#(but THAT shade of green? and the stripes? not convinced)

[ckret2]

Chapter 82 of you can really tell the writer got a new art program this week and went apeshit with it instead of doing anything productive: the Mystery Shack is in terrible peril from the government and only one thing can save them:

Teaching Bill Cipher how to flirt with humans!!

####

The Stans explained the plan to Dipper and Mabel as briefly as possible—that Bill had to save them all by flirting with the head fed—and that was about as far as they got before Mabel started squealing. They wished her good luck with Bill, wished him good luck with Mabel, and beat a hasty retreat, with Dipper tagging along after Ford on the pretense of helping figure out how to get the flash drive out of Gompers.

"This is perfect!" Mabel slammed the door closed—and Bill had the sneaking suspicion she'd trapped him on purpose—then grabbed both his hands to drag him further into the room. "I can see it now! He'll fall in love with you, and then he'll realize that living in a small logging town is so much more emotionally fulfilling than his high-pressure fast-paced big city government job, and he'll see what a special, magical place Gravity Falls is and he won't wanna do anything that could change it, and Washington will call him like, 'Your report is late! Have you forgotten your mission?' And he'll go 'I have a new mission now: my WIFE!' And—"

"Hold on!" Bill pulled his hands back. "I think you skipped the part where you married me off to a government agent."

"No I didn't! Because he says that and everyone gasps and then he gets down on his knee in front of you and pulls out a ring and—"

"In your dreams, star girl." He dropped onto Mabel's bed and crossed his legs. "Think a little less cheesy Christmas romcom, and more noir spy movie with a double-crossing femme fatale."

Mabel measured that up against her limited spy movie knowledge, and asked dubiously, "You're gonna drop him in a tank of sharks?"

"Hey, if you have one...!" Bill laughed. "But, no. The plan is just for me to keep him distracted long enough for the nerd squad to get the flash drive, wipe any sensitive data, and leave it somewhere that'll make the agents think the goat dumped it naturally."

Mabel considered that. She inhaled deeply. "Okay," she said. "But. What if it's one of those movies where the evil girl spy has a change of heart because of the good guy's charm and you do fall in love."

"Do you remember who we're talking about?" Bill asked. "Fine! If we fall in love, you can be the ring bearer, best maid, and officiant—but don't start stapling together a white dress just yet."

Mabel completely skipped past his main point. She whispered, "You'd let me make your wedding dress?"

"I'd turn down every fashion designer in Milan, Paris, New York, and London combined."

Her eyes widened. "I've gotta start drawing wedding dresses." She rummaged around the floor for an unused piece of paper and the nearest crayon and/or marker box.

"Draw me as a triangle," Bill said automatically. "So there, you're caught up on the plan!" He slowly slid off Mabel's bed toward the door. "So if you'd let me out so I can prepare..."

"Ohh no. Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford brought you to me to learn how to flirt, and I'm going to teach you how to flirt."

He groaned, but plopped back down on Mabel's bed. "I don't need to be taught how to flirt! I'm a pro! While your universe was still gearing up for a Big Bang, I was fending off marriage proposals from lovelorn generation ships and sentient oceans."

"You're not seducing ships and oceans." Mabel had already flopped onto the floor and drawn a triangle with an eye, and was trying to figure out how to put a dress on it. "You're seducing a man."

"Which is even easier! You people barely last a century, you're desperate! Humans fling themselves at me left and right!"

"Then you'll have no trouble passing my love quiz."

Bill automatically frowned. There was a part of him that still tensed up at the word "quiz" even if he did know more about romance than the entire human race combined. "What, like the one you put the guys through on your dating show?"

"Yes, but with all new questions! So you can't just copy all of Soos's answers to get a perfect score!"

"Psh! Like I need to copy anyone's answers," said Bill, who had never taken a quiz in his life without copying someone else's answers and had been planning to do just that. "All right, hit me."

"Question one! Uh..." She tapped a crayon to her chin as she thought. "What's the best gift to give on a first date? Jewelry, chocolate, a wedding ring, or flowers?"

"Ooh, we're starting with bribery, huh?" When in doubt, the right answer was usually C; but "jewelry" and "wedding ring" seemed kinda redundant. Well—cheating had never failed him before, why stop now? "None of the above! I've got a better answer than all of them!"

Mabel lowered her crayon to give him a skeptical look. "Oh yeah? What?"

"Sneak into their dreams the night before, find out their heart's desire, and surprise 'em with that," Bill said. "That's not even a romantic move. It'll let you win over a human in any context! Birthday parties, baby showers, job interviews, criminal trials, hostage negotiations..."

"What if you don't know their heart's desire?"

"Then you're not me."

She set down her crayon, laced her hands under her chin, and said, "Okay, then. If you were trying to win me over, what's my dream birthday gift?"

"Replacing your bedroom with a bouncy castle with inflatable furniture."

"Ha! No it's n..." She trailed off. "Wait. Ohmigosh."

"Told ya."

"I've been dreaming too small," Mabel whispered. She shoved aside her first drawing and started drawing her fantasy bedroom.

Bill picked up one of Mabel's dolls—a floppy tiger—and started talking to it like he was lecturing it. Forget this whole "taking a quiz" thing; he was much more comfortable in the roll of the teacher than the student. "And if it's a blind date and I can't stalk 'em beforehand, nobody's ever disappointed by a solid gold brick," he told the doll.  "It's both practical and pretty, and it appeals to humans' natural greed without making them feel sleazy about accepting a wad of hundreds from their date."

"What's Agent Powers's heart's desire?"

Heck. He didn't actually know. He'd ducked in on the guy's life a handful of times, but he'd never needed to pay that close attention to him. What did boring people like? "A really nice leather wallet," Bill said.

"Okay, you're off to a strong start," Mabel said. "Question two: what's the ideal location for a first date?"

"What are my options?"

"Fooey to the options! I wanna hear your thoughts."

"Then that's easy: anywhere they can't escape from until they love you," Bill said. "Even better if you can serenade 'em."

Mabel nodded in approval. "Perfect answer, full points! Every Inkwell princess movie and vampire novel on the market agrees! Question three: best first date outfit?"

"Sexy."

"Okay—yeah," Mabel said, "But specifically, what does that look like?"

"Tallest hat you can find," Bill said.

Mabel waited. Bill didn't say anything else. Mabel said, "What about the rest of the outfit?"

"Bow tie. Outfit complete."

"That's just what you wear."

"And it's always sexy!" Bill insisted.

"Maybe in Flatworld, but this is earth! If you go out dressed in nothing but a hat and a bow tie, you'll be having your date in the back of a police car!"

"Fine," Bill huffed. "Fifty pairs of gloves—and the more of them you have hands to fill, the better! A dress made out of blank checks! Two snakes! A fur coat made out of live kittens!" Bill shook the stuffed doll emphatically with each point. "Good enough?!"

Mabel squinted thoughtfully at him. "The kitten coat has potential."

"Damn me with faint praise, why don't you."

"What about more traditional romantic outfits? Like... a red velvet suit with a leopard print shirt? Or short shorts that say 'too hot' on the butt?" Mabel asked. "Or a t-shirt with your date's face on it in a heart! That shows your date 'I'm here to focus on you!'"

"What if my date's face is ugly, did you think about that?" Bill asked, mainly to cover up the fact that he was chagrined he hadn't thought of the velvet suit himself. "Forget about fashion. Next question!"

"Okay, how would you prepare yourself for the perfect date? Aside from finding a tall hat and stalking your date's dreams."

"Hygiene's the most important thing," Bill said. "Humans are very attuned to pheromones. It's one of your base instincts."

A look of relief cross Mabel's face. "Yes! Good start. So we're talking a shower, or...?"

"Oh yeah, if you're going on a date in this country, you've gotta scrub that skin raw. There is no smell Americans hate more than the natural smell of other human beings." 

Mabel nodded enthusiastically. "Right!"

"And once you've gotten rid of your real scent you've got to make sure you smell appealing. And that means making sure you smell the most! Cover up any competing suitors' scents with your own!"

Mabel made an uncertain hum. "Okaaay, sooo... what would you call an appropriate fragrance for a first date?"

He wasn't sure he liked the sound of the hum. "First date? You've got to make a strong impression, and set the mood for romance," he told the doll, so he didn't have to watch Mabel pass judgment. "So, I'm thinking... decaying salmon, deer pee, and ambergris."

Mabel was silent for an uncomfortably long time. Bill glanced at her. She immediately pulled her sweater up to hide her mouth. Voice strained with suppressed laughter, she said, "You don't think, maybe... floral scents...?"

Who did she think she was laughing at! He directed his attention back to Mabel's doll. The tiger didn't judge him. The tiger thought all his ideas were brilliant. "Is this guy looking for a garden or a girlfriend? I know ninety percent of the soaps and shampoos on the market are designed to make you smell like a fruit salad on the beach, but you humans don't know the first thing about what activates your own monkey-brained reproductive urges! Trust me: decaying salmon, deer pee, and ambergris! They reek of raw sex appeal!"

"What's ambergris?"

"It's a staple fragrance in the perfume industry! Some of the most popular scents in Hollywood have ambergris base notes!"

"Okay," Mabel said, "but what is it?"

"Okay so," Bill said, "when a sperm whale gets so constipated it kills 'em, the rest of its body rots off while the turd floats to the surface, and after it's bobbed around baking in the sun for a few decades—"

Mabel lay a hand on Bill's knee and gently said, "No." 

"Hey, I'm not the one who invented ambergris, that's your species's idea!"

"Bill, I'm sorry. But you've got the best and worst romance ideas with no in between, and you don't know the difference," Mabel said. "But I promise you're in good hands! I'm the best matchmaker in Gravity Falls! I helped hook up Soos and Melody, Robbie and Tambry, Waddles and Gompers, the Hand Witch and that hunky hiker guy..."

He threw Mabel's doll down on the bed, slumped back against the wall, crossed his arms, and sulked. Then he muttered, "But I've got the best ideas?"

"Oh yeah. You're like an untrained romance prodigy! You just need a liiittle help filtering out the diamonds from the coal."

He grunted. Then he grudgingly admitted, "Getting Waddles and Gompers together is pretty impressive. They have complete opposite political opinions."

"See? I'll have you date ready in no time!"

Bill heaved a frustrated sigh. "Fine. But I'd better at least get a killer makeover out of this."

"Definitely! I'm getting an expert on the case!" She pulled out her phone to send a text. Plus, whatever you're wearing tomorrow? I'm bedazzling the crap out of it."

"Good!"

"But first," Mabel said, "Let's talk about your technique."

####

"Lesson one of Mabel's Guide to Flirting With Humans: pick-up lines! First impressions are super important!"

"Pick-up lines are easy," Bill said. "I know a million of them!"

"That's great! Then this should be easy." Mabel pointed at the picture of Creggy G in the middle of her Sev'ral Timez poster, whom she'd designated as their attractive human for Bill's flirting practice. "Try one out." 

Bill sized up Creggy calculatingly, and said, "You know, your eyeballs are so beautiful."

"Yes!" Mabel cheered. "It's romantic! I love it!"

"—and they'd look even better in my mouth."

Mabel stared at Bill.

"What?" Bill asked. "Too forward? Should I save that for the second date?"

The flirting lesson quickly switched track from teaching Bill how to use a pick-up lines, to teaching Bill what pick-up lines not to use.

And from there, the conversation drifted to a list of subjects Bill wasn't allowed to discuss with the federal agent, which necessitated relocating to the living room so Mabel could set up an easel pad and record all the banned topics. Partway through, Stan drifted in and started throwing in his two cents.

The list of banned flirtation topics included: eyeballs; cannibalism; squid kings; dragonfly mating habits; mandibles; the time and method of living people's future deaths; the cold and lonely heat death of the universe ("Why?! It's a perfect excuse to suggest cuddling for warmth!"); fun get-to-know-you questions like "would you rather kill your mother or your father" or "which conspiracy theories would you most hate to be true"; which conspiracy theories were true; the agent's embarrassing middle school secrets that Bill shouldn't have known about but did; the agent's bald spot; cancer flavors; pending global disasters...

Bill flung his hands in the air. "So what does that leave to talk about?!"

"Anything else," Stan snapped.

"The Chuquicamata open pit copper mine."

"Anything normal."

Bill gave him a look akin to that of a vegetarian who'd just been asked to discuss his favorite cuts of beef. "Have you metme?"

"Try topics that get him in the right mindset for romance," Mabel said. "Like, 'what do you want your future wife's favorite color to be?' Or 'you look like dad material!'"

Bill nodded slowly. "So we're aggressively leading him on. I can work with that. I've never been a fan of subtlety."

"And call him charming," Stan said. "Guys love hearing they're charming. Oh, and tell him his jokes are funny."

"What if he doesn't tell jokes."

"All guys tell jokes when they're flirting! If he's not telling jokes, you're doing something wrong."

"It's true," Mabel said. "Watch any high school romance!" Bill gave them both a dubious look.

Stan glanced up as Ford and Dipper walked by the doorway with Gompers. "Tell 'im, Ford."

"What?"

"All men tell jokes when we're flirting! It's probably in our DNA or something."

Dipper thought about that, and nodded. "I tell jokes when I'm flirting."

Mabel shouted, "You try to tell jokes when you're flirting! Heyooo!"

"Hey."

Ford grimaced. "Usually when I'm flirting, I forget every joke I've ever heard and start asking as many questions as I can think of."

Bill said, "That's because you only flirt with things you want to add to your bestiary!"

"The point still stands." 

Dipper had leaned into the room to read the banned topic list. "Why are conspiracy theories off-limits? He came to Gravity Falls in the first place because he was looking for a paranormal conspiracy."

"Dipper's right," Ford said, "he'd probably be interested in the topic."

Bill flung his hands in the air. "Thank you! That's what I was saying!"

Stan shook his head, "Too close to discussing politics. What if they believe in different conspiracies!"

"Plus, watch this," Mabel said. "Hey Bill, what do you think about Flat Earth theory."

Bill groaned. "I was drunk, those statements were taken out of context, and I can't be held responsible if some idiot with a boat misinterpreted me."

Mabel looked at Ford and Dipper.

Dipper grimaced. "Got it."

Ford nodded. "Conspiracy theories are off-limits."

"This is why you're all single," Bill said.

####

Stan said, "And if you're gonna lie about your job—"

"Which you always should," Bill cut in.

"Obviously! But make sure it's not something too easy to verify. Like, you can't claim to be the governor, what if your date actually voted and knows who the governor is?"

"That's a good point! Margaret was not impressed."

"You're telling me! My suit smelled like broccoli cheese soup for weeks!"

"You shoulda suggested she get the house salad."

"Yeah, I—" Stan cut off. "Wait. How do you know about Margaret? That was twenty years ago!"

Dipper and Ford were in the kitchen, looking for every ingredient they could find that might coax Gompers to release the flash drive the old-fashioned way and listening to the discussion in the living room. Gompers nibbled at a dish towel, oblivious to the fate awaiting him.

Mabel trotted in and patted him as she passed. "Hey, you! You're giving us major trouble, you rascal!"

He bleated at her.

Mabel pushed up to the open fridge next to Dipper, and when he stepped aside to make more room for her, she stepped into his personal space again and leaned into him with her shoulder. "Why are you in the way, bro, jeez!"

"You're in the way!" He leaned against her in turn. "What are you doing in here? Aren't you supposed to be training Bill?"

"Grunkle Stan's taking the lead right now," Mabel said. "My talent is helping people find true love! But his talent is suckering someone into liking you for a day. So I think he's better suited to the task at hand."

"Oh, yeah." Dipper chuckled wryly. "His advice will get you a first date, but not a second date."

Ford muttered, "His technique hasn't changed since high school, I see."

Dipper found the bottle of prune juice he'd been looking for, pulled it out, and stepped back. Mabel yelped when her counterweight disappeared and stumbled sideways into the fridge door.

As Dipper emptied the juice into a mixing bowl, he said, "I'm not sure about this plan. Even with both you and Stan helping. I know Bill's good at tricking people, but... he's so annoying. And not in a lovable way."

"Don't undersell him!" Mabel said. She'd retrieved a pitcher of Mabel Juice and was dumping a full bottle of sprinkles into it—hardcore romance training required high stamina. "He has the potential to be a dreamboat!"

Ford muttered, "He's a manipulative, murderous monster." He was searching through all the cans they'd moved to the kitchen counter for beans.

"Those don't have to be mutually exclusive," Mabel insisted. "Serial killers get girlfriends. Sometimes after they're arrested!"

"I'mmm not seeing a dreamboat," Dipper said. "More like a shipwreck. I mean, when you were trying to come up with a list of romantic date foods, he suggested blood licked off your date's teeth."

"And he was right!" Mabel said. "Vampires, bro-bro!"

"Okay, but I don't think he was talking about teeth that were still attached to his date's skull!"

"He didn't say they weren't attached," said Mabel, with flagging conviction that suggested she hadn't considered that and was realizing Dipper was probably right.

"And five minutes ago you and Stan told him he should pretend to be a princess, and he told you he'd be great at that because he started an Internet dating service that matches up lonely widows with overseas con artists pretending to be deposed princes."

"Well," Mabel said sheepishly.

"And then he tried to talk you two into investing in a pyramid scheme to fund his dating service."

"But we didn't invest!" Mabel said.

"Only because you looked it up on your phone and discovered he'd made it up!"

"I mean, until then, it sounded romantic!" Mabel flung her hands out in a wide shrug. (Something about the gesture looked strange to Ford.) "Finding a second chance at love with a mysterious foreign criminal with a glamorous false identity? That'd be great if it was real!"

"Mabel, it's a scam," Dipper said exasperatedly.

"And do scam artists not deserve love, too?!" Mabel pounded a fist on the table emphatically. "What about Grunkle Stan! He deserves love! A rich overseas widow would be perfect for him!"

"That's not— The point is, Bill's not romantic!" Dipper said. "This plan isn't going to work!"

Ford set half a dozen bean cans next to Dipper's mixing bowl. "He doesn't need to be romantic," he said. "He only needs to be charismatic. And for all his flaws, he's certainly that." Planets will orbit stars and black holes just the same—and not even realize the difference. "He doesn't have to actually win Agent Powers's heart. He only has to keep his attention for a few hours. By the time Bill stops dazzling Powers long enough for him to see the red flags, we'll have the flash drive." He nodded toward Gompers. "If we get it before the agents return with a warrant, we might not even need Bill to distract him."

Dipper sighed. "Then let's hope Gompers likes prunes."

"Come on! Show a little faith!" Mabel said.

Ford muttered, "The last time I put my faith in Bill..." Dipper gestured emphatically at Ford in agreement.

"Not in Bill! In me! Mark my words, Grunkle Ford—I'll get this Cinderella ready to meet his Prince Charming if I have to summon every mouse in Gravity Falls to help sew his ballgown!"

"Please don't summon the wildlife again," Dipper groaned. "The last time you did that, huge spiders kept appearing in our room for a week."

Mabel's pocket vibrated; she pulled out her phone and gasped. She chugged down the rest of her juice in three sickly sweet gulps and bolted from the room. "Biiill! Your personal style consultant texted back!"

"My who?"

She dragged him out of the living room by the wrist. "Come on!"

Ford watched them run up the stairs, then started searching through their cereal boxes for the high fiber one. Tentatively, he asked, "Mabel doesn't actually think we're trying to get Bill and the agent together, does she?" The Prince Charming comment was concerning.

"I don't know," Dipper sighed. "A few days ago she started talking about trying to get Bill a love life? Maybe she sees this as a practice round."

"Really? Why, did he say he wants to date people?" If he wanted to get out of the shack to emotionally prey on the locals one-on-one without supervision...

"I don't think she's even told him yet. It's part of her project to... reintegrate him into society? She probably thinks the power of love can rehabilitate him." Dipper sighed. "She's setting herself up for disappointment. He's been conning people into thinking he's a good guy for billions of years, right? If being loved could fix him, he'd be an angel by now."

"Instead, he's just gotten better at pretending to be an angel," Ford said ruefully. "I'm inclined to agree with you." He found the cereal he'd been looking for and set it on the table by Dipper. "But then... we let him live, didn't we? Because we all hope we're wrong. I suppose that doesn't make us that different from Mabel."

Dipper shook his head emphatically. "Not me." He dumped one of the cans of beans into the prune juice a little harder than necessary. "I let him live for two reasons: because of Mabel, and because of that prophecy. And he doesn't have to change to fulfill some prophecy to save us—when it comes, he might just be trying to save his own stupid butt, too."

"I suppose so." Right—of course, even if he'd agreed to spare Bill, Dipper still didn't have any real hope for him beyond his usefulness.

Over the past month, Ford hadn't seen anything more sympathetic out of Bill than Dipper had. He wondered at himself for even being willing to consider Bill might change. When had Ford changed enough to consider it? Or was he just more susceptible to Bill's same old tricks?

"You don't remember the whole prophecy yet, do you?" Ford asked. "What if this is what it was about? Saving our family from the government because he's the only person the lead agent finds attractive enough to distract him?"

Dipper pulled a face. "I hope not," he said. "After everything he put us through? He owes us a fight to the death with an interdimensional eldritch god."

"Now that's a sight I'd pay to see."

####

MABEL: Heyyy Paz, can I ask for a small favor. I have a friend that needs a MAJOR MAKEOVER!! 😿 Like the FULL PRINCESS TRANSFORMATION treatment!! Can you help him?

PACIFICA: Can't, I'm suuuper busy today. I have the lunch shift AND grooming day at the ranch.

PACIFICA: Plus, why would I help some total rando? 😒

MABEL: Because it's my friend with the beautiful golden hair.

PACIFICA: asldkfggh

PACIFICA: OK fine come by the ranch after work

PACIFICA: and send me a picture of his skin next to a white paper so I can grab some foundations to try out.

####

Bill took a piece of paper and a marker, wrote "Make me beautiful!" and dotted the I and the exclamation point with hearts, flopped the least sunburned part of his arm next to the paper for Mabel to take a picture, and leaned away to keep his face out of it.

As Mabel snapped a couple pictures, she said, "Okay, before we visit Pacifica, I have to warn you. She can be a liiittle bit mean when it comes to fashion. So don't get mad at her, okay? It's how she shows she cares!"

"No it's not," Bill said.

"No, it's not," Mabel conceded. "But it doesn't mean she doesn't care. That's just... how she relates to other people! By insulting their fashion, style, and body. And family. And finances."

"Don't worry, star girl. I can take it."

"But I mean, she might be really, really, super mean about your looks," Mabel said. "And you cannot curse her or threaten to turn her bones into flutes or do anything Bill-ish like that. Promise me."

"Hey, bone flutes! That sounds like a fun arts and crafts project, right?"

"Bill!"

"Re-lax, it'll be fine," Bill said. "She's just your garden-variety pageant girl with an overly-critical mom who tried to relive her glory years through her daughter! I can handle a teenage ex-beauty queen. I'm an expert on those types."

Skeptically, Mabel said, "Really?" She was slowly coming to realize that, in Bill's opinion, he was the expert on everything.

"Oh yeah. I spent years eyelid deep in the pageant scene."

"You did?" she said, surprised. "How come? Did you try to trick a beauty pageant into building your portal or something like that?"

Bill stared at Mabel.

####

Outside the flat hospital, it was a beautiful, peaceful morning. The air was clear, the unseen sun was shining brightly from some unknown dimension, and some 2D equivalent to a bird was chirping in some 2D equivalent to a tree.

And then the hospital doors crashed open with such force that passing shapes momentarily suspected that someone had set off a bomb.

"—don't give me that look, if you'd hustled your hypotenuse and had your birthday yesterday, we wouldn't be in such a rush! You're just lucky you came out so cute, or—" An exhausted, dull pinkish triangle charged out the doors with a very tiny, squishy yellow triangle in her trembling arm. She turned to shout behind her—"Hurry up! There's only two hours until the Best Baby Pageant and he is not going to miss it!"

—and was followed closely by a horrified blue triangle carrying a hat in one hand and a cane in the other. "But Scalene, the doctors still have to do those tests to check for—"

"They can test him later! If he's got some horrible birth defect, he'll still have it after he's won a trophy!" Without slowing, Scalene turned and held the baby out toward the other triangle. The squishy new shape gawked at him in mild befuddlement. "Look at this kid, Euclid! Most newborn brats look like cranky raisins, but he's less than an hour old and he's already bright-eyed and smooth-sided! He was born with the face of a pageant winner—"

Not looking where she was going, she ran into a tree. The bird flew off in a panic, Scalene lost her balance, and she nearly dropped the baby. Euclid caught him, caught her, and held her steady while she leaned dizzily against the tree. "Lene. You should be on bedrest right now. Maybe we should just, you know, take a moment to process..."

"Process what! We have our little angle. Am I supposed to sit in a hospital bed staring at the afterbirth?!"

While Euclid stared at her in shock, she snatched the child back, pushed him away, and wobbled back upright. "What kind of a lazy mother would I be if I was sleeping instead of making my child a winner! You want him to start off life on the right foot, don't you?"

Defeated, Euclid said, "All right. I'll take care of the... the paperwork. At least bring your cane."

"I don't need it. I'm fine."

"Fine?! You just..." He gestured at her, gestured at the brand-spanking-new baby, gestured at her again, then flung his hands up in defeat. "If you drop our baby, I'm divorcing you."

She sighed huffily. "You're so dramatic." But she snatched the cane out of his hand anyway and stormed away, declaring loudly enough that shapes on the other side of the street turned to stare: "If the mayor doesn't declare my Billy the greatest baby in the whole godforsaken world, I'm grabbing the biggest trophy in the room and bashing his eye in!"

####

Bill shrugged at Mabel. "Sure," he said. "Something like that."

####

Gompers stared down at the bowl set on the floor in front of him.

It contained black beans, broccoli, coffee grounds, fiber-enriched whole-grain cereal, oatmeal, and an avocado and half a sweet potato mashed together into an orange-green mush, all stewing in a prune juice soup.

Gompers looked up.

Dipper and Ford were crouched across from him, watching expectantly. 

Gompers bleated balefully at them.

"Go on!" Ford nudged the bowl closer. "It's good for you."

Gompers knew a lie when he heard one. He turned his nose up at the mix.

"I don't get it," Dipper said. "He eats everything. What's wrong with this stuff?"

"I haven't a clue."

"Maybe it's the broccoli?" 

Ford gave him a quizzical look. "Why broccoli?"

Dipper shrugged. "I don't like broccoli, I don't know why he would."

"Hmm." Mystified, Ford propped his chin in his hand and stared into Gompers's eyes. Gompers stared back. Gompers stared into his soul. Gompers didn't blink.

Ford was dragged from this session of nonconsensual soul-searching by the sound of footsteps and Mabel's voice drifting down the stairs: "Listen, you know I love your sense of fashion! All I'm saying is everyone loves kittens, but snakes? That's a pretty niche fashion market! You're not gonna get a lot of takers."

"No, hey, hear me out," Bill said. "I listened to your professional matchmaker advice, now you've got to listen to my professional heartbreaker advice. You'll thank me for this one day! This is my number one romance tip: if you wanna impress a date, strap cobras to your arms and call yourself 'Johnny Cobra-Arms.' It works every time. Guaranteed."

(Dipper snorted.)

"Whaaat? No way," Mabel said. "Seriously, what?"

"It's true! I workshopped this! I've experimented across parallel timelines! It works."

"Quit messing with me, Bill."

"You think I would ever mislead you? No. Picture this." As the pair turned the corner on the stairs, Bill was spreading his hands in front of himself as though gesturing to the scene he wanted Mabel to imagine. "You see a guy, maybe a year older than you, kinda cute but nothing to write home about, maybe a 6/10. Got him in your mind's eye?"

A look of intense concentration crossed Mabel's face as she engaged her Imagination. "Yeah?"

"Okay, now imagine he—" Bill reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around. "Where are my shoes." He raised his voice, "Who moved my fisshoes! I left them right— oh, there they are." He disappeared into the living room. "Imagine your 6/10 has two big snakes wrapped around his arms. And he catches your eye from across the club, comes up to you, and says..." Bill's voice dropped to a pitch that was nearly in the range of an average adult human male, "'Hey. Name's Johnny Cobra-Arms. What's yours?'"

Mabel thought about it. Her eyes slowly widened in amazement. "Oh my god, it would totally work on me."

Bill re-emerged into the entryway, fish shoes donned. "See?" 

"It made him hot! What the heck, how did that happen!"

"See?! It works every time!" He shouted toward the kitchen, "Hey, we're leaving for Alpaca's! I'm taking the car!"

"No you're not," Ford said.

Bill spread his hands in a shrug. "Worth a shot!" He grabbed his umbrella and the magic friendship bracelets from the coat rack and waited for Mabel to open the door. "See, it's the best possible first impression. It shows he's got a sense of humor, he's quirky, he's a little bit dangerous, he's got a great sense of fashion, he's a world traveler, he's good with animals..." The door swung shut behind them. 

The way Bill had shrugged stuck in Ford's mind. 

In his true form, Bill didn't have shoulders. His arms extended out of his sides like the trunks of saplings extending from the surface of flood waters, and they glided around his perimeter in a way that defied conventional physical biology. No joints. 

When he shrugged in his human body, sometimes he'd bob his shoulders up and down in a deliberate mimicry of how humans performed the gesture; and lately, as Bill got used to moving his new body, Ford had seen him sluggishly raise a shoulder when he was too exhausted to gesture more expressively. But most of the time, he shrugged like he still didn't have shoulders. He'd spread his arms, bend his elbows, usually forming a W shape but sometimes when he was particularly emphatic forming a shape like football goalposts, and if he really wanted to make his meaning clear he'd twitch his upturned palms up the way a human would twitch their shoulders.

He did it all the time. He'd done it just now. The gesture was so natural on Bill that Ford had never realized how unnaturalit was on a human—until he'd seen Mabel make the exact same gesture earlier.

She was copying Bill's body language. He wondered if she knew.

He'd have to keep an eye on that.

"Hope Agent Powers is into snakes," Dipper muttered.

Ford laughed—then wondered whether someone pulling the Johnny Cobra-Arms trick would've worked on him. If by now nothing had made him take an interest in a basic, garden-variety human being, he doubted anything could... but, admittedly, he'd at least consider hanging out with Johnny. He sounded like an intriguing character. "If that's the worst thing Bill subjects him to, he'll be getting off light."

With a twinge of guilt, Ford realized just how true that was. Ford was no stranger to having to turn down the volume on his conscience for the greater good—and there were few greater goods than protecting his family—but...

He might not know Powers, but he did know that, whether Bill succeeded in seducing him or not, the man didn't deserve what he was about to be subjected to.

####

(Now that this chapter's finally out, may there be no further delays for a good long while, ugh.

Here's your "what was changed in the wake of TBOB" update: obviously, since we got five whole pages on Bill's beliefs about romance, a lot of that got incorporated into this chapter—the first and last scenes were basically written entirely in response to TBOB.

The scene with Scalene & Euclid, obviously, got their names & descriptions from TBOB & TINAWDC (and yeah, yeah, i'm eventually gonna go back to earlier chapters and edit out Bill's mom being a line so it matches up with canon), and it's obvious what the "best baby pageant" is a reference to (so you can guess whether Bill won)—but Bill being a pageant kid due to his mom was already part of the plans long before TBOB, so I just stuck a couple canon details into the story I was already writing. We were already gonna get into Bill's childhood this chapter & next (as you'll see next week).

Beyond that, most of the chapter was already in its present form before TBOB—up to & including Bill having a list of topics he thinks are acceptable for dates that no rational human would agree with—and all TBOB added was a couple tiny details (like... "mandibles".)

The fact that the list of things that were influenced by TBOB is so much longer than usual is part of the reason this chapter's two whole weeks late lmao.

Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed, happy new year, and I'm looking forward to (finally) hearing your thoughts on the first fresh chapter of 2025!

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Playing Chicken

Prompt Day 6: Chill | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | CW: Sexual Content | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Dry Humping, Making a Move, Getting Together, Eddie Just Needed to Borrow a Jacket

"It's chilly, wear one of mine," Steve says, and Eddie pauses at the front door.

Steve opens the hall closet and starts digging around. Pulling out jacket after jacket, more jackets than Eddie's probably owned in his entire lifetime.

"How many jackets do you think I'll need to wear at once?" Eddie asks, as Steve dumps at least twenty jackets over his arms. It's a heavy pile and he can barely see Steve over it.

"Two, usually. Just. I know you're picky. I don't know what is cool enough for you to wear," Steve says.

"Cool?" Eddie asks, laughing at the mere idea of Steve Harrington thinking he's cool. Eddie is not cool. Eddie's a freak. Eddie was wanted for a satanic murder spree he didn't commit. But cool? No way. 

Steve waves his hands around Eddie's torso, as if that's all the explanation needed.

"King Steve, the most popular guy to ever grace the halls of Hawkins High, thinks I'm cool?"

"Shut up, you're definitely cool."

Eddie isn't convinced of that, but he dumps the jackets on the staircase before he dislocates his elbows. He's not cool, but he is double-jointed.

He looks at the options available.

A brightly colored windbreaker, in teal and purple. Hard pass. An acid wash jean jacket that looks like it might belong to Steve's mother.

"Oh, that's Robin's," Steve says, picking it up and throwing it over his shoulder.

Three Members Only jackets in various neutral shades. Maybe. The bomber jacket from The War Zone. No fucking thanks. A bright blue satiny number that has a horseshoe on the front and Colts emblazoned across the back. Sports. Definitely not.

Oh, leather. And Eddie pulls on the black shoulder, only to discover it's got striped sleeves and bull on the chest. More sports. No. A down jacket. Ugly.

And then, buried in the mix, is Steve's letterman jacket. Green and white. Harrington stitched onto the back.

Eddie picks it up and holds it out between them.

Steve laughs, and moves to take it.

"Now, now, Harrington. I haven't made my decision yet."

Steve rolls his eyes, "Like you're gonna wear my letterman jacket in public."

"I might. It was offered."

"I also offered you my mom's windbreaker. You gonna wear that, too?"

"Maybe," Eddie says, picking up the offending windbreaker, shrugging it over his shoulders. It's tight, and Eddie's sure it looks ridiculous.

"Oh, that's the one," Steve says sarcastically, arms crossed over his chest.

It isn't and he has to wrestle himself back out of it, and afterwards, he snags the letterman jacket and slides it on. 

Eddie starts to laugh, but it dies in throat, as he sees the change in mood cross Steve's eyes. Eddie's freezes, a little scared. Then, he realizes what he's actually seeing. It's not anger.

It's arousal.

Holy shit.

Eddie turns, flaunting the back of the jacket towards Steve again. For science. 

Steve has squeezed both his hands into balled up fists.

"Problem?" Eddie asks, and Steve looks rigid. Uncomfortable. 

"No," Steve snaps, "That what you're wearing?"

"Maybe," Eddie says with a teasing lilt.

"Great, fantastic," Steve says, grabbing a handful of the other jackets, and starts hanging them back up.

There's tension in his body, and Eddie reaches forward and squeezes his shoulder. 

"Eddie," Steve warns, not turning around, "don't."

"What if I want to?" Eddie asks and Steve is even more still than he was before.

Steve ignores him.

Eddie pushes over the remaining jackets, sits on the stairs, lounging back, legs spread. He's teasing Steve. Getting his goat. 

But Steve's not laughing.

Steve leans down over Eddie, hands on either side of his shoulders, trapping him. Face close. Too close. They're playing chicken.

"Then I'm gonna enjoy it," Steve says, making a predatory move towards Eddie, brushing some of the jackets to the floor. Eddie instinctively scoots back, but knows he has nowhere to go. He's stuck.

Even if he wants to flee.

He keeps leaning backwards, but that just makes him more horizontal against the steps and Steve keeps closing the distance. 

Eddie feels too warm. From the letterman jacket he's now acutely aware he's wearing, from Steve being so fucking close, his body heat radiating. Eddie's caught between a rock and a hard place.

Hot, bothered and bewildered. 

"Do you really want to?" Steve asks, and Eddie isn't totally sure what Steve's asking. 

Wear the jacket? Run away? Fuck?

He thinks it's the latter.

He hopes it's the latter.

So, Eddie nods.

"Good," Steve says, pushing all the way into Eddie's personal space. Pressing his lips to Eddie's. 

Holy fucking shit.

Eddie's stunned, flabbergasted.

Steve slides his hand under the jacket, running his hand firmly along Eddie's ribs, before splaying his palm in the middle of Eddie's back, right where the embroidered Harrington was pressed between Eddie's shoulders. 

Steve's hovering over him, which is a good, because if he pressed any closer he'd find out just how much Eddie's appreciating this turn of events.

Of course, it's as if Steve can read his mind, because he presses down then, and Eddie's embarrassed for the two seconds it takes him to realize Steve's just as hard as he is.

Steve's kissing him, rutting against him in a slow, steady roll. Eddie moans into the kiss, unbelieving that this is happening. Steve breaks free, immediately burying his face in Eddie's neck. 

"It's fucking hot," he whispers, lips grazing skin, "knowing my name's on your back."

And Eddie wants him to see it.

He wiggles, shimmying, until he can roll onto his front. It's uncomfortable, his dick pressed against the staircase, face in the carpet. He's gonna get rug burn across his face like this, so he grabs the closest jacket and balls it up under his head.

Steve presses down, his hard cock rocking against Eddie's ass. Hand braced between Eddie's shoulder blades on top of the Harrington patch, and he says, "You're mine now, Munson."

For once, Eddie has no desire to argue.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🐔

[fatesundress]

⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader

summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.

tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc

note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.

word count. 4.5k

request. yes!

He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.

He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees? 

He does.

Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.

You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles. 

You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy. 

It’s all just buzz.

Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.

Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.

It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge. 

What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?

It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.

So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.

You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”

Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.

You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.

(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)

With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.

But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs —  and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.

So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.

The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close. 

His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.

The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.

“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.

“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”

“Pleasure.”

You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.

He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.

His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.

They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.

But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.

You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.

In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence. 

Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here. 

No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.

So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay. 

You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest. 

To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.

“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.

“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.

“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”

The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.

“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”

She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.

“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”

You engage with detached interest. “Really?”

And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.

“Do we have any classes together?”

You blink up at him. “No.”

“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.” 

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.

You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled. 

“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.

His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.

“Did you hear me?"

“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”

You’re not sure you believe that. 

You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —

Tom is gone. 

Your breath is caught.

“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”

You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”

He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.

“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.

“That was talking.”

“But you’re —”

“Belby.”

He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you. 

Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.

Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.

“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”

Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”

Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd. 

The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.

“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"

He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.

“I'm being what?"

“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."

Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"

“Did she?” you hiss.

“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”

“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”

“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”

He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.

Oh.

Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.

“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”

He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

He hums a non-answer.

Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.

Interesting he’s still playing.

You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.

“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.

You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”

His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.

With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.

“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.

The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.

“Tom...”

He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.

Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.

“Tom —”

“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.

His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you? 

One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.

The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there. 

You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.

As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.

Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty. 

And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.

His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.

Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.

You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.

“What… What?”

“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.

And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.

“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”

“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.

His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”

You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.

“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”

“Please?” he echoes mockingly.

“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.

And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.

He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.

Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.

It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him. 

He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.

When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.

He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.

His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.

You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.

Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.

Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.

“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.

When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.

He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.

You give them to him.

Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.

The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.

You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.

He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him. 

This time it does.

You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.

You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.

Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.

You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.

He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.

“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”

He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”

He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.

taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange [ note: inexplicably, a bunch of my tags aren't working. i tried to fix it but if you didn’t get a notif i’m sorry! ]

[pahrak-the-sinnoh-slizer]

River's Bane

The stench of burnt rot wafted over Laverne, finally convincing her to sheathe her untarnished machete. A lifetime of fantastical tales had built in her mind an image of the Amazon rainforest as a sprawling bastion of dense foliage, ready to consume any who dared brave its perimeter—the blade would be essential, she had told herself. But all she saw was a cluttered wasteland of withered husks one faint breeze away from finally disintegrating.

“We might be too late.”

Behind her came a short woman at least a decade her senior, her lab coat striped with rips and small branches stuck in her graying hair. She prodded a nearby stump as she said, “No such thing as ‘too late’, Laverne, I’ve told you that! Simply a matter of whether we’re taking living specimens or an autopsy is in order!”

Laverne reached for her canteen. “Your optimism is inspiring, Doc. Found anything of use yet?”

Doc broke off a piece of bark, bringing it right up to her face and squinting at it. “Hm. Yes! Well, no. By which I mean maybe. Which theoretically is a ‘yes’.”

“Fantastic.”

She licked the bark, then offered it to Laverne.

“No, thank you.”

Doc went ahead, running her fingers through the weeds and debris, snapping twigs beneath her feet with every step. It was the only sound Laverne could hear. This entire region, once home to uncountable generations of people and fauna and flora, was entirely silent before they had arrived, and would be again once they left. Life of every sort had thrived here, and all that remained was a graveyard. The realization rattled in a pit carved deeply into Laverne’s heart.

The kappa aren’t completely wrong. Humans sure did a shit job of running the Earth.

She adjusted the machinegun hanging from her shoulder. A place this hot and dry was almost guaranteed to be kappa-free, but she had learned a long time ago to always come to a fight with more weapons than she expected to need, and now that her life centered around defying the creatures’ empire she wanted to be ready for a fight at all times. “Ready” was a bit generous, she knew: kappa generally had superior physical abilities that made fighting in close-quarters inadvisable, and most knew magic that made them just as dangerous at range. Archery fared a bit better than guns (dousing a bow with water magic wasn’t as debilitating as dousing gunpowder), but that was a skillset Laverne simply didn’t have the time to develop. Some humans had taken to learning their own magic, but those arts only came naturally to one in a thousand, according to her only contact who was magically-inclined. Humanity’s means of fighting the kappa were meager. If they were to stand any chance, Laverne knew she had to find a way to fix that.

Doc stopped in her tracks, and Laverne did the same. Before she could say anything, Doc spun to face her. “Do you hear that, Laverne? No, that’s not right: do you feel it?”

Laverne paused to see if any of her senses could help her answer. None of them did. “I don’t feel anything.”

Doc shook her head. “Bah, nevermind, it’s gone now.” And she was off again.

Not missing another beat, Laverne chased after her, and their expedition carried on until night fell. Since Doc wanted to finish cataloguing the specimens they had gathered, Laverne left first watch to her and curled up on her mat. Light, waking sleep was the only kind she had known for most of her life now, and she had learned to make the most of it, but after nearly an hour it suddenly gave way to something far, far deeper, and Laverne found herself in a dream.

Rough cavern walls encircled her. There was no light, but she could still see. A fast-moving stream ran from a slit in the wall to a hole in the floor, carving a shallow trench that divided the cave in two. Something rested on the opposite bank: a bush about half her height. The large bulbs hanging from its branches were a dark shade of red, but its leaves were a healthy, vibrant green. Laverne came to the bank and stared at it.

Pretty gloomy—no sun here at all. How have you survived?

Faint light began to shine from the bulbs. The bush breathed, its leaves rustling as its branches expanded—in an instant, it tripled in size. Laverne felt a strange sensation in the back of her mind, a stray thought completely unlike anything she had felt before. She couldn’t explain how, but she was certain: this thought was not her own. It sat quietly in her mind, giving her a wide berth as she wondered how to proceed. She stared at the bush, and when she called upon the thought, the plant before her shuddered.

Huh…that’s you I feel?

The bulbs flashed. The walls trembled slightly, and the stream began to slow.

Okay then. Who are you?

The visiting thought advanced from the back of her mind to a middle-ground, like a lingering, nagging sensation that she had forgotten something important. She could feel it more clearly now, as if moving and turning, full of small nuances she was now able to recognize. Images and feelings and vague concepts began to echo through Laverne’s mind as it “spoke” to her. She only brushed against these, but even that was enough to glimpse an eternity of memories: she saw the Amazon as seeds in the infant crust of the Earth, saw it grow and flourish for decades and centuries and millennia, only to be cut down to nothing. The bush had experienced it all. Its buds bloomed and fell, but something of each of their memories remained; the bush itself was as old as the ground below and the sky above. This visiting thought was only the faintest peek, Laverne realized, a leaf in the forest of everything that was this unfathomably ancient being. It could not tell her who or what it was, because it skirted the very edge of what her human mind was capable of understanding. She blinked and realized there were tears in her eyes.

I…don’t know what to say. This isn’t just a dream, is it? You’re here. You’re real.

The visiting thought radiated affirmation. The bush swayed gently. The stream weakened to a mere trickle.

But why? It’s an honor to meet you, I just don’t understand why you’d make the effort to reach out to me.

The bulbs opened. Long, broad petals unfurled, each burning with a brilliant orange light that dazzled Laverne. The cavern seared away, replaced by an open plain; upon it were two heavily-armed legions locked in fierce combat. The petals’ light blinded her for a time, but once Laverne could see she realized that she was watching an army of humans clash with an army of kappa. One large kappa knocked three humans flat with a single blow, and as he loomed over them preparing to finish it, each of them raised a single hand. The ground beneath them split open, and up rose three flowers blazing with familiar light to entangle the creature. He burst into flames—in a fraction of a second he was reduced to only cinders. Laverne put a hand to her chin.

I see. This is your way of saying that your power would let humanity actually stand a chance against the kappa.

Smoke rolled over the battlefield, obscuring her vision once again. The petals still shone clearly.

Again, though: why? Considering humanity’s guilt in destroying the climate, I’d expect you to side with the kappa if anything.

The smoke rolled out. The plain was still full of humans and kappa, but no longer were they fighting: in place of weapons they held tools, and they pierced soil instead of flesh. Now, the two species moved as one, and slowly but surely, grass and flowers and fruits and vegetables grew to cover the plain, turning the barren expanse into a thriving field. A pleasant breeze blew past Laverne, neither freezing nor scorching. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt a breeze like that.

I see. You want the fighting to end. That has to happen before any of us can really start healing the Earth. And if the kappa can run right over us, they have no incentive to explore peaceful options.

The images grew hazy. The petals dimmed. The cavern returned, now filled with rubble, the stream entirely dried up. Slowly, Laverne reached out towards the bush, its petals falling one-by-one. The visiting thought had again grown faint.

Thank you. I promise: I’ll put this power to good use.

With a final blink, the last petal withered away. Laverne’s eyes opened. She sat up from her mat and looked over to see Doc snoring in her chair. Her hand felt heavy; lifting it, she saw her fingers clutching a large, oblong seed with a dark red shell, faintly warm to the touch. She briefly considered waking Doc, but thought better of it. Tucking the seed away safely, Laverne rose to take her turn at watch.

We’re not too late yet.

[wellpresseddaisy]

Use Any Means part 9

Percy Weasley stood before the imposing, carved front door of Buckingham House and swallowed convulsively, clutching at the handle of the hold-all he carried. The spring green-and-white striped awning over the doorway gave him pause. Who was the new Lord? The white he knew—Sirius Black had died. But the spring green meant a new head of the family, and a young one at that. White for death and green for growth. Had the new family head been older, the green would have been a darker shade. That particular one meant…could it be Harry?

He’d heard through certain channels (mostly the café servers doing elevensies and tea service throughout the day) that Malfoy and Fudge were in a towering rage over something a week ago and that Fudge had smashed several of the cups brought to his office. In his opinion, Malfoy ought to have been in Azkaban, but he’d somehow managed to convince the Council that he’d only gone to try to save the children, his own son having alerted him to Potter and company’s disappearance.

Honestly, the gullibility of some people. He wouldn’t have said anything before that night, but Lucius Malfoy was clearly up to his cleverly tailored lapels in You Know Who’s business. He had actual proof now, not just Dad’s bizarre fixation on him.

He’d stopped only for Mum’s things and to change into his own evening clothes when he received the message. The Minister, of course, desperately wanted to know what Mr. Du was up to. Percy always found it a bit…creepy how he paid attention to the border crossings. Surely he had other things to do with his time? Although, he supposed the sudden arrival of the ultimate head of the Black Family would put one on edge when one had spent the last few years hunting the English Black Duke. If Sirius had been the Black Duke, of course.

And what could Mum have got mixed up in? As far as he knew she’d never met Mr. Du before.

Percy pulled himself together and rang the bell. He did not jump when the door opened, but walked into the reception area.

“Percy Weasley to see Mrs. Weasley, please. I was invited to dine this evening.” He’d learned (the hard way) how to address a footman.

“Of course, Mr. Weasley. If you’ll come this way, Mrs. Weasley is waiting in the Drawing Room.”

Percy followed the footman through the carved wooden screen and into the entry hall. From there, they crossed into a long, brightly lit gallery, and then into the Drawing Room. Mum sat on one of the delicate sofas near the grand fireplace, looking as if she’d never left Society.

“Mr. Weasley to see you, Mrs. Weasley.” The footman announced.

“Thank you, Donald.” Mum rose to greet him as Donald retreated back to the corridor. “Oh, Percy, you look so tired.”

Percy let himself be hugged and fussed over. He probably looked worse than tired, but Mum was kind enough not to say anything. He’d missed her so much the last few weeks, especially once the scandal of You Know Who actually returning broke over the Ministry. He didn’t think he’d managed more than four hours a night since.

“Hello, mum. How are you?” She led him back to the sofa and sat with him.

“Better now you’re here.” She smiled warmly at him and took his hands in hers for a moment. Percy almost broke at that soft gesture. “It’s been a bit difficult lately, though, I won’t lie to you. I’ve missed you.” There wasn’t even a hint of reproof in her voice. “Your father loves you, but he never has learned to express that properly.”

“I’ve missed you too, mum. So much. And I took offense when he was right. It was only luck that I didn’t know anything the Minister wanted to know.” Percy propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. “The Ministry is a nightmare right now.”

“I’m sure it is. You know, it was Ron who suggested we extend the invitation to you. A bit of a delicate situation has arisen and I think we could do with some advice from someone who knows the current political landscape.”

Percy looked up at that. “Ron suggested it? Mum, what’s happened?”

She sighed. “It’s to do with Harry. He…he’s taken up the mantle of the Black Duke. He’s apparently been the Magic Chosen Heir since birth. Mr. Du came to be his guardian and well, regent, since he’s only fifteen. Ron thought you might have some insight into how this could go, politically speaking.”

Percy stared for a moment. This…this changed everything. Malfoy’s influence within the Ministry came mostly from his claim that Draco would be the next Black Duke. The Malfoys, while technically an Ancient Family with gobs of money (and the old Weasley Hall, sold off to pay grandfather’s gambling debts (wankers)), had no Wizengamot seat and no place on the Council. Everyone, really everyone, thought Draco was the heir. No one had even considered there could be more than one claimant. That Draco wouldn’t be the Magic Chosen Heir. Of course the Minister swept any less than savory tales of Lucius Malfoy under the rug, he’d bloody well ‘donated’ enough to have that privilege. And he’d promised more once Draco took his ‘proper place in  our society’.

(Percy had quickly discovered that no one with any power or influence paid attention to the Junior Undersecretary in the corner, especially when he put an effort into being one with the wallpaper.)

The entire political landscape of magical England had just shifted in an afternoon.

And…Merlin but Umbridge…Percy felt a bit ill. She had, out of ignorance, ��purposefully and cruelly targeted the most influential Heir in Hogwarts. He didn’t know exactly what she’d done, but he knew she went out of her way to make Harry’s year miserable.

“Mum, this…this changes everything. I…I think I need a bit of time to…to think all this through.” He gripped her hand. “I think I can help, but I…is there any parchment and a quill?”

“I’ll bring you into the library, Percy. I know you need your time, and you’ll have it. No one will bother you while you work. Just mind your cuffs in the ink.” Mum patted his hand and rose, taking him with her.

He barely noticed her taking him through the gallery and into the library as his brain worked furiously. She led him to one of the  alcove desks and stopped just short of it.

“Yes, Ron?” He heard Mum ask.

“Oh, er, Hermione reminded me of something we should share but Percy is thinking.”

Percy blinked himself back to general awareness and peered at Ron.

“Er, well, Skeeter is an illegal animagus. She’s a beetle. Dunno if it’ll help, but Hermione said I should tell you.”

Percy stared at Ron just as intently as their mother.

“And why didn’t you turn her over to the DMLE?” Mum asked.

“Because Hermione decided it would be better to hold it over her head than make a real enemy of her? That’s what she said, anyhow.”

Mum sighed and closed her eyes. Percy felt the first stirrings of a plan take shape.

“Ron, that’s incredibly helpful. I need to—” he gestured to the desk.

“Yes.” Mum sighed again as Ron galloped off. “You’d best have a pencil, dear. You know how you get when you’re planning.”

And Percy found himself sat in a comfortable chair before the neat little desk and provided with a hefty stack of parchment, a pencil, and a sharpener. He bent over the desk, a truly magnificent plan forming, and began to write.

“I’ll make sure I retrieve you before dinner, dear. I’m going to go and dress.” He heard Mum from far away.

It would hinge a good bit on his own acting skills and Skeeter’s tractability, but he might just pull it off.

[angelofchaos001]

Thanks to the power of music, I have a new goofy ancient OC who will be showing up in a future comic once I get there. He's one of the ancients who lived in Lucky Eights' city, which was the equivalent to Vegas. A pleasure city of ancients who didn't care for ascension, instead wanting to indulge themselves in every pleasure life had to offer. (Man, I wonder what happened when they tried to ascend . . . )

No ref yet bc I'm still working on it

His name is Shuffling Decks, Stacking Cards, and he was well-known in his city for . . . all the wrong reasons.

For one, he was notorious for being one of the few ancients to beat Lucky in a game of chance. His secret was cheating, but nobody found out. He was also well-known as one of the best dealers, since his card stacking ability was unmatched (Amazingly, his name is coincidence. Most ancients here got named after cards, dice, gambling, etc).

However, for all his fame, he was also known for his blatant denial of the cycle's existence. He claimed there was nothing at all, and once you die, that's just it. No rebirth. No cycle. Ascension was just death with extra steps, and it was stupid. Echohood was the end product for those who believed in the cycle, a punishment for such foolish thinking.

In his defense, he never died.

Hilariously, Cards was one of the select ancients who was actually able to ascend. His denial of the cycle and nihilistic attitude later in his life is what allowed him to let go of the primal desires. (For those wondering why he ascended, he was convinced to do it by his family. Besides, it's hard to play games when the only one you could play is the supercomputer.

Also, while I'm here and talking about ancients, I wanna describe why I draw them/how I design them.

My ancients have some sexual dimorphism going on, mainly in the hair department. But the base body, I draw them similar to tabaxi (D&D) and the zonai (LoZ). Yes, it would be appropriate to call my ancients 'shittens', especially as children because sheep kittens. For a bio male, their hair is much more like a mane. It's spiky, curls around their head and is usually only shoulder length (it can be grown other ways, but this is common). Bio females have much softer, wool-like hair that varies in length. Both genders can also style their hair as they wish, with a common choice being dreadlocks. And yes, trans ancients can get their hair changed, it's normal and just a pretty simple series of genetic changes.

Colorwise, they typically come in shades of blue and green, though it's not rare for them to be other colors. (Think of it like a 3:1 ratio, every 3 blue/green individuals you can find 1 that's another color). Patterns can vary wildly from stripes, spots, gradients, solid, even placement of patterns.

Some ancients have tails, some don't. The tails can look different, be different lengths, etc, but for the most part, the ones who have tails will have them end in a soft tip that matches their hair (Refer to Feather in my comic). Some have no tails, some have little stubs, and some have extra bits on their tail too. There's a lot of variation that can happen.

[theriverspath]

Keep Warm: A Good Omens Holiday Fluff Fic

Rated G. Prompt: "Too quick, mumbled into your scarf" from The way you said "I love you."

“Crowley! Your fingers are so cold!” Aziraphale held a paper cup of hot chocolate in one hand. A stick of striped peppermint candy served as an improvised stirrer. Tiny white marshmallows were already starting to melt on the surface of the sweet drink. The other hand had just reached out to hold Crowley’s.

The demon was just finished with his cone of candied pecans. They had found a booth selling ones with cayenne pepper in the spiced coating, and Aziraphale had finally been able to convince Crowley to actually try some.

“Here.” Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand and began to unwind the tartan scarf he had tucked under the lapels of his jacket. It somehow got twisted, and the angel ended up with coils of woven wool looped around his head.

“Angel. What on Earth are you trying to do?” Crowley couldn’t help but smile at the frustrated string of unintelligible syllables that emanated from the tangled mess.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Crowley carefully unwound the fabric from Aziraphale’s face and settled the scarf back into its original place. The angel’s curls stood out around his face, catching the changing colors of a blinking sting of lights behind him.

“I said,” Aziraphale huffed and smoothed his hair with the hand not holding the hot chocolate. It immediately bounced back up. “That I was just trying to help you keep warm.”

“Ah.” Crowley snapped his fingers. A sleek, black strip of fabric now hung around his neck. He flicked one end of it over his shoulder. “Satisfied?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s admonishment indicated that he was not, in fact, satisfied. “What if someone sees?” He gestured to the street, busy with humans enjoying the holiday fair.

“Relax, no one saw anything.” The demon stepped in close, and lowered his glasses. “Besides, I can think of better ways you could keep me warm.” A mischievous wink flashed at Aziraphale. He raised his hand above them. It was somehow now holding a single sprig of mistletoe. There was even a jolly ribbon tied around the base.*

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s tone was softer. A blush crept up over the top of his scarf to paint his cheeks a charming shade of pink. He smiled into eyes shining his favorite shade of yellow. “What if someone sees?”

“Let them look, then.” Crowley dipped his head down and claimed a kiss from the sweet lips of his sweetest angel.

---

*The color of which was an appropriately cheerful red. Crowley had briefly considered a green plaid, but had dismissed it on principle.

[ediblegardenspointloma]

Dwarf Tomatoes: Rethinking Tomatoes in the Fog Belt (Again)

You may have read a couple of my most popular blog posts Growing Tomatoes in the Fog Belt or Rethinking Tomatoes in the Fog Belt. Perhaps you too garden in a cool climate.

I’ve chronicled my attempts to grow tomatoes over the past four years during dank, overcast summers. Many grow enviable tomatoes in coastal San Diego, but my urban garden gets more shade due to trees and buildings.

For 25 years however, I grew tomatoes successfully, though the plants looked terrible as the crop waned. Then, in recent years, our summers a few blocks from the ocean became cooler.

This year it was Graypril, Gray and Gloom (April, May and June). The data from our solar panels confirm my suspicions, with the production the lowest for those months in the last three years. With the cool spring, I delayed planting my tomatoes until the first week in June. The lettuce, spinach and chard were still thriving.

This spring I decided it was time for new measures in growing tomatoes. My friend, Brijette, owner of San Diego Seed Company suggested I grow a few of her dwarf tomatoes. SDSC has done extensive trials and testing at their Ramona farm and San Diego site. She agreed, it would be useful to see how they performed in my problematic location.

Brijette convinced me, placarding their virtues: “Dwarf tomato seeds are a fabulous solution for growers with small spaces. The plants they produce have all the great features of regular tomatoes but on smaller plants that are easier to manage. With dwarf varieties, you can still grow tomatoes with the results you crave, like large, juicy harvests of slicing tomatoes. By growing these dwarf tomato plants from seeds, you can ensure that your plant will remain much smaller than other tomatoes and with little to no staking. Your plant will reward you with a large harvest of tomatoes.”

Rosella Purple (pictured in thumbnail photo) and Chocolate Lightning were my choices. I also started saved seed of two other favorites—a black cherry tomato (seed shared with SDSC) and Cherokee Purple. Both were planted at the same time the dwarfs went in.

As the June Gloom persisted, I decided to go all in on dwarf tomatoes. Their days to maturity are less than my favorites—Cherokee Purple and Black Krim. I still had two dwarf tomato seedlings and decided to remove my Cherokee Purple plant though it was thriving at 18 inches early in the season. I knew its fate. In its place I planted another early season Rosella Purple which is similar in color, size, shape and flavor but on a dwarf plant.

The Dwarf Tomato Project shares the virtues of dwarf tomatoes:

Benefits of dwarf tomatoes—sturdy, attractive, productive

Plants vary in height from 60-140cm (2 to 4.5 feet) depending on which variety is selected.

Dark and dense crinkly (rugose) foliage, thick central stem.

Tomatoes of all sizes and shapes, including some large fruits up to around 500 grams (18 ounces).

A broad range of flavours – sweet, tangy, fruity, and even a hint of saltiness – something to please everyone.

Fruit colours include green-when-ripes, bi-colours, stripes, blacks (purple or brown), pink, red, yellow, orange, white/ivory.

Easy to grow in pots, on balconies, or wherever space is limited.

Be sure to read more about growing dwarf tomatoes and check the varieties offered by San Diego Seed Company. And if you are a small space or container gardener, check the Dwarf Tomato Project for more information. Their goal is to “to create delicious tomatoes of all flavour and size variations on compact, easy-to-maintain dwarf tomato plants.” The Bountiful Gardener blog also gives detailed information on growing dwarf tomatoes.

Though this Master Gardeners piece does not include an evaluation of dwarf tomatoes, it provides guidance for growing tomatoes in less than ideal conditions. You Can Grow Tomatoes in a Shady or Foggy Garden.

Though it’s too late to grow dwarf tomato plants from seed, there’s always next year in the garden.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

III ║ Dapple Grey

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ << Part 2: Buckskin | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 4: Strawberry Roan >> }

Rating: M (will be E in future chapters)

Summary: Tinder is a dangerous game. So is Never Have I Ever.

Warnings: Flirting, yearning, insecurities, sexual tension, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendoes, language, mention of food, drinking, drinking games, mention of breakup, no use of Y/N

Word count: 6.5k

Notes: I had a little bit of a meltdown writing this part. Thank you @mandoblowmybackout and @prolix-yuy for talking me out of it ❤️ I had the busiest week so I didn't have as much time as I usually do for edits, so this chapter's a bit of an… experiment 🙈 Thank you for everyone who's been so kind to me and this series - I hope you enjoy this part! 🦄

Dapple grey: A grey or white horse with spots or areas of a darker colour.

Day 2

‘Stop looking at me.’

‘I’m not.’

You turn the camera around to show Jack the photo you just took and deadpan, ‘I have literal proof of you looking straight at me.’

The two of you are sitting underneath the shade of a tree, a simple lunch laid out in the middle on a picnic blanket. The horse’s saddles and packs are resting against the trunk behind you while they graze nearby.

In front of you, several yards away, the grassy plain drops off into a deep valley. And beyond - a sight to behold. If the bentonite hills had been sculpted by a higher being, they must have run an inadvertent finger through the clay while it was on the spinning wheel, creating dramatic curves that cut into the soft rock. The hills are painted from left to right for miles and miles in white, red and green stripes, candy cane colours faded under the sun.

Jack gives you a scowl as he rolls up his tortilla wrap, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. He grumbles, ‘It’s hard not to. You’re pointing the camera at me.’

‘Well, you gave me full control of today’s photography, so you have to do what I say.’

He flings an accusatory finger at you. ‘Only because you promised to help us with our marketing.’

You press a dramatic hand to your chest. ‘What exactly are you insinuating, cowboy?’

‘You’re obviously taking pictures for the Tinder thing instead, which, by the way, I am not convinced about,’ replies and takes a bite of his wrap.

‘Not convinced - ha! Says the guy who drives two hours to a bar and doesn’t even know if he’ll get laid,’ you retort. ‘And don’t you worry, cowboy, these pictures will definitely work for both the ranch and Tinder.’

His frowns. ‘What do you mean for the ranch?’

‘I mean for the website and social media. Honestly, I’m surprised there aren’t any pictures of you on there already. You guys would get so much business you’ll have to turn people away.’

He cocks an eyebrow, arrogance seeping into his smile. ‘Oh, and why is that?’

You roll your eyes at his fishing for a compliment. ‘You know why, cowboy.’

‘Enlighten me, darlin’,’ he insists with a wink. ‘I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’

You put the cap back on the lens and reprimand, ‘What did I say about your ego last night?’

You avoid his gaze as you unwittingly steer the conversation into dangerous waters. You probably shouldn’t be bringing up anything from the night before - at all. There’s no alcohol to blame in the bright light of day though. Somehow, just being around this cowboy is enough to cloud your better judgement and make you say reckless things.

When you finally peer at him out of the corner of your eye, he casts you no more than an amused glance. Polishing off his lunch and dusting his hands, he looks away to watch the horses.

The morning hours before passed with no mention of what transpired by firelight. All the tension that has built up between you two in the dark burned off with the daybreak mist, and you’re feeling a lot lighter after your little bedtime distraction. And in the absence of any suggestive ogling or innuendoes from the cowboy, you conclude that you must have gotten away with it. All you are is a bit saddle sore, but nothing too serious, and you ride on with little difficulty. 

An easy camaraderie has set in between you and Jack after surviving your first night together in the mountains. The banter packs a bit more punch now that you are no longer complete strangers, and you spend the morning trading horsey stories.

Jack learned to ride on his uncle’s farm. His first pony belonged to his older cousin who lost interest in the sport, so he spent years riding Sparkles, resplendent in matching pink bridle and saddle, until he outgrew her. He worked in and around the equestrian circuit until Champ offered him the job ten years ago, after meeting at a rodeo.

The conversation petered out when the lush green landscape gave way to drier sand, and suddenly, towering ahead, were the famous soaring red earth formations that you’ve been travelling the last two days for. Jutting out of the ground and chiselled by centuries of wind and rain, the echoing clops of the horses’ hooves bounced off the crimson stone as you rode under arches and past columns, dwarfed by the natural architecture.

After spending the better part of an hour exploring the red earth valley, you were taking a quick water break in the shade, when an idea struck you. 

‘Do you think I’d get a discount for my next trip if I helped you guys with your online marketing?’

Jack chuckled. ‘Already thinking about coming back, huh? I mean I’ve always been told that I’m charming, but a turnaround this quick-’

You leaned out of your saddle to give him a small slap on the shoulder for his cheek. ‘Don’t let it get to your head, cowboy. I’m doing it for selfish reasons - a project like this would be a great addition to my portfolio.’

‘What exactly do you do for a living?’ he asked.

Capping your water bottle, you fastened it to its holder. ‘Branding and marketing. I work at an agency now, but someday I want to start my own business, so I always take on projects on the side when I have time.’

‘And you didn’t even bring your own equipment?’ he teased.

You pouted. ‘C’mon, let me borrow yours. I won’t drop it, I promise.’

With a dramatic sigh, Jack relented, ‘You know I can’t say no to you, darlin’.’

Now, hours later, he clearly wishes that he did. Jumping onto his feet, he leans down and unceremoniously plucks the camera from your hands, prompting an indignant cry.

‘That’s it,’ he grunts. ‘I’m laying down the law. No more pictures of me today.’

You shrug, not bothering to look up as he walks away towards the saddlebags. ‘Joke’s on you, cowboy! I got more than enough for your Tinder profile and the ranch.’

At the unexpected click of the shutter, your head snaps up to see Jack grinning at you from behind the camera a couple of feet away. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Taking photos for your profile,’ he replies triumphantly.

You pull your hat down low over your face and grumble, ‘Stop it! I’m covered in sweat and dirt.’

He scoffs. ‘So am I! Didn’t stop you though, did it?’

Ugh. Does this insufferable man not understand that sweat and dirt only adds to his appeal?

You grouse, ‘And how are you going to be able to help with my profile? You’ve never even heard of the app.’

Jack crouches down to pack the camera securely in a saddlebag, peering at you over his shoulder. ‘I’m a man. Surely my opinion would count for something.’

Oh, he doesn’t need to tell you that. He’s all man. One whose very tight jeans are practically straining against his pert backside while he rearranges the packing on one knee.

Standing up, Jack whistles at the horses grazing nearby. He turns to you and says, ‘Come on, darlin’, no more clownin’ around on my watch. We got some ground to cover to get to our camp for tonight.’

You groan half-jokingly, climbing to your feet and grumble, ‘Yes, sir.’

You notice the way he stiffens. There’s a twitch in his neck as if he’s holding himself back from turning towards you, and his jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth. When you walk up behind him, he clears his throat deliberately and busies himself with the tack as the horses trot lazily back towards you.

Interesting.

You reach out to rub Scotch on the nose when he approaches, giving him half of the apple you saved for him from lunch. You keep an eye on Jack, your mind whirring, as you saddle up for the afternoon.

Turns out the cowboy wasn’t joking. It’s a seriously hard ride, with long stretches of cantering over flat ground. It’s as exhilarating as it is hard on your body - your calves and thighs are burning, your shoulders ache, and you start to actually worry if you’ll be able to carry on tomorrow. If you even survive this afternoon, that is.

You’re on what feels like the hundredth backbreaking canter streak of the day. Jack and Whiskey a safe four horse-lengths ahead, Bourbon following behind you and Scotch. The sun is veiled by clouds, but the heat is no less forgiving. You’re sweat-soaked to the bone, hair sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck. You’ve never been so desperate for a shower and a cold drink.

You see Jack stand up in his stirrups and turn around in his saddle to check on you. You must look like hell, because he takes mercy on you and holds up a hand to signal the end of the lope. When Scotch slows down to a walk next to Whiskey, he asks, barely winded, ‘You ok, darlin’?’

Panting for air, you reach desperately for your water. ‘Are you trying to kill me, cowboy? You remember what I said about the gym last night, right?’

He chuckles, taking a drink of water himself. ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m pushing you, but there’s somethin’ I want to show you before we lose the light.’

You swipe at a bead of sweat running down the side of your cheek with your clothed shoulder, too tired to sit up straight in the saddle anymore. You point a threatening finger at him. ‘It better be worth it, or I swear I’ll have your head.’

Jack gives you an encouraging pat on the back. ‘I promise it will be. Come on, darlin’, I know you can do it.’

Despite your exhaustion, some baser instinct in you can’t help but preen at his words. Damn your need for approval and praise from the lips of a handsome man.

It’s another hour or so on the road when you discern a drop in temperature, the sun starting its descent for the day, though the sky remains bright. Jack slows you down to an easy trot, craning his neck, as if searching for something. Distracted by an itch on your ankle, deep inside your boots, you don’t notice Whiskey coming to an abrupt halt in front of you.

‘Whoa, sorry,’ you apologise, gathering up the reins last-second to stop Scotch from running straight into the chestnut’s rump. ‘I wasn’t paying atten- ’

You trail off when you look up, hands frozen awkwardly in mid-air as all your motor functions grind to a stop.

You’re not sure how or where it came from - an enormous field of wildflowers in bloom stretches before you, as far as the eye can see.

‘Did I deliver on that promise, darlin’?’

Air rushes into your lungs when Jack’s words register, and only then do you realise you’ve been holding your breath. Robbed of your faculties, you answer with a mute nod.

Jack smiles broadly at your speechlessness. ‘Come on. Let’s take a closer look.’

Scotch follows when Jack nudges Whiskey down the small slope. The meadow parts like softly lapping waves around the horses’ knees, a riot of colour and scent. If it was earlier in the afternoon, you’re sure there would be a muted buzz of honey bees hard at work. It’s mostly still at this hour, other than the whistle of grass and leaves brushing the horses’ legs as you make your way deeper into the field. 

Your eyes dart about, barely focusing long enough to recognise what’s in front of you - bluebells, woodland sage, verbena, daisies, foxglove - and far more that you can’t name off the top of your head. The sweet nectar is overwhelming, and when a breeze stirs, it washes over you like a gentle mist from a perfume bottle.

Slowly regaining your senses, a familiar sound catches your ear. Glancing to your left, Jack has his camera aimed at you as the horses walk slowly.

You grin, not caring that you’re a mess. Your knees brush when the horses drift into each other’s course. ‘Thanks for bringing me here, Jack.’

‘My pleasure,’ he tips his hat at you. ‘So - there’s a camp around three quarters of an hour’s ride away, but we can stay here tonight if you want to.’

Your chest swells excitedly at the prospect, but you demur, ‘Will it be too much hassle? We don’t have anything here.’

With a wave of his hand, Jack dismisses your doubts. ‘It’s just the two of us, it can be easily done. There’s a stream a short distance that way, which is all we need. I’ll take care of everything else.’

A grin breaks across your face. ‘If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble - I’d love to camp here tonight. Thank you.’

Jack nods. ‘Of course. Anythin’ for you, darlin’.’

You don't want to contemplate how you’ll ever go back to an existence where you don’t have cowboys with gorgeous brown eyes telling you things like that. And you suppose you don't have to - at least for a few more days.

‘Can I help with anything?’ you offer.

He shakes his head adamantly, one hand outstretched as if to physically stop you. ‘Absolutely not. Stay here with Scotch and Pinto, take a breather, stretch your legs - I’ll get everything ready.’

When Jack and Whiskey return half an hour later, having loaded up on water and firewood, he finds both horses untacked and brushed down. A smile tugs at his lips - of course you wouldn’t listen to him. The tack and saddlebags are neatly laid out, the cooking supplies already unpacked in preparation for dinner.

Scotch and Pinto are lying down, hooves tucked tidily under themselves, snacking on grass and half-dozing. You’re sitting cross-legged next to the palomino, braiding daisies into his white mane. You look up when you hear Jack approach.

‘I moved us further down so we don’t set fire to the field,’ you joke, pointing at the slightly barer patch of land.

‘Well done, darlin’,’ he replies and dismounts, giving Whiskey a big pat before quickly unsaddling him. Tipping his face to the sky, he remarks, ‘I think we’ll have quite a sunset tonight.’

Despite it only being the second day of the trip, you and Jack seem to have settled into a comfortable rhythm. He sets up the fire while you shower, and then you feed the horses - dry feed with apple and carrot bits for tonight - while Jack nips off for his.

He doesn’t protest when you help with dinner - corn chowder and jacket potatoes are on the menu this evening. While Jack preps the vegetables for the soup, you oil, season and wrap the potatoes in foil, planting them directly into the fire for a slow roasting.

At the first sign of the sky turning colours, you set up your phone on timelapse, propping it against your water bottle behind the two of you, with the horses and the campfire in-shot as the sun starts to sink. You don’t have to worry about battery life as the solar chargers are fully charged from abundant sunshine these couple of days, and there will be electricity at the Halfway House when you get there tomorrow.

At some point, both of you stop what you’re doing to watch the sunset. The sky is stained blood orange, the colour dripping from the horizon to stretch across the field of wildflowers until it is awash in red. A flock of birds cut across the cloudless horizon in a homeward formation, their caws echoing in the valley.

The digital click of the shutter pulls you out of your thoughts.

‘Jack,’ you berate him half-heartedly.

‘Come here, darlin’,’ he shuffles closer and turns the camera around so the front is pointed at you both. You can see your reflection in the lens - and he presses the shutter-release.

The chowder is delicious, as has been everything Jack has made so far on the trip. But after dinner, when the plates have been washed and the sleeping bags rolled out, belly full but slumber not yet come knocking, and Jack asks if you want a nightcap with a twinkle in his eyes - you decide that’s your favourite time of the day.

He puts a kettle on the fire, and pulls a tin of cocoa from a saddlebag. ‘You want a hot chocolate? We can make it Irish.’

You chuckle. ‘Sounds good, cowboy.’

Steaming mugs in hand, Jack carefully makes his way to your sleeping bag, the fire tracing his silhouette in bright orange. You take one, legs crossed and elbows on your knees, thanking him before taking a ginger taste. 

A violent cough racks your frame, the potency taking you by surprise. ‘Jesus Christ - is this three-quarters whiskey?’

Jack cracks a roguish grin in your direction. ‘Maybe. But I bet you can take it, darlin’.’

Holy fuck. 

Heat creeps up the back of your neck and spreads over the planes of your cheeks, and you duck behind your drink. Under the cover of night, in that gravelly Southern drawl, his words wield an unholy power.

Not ready to spar yet, you take a steadying inhale and a long sip, the alcohol burning on its way down. You grab the camera that’s been lying closeby all evening and say, ‘Let’s go over the photos I took today. I might even let you choose which ones to use for your profile.’

He snorts in jest, but shifts closer so that he can see the screen. ‘Sure, I believe you, darlin’.’

For such a good-looking man, Jack doesn’t seem to have a vain bone in his body. He is complimentary of your photography, stopping you when you want to zoom past the reel of your scenic shots. Instead, he takes the time to politely appreciate the composition, framing and lighting. But whenever one of him shows up, it’s he who wants to fast forward, uncomfortable with the attention of seeing himself on film. 

When your drinks run low, Jack gets up to get more cocoa and hot water. You two are in the middle of an argument about the merits of (or according to him, the lack thereof) candid shots, after he vetoes one that you propose for Tinder.

‘Why that one?’ he disputes, collecting your mug. ‘I’m not even looking at the camera!’

‘That’s the whole point!’ you rebut. ‘It’s natural and in the moment. It’s a great photo of you!’

You ignore him as he grumbles while he mixes the cocoa. You click all the way through the reel, reaching the last photo of the day - the selfie of the two of you at sunset. Glancing up to make sure Jack is still occupied, you steal a moment to really study at the shot. 

It’s a flattering take, the lighting and angle kind on you. You admire the way Jack’s eyes crinkle warmly at the corners, one side of his moustache tilted up with his smile, tidy teeth peeking out from behind that wicked mouth.

This damn cowboy.

Accidentally, your finger brushes a button on the dial, taking you to the top of the SD card. What comes on screen first appears innocuous enough - but when your gaze focuses, you freeze and your jaw drops.

Jack’s just poured a tall measure of whiskey into each mug when he notices you’ve fallen completely motionless, camera still in your hands. With a frown, he leans over to see why.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he swears loudly, leaping forward to snatch it away from you, nearly knocking over both drinks in the process. He just about tosses the machine away as if it burns him. ‘Shit, fuck, shit. Fuck!’

You haven’t heard him cuss much yet on the trip, and you’re not sure if that’s what triggers it, but suddenly you’re laughing so hard that your chest heaves and your lungs ache. Tears sting the corners of your eyes as you gasp for breath, what you saw on the screen seared into your memory.

It’s a photo Jack took of himself in what you assume is a bathroom mirror, his left hand holding the camera. Something about him is different, maybe his hair is a bit shorter, more slicked back. A flannel shirt hangs unbuttoned on his firm body, just like yesterday when he was undressing at the lake. It’s innocent enough up to this point.

Lower still, his belt with the now familiar flask buckle dangles undone, jeans shoved carelessly just past his pelvis. His large hand - which you’re now used to seeing deftly grasping the reins or resting on his thigh as he rides next to you - is wrapped around the base of what appears to be a very generously sized, very hard cock.

You just wish you’d been granted a few more seconds to peruse before Jack ripped the camera from you.

Finally, you wheeze, ‘Who takes nude pics on a DSLR?’

Jack runs a palm over his face and sighs. ‘You saw the state of my phone, the camera doesn’t work. The pictures were for my ex, she lived two states away and we didn’t see each other much. I thought I deleted them ages ago.’

You make grabby hands at the fresh hot chocolates, which he passes to you. You squeak, ‘I’m not drunk enough for this.’

Even in the dark, you can see the tips of his ears turning beet red, and you don't think you're imagining the insecurity in his tone as he mutters, ‘Sorry, that was embarrassin’.’

‘Why are you sorry? I didn’t see anything you should apologise for,’ you reply truthfully, swirling your drink, the hot steam warming your nose as you take a sip. 

Jack peers at you with a bemused frown. ‘No?’

His gaze follows as you lick an errant drop of chocolate from the corner of your mouth. You add slyly, ‘I don’t see anything to be embarrassed about, either.’

‘Is that so?’ He hums thoughtfully, a self-assuredness squaring his broad shoulders as he leans towards you. ‘Does that mean you liked what you saw then, darlin’?’

It’s a loaded question. You give him a lopsided smile, and with more bravado than you feel, you quip, ‘I don’t know - I’ll have to take a closer look, cowboy.’

He holds your challenging stare when he knocks back a mouthful of his drink, and smacking his lips, he grins, ‘All you have to do is ask.’

Batting your eyelashes ironically, you half-joke, ‘Do I have to say please, too?’

Jack breathes out hard through his nostrils, a strangled laugh caught in his chest. He chides, ‘Behave, darlin’.’ 

And with two little words, he turns the tables on you and shoves you up a metaphorical wall. The shudder that ripples through your body at being told to behave by this cowboy doesn’t escape his keen observation, and his lips quirk in a cocksure manner. 

Jack opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but he’s interrupted by a quick succession of pings from your phone, which has been silent since the start of the trip. The sound is alien in the quiet of the mountains.

Your brow wrinkles in confusion. ‘Uh - what’s happening?’

It might be wishful thinking on your part, but disappointment seems to flash across Jack’s features as you change the subject.

‘There’s a weather station nearby. Sometimes we get the splash off,’ he explains.

You give him an enquiring look. ‘You know what I’m going to do now?’

Jack sighs in resignation. ‘I won’t be able to get away with this Tinder business, will I?’

‘Don’t be so glum about it, cowboy, it’s fun,’ you wink. ‘First things first - do you have a Facebook account?’

Lying on your stomach, your pillow tucked under your chest and your socked feet up in the air behind you, you look like you’re settling in for the long haul. Jack rearranges himself accordingly, rolling up his sleeping bag and reclines into it like it was a beanbag. With a deep drag of his drink, he takes stock of the situation. 

First, Champ tries to set him up with you. 

And now, you’re trying to set him up with an online dating account.

If questioned a few moments ago, he would still have thought that he was the cause of your little show last night. Right now - he’s not so sure anymore.

He’d been on the cusp of sleep when he heard you - a whimper that would’ve passed him by if the fire had cackled, or if a breeze had rustled the leaves in the trees. But in that window of perfect silence, he heard you. It paralysed him, sending blood rushing everywhere but his head, and he was up for hours, until his erection was eventually forced to dissipate from literal exhaustion.

Today has been something of a struggle, but he has bouts of sleeplessness every now and then, and even when it gets really fucking bad - he copes. He knows for a fact that you haven’t noticed. Hell, even his own team can’t pick up on it unless it’s been three nights and he literally trips over his feet walking on the fourth morning.

On the upside, at least the fatigue has forced him to keep his head on whatever task is at hand, sparing no room for thoughts about what he heard in the dark. But when you said ‘yes, sir’ earlier with such casual nonchalance, and the way you so boldly met him blow for blow just now - it took him all he’s got to fucking physically hold it together.

He’s not sure how it’s gone from that to you setting him up on Tinder, and by extension, with other women - in so fervent a manner.

Has he been reading you wrong this whole time? He’s barely taken a break from flirting with you, and he knows he’s not imagining your reactions to him when he pushes you a bit harder - just so he can see your eyes widen and hear your breath hitch - for him.

Watching you type on your phone with gusto, shooting questions at him - what’s your email address? How old are you? Do you want to link your Tinder account to your Facebook? - he wonders if he's lost his touch without realising it.

It’s been a couple of years since he broke up with his ex-girlfriend. She was sweet but his heart wasn’t in it, and the long-distance didn’t help. It’s been the odd one night stand here and there since, and while he’s not one to brag, his record is pretty damn near perfect.

Not that there’s much competition in this neck of the woods - well, Tequila puts up a good fight if they’re on a night out together. But right now, he’s the only man for miles and miles, and somehow, he’s still losing.

So he tops up his mug (it’s mostly just whiskey now), and he drinks until you reach out and poke him on the knee, grinning from ear to ear. Jack bites the inside of his cheek and wishes you wouldn’t smile at him like that. Not when he can’t figure you out.

You wear the fireside glow so well, like you’ve always spent your days in the saddle, traversing the Wyoming hinterland, and ending your nights at the warmth of a campfire. 

Like you belong here.

‘What do you think?’ you prompt him, tipping the screen towards him.

He takes your phone and studies it. It’s a photo of him that you took this morning, with his age and job listed on top of it in the bottom left corner. He shrugs. ‘I don’t know, you tell me. I have nothing to compare this to.’ 

Undaunted by his uninspired response, you swipe through enthusiastically, showing him the other uploads. ‘Look, I took some pictures from your Facebook page too. Trust me, you’ll be knee deep in pussy before you know it, cowboy.’

He chokes on his drink, which draws a chortle from you. He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. ‘Are you always so crass, darlin’?’

You salute him with your almost empty mug. ‘Only when nefarious cowboys spike my hot chocolate with way too much whiskey.’

He huffs a laugh. ‘One more or should we call it a night?’

‘We can’t go to bed yet, setting up your account is only step one. I still have to show you how to swipe right,’ you protest, but the screen abruptly goes blank when you tap on it. ‘Shit, the connection’s gone!’

‘Praise the Lord,’ Jack proclaims, turning his palms heavenward in relief. His knees creak when he gets up to add more wood to the fire. ‘What do you want to do now, then?’ 

You put your phone away reluctantly. ‘I don’t know. What do you usually do with guests?’

‘Depends,’ he grunts when he sits down, close to you. ‘If the Kingsman were here, we’d play poker and darts.’

‘I got to say I’m glad they’re not here, then,’ you say with a wrinkle of your nose. It’s getting colder, so you sit up and drape the cosy blanket across your shoulders. When the idea comes to mind, you almost leap up from your seat in excitement. ‘Oh I know! How about a game of never have I ever?’

Jack scoffs. ‘Are you fourteen?’

‘It’s a classic. Please? It’ll be fun,’ you needle, waving the now half-empty bottle at him. ‘We still have to finish this off.’

He pins you with a stern look. ‘We’ll get wasted.’

You shrug with a cheeky grin. ‘So? I’m on holiday, and we’re halfway there already.’

‘Just don’t blame me for your inevitable hangover tomorrow, darlin’,’ he replies in capitulation.

‘I’ll give you a get out of jail card,’ you assure him. Rubbing your hands together, you jump right into it. ‘Ok, I’ll start - never have I ever had a dog.’

Jack drinks, repositioning his long limbs so that he’s sat with one leg outstretched, and the other bent at the knee. He asks, ‘You’re not a dog person?’

‘I love dogs, just never had the space in the city,’ you answer. ‘I’m the designated dog sitter for all of my friends and neighbours though.’

Setting the bottle down between you, Jack continues, ‘Never have I ever had a cat.’

You drink and muse, ‘I miss having a cat - haven’t had one since I was a kid. Maybe I’ll look into adoption when I get home.’

Travel comes up next. You drink at his never have I ever been to Asia (you went backpacking all over for two months after graduation), and he drinks at your never have I ever been to Europe (he travelled to Greece for the Olympics when he worked as a groom for a short stint). 

You trade several more benign questions until, with an impish grin and a rush of alcohol-induced adrenaline, you tilt your head to one side and change the direction of the game. ‘Never have I ever - sent nudes.’

‘That’s not fair!’ complains Jack as you giggle, thrusting the bottle towards him.

‘I’m the guest, I don’t have to play fair,’ you retort.

‘Two can play this game,’ he shoots back, narrowing his eyes playfully. ‘Never have I ever used Tinder.’

‘Well played, cowboy,’ you smirk, grabbing the whiskey from him and taking a sip. After a moment’s consideration, you divulge, ‘Never have I ever had a one night stand.’

His eyebrows reach for his hairline, his voice deep as he comments, ‘So you’re one of them good girls, huh?’

Teeth catching your bottom lip, your answer echoes so clearly between your ears that for a moment, you thought you’d said the words out loud.

I can be. For you.

‘Always been a relationship kinda girl,’ you admit, somewhat belatedly, as he takes a sip.

He smiles, then with a wriggle of his eyebrows, he fires his next shot. ‘Never have I ever - fancied a cowboy.’

Your mouth hangs open in bewilderment, your heart threatening to hammer its way out of the confines of the ribcage. Is he drunk? 

Well, you both are.

He’s watching you, his posture loose and relaxed. There’s no deviousness in his gaze, not even the playful kind. If anything, he appears - genuinely curious?

You suppose you could lie, but… you don’t want to. Keeping your eyes on him, you pluck the whiskey from his grasp. You add high-handedly, ‘Just so you know, I’ve met a lot of cowboys before you. So many, you wouldn’t believe.’

A lazy smirk curls his lips as he watches you take a swig. ‘Sure, darlin’ - what with all the ranches you’ve been to.’

Dangling the bottle in front of his face in a challenge, you retaliate. ‘Never have I ever fancied a guest.’

Instead of reaching out with his fingers, Jack drags himself across the sleeping bag so he’s practically hovering over you to grab the whiskey. Echoing your words, he says, ‘Just so you know, I’ve met a lot of guests before you.’

You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. He’s so close you’re tempted to count the whiskers on his neatly trimmed beard.

‘It’s your turn, darlin’,’ rasps Jack, but you’re immobilsed by the brush of his calloused fingers against the tips of yours, planted on the sleeping bag.

You stammer, coming up blank. ‘Um - uh - never have I ever - ever -’

Jack gives you a crooked grin. ‘Need some help?’

Throat dry, you can only nod.

He leans in, his exhale hitting the shell of your ear, and he delivers the coup de grace. ‘Never have I ever touched myself thinking of said cowboy.’

Your eyes widen and you stop breathing. Oh fuck. He heard you. He knows. 

Turns out you weren’t quiet enough after all.

And yet - you can’t bring yourself to be ashamed, not when he’s staring you with something that looks a lot like reverence.

You realise you haven’t addressed the gauntlet he’s thrown down at your feet. Bringing the whiskey to your lips, you confess with a wet gulp of whiskey, the liquid sloshing hollowly in the almost empty bottle when you place it down next to you.

The tension thrums between the two of you like some quantum disturbance, one that’s been building and ebbing for the last forty-eight hours. The air grows thick, his eyes dropping to your mouth the same time his rough palm moves to cover the back of your hand, startling you. Misjudging his proximity, your nose knocks into his cheek when you turn your head, and a quiet gasp slips past your lips when you feel his hot breath brush the hollow of your neck -

So caught up in the moment, it takes you three long seconds to realise that the two of you have suddenly broken apart, and three more for your head to grasp why. 

The ringtone blaring from your phone is deafening in the tension-laden silence. Across the bright screen, your ex’s name flashes clearly. 

Motherfucking cockblocking asshole.

Before you can unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth to protest - or ask him to please stay - Jack has gotten onto his feet with a rueful smile and a shake of his head. Scooping up his sleeping bag and tucking it under one strong arm, he reaches for a bottle of water that he filled up earlier and places it next to your pillow, knowing that you’ll need it in the morning.

Even in the shadows, you can discern his eyes sliding over your face. His whispered words barely reach you as he turns on his heels. ‘Good night, darlin’.’

You let the call ring out.

It’s still dark when you feel a hand grip your shoulder, pulling you out of a shallow slumber.

‘Jack?’ you croak, rubbing your eyes that are sticky with sleep. ‘Is something wrong?’

He shakes his head with a reassuring smile that you can barely see in the din. ‘No, I just wanted to show you somethin’. Put on your shoes and bring your blanket, darlin’, it’s cold.’

Even wrapped up in fleece, you huddle into yourself as you follow him. He leads you past the dying fire and snoozing horses, a thermos in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of a battered thick denim jacket. 

You stumble when your feet catch on knots in the grass, and Jack reaches out to steady you, his reflexes fast even in this ungodly hour.

When your sight slowly adjusts to the darkness, you see that you’re approaching what you presume is Jack’s sleeping bag on the ground. He nudges you gently towards it with a quiet, ‘Make yourself comfortable, darlin’.’

You do, hugging your knees to your chest, your icy fingertips trying to find warmth under the  blanket. Jack settles down next to you, and noticing your shiver, he wraps his extra quilt around your shoulders.

‘Tea?’

‘Yes please.’

The thermos warms your hands as you hold it, hot steam hitting your face as you drink carefully so you don’t burn your tongue. You’re too groggy (and more than a bit hungover) to try to figure out what is going on, and Jack doesn’t enlighten you, happy to sit in the silence as you pass him the bottle. The tea burns a comforting trail down to your stomach, warming you from the inside.

You don’t have to wait long for what comes next.

It starts with the faintest of glows. The ghost of your breath misting in front of your face. The distant, backlit profile of the Bighorn. The outline of bush and flora, then the textures fill in as the light swells. And without warning, the dawn breaks, colour spilling across the field of wildflowers, like a light has been switched on. 

A light fog hangs in the air, gently refracting the morning rays into an iridescent sheen. In every direction, the ground is carpeted by a sea of summer blooms. It looks like a page ripped straight out of a book that starts with the age-old refrain of once upon a time. 

You turn to Jack. He’s watching you closely with a smile, hair sleep-mussed, the sunrise casting him in rose gold.

It might have been you. It might have been him. It might not matter in the grand scheme of things. 

The next thing you know, your shoulders bump and your lips meet. A sigh catches in your throat when he takes your lower lip between his, dragging slowly and sweetly, the wet friction and the tickle of his moustache on your Cupid’s bow chasing a shiver down your spine. 

When he pulls back, he traces the tip of his nose across your cheek before tucking it behind your ear, his arm closing in around your waist.

‘Happy birthday, darlin’.’

More notes: They're going to get to the Halfway House next chapter. Just FYI 👀 I've really made you guys wait for the smut for this one, I swear I didn't plan it this way, but here we are. In the meantime, I'm going to try not to psyche myself out because I haven't written any smut since Consent ended. But I'll worry about that later, for now, thank you for reading and for the wonderful feedback so far - comments and reblogs are so appreciated as always!

Horsey notes (optional reading): This part is a bit thin on horses so this is quite random. Horses love treats - carrots, apples and polo mints will all be devoured. Make sure the treats aren't cut too small to encourage horses to chew before they swallow. Carrots can be broken into 2 or 3 pieces, and should be fed horizontally instead of vertically, to encourage chewing. Apples can be quartered or halved. When feeding, stretch out your hand flat, don't curl up your fingers or you can accidentally get bitten!

[ladyfromaspookyforest]

Wheeler/Byers Wardrobe Analysis

Season 1 Part 3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

EPISODE 5

First things first, this episode contains Will’s funeral and everyone wears black and I’m not going to talk about all their outfits because that’s a waste of time. But why are Mike and Dustin wearing these colored jackets?

Dustin’s in a very dark denim jacket with accents of primary-colored plaid popping out. Mike is in green with blue and green plaid accents. Lucas is wearing all black. At this point, Mike is totally 100% convinced Will is alive and stuck in the Upside Down. Dustin is on board. Lucas appears to be the least convinced of the three that Will is still out there, so him appropriately dressed for the funeral in all black makes sense. I know this post is about the Wheelers and Byers, but I'm going to talk about Dustin for a minute because of how this jacket reflects Will.

Dustin cracks a joke about telling Will Jennifer Hayes was crying at his funeral, like he has no doubt they’ll have this chance. It’s cute. It’s a little naïve but it’s heartwarming. But Dustin’s light attitude combined with this bright pop of color is really fitting. But what stands out to me the most about this jacket is how the plaid emulates the outfit Will disappeared in.

Sometimes I wonder about how Dustin feels, having been the last person to see Will before he disappeared. Dustin asked him to race, then got exhausted and quit. And Will was taken into the Upside Down. It would seem only natural for Dustin to experience guilt over this, but it’s not something we ever see explored. I’d really like to see them finally talk about this in season 5, but that's a whole tangent. Maybe I'm reading too much into guilt we never see, but it feels to me like Dustin HAS to maintain this lightness, this ability to joke at his friend's funeral. Whether it be to cope with the guilt or to cope with the possibility that they might not get him back, I don't know. Regardless, this similarity of the plaid on Dustin's jacket to Will's last outfit visually demonstrates that Dustin is focused on Will's DISAPPEARANCE and not his death, as an appropriate black jacket would.

Mike is convinced Will is alive, but he remains pretty somber through this scene. Much more so than Dustin, so the darker shade is fitting rather than the bright pop of color. But Mike has still covered his black clothes with green (blue + yellow?) as a way of showing that he isn’t really here to mourn. His mind is on Will, but he hasn’t lost him yet, though he doesn't have this capacity to joke like Dustin does.

After the funeral, El’s still wearing this nasty dress and you know what else she’s doing in this episode? LYING. This dress (Nancy's) shows us that she is not being herself and she deceives the party. Mike’s in his little Byers-y coat again as they hunt for the gate to find Will, and beneath it, he’s wearing blue, red, and yellow stripes on a grey shirt. Sensing a trend.

OKAY! So here’s where things start to get really interesting with Nancy’s color scheme. It’s the same. It’s still red and blue but rather than the extremely diluted soft pink and baby blue she’s been wearing, she’s now in brick red and a darker blue. It’s VASTLY different from the way she’s been dressing and yet they’re still in the same color family. There was only one other time we've seen Nancy in these darker shades: the day after she slept with Steve. She wore a light grey sweater with stripes in these colors: brick red and darker blue. That outfit was the first hint at this one. She was already starting to doubt her choices, starting to feel guilty. And here, the guilt has completely taken over. She feels wrecked about what happened to Barb and so, like her mother in the previous episode, she darkens her color palette in an attempt to react with appropriate gravity to the situation.

On the other side of things, Jonathan is wearing not one but two patterned articles of clothing. For the first time. He’s still wearing his own color palette, but he’s got a striped sweater and a checked flannel on. This feels like a small nod to Nancy while her shearling jacket is a bit of a nod to him. Their style is very minutely reaching towards one another.

Let’s talk about STEVE again. He’s come to apologize. He’s wearing green and navy, darker colors than he’s been wearing around Nancy lately. He's been wearing lighter shades of blue, matching her, but here he's in dark shades. In my last post, I talked about the visual of Nancy/Steve and El/Mike dressed in pastel pink/baby blue and how overly gendered and domestic it was. Here, Steve has dropped that. The last time he wore a darker blue was the day of the party when he wore a teal sweater. This scene above is potentially the most likable Steve has been so far this season. And I would argue that the party was another instance of Steve being likable. He feels genuine in both of these situations. He doesn’t feel like he’s being influenced by his shitty friends or worrying about his parents. And the colors of his outfits in these scenes are similar.

Apologies everyone. Trigger warning: L0nnie Byers. So this ding dong showed up at the end of the last episode and now he’s hangin’ out, trying to comfort Joyce. I’ve included a shot of the two of them from this episode and one of Lonnie from his first appearance in episode 2 as well, just so we can take a peek at what he usually wears. Button-downs at least partially undone over a white tank is the norm.

But then later after the funeral, he dresses like this. Lonnie-styled Wheeler colors.

I was actually kind of taken aback by this one, but it makes sense. Lonnie is fixing up the house, talking about how their family has been ruined. He’s calling Joyce “babe.” He’s putting on a complete show of being part of the family unit. He’s wearing his white button-down from the funeral in this scene, unbuttoned in Lonnie fashion, but the outfit prior to unbuttoning and rolling the sleeves resembles the sort of thing Ted Wheeler would be wearing at the dinner table. Bland office attire/bland funeral attire. Then he showers, comes back, and is in pastel stripes. Joyce confronts him about the money and they argue about how Lonnie just wants to use it for Jonathan to go to college. Lonnie is putting on this I Care About This Family front and it’s extremely telling that he does it in blue pastel stripes. This says that while he’s behaving like he’s a family man, he clearly isn’t, and the Wheelers, constantly behaving like the perfect family, are in fact not all that happy or put-together either.

Joyce is wearing this maroon turtleneck this episode. It’s darker than what we’ve seen her in and it’s also the first time she’s changed her clothes since the first episode (funeral getup earlier in the episode aside). She’s falling a little bit for Lonnie’s manipulation here as she just sort of needs someone to help her pick the pieces back up and he was quite literally just there. She lets him talk to her about how this could all be in her head and up until now, we’ve seen her shut down anyone who makes this kind of suggestion, but she also tells him not to take down the lights. She hasn’t given up. She doesn’t fully believe Will’s gone, but she’s conflicted and she’s starting to seem a bit hopeless. This dark top is a reflection of that, as well as the fact that it has a lot less character than what she usually wears.

Then she and Lonnie fight. He tells her she’s a shitty mom and she’s crazy and she yells at him and kicks him out. And in the next scene with Joyce, Hopper comes over and tells her she was right all along.

Here’s Hopper this episode. He’s totally unhinged. This is peak Unhinged Hopper for season 1. He breaks into the lab, beats people up, threatens them at gun point, answers his door with a gun looking paranoid as all Hell, rampages through his house looking for bugs, then shows up to the Byers residence to do the same. The sweaty undershirt is a fantastic way to show us just HOW unhinged he is.

The moment when Hopper showing up at the Byers house to unscrew every single one of Joyce’s Christmas lights is meeting her on her level. The little exchange between his officers after they come to see him is really indicative of this.

“Is he off his meds again?” “He’s been spending too much time with Joyce Byers.”

So I love this scene of him coming to Joyce in general because he’s the first person to tell her he believes her. This is huge. And having it take place right after Joyce kicked Lonnie out for saying she's off her rocker emphasizes the difference between the two. It shows us: this is what Joyce does NOT need followed by this is what Joyce DOES need. And the clothes are relevant because what Lonnie is wearing does not fit into Joyce and her family's lifestyle. What Hopper is wearing does.

As Hopper goes hunting for the truth like a maniac, he’s in civilian clothes for obvious reasons. He can’t roll up to a bar trying to trick the guy who found the body into giving him info in his uniform. But beyond practicality, I think putting Hopper in civilian clothes signals to us that this is no longer a job for him. He’s clearly not on real, legal police business anymore. He starts trespassing and getting violent and going so far as to cut open what is most likely a child's body just because there is a chance he can save Joyce's son. It's not police work anymore. As for the outfits themselves, this screams I Live in the Woods Alone. I don't have a whole lot to say about it, but I will be coming back to it to compare with other outfits Hopper wears later.

*cough* Anyway, I swear the next one will be shorter. It's because I went on Dustin and Hopper tangents. I got too invested in the Jopper moment.

[asterjennifer]

© soyyues on Twitter

Loveless Collection

Fandom: Mystic Messenger

Pairing: SE Saeran & Reader

Category: Fluff

Warnings: X

Word count: 1247

Summary: You convinced Saeran to decorate his blank room with something that expresses his personality.

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

“What is this for…”

He mumbled under his breath as he let his eyes wander over the fabric in both his hands. With the nails between your teeth you turned your head to him; finding he's still scanning the flag inside his hands like it's going to jump at his face any minute. Quite amusing, you thought.

“Iw a flawh.”

You said through gritted teeth, only earning a raised eyebrow in response. The redhead gazed back at you with something resembling confusion inside the ocean eyes; yet you're aware he's rarely truly confused. More often than not he simply accepted his fate without questioning. Or even understood intentions depsite having not shaded light on those.

“I can tell, Sherlock. Thanks for that.”

His sarcastic tone cracking at the edges of his rough voice, as if he'd screamed around for hours on end. But you knew it's due to years of resentment and fear being caught in the back of his throat. You shurgged your shoulders before turning back to the naked wall of his room. Saeoyung once mentioned how impersonal the room of the younger twin appeared, although he's been living in the bunker for over two years. You agreed almost desperately, however, it didn't seem to interest Saeran any further. Considering he's out in the near by park if not spending his time reading. On one hand it made sense he didn't feel the urge to decorate much given his attention's rarely on the surface. On the other though, it's quite sad he's having no personal touch to his own room. Therefore you convinced him to finally change some structure.

“These colors don't even match the blue carpet.”

He pointed out like he's looking for excuses not to hang up the flag. There's no weight to the points he made which let you know, in the end, he's not entirely against the idea. You positioned the nail at the corner, lifting the hammer carefully before knocking the head into the concrete.

“Hm...”

Mouth full, you only hummed softly. Overshadowed right afterwards when getting the nail secure. Even though you're facing him with the back; the way he rolled his eyes reached into your consciousness regardless.

“Great. Also… I keep forgetting what this flag means anyway.”

You couldn't tell if he's lying or just didn't remember. Later option seemed fishy because you'd explained the meaning numerous times by now. His fingertips dug deeper into the ridiculous thin piece of fabric. It looked abstract to him. Perhaps it's been abstract in nature, but humans owned talents for giving unidentifiable things a meaning. People were seeking connection, this was an easy example creating said longing.

“Why does it have a black triangle at the left side.”

In spite of it being a question, the way he kept mumbling made it sound more of a mocking comment. You shurgged your shoulders a second time; it's not like you designed the flag. There's not much thinking for the composition needed in your eyes, surely that's something you're able to look up online. Did these kind of flags got history to their looks in the first place? Finally you took the other nail out of your mouth.

“I don't know, but I'm sure you can research the origin story.”

The sigh he gave so very serene, you didn't miss it. Whether he appreciated that or not.

“No need… I just want this to be over.”

The redhead fronwed his brows by the deafening sound of the hammer hitting the nail's head. Once you're satisfied with their angle, you jumped off the ladder.

“I like this one, though. It suits you somehow.”

You smiled at the man across the room. The corner of his lip twitched with uncertainty, checking out the flag for the countless time today.

“How? It's black, white and gray with a single green stripe. Where does that suit me.”

He's right in regards to his looks, if that's what he was going for. He didn't have gray hair, his was a shimmering fire red. Neither green nor black eyes. They glowed a birght blue resembling the sky. You chuckled shortly after taking the flag out of his warm hands.

“It looks minimalistic and clean. I just think that fits you well.”

Without another response, he only crossed his arms over the chest. Watching you attaching the item onto the wall next to his office table. He almost did it himself considering the unstable ladder you're climbing onto mindlessly.

“What purpose does it serve.”

“Hm… To bring out your identity more?”

The groan vibrated inside his throat by your obvious answers. Tapping his foot onto the floor a few times in order to gather his thoughts.

“I don't care about expressing myself. Besides,”

He lifted his hand to the flag.

“Nobody will ever see this since my room's off limit for everyone but you and my brother.”

You licked over your licks when going through the options, rather counters. That's true as well. His room was like a cage you're unable to enter unless the lion itself grants you entry.

“It's more for yourself anyway!”

You chimed back to him and successfully shut him up. Saeran titled his head to avoid your eyes, blinking at the bookshelves on the other side of the room instead. You noticed his shoulders going stiffer as a result, the cream colored sweater slipping down slightly.

“They call it 'pride flags' for a reason, you know?”

You put the edges of the flag into the nails and stumbled back down the ladder again.

“You should be proud of every part defining you, Saeran. This too. Even if it doesn't mean so much to you, it's still a part of you.”

Silence continued ghosting your justification while rubbing your hands clean off the dust. Satisfied with your work you took a step back; such a luck the nails had been symmetrically by gut feeling. Now the flag practically lightened up thanks to the lamp on the ceiling. It even threw some reflection back onto the ground, a nuance of back and green to be seen.

“Woah! It looks great and it harmonizers with your room just great.”

You seemed more proud than him. He followed your stare to the wall; not reacting in any form for a good moment. Having you wonder what thoughts wandered through his mind. Then he took his heavy steps towards the flag, much to your surprise. He stopped in front to reach out and rub the end of it between his index finger and thumb. A small hum filling the calm atmosphere.

“What was it called again?”

He asked genuinely, thus you made no sour impression and instead crossed your own arms.

“Demiromantic.”

“What does it mean by definition?”

“It's someone who only develops romantic feeling when they have a strong emotional connection.”

Saeran nodded his head, becoming slowly but surely acquaintanced with these endless labels that people claimed for themselves. If to feel more understood, figuring out their true selves, wanting to connect or discuss it… At the end of the day it didn't matter. You could hear the fainted smile coming alive on his lips, then.

“Thanks for hanging it up. It's not so bad as I first suspected.”

You made eye contact; half lidded blue threatened to get covered by chaotic, red strands meeting your smile. Much wider than his in comparison. You couldn't help the short giggle falling over your lips.

“You are welcome, dear Aromantic emo.”

[kiasnocturnality]

I'd love to read how Desdemona reacts to the first time Reader gifts her something? Maybe a piece of jewelry Reader thought would look good on her that she can use in any of her forms. Maybe after hanging out a couple times and beginning to trust each other

characters: Desdemona Nausikáa

notes: this is such a cute idea! Desdemona is like a magpie for shiny things and you can see a lot of the jewellery she's into on my pinterest that's linked in my pinned post!

. * ⋆ . · 　. DESDEMONA NAUSIKÁA

You had spotted them at the market, on a small little stall selling all sorts of handmade jewellery and different gemstones, and they made you think of Desdemona right away.

They were a pair of earrings, made of two mother-of-pearl shells, a smaller one followed by a larger one beneath it on little silver hooks and links. The mother-of-pearl had a few tiny pearls resting in them and were dotted with a few silvery rhinestones here and there to really make them shimmer.

The woman running the stall wrapped them up in tissue paper and handed them to you in a striped paper bag after you scanned your card to pay and you made your way back towards the cliffs where your home rested upon the top, Desdemona's own home carved into the stone beneath it. You stopped by your house to unpack your groceries and leave your phone to charge before tucking Desdemona's present into your pocket and making your way to the rocky path that led down to her home in the cliff-face. That worn and weathered path would never fail to unnerve you. You were always terrified that you would slip and fall to your death and so you clung to the rope that was fixed to the rock like the lifeline it was each time you had to come down here.

Desdemona trusted you enough for you to show up unannounced and let yourself in. Her house wasn't exactly well-guarded with just a curtain as the door that sat in an alcove of the cliff. Then again, who would be so stupid as to try and rob a siren's den? They would soon find their heart torn from their chest, quite literally.

"Des?" You called out, hearing the slight echo off the stone. It was warm which meant she had a fire going in here. You worked your way through the tall but narrow corridors. You were convinced that her home had once been part of a mine of sorts for it to be carved and laid out as it was. "Desdemona?" You stuck your head into the living room, light filtering in from the bottle brick window in a green-blue hue from the salvaged glass.

"In the dressing room!" She called out to you and you made your way through the tunnels to find her seated at an old-fashioned vanity, pouting her lips in the mirror as she swiped her thumb along the edge of her mouth, cleaning up the signature black-cherry shade. This one seemed glossier than usual and you wondered if she was trying out a new shade. She rose to her tall height and made her way over you, greeting you with an embrace. "What do you think? I'm trying out a new one." She asked with a smile.

"It suits you, it's much glossier than the others that I've seen you wear." You complimented and she only beamed more. It was in her nature to want to be adored and so she loved the praise. "I got you a present today. I saw it on the market and just couldn't leave it there, it was just so you." You cut to the point, so eager to see how she would react. She was already wearing a series of silver chains with little swords and shells on, one of the necklaces being divided up by little pearls here and there. On her ears she wore a little chain of pearls in size order and her hands were covered in an array of rings of various patterns and bearing different jewels.

You took out the little paper bag from your pocket and handed it over, watching her milky-white eyes light up. She carefully opened the bag and unwrapped the pale pink paper, making sure to not tear it, before she gasped quietly and let out an 'oh'.

"Y/n..." She began in awe as her fingers traced the curve of one of the shells, "They're so beautiful, I've never seen such a pair that suit my tastes so well which I haven't had to make myself." She quickly set them down and removed the earrings she was wearing to try them on, leaning down and turning her head this way and that to admire them in a mirror with a big grin on her face, showing off her sharp teeth. "It makes me so happy to know that you saw these and thought of me." She turned to face you and it made you happy to see her wearing them.

She made her way over to you and pulled you into another hug, wrapping her arms and black wings around you. One of her hands came up to the back of your head, long, black nails gently carding through your hair and it made you hold your breath for a moment. Desdemona had come to hug you in greeting or goodbye or gratitude but this felt so much more intimate somehow. You were reluctant to pull away and it seemed she was too because the two of you stayed like that for a long while before eventually you both pulled away.

"I'll go and make you some tea." You smiled at that as you knew she didn't eat or drink human food so she had kept that blend just for you, "Wait in the living room, though, I have a... guest in the kitchen." Your eyes widened in surprise for a moment but this was something that you knew the siren did. You supposed that that was the true reason why this home had a kitchen anyway.

"And is he...?"

"I'd never allow you to stay if I thought there was anything in my home that could put you at risk. You're much too dear to me for that." Her fingertips came up to touch at one of the earrings you had gifted to her. "It's a strawberry blend, I hope that you like it. I certainly don't." The two of you laughed lightly at her joke before you went your separate ways in her home. You couldn't shake the memory of her black-cherry smile at seeing your gift as you smiled to yourself in the living room.

𓋼𓍊⋆ﾟ Buy me a coffee? ｡˚:✧｡Want to be tagged?

@edensrose @writing-noah @itseivwhore

[projectkazari]

Meet Kazari, Shadow Weaver's Reincarnation

Clean Image

Special Thanks to @xxpillsburyhoexx, the brilliant scientist who designs Kazari's body.

1- Kazari is a magicat, because in the immortal of George Lucas; “It’s like poetry, It rhymes!” Oddly enough, my original concept for Kazari was her being a dog-like creature.

2-A red jacket with orange stripes, because that is the color scheme of Retro Shadow Weaver.

3-The ying-yang symbol signifies balance. Male/Female (Kazari is Non-Binary), Up/Down, and for this story, Light/Darkness.

4-Kazari keeps her tail wrapped around her waist her like a belt to keep her it from being grabbed in fights and stuff.

5-I chose those colors because they are the same colors as Light Spinner

6-I chose that shade of red because it’s the color of Shads’ mask.

7-I wanted to display Kazari’s athleticism, so I gave her sports tape. Her original design was loosely based on Tangle the Lemur.

8- That’s not just a choker, it’s a surprise!

9-Kazari has green cat-eyes, because Shads had green eyes

10-Kazari is a fusion of the japanese words for Shadow, Hope and Light; KAge, NoZomi and HikARI, making Kazari's name mean: The Hope that Lights the Shadows

11-Have you ever heard of Kingdom Hearts? There is a faction called Organization 13, where members names are their original names scrambled with an X placed in. Kazari’s home planet was originally called Space Australia, but one of my discord friends convinced me to put more thought into it, so took the slang term for an Australian person, AUSSIE, and gave it the Organization 13 treatment, thus: Xisaeus.

12- This story takes place 25 years after She-Ra, in that time, Mystacor has rebooted and intergrated with the rest of Etheria.

13- Like I said, it’s like poetry, it rhymes!

You can read all about her adventures in KAZARI, THE MAGICAT OF HAVOK

on Wattpad and AO3

[bubblyhoney]

spicy

warnings: kissing, mainly fluff, suggestive language and insinuations (steamy), 1 ass tap, mentioning of a name brand of spectacular hot sauce

tags: dreamwastaken x gn!reader

words: 1047

A/N: had a burrito with cholula for dinner tonight and suddenly had the motivation to write this drabble for dream?? a little out of left field for how long it's been since i have written for this green idiot but i like it hehe.

requests/inbox status: open

-

“C’mon.”

You slide the plate half an inch closer. He just shakes his head, half of a disgusted look on his face.

“It’s going to hurt me. I don’t want the inside of my mouth to sweat,” he complains with his body tilted away from it. He acts like it’s going to sink its teeth into him and take a meaty bite.

You stare between him and the chicken and cheese burrito. It has a singular stripe of Cholula on it; it’s the sweetest hot sauce you own, not awfully painful but still spicy enough to taste good.

“One bite, and I’ll leave you alone. It’s not that bad, baby.” You scoot it closer. “I’ll make you those cookies you like after. Promise,” you offer, eyebrows wiggling.

“Extra chocolate chips?” He asks, wincing as he picks up the fork. You nod, fond smile growing on your face.

He’s not a massive fan of spice, per say. He only gets barbecue wings when you go out, and even gets his pad Thai without red pepper flakes. The one time you coaxed him into a spicy garlic boneless wing at Buffalo Wild Wings he coughed and sputtered like you spiked them with something radioactive. His lips and nose turned this cute shade of red and you kept teasing and asking about what shade of blush he uses. Sapnap got him convinced that eating the white parts of jalapeños was actually the least spiciest part of the pepper and Dream spent 45 minutes in the bathroom.

So he just glares at the bite of burrito in his fork and sniffs it suspiciously. Sucking in a big breath, he puffs his chest and takes the bite off of the fork with his teeth scraping on the metal. He chews so hard his jaw pops, like he’s afraid to actually taste it. But he swallows, smacking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. He looks around at you, one eyebrow tilted in surprise.

“That wasn’t the worst.”

You clap, wiping an imaginary tear off of your cheek. Grabbing his hand, you bring the back of his palm to your lips for a kiss.

“They grow up so fast,” you simper through a sniff, voice weak. He rips his hand from you with a short laugh, standing to bring your now-empty plate to the sink.

“Shut up.” He hides his smile.

You follow, snorting, and lean up against the fridge to watch him put away the dishes in the dishwasher.

“Who knows. Maybe one day you’ll graduate to buffalo sauce. That day I will drop dead,” you say with finality, grin wide on your lips. He just shakes his head and closes the door of the dishwasher with a snap.

And then he’s nearing you, head tilted, shoulders relaxed and confident. He presses an arm up onto the fridge above your head, leaning down to your level. Your grin melts into a smirk. His lips find your cheek, and his other hand your lower back. Eyes falling closed, you revel in his touch with a hand clenched in the material of his t-shirt. He smells like the cologne he keeps on his desk, all warm and spicy and sharp.

The hand on your back slides down to the belt loops of your jeans and he slides two fingers in them, hooking his hand to you.

“What is all this for?” You ask, too breathy for your liking, and he gives you a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Pulling away just slightly, your lips open to see that look in his eyes. Hm. You know that look. He has that expression on his face right before—

Click.

Sapnap’s entrance to the house saves you from your most definitely steamy interaction with your boyfriend.

“Kitchen!” You call, loosening your fistful of his shirt and standing up straight. He gives you another look but backs off, leaning up against the counter with his arms folded. Like a father awaiting his child to come home past their curfew. Sapnap’s bearded face comes into the light of the kitchen and he sets his keys down onto the island with a loud sound.

“Dude. Dream tried Cholula.” You sound proud.

“No way!” His mouth drops open, looking between you two.

Dream groans, smacking his head on the cupboard behind him.

“And didn’t even pitch a hissy fit! That’s growth.”

God, you’re having so much fun with this.

“Proud of you, bro,” Sapnap adds before slapping his best friend's bicep and leaving for presumably his room. Dream just shakes his head and calls out some sassy remark you're too enthralled in turning to the cupboard to get cookie ingredients to hear.

You’re halfway through pulling out a measuring cup for the flour when he sidles up behind you and presses you flush to the counter edge. You make a noise of acknowledgment but continue on to dump the powder into the plastic mixing bowl. Two long arms drape over you and press flat to the counter as his head drops onto your shoulder.

“Do you want my help?” He mumbles, muffled from the material of your shirt. His mischievous mood seems to have disappeared, you note. Good. Sapnap just got home and he’d probably not love you two christening the kitchen.

“Yes.” You turn your head and press a kiss to his temple. “Go get me the chocolate chips, big boy.”

His pressure from on your back lifts, but not before he lands a firm smack on your butt. You jolt and glare at his back as he reaches up to the shelf where he hides them from Sapnap. (Sap likes to eat them by the handful and Dream plays with him by putting them on top of the cupboards. Meanie.)

“No hot sauce in the cookies, right?” He jokes and plops the bag down right next to you.

“No,” you start, and tear off a corner of the bag. “But I will put a healthy dose of sichuan chilies in.”

He seems to not know what you’re talking about, for his eyebrows furrow and he chews at his lip.

“Are those hot?”

“Nah.”

And you don’t put them in his sacred chocolate chip cookies. But you slip in that little detail for future reference when you get Chinese food. I mean, he’s got to branch out somehow, right?

-

A/N: ask or send me some stuff!! requests, rants, anything. :] let me know what you think in the comments!

[teddypoi-qd]

{ID - digital art, a timeline of Martin from The Magnus Archives, as his appearance changes with each major event/season. Each appearance has a series of notes surrounding it. As a rule, Martin’s hair is curly and starts off auburn brown before turning various shades of grey and white. There is a puff of hair on top that looks like a heart. His eyes start off dark blue, and become foggy grey. He is white and freckled, fat and drawn into himself, with rounded features.

S1 - Martin is wearing a bright yellow jumper with orange starbursts on i; it doesn't fully hide his chest. He has rounded glasses and messy, curly hair. He wears trousers with scuff marks on. He waves gently at someone offscreen, and holds a mug of tea in his other hand. He wears a trans flag badge, and a simple orange one, as well as a green lanyard that says "STAFF". He has the start of a beard. Notes - (pointing to hair) "Bird's nest" "Yeah I'm in my 30s! I know I don't look it; baby face!" "Charity shops love him!" (pointing to his chest) "Non-op (too expenny)" "Repairs his own clothes" "Children's TV presenter vibes"

S1 (archive livin') - His hair is slightly longer and messier, and he is wearing pyjamas. His pyjamas are a matched set; a blue shirt with paw prints on the chest, and a pair of blue boxers with dog faces on. His arms and legs are visible, showing a lot of body hair and two tattoos. On his left bicep is a black cog, and on the inside of his right thigh is a small spider. In one hand, he clutches a corkscrew. His left hand clutches fearfully onto his right arm. Notes - "Matching PJ set (from Sash)" "Mechs tattoo lol (Jon FREAKED out)" "No haircuts for lads in quarantine" "Is that a corkscrew in your pocket or- (it's a corkscrew)" (pointing to the spider) "Stick n' Poke from when he was like 16"

S2 - His hair remains long and messy, but he now looks generally more exhausted and tense. He is wearing a pink jumper with a small heart design on, and his trans pin. The jumper sits on top of a pink-grey shirt. He is also wearing purple-grey suit trousers. He still clutches onto his corkscrew. Notes - "SO tense SO jumpy" "Nearly stabbed Tim one time" "Dressing better (to impress Jon)"

S3 - His hair is shorter now and his outfit is more muted. He is also slightly fatter. He wears a thick green sweater vest and a grey-beige shirt with his suit trousers. He clutches a tape recorder in his hand. He looks incredibly sad, and his fists are clenched. Notes - "3AM sadness haircut" "Sad" "Putting on worry weight" "Tries to remain progessional despite it all (colours remind him of Jon), "Using 'Jon's' recorder"

S4 - A dramatic change for Martin; his hair is longer again, and cloudy grey. His glasses are clouded by fog, and he is looking stern and stubborn. His skin is much paler, and his freckles are faded. He is wearing a navy blue turtleneck and jeans. He holds a piece of paper in one hand, and a blue mug in the other. Behind him are soft blue clouds. Notes - "No more Mr Soft Boi" "Depression Hair Returns" ""Peter's evil, sure, but he's right about turtlenecks." Talking to a recorder" "Paler" (pointing to the paper) "5th Extinction statement of the week" "There's Red Bull (warm) in this mug" "Gets cold easily now" "Freckles fade" "Glasses fog up" "Mist & clouds help him leave unnoticed"

S5 (cottage) - A slight return to his season 1 design, but clearly changed. His hair is pale brown, and his skin has a little big more colour back to it. He is wearing a big blue jumper with pawprints on the arms and a dog's face on the front with text that says "PUP" in primary colours. He is also wearing a scarf striped with purple, magenta, and green. He is still wearing his jeans. He looks gently happy, but very tired. He doesn't wear his glasses. Tiny wisps of cloud hang around behind him. Notes - (pointing to the scarf) "Jon's scarf" "He refuses to see it" "A little colour comes back" "At least 3 layers on" "Convinced Jon he doesn't need gloves indoors" "the tiniest bit of hope" "Sad and tired but in love {heart}"

S5 (Kill Bill) - Martin has fallen back to the Lonely somewhat. His hair is almost entirely white, and his skin is pale again. He looks dangerously angry. He is wearing his S1 jumper with jeans, a brown trench coat, and Jon's scarf. He scowls, breathing out a puff of blue fog. Notes - "Clawing for a happy end" "He just wanted to be soft." "Peter was right about big coats too. Fuck." "Becomes more/less Lonely based on mood"

Doodles - Three goofy line doodles of Martin 1 - A tiny S5 Eyepocalypse Martin, his fists clenched and his eyes narrowed. He is screaming, "OI DICK'EAD" 2 - A S5 Cottage Martin, glasses off. An arrow pointing to him says, "His ass can't see shit" 3 - A doodle of S4 Martin that is transparent. He is making a peace sign and is being surrounded by clouds. A note next to him says, "Peace Out"

END ID}

i also. love him.

[theriverspath]

Keep Warm: A little Good Omens holiday fluff

Prompt: "Too quick, mumbled into your scarf" from The way you said "I love you."

“Oh! Your fingers are so cold!” Aziraphale held a paper cup of hot chocolate in one hand. A stick of striped peppermint candy served as an improvised stirrer. Tiny white marshmallows were already starting to melt on the surface of the sweet drink. The other hand had just reached out to hold Crowley’s.

The demon was finished with his cone of candied pecans. They had found a booth selling ones with cayenne pepper in the spiced coating, and Aziraphale had finally been able to convince Crowley to actually try some.

“Here.” Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand and used it to unwind the tartan scarf he had tucked under the lapels of his jacket. It somehow got twisted, and the angel ended up with coils of woven wool looped around his head.

“Angel. What on Earth are you trying to do?” Crowley couldn’t help but smile at the frustrated string of unintelligible syllables that emanated from the tangled mess.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Crowley carefully unwound the fabric from Aziraphale’s face and settled the scarf back into its original place. The angel’s curls stood out around his face, catching the changing colors of a blinking sting of lights behind him.

“I said,” Aziraphale huffed and smoothed his hair with the hand not holding the hot chocolate. It immediately bounced back up. “That I was just trying to help you keep warm.”

“Ah.” Crowley snapped his fingers. A sleek, black strip of fabric now hung around his neck. He flicked one end of it over his shoulder. “Satisfied?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s admonishment indicated that he was not, in fact, satisfied. “What if someone sees?” He gestured to the street, busy with humans enjoying the holiday fair.

“Relax, no one saw anything.” The demon stepped in close, and lowered his dark glasses. “Besides, I can think of better ways you could keep me warm.” A mischievous wink flashed at Aziraphale. He raised his hand above them. It was somehow now holding a single sprig of mistletoe. There was even a jolly ribbon tied around the base.*

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s tone was softer. A blush creeped up over the top of his scarf to paint his cheeks a charming shade of pink. He smiled into eyes his favorite shade of yellow. “What if someone sees?”

“Let them look, then.” Crowley dipped his head down and claimed a kiss from the sweet lips of his sweetest angel.

-------

*The color of which was an appropriately cheerful red. Crowley had briefly considered a green plaid, but had dismissed it on principle.

Created as part of the November 2023 daily writing challenge in Sendarya's discord server.