make him dizzy.

He lets it go with a clatter and puts space between them.

“Does that help?” he asks, trying not to sound breathless.

“Yeah. It does.” Shepard’s gaze stays on him, still and steady. “Might take a while to hard-wire my brain for something in the wrist.”

“Doesn’t have to be that. It could be something else. But you associate those big movements with force. Take that away, you might have more luck with leaving velocity out of the initial execution, so you can add it how you need it. Have more control over it.”

Shepard’s mouth crooks in a half-smile. “Sure I’m not a lost cause when it comes to control?”

“I’m sure.”

Shepard breaks his gaze and focuses on the canteen, brow furrowed in concentration. Twice he catches himself using his arm, then nearly wrenches his wrist trying to restrict the movement.

“It’s so ingrained,” he says with a shake of his head.

“That’s why they work,” Kaidan says with a smile. “Here.” He steps close once again, positions reversed with his hand on Shepard’s wrist this time. “Let me help.”

“Fuck, your hands are cold,” Shepard says with a laugh.

Hastily, he loosens his grip. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Shepard says with a grin.  “Go on.”

Gently, Kaidan closes his fingers again. Shepard trains his eyes on the canteen, though they dart to Kaidan ever so briefly.

Shepard’s corona is so bright, so fierce, it’s a wonder he can wrangle it at all. Kaidan breathes in deep, letting his own kindle, the snick and crackle as they blend together forming a resonant hum that hovers just under his skin.

When Shepard’s arm moves, Kaidan tightens his grip, keeping the motion small. Instead of his usual languid, fluid posture, Shepard’s arm is stiff and resistant against him. The canteen spins in a circle but stays on the ground.  

“Breathe, Shepard,” Kaidan says softly. “Just let it happen.”

Shepard inhales deep, like someone trying to relearn how. This time they move together, Kaidan picking up the slack when Shepard falters, until the canteen hovers briefly in the air. It’s more under Kaidan’s control than Shepard’s, but it’s a start, and that’s what matters.

They gutter out and the canteen falls, but Kaidan doesn’t let go and doesn’t step away, not yet, not quite yet, not while the remnants of kinetic energy are still sharp in the air and he has to remind himself to breathe, too.

“How do you do that?” Shepard murmurs. “You worked around me, without…taking over. How do you do that?”

Their eyes lock for just a moment. God Kaidan could get lost there if he’s not careful. “Practice. Years of it.”

Let go.

He means to. He means to. In his head he loosens his hold on Shepard’s wrist, drops his hand away and puts space between them. That’s what he tells himself to do. That’s what he intends to do.

But while he does loosen his grip, instead of fall away, Kaidan’s fingertips brush Shepard’s knuckles, the pad of his thumb running along the round muscle of his palm.

It’s an accident. Just an accident. So many of their touches are, but rather than move or pull away, rather than let it be just another one of those excusable, explainable slips, Shepard exhales, the breath fluttering out of him, then splays his fingers wider, as if making room for Kaidan’s to slot between them.

Let go, let go.

But instead he explores the open space Shepard has left for him, fingertips light, hesitant, ghosting Shepard’s skin as he finds where they fit, hovering, hoping, but never daring to rest. Never giving up the ruse.

It’s an accident. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does.

Shepard stays still as a stone save for the rise and fall of his chest. They’re close enough now their cheeks almost touch, though whether Kaidan moves or Shepard does to close that gap he can’t say.

The next time Kaidan’s fingers trespass through that open space, Shepard closes his around them and traps them there.

Kaidan’s breath hitches.

The gravity well sighs as Shepard calls to it, glow of dark energy limming their hands, accompanied by a soundless hum that strums every nerve in Kaidan’s body before settling in his groin. Without thinking his other hand comes to rest on Shepard’s hip, needing something, anything, to hold onto.

A soft sound stirs in Shepard’s throat. Kaidan’s hand doesn’t stay on that hip for long, because Shepard seeks those fingers out, too, lacing them together. Kaidan folds both arms until Shepard is surrounded by them. There’s no imagining any space between them now – their cheeks rest against each other, Kaidan tightening his hold until Shepard is snug against his chest.

Shepard turns his head, but after briefly meeting each other’s gaze, his eyes drift down to Kaidan’s mouth.

Kaidan can still let go. There’s still a way out. Chalk it up to adrenaline, nerves leftover from the standoff on the Ontario. They can walk it off, laugh, pretend it never happened, continue on like they always have.

But he doesn’t let go, and then the millimeters between Shepard’s lips and Kaidan’s no longer exist and the window is gone.

Shepard’s mouth is warm, soft, lips tinged with the salt of his sweat. They start out slow, cautious, neither of them daring to think about it too hard, but that’s not a problem for long, because soon there’s no room to think about anything at all.

Nothing else matters but this.

Slow and cautious becomes deep and headlong, Kaidan pushing his tongue between Shepard’s teeth, Shepard sighing into his mouth and taking him in. His fingers tighten around Kaidan’s, the glow of dark energy rippling out from their joined hands until it swallows them whole. Kaidan gasps at the sensation.

Shepard kisses him harder.

God.

Kaidan wants to spin him around, throw his arms around his neck and meet him head on, give in to everything, all of it, but he can’t bear the thought of turning loose of that hand.    

They part when they run out of air, both straining to catch their breath, fingers still entwined, Shepard still firmly ensconced in Kaidan’s arms as his corona fades.

Shepard rests his cheek against Kaidan’s, ensconcing himself a little further.

“Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

Shepard’s fingers flex within his, twining and retwining, never letting go.

“You…don’t seem surprised.”

Kaidan closes his eyes, breathing him in, a star he’s somehow pulled down out of the heavens and trapped right here in his arms.  “No. Felt it…for a long time now.”

“Oh.”

“…Yeah.”

Their coronas may have faded, but the mingle of their biotic fields is a constant, soothing whisper under Kaidan’s skin. A small, contented sound slips from Shepard’s throat.  

“Why didn’t I see it?”

Kaidan huffs. “To be fair, I don’t think either of us are very good at this kind of thing.”

Shepard tightens his grip on Kaidan’s fingers and pulls them to his chest. The race of Shepard’s heart thrums under their joined hands. If Kaidan had any illusions about letting him go, they’re gone now.    

“I think I’d like to learn,” Shepard says.

Kaidan’s stomach flips. “Me too.”

They stay still, Kaidan content to hold him, Shepard content to be held, until their lips find each other once more. Kissing Shepard is easy, effortless, like it’s something they were meant to do, a safe place for the live current running under their skin to go to ground.

Shepard, against all evidence to the contrary, is…safe.  

Shepard gazes at him when they part, and butterflies cut loose in Kaidan’s stomach.

“You’re very good at that,” Shepard murmurs.

“We’re very good at a lot of things.”

“Yeah. We are.” He draws Kaidan’s hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Kaidan admits. “What do you want?”

“You.”

A shiver runs down Kaidan’s spine, the euphoria of that one, single word enough to make him lightheaded. So simple. So complicated. They’ll have choices to make, all of them with compromises and consequences. But that’s something for tomorrow. Right now there is only the truth.  

“I want that, too.”

Shepard releases Kaidan’s hand to turn until they’re face to face, then runs his fingers through the hairs growing over Kaidan’s right temple. All the while those glittering eyes search Kaidan’s face, as though reconciling all the things he knows with the things he’s learning for the first time.

The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile spreads across his face, pure, open, and full of possibility. “Taste of my own medicine, huh?”

“Well…” Kaidan shrugs helplessly, and Shepard’s grin only gets deeper.  

“Seems like I should have let you teach me a few things a long time ago.”

Kaidan flexes his fingers, a curl of dark energy igniting in his palm that draws out goosebumps along Shepard’s arm. “All in the wrist.”

Shepard laughs. It’s like music. “You and me.”

“I like that,” Kaidan murmurs, before kissing him again. “I like that a lot.”

[g0dtier]

im having dolf tested because he is obsessed with food to a degree that isnt normal

i have to lock him out of my room when im cooking or eating or he'll try and steal it. he learned to open doors. i have had to cat proof my entire kitchen because if i leave so much as a loaf of bread on the counter in plastic he will claw it open and eat it. this goes for anything edible. he recently managed to claw open a pack of dry spaghetti and was eating that when i spotted him. he chewed up a plastic brush i used to brush olive oil on some carrots that i had already cleaned.

i got him an automatic feeder to make sure he got food during different times of the day when i was working and he managed to figure out a way to knock it over and open it up. i taped it shut and i dont fucking know how he managed it but he clawed the tape off and got the lid off again. i bought one of those toys where he has to solve a puzzle to get food and it doesnt matter, he turns the entire thing upside down. he tore one of those plastic balls he had to fish the food out of in two

i have had to buy a new trash can because he figured out theres food in there and started knocking it over on purpose to go through my trash. the trash can is in a lower kitchen cabinet, beneath the faucet. so this motherfucker found out how to open cabinets and now i have hit litterbox standing in front of it out of sheer desperation

when im done eating he rushes to the sink to get whatever's left on my plate before i wash it off and will happily shove his head under the water to get it. then he will spend an hour (i timed it) licking the sink to make sure he's gotten everything. hes started licking my stovetop. he jumps into the refrigerator whenever i open it to get whatever he can. its like this every single day and im honestly so tired of it cause ive tried everything. toys, changing the environment, different diets, wet and dry food and it doesnt matter. he will easily eat 400gr of food overnight if he gets the chance

[kindahoping4forever]

Fight So Dirty // Ashton Irwin

Cass and I are already having such a blast with this month’s Hoe Hours! This time we came up with a concept and thought it’d be fun if we each wrote a story with how our fav guy would act in that situation. Watch for Cass’ Calum story to go up over on @cal-puddies​​ tomorrow! (And then come back over to my blog on Sunday for a new story co-written by the both of us! Different premise but one I’m confident will be appreciated 😌)

Warnings: An argument with Boyfriend!Ash (gasp), an incendiary dildo, sexting, depictions of both male and female masturbation 

Word Count: 3615

Masterlist // Taglist // Ko-Fi

Let  me  know  what  you  think!

————-

You had the idea when you were in the shower that morning and it seemed so perfect, you had to laugh; by the time your lunch break ended and you still hadn’t heard from Ashton, you had decided to go through with it.

He was out of town for a weekend writing session and the night before he left, he came over to your place for dinner and a proper goodbye. The last time he’d gone away, he’d hidden small gifts and short notes around the house for you and judging by the suspicious way he was slinking around while you cooked, he was planning on doing it again.

While you cleaned up the kitchen, he’d snuck into your bedroom, planning on leaving a cheeky note in your underwear drawer but instead he came stomping back into the room moments later with his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed.

“I told you I’d be there in a minute, baby. I just wanna get these dishes out of the sink now, I’m gonna be too tired later,” you turn and raise your eyebrows at him. “Hopefully.”

“What’s with the monster cock in your underwear drawer?” He spits out, voice deep and even.

You pause for a beat, more baffled than embarrassed. “I… what?” you ask, shutting off the sink and turning to face him. “Why were you in my underwear drawer and why does it bother you what I have in there?”

His jaw twitches but he remains cool. “Didn’t say I was bothered.” “Don’t seem unbothered,” you scoff.

“Answer the question,” he presses.

“Answer mine,” you argue.

Ash chews the side of his cheek in frustration. “I was trying to be romantic and leave you a surprise for while I’m gone but instead the thanks I get is discovering that my girlfriend is evidently hiding things from me,” he seethes.

“That’s a strange way to pronounce ‘hey baby, sorry my job takes me away from you for months at a time but I’m glad you’re an independent woman who is proactive in taking care of her basic human needs,’ you fire back. “‘Oh and thanks for making dinner for me.’”

He rolls his eyes. “Right, because I’m always the one being unreasonable.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what you’re being.” You can’t believe how frustrated you are in this moment. “You couldn’t possibly have been thinking the only time I ever get off when you’re on tour is when you get horny and call me for phone sex?”

“I know you get off, you didn’t tell me it was like this,” he states incredulously.

Your eyebrows shoot to the sky. “Why the fuck would I tell you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

You want to scream, he’s being so unnecessarily difficult.

You grit your teeth and try to steer the conversation in a productive direction. “OK, what did you think I was doing?”

“Not fucking a mythological creature.”

“Ash, it’s not that big.”

“Bigger than me.”

“Don’t be fucking dramatic, I’m trying to see god, not go home to him,” you say sarcastically.

The fight had only gotten nastier from there. He’d accused you of not trusting him enough to share with him, you’d called him controlling and an asshole; voices were raised, petty remarks exchanged and he stormed out. The next morning, you weren’t surprised by the absence of an apology text and since you received a message that simply read “arrived” yesterday afternoon, he’d been radio silent.

You don’t fight often but when you do, you both go all out. Neither of you likes admitting you were wrong and neither of you wants to be the one to apologize first, especially in cases like this where you both have things to be sorry for.

Arguments with Ashton are a chess game, you have to consider every possible outcome before you make a move and you know he does the same. Which is why you know your plan is so genius, there’s no way he’ll see it coming. 

You step into the lingerie he’d hidden in the closet for you to find, adjusting it in the mirror until your breasts sit just right in the plunging sheer material. He loves you in teddies and you grin at your reflection when you think about how livid he’s going to be that the first time he sees you in this one will be under these circumstances.

You grab your phone off the nightstand and walk back over to the mirror, evaluating your lighting and angle options; you snap a few natural photos and then a few that are more posed, arching your back, using the inside of your arms to push your tits together, all the tricks. You swipe through your choices, make your pick and fire it off to him with the message: 

Mad at you but not your taste in lingerie. 

You don’t expect to hear back from him. Not yet, anyway.

Ashton reaches for his phone on the bed next to him; he’d just gotten back from a short run to clear his head after another largely unproductive writing session. He knew he shouldn’t have left town without resolving everything with you but the things he’d said, the way he acted… there was too much mess to clean up and not enough time. Besides, you definitely owed him some apologies as well and could’ve picked up the phone as easily as him. Things were at a standstill and it was weighing on him.

He’s surprised to see your name in his notifications but is instantly suspicious when he sees that you’ve sent a photo message. His finger hovers over the screen, not wanting to click on it right away, wanting to make you wait to see the “sent” turn to “read,” wanting to make you wonder if he’s even near his phone. He knows you well enough to know you’re watching.

You toss your phone on the bed and roll your eyes; you know he’s got to be back in his room by now and you’re willing to bet he’s staring your notification down just because he can. You shake your head and start gathering what you need for your next move.

12 minutes pass before Ash allows himself to click on your message; your photo loads and he instantly feels his blood pressure rise, for multiple reasons. The sight of you in that low cut, mostly see-through number is every bit as heavenly as he’d hoped it would be when he bought it - only in his fantasy, he was going to be there to nibble down your cleavage and mouth over your nipples through the lace before he ripped it off of you.

He’s not sure whether to take this photo as an olive branch or a threat but the accompanying text message has him leaning towards the latter and honestly, that’s more exciting to him than if you were trying to make amends. You’ve acted out like this before and it’s always led to some great makeup sex.

Your intended tone is unmistakable when another message from you automatically loads in the conversation thread; this time it’s a video, along with a text reading: 

Missed saying goodbye to you like this.

Intrigued, he clicks on the video and immediately bolts up from where he was laying. The video begins and the only thing he sees on screen is your empty shower and the dildo he’d found that night, suction cupped to the wall, intimidatingly jutting out.

You enter the frame, still clad in your new teddy, and get on your knees; he watches in disbelief as your eyes stare directly into the camera and you begin licking up and down the shaft of the toy before swirling your tongue around the head and popping it in and out of your mouth.

Ash is both impressed and aghast at your audacious behavior. The first time he ever left you for a tour, he’d slept over and had to leave at an ungodly hour. He was careful not to wake you in the morning but you’d set your own alarm so you could see him off; you surprised him by hopping into the shower and dropping to your knees and ever since then, the night before he goes away, he stays at yours and you say goodbye in the morning with a shower blowjob.

You close your eyes and hum as you bob your head up and down, letting the spit collect in your mouth and then dribble out, down both the cock and your body. The loud pop of you pulling off reverberates off the shower tile and you wrap your lips around the synthetic balls, murmuring enthusiastically. 

You pull away from the wall, a single string of spit connecting you to the dildo; you move back up to the shaft and dart your eyes towards the lens once more before closing them as you stretch your mouth down its thickness, taking it in further and further, letting out a few gags because you know it turns him on, even if he swears it doesn’t.

Ash doesn’t realize he’s holding his phone with such an intense grip until his hand starts cramping up; he switches it to the other hand, shaking his ailing one out, trying to ignore the urge he’s having to rest it near or on the tent in his shorts. He’s fuming that you’re taunting him like this, furious that it’s making him miss you and that anger is going straight to his cock.

He bites his lip as you gag around the toy once more, tears streaming down your cheeks; he knows you think he enjoys it when you gag for him simply because he likes knowing he’s big but his favorite part about it is how you look up at him when he wipes the tears off your face. It’s the combination of the pure love and adoration in your eyes mixed with the uninhibited desire and lewdness of your mouth sucking at his cock that drives him crazy. He actually wishes there was a way for him to see that in this video.

He notices something and scrubs the video back a few seconds; just as he thought, right before it ends, he sees you spread your legs wider and your right hand disappears off camera. He remembers the lingerie he bought for you was crotchless and he groans quietly, squeezing himself through his clothes as you moan around the cock.

Blowing Ashton always got you wet but without hearing his quiet groans or feeling his fingers gripping your hair, this just wasn’t the same; you love knowing how you affect him, love his lustful affirmations. You lightly rub your clit as you pull off the toy but it’s the thought of you possibly making him hard, making him moan from miles away that has you crying out.    

You send off the video and chuckle to yourself when you notice that he sees it immediately upon delivery. You’re preparing for the final part of your plan when you hear your phone; you’re intrigued to see it’s a text from Ash and you’re too proud of yourself not to click on it right away. 

If you’re looking for a reaction, this is as good as you’re going to get.

You purse your lips, thinking of how to respond; you sit your phone down and finish what you were setting up. No harm in making him wait.

Ashton’s cock twitches with interest in his shorts as he watches the video again; he pauses the clip to check the thread again to make sure you hadn’t replied back. Of course you hadn’t. He loves and hates that you know him well enough to know this would get a reaction from him and he loves and hates that he felt desperate enough to give it to you.

The phone vibrates in his hand and he swears he feels himself get harder in anticipation of what he might be clicking on.

Got you talking to me, didn’t it?

He scoffs at your smugness and his mind races to construct a biting comeback when your next message comes through.

Feeling pretty accomplished. Think I’ll reward myself :)

Ash's heart pounds as he wonders what that could possibly mean and he begrudgingly presses his palm to his crotch, applying pressure to his throbbing cock. A video loads into the thread, a shorter one this time, and he clicks on it with bated breath.

Your face fills his screen, eyes wide with equal parts mischief and lust. “I keep thinking about the other night, how it’s too bad you decided to leave,” you say. He has to dip his hand inside his shorts and give himself a light squeeze when he hears your voice sounding so heavy with want. “Things between us were so heated, we were both so… impassioned? I feel like if you’d stayed only a little bit longer, things could’ve easily been resolved by you bending me over.”

He groans and begins slowly stroking himself as he watches you prop the phone on the counter and step away to reveal that you’ve lined it up to perfectly capture your large dildo, shiny and lubed, suctioned to the side of the kitchen island.

You bend forward, breasts gracefully spilling out of that damn teddy he picked out, and reach behind you to guide the large toy inside you. You lick your lips as you back up on it, slight whines escaping your throat as it stretches and fills you in ways that remind you of how it feels when Ash is inside you.

You start off slowly, letting yourself adjust to the girth but it doesn’t take long for your need to get the best of you and you pick up the pace, throwing yourself back on the toy at a more intense pace. You let your noises fall freely from your lips, hoping your boyfriend knows that in your mind you’re making them for him, imagining it’s his cock that’s making you feel this way, wishing his large hands were covering your ass like they always do when he has you like this.

Ashton growls in frustration when the video ends a few seconds later; surely, this can’t be the end of your torture. Or what if it is, what if your plan was to get him to break and text you and then you’d make your point by leaving him desperate for you like this? 

Minutes that feel like hours pass without another message from you and he hates giving you the satisfaction of another response from him but he feels he has no other choice. He finally takes his shorts off and wraps a hand around his cock, thumbing at the beads of precum gathering at the head and spreading it around as he strokes.

It took you longer than you expected to get the angle right for what you’re assuming will be your last video but you’re confident it won’t take much time for you to build yourself up again; you’re looking forward to making up with Ash but you can’t deny how fun this fight has become.

You check your shot on the phone screen one last time and satisfied with what you see, turn to walk over to the dining room chair where you plan to ride your toy to orgasm. You’ve only made it a few steps when you hear your text notification chime and you stop in your tracks. A second text comes through and you know it has to be him.

You bound back over to your phone and click on the message, which reads:

Is this what you wanted?

You take in a sharp breath when a photo of Ashton’s cock, leaking and surely aching for attention, loads in the thread. You click on it and focus on how his long fingers are gripping it by the base; it reminds you of how he holds it when he’s teasing it across your lips when you’re on your knees for him and you’re both aroused and annoyed by how your mouth actually waters.

Ash maintains a light rhythm, mainly using his fingertips to work his shaft; he’s enjoying the tease and doesn’t want to get too far gone until you give him a reason to. He smirks as a new message from you comes in only moments after he’s sent his text. You must be getting desperate too.

Would rather see you cum for me.

He grins at your response and laughs under his breath as he types out his reply:

Then send me something worth cumming to.

You scoff loudly at his text and you’re not sure why your instinct is to send him a heart emoji but you go with it. You press record on your phone and look into the lens. “I was sitting in the kitchen last night, thinking about how if you’d stayed, we might’ve sat here and talked things out,” you gesture at the dining table behind you. “I don’t know if we would’ve ended up on the same side or agreeing to disagree... But I do know there’s a good chance I would’ve climbed into your lap when we were done.”

You walk back to the dildo that started this whole thing, now attached to the seat of a chair and you hover over it, teasing your clit on its tip before sinking yourself down on it. You rock your hips moderately, letting yourself get used to the feeling again and then you lean back, bracing a hand on the back of the chair and start working yourself over in earnest. Your free hand tugs at the deep neckline of your lingerie, pulling your tits out, knowing if he were there, he would ask to see them bounce.

Ash groans as he watches the video of you riding your toy, your whines filling his earbuds. He sucks his lip in between his teeth, wishing his mouth was capturing one of your nipples instead. He’s fully jerking himself off now and he can tell by the way you’re whimpering and grinding, you’re already close; he tightens his grip, wanting to finish along with you.

Thinking about Ashton, alone in his room with his cock in his hand, wanting you, has you feeling needier than you have been in a while. You bounce yourself vigorously up and down your dildo and your hand makes its way down to circle your clit. You imagine it’s Ash underneath you: his hands playing with your tits, his strong thighs tensing under yours, his hot breath on your skin, his wrecked voice telling you to cum for him. You shudder and feel yourself begin to pulse around the toy; you don’t intend for his name to fall from your lips, but it does.

His phone shakes in one hand as Ashton fucks up into the other, watching you tense on his screen, legs shaking and breath uneven; he’s almost certain he hears his name and he’ll never admit it, but that’s what brings him over the edge. He grunts as his cum spills over his fingers and he’s surprised at how loud his voice is; it briefly flashes in his mind that he’s probably just as loud when he’s with you but his outbursts tend to be muffled by your skin or your kisses. 

You’re still in a post-orgasm haze when your phone alerts you to a new message from Ash; you click to view it and smile sinfully at the sight of your boyfriend’s spent cock laying on his stomach, cum covering his skin. A text comes in seconds later that simply says:

Happy now?

You think of a quippy reply but then find yourself hitting the call button instead. He picks up before the first ring even finishes sounding.

“What could you possibly have to say to me after that stunt?” He greets you, words harsh but voice light and sleepy like it always is after sex.

“Made you cum that hard, huh?” You taunt, surprised at how much you’ve missed his voice after just a couple of days.

He lets out an exaggerated huff. “Pretty inconsiderate of you, considering your greedy mouth isn’t here to clean up the mess,” he teases back.

“You know, that’s the one thing my fake cock can’t do, it can’t cover me in cum like yours can,” you joke.

He snorts. “Uh-huh. The one thing.”

“By my count, yes.”

“You wanna start fighting again?”

You smile, then sigh. “What was that even about, babe?”

He pauses and you can picture the look of contemplation on his face. “Jealousy? Pride? Guilt? I don’t know,” he admits. “I was already feeling bad about leaving… always feel bad about leaving. Maybe that just reminded me of how often I leave you. I don’t know.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds. “Didn’t cross your mind that I bought a giant dick because of how much I like yours?” You ask, half-kidding.

Ashton laughs softly. “I think that makes me kind of a giant dick, doesn’t it?”

“I mean…” 

He laughs louder. “I’m sorry, baby.”

You close your eyes and smile. “I know. I’m sorry too.” 

“Oh, not as sorry as you’re gonna be,” he warns playfully.

You grin, hoping you catch his meaning. “I can’t imagine what you mean by that,” you feign innocence.

“I can admit, I deserved all this," he states. You can hear the smirk in his voice. “But some of the things you said the other day? You deserve a little retaliation too, gorgeous.”

You bite your lip and sweetly reply, “What time should I expect you home, then?”

————-

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Click here if you’d like to be tagged for future fics and click here if your name is on my list but crossed out (Tumblr won’t let me @ you)

[acheez]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32465941/chapters/80509633

you asked for it! have my favorite Luci smut I've ever written 😅😁

I will dissect this into 3 or 4 key points cause this is one of my favorite fics like I am not shitting myself or yourself with this statement

The way you start the fic? Amazing. I loved the vocabulary you used (I could never bye) but I loved lucifer inner monologue per se about him hurting you and you hurting him in a sense of demon behavior deprivation. He is a fucking sadistic little meow meow but also he is very human as well and commits the same mistakes and feels the same things anyone that shares any part of his personality would feel

Sex. Look, I love, and I mean it in the "i love this trope more than i love my own mother" way the somnophilia kink. and when this motherfucker put those two filthy, long and very cummeable fingers inside I came, I conquered and I went outside to run a marathon. But the counterpart is that pet and master isnt my cup of tea. HOWEVER and I say this clapping with my ass cheeks, I love the tone and how he says it. It makes me feel almost humiliated and mortified. Reduced to a fucking piece of shi- wait no my dog ain't shit, she does it but yk. It made me feel tiny and insignificant like myself cause how I am 154cm tall OKAY LETS MOVE ON

nipple play. sir. oliver twist my nipples like candy envelope, twist them open if you need motherfucker but fuck you for denying my orgasm. I will fill a formal complain against you lucifer morningstar and put a star up yo ass and send you flyin' to the celestial realm

so far the first chapter only let's continue with the other two

GOLDEN BOI MAMMON CAMEO BEING IGNORED because my fucking sex is on fire *copyright by kings of leon* but bby bby when your shitty older brother started CSI me on you and if you could smell my golden drip lemme tell you, call me pussycat doll casue he pushin all my buttons. BYE I LOVE THIS FIC SO MUCH I AM JUST COMMENTING ON ANYTHING THIS IS A BLAST FUCKING HELL YEAH but I have to move forward to britney cause he said "strip" and you know me, you know I am a slave for that man and the second he said "masturbate" jesus fuck I enrolled in the army casue you had me saying yes sir over and over again

one thing I love, and I think I stated it clear is that, no, I dont like petplay but I am a motherfucking chewing toy. GOD THAT WAS SO HOT YOU HAVE NO CLUE, HAD TO TURN MY AC ON. IMMA SEND YOU MY ELECTRICITY BILL CASUE THIS YA FAULT

third chapter I have no longer thoughts, head empty, hand in pants stroking my cock

I WILL CALL MY LAWYER ON YOU NOW. how dare you make him touch himself the second I am out, mf. But he came fast, under a minute setrling new world record. Let's congratulate fast cummer lucifer ladies and gentlemen and in betweeners

If YOU DENY ME ANOTHER ORGASM I WILL DENY YOU BALLS PRIVILEGE. lemme become doctor house and castrate you morningstar. Nvm RIGHTS BACK. You praised me, I feel like the praising broke me bro...... left me ready to be taken to the pokecenter and be taken care of mf brock is JEALOUS. BUT I LOVE THIS PRAISING I AM ON MY KNEES THIS IS SO GOOD

"LOOK AT ME" yes I am looking at you jme, I saw what you did there ..... and I wish I've seen more NAH BUT LIKE I CANT CONTAIN MY HORNINESS ANYMORE JME LOOK HOW LONG THIS ANSWER IS. WHAT ELSE DO I NEED TO SAY THAN

"MINE" yes yes yes Lucifer call me the arctic monkeys cause I wanna be and baby i am yours. okay I SERIOUSLY CANT ANYMORE CANT U SEE HOW GRADUALLY IVE BEEN LOSING MY SHIT?

READ JME FIC HERE OR ELSE ..... *tragic music*

[carynnhalen]

Club Olympus was one of Carynn’s favorite spots in Gotham to visit. Usually because security was lax and it was easy to sneak in without paying the cover fee. Maxie Zeus was doing another stint in Arkham, and that meant it would be easy to score free drinks. Carynn weaved her way through the crowd of dancing people and headed for the bar, shoving her way between a couple of frat boys who were trying to work up the courage to ask Deadshot for a photo.

The guy behind the bar sent her a nod in greeting. “Sup, Carynn. You workin’?” his name was Nick. She’d met him a few years ago when he worked in a hole in the wall bar Josie’s that was in Hells Kitchen. He was nice enough. He was one of the only guys Carynn knew that still had a mohawk, but he was nice enough. 

Carynn scrunched her nose, shaking her head. “Taking the night off,” she shouted over the music. “Needed some peace and quiet.” 

Nick laughed, setting two glasses out in front of her. “The usual?” it was a rhetorical question. Nick filled one glass to the brim with whiskey, the top shelf option tonight, and the other filled with a vodka soda. “You stay out of trouble.” he said with a wink, pushing the two glasses towards her. 

“Always do! Later, Nick.” she scooped up her drinks, expertly heading back through the crowd and up to a balcony that usually served to be a little more quiet than the rest of the club. She hadn’t really had much of a plan for her night off. Mostly she just needed to blow off some steam. Between Captain America showing up to her apartment, and her phone ringing almost non stop with calls from Bruce, things were getting a little too mysterious and heavy all at once. 

Carynn plopped down in a booth, her kicking up her booted feet up onto the table. Taking a generous sip of her vodka soda, she pulled her phone out of her jacket and unlocked the screen. More calls from Bruce. A text from Cel. A few notifications from Dante commenting on her Instagram. 

She scrolled through her contacts; Bruce (even though she kept deleting and blocking his number it still seemed to find it’s way back onto her phone), Cel, Dante, Oliver, a few numbers of work contacts...was that it? Carynn sighed, downing the rest of her drink and picking up the glass of whiskey.

“I see you still have no manners.” a voice said in Russian just before Carynn’s feet were shoved off of the table.

Carynn’s frowned, looking up from her phone. “What the fuck do you think you’re-...oh, Christ. It’s you,” she rolled her eyes at the woman that was now sliding into the booth across from her. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere skinning a puppy or something?”

Isabel Rochev. She was the current owner of Queen Industries and a certified nutjob. She smiled sweetly at Carynn, almost like she was happy to see her. She folded her gloved hands onto the table, leaning towards Carynn with interest. The large rock that had once belonged to Oliver’s mother was almost blinding in the flickering lights above them. 

“I’ve missed you too, Carynn.” she said again in Russian, passing a glance over her shoulder quickly before looking back at the red head. “You are hard to find. Not because you’re in hiding, but because you can’t seem to sit still. I almost thought I’d have to forego my little proposition.” 

“You could tell me Keanu Reeves is downstairs waiting to use me as a chew toy. I’d still tell you to fuck off, Isabel.” Carynn said, kicking her feet back up onto the table. 

Isabel laughed a genuine laugh. Like they were good friends catching up. “Unfortunately, that is not the offer I have for you. My contacts have told me that Oliver is on his way back to Gotham. I was hoping you and I could come to an...agreement. I know you and Oliver are not in the best of places. And I know that for the right price you remove problems.” 

Carynn had to admit, this was a first. She’d never really expected anyone to offer her cash to off Oliver. And maybe, if it had been anyone else sitting across from her, she might have considered the job. “If you want him gone you should do it yourself. Nothing says girl boss like killing your sugar daddy’s son...” she frowned, tilting her head. “Was he your sugar daddy? I’ve never really understood your relationship, at least aside from him definitely being married to someone else the entire time...” 

Isabel pursed her lips. “Do not patronize me, Carynn. You and I are far more alike than you will ever admit. You know this deep down. I am offering you a solution to both of our problems.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Carynn spat. “And Oliver isn’t my problem anymore. I don’t waste time thinking about him. I have bigger shit to worry about.”

“Well, what are these problems? Perhaps I can help you. We could form a partnership. Take what belongs to us. I have come a long way since I last saw you-” Isabel looked to her right, into the crowd below them. She visibly froze, her eyes set on something. 

Carynn leaned forward, trying to follow Isabel’s gaze. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The bar was a little less crowded now. Carynn could spot one of the exit doors nearby. There was someone standing next to it. She couldn’t really make him out. Long, dark hair. A leather jacket. The black mask covering his nose and mouth stood out the most, but in a place like Gotham it was definitely not the craziest thing she’d seen. 

Isabel looked over her shoulder once more, nodding quickly. A tall man, who Carynn assumed had to be Isabel’s security, stepped towards them. He looked down into the crowd, surveying the area before speaking into an earpiece. Isabel turned her attention back to Carynn, her smile more nervous now than genuine. 

“I must go. Something has come up...please, think of my offer,” she set her clutch on the table, fishing through it before pulling out a business card. “This is where you can reach me. The number is safe, don’t worry. I hope to hear from you soon, Carynn.” 

Carynn watched Isabel walk off with her security guard before sinking down further into her seat and groaning. So much for peace and quiet. She picked up the card, rolling her eyes at the idea of taking up Isabel’s offer. Another number to put in my phone, at least, Carynn thought with a sigh. 

She tossed back the rest of her drink, slipping her phone and Isabel’s card back into her pocket before sliding out of the booth. Maybe she’d go to another club, maybe she’d head home, she wasn’t sure yet. 

Carynn headed downstairs, waving at Nick before slipping out of the same exit that Isabel’s mysterious friend had been standing next to just a few moments before. Carynn didn’t really care who he was to Isabel. Maybe he was some pissed off ex boyfriend, maybe he wanted to kill her. Who could really know? Carynn just didn’t want any part of whatever shit storm Isabel was no doubt stirring up. 

The alleyway outside of the club was quiet tonight. Usually there were a few people milling around, someone puking into the dumpster or arguing about what club to hit up next. Maybe it was still too early for that. Or maybe Batman was out patrolling and had spooked them all. 

The closer she got to the mouth of the alley, Carynn realized she could hear another heartbeat. It was slow, very quiet. Maybe someone passed out in the trash? That was definitely nothing she hadn’t seen before. She slowed down a little, pulling her phone out to pretend she was busy as she approached the dumpster. 

The smell wafting from it nearly smacked her across the face. It wasn’t a bad smell. Completely the opposite. Sort of a smoky yet spicy smell that made her mouth water like in the fall when Pauli’s Diner was serving pumpkin pie. Carynn leaned forward to try and get a look at whoever it was hiding by the dumpster. 

Something hit her like freight train. 

Carynn had been completely caught off guard. Her back smacked against the brick wall, pain radiating down her spine. Her attacker’s hand was around her throat, the gloved hand making her gurgle as she struggled to breathe. Her vision blurred in and out, but she could just barely make out the man that Isabel had been watching just minutes ago. 

“How do you know Isabel? What were you discussing?” more Russian, great. This was very, very, very not good. 

His hand was like an iron clamp around her throat. She couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. Carynn reached out, swiping blindly at his face to scratch him. 

Mister tall, dark and creepy let her go with an eye roll. Carynn slouched against the wall, coughing. “Talk.” he spat. 

He had gotten the upper hand on her once, that much she could admit. That wasn’t something that would happen again. “I don’t know anything,” Carynn snapped back in English. “It’s not like we’re friends. She’s a pain in the ass...! Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay? I don’t really have much info-”

She pulled the knife she had clipped to her belt free and lunged forward. Her mystery man moved quickly, but not quickly enough. The blade pierced through his jacket, grazing his skin. 

He grabbed her throat again, slamming Carynn back into the brick wall. She’d been expecting something like that. She grabbed her knife, getting a better grip of it and kicking her feet up against his chest and using all of her weight to shove him away. 

Carynn rushed forward, Dark and Emo blocking her physical blows easily. He moved just as quickly as she did. Now that they were both fully alert, it was difficult for either of them to get a good hit in. Carynn noticed that he didn’t guard his left arm as vigorously as his right, and she saw a window of opportunity. 

She tried to bury her knife into his left bicep. It ripped through his jacket, but the sound that was almost like nails on a chalkboard made Carynn flinch and jump back from him. The blade of her knife had been almost snapped in half. “What the fuck...” she muttered, tossing the dagger aside. 

Her opponent leaned down, pulling a large, tactical knife that was strapped to his boots. He lunged towards her, Carynn throwing her arms up in front of her to block his swing. She kicked down hard at his shin, throwing him slightly off balance as he tossed the knife from one hand to his other, the blade stabbing through her jacket.

Carynn slipped down and around him, jumping onto his back. Her legs wrapped tightly around his wait, she put him into a headlock. Terminator man didn’t seem very panicked, regardless of his airway being cut off. He spun around, slamming Carynn into the wall a few times in an attempt of knocking her off of him. 

Her grip around his throat loosened, instead she decided to try and pull his mask off to get a better look at who was trying to attack her. Unfortunately that distraction left her open, and the man sunk his knife into her thigh. Carynn screamed out in pain, her opponent tossing her off of him easily.

She landed on the ground with a thud. She had to move quickly. He was stomping towards her, his hands clenched at his sides. Carynn ripped the knife from her leg with a grunt. This would definitely slow her down. She couldn’t afford to be slow. 

Carynn tossed the knife. It was better to keep him from it than having it to defend herself. The Masked Douchebag bent forward to grab her ankle. Carynn kicked at him, but he easily smacked her leg away. He lifted her up, slamming her into the wall. Carynn fell face down, groaning loudly. Get up, get up, get up, she told herself. 

The sound of boots stomping towards her made her panic. She reached inside of her bra as the stranger picked her up by her jacket, pulling out the pocket knife she kept there. Before he could throw her again, she plunged the knife into his side. This time it did more damage than ruining his clothes. 

He dropped her, grunting in pain and anger. Carynn used the distraction to push herself up off the ground, rushing away towards the dumpster to put distance between them. Her leg gave out from under her, and she fell into a pile of trash bags. 

Her opponent pulled the knife from his side, once again tossing it aside and heading straight for Carynn. She scrambled backwards, freezing at the sound of a phone ringing. The two went still, looking at each other as the ringing filled the alley way. 

The man reached into his jacket, pulling a flip phone out. “We have spotted the target. Enough of whatever it is you are doing. Get to the bottom of whatever Isabel has planned.” someone said on the other line. 

“Yes sir,” the Masked Asshole said. “Send me the address. I will find her.” he closed his phone, his eyes trained on Carynn. And as quickly as the altercation had started, it was suddenly over. He turned, grabbing his knife from the ground and wiping it clean on his pants. Without looking back at her, he strolled off and out of the alley way as if nothing had happened.

Carynn let out a loud, relieved sigh and sank back into the trash bags. “Holy fuck that hurts,” she hissed out, grabbing at her thigh. Her hands were covered in warm, sticky blood. “These are my favorite pants...I’m gonna find you you goddamn bastard!” she shouted after the stranger. 

She groaned, pulling out her phone. She would heal eventually, but now there was no way she’d be able to make it home on her own. And taxi drivers didn’t like it so much when you bled all over their seats. She opened up a new message, pinging her location and typing the word help to Dante. 

“I fucking hate this city.” she sighed, leaning back to look up at the starry sky above her.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Trapped” Part 5

Almost one year ago, someone tried to kill The Joker in a speeding car and Y/N pushed him out of the way, getting hit instead. With a fractured skull and broken bones, she was out of business for 6 months; when she finally recovered, The Queen of Gotham wasn’t the same anymore. Trapped inside her own mind and exhibiting severe cognitive impairment, Y/N’s life switched upside down without any hope of ever returning to normal.

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4

4 Months Pregnant

“I need customized stickers that say Baby On Board for my purple Lamborghini and the other cars I drive,” The Joker growls at his own idea whilst sharing it with the person fulfilling his wacko trades: Franco Rossi, the leader of best underground supply chain in Gotham.

“When would you like them ready Mister J? After Y/N gives birth?”

“Nope! Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?...” Franco hesitantly inquiries about the sudden emergency since he can’t understand why The King of Gotham demands them so fast.

The Joker hates explaining yet certain people are obtuse thus they necessitate enlightenment.

“Y/N’s pregnant: when she gets in a car, the baby is also. Baby on board! Hello??” the father-to-be loses his temper.

Who can argue with The Joker’s logic? Nobody. It sort of makes sense anyway.

“Of course, Mister J. I’ll have them ready. If you drop by after 6pm, I’ll have your guns ready too.”

“Perfect!” the Joker hangs up among the ruckus coming from the office near the kitchen: sounds of shattered objects and yelling alert Richard aka Panda you’re at it again. He nonchalantly passes by in order to deliver the items to The Clown.  

“Your drinks Mister J,” he gives one cup with Starbucks caramel latte to his boss and the other is placed on the table. Why does your boyfriend require 2 identical containers? It won’t take long to solve the mystery.

“Are the lids glued?”

Strange question but there’s a purpose in it.

“Yes sir. How is she doing?”

“She’s hormonal: breaking things makes her feel better which reminds me we have to hoard porcelain objects for her to wreck. NO glass!”

“Sure, I’ll tell the crew,” Richard leaves the kitchen while texting Frost. “Hulk needs more to smash,” he types the code name they gave you in the last weeks although The King knows about it: J’s the one that came up with it.

“Hey Pumpkin,” you are greeted as soon as you pop up from the office. “How’d it go?” he scrolls down on his phone and takes a sip of hot liquid.

“Ugghh!” a frustrated Y/N swings the yellow teddy bear The Joker stole for her on their first date, hitting his hand in the process. The drink flies near the fridge and splatters on the floor with minimal damage: only a tiny puddle instead of a disaster, that’s why the lids are glued.

Safety measure for The Queen’s unpredictability.

J grabs his reserve cup of coffee, paying attention now hence he dodges your renewed attack and keeps his coffee intact.

That’s why his drinks have the lids glued, in case you catch him off guard the second time it will result in negligible destruction.

It happened before.

“I don’t think so Princess,” The Joker strong grip on the container calms you a bit because you won’t be able to win this round. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” you pout and sit in his lap.

“I bet the baby is,” the secret weapon is unleashed: J discovered such a gem by accident and it works like a charm. How can Y/N say “no” if the baby is involved? She can’t.

A plate filled with a bunch of your favorite breakfast food is placed in front of you and strangely enough you’re instantly hungry.

“Extra bacon,” he purrs. “Plus chocolate dip and honey mustard for your pickled cherries. I added peanut butter olives as a bonus.”

In your defense, you’ve been having weird cravings lately.

You place the toy on the chair nearby and start eating, ogling a Joker texting back and forth with his business partners. He chews the morsel you just offered and shivers: waffle dipped in clam juice is disgusting. Maybe he should look at the food you shove in his mouth.

“Gross,” J washes the terrible taste with coffee and gets a kiss for encouragement, yet he’s aware of the connotations. Another kiss confirms it.

Let’s put it this way: besides the hormonal episodes and food demands, The Queen has had a fresh type of craving recently - The Joker kind.

More than usually.

That’s why he has to clear it up.

“I’m flattered for being the center of attention; we gotta keep in mind that contrary to the popular belief, I don’t have unlimited stamina, Pumpkin.”

You nod in agreement and unbutton his pants, then unzip them also.

“Y/N, pay attention!” J insists since you don’t give a damn about his woes. “Think about it as a two way street: The Joker Street and I Want To Break Things Street. Are you with me so far?” he double checks.

Why is he yapping so much??! I guess you should make an effort to comprehend: he’s even doodling patterns on his phone to emphasize the speech.

“When you get hormonal, Princess, let’s try and walk on the I Want To Break Things Street instead of The Joker Street, hm? The Joker Street is sometimes closed for repairs until further announcement.”

OK, OK, this is a lecture. Something about a Joker Street, he seems upset he doesn’t have one…?... Right?...

If you were him, you would be pissed Gotham didn’t name a street in your honor when you’re so important for the town.

Another peck on his neck, then your lips go down his collar bone.

“You’re not paying attention, are you?” J mutters when it’s clear his shirt won’t remain on his body for too long.

“I am,” you defend yourself.

“Oh yeah? What did I say then?”

“Ummm…” you try to piece together words among estrogen taking over. “No Joker Street?...”

“Bingo, that’s it Princess! No Joker Street, correct! Choose the other street, yes?”

This time he kisses you, excited his idea was well received when in fact, both parties are referring to unrelated concepts.

“Wait,” J dodges your touch, “Richard is calling.”

Because he’s on the phone ignoring Y/N, she is ensuring a nice surprise for later; concentrating to the maximum to avoid misspelling, the following message is sent to Franco Rossi from her cell:

“Make a landmark sign that says Joker Street.”

The King’s conversation is prolonged more than anticipated until he discerns you’re not wiggling: you feel asleep, softly snoring on his shoulder and he definitely can’t afford to wake you up.

The doctors said your body is trying to cope with the pregnancy the best way it can: if you doze off at random hours it means you ran out of fuel and you should rest. After cheating death and surviving the accident, the future mother is at high risk of serious complications which is why each day could lead to unforeseen problems.

The Joker rises from the chair holding you in his arms and after a few steps he realizes it’s difficult to walk: thanks to his unbuttoned and unzipped pants, they keep sliding lower and lower. There’s no way he will make it upstairs so maybe the sofa in the living room is the best option. He almost trips thus he begins to drag his feet on the carpet, the pants at knee level now.

“I’m reduced to a piece of meat,” J grumbles, finally making it to the couch and placing Y/N on it so she can have her power nap.

*************

6:02pm

You accompanied The King to a meeting with Seraphim, the best hacker/strategist J uses: they’ve been plotting for a while concerning D.A. Kevin Winchester. The politician is becoming a huge pain in the butt for Gotham’s underworld and something must be done; either annihilation or blackmail, it truly doesn’t matter since he’s bad for business. Due to a total lack of interest in the subject, you are exploring the surroundings quite angry The Joker dragged you here.

Luckily there’s stuff to do.

Bam! you punch the fragile glass sculpture and it splinters into a million pieces on the lavish marble floor.

Seraphim jumps at the noise, immediately recognizing his beloved possession:

“That’s…,” he gulps, appalled. “That’s a Vitriol!”

Yup, the one and only Degas Vitriol, the latest sensation taking the art universe by storm.

“She’s hormonal,” J sneers. “She breaks shit!”

“That’s valued at 150,000 dollars!” the hacker breaths in much needed oxygen regarding the atrocity unfolding at his hideout.

“So??!!” your boyfriend sucks on his teeth, irritated. “Serves you right for buying that asshole’s artsy fartsy crap!”

The Joker actually has 4 Vitriol masterpieces at the mansion yet you were strictly forbidden to destroy them, alas he gave you the office for your rampages.

You continue your exploration as they talk about God knows what until you perceive an alarming detail: Seraphim is literally screaming having a gun pointed at J.

You sneak behind him then in a split second you strike the pistol out of his hand and your fist lands on his temple with such brutality it knocks him out unconscious.

“What the hell are you doing, Y/N???” The Clown hisses at your erratic behavior.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing??!!!” he repeats, annoyed.

“S-saving  you…,” you stutter, confused on why J is mad. “He was yelling and…mmm, had a gun,” you wince in pain because your knuckles hurt from the impact.

“The guy’s half deaf and sometimes he raises his voice without noticing, or did you forget??!! Now I have to wait until he comes to his senses and that’s a waste of my time, Y/N!!! Seraphim wasn’t threatening me, he was showing me his newest collectible!!! I suppose someone with half a brain can’t acknowledge the mess they’ve created!!!”

A lot of accusations thrown your way still… the last sentence brings tears in your eyes.

“I…” you bite your lower lip. “…I don’t have half of brain…”

“Wanna bet??” The Joker bites more instead of leveling with your logic: you though he was in danger and took action. If it was a real emergency, yes, you would have been the hero; it’s not and apparently he can’t appreciate your fast intervention in these circumstances.

“Y-you’re stupid…” you whisper, frustrated. “You don’t understand anything…”

Here it is -- the cataclysmic event of the century: someone called The Joker stupid. He’s beyond outraged with nothing better to utter besides a very childish:

“You’re stupid!”

Y/N turns around and stomps out of the house leaving a trail of destruction outside: she slaps the bottled water out of The Shark’s hand, kicks Panda’s shin and snatches Frost’s donut basically inhaling the sweet treat.

“I want to go h-home!!” you shout and enter the first vehicle you see, slamming the door so hard the window on the passenger side cracks.

“Jesus…” Jonny mumbles and being the sensible man that he is you are offered the whole box of pastries he purchased for his family. He can acquire more, but there’s no way in hell he wants to endure Y/N in the state she’s in.

Gotta keep Hulk calm somehow…

**************

3 Hours Afterwards

You sulk when The Joker strolls in the master bathroom frantically searching the cabinets.

“Did you see my shaver?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Did you see my shaver?”

“I…I wouldn’t know. I only have half a brain,” the surprisingly eloquent phrase queues J his woman is holding a grudge for his earlier statement. Why wouldn’t she? He was a complete jerk.

At least you didn’t catch on to the obvious: The King of Gotham doesn’t own a shaver; hair just grows on his head.  

He glimpses at Y/N soaking in the bathtub with a kid’s book in her left hand and the right hand fingers sunk into a bowl filled with ice placed at the edge of the Jacuzzi. The Joker leans over and switches your book since it’s upside down.

You huff at the unwanted help and stare at the pictures expecting he’ll look for his shaver and disappear.

You’re not that fortunate today.

“Imagine my surprise when I drove the main alley and detected a sign that says The Joker Street,” he brings up the topic.

Franco Rossi was super-efficient …sadly you ordered the item before J ran his mouth at the hacker’s place, otherwise you wouldn’t care he wants a street with his name.

“You said no… no Joker Street,” you stammer. “Now you have one,” the bitter tone makes him roll his eyes: Y/N’s brain got what it could from his monologue, he should have known better than to make it complicated.

“Excellent…” The King starts rubbing your tummy, “… precisely what I was aiming for. I’m washing the baby, not you!” he underlines when you move farther from him.

You scrunch your face displeased but let him do it because it’s for the baby.

“I know what you’re doing,” Y/N gives him a cold gaze. “U-using the baby… I’m not stupid!”

Busted, The Joker thinks. The schemer in him won’t accept defeat though.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Yes you did!”

“You said it first!!!” he reckons, antagonized. “Therefore two stupid people put together gotta make up for a smart one!!’

“I… I don’t wanna make out…” you frown at his suggestion.

The Joker sighs, deciding not to correct the trajectory of your judgement; it sure sounds like an opportunity.

“Why not?”

“I’m tired and…and I h-hate you,” your heavy eyelids close.

“Both viable reasons, even if I have to admit you striking Seraphim like that got me quite worked up. He’s no small fry! I had to wait for one hour for him to recover; you got a mean punch, woman! The more I reflect on it, the hornier I get. Which reminds me, Pumpkin: guess what?... … … I’m hormonal too.”

No answer, Pumpkin’s out.

“Of course nobody gives a damn if I’m hormonal!” he complaints while grabbing you from the bathtub. You cling to him for a few moments prior to drifting back into your dreams.

“Thanks for getting me all wet,” J snarls at the cruel reality of having his favorite Prada suit ruined.

“You…you’re welcome…” his Queen replies in her sleep, somehow her mind clutching to reality amidst pure relaxation.

This is what two hormonal individuals are reduced to: one’s dozing off, the other is suffering in silence, although being the proud owner of the tiniest road in Gotham compensates for the mishap.

It’s a two way street.

 Also read: Masterlist

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