#and her and Ford... they would be funny too I think | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ckret2 · 5 months

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On chapter 30 of The Writer Uses Misleading Graphics To Trick You Into Looking At This Fic About Human Bill Being The Shack's Prisoner: Summerween part 2! Bill wheedles Mabel into helping him make a costume. Mabel wheedles Bill into spilling some of his preciously-guarded secret backstory. Ford is kind of in awe.

Also there's like 4.5 drawings in this chapter. They're all very silly drawings.

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Bill wouldn't tell Mabel what his costume was—"I want to see who can guess it"—but all it needed was a brown bedsheet, a long red wig, cardboard (to be drawn upon), and flip-flop sandals.

The bedsheet was the easiest to acquire. Dipper's barely-worn brown sandals were just slightly too big for Bill but Mabel helped tie them on with yarn. the shack's cardboard supplies were still depleted from making Bill's triangle mask, but they could make do with paper and popsicle sticks. Mabel didn't have a red wig but she did have a blonde wig and red markers. Since Bill was, by his own reporting, terrible at drawing, Mabel offered to do the fancy artwork if Bill did the tedious task of recoloring the wig. He claimed he'd feel like a mortician putting makeup on a car wreck victim, but nevertheless accepted the deal, and they settled in around the living room table to get to work.

"So just a bunch of houses, right?" Mabel asked, starting on the first drawing.

"Ancient Greek-looking houses," Bill said. "So, marble and columns. Don't think too hard about the details—this is a 21st century American costume holiday, not a historical reenactment. You can slap columns on anything and call it 'Greek' and every human in town will buy it."

"Do ancient Greek houses have chimneys?"

"No," Bill said. "But adding one would be funny."

Mabel considered that, weighed up the value of historical accuracy against entertainment value, and decided giving one house a chimney would be funny. She gave the whole house a thick black outline in marker, and pulled out crayons in black, white, and whale blue to quickly add some light shading to the marble.

Mabel didn't think she'd ever seen Bill focus so hard or so quietly on anything the way he did on coloring that old wig red. He was giving it more attention than he did his own hair: while his golden locks were a tangled, uncombed, soggy mass shoved dismissively over his shoulders, he was dying the cheap wig (and his fingertips) strand by plastic strand with the bright-eyed morbid fascination of a third grader studying a pack of ants as they disassembled a bird's corpse.

This was the longest she'd been around Bill without conversation—usually, you couldn't even walk into a room without him immediately chattering at you like the motion-activated animatronics at the Summerween store. It was hard to think around him. Bill didn't give you room to think.

What did Mabel think about Bill?

He was right, she was still mad about the mall. No—mad wasn't the right word—mad was his word—she was scared. She'd never really stopped being scared of him, if she was honest with herself. But everything he'd done that day, from tricking her into trapping herself to reminding her of almost dying, had just reinforced why she should fear him.

But. She thought he felt bad about it. And she didn't think she'd ever seen him feel bad about anything before.

Maybe that meant her experiment was working. Maybe he was changing. Yeah, he was still scary—but he was Bill Cipher, he had a lot of scariness to work through. He was moving in the right direction, and she wanted to encourage that.

He hadn't apologized for the mall; but, since he'd tried to make up for it at the time, and that was a sort of apologetic action, Mabel decided she could tentatively forgive him for that day—provided he continued to improve. Put him on forgiveness probation. And that meant they were on friendly speaking terms again.

Which was good, because the quiet was starting to get uncomfortable. She surveyed her art for something they could talk about.

After a couple of as-historically-accurate-as-she-could-imagine houses, Mabel had started varying up the designs by redesigning houses she could remember off the top of her head with columns and white marble. She'd made a stately marble Mystery Shack, and a columned-covered doppelgänger of the house with the terraced yard across the street at home, and then she'd decided to make a Greek-ish version of her own home. "Hey Bill. Have you ever seen my house?"

"In person? No. But it came up from time to time in you kids' dreams, so whether I've seen it depends on how accurate you think your dreams are," he said. "It has less plants and more windows in your brother's dreams than in yours."

Mildly disturbing answer, but not disturbing in the direction she'd expected. "What! You mean you haven't haunted our neighborhood or anything? I don't believe it."

"Do you think I spend all my time stalking random humans? Don't flatter yourself."

"Well, seeing it in dreams isn't good enough!" Mabel pulled over a blank paper. It was hours until trick-or-treaters showed up, they had a little time to waste. "I'll draw it!"

"Wow, really?" Bill looked up from his wig. "You're not worried about letting the big bad triangle see your house?"

"Come on! You already know where I live, right?"

Bill immediately rattled off, "1337 Fairview Drive, Piedmont, California, on the northeast side of the street where it's less hilly."

"Exactly—you creep. So who cares if you know what it looks like, too?"

A square, sky blue house with two stories and a triangular roof; a big living room window on the left, a covered door on the right, three windows on the second floor, and a chimney. Mabel had drawn her home plenty of times—but doing it for a friend (?) was different from doing it for a teacher or a librarian, and she put extra effort into the rose bushes under the living room window. She added her and Dipper's smiling faces in the upstairs windows and Waddles's face downstairs in the living room.

"Waddles sleeps in the kitchen, but he basically owns half the yard to wallow in. This is my room, and here's Dipper's—I get three windows, but Dipper has the biggest window and a bigger room, so it's fair, no matter what he says—"

"Oh, you two have separate rooms now?" Bill was leaning halfway around the table and craning his neck to see the image right side up.

"Uh, yeah? Since we were ten?"

Loftily, Bill said, "I don't know how you'd expect me to know that. You both still dream about sharing a room."

Mabel paused and tried to remember how often she dreamed about Dipper in his new room. Sometimes she woke and was still disoriented to find her bed in the middle of the room instead of against one wall with Dipper's on the other side. "Huh."

She added a few more details—the front steps, the gate, the shingles. (Bill watched nervously as she pulled out the gray crayon to color the driveway—but she didn't notice how it had been tampered with.) She talked about her home, and in turn Bill told her weird things, like that Dipper often dreamed of monsters coming out of the fridge. When she finished, she autographed her name with a star on the "i" in Pines, offered it over grandly, and said, "Here, you can keep this!"

Bill accepted it without the customary effusive gratitude with which one ought to accept a generously-gifted original artwork from a 13-year-old prodigy. "What am I gonna do with it?"

"That's your problem!"

"Fair enough!" He checked his leggings for pockets and, when he didn't find any, set the page on the table by his elbow.

Offering accepted. As Bill resumed coloring his wig, Mabel picked up another piece of paper and got to work on the next columned house. "What does your house look like?"

Bill stopped dead, looked straight at her, and said, "My what?"

What was weird about the question? "Your house! Or whatever you lived in before you came here. You came from somewhere before you tried to invade Earth, right? You didn't just pop out of somebody's dream."

Bill laughed. "Yeah I did!"

"Bill."

"4500 years ago the construction workers of Egypt had a shared nightmare about the immense tombs they'd spent the last century building—"

"Biiiill."

"—and when they awoke they found the combined psychic energy of their terror had spawned a sleep paralysis demon more powerful than Ra! So then I ate their souls—"

"Seriously, Bill."

"I'm being so serious right now."

Mabel rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine! I get it. You're embarrassed." She shook her head and returned to coloring.

She felt the combined spiritual energy of hundreds of imaginary Egyptian construction workers beating down on her face from Bill's eye. Like a laser. "'Embarrassed'?"

"Because you don't have a house," Mabel said. "I think it's okay, you don't need to be embarrassed! I don't think you're a loser or anything. It's just kind of sad—"

Bill snatched up a blank piece of paper. "You want a house? Fine! I'll show you a house." He grabbed up an orange crayon, muttering, "It'll put your stupid overpriced shed in California to shame— Where's the ruler—?" Mabel tried not to grin.

For several minutes, he was perfectly silent. Mabel glanced over to see him coloring with three crayons at once, only for him to shove a hand in her face and snap, "No peeking."

Mabel got through two more drawings before Bill slapped down his paper over Mabel's. "There! How about that?!"

She looked at the drawing, which Bill had helpfully labeled "Party Central!" in red crayon. A great stone pyramid so dark brown it was nearly black, with bricks outlined in brilliant gold and molten orange and fiery red, and a sharp multicolored X hovering above it—

Mabel gave Bill a flat look. "This isn't your house, this is your Torture Temple."

"The what? Hey, is that really what people are calling it?! It's not the Torture Temple, it's the Fearamid!"

Despite herself, Mabel burst out laughing. "You named it the 'Fearamid'?!"

"It's a pyramid and humans fear it! It's genius. Portmanteaus make great names."

"What's a portmanteau."

"It's a word made from the unholy Frankensteinian fusion of two other words. Like getting 'electrocute' from 'electricity' and 'execute'!"

"Or 'romcom'?"

"Yeah, or that."

Mabel considered the drawing. "If you want to scare less people, you could call this your Bill-ding."

"HA! Oh, I'm saving that."

"Anyway, this isn't where you live," Mabel said. "You were there for like a week tops!"

"Yeah, before your great-uncle killed me. I'd still be living there if it weren't for you jerks." He stuck out his tongue.

"Come on, Bill. I showed you my house. Draw where you grew up or something!"

"What's wrong with the Fearamid?"

Mabel crossed her arms. "Why don't you want me to see your real house?" She raised her eyebrows at him.

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but then stopped, a thoughtful look on his face. "Eh, you know what? Why not. If you're gonna be so ridiculous about such a silly thing." He pulled over another piece of paper. "But if I don't have enough time to finish coloring this wig, you have to help me."

"Fiiine." She returned to her own drawings as Bill got back to work.

After a long silence—longer than he'd taken to draw and color the Fearamid—he said, "Okay, done. Here." And he pushed over the paper with one dismissive finger.

She eagerly accepted the drawing—and frowned. There was nothing on the page except for a straight flat black line, interrupted by three line segments of bright blue and a cluster of red and green dashes. "What is this?"

"Where I grew up," Bill said, innocently, already back to coloring the wig. Mabel could see his mischievous smirk. "As seen from the front. Just like your drawing of your house. So we're even now."

Mabel's brows furrowed as she stared at the page in confusion. "What...?"

"You do know I'm from the second dimension, right? A universe that's flat like a piece of paper. I figured Sixer would've told you all about it by now." Bill picked up the drawing and held it between his and Mabel's faces, so that, viewed from the edge, all Mabel could see of the paper was a thin flat line. "What do you think the second dimension looks like to somebody in the second dimension?"

Mabel took the paper back, looked at the underwhelming flat line representing the front of Bill's house, and said, "I hate you."

"We had the prettiest roses in the park," Bill said, pointing at the red dashes. "Crayon really doesn't do them justice."

"Shut uppp."

Bill laughed at her; but then, to her surprise, he said, "Okay, all right, I guess a big fancy 3D creature like you can't understand the nuances of two-dimensional sight. So, here." He flipped over the page. "Top down view."

The back of the page had what looked like a floorplan. A narrow room on the left, a large L-shaped room, a tiny room nestled into the L's top right corner, and a medium room on the right. Little shapes filled the rooms—furniture of some kind?—but she didn't see anything immediately recognizable like a top-down bed or table and chairs. Green and red spirals dangled off the bottom of the floorplan.

"I'm no Edward Bishop Bishop, but it gets the idea across," Bill said.

She studied all the strange little figures in fascination, looking for anything familiar. She pointed at a few shallow bowls filled with blue sticking out of the wall between the L-shaped room and the tiny room. "Are these sinks?"

"Hey, you're pretty sharp. Sinks and the tub."

"So the little room's the bathroom."

"Right again." Bill pointed out the rooms on the floor plan. "Master bed's on the right, kitchen and living room in the middle—and you found the bathroom—and second bed's on the left. That was my room! The one with a million books," he pointed at a wall with countless tiny multicolored lines coming off of it. "I was a big reader as a kid. I've always been an intellectual."

"Who was in the other bedroom?"

"I never really went in there, who cares." Bill made a dismissive gesture. "I think there were some desks and stuff in there too, but I didn't bother to draw them since I never used them." He picked up a yellow and a black crayon and added on to the drawing, dexterously turning the crayons in his hand to switch between colors without setting either one down. "I spent most of my time in my room." He'd drawn a little yellow triangle with an eye. He picked up a red crayon to point an arrow at the triangle and label it "Me!" "I didn't even have to leave the room to see the TV. The perks of psychic powers!"

Mabel wondered which of the weird shapes was the TV; but before she could come to a decision, she was distracted by the scale of Bill drawn in his room. Maybe he'd just drawn himself big, but he seemed cramped in that narrow space. And he'd hardly have room to turn around in the bathroom without his corner smacking something. "It looks pretty small. Is that normal on your home world?"

"Ah, I rarely spent time at home—it was just a place to sleep between speaking engagements," Bill said. "I was always on tour. Living the life of the rich and famous! Hotels, jet planes, and tour buses!"

Mabel shot him an irritated look. "You said this is where you grew up."

"This is where I grew up! I got an early start making my fortune. I was already famous by the time I was, uh..." he pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Developmentally, I think I would've been about equivalent to your age. Maybe a bit younger."

How much of all this was true? It didn't feel like a lie—and she couldn't see how he'd benefit from lying about any of it, except maybe claiming to be famous. So it probably had to be true. He'd actually made her a drawing of his house. Even after he'd complained about being so bad at art. She beamed at him. "Thanks, Bill. Your weird alien house is neat! I like the squiggly spiral flowers! Are they actually roses?"

"They were the flower that everyone mentions in poetry and that you have to bring home when your wife is mad, so, same basic function as roses," Bill said. "Fun fact, they grow in spirals so that they're pretty on the outside, but—"

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"—but have more surface area to absorb sunlight on the inside," Mabel said, pointing at the flowers. "Alien biology! And the orange things are couches and the colorful box in front of them is his TV, and Bill says he could watch TV through the wall but he never really liked TV, he preferred live performances—maybe we should take him to a musical! And the little sideways cushions on the walls are their beds because gravity goes to the left because their house faces east—I have no idea why!—so, I guess that's their 'floor'? But if that's the 'floor,' Bill didn't explain why all his books were on the 'ceiling' without them falling off, and..." Mabel trailed off, giving Ford a concerned look. "Grunkle Ford? Are you okay?"

He was gaping at the drawing. "Wh—? Yes. Sorry. I'm just..." He shook his head in amazement. "I never even got that slippery eel to admit he has a calendar system, and you got the blueprints to his childhood home?"

Dipper said, "Yeah, this is amazing. How did you get this out of him?"

"Oh, I didn't do anything special," Mabel said casually. "Just drew our house and then suggested he was too scared to let me see his."

Dipper grimaced. "You showed him our house?"

"Don't worry about it! He already knows where we live."

"Of course," Ford said, taking a quick note in his journal. "Exploiting his ego. He's very proud; undermine that pride and he'll feel compelled to defend his honor." Ford had started goading Bill into giving away more than he meant to the same way. He wished he'd started doing it far earlier; but he'd spent so many years foolishly assuming Bill's pride was objective and justified that he sometimes forgot what an egomaniac Bill really was.

As Mabel had spoken, Ford had filled several pages with bullet-pointed half thoughts: dodges questions about the master bed—his parents' room?; no bed or bedroom for a sibling, he seems like an only child; "speaking engagements" is probably a euphemism, what was he doing to become a child celebrity; were his books his only childhood possessions or just the only thing he valued enough to draw; did he gain his "psychic powers" while amassing the power he needed to "liberate"/destroy his dimension? "Can I borrow this drawing to make a photocopy?"

"Sure! Don't forget the line on the back," Mabel said. "And you can copy the Fearamid, too! Did you know he named it the 'Fearamid'?"

"Oh yeah, I heard him call it that," Dipper said. "I think I recorded it in Journal 3?"

"I should've read that before we threw out all of Grunkle Ford's Bill stuff," Mabel sighed. She slid over the Fearamid drawing to Ford. "Bwop! He drew it tilting all weird to the left? He wasn't kidding when he said he's bad at drawing."

Ford studied the drawing and frowned. He lay his pen on the drawing to use like a makeshift ruler. "It's not 'skewed'—he drew the front face as a perfect equilateral triangle, and then extended a side on the right to turn it into a pyramid. It's poor perspective—there's no point of view from which one side would look like a perfect equilateral triangle and you could see another side, but..." He trailed off again as he made a note to himself about what this might mean about Bill's ability to perceive the third dimension and his artistic sensibilities.

"So he draws like Picasso!" Mabel concluded. "Oh! Bill mentioned a name when he gave me his house, he said he wasn't like Edward Bishop Bishop—and I remembered it because it sounds funny. Bishop-Bishop. Maybe he's another artist Bill likes? Or somebody who makes blueprints?"

"I'm sure I've heard that name. I think he was a mathematician?" Ford frowned. "I can't recall, though." He wrote down another note: Edward Bishop Bishop – mathematician/artist? Something to look up later.

Dipper glanced back and forth between Ford and Mabel as they talked, feeling his stomach sink at how excited they were and how easily they got along. First the mysterious disappearing crystal shop in Portland, now Mabel made this huge discovery about the guy Ford had spent years trying to learn about... Dipper swallowed hard and tried to tell himself he shouldn't feel jealous after he'd gotten Ford to himself for basically the past year. "I can't believe you found out all this."

Mabel immediately looked at him. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

Dipper winced. He'd realized a moment too late how he must have sounded. Quickly, he said, "I mean, it's great that you did! Finding out more information about him is great. But, like... investigating the paranormal is my thing. It's what I spent all last summer doing, and it's my dream job, and... and now, the biggest paranormal mystery in human history is in our house, and you're the one getting all the info out of him?"

"Well, yeah," Mabel said. "I'm our official Bill spy, remember? I'm the one who made friends with him."

"I know, I know." He shrugged jerkily. "I'm just... kind of disappointed that I'm not prying eons-old secrets out of an alien demon. You know?"

Ford had paused in his writing to listen to Dipper thoughtfully. "I understand. When you're exceptional at something, it can be... difficult to share the limelight," he said. "Not because you don't think anyone else deserves it. You just don't know if you'll ever get it back."

Dipper's face heated up—he didn't want Ford to think he was bad at sharing, of all things—but he mumbled, "Yeah, I guess." Ford patted his shoulder understandingly.

"Aww," Mabel said. "Didn't you say that if we're running an experiment on being nice to Bill, you want to be in the control group?" She punched his arm. "Welcome to the control, bro!"

"Ow!" Dipper rubbed his arm and laughed weakly. "Yeah, okay, you're right. This is what I get."

Mabel said, "You should try talking to Bill! Maybe he'll tell you stuff too. He's really easy to talk to as long as you don't mind him sometimes saying creepy nightmare things."

"And as long as you're prepared for his mental tricks," Ford said.

"Yeah! Grunkle Ford's got a whole class for that," Mabel said. "He'll teach you about the BITE model! It's how cults sink their teeth into you!"

Dipper chuckled. "Sure. Maybe I will. We're gonna be at home handing out candy for a few hours, maybe I'll find an opportunity to interrogate him."

"You're not going trick-or-treating?" Ford asked.

"No," Mabel said, with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment.

Dipper elbowed her for her theatrics; they'd already agreed on what they'd do tonight. "We've got plans with friends. But we do get to wear matching costumes again."

"Creepy ghost children!"

"Ah," Ford said. "That explains your..." He gestured at them. They were wearing a suit and a dress, old-fashioned and gray, with tattered hems and dusty black dress shoes.

"Barty helped us put the outfits together," Dipper said.

"We still need to do our makeup," Mabel said. "What about you, Grunkle Ford? What are you doing for Summerween?"

"Ah." He glanced toward the ceiling ruefully, as though he could see The Enemy in the shack through the many layers of dirt above. Summerween had been one of the things he'd missed most about Gravity Falls; even during his years as a reclusive scientist in the woods, he'd usually taken off Summerween and Halloween to hand out candy to the children bold enough to visit his house.

But Bill's eagerness to participate had sucked the fun out of the day. The thought of celebrating Summerween in the same house as Bill felt too much like celebrating with him. "Nothing, I suppose. I was planning to stay down here." He gestured at his desk. "Continue my research."

"What are you working on right now?" Dipper asked.

Ford quickly said, "Nothing. Just—the same research," and was immediately hit with a pang of guilt. Remember what happened last summer when you tried to keep secrets about Bill out of embarrassment? Reluctantly, he said, "I've... split some research duties with Fiddleford. While I'm waiting to hear back from him, I'm looking into—some magical knowledge Bill revealed. To determine how much of it's true."

Dipper looked puzzled. "Revealed when?"

Mabel slammed her hands on Ford's desk. "Grunkle Ford, you can take a break from gathering intel on the enemy for one day! It's Summerween! Promise me you'll do something to celebrate before the day's over."

Ford let out a huff, but smiled. He wanted to do something. Surely he could come up with something that would let him avoid Bill? "All right, I promise. I won't invoke the Trickster's wrath tonight. Could you leave your costume makeup in the bathroom when you're finished? I'll find something to do with it."

"Perfect!" Mabel hugged him; then grabbed Dipper's hand. "C'mon, let's finish getting dressed. The trick-or-treaters will be here any minute!"

"Okay, okay." Dipper waved at Ford as Mabel dragged him to the elevator.

When they were gone, Ford turned back to the papers Mabel had given him. Bill's childhood home... Assuming he wasn't lying, at least. But an entire blueprint seemed like a complicated spur-of-the-moment fabrication even for him. If Bill was lying, it was a lie close to the truth.

It was strange to imagine Bill as a child with a bedroom full of books. Strange to imagine Bill as a child at all. What did a young triangle look like? He couldn't imagine anything different from how Bill always looked.

The floorplan did look small. Smaller even than the apartment over the pawn shop had been. Ford tried to remember what the homes he'd seen in Exwhylia had looked like...

He raised his head as something the kids had said registered. "Barty? Who's Barty?"

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While Mabel was downstairs, Bill inspected her box of crayons.

The wrapper around the gray crayon was coming loose.

He took the glue stick they'd been using to reinforce the paper houses with popsicle sticks and carefully stuck the wrapper back on.

The house was too quiet without anyone around to talk to. He hated the quiet.

From the corner of the living room behind the table, when Bill leaned on the wall, shut his eyes, and listened closely, he could faintly hear the hidden elevator. He headed upstairs to stow the drawing of Mabel's house somewhere safe, and then went to the downstairs bathroom to finish dressing for Summerween.

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(Y'all I worked hard on those fake crayon drawings. Anyway I know we're all collectively going insane today over the book news but if you took time out of your day to read this, I'd love to hear what y'all think!)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls fanart #gravity falls fic #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

206 notes · View notes

solitaszn · 1 year

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curtains | ted lasso ✧˚ · .

Pairing: Ted Lasso x fem!reader

Summary: under the employment of one trent crimm at afc richmond, you are the second American hire and only female journalist at the club starting to make headlines following the head coach being the first.

Warnings: cursing

WC: 980

Author's note: This is really my first multi part fic so be gentle!

"Why does AFC Richmond keep hiring Americans when it is on the brink of relegation?"

Ted stares at the article in dismay and then looks at your desk from the window. He gets up and shuts down his laptop, making his way to your office. You hear his gentle knocking on the glass. your eyes brimmed with tears and your head in your hands as you reread the words "hiring Americans" and "relegation".

"Uhm, come in, Ted!" you say, blinking away your tears.

"I saw the email, I’m awful sorry about that," he said.

"No it’s fine; you know how the journalists are here, especially at The Sun."

"Yeah. So hot-headed," he joked

You giggled; it wasn’t even that funny, and you still laughed so hard. It’s probably the first time Ted got you to genuinely laugh since you started becoming an assistant to Trent (now independent), who wanted to get an American’s eyes and edits on his writing for his book about Ted Lasso. Ever since you got to Richmond, you have been reserved and quiet in the office you and Trent shared, which he rarely used. only there to follow him when he had questions about certain American mannerisms that he did not want to ask Ted or Beard about, not wanting to spoil details about said book.

"I’m glad to see you laughing again." It’s nice to have you around; I hope you know that." He winked at you and walked back to his desk.

He caught a glimpse of you smiling and being giddy, with your face turning a shade of pink. Ted didn’t realize he had stopped doing his work and started staring at you until Roy stood in the doorway and made it obvious.

"Put your fucking tongue back in your mouth, or I’ll tell her to get a curtain for that office, you freak."

You said a muffled, "Roy?"

"What?" He’s the only person he tolerates in the locker room office. People often thought the two of you looked related until you spoke. Your dark hair and eyes, and the fact that you both often wore black. You wore it just to be professional, but he did because he couldn’t stand being in color.

"Do you think I’m bringing down the club for being American?"

Dumbfounded, he replied, "Who the fuck said that?"

"The Sun?"

"And why the fuck would you listen to those fucking pricks?" They don’t fucking work anywhere near as hard as you do."

It’s true that although you were technically an assistant journalist for Trent, you took it upon yourself to do other things around the club for the team. often on coffee runs, helping Will, answering emails for Trent, or really anything you could keep yourself busy with. It didn’t help with your personal life, though; you overfilled your day so much that when you get home, you’re too exhausted to do anything else.

"Thanks Roy."

He grunted and left.

You finally clocked out and headed to your car when you caught Ted on his phone next to it.

"Oh, hey, Ted, what are you still doing here?"

"Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to have a drink or something."

"Ted, I would love to, trust me, but I’m just exhausted, and I’m seriously considering just sleeping in my car."

"I mean, heck, I could drive you home if you don’t mind."

You threw him your keys. Unlocking it, he opened the door, still forgetting that it wasn’t his side. Him still leaving the door open for you to get in and jogging to the other side.

"I’d have to say this is the most normal car in this parking lot; there are too many fast Italian ones here," he says as he drives out of the lot.

You scoffed, "You couldn’t make me buy one, I need a Subaru."

"I immediately could tell you weren’t from around here with this janky thing."

"Janky? Were you expecting me to pull in with a huge Ford F-150, Ted?"

"I would’ve liked you to, would make me feel right at home."

"No way you had one!" I wouldn’t have pegged you for a truck guy."

"Yep, a huge navy blue one, had a Kansas State Shockers sticker on the corner of the back window. That’s how I could tell which one was mine.” You could tell he was so happy that he could talk about the American college experience with someone other than a Beard.

"How long did you coach at WSU?"

"Five years took us all the way to the national championship."

You yawned in between words, "That’s amazing, Ted."

"God, I hope I’m not boring you," he laughed.

"You’re so mean! and you missed the turn, just take this left, and we can get into the parking garage."

"Ooh, a parking garage, that’s mighty fancy” he chirped.

"It’s what happens when you don’t spend $400k on a car."

You both pulled into your spots. Once you were parked, you gathered your things. "Here we are, home sweet home," Ted said enthusiastically.

"Actually, Ted, sorry, do you mind if you walk me to my flat? It’s just that it’s late and dark, so I-"

"No, yeah, of course, no need to apologize,” he said, closing the car door that was followed by two beeps echoing off the cement walls.

"Thanks, and thank you so much for bringing me home; you really didn’t have to."

"It was my pleasure, darlin'," he winked.

Surely you hadn’t heard him right. Darlin’? Was he flirting with you? You walked to the door and swiped your security card to get into your building. You turned to hold the door for Ted; you hadn’t noticed how much he towered over you. His six-foot stature made you question how you also hadn’t noticed his shoulders and strong arms. Were his eyes always that warm brown?

chapter 2

#ted lasso #ted lasso x reader #i had been wanting to write about ted's time at WSU so this was so real of me #ted lasso fic #ted lasso fluff #ted lasso smut #ted lasso reader #solitaszn

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itsharleystuff · 9 months

Text

↳ II. 𝘍𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘝𝘖𝘐𝘋

Read part one here.

— 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dbf!Joel Miller x afab!fem reader (no outbreak au).

— 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.6k (once again, I’m sorry)

— 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: after your steamy encounter with Joel during your homecoming party, things between you have been stagnant. Although, fate seems to be on your side when both Sarah and your dad have to leave town for a short while.

— 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 18+ content (minors dni!), sex, p in v sex, Joel hits it from behind, blowjobs, some teasing, a bit of spanking, pet names (darling, sweetheart, honey), unprotected sex (pls do not attempt), cum eating, taking nsfw photos, Joel tries to be dom but fails, age gap (reader is twenty four, Joel is late forties), reader is kind of a brat, fluff and feelings (yes, this is a warning), alcohol consumption, brief mention of family death. Barely edited, sorryyy. No use of y/n.

—A/N: this can be read as a stand-alone but I suggest reading the previous part for a better understanding. Btw, there’s a couple of Easter eggs from the game in this! Also— I tried making a moodboard and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’ll probably stick to gifs in the future, lol.

“I like Indiana Jones," you babble, taking a sip from your coffee without looking at anyone in specific. "I was twelve and in love with Harrison Ford..."

"Okay, so that's one movie we're definitely not going to watch." Sarah chimes in, lazily chewing on her scrambled eggs. "How do you feel about Robert Pattinson?"

"That depends," you reply, moving your head side to side in a contemplative manner, "are we talking twilight or Harry Potter?"

You hear your dad snort on the other side of the table and see Joel chuckling beside him. Sarah crosses both arms over her chest and raises a brow at them. “What's so funny?"

"Nothing," your dad clears his throat and side-eyes his friend. "Just thought you two were a bit old for those crappy vampire movies. Maybe watch-"

"Forgive me, but I don't think it's a good idea to take recommendations from either of you," you cut him off, leaning back on your chair. "You're both obsessed with die hard, think The Godfather is incredibly complex and in your spare time watch construction programs. We'll be fine on our own."

"Touché..."

It's been three weeks since your homecoming party, and ever since then it has become a habit to have breakfast together every weekend. Today, Saturday, it was the Miller's turn to cook, which consequently had you and your father sitting at their table. As of now, you and Sarah were discussing your movie night, which had to be postponed due to her road-trip to San Antonio— apparently, she and her friend Ellie were going to visit some college campuses there.

It's also been three weeks since that little, hot encounter you and Joel had in your kitchen. And, contrary to your better judgement, both of you were more than eager to spend some extra time alone. Things since then had been uneasy, specially when being surrounded by others; always worried that someone might notice those stolen looks you'd share or sense the palpable tension that rose when you would stand too close to each other.

You try not to think about it. Except when you do. A swirl of memories would come flooding your mind in the most inappropriate moments, creating that heat that made you remember exactly how his fingers felt inside you, his tongue between your folds, the sloppy kisses and that feral, hungry look in his eyes while eating you out, touching you like you were the most precious thing on earth.

"How about pride and prejudice?" the girl wonders, standing up to clean her dishes and snapping you back to reality.

"Shit, I love period dramas!" your dad shoots you a reproachful glare at your language, but you chose to ignore it. "As a matter of fact, most of my designs are inspired by the Victorian and regency eras."

"Oh, yeah," Sarah recalls, "I remember I read about it in one of your blogs. Dad showed it to me, by the way..." Joel clears his throat loudly, making her giggle.

Although she had mentioned it before, it was still kind of weird that he acknowledged your work. At first you thought it was merely because he wanted to connect with you somehow, but lately he'd been asking if he could see your new sketches and would let you borrow some old magazines he had around the house. Your best friend, Sophie, mentioned he might've been trying to show his interest in you subconsciously. And she was that one psychic friend who believed in zodiac signs and angel numbers, so you decided to believe her.

In that moment, your dad receives an incoming call on his cellphone; he excuses himself and heads to the living room. Your eyes lock with Joel's, and the fact that he was uninhibitedly staring back at you drew a smug smile on your face.

"Are you interested in fashion, Mr. Miller?" he sulks out a dry 'no', but you could see him fidget with his watch nervously. "Pity. I thought maybe you could model some of my male designs."

Sarah genuinely cracks up at your comment, slapping one hand on the table. "You want dad to pose for you? Seriously?"

"Why not? I brought my Polaroid camera, I can get some very nice shots." You were partially joking, but deep down you just wanted to see how he'd react.

"I mean, I know dad's got his charm with women, or so they keep saying-"

"No way anyone says that," he rambles.

"But the idea of him modeling is probably the funniest thing I've ever heard."

The fact was that you didn't want to take pictures of him so anyone else could see them. You wanted them exclusively for yourself. A couple of naughty Polaroids to keep around for whenever you were aching for him —which has been nearly every fucking night since your arrival—.

"It was a silly idea," you finally agree, shrugging. Joel stands to take his things to the sink. "Do you really have to leave for the weekend? You're like, my only friend here."

"Uh, about that..." she leans in towards you and you can practically smell a scheme on her. "Would you be mad if I gave your number to someone?"

You can quite literally feel the man standing behind you tense up. "Huh?"

"Yeah, like... To a guy." She moves in her place, but there's still no answer from you. "He's my English teacher. His name is Will and he's super smart, young, really funny and very handsome, I might add. I believe he can be your new male model." Sarah adds that last bit with a grin.

When you turn your head to see Joel, there was a deep scowl etching on his face, his body remaining still as a stone.

"I don't know... As friends, maybe." You weren't sure why, but the idea of meeting anyone new didn't really sound appealing.

She opened her mouth to say something but before she could actually do so, your dad walked in again. He appeared upset, gesturing nonsense and muttering impassively.

"What's wrong?" your tone comes out concerned.

"I have a meeting in Boston," he sighed, resting a hand on your shoulder apologetically. "Apparently it's urgent and I have to catch the next flight if I want to be there by nightfall."

"Oh, don't worry," you smile at him warmly. "I understand. Besides, I'm an adult. I can manage a weekend by myself."

He nods, still seemingly aloof. "I know but- I just wanted to spend some more time with you."

And of course you wanted that too, but saying it out loud could literally bring him to quit his job. He was always very extreme when it came down to you.

"What time d’you leave?" his friend asks him.

"Half past four. Why?"

"I can drop Sarah off at Ellie's and then drive you to the airport, if you'd like." Such a caring friend, Joel Miller. So selfless. Helping your dad out, attending his daughter's every special need...

"Yeah, thanks a lot, man. Take care of my little girl while I'm away."

You see his eyes gleam with a mix of unknown emotions, "Will do."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The last few days had been no less than torment for Joel. Each moment that went by in which he didn't get a chance to be near you had him losing his mind. Badly. And it wasn't necessarily a physical thing— not always, at least.

Every morning, he would wake up and go to work, knowing for certain that when he comes back home he'll find you hanging around with Sarah or sitting out on your porch with a sketching notebook on your lap.

He liked to guess what you'd be doing.

Would you be playing board games with his daughter? Watching a movie or baking desserts? Maybe you were thrift shopping with your dad or simply going to the mall. And later on, when he finally gets to see you again, you'd tell him all about it.

Joel also liked to imagine what kind of clothes you'd be wearing. One thing he noticed is that you never stick to one particular style or aesthetic. One day you could be wearing pastel sundresses with ribbons in your hair; the next one could be long, black skirts paired with basic tank tops and multiple necklaces, or even something more extravagant, depending on your mood.

Seeing you was an experience— one that he could never get tired of. It's like every time he sets his eyes on you there's a certain color palette that changes constantly, or the feeling of gathering all your favorite songs into one playlist and then hitting the shuffle button. He never knows what to expect. Hence why he had given up on trying to relate you to the silly things around; like seasons, animals, artists or foods. Instead, he started associating you with feelings.

You were creative, unique and incredibly fearless. In a way, you made him feel uneasy, excited, thrilled, confident and many more emotions at the same time. If he had to describe you in one word, he'd say evoking.

Oh, how you pestered his brain.

He hated how much he thought about you, and how little guilt he felt from it.

Right now he was sitting on the drivers seat of his truck, waiting at the airport's parking lot. You asked him if you could walk your dad to his corresponding gate and he agreed. The downside: it had started to rain, probably not too bad for your dad's flight to be delayed but enough for your clothes to get soaked on your way back.

"Shit, I'm sorry," you muttered, shutting the passenger's door behind you. “The seats are gonna get all wet..."

"Here," Joel takes off his jacket to place it over your shoulders.

It feels warm and it smells like him, "Thanks."

He starts the car without saying anything else, keeping his eyes glued to the road. You, on the other hand, could not stop staring at him. Now that no one else was around, there was no shame in admiring his side profile, the way his muscles flexed and his hands grasped the wheel. There was something inherently attractive about men driving, but- Jesus... This image had your mind roaming around dark places.

Suddenly, realization sinks in— you're alone.

Alone with him.

"I, uh..." he taps the wheel with his thumb, still avoiding your gaze. "I wanted to take you out for dinner. The weather kinda ruined it."

The corners of your mouth hitch up in a silly smile. "Too bad. I really didn't want to be alone tonight."

Joel hums, appearing somewhat distraught. In reality, he was fighting for his life. The clothes you chose to wear today were not fitted for the rain; denim mini-skirt, high pair of boots and a white top that complimented your upper body. He tried not to look at the raindrops rolling down your thighs or note how transparent your shirt has become, forcing himself to stare at your hands and the many rings that decorated your fingers, seeing there the one he gifted you.

"How about you come over to my place?" you suggest, trying to catch his attention. "I'll need a shower and a change of clothes but... Maybe we can do something afterwards."

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, still avoiding your gaze, "Like what?"

This time your voice goes lower, a smirk spreads across your face and something in your eyes flickers; a darker, sensual spark.

"Oh, you know..." your hand carefully comes to rest on his knee. His thigh tenses but he doesn't say or do anything to push you away. "Whatever you want."

He swallows hard, feeling the pads of your fingers run circles on his leg, your nails mildly scratching over the jeans in a way that raises goosebumps on his skin and eases his nerves.

"I've got a better idea," he says, keeping his tone calm —barely—. "Why don't you come to my house instead?"

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, "Sure, but- what about my clothes?"

And then he smiles cockily, as if this had been his plan all along, "Wear mine."

Well, there was absolutely no way you were going to turn him down. With a bit more boldness, you slide your hand a few inches up his inner thigh, still rubbing soothing patterns. His jaw clenched, but remained silent and apparently unbothered.

"Joel?" his name rolled off your tongue sweetly, in a way only you knew how to. He uttered a 'hm?' in retort. "Did you miss me?"

"I've seen you nearly every day," he answers playfully.

You laugh, stopping your movements and simply resting your palm there. "So... No?"

"Didn't say that, darlin'." The truck suddenly stops at a red light as he exhales heavily, giving in to you at last. "But I'll let you guess."

A push and pull game, like a cat chasing a mouse. Your smirk widens. "I don't think so. Not as much as I have."

His eyes scan your body from head to toe, the way you sit with your legs slightly parted, back laying flat against the seat and face turned towards him with heated cheeks and low gaze. Unexpectedly, your hand draws back from his lap as you start looking through your purse and a frown forms on his face, baffled by the loss of contact.

"Which is why..." you take the Polaroid camera out and see a whole shift in his eyes, like he's about to burst in laughter. "I brought this."

"No," despite his categorical denial, you still held the object up.

"You have a green light," he curses under his breath and you hold back a chuckle. "Just let me have one, please."

He sighs in defeat, "Why'd you want that?"

The rain had started to settle down but the air was still pretty cold, all that could be heard besides your own voices being the drops that crashed against the car.

"Cause you're handsome," he rolls his eyes sarcastically. "And I like you."

Hell, you were always so straightforward. It made his heart jump inside his chest, wondering if it was gonna burst out.

"You won't like me as much once you meet that Will dude," Joel prattles through gritted teeth, remembering his daughter's suggestion from earlier.

"The guy Sarah mentioned?" your brows furrow subtly. "Why? What's up with him?"

He yanks his head to the side, glancing over at you for a second, "Nothin'. Just thinkin' out loud." In spite of your puzzled expression, he decides to grant your wish. "I'll let ya' take it. But only if I get one in return."

Your lips purse in a smile, "As many as you like, Miller."

He doesn't say anything in response, but his grin doesn’t fade either and you managed to capture it on paper. The image slowly started to become visible and your first thought was how well it captured the whole 'Joel Miller' essence. It was a simple photo of him driving with one hand on the wheel and the other arm thrown lazily over the backseat. That denim shirt hugged his arms exquisitely, the rolled-up sleeves adding to his appeal. He was looking at you when it was taken, so you could see more than half his face— and the way he was grinning, you couldn't help but think he appeared so much younger when he did that. The entire thing felt so much like him: snuggly, blue, genuine and you absolutely loved it.

"There," you show it to him as he started to pull over. "Isn't it nice?"

"Just keep it to yourself, aight?" the man grumbles.

"F'course," with a spark of joy, you slide the photo inside your wallet. "Wouldn't want anyone else peeking at that gorgeous smile of yours. That's a treasure of my own."

"Shut up-" he rumbled, turning his face the other way and opening the door, seemingly flustered. And out of all the amazing things you've accomplished in your life, making this rugged looking man blush was probably your greatest pride.

When he helps you out of the car, holding your hand firmly and cleaving to your waist; you wanted nothing more than to kiss him under the pouring rain, wildly and unhinged, just like last time. But this particular spot possibly had too many curious eyes of which you were unaware of. He obviously doesn't need to guide you through his house, since you already know nearly every corner of it, except for one. His bedroom. And apparently, that's the precise location he's taking you to.

"Please excuse the mess," he says, placing one hand on the door handle, "I haven't had a woman in here for ages, so I'm afraid I probably won't live up to your expectations."

"Joel," you snort, "it's been a decade and a half since you last dated anyone. Trust me, my expectations are pretty low."

He scowls, squinting both eyes. "You didn't have to say it like that..."

It's honestly better than you thought. His bed is nicely done, brown bedsheets striking as warm and welcoming; the walls were painted a pretty, light shade of blue that matched the grayish curtains on the left. The drawers in front of his windows had a bunch of stuff scattered on top of them: a CD player along with a few music discs, some papers, a cap and a pair of reading glasses, batteries, one screwdriver and a framed picture of him and Sarah at the beach. Meanwhile, the nightstand simply had one lamp and an alarm-clock on it. Over the bed's headboard were one poster of a music festival, the image of a landscape and an advert of what you guessed must've been a club, that read 'tacos and beer" on it. The door to the bathroom was on the right.

Messy, yet tidy at the same time. Very Joel-like.

"No way..." you murmur, eyeing the guitar beside his bed. "All this time I thought it was a myth."

"What?" he asks from behind you.

"Dad told me you used to serenade girls back in college and that you wanted to become a singer." A giggle escapes your lips, unable to contain it. "I remember saying he was surely making it up, but..."

"I didn't- I mean..." he clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck and feeling his chest swell with your laughter. "Oh, shut up!"

"Make me." The lingering, mischievous smile on your face made his heart pound and blood rush. "Come on, Miller. Shut me up, I dare you."

His eyes darken, but you don't falter for a second. He doesn't move a muscle, solely watching as you took off his jacket and threw it to the bed.

"You dare me?" his voice goes drops an octave, following your every move closely. "That's rather bold of you, sweetheart."

"Mhm," without breaking eye contact, you start taking off your boots. "And yet you're doing nothing about it."

Joel starts walking towards you slowly, holding your gaze intently. Your hair was damp and your clothes were still wet; it didn't really matter that the air was chilly cause you still felt warm all over. He soon invades your space, cupping your chin in his big hand and lifting your head upwards.

"Well, you're awfully quiet now, aren't ya'?" his hot breath fanned across your cheeks, the gap between your faces being basically invisible.

"I'm just waiting for you to start singing some random song by Alabama or Johnny Cash," you scoff. "Like a good ol' Texan ma-"

He doesn't let you finish the sentence, abruptly crashing his lips into your own. Joel isn't delicate about it and the fervor with which he kisses you makes your body stumble a few steps backwards. Your shoulders hit the wall and he pins you against it as your mouths find a way to mold perfectly, at a much nicer pace than last time. You throw your hands around his neck and let your fingers tangle in the curls around his nape, tasting the fresh mint on his lips. His hands rest on your hips, chests pressed together as the temperature kept rising with each second that went on.

You part your lips in order to grant him deeper access, feeling his tongue slide past your teeth and meeting your own in an ardent, heated way. It was perfect, until he broke apart, looking down at you with an asserted confidence.

"You really know nothing 'bout country music," he says in between shaky breaths, beaming. "S'that what you wanted?"

"Yes," you manage to say.

"Then say 'thank you'," Joel indicates petulantly, stroking your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "Go on, don't be such a brat."

You blink twice, your brain still buzzing with the sensation of mouth on you, barely capable of processing anything else. "But I want more..."

"You'll take what I give you."

Shit, when he said it like that- "Thank you."

"That's my girl," he straightened his back, opening the door next to you. "Now, get your pretty ass in the shower before you catch a cold, 'kay?" You roll your eyes and hear him chuckle. "There's clean towers under the sink. You can take some clothes from my drawers, or Sarah's if you feel like it. I don't think she'll mind."

"Understood." He can tell you're annoyed, which he finds funny.

"Don't be mad at me, angel." Joel tugs a strand of hair behind your ear. "Promise I'll make it up to you."

You nod distractedly, lost in the cocky spark on his eyes. "I'm not mad. Just hoping you fuck me real good if you're making me wait for it."

Your words almost make him choke on his own saliva. "Sweetheart, you're making it real hard for me to be a gentleman."

It makes your ego boost, in a sense. "I'll be quick. Can you get something for dinner, though? I'm starving."

"Shit, darlin', pick a struggle," he mocks as you enter the bathroom, "are you horny or hungry?"

"Oh, you jerk!"

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

6:15 pm.

You take a quick glance at Joel's alarm clock once you come out of the shower. It's been little more than an hour since your dad's plane took off. You hope the rain hadn’t made his flight any difficult, cause the weather turned out to be quite a blessing for you.

The cozy feeling of a nice, warm shower after being soaked under the rain was starting to settle in your bones, making your limbs relax. Then you realize, you smell like Joel. The scent of his soap, his shampoo, even his laundry detergent, is all over you. It's intoxicating in the most fantastic way possible, making your insides burn with a thrill of excitement. You took one on his flannels, —dark green with red stripes— and decided to wear it without anything besides your underwear. It was pretty big anyway, and covered just the necessary areas.

You slid your socks back on when all of the sudden you hear the faint sound of music from the floor beneath. Curious, you walk towards the noise, finding out Joel was in the kitchen, crouched down in front of the opened fridge. The CD player that you saw earlier on his room was now on the table, playing a melody that you recognized almost immediately.

"I like this song," you say, leaning against the wall. "That's Billy Idol, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he recalls, taking out a medium sized plastic box from the fridge. "Tommy made that mix. There's plenty of hits from past decades. I think you'll enjoy it."

The man finally turns around to face you and his face fails to hide his surprise. The way his prying eyes sweep your body in detail, taking his time particularly on your bare thighs, almost made you feel self-conscious if it weren't for that shadow of desire that crossed his eyes and the way his nostrils flared from a contained breath.

"How is he, by the way?" you ask, still on the subject. "Haven't seen him in a while."

"Who?" he clearly forgot what he had just said.

"Your brother," you call to mind, "how is he?"

Joel sets the box down on the table and drifts his gaze back to your face. "Fine, I guess. Last time we spoke he said he'd go to Dallas." He takes two glasses from the pantry and what it looks like a bottle of wine. "I-uh... There isn't any real food in here besides those strawberries and chocolates that this guy brought for Sarah. Should I order something?"

You shake your head and walk over to him, "This will do. Won't she get mad if we eat them, though?"

"Don't think so," he replies, pouring the red liquid into the glasses. "I'll blame you if she does."

"Oh, okay-" you cock an eyebrow at him and hold back a giggle. "Thought you didn't like wine."

"It's a fancy drink," he explains, "s'only for special occasions."

"Oh?" you take a sip from it, eyes boring into his. "And what's tonight's?"

Joel smiles conceitedly, jutting his chin out. "I've got you all to myself."

You snort, feeling the heat soar across your cheeks. He takes the snack box and with a sly gesture asks you to follow him into the living room, the melodic sound of the eighties tune turning to background noise as you do. The only lights on are the ones in the kitchen and the lamps beside the couch, shining a perfect light on his features.

"Come here," he calls, the leather squealing under his weight when he sat down. You set the glass down on the coffee table in front of the tv, going to sit next to him. "No, sweetheart," he grabs your waist and pulls you closer to him. "I meant here."

His legs part slightly, making room for you to sit on his lap. Your smile broadened toward a soft chuckle, settling yourself on his thigh. Joel immediately gets his hands on you, one on your lower back and the other merely resting on your upper leg.

"So, who's this mystery man that's been giving gifts to your darling daughter?" he scoffs in response, reaching for a chocolate from the box.

"Honestly? No fuckin' clue." You hum in surprise, drinking from your wine. "She never involves with them, thank god, and once they meet me they never come by again."

"I see,” you muse, “you're the overprotective type," you bite on a strawberry next.

"I wouldn't say it like that..." he sees the sarcastic glimpse on your expression and holds back laughter. "It's a dad reflex, I can't control it."

"Right, sounds convincing."

You stretch your arm behind the couch, setting your elbow and laying the side of your face on your palm. His face is very close to yours but all you do is simply stare at each other; Joel's big brown eyes glimmer with infatuation. “Can I ask you a question, sweetheart?" he asks lowly. "Somethin' more serious."

You wince in confusion, but still nod, "Sure."

He inhales sharply, taking a couple of seconds to actually say what he meant to. “Why are you here?" your frown deepens at his words. "I mean- Texas. I know you said you wanted to make up for the lost time with your old man, but... I feel like there's something else you're not saying."

It takes a minute for you to really sink in on his question. You nearly gulp down the alcohol before setting the glass down, avoiding his ardent gaze.

"Honestly?" you sigh, "There's so much to unpack that I don't even know where to start."

"Try." Although he didn't sound harsh, the effort he was asking you to put in wasn't something of your liking.

"Well, first of all," you meditate, clearing your throat, "the city didn't feel like home since my mom passed. It made me realize how much I missed here." He nods comprehensively, caressing the exposed skin of your thigh in a reassuring manner. "And then there's this- fear. Yeah, I guess it is fear... I've managed to accomplish so much in such short time that it actually fucking scares me to go any further and see that-" you stop, sighing and shaking your head. "That I've reached my limit."

For a moment, there's just silence floating between you, all that could be heard were the rain and a song by tears for fears.

"Darlin', look at me," he asks softly but you can't bring yourself to do it, embarrassed by your confession. "Please, let me see those pretty eyes of yours."

And it's practically impossible for you to deny him anything. Specially when he asks so nicely, when his hand grabs the side of your face so gently— you give in, just like that.

"You're afraid to succeed because you don't know what to do with yourself afterwards. Is that it?" You nod faintly. "Can I speak frankly?"

"I have a feeling you will anyway-"

"Yeah. A bit of tough love, but you need’a hear it." Joel strokes your cheek sweetly and you get shivers from the affection in the action. "Sweetheart, I know what you're going through. Shit feels like it's either moving too fast or not moving at all. And I know how scary that is. Trust me, there's still plenty of time for you."

You square your eyes to his, "Sure, bet you were frightened when you were twenty four."

"Terrified," he spoke truthfully. "Everyone I knew was getting married, moving out or working their asses off."

"And you?" he grunts, taking a strawberry from the box. "What were you doing?" Joel eats the fruit patiently, simply staring at you silently. "Come ooon, don't play hard to get."

"Gotta promise you won't laugh."

It's a tricky business for someone who makes fun of everything, and yet you simply reply: "I swear."

"Fine," he rasps out in fake annoyance. "I used to make my own guitars and- sell 'em sometimes. I'd also teach guitar lessons and horseback riding."

Your eyes widen in surprise and something flutters in your stomach. "Shit, that's actually pretty cool!"

He groans, rolling his eyes at the same time, "I told you not to make fun of me."

"No, no- I mean it." You shuffle on his lap, resting a hand on his chest. "And you sound passionate about it... Why'd you stop?"

The man shrugs his shoulders, tightening his grip on your waist. "It went well for a couple years but I eventually had to get something more solid. More so after Sarah was born." He takes a deep breath in, the smell of his own shampoo on your hair hitting his nostrils and catching him off-guard.

"You should teach me," you suggest with a smug grin. "I always wanted to learn."

"What, guitar or horseback riding?" he wonders, suddenly nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck.

"Guitar. I'm pretty good at riding, if you must know." You feel him chuckle against your body, his facial hair scratching your sensitive skin.

"We'll see 'bout that," his voice comes out husky as he starts kissing along your jawline.

Joel's common sense jumped out the window long ago, but the string of self control that kept him sane all this time couldn't bear the weight of you wriggling on top of him, semi-naked and with his scent all over you. Something primal took over him, a glimpse of possessiveness that he didn't believe himself capable of feeling towards you specifically. He wanted you to wear that flannel around town so people would look at you and know who it belonged to; whose bed you've been visiting. He wanted you to smell of his cologne so other men would know that you weren't free for them.

Your fingers run through his soft curls, messing his hair while he grabs the back of your thighs and manhandles you onto straddling his lap. He nips and licks over all your vulnerable areas, making your breathing start to labour. How could he possibly know this well the easiest ways to have you so desperate this quick? Leaning into his touch, yearning for him even with the smallest action? He wasn't aware of the answer himself, he just knew.

Joel instinctively throws his head back when you tug at his hair and seize the opportunity to duck down and lay a sweet kiss on his forehead. His hands coast up your thighs, splaying his fingers on your ass to squeeze the flesh. You hold back a giggle, kissing the curve of his nose before catching his soft, soft lips on yours.

He slides an arm around your waist, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to keep you as close as possible. You feel your nipples harden when his tongue ran along your bottom lip— tauntingly slow, until you allowed him full access to your mouth, letting him taste the sweet mixture of wine and strawberries on your tongue. But his vehemence didn't make you any less eager, kissing him back with just as much passion and vigor, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip and mildly pulling at it with minor strength.

The action ignites a fire within him, seeing you on top, feeling your fingers roam around his cheekbones and along his jawline like you knew just how much fucking power you had over him... It was a new sensation, a new kind of desire he didn't recognize at first.

Joel's lips were swollen and his own excitement was starting to feel evident underneath you, which created a blunt ache between your legs. He usually appeared so big and mean, with those broad shoulders and permanent scowl on his face. Now, though... He seemed like he'd let you do just about anything with him, to him— it didn't really matter as long as you kept staring at him like that; through heavy lids, eyes sparkling with a profound, desperate need that spoke without words, saying 'only you get to see this side of me'.

You start grinding your hips against his, rubbing your clothed core above his growing boner in small, calculated circles as you shore yourself up with a hand to his chest. He merely admired you from his position, letting you have your way with him; all the while his gaze reflected patience, like he could take over the situation any second but enjoyed watching you lead.

"Joel," you call his name, leaning forward to kiss his chin, moving your lips all the way down his throat and feeling the nice scratch of his beard. Your hands grab the collar of his shirt as you come up to whisper in his ear: "Stay still."

Panting, he narrows his eyes in confusion, "What?" Though you don't give him enough time to figure out your words, getting back on your feet and parting his legs further with a light thump of your knee.

He observes your every move quietly, amused by your confidence and determination when you drop to your knees in front of him. Joel's cocky expression doesn't sway, not even when you drag your nails across his inner thigh, inching closer towards his very visible hard on. However, his body betrays him, selling a whole different story. His muscles tense, his jaw clenches and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"Stop being such a fucking tease," he hissed, refusing to place his hands on you.

"Or what?" you drawl, coming to rest your palm on his crotch. A simple, feathery touch that made his pulse accelerate.

"You'll regret it," he warns grimly.

"S'that so?" you start to unbuckle his belt, way too slow for his liking, tugging down the zipper of his jeans. "I think I can handle it."

He smirked, his hand slithers to the back of your scalp and forces you to lock eyes with him. "Don't test your luck, sweetheart."

You pout mockingly, doing exactly the opposite of what he was saying while dragging down the fabric just enough to free his cock. Your new found courage falters for a second, finally seeing him in all his size and girth. He was, by all means, a big one, the amount of precome oozing on the tip telling you just how much he loved being teased, despite whatever words came out of his mouth. The mere sight of it sent a new heated wave of slick between your thighs.

Joel mimicked your expression scornfully, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone, "Too big for ya'?"

"None of that," you wrap your hand around the base, not really applying any pressure; though the sole warmth of your touch was enough to give him goosebumps, "we'll make it fit."

"That's my girl."

With a chuckle, you lower your head to kiss the inside of his thigh, the pads of your fingers softly grazing the veins on his length. His whole body shudders, leaking onto your hand and letting out a subtle gasp as you spread kisses all along his shaft. Your eyes peer into his soul when you gently place your lips to the slit, tasting the salty precome as he calls your name in what resembles a desperate plea. In a swift move, you finally take the tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it and deciding to put an end to his suffering. He mutters a gruff 'fuck' when you attempt to take him farther, pumping what you couldn't yet fit and snaking your free hand under the hem of his denim shirt to caress the soft skin of his belly.

"Shit, darlin'-" you feel the heaviness of his palm simply resting on the back of your head, not pushing or forcing you in any way, but allowing you to adapt to his size. "The only way to get ya' to stop talking is with a mouth full of cock, ain't it?"

You hum in response and the sensation is completely enrapturing for Joel, his callused fingers tangle in your hair to ground him as he releases a shaky breath. It's a huge challenge to focus on anything else but him; your mind whirring with a familiar dizziness while you bob your head up and down his shaft, intoxicated by the taste of him, the smell of him and every sound that escapes his lips, making your clit throb with need and your arousal pool in your panties, uncomfortably sticking to your skin.

For Joel, it's overwhelming.

He's never really been the noisy type during sex but heck— you were doing it for him. He's a panting mess above you, his hips buck ever so slightly in tandem with your mouth, trying not to lose it entirely. Your spit drools down his dick and the way your dark, dilated pupils sparkle with lust as you hollow your cheeks around him pulls a groan deep from his throat.

"That's it, you can take it," he coaxes when your nose nudges his pubic bone, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. "Good fuckin' girl, just like that..."

Enticed with the praise, you keep repeating the motion, sliding one hand to hold his hipbone for support and feeling his burning skin under your touch whilst the other plays with his balls to aid his pleasure. The obscene slick sounds mix in the air with his hoarse cursing, the rain and the faint music of kings of leon, sex on fire.

He looks so good from this angle, chest rising and falling with heavy, irregular breaths, head thrown back and both hands on you, keeping you angled for his cock. Drops of precum roll on your tongue as you keep changing the pace at which your head moves, tears welling in your eyes and jaw going slack. Shit, you're aching for him so bad that the only thing you can think of to relieve the need is squeeze your thighs together in order to create some friction. And it works, the action eliciting a moan from you that makes him fucking whimper your name.

"Bet your cunt's drippin' just from sucking my dick," he muffles a laugh that turns halfway into a sigh when you pay special attention to the ruddy, sensitive tip. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum-"

You can tell he is by the way his cock twitches in your mouth; his spine straightens at the heat gathering between his legs and he tries to pull you off against your will, uttering a warning that you chose to ignore. Joel's lips part in a throaty groan when he reaches his high, feeling the outline of your fingers digging harshly on his hip, your hand rubbing his length and your tongue lapping at his slit, taking in every single drop of his release until he's spent, right before pressing a soft kiss to it that makes him shiver. And hell— contrary to others, he tasted good; warm and thick, coating your senses.

His heart beats aggressively against his ribs and he loosens his grip on your hair, allowing you to get back on your feet while resting your hands on his waist. Although his eyes are barely open, he can quite literally feel your smile when you chastely kiss his lips. He chuckles breathlessly as you sit beside him, tugging himself back in his pants.

"We're not done yet," he says, grabbing the back of your knee and promptly engulfing your leg around his waist, maneuvering your body so that your back rests against the couch and he's crouched down, caged in the middle of your thighs. "I said I'd make it up to you and I will."

"Well, you've certainly got some stamina in you, old man," you poke fun at him, raising a hand to move those rebellious curls away from his eyes.

Joel smiles, caressing your cheek affectionately. "Always got somethin' to say, don't ya'?"

"Oh, Mr. Miller," you coo, enveloping your arms around his neck, "we both know just how much you love to hear me talk."

"Mhm," he leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth, "yes, I reckon you're right."

His big hand covers nearly half of your face as he holds you still, crashing your lips together. He kisses you deeply, vigorously, in a way that makes you wonder if you could possibly drown in a person's essence. His other palm slides between your bodies to start undoing the buttons of the flannel —his flannel— you were wearing. You can't help but whine when he draws back, watching you from above.

"Joel-" blood rushes through your ears and can feel your cheeks warm up as he takes in the sight of you, his fingers coasting down your throat and to the valley of your breasts, licking his lips when he sees your hardened nipples.

"You're fuckin' beautiful," he speaks freely, without holding back emotion, and it makes your heart skip a beat. "Such a sweet, sweet girl I can't get enough of."

"Then take a picture," you purr, "it'll last longer."

He stares at you through a measuring squint, a lighthearted smile forming on his face. "Since you insist." It takes a moment for you to realize what he means, until you finally recall that there's actually a camera inside your purse; one that he reaches for. "If I remember correctly... You said I could take as many as I like."

You lightly squeeze his waist with your thighs, feeling your whole body burn with anticipation. "I did say that..."

"Let's just pray your dad won't find these hanging around," he ponders, turning your face slightly to the side. "He'll have my head."

"And that would be terrible..."

He takes the Polaroid with one hand, the other coming to grope your breast as he backs off for a better angle, ultimately deciding to wrap his fingers loosely around your neck instead, purely holding you there. You glance at the lens, making your best "fuck me" eyes added to a cheeky smile, hearing him curse under his breath prior to snapping the picture.

"You've got the prettiest fucking tits I've even seen, sweetheart," he snarls, laying a palm flat over your lower abdomen while he waited for the photo.

"Has anyone ever told you you've got such a marvelous way with words?" he suppressed a laugh, safeguarding the picture on the back pocket of his jeans.

"Just a few women." Before you can even begin to act annoyed, he sets the camera aside and leans down to kiss your collarbones, the pad of his thumb kneading circles around your sensitive nipple. "Look at you, honey," he murmurs, "you're so easy to please... Or is it just because of me?"

You're panting, your back arching in response to his constant ministrations, every inch of your skin blushing under his attention. "I think it's-" you're cut off by the sudden need to swallow when he sucks a mark on the vulnerable skin between your breasts, "you."

His body vibrates with a laugh and you feel his hand palm your clothed sex, dragging his tongue over your delicate nipple, gently nibbling at it. You screw your eyes shut and let a single, fluttery moan slide past your lips when his thumb nudges your clit.

"So wet just from giving head?" Joel shakes his head in fake disapproval. "Who knew you were such a horny little thing?"

You are holding onto his bicep for dear life, fearing you might collapse into oblivion if you part from his body. His index glides across your slit over the drenched cotton fabric, making you squirm beneath him.

"You- you tasted good," you babble, mind all over the place.

"Yeah?" his chest swells with pride, "you should taste yourself, angel," his mouth travels across your abdomen, "sweetest thing I've ever had."

It's pointless trying to conjure a response, you're simply too far gone by now. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and buries his head between your thighs, flattening his tongue against the bundle of nerves. You whimper, running your fingers through his locks and bucking your hips to meet his face.

"Please," you blurt out, "Joel, please..."

"What, sweetheart?" he asks, moving the underwear aside to directly touch your clit, fondling it as he watched your slick coat his fingers. "What do you want?" But you can't conceive an answer, all that could come out of your mouth were those pathetic, desperate moans. "Use your words."

With his free hand he plays with your nipple, grabbing your breast with his entire hand. "I want you."

He tauntingly moves his fingers around your seam, refusing to go any further. "Say it again."

"I want you, Joel."

Cocky bastard.

He licks his fingers clean and starts getting off the couch, leaving you with a confused, dumbfounded expression that nearly makes him crack up.

"You didn't really believe I'd be fucking you on the couch, did ya'?" he teases, but all you can muster up is a barely audible 'oh'. "Come on, let's take this to my room. And don't forget to bring that camera of yours."

Mind still dazing, you obey his instructions, following him silently upstairs as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. For a second, he glances back at you, gifting a soft, reassuring grin before extending his arm to grab your fingers, holding your hand in a pure, intimate touch.

And just for that moment, you forget that he's actually your dad's oldest friend, that he's Sarah's father or any other thought of the sort. He's just Joel. Joel Miller, the only man that has managed to make you feel butterflies in the pit of your stomach, or that made you blush with merely a few compliments.

"Ask me to kiss you," he urges, taking the camera from your hands and carefully placing it on his bedside table, his eyesight fixed on you.

"Kiss me," you don't ask, you downright beg.

He does, though it's not like the previous times. He's tender, almost languid about it. His hands are on your bare hips while yours cup his cheeks; Joel's fingers reach to remove the flannel from your shoulders and moves his lips to the newly exposed skin, murmuring constant admirations. You feel your lungs clench and a tingly sensation on your lower belly.

"I'll take care of you, darlin'." You let the shirt slide down your arms and fall to the floor. "Gonna show you what you've been missin' out on by fooling around with those stupid boys." His words go straight to your core as he takes a step back to sit on the edge of his bed. "Take them off," he gestures to the last piece of clothing on your body.

You compel to his wish, stripping under his prying eyes while he lazily gets rid of his boots. His lips twitch in a smile when he sees the glistening mess he's made of you, promptly dragging you on top of him. Your hands lay flat on his exposed chest shortly before he switches positions, readjusting you on the middle of the bed.

"Joel, please just-" you whine when he keeps playing with your entrance, stretching you with his fingers. Your skin scorches with desire, knees weak from the growing heat on your lower body.

"Stop nagging, sweetheart," he grits through his own lust, his gaze impossibly dark. "I wouldn't want to hurt you."

"Joel, I'm too worked up, I-" you gasp when he curls his fingers inside you, hitting that particular spot that made your toes curl. "Fuck..."

"Come on, baby." He ducks down to kiss the skin behind your ear and his beard tickles nicely. "It's just the two of us now, feel free to be as loud as you need to."

His pants are undone and hanging loosely on his hips, the image being so blatantly erotic that only managed to get you more aroused as you fumble to get rid of his shirt. He chuckles at your eagerness, shrugging it out of the way and haphazardly kicking off his jeans and underwear altogether, discarding them on the floor with the rest of the clothes.

You take a second to revel on his naked figure, his tanned skin, broad shoulders and sturdy chest, the marked collarbones and every noticeable mole. His hair is messy from your fingers, a thin layer of sweat sticks some curls to his temples as his wild, hungry eyes bask in the view of your sopping pussy when he parts your shaky legs further. But the moment of appreciation is brief, both of you being edged and spurred on.

He maneuvers a hand to your lower back and aligns your hips with his, watching the way your hole drips for him, wetting his bedsheets. You're a panting mess beneath him, lightly scratching his shoulder-blades and biting on your bottom lip, looking up at him doe-eyed and all splayed out for him to take. Joel wants to tell you just how badly he's longed for this— how he's been yearning to have you so achingly bad. But right now, feelings overrun his thoughts, especially after hearing his name spilling from your lips, begging for him to take you.

"Relax, darlin'." Joel teases your slit with the head of his cock, rubbing it along your sex and coating it with your slick. Your head tilts backwards, dipping on his pillows, small whines keep spilling from your mouth. "I won't go easy on you."

"Great, cause I don't want you to-" your slurred words get muffled by the sudden feeling of intrusion as he finally buries himself in your cunt, letting out a filthy, guttural groan.

You close your eyes, feeling lightheaded and staggered from the way he was filling you up so nicely, the stretch being a tad painful at first, but the kind of pain that could only ever feel good. Then your whole body quivers from head to toe.

"That's it, you can take it," he mutters, peppering kisses to your chin and collarbones as he bottoms out. "Fuck, you feel divine-" The tight, warm grip you welcome him with resembles nothing he's ever had before. This is new, this is you.

You bear down on his cock, enveloping your legs around his waist and lifting your hips to encourage him. He holds you down with a firm grip around your neck, starting to set a pace with his hips as he draws out and then back in slowly, roughly, making your back arch. Your erect nipples brush against his strong chest and create a delightful friction that has you moaning louder than you could've expected. You're amazed by the way he thrusts into you, somehow mindful to hit every right spot inside you —needless to say that it was something that others could hardly manage before—, his pubic hair tickles the skin below your belly button, sending shivers down your spine that prompt you to drag your nails down his back.

"Look," he indicates, despite your inability to even think straight. "Look," he repeats harshly, using the hand that was on your hips to tilt your head downwards, forcing you to stare at where your bodies connected. It was obscene, the wet noises of your pussy and skin clapping against skin sounding purely pornographic. "Look at the mess you're making."

"Joel, I-" you can't form sentences properly, all your attention being focused on how good he's making you feel. "I'm so close, for god's sake..."

"Lemme help with that," he speaks breathlessly, pining your leg over the crook of his elbow to make his thrusts deeper, more precise. You cry out in bliss, feeling the heat expanding from your stomach to your legs. "Yeah, you're close, I can fuckin' feel it- fuck..."

Your walls flutter around him, squeezing his dick just right. He knows he's in too deep when you call out his name like it's the only word you can remember, when he wallows in the glorious view of your pretty face contorted in pleasure. He looses the grip on your neck and strokes your lower lip with his thumb, prodding you to keep eye contact as your orgasm washes over you. It's electrifying, a feverish kind of sensation that gratifies every nerve on your body.

He rests his forehead on your shoulder, overcame by the intense feeling of euphoria that your body was providing. You realize in that moment that the reason why Joel could fill that void so easily was because he kept prioritizing you above him. Your pleasure was his, too.

"Jesus Christ, Joel-" you mewl when he abruptly pulls out, “… Worth the wait.”

He laughs shakily, kissing your lips shortly. "Turn around, sweetheart. I want to fuck you from behind."

With a buzzing dizziness, you follow his instruction. God, right now you'd do just about anything if he asked you to. You notice movement from his part and patiently wait with your butt up in the air for him to stuff you again; instead, you hear the familiar clicking sound of the Polaroid camera.

"You fucker," you chuckle, "did you just take a picture of my ass?"

"Couldn't help myself," he groans, caressing the soft flesh before lightly slapping it. "You look too damn gorgeous." The hit on your skin burns nicely and you can't hold back the gasp that escapes your lips.

"Shit- do that again..."

You can practically hear his smile when he talks, "You into that?" he repeats the action with a little more force and the pain sends a shock of pure pleasure between your legs, your own fluids dripping down your thighs. "F'course you are, I should've guessed with that attitude of yours."

He plays with your swollen pussy, enjoying your tiny moans and the way your legs tremble as you fist the sheets underneath you, burying your face on his pillow when he spanks you again— this time so hard that it probably left a mark. But before the sting washes away he takes the opportunity to enter you in one swift move, holding your hips steady and trailing his fingers along your spine.

"That's my sweet girl," he praises a midst, starting to grind his cock inside you. "Taking me like you were made for it."

This is way more intense, the angle allowing him to hit deeper, harsher. His gruff moans become more frequent as he speeds up his pace, letting you know just how good you were making him feel. The sensation was purely fantastic, melting every thought away and just leaving Joel Miller to fill you in every sense of the word. His hands are never still, roaming your responsive areas, caressing the most sensitive and always taking care of your aching clit.

You might cry from the overwhelming ecstasy— the way his tip constantly hits the depths of your cunt with each relentless thrust has you seeing stars. Joel gets a thrill from the way you can't seem to get enough of him either, throwing your hips back to meet his unwavering pace, clawing at the pillows and moaning helplessly, pushing him close to his climax.

"Joel, it's too much..." you mumble. "Please, I can't-"

He hunches over you, kissing your nape to ease the overpowering sensations, "Yes, you can. You're a big girl, you can take it." And then your vision goes blurry, all you're able to hear being his disjointed, lewd moans; all you can feel is his hard, hot body flushed to yours, his cock twitching inside you and the wetness of your own body. "That's it, give me another one, baby- fuuuck..."

The buildup is so strong you nearly collapse, feeling yourself tremble as he chases his orgasm, fucking you through yours. His fingers reach your bundle of nerves and apply barely any pressure, which has you coming undone in seconds, absolutely soaking his dick and the sheets beneath you, chanting his name like a prayer. A string of curses falls from his lips as he pulls out and quickly manhandles your fucked out self to lay on your back. He exhales sharply through his nose, spilling his load all over your stomach without even touching himself.

You both stay there for a while, catching your breath and looking intently at each other’s eyes before he rolls over, going limp beside you. You stare blankly at de ceiling, suddenly feeling aggressively aware of your sticky skin covered in sweat and cum, the numbness on your lower body that will surely feel sore in the morning and all the marks he's left dispersed on you. You feel satisfied, fulfilled even. Joy bubbles up your chest and comes out in form of a giggle, one you're unable to hold back.

"What?" he asks, turning his face towards you with a half-smile.

"I don't know, I just..." you shake your head, still laughing. "I don't know."

He chortles in disbelief, holding out a hand to take some tissues from the bedside drawer and going to swipe his mess off your tummy and inner thighs. "Shit, I think I might’ve just fucked the sense out of ya'."

Joel sets himself between your parted legs, laying the weight of his upper body on top of you, resting his chin on your chest, eyes boring into yours. He looks so young like this, despite the greying hair and the small wrinkles, his beautiful brown orbs sparkle ever so brightly under your attentive gaze.

"What will your dad say when he returns and finds out his only daughter has completely lost her mind?" he jokes, cradling you in his big arms.

"Come on," you roll your eyes playfully, "we both know that if I had been in my right mind since the beginning, I probably wouldn't be in your bed right now." He doesn't reply, but his smile doesn't fade either. Joel nuzzles his face on the crook of your neck, kissing your pulse zone briefly before closing his eyes. You run your fingers through his hair, softly massaging his scalp in utter silence.

The wind was howling outside, rustling the tree branches, but at least it wasn't raining anymore. You can feel Joel's heart beating against your ribs, his deep breaths fanning across your shoulder and his unique scent all around you, on you. In spite of the cold air, your naked bodies are warm enough to stay comfortably in this position, at least for a while— however, there's something deep inside you that doesn't want this moment to end.

"Hey," you call him lowly and he hums in response, "can we order pizza?"

He nods faintly, "Anything you want, honey."

Anything.

If only.

"I'll call," you say. "Any specific requests?"

"As long as there isn't any pineapple on it, we're fine." You glance down at him, almost appalled.

"You don't like pineapple on pizza?"

"No. That's disgusting, come on."

"Oh, grow up!" he opens his mouth to retort, but when he sees your dismayed expression he can merely bark a laugh that you get infected with.

"Order whatever you want," he whispers in your ear. "But you'll have to promise something."

"What's that?" you raise an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Say you'll stay," he murmurs, slightly hesitant. "Stay here and spend the night with me."

The proposal takes you by surprise, so much that you actually stopped breathing. You ponder wether if you could or you should; because, at the end, what would a night really mean? What could possibly change?

Nothing, right?

Besides, no one had to know.

(...)

A few moments later you're downstairs looking for your phone, wearing nothing other than his green flannel. Joel decided to take a shower while you ordered the food and you chose to walk around the house, paying attention to the little details you hadn't quite noticed before.

Now that you see it, there are plenty of horse images here and there. Very Texan of Joel, you can't deny. Lots of pictures of Sarah growing up, some of him and Tommy and a good deal with your dad. None of his ex-wife. In fact, there's no proof that she even existed. You decide not too think too hard about it, since it was none of your business after all.

You pour yourself a glass of water and wander your eyes across the amount of pills he usually takes. Anxiety pills, painkillers, vitamins. What could possibly be troubling this middle-aged man so bad? Again, you decide to turn a blind eye and simply pick up the phone, expecting a message from your dad to tell you he arrived in Boston well and safe. Instead, you find that your direct messages in social media have new requests. Curious, you open them to see what the fuzz was about.

Hi!

This is Will

I don't know if Sarah mentioned me...

I'm her English teacher, haha

I hope you don't find this creepy, your profile popped up in my 'people you may know' section and since Sarah said she wanted to introduce us, I thought I might just say hi 😉

Honestly, with everything that went down you had nearly forgotten about Sarah's 'you should hang out with people your age' speech. And now that you were stalking his profile, he appeared to be maybe a couple years older than you— handsome in a boyish, intelectual way, if that made sense. Apparently, he studied in New York too, and lived in Queens.

Hi!

Yeah, I reckon she did

What's up, Queens? :)

You don't really expect a reply, not giving much thought to anything in the moment. Though, an involuntary smile twitches your lips when there's a quick message that reads "Not much, Brooklyn" and the writing bubble underneath.

After all, having a friend in Austin wouldn't hurt.

#pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #dbf!joel #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #the last of us au #smut

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ghostismybbygorl · 1 year

Text

Ahem

WHERES WHAT 141 DRIVES AND HOW THEY DRIVE

Price

So price has two cars a land rover for transporting things from base or if he's taking the team out for some gathering

He also has this baddie a old ford bronco that he refurbished. This car is his baby he only takes her out when its nice and warm

He drives like a old man.

Both hands on 10 and 2 or on hand on the steering wheel the other smoking a cigar.

Definitely drives the speed limit and obeys the traffic laws. He hasn't had a speeding ticket in 15 years

Ghost

So this mans drives a fast car and i will die on this hill. Have you seen him drive in las almas this man does not know how to drive a truck

He drives stick too

So i see him driving a subaru brz in black or maybe pink

I saw the pink one and i love the color of it

Also think id be funny if he just pulls up and everyone thinking its this frilly girlie pop but then this 6'4 man wearing a skull mask pop out of the car like its nothing

(I really want the pink car)

If you ride with him youre a survivor of his driving

This man drives FAST one hand on the wheel starbucks in the other. He ALWAYS drives with one hand and he's madly good at backing in and parallel parking.

Dont let him on the autobahn or he'd go as fast as his car can go

He has multiple speeding tickets its insaine that he still has his license

Hes a pro car weaver too if anyones going too slow hell pass them at

Soap

Since he's an outdoorsy guy i kinda see him drving a toyota 4 runner

Its got all the bells and whistles and he loves to take it mudding after a good rain storm

He's a pretty chill driver he drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other out the window.

He listens to his music on full blast so you can hear the rumbling of the speakers if your behind him

He does the california roll on stop signs

He goes ten over the speed limit but if hes on highways he usually goes 20 over

Gaz

Jeep lifestyle

He loves his wrangler and he'll go off roading with soap on their days off

Very chill driver he'll drive like 5-10 over 20 if hes in a rush

His hand position on the steering varies sometime its at 10 and 2 other times he drives with one hand

He's never gotten a traffic ticket and would probably cry to price if he did

He's gotten in a wreck before and it didnt leave a scratch on his jeep

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things-about-cars-in-posts · 4 months

Note

hmm. conversely, most ADHD car?

(A dab o' context for y'all, this ask came hot off the heels of my most autistic car post, hence the "conversely".)

Well, when I read this, I had nothing. But then I thought about it a little, and suddenly, I continued to have nothing.

But you already know that, dear asker, because you're in the blog's Discord server which I turned to for suggestions. And in fact, you chipped in yourself with not one but two picks, first of which the fifth generation Ford Mustang!

So, pray tell, what brings my elementary school self's favorite car ever ever into this list?

uhh from like a cultural view its an unfocused and hyperactive car with a reputation of not going the way people want (see: crowd meme)

Oh, come on, are we really still not over that stereotype whereby late model Mustangs are owned by people both too eager to show off not to leave a car meet flooring it and too inept to actually keep it under control when they do?

Well, I guess to get over it it'll need to stop being true.

But also, being so much of an exhibitionist as to cause physical pain is not about ADHD at all!

Anyone I invite at my house gets bored to tears with a tour of my every possession...

...but not because I have ADHD!

Actually, you know what? That may really be it now that I think about it. Well, anyway, your submission is funny enough to earn a pass even if we don't see eye to eye on this anyway.

How about your second, though?

alternatively: late '90s to early 2000s tuner Civic, for the same reasons

While he included this picture, he advised to use a worse example, so I took the liberty to present you a historical picture.

I say historical because this picture was the definition of rice, the textbook example. If Wikipedia had a page for "rice (automotive)" it would feature this picture, probably second behind that blue early 90s Civic which in hindsight we were all wrong about and was actually sick.

Did you know this was made by a teenager out of metal? I'm digressing.

Friend of the blog (well, pillar of the blog at this point) @demoness-one agrees and suggests:

Honestly riced out clapped out honda civics did come to mind also But i feel like the car that most represents adhd is probably one that isn't finished lol Abstract concept of a car

But she wasn't the only one to vote for her own cars, as friend of the blog and Saturn SL1 owner @chevyventure posted a simple but effective contribution:

zero executive function between those eyes

Not as simple as friend of the blog @brick-enthusiast's, however, who just posted a Suzuki Cappuccino without comment.

In respect of that approach I will not comment either.

However, it's time to make my pick too, as in the process of writing this post I finally understood the assignment, and thus came up with something.

What's ADHD? As this blog demonstrates, sometimes it's being hyperfocused on something exciting, much to the detriment of things that actually matter in daily life. Sometimes it's said focus earning amazing results that seem disproportionate to one's means. Sometimes it's taking comfort in the routine, in deeply ingrained habits and tradition that still have to constantly be actively enforced as conscious choice. Sometimes it's being darty, shooting from point to point with speed other minds can't even keep up with. Sometimes it's having too much energy to contain. Sometimes it's... being loud? Oh really! I thought I was just being Italian!

And if you've read my 100th post, you'll know a car that fits that description to a T. (And if you haven't, click on here before reading on because you really want to.)

Indeed, what could be a better pick than a car that's stayed the same for nigh on seven decades in its devoted preservation of its ability to dart around like nothing else on the road, a car so perfromance-focused the comfort spec is the one that gets windows, a car not one bit less deafening than legally required? What could be a better pick than the Caterham Seven 620R, the literal world record holder for spinning around in circles?

youtube

And also just look at it.

If you're wondering about the number plate, it was made to celebrate its Lego version - yes indeed!

And if you can believe it, people still gifted me clothes for Christmas.

Links in blue are posts of mine about the topic in question: if you liked this post, you might like those - or the blog’s Discord server, linked in the pinned post!

#ford mustang #honda civic #suzuki cappuccino #caterham seven #demoness-one #chevyventure #jettacar #brick-enthusiast #lgbt cars #once again I will use the tag for something that cannot remotely be called a sexuality just because it kind of fits the theme of the series

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hippogrifffeathers · 10 months

Text

Mentor Privileges

'What just happened?' 'I just got us out of trouble.' 'No, you just pulled an Ominis.' 'I what' 'Excuse me?' _ When Professor Weasley catches MC, Sebastian, and Ominis sneaking back into the castle after curfew, it seems like only one desperate move might keep them out of serious punishment. Except, before Ominis can even murmur a syllable about his family connections to the Headmaster, MC is speaking, claiming Professor Fig authorised their excursion, and it turns out there's another trump card among their ranks. Afterall, how could a professor argue with another professor?

ao3 link if you prefer!

Not two seconds after the grand doors to the main hall of Hogwarts had swung open, did the room echo with the sound of whispered bickering.

“You know, we could have gotten here a lot quicker if you two didn’t insist on flying the scenic route back.”

“How do you even know we took the scenic route? Not like you could see it .”

“I heard you talking about it Sebastian!”

“Would you both stop it?” MC hissed, voice barely above a whisper as they crept through the school entrance, large doors thankfully silent behind them. Seeing nobody in the entry hall, their posture relaxed, as they raised one hand to massage their neck, pouting, “Oh Merlin, we’re all going to fall asleep in class tomorrow, I’m exhausted .”

“That didn’t stop you from agreeing to fly out to Pitt-upon-Ford this afternoon, did it?” Ominis quipped, falling into step on their left. Sebastian quickly joined the pair, walking on their right.

MC rolled their eyes, a fond smile on their lips, “You both didn’t have to come with me, you know.”

That was ridiculous, of course they did. “Oh come on, like we were going to let you have all the fun.”

“I want it on the record that invading and destroying a Poacher camp isn’t my idea of fun.” Ominis rolled his eyes.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, “Does that mean you don’t want your share of the loot? Because I’ll gladly take it off your hands.”

“Paws off Sallow.”

“Yeah Sebastian, paws off." MC grinned, "If anyone gets Ominis’ share, it’s me, since I did most of the work.”

“Okay, first of all, nobody is getting my share because it’s mine , and second you only took most of them out because they were already targeting you. It’s a matter of access.”

“It’s a matter of excuses , Gaunt. Besides, I can’t help it if I’m popular.”

Sebastian raised one eyebrow mockingly, “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? Cute, and here I was thinking ‘there’s a price out for your capture’ had a nice ring to it.”

“ Funny . I’ll remember that one next time I come across old spellbooks in an Ashwinder camp and need to find them a home.”

Ominis paused momentarily, outraged, “You’ve been giving him what?”

Lost in their conversation, or perhaps the easy confidence that came with spotting no prefects scouting outside the Library doors, the trio didn’t think to cast any disillusionment or remain so vigilant as they crossed the Viaduct hall. Over the sound of their conversation, and the gentle lullaby from the nearby portrait, they fail to hear the click of footfalls until it’s too late, and they’re stopped in their tracks by a familiar, and very displeased, voice.

“And just where have you three been?”

… ”Merlin’s saggy left ball sack.” Ominis’ head turned sharply to right as MC subtly kicked Sebastian in the shin, hoping the already very-cross Professor Weasley didn’t hear his vulgar language, and schooled their expression into one that hopefully looked the picture of innocence as they spun on their heel to face her, Ominis and Sebastian mirroring their actions.

It took all their willpower not to immediately cower back.

She did not look happy, arms folded and her scowling expression may as well have been made of stone, carved with fury. Somehow, the Deputy Headmistress made pyjamas-with-a-cloak-over-the-top look intimidating.

MC bit back a wince as they took in that detail. Pyjamas. Oh, it was late late.

Sebastian turned on the charming schoolboy act, “Professor Weasley! We were just..ah, getting some late night studying done.”

“Oh? And does that studying involve flying Hippogriffs across the Black Lake ?” Sebastian tries not to deflate at being so clearly caught out, and readies himself to ignore the ice in their professor's tone, about to counter with what would undoubtedly be a cunning lie when she cuts him off, “Not another word. My office. Now .”

Wisely, the trio fall into silence, not daring to provoke the Deputy Headmistress any further.

They follow after the furious professor, turning their backs on the path back to their Common Rooms, wishing more than anything to be sneaking their way through the protected doorways and not walking across the chilly Transfiguration courtyard to certain doom.

Sebastian spares a look to his companions, the worrying crease in Ominis’ brow, the almost eerie calmness to MC, and wonders if they’re feeling the same edgings of dread as him.

Detentions and getting into trouble with professors were no strangers to him, but this was different than breaking a simple curfew or sneaking into the restricted section. This was weeks of detentions, points off, and letters-home levels of rule breaking.

Merlin, the last thing he needed right now was Uncle Solomon getting a letter from the school about Sebastian being off-grounds.

They’d been playing with fire this whole school year, especially himself and MC. Breaking into Loyalist Camps, exploring Salazar Slytherin’s Scriptorium and messing with Unforgivables, he supposed it was only a matter of time before they’d been caught- their luck had finally run out, and there was only one desperate card left to play that might save them from the bollocking of a lifetime.

It seemed Ominis was having the same thoughts, judging by the grim acceptance on his face, the stiffness of his demeanour- all part of ‘Gaunt Look’ that had gotten them out of serious trouble a few times too many in their earlier school years.

As they near the Transfiguration Classroom, Professor Weasley doesn’t even bother using magic to open the door, instead holding it open expectantly, her expression unwavering.

Before either of the boys can take the first step, MC takes the lead, head bowed slightly in a marker of shame that Sebastian can’t help but mirror as he follows in their footsteps, forced to confront the disapproving glare of their professor as he passes.

At least Ominis doesn’t have to deal with such awkward eye-contact.

Their footfalls echo through the empty classroom, empty desks seem to judge them as they walk past, only vaguely registering the door being shut behind them.

Ahead, MC’s steps have faltered slightly, the only show of hesitation they’ve demonstrated since the trio were caught. Sebastian is quick to take the lead, brushing MC's side in what he hopes is a reassuring move, as he makes a beeline for the door in the topmost corner.

The office is cool when they enter, the only light coming from embers dying on the fireplace and the pulsing red glow of Ominis’ wand. With the minimal amount of shuffling, the three line themselves up opposite the desk, MC once again in the middle, and wait.

Their silence persists as Professor Weasley follows into her office, re-igniting the fireplace with a wordless flick of her wand. The warm glow should be comforting, but against the dead black of night in the windows, and the way the shadows cast over the Professor’s glare deepen the appearance of her ire, it’s anything but.

She takes her time walking around them, letting her footsteps fill the silence of the room, before standing behind her desk, eyes on them all. For a moment, all she does is stare.

It’s an effort not to fidget under her gaze and act like the guilty students they very much are. Sebastian had never been one to worry about his appearance, least of all after a spirited fight or hippogriff journey, but he suddenly regretted not at least checking for any singed or blood-stained marks on his uniform before entering the Castle.

No , that worry was the exact kind of thing Professor Weasley was hoping her students would act on, more guilty admissions. He fought the urge to check.

Besides, if MC- who was decked out in one of their usual (and very flattering) adventuring outfits wasn’t concerned about looking suspicious, then surely he had no need to be.

Finally, the professor spoke, her tone icy cold, dripping with repressed anger. Even with the Gaunt-protection failsafe, Sebastian felt very unsafe.

“Three students out of school grounds, unauthorised, breaking curfew, I have never seen anything like it,” She seethed, and Sebastian wondered for a moment if they were about to witness their professor breathe fire, maybe being charred alive would be less painful than this , “What have you got to say for yourselves?”

A pause.

Sebastian’s eyes darted to the side, watching his friends carefully. MC hasn’t moved, not even the slightest fidget of their hands, while Ominis’ posture straightens even further as he opens his mouth, preparing to intervene with a smooth diversion and not-so subtly drop his family’s connections, get them out of here with as much showboating to the Headmaster as will be necessary.

But it’s not Ominis’ poised and perfected tenor that speaks next.

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault, Professor. I asked for their help and we completely lost track of time.” MC sounded so sincere in their apology, their tone didn’t waver for a moment. Sebastian tries not to let his surprise register on his face, and sees Ominis do the same, momentarily jared from his earlier plan. What are they doing? “I was working on one of my catch-up assignments, for Professor Fig.”

Sebastian hopes he doesn’t look like this story is of any news to him, but judging from the way Professor Weasley’s gaze had narrowed in on MC, he needn’t have bothered.

“ Professor Fig gave you an assignment that requires you being off-grounds in the middle of the night?”

The lie sounded ludicrous even to Sebastian, no professor would ever assign a student homework that required leaving the Castle grounds, let alone to venture into the Highlands in their free time.

He should know, it had been a fight for him to be allowed to return to Feldcroft to see his sick sister during term time. There was no way MC genuinely thinks that Weasley is going to believe a fellow professor would let them leave the school so freely-

“Yes, Professor, he did. Staying out so late was an accident though.”

- Merlin, they are fucked.

Clearly, from the sudden tension in his frame, the slight upward turn of his eyebrows, Ominis feels the same way. The pair of them stand to either side of their friend, and wait for the lashing down to begin, for Professor Weasley to accuse them of thinking her to be so dim as to believe such an outrageous lie, to attempt to implicate another professor in whatever rule-breaking scheme they’ve concocted. Sebastian wonders if it's possible to intercept a Hogwarts Owl before it reaches Feldcroft- or maybe MC can do it for him, it’s the least they’ll owe him for provoking the professor like this.

Except, instead of a raised voice, threats of punishments and letters home, Professor Weasley only sighs, the fight leaving her body like a snidget on a Quidditch Pitch.

At the mention of the Professor of Magical Theory, something seemed to have changed in the Deputy Headmistress’ demeanour- it would have been funny to observe in any other situation. Her posture slouched slightly, as if suddenly overtaken by exhaustion, but the look in her eyes had become razor focused, a glint in them as she regarded MC.

Something had changed, and Sebastian longed to know what.

“What in Godric’s name is Elea-Professor Fig asking you to do, that requires you travelling away from the Castle?”

MC shrugged, the picture of casual honesty, which was jarring to watch when Sebastian knew they were being everything but, “Professor Fig emphasises real-world applications to enhance my understanding. I do have a lot to catch-up on.”

The counter didn’t seem to surprise Professor Weasley, almost as though she had been expecting such an argument. “Yes, he has mentioned as much. It would certainly be a more school-focused explanation for the rumours of your activities in local hamlets.”

There’s a tone of false lightness that Sebastian is familiar with- one of a Professor who knows more than they’re letting on, who is giving you the opportunity to come clean.

(Personally, it was one he’d never fallen for)

There’s so many rumours surrounding MC and where they go when they’re missing from the Castle- which is nearly all the time these days- that he can’t even begin to speculate about which ones have made their way to Hogwarts Staff.

MC doesn’t even appear phased by Professor Weasley’s suspicions, or the possibility that rumours of their more dangerous stunts have reached the ear of the faculty, “There’s so much still to learn, I’m lucky to have Professor Fig’s guidance in navigating my studies- it’s been very helpful.”

It’s such a perfect answer. The kind professors would expect from a dutiful, high-achieving student such as MC, one that might make them perk up with pride in their pupils.

Professor Weasley only narrows her eyes, and Sebastian suspects this isn’t the first time she’s heard MC pull such a line, “Indeed, you two are quite the pair.” Understatement , “Between your absences, and Professor Fig’s, it’s a miracle either of you still know your way around the Castle. Although, I suspect sneaking in late at night from your various, ah- assignments , is plenty of practice.”

Wow . Sebastian tries not to look too surprised at the subtle dig, unaware the Deputy Headmistress was capable of such underhandedness. Then again, Fig and MC had been sneaking about the Castle after curfew?

Perhaps in light of Fig’s involvement with MC’s restricted section mission, he shouldn’t be surprised.

MC had no such unawareness for the Deptuy Headmistress' tactics and continues, unphased, “Catching up on my studies is certainly a busy task, Professor. It’s true, we spend so much time learning new spells in Professor Fig’s classroom that I haven’t had much time to explore the castle yet.”

Sebastian wishes he had stood next to Ominis, if only to nudge his friend while they watched this conversation- no, interrogation unfold, see if Ominis had picked up on the same thing he had.

Whatever this was about, it clearly had absolutely nothing to do with tonight’s excursion.

“No? That’s a pity, Hogwarts is full of wonderful magic. Considering you’re excelling in your classes, I’m certain you can afford to take some time away. I never see you around the Castle, it seems you’ve made some good friends here, yet I seldom see you enjoying their company outside of studies. I'm concerned your, ah, extracurriculars are taking up all of your time.”

It felt like the world’s longest, most confusing exploding snap game, two players taking it in turns to put a card down- except all the cards were blank and Sebastian didn’t know what would happen if there was a match.

“I have plenty of time to enjoy school, Professor, and have fun with my friends- everyone’s been so supportive in helping me learn more about magic.”

MC hadn’t provided any specifics, Sebastian wasn’t remiss to notice. It really was an entirely new level of vague- even for them, who had entered Hogwarts surrounded by mystery and cloaked in secrets, and hadn’t changed much about that impression since they got here.

He wondered why MC was so hesitant to elaborate- was it a hesitation to share anything with Professor Weasley, or did they really not have many examples of ‘fun’ times at Hogwarts, that didn’t include danger or rule-breaking? Come to think of it, when had he and MC done anything together that didn’t include danger or rule-breaking?

Merlin, he’d make them relax even if it killed them. Drag them out for a fun day at Hogsmeade where they were banned from helping any locals retrieve their spare robes or whatever ridiculous request they’d force on his friend.

Although, that had been their plan for today- and look how well it turned out.

“I wonder, what academic prospects could have drawn yourself and Professor Fig all the way to Feldcroft?” Despite himself, Sebastian jolts at the mention of his home, and from his periphery he sees Ominis’ head snap to the side to stare in his direction, questioning. “It is a rather dangerous area, you know, I’m sure Mister Sallow can attest to the current occupation of Goblin Loyalists in the Hamlet.”

Professor Fig and MC, in Feldcroft? He’d heard some rumours, of course, but this was all but confirming it as true- especially as he saw MC momentarily falter at the direct questioning.

Questions burst forth in the back of his mind, irritation pricked at his skin with the knowledge they hadn’t told him - Sebastian of all people, what they’d been doing back in Feldcroft, without him and with Professor Fig no less. He endeavoured to ask them, later.

MC quickly regains their composure, hands folded delicately at their front, and tilts their head to the side inquisitively, “Is it? Professor Fig was showing me some ruins ,” Fractionally, the corner of MC’s lip curled, a flicker of amusement they quickly squashed, “We didn’t come across any trouble, certainly no Goblin Loyalists. We are always very safe when we leave the castle.”

Now that Sebastian knew was a bold-faced lie. MC hadn’t told him everything they and the enigmatic Professor got up to, but they’d shared enough about their pursuit of Ancient Magic knowledge and Ranrok. Whatever the pair got up to when they were absent from the castle, it was far from safe .

Judging by Professor Weasley’s unwavering expression, the stone cold doubt and suspicion written clearly across her features, she shared the same sentiments.

“I see, so yours and Professor Fig’s trips away from the Castle have absolutely nothing to do with the reason your mentor has been spending so much time in contact with the Ministry lately? Particuarly, the Auror Department and the Minister himself?”

That was news to Sebastian, and not for the first time in this coversation he wondered if Professor Weasley had forgotten he and Ominis were here too.

As if feeling the weight of his friend’s gaze on him, Ominis tilted his head in Sebastian’s direction and gave a small shake of his head, before staring fixedly down at MC.

One thing's for certain, they weren’t letting MC get away with not answering their questions as easily as they seem to be Professor Weasley’s.

Honestly, Sebastian was tempted to take notes on their artful evasions, his old tricks with the faculty were getting….well… old .

“I wouldn’t know, Professor.” MC shrugged, “Professor Fig doesn’t talk about his work outside of our tutoring sessions,” Then, as if realising some lies were too obvious for even them to get away with, “The Headmaster sent him to the Ministry a few times earlier this year, perhaps Professor Fig is in contact with them on orders of Professor Black.”

Did they really just bring the Headmaster into this?

Either this whole topic went a lot deeper than either of them thought, or MC is pulling all the strings to get out of this tense exchange.

The funniest part was that it was working.

Bringing up the Headmaster seemed to snap the final thread of Professor Weasley’s patience, and suddenly she seemed exhausted, grimly accepting of the fact that clearly she would be getting no answers out of MC tonight.

“I see, well it’s already very late and you all have classes in the morning,” She sighs, before pulling her shoulders back, still the picture of staunch authority you wouldn’t dare cross, “You’re free to go, but don’t think I won’t be speaking with Professor Fig to confirm your story,” At this, Sebastian sends a panicked look MC’s way but they don’t notice, eyes only on Professor Weasley as she continues, “That said, I am still taking twenty points from each of you, and if this happens again I won’t be so lenient- 'assignment' from Professor Fig or not.”

MC still doesn’t appear worried, not as much as they should be- given they absolutely will be doing this again. Then again, Sebastian and Ominis weren’t any better.

Still, they all had the courtesy to look abashed, and ducked their heads, echoes of their ‘thank you professor’, ‘sorry professor’-s following them out of the Deputy Headmistress’ office, and away from her disapproving glare.

Seconds later, the door swings shut behind them with an echoing ‘thud’, and Sebastian whirls on MC, but before he can speak, there’s a hand over his mouth. Over MC’s shoulder, Ominis looks distinctly amused.

“Not here.” MC whispers, with a knowing tilt of their head in the direction of the office they had just left. Then their hand drifts from from Sebastian’s mouth to wrap around his wrist, mirroring the same action with Ominis, as MC pulls them both away from eavesdropping range.

Feeling MC’s warm grip on his, Sebastian praises himself for not licking their hand earlier when they silenced him. This was much more satisfying.

They don’t stop until they hit an alcove just to the side of the Main Hall entryway, hidden from view but the perfect spot to detect Professors on the pry.

“I cannot believe we got away with that.” Sebastian grinned, revelling in the adrenaline rush that always came with getting out of trouble punishment-free. He takes a moment for them all to bask in the easy way they had all just avoided what could have been a nasty punishment, before his attentions turn to the mastermind of their escape, looking quite smug with themselves, “So, make a habit of lying to the Deputy Headmistress, do we?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” MC retorted cheekily, but their wide smile was a giveaway against their words, just as quickly dropping the faux-denial, “Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”

They punctuate their words with a knowing poke at his shoulder, and he doesn’t deny it.

“Please, like you had any doubts. You could have warned us you had a plan!”

“Funny, that doesn’t sound like ‘wow thanks for getting us out of trouble MC, you’re such a good friend MC, to show my gratitude I’m going to write your potions essay next week MC!’ ”

“Even if I was going to thank you for nearly gaslighting our Deputy Headmistress- artfully done by the way- I certainly won’t be writing your potions essay for you.”

MC grinned, “Good, I didn’t mean you, I meant Ominis. His potions essays are way better, plus he never leaves it till the last minute.”

“Don't even try it, MC, flattery won’t work on me.” The pleased flush to Ominis’ cheeks said otherwise, but nobody was about to point that out, “But I at least am grateful for your intervention. I wasn’t looking forward to using my family name to get us out of trouble.” His nose scrunched at the thought.

“It was almost comical, the way Weasley immediately dropped it and all you had mentioned was-“ The realisation struck Sebastian like lightning, a wide grin threatening to split his face, “Oh Merlin- you pulled an Ominis!”

“I what?” “Excuse me?”

Not getting the hint from Ominis’ outraged expression, or simply not caring, Sebastian continued, “You pulled an Ominis! All you had to do was drop Professor Fig’s name and we were never getting into trouble! I can’t believe there’s two of you now!”

“We are not calling it ‘pulling an Ominis ’ for Merlin’s sake Sebastian!” Ominis hissed, looking thoroughly displeased about the expression, and Sebastian immediately endeavoured to add it to his vocabulary from now on, “That said, I was surprised at how effective it was.”

“I didn’t…I mean….it wasn't like that!” MC stared between the pair, lost in the sudden direction their conversation was taking. Sebastian continues rambling, grin growing in his face.

“What do we even call that? Is it still family privileges or… mentor privileges? Playing favourites? I mean, half the school thinks you're both secretly related anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter-”

MC’s mouth dropped open, “Half the school thinks what?”

“Weasley was right, you need to get about the Castle more if you haven’t heard that one yet, it’s old news at this point.” Sebastian waved it off, like the fact half the school was gossiping about MC was nothing. Maybe it was, it’s not like they got involved in school gossip enough to have a comparison point.

Ominis frowned, “Speaking of Professor Fig, it’s all fair and well to name drop him like that, but what happens when Professor Weasley actually does go to him to confirm your story? She’s going to find out we lied.” He can’t help the worry from bleeding into his tone, and Sebastian frowns at the reminder of the hole in MC’s plan. At most, they’ve been bought time, and the punishment could end up being so much worse if Weasley finds out they deceived her.

To the boys’ shared surprise, MC chuckles lightly, shaking their head, as if their friends had missed some huge point. “She won’t- I’ll be surprised if she even talks to Professor Fig about it.” Okay, they were definitely missing something, by the knowing tone in MC’s voice, “Even if she does, he’ll cover for us, so don’t worry about it.”

They sounded so assured about exactly how this would all play out, the staff dynamics at work here- Sebastian and Ominis longed to question them further on it.

That easy confidence that Professor Fig would lie to one of his colleagues for them, covering up serious rule-breaking with no questions asked? The Professor of Magical Theory was known for being somewhat enigmatic and mysterious, someone with so much practical skills for a supposed expert in theoretical knowledge, but the idea of a professor blindly covering for a student was too much, even for him.

Then again, MC wasn’t exactly ‘just a student’. Not if the pair were sneaking out of the Castle and being spotted near Goblin Loyalists areas, of all places. Deceiving all the other professors, telling lies to cover one another’s backs- because that had been the other side of this, Professor Fig wouldn’t be the only one lying to the Deputy Headmistress to protect another.

“He’ll cover for us, like you covered for him in Professor Weasley’s office, you mean?” Ominis felt the pieces falling into place. “His contact with the Ministry has nothing to do with the Headmaster, does it?”

MC grinned, shrugging lightly, “I mean, technically that wasn’t a complete lie- Black did send him on fools errands to the Ministry at the start of term, as some sort of ridiculous punishment for what happened on our journey here.” Bitterness bled into their tone slightly at the memory, and Ominis couldn’t quite blame them. Being attacked by a dragon was hardly something you could control. MC’s tone brightened as they kept talking, an edging of mischief creeping in, “But since then? No, it’s got nothing to do with the Headmaster, but I doubt Professor Weasley is going to question it.”

He wonders what it’s actually got to do with, but this wasn’t the time to ask them about that.

“It’s no wonder Weasley looked so tired, you’re both menaces .” Sebastian laughed.

“Oh like you’re both any better, Misters ‘I have a way with the faculty’ and ‘My father is friends with the Headmaster’. I didn’t stand a chance at having good influences around me.” MC playfully rolled their eyes, recalling the fact that they weren’t the only ones who had their ways of getting out of trouble.

Sebastian whirled on Ominis, seemingly choking down another laugh, “You did not say that to them.”

“Oh, be quiet. Both of you.” Ominis wasn’t pouting, he wasn’t, “Besides, don’t turn us into your excuses, sounds like you’ve been lying to the faculty well before we became friends.”

“I prefer to think of it as keeping a few secrets. Not lying, just not telling the whole truth.”

Ominis couldn’t bite down on the smile their antics caused, and hoped a small head shake would hide his fond amusement, “That’s called lying, MC.”

“Semantics.”

They were so casual about it. From the moment Professor Weasley had begun with her vague-yet-intense questioning, MC had obfuscated and dismissed her every suspicion with a shamelessly vague answer, hadn’t shown weakness for even a moment, and now they stood joking about the whole affair, like lying and keeping dangerous secrets from professors was an everyday activity.

Well, for MC, they supposed it was.

Then again, given their recent exploits, perhaps Ominis and Sebastian were not in a place to cast judgement.

Merlin, what a group they made.

“I’ll admit, it was surprising how much Professor Weasley knew,” MC confessed, the edgings of worry outlining their now furrowed brows, “I honestly didn’t think she was paying that much attention, I knew she’d been keeping her eye on us but…where does she get her information?” Their gaze drifted off in the direction of the Transfiguration classroom, worrying at their lip as they thought.

“You see, it’s this magical thing called ‘The Hogwarts Rumour Mill’- you’d know what that was if you actually spent any time playing normal student, you know.” Sebastian mocked, and delighted in the way his teasing interrupted whatever journey into overthinking MC had stepped into, as their face playfully scrunched up in confusion.

“‘Normal Hogwarts student’? Like ‘student who learns non-curriculum spells in a super secret undercroft’ or ‘student who picks fights with goblin loyalists and poachers’?”

“Hey, I never said we were normal Hogwarts students.”

MC grinned, gently knocking against Sebastian and Ominis’ shoulders, “I suppose that’s why we all get along so well.”

Sebastian’s expression softened as he registered their affection, warm fondness spreading across his features, “I suppose it is.”

For a moment, they all stay like that, three students hidden behind a corner of the Transfiguration courtyard, packed so tight their arms press against each other, warm with the rush of their evening adventures, and share in the peace they so seldom get to appreciate.

How fortunate they all were, to have found each other.

“It’s getting late, we should be heading back.” Ominis’ voice breaks through the quiet, sounding almost regretful to have done so, as the warm press of his friends was stripped from him, replaced with the bitterness of the outdoor air.

Lightly, MC laughs, and takes the lead to start walking back towards the Viaduct hall, Sebastian and Ominis at their side, “I think we went past ‘getting late’ flying over Upper Hogsfield, but you won’t hear me complaining about getting some sleep- even if it is just a few hours.”

“Better than nothing, and we always have History of Magic to get some extra sleep in.” MC hummed in agreement, Ominis smiling already at the prospect, their shared naps during the notoriously dull class has admittedly become something of a highlight in his school curriculum. A few hours where he knows he’ll sleep unhaunted (mentally at least) and utterly at ease.

“Oh do rub it in, why don’t you?”

“It’s not our fault you didn’t take History of Magic, Sebastian.”

The walk back was over far too quickly, light taunts becoming wishes of well rest and promises to meet again at breakfast, as they parted ways- finally laying rest to the evening’s events.

______________________________________

MC’s promise proved to be good and true, when the trio managed to make it through their first class of the day without being summoned by Professor Weasley for a sequel to the previous night’s ‘punishment’. Whether the Deputy Headmistress had actually confronted Professor Fig about MC’s claims remained a mystery for the entire morning, however by midday, Sebastian was starting to have his suspicions that Professor Weasley had at least been talking to someone about his, MC, and Ominis’ out-of-grounds escapade.

“Is it just me, or are the other professors…watching us?”

“Sebastian, think for a moment about who you’re talking to, then ask me that again.” Ominis rolled his eyes, completely oblivious to the dubious look Professor Hecat had been giving them with all class.

“Oh right, sorry,” He cast a quick look to the Defense Professor, and when she wasn’t facing the class, he elaborated, “Since this morning, it’s like every Professor we see is expecting us to do something wrong, waiting to catch us out. Hecat’s been looking at us like a Kneazle to a Sneakosope since we walked in here.”

“Well, we were caught breaking curfew last night, Sebastian.”

“This is different! All the times I’ve been caught breaking the rules, not once have the staff watched me like this. I feel guilty and I haven’t even done anything yet.”

They didn’t get an answer for their suspicions until after class, making their way through the Tower, MC now joining the duo at their side. Lost in conversation, they almost didn’t spot the Professor until it was too late, side stepping just as Professor Fig rounded the stairs.

It wasn’t uncommon to see the Magical Theory Professor, but he was renowned for his elusiveness- Sebastian would know, he’d tried to talk to the Professor on several occasions last year as he searched for a cure for Anne, but Fig had always been too busy to stick around for long.

Despite himself, and MC’s earlier reassurances Fig wouldn’t be upset his name came up the previous night, his heart hammered in his chest, and from the corner of his eye Sebastian spotted Ominis’ posture stiffen, as he so often would whenever they were about to get scolded by a Professor.

They waited for the gentle expression to fall into one of disappointment, or anger, for the reprimand they knew would be coming.

MC too, had changed, but in notable contrast to their friends they brightened up, energised to see the Professor- and Sebastian supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that the fondness was reciprocated. What he was surprised by was how Fig’s warmth extended to their friends, greeting them all cheerfully.

“Ah, MC! Mister Sallow, Mister Gaunt, good morning!”

Momentarily taken aback by the unexpected friendliness of his tone, one which they absolutely hadn’t anticipated after using him as a get-out-of-punishment-free pass the night before, they were delayed in wishing him a good morning back, compared to MC’s spirited response, “Morning, Professor Fig! Are you on your way back to your office?”

It was kind of cute, the way they perked up in Fig’s presence.

“I am, and I suppose you’re all off for lunch?”

“Actually, if you have some free time, I was wondering…”

Fig smiled, understanding, “My door is always open, come, I’ll have some sandwiches delivered! I had a very interesting meeting with Professor Weasley this morning, perhaps you can catch me up on the finer details of yours and Misters Sallow and Gaunt’s excusion while we’re there.”

Ominis startled, “Ah, yes, Professor, about that-”

“I’m afraid I can’t award points, Professor Weasley might have my head, Mister Gaunt- even if it would be well deserved!” Fig is quick to interrupt whatever apology Ominis had been about to offer, a sly smile on his face- one that strongly reminded Sebastian of MC’s expression after they had gotten out of Weasley’s office the night before, “I am glad MC has such supportive friends to help them with their studies, excellent work boys!”

Fig caught Sebastian’s eye and gave both himself and Ominis a knowing wink before continuing on towards his classroom, MC falling into step beside him easily, the pair immediately locked into a lighthearted conversation. Sebastian and Ominis stayed put for a moment, baffled by the casual interaction.

Ominis spoke first, “Did he just….”

“Yep.” He’d definitely covered for them, had seemed amused by it, no less.

Not a word was mentioned about last night’s escapades, no dubious look thrown their way like the rest of his colleagues had been doing all morning. Instead, all there had been was immediate recognition as he crossed paths with the trio, even though he hadn’t taught two of the three pupils in years, and a wink.

Suddenly, they had the sneaking suspicion they were in on some sort of conspiracy.

“Good morning, Professor Hecat!”

“Good morning, Professor Fig, good to see you about the Castle.”

Sebastian and Ominis jump at the voice, turning around to see Hecat at the top of the stairs, where she had no doubt just watched the four crossing paths, the spirited exchange before Fig and MC had whisked away.

Suddenly, the professors’ earlier attitudes towards himself and Ominis made a lot more sense, and Sebastian suspected that Professor Weasley wasn’t the only one who had her suspicions about MC and Professor Fig’s extracurriculars.

And, if the way they had been keeping an eye on him and Ominis was anything to go by, the staff’s conspiracy had just gained two new suspects.

“Ominis, I think we’ve become accomplices.”

#hogwarts legacy #my fics #me? writing something that ISN'T angst?? oh it's been y e a r s #this was supposed to be a fun nonsense no plot fic but how has a no plot fic got 6k words?#mc #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #between these three i'm convinced they're able to get out of just about any trouble with the staff rip hogwarts faculty's patience #matilda weasley #eleazar fig #pov you and your mentor are the same breed of menace #to procrastinate on editing this fic i wrote another fic #and now i'm procrastinating on editing THAT fic by posting this one #the circle of writing i guess :)))))))

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anonymouspuzzler · 8 months

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As a humble connoisseur of the Psychic 7 I'm curious if u have any headcanons for them ur particularly fond of, esp if maybe its something youve never rly seen other ppl hc/talk about (tho well agreed upon hcs are also the bees knees)

OH BABY LET'S HAVE A THINK I'LL TRY TO BRAIN A SOMETHIN FOR ALL THOSE WONDERFUL OLD PEOPLE. under cut for length and spoilers

Otto: I'm so with everyone who's like "oh he's so sus and fucked up wait no actually he's normal wait no he's so fucked up". I think his brain is probably a mess but like in a way where he's able to function from day to day. I feel like maybe he's also the kind of guy who like... how to put it. He sometimes has a hard time remembering that just because he's passionate about and invested in something, doesn't mean everyone else around him is going to be equally as passionate and invested. (Especially after the Psychic 7 started splitting apart and having their own issues - hard to pull him back down to earth when you're too busy having your own breakdown.) I also really like the idea of him being at least part-Grulovian and having met Lucy when they were much younger, hence being in contact with her when they started the Psychonauts.

Ford: That man bi and he and Otto are Divorced (they never married) (they barely dated) (they're divorced) (they're still dating). Now that I write it out I think maybe he only had pretty casual relationships until Lucy. It feels like she was maybe the first and last person he really considered Settling Down with - all the more reason for him to be hit so hard by losin' her. I also love the idea of him eventually trying to become a mentor to Frazie, specifically because she seems to have teleportation powers and I feel like he'd want to hand down his unique power and help her refine that, which would be funny because she seems to resent him more than any of the other Aquatos.

Bob: I always interpret him as having lived in the Gulch before the Psychonauts were even a thing - that was just his family home, eventually Ford and Otto and Lucy moved in, he started talking to them and that was that. (I think it'd be funny if he was like, their local food supplier when they started crashing in the woods, he just kinda knew them as regulars who'd buy a crate or two of veggies every week or so, and eventually he and Otto got to talking and what the fuck Otto realizes he's a psychic and the rest is history.) I also really like the idea of Truman visiting him in the Gulch a lot growing up - this is a bit of a tangent but I like the idea of Truman pushing to found Whispering Rock and/or the Intern program when he became Grand Head specifically because of his fond memories of visiting the Gulch and developing his powers under the tutelage of the Psychic 7.

Compton: I really like interpretations where he like - kind of mutually separated from his partner on good terms. (Maybe even did it in part so his Accidental Violent Escapades slash new life in the woods doing psychic research wouldn't have a negative impact on his kid(s).) By the same token this started out halfway as a joke but I like interpreting the lady running the cafeteria at the Motherlobe as his daughter; she's got just the right combo of Sass + Eccentricity plus apparently ferrets at home, and it just feels right to me that Sam would have, like - a parent that's an employee but not an agent, y'know? If that's the case, I feel like she probably had a kinda distant relationship from him growing up (in large part due to him Fucking Off Into The Woods) but made an active effort to reconnect now that she's an adult and especially once she had her own kids.

Helmut: I think the poor guy really missed his calling with the Psychonauts shifting from spy & agent work more towards education (as we see with stuff like Whispering Rock & the Intern program & the apparent interest in kinda training/tutoring the Aquatos post-2). Like, in a world where he didn't get frozen, he'd probably running or at least working at Whispering Rock, putting on big psychic performances with the kiddos. (Granted, he would've had to have make it through the 20 years of spywork, which I think would have been tough for him.) Also I bet Quentin has like an ancient limited-press vinyl of his that sold like, 5 copies, and is Starstruck if he ever meets him and Helmut gets a HUGE kick out of that.

Cassie: LESBIAN!!!!!!!!!!! But ahem anyway where was I. I think one of the things she probably struggled with post-Grulovia (alongside uh. everything else. obviously) was probably, for lack of a better word, the like... legitimization of the Psychonauts? Like, much as she's very sweet and a natural mentor, Cassie's also rough around the edges; very much a do-what-you-gotta, anti-establishment type of gal. (love her for that.) I feel like suddenly having to work with The Government and go through official channels and be all organized and doing paperwork and reports and stuff probably rubbed her the long way and contributed to her feeling like she was getting left behind in the changes.

Lucy: This is all but text but like... I feel like Lucy probably had very mixed feelings about her decision to leave Grulovia. On the one hand, she got out of a place that was actively becoming more dangerous, out of a place where she was lonely and heartbroken after her husband's death, to this great new opportunity to use her powers and make lifelong friend and find a second chance at love with Ford. On the other hand, she had to leave behind a home she'd been in all her life and loved very much, in a time of great turmoil that she clearly feels she should have been able to do more about, and above all leaving behind her beloved sister. I wonder if maybe she tried to convince Marona to emigrate too and couldn't. I wonder if maybe part of what worsened her post-Astrolathe instability and made her suddenly rush back to Grulovia was that unconscious regret about leaving. Ain't no wonder she eventually broke, the poor thing.

#anonymous puzzler answers #long post #cosmignon #psychonauts 2 spoilers #like MAJOR spoilers don't click if you don't want the Major Endgame Stuff spoiled #psychonauts #psychonauts 2

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secret-rendezvous1d · 1 year

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hi bestie!! could you write about harry and y/n being broken up and he finds out she went on a date and he goes to her house really upset asking her how she could do that to him and she says she didn’t want too but her friends made her and they make up at the end?

the thought makes me all soft-

"Who was he?"

When YN opened her front door, she wasn't expecting to see Harry standing there.

Dressed like he'd been on a run but barely showing a sweat on his brow-line, t-shirt still loose to his body and still smelling of his Tom Ford cologne, not a hint of his body odour hanging in the air. Stood on the gravel pathway of her home, in skin-tight leggings and a pair of baggy shorts endorsed with Nike on the side, bright pink trainers tied to his feet (which she knew weren't his running shoes and were the first pair he'd grabbed in his haste to leave his home) and paired with white socks that he'd pulled up to his mid-calves. Hair pinned back in one of his tiny butterfly clips, with only the smallest and softest curls hanging down the sides of his face.

"Who was who?"

"That man who people saw you with. Who you went on a date with," he grumbles. His voice dripping with jealousy, barely unable to take his eyes away from her blushing cheeks, "it's all over my Twitter, in my direct messages, my Instagram. Who was he?"

"Just someone from work," YN confesses, a sudden yet small chill running down her spine because she had no clue that she had been photographed in her privacy, "my co-worker wanted to set me up with him because she found out that me and you had recently parted ways. She kept telling him to ask me out, to take me to dinner or for some drinks at the bar down the road, and- well, he wouldn't take no for an answer. I- H, I didn't want to go."

She wasn't technically lying.

She did want to go, because she'd been raving to her friends about going to the newly-opened bar down the road (which sold endless amounts of her favourite cocktails and advertised 'the best pizza in London' which she could never turn down), but she just didn't want to go with him; the guy from work who would always seem to take his break at the same time as her, who would always keep his lunch beside hers, who would make sure he finished at the same time as her so she could ride in the lift down to the bottom floor with him.

She wanted to go with Harry. Not the first guy who offered to date her after she became single.

"You could have told your face that."

"Harry-"

"Am I just that forgetful? Everything we did together? All the good times we have, the funny moments, the sad times. Did you just forget all about that? Did they mean nothing to you?" His demeanour took a change as he broke, his shoulders slouching and the darkness of his eyes seemed to lighten, fingers picking at the hangnails of his thumb, "did I mean nothing to you?"

"Don't be so stupid, Harry. You're the last person I'd ever forget," she shook her head and adjusted her weight and her stance, standing up straighter from her position leaning against the doorframe of her front door, "as for everything we did together... it's impossible to just erase it all. I travelled with you, saw you in your element, watched you do your job. I went on a bloody world tour with you, for goodness sake. It's hard to not remember it all. Even when I want to."

"Why?"

She sighs heavily and runs her hand through her hair, "because it's unbearable to think about what we used to have together. How happy we were, how you were the only person who knew me, who could make me laugh and cry at the same time. How you made me feel so special and loved and like I was the only girl in the world. How you were my best friend, my soulmate and my boyfriend rolled into one person."

He smiles softly, matching the delicately placed smile that sat on her own lips.

"Now? Now you're just a stranger to me."

"I don't want to be," he whispers, "I hate that we became this."

She lifted the handle of her front door and made sure the latch was on - not that it mattered because even if her front door closed on her, she could still see the front door key, that she gave to him as an emergency key, twisted onto the keyring that hung from his forefinger - taking a seat on the bench she had placed on her front porch.

He stood there for a moment, contemplating his own mind, before he took the space beside her.

"I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you go but," he coughs into his fist and clears the ache in his throat, "I was wrong. I wanted you to have a life that I was unable to give you. A partner who was always at home, who you could see whenever you wanted, who was there for everything. Who you never had to see through a screen or hear updates about through social media," his hand reaches up, slowly, adjusting the shoulder of her knitted cardigan that had fallen down and exposed her bare skin, "I wanted you to have the life I wished to give you."

"You never asked me what I wanted. That's what hurt me the most," and her voice was so soft, almost hard to hear, "and I understood but, Harry, I wanted you. I didn't want someone who could be there for me whenever. I wanted everything with you. Life was hard being with you but I coped. I managed to live my life and have you by my side and I couldn't have asked for me," she admits, holding his hand with hers and running her thumb over his knuckles, "I'd take you back in a heartbeat."

"Then do it."

She felt the heat creep up her neck, reaching her cheeks, and she felt like the shy schoolgirl who cracked under the pressure of being near her school crush. Her eyes locked on the pebbles of her flowerbed because anywhere was better than looking into his deep, green, enticingly-beautiful eyes.

"Harry-"

"I love you. I always will. I didn't come here to get back together with you or for this to happen but-" he's cut of by the gentle motion of her head moving up to look at him, "I came here to be the biggest baby and beg for you to come back and not date that bloke. I couldn't see you with someone else and I know I left you so you could but-"

She snorts and shakes her head, the smile lingering on her lips, her body shifting in a way that was more inviting for him.

"Come back to me."

Her arms wrapped around his neck, forearms sitting snugly on his shoulders, lips pressing against his in an instant. Moulding together, fitting like a puzzle, his hands brushing up her back and bringing her just that tiny bit closer to him.

"Is that a yes?"

It was mumbled against her lips but, really, no words were needed. The moment was his answer. x

#harry talk #harry styles imagines

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silent-raven13 · 3 months

Text

A new take on Sunflowers!

(AU: No Spider-man powers. Hobie is a famous Punk Star/model/celebrity. He happens to go to an art opening and fell in love with the works and the artist)

"Ehhh!" Miles look at the bouquet of flowers and boxes of expensive gifts. He didn't even settle in his new studio apartment, he saw so many gifts being delivered to him. It was already the next day after the crazy party. Checking on the message card, "To my Sunflower, XOXOXOX, Hobie. 💜🌻🤘🏿"

He felt so flustered that he took the bouquets of flowers in his arms taking a big sniff. "They smell so good." He hums feeling his cheeks warm. The art opening did filled him with surprises, he didn't think he would catch a certain celebrity eyes.

-Last Night-

"Yes. Yes. We're heading there, now." The twenty seven year old punker slouches in the limo being bored by his assistant making calls to their manager. He rolled his eyes, so this is what being famous is like. The constant meet and greets, events, and talkshows. Ugh, the popularity didn't seem to stop because of his own Controversy nature, being chaotic to break anything.

The fans love that from him. His bandmates are meeting him at this art opening he so badly wanted to go. It was a refresher to find something that's his interest, but his agency being on his ass was pissing him off. He wanted freedom! To enjoy his time with his friends.

Now, his assistant is here being observant because the last time he was left alone, he had brawl with some jackass at a bar.

Figures...

He lit up his cigarette being annoyed, a good burn of nicotine will help him. "You're supposed to quit smoking." His assistant said being on her laptop.

"Come on, Mindy. I've been stressed all the damn time. I need this." He inhale being annoyed. "Fuck quitting."

"Then you have to deal with Bruce."

"Fuck him, too."

Mindy sighs before the limo stopped at the gallery called, "New Verse!" It's own by a famous man, who believes in contemporary arts for the diversity artists. Right now, there's three arts presenting their worsts that are upcoming to the art field.

Young BIPOC artists that were born and bred in New York City. Hobie honestly saw one painting on the pamphlet from invite from his good friend, Pavtri. A funny actor that changed the game by his bubbly adorable personality, his girlfriend is one of the artists. Yet, the punker wasn't focus on her inspirational Indian American women with abstract strokes and figures.

Oh no, he's eyes was curious when he saw a powerful, very old school graffiti style with a modern take of using media with bright bold colors and insane texts. The handwritten calligraphy had rough ink with profound words like slurs, then a beautiful black man figure crying. Tears all colorful with small texts inside. So many going all at once that he wanted to see in person. The piece had the sizes about 300 inches by four hundred inches on canvas mounted on wall. He had to see it.

When the limo parked, "We're here." His assistant said.

Hobie got out of the car seeing paparazzis already there to take photos of him.

Great, these fucking leeches

He wore his latest high end outfit; ripped tight black skinny jeans with patches by Farfetched brand, accessories like chains dripping to the side of hips. He wore expensive Prada Monolith and re-nylon black boots, and red laces. A Sex Pistol t-shirt personally shredded, Two belts around his waist, one he's actually wearing on his jeans but the other more for fashion that is slanted to the side. Then his Celine black leather jacket with his own custom touches having spikes and paint on it. His own rebellious style. Then tons of jewelry on him; bracelets from his wrists, necklaces, and diamonds piercings. All top with a very masculine cologne by Tom Ford.

His wicks bounces by every step of his heavy boots as he got out already having his black shades on to cover his eyes. He saw some of the fans waiting for him. "OH MY GAWD, IT'S HIM! HOBIE! HOBIE! WE LOVE YOU!"

"HEY, HOBIE COME LOOK OVER HERE!"

Hobie quickly walks away with a scowl, he tries hard not to ruin his black lipstick by Fenty. All this work to look good and these paparazzis never leave him alone!

Life as a Star

When he finally enters the gallery, he saw a group of body guards being there. It seems there was a lot of famous celebrities around, too.

Great...

He should've known Pavtri would invite more people for his girlfriend. His assistant said, "Oh wow, you can network with these other celebrities. There's Peni Parks, I heard she is famous for her robotics in Japan. Her company release the latest Androids."

"Huh, so we're about to get controlled by the government." Hobie snorted.

"Come on, Hobie. Not this again."

"It's true." He took off his shades to find other familiar faces like Miguel O'Hara, the CEO of Alchemax with a teenage girl wearing a black dress having to look at a painting. A famous man like that likes art? Huh, who knew.

Then Jess Drew, a popular lawyer never losing a case and a very expensive one at that. Hobie had follow her cases, seeing how she went to trial about defamation of character to a famous celebrity.

Petra, a famous three gold Olympic Athlete, she had one her titanium prosthetic leg wearing ankle pants with loafers and tight beige sweater. Her brown pixie hair cut had a shave to the left side showing off her pierced ears.

Then Ben Riley, a famous skater. Noir-

Aye, no way he's here!

Noir is a very popular contemporary artist that causes many controversy on society's politics. One of the most respected activists, too. He would shred his own work in front of auction if he doesn't like the buyer. The man stays hidden with his black mask. Hobie respected that man, too bad his works are out of his price range, if he could get his hands on it.

One popular piece was a Rubik's cube that he presented in a gallery then mix it all up. Then place it on a white pedestal. The price of that work started off two billion.

Bonkers, Hobie knows. But that piece started a massive wave for the hidden artists. Noir seems to know Petra and Ben.

Interesting...

He noticed a popular street artist, activist, and poet name Zero. Kaine, a famous game streamer on Twitch. Kitty, a popular influencer. Peter Parker, a famous American Actor.

So many blokes here!

"Oh, look there's Gwen!" She spotted a familiar Pop Punk singer standing with her own female band, which is her girlfriend drummer, Margo and Silk, a girl who plays the guitar.

"Aye," Hobie was about to go over until, he stops when his eyes caught the art piece he been yearning to see. When he enters the room to find more works.

His eyes on the large piece, he took in every single detailed. "Mindy, luv. Can you please give me wine?"

"Sure thing, Hobie." She went out of the room to leave him to admire the works.

Hobie saw the artists name and description, "A cry for Help! By Miles G. Morales..." He read seeing the materials being made by spray paint, acrylic paint and other stuff. He didn't want to read anymore, so he can try to figure out the meaning of the work.

Taking a closer look, he saw details of Brooklyn, police brutality, drugs, and struggle. Then a light white out line of a man and woman with child that is very hard to see. If you're not paying attention, a person would think it's a decorative add-on.. Then more Corporate brands, then drug names, and money prices. The background of blue shading with imagery of activism. So many things going on that represented the struggle for black people, it touched Hobie. Especially the image of the black man crying.

What surprised him is the soft touch up to imply make up, the figure had a smudge light lip gloss and glittery eyes, his skin cover with light newspaper textures with to-day's and past events of black trans struggles, and racism.

Bloody beautiful...

Mindy came by to hand him his glass a wine, she hums, "Your eyeliner is smudging."

"Thanks, darling." Hobie wipe the tear off his eye, "It's a fantastic piece, innit?"

"It's really sad..." Mindy frowns at the painting, "Crazy how colorful it is. Like they want you to be happy but when you look at it longer... you see the true ugliness of America."

Hobie sips his wine with a nod, "Exactly. It's perfect. How much is it?"

"300k."

"What? So little?"

"He's a new artist in the field. He's been popular through social media, but not in galleries. It's a different wave." She explained.

"Pfft, and he's black?"

"Yeah."

"Figures. Always the black man getting the short end of the stick." Hobie took out his black card, "I'll double the price."

"Are you sure?" Her eyes widen.

"Yes, I'm sure. I got payed from that stupid Pepsi commercial so I'm winning to buy this at a reasonable price." He said.

"I'll look for the seller. Stay here." She said before going to find them.

Hobie had no problem staying when he can admire this painting. Unaware of a black hooded man standing next to him. "You been looking at this piece for a while, huh?"

"It's a powerful piece." Hobie glanced over to find the person wearing a black hoodie.

"Meh, it's ight." He casually said.

"Are you bloody mad? This is one of the best works I've seen and trust me, I've seen bullshit artists from France, Japan, even the MET." He snorted.

"Gayatri's work is amazing. Zero's installation is freakin' cool." He added, "They are actually showing real struggles as women of color."

"I'll see for myself, but this right here! This is where it's at." Hobie said proudly.

The Hooded man chuckles, "Alright, but take your time looking at the other works." He left with that.

Hobie rolled his eyes but his nose tickle of scents of Sunflowers and tropical shea butter. "Who was he?" He mutter to himself, before going to the next work. The artist made five pieces. In the room there was only four massive works.

It seems Hobie fell in love with the artist, because the second work he loves it even more. It was a massive photo of a black male punker with tattoos, so much piercing on his face and had this scary look with so much spikes and ripples on his clothing. He had intense makeup, but the photo is only black and white.

The figure had a charming smile with his tongue out and wink while he holds a bouquet of sunflowers. The Sunflowers were painted in cartoon like, and there was other paintings of feminine and cutesy imagery. Stickers, and spray painted text. Hobie quickly read the name of the work, "A New Take on Sunflowers: Triptych Part 1 by Miles G. Morales."

Hobie went back to look at the piece, the Sunflowers were brighter almost glowing with youth. "A New Take on Sunflowers... By old Vinny?" He did love this work. He saw how the Punker represented gender fluidity, to embrace their culture yet love the things that aren't represented in their lifestyle. It could also show how someone 'scary' looking have a softer side by holding the flower with care and love.

"Hobie, your bandmates are here." Mindy came back to tell him.

"Be there." Hobie didn't wanna see them when he had these works to admire. The next painting was next to the punker photo. This time the second painting is a photo in black and white of two black women kissing being in the Ghetto of New York. They hold their Sunflowers. They had on weave, bright gold jewelry, tight clothing being so happy to be together.

Now that's love.

His eyes saw the color of the jewelry being the same yellow as the Sunflowers, and more happier texts and doodles around the two. The women had on wedding rings on, celebrating their marriage.

Hobie chuckles, "Cute." He saw the third part of this work. This one is a Puerto Rican mother, how did he know she's Puerto Rican? The massive flag in the background, and the woman sitting while braiding her daughter's hair with a soft gentle smile. The little Afro-Latina smiling at her big Sunflower as it aims at the two. It's a beautiful piece of mother and child.

Shit, why these works are affecting me so much

Hobie felt tears coming down his cheek, he never felt like this before. It's so beautiful and powerful. He needs them. He wants them in his penthouse!

"Hobie?" Mindy asked.

He quickly turns to her with his eyeliner already smudge, "I want all of these. Go buy them!"

"What? Hobie, you can't be-" Hobie glares at her. "Alright. Alright, I'll let the seller know!" She sighs, "Also, Karl and the rest of the band is here. Go say hi!"

"Ugh, fine." Hobie went to find his friends while his assistant went off to find the seller, again. His goal is to find the fifth work.

"Hey Hobs! What up, man?" His best friend, Karl high five him, he's the bass player of the band.

Riri chuckles, "Hey, share the love, bro!" She grins widely being the guitarist.

Mattea nodded, "Hey, Hobie." The drummer of the band.

Hobie gave them a hug, "Aye, mates. How's it going?"

"Great. With all these talkshows and trying to make our own shit, ugh we're exhausted." Riri said.

"Yeah, I released my own beer brand. Crazy, huh?" Karl chuckles.

"My own shirts." Mattea nodded, "We need to be smart because who knows what will happen with this band."

"What do you mean?" Hobie frowns.

"You know, we're all so busy trying to get our name out. It'll be better just in case if our band fall apart since you're busy with movies. Me with modeling." Riri added.

"And life." Mattea nodded.

"That's true. Ugh, we need to support each other. We still need to make our new album too." Hobie groans by this constant work load. "Fucking Bruce."

The rest groan. "Hobie! Hobie! I'm so happy you made it!" The group turns to find Pavtri holding his girlfriend's hand having to pull her with him. She giggles seeing how happy her boyfriend is.

"Hey, bruv. Been awhile." Hobie greeted him, "Luv. Nice to meet you." He holds Gayatri's hand and kissed it being a gentlemen when he wants to.

"Hahaha, nice to meet you, Hobie! I'm a big fan of Spider-Band!" She said.

"Have you seen, my sweet Gayatri's work!" Pavtri asked the punker with stars in his eyes. "Huh! HUH?"

"Oh honey," The female artist giggles, "He's been in Miles' room the whole time. I won't lie, his work is so good." She holds her side shoulder bag, "He even customized my bag. See!"

Hobie's eyes widen at the bag seeing the painting with Sunflowers and cute characters. "What? How? Can he do custom works?"

"Yeah, he does. I gave him one of my fabric works." She giggles, "You really like it, huh? It's moving, right?"

"I need to check it out." Riri said, "First some wine!"

"Same!" Mattea nodded.

"More like a crush." Karl knows when his best friend has a crush, it's very rare but it's obvious to see.

Gayatri giggles, "Really! Awe, you know he's single and ready to mingle." She loves playing match maker, with stars in her eyes being excited. "Zero, can tell you, he's so ready for a new man in his life!"

Pavtri pouted at the punker with fake tears, "Hobie, you promised you would admire my darling flower! My Gayatri's beautiful work! She took these beautiful hands," he holds her dainty hands, "and created this!" He jumps over to an installation of a blue cut out thick papers handing by a thread to show an abstract figure in blue. "All the dates we had to miss!"

"I will we have all the time." Hobie tries to explained then he was yank by Pavtri being forced to look at all of Gayatri's work. He even explain each one of them in great detailed.

Hobie spotted the last work of Miles G. Morales, it's at the end of the gallery on its own with nothing else around. He wanted to go see it, but he had to make his way through Zero's work, too. He didn't mind Gayatri's and Zero's work, they are amazing artist, but something about Miles' work. It got him, he needs to see the last painting.

After going through all his well known friends and admiring Zero's work. He found Miguel O'Hara's daughter gasping at Miles' painting, "Papá! Did you see that painting with the mother and daughter! It's so cute! Does he do custom work?" She asked, "I want one of me and mamá!"

"Alright. Let's see if we can book one." Miguel happily said to his daughter, his whole grumpy mood toward Peter changed when it was his daughter.

Jess giggles, "That Miles Morales is making waves with his work, being new to this game. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, the kid is freakin' good. He actually got some peeps from LA looking at his work. That kid is going to places."

The owner of the gallery is a tall thing black man, "Alright, gather around." Everyone went to see the speech which Hobie cursed himself, he was so close to see the final painting.

He smiles happily, "I like to thank my wife, Jess for support. My good friend Aaron for helping pitch in. This beautiful gallery is meant to bring all young diverse artists to the art game. I hope you enjoyed Gayatri's amazing works focusing on the hardship of Indian American women identity and gender roles. Zero's beautiful installations on her poems and politics of today." The two women artists came up with a smiling widely. "Sadly Miles couldn't make it today but his work focus on the struggles of Black and Brown acceptance in America."

Hobie frowns, he was hoping to meet the artist. Gayatri made it seem he was around. How odd?

"They are the future for young Contemporary artists, we know the field mostly represents a certain group, so I hope to help them achieve their careers with this gallery." He holds his glass of champagne being happy.

Then, a man in black hood came walking past the group surrounding the artists and owner of the gallery. Jess' husband finished, "I hope you enjoy the rest of the opening."

Hobie spotted the black hoodie male carries a bucket of paint, then when the artists and owner moved away. "Hey, what is he doing?" Karl asked out loud spotting the figure.

The figure throws black paint on the final painting by Miles. Everyone gasps even the security was about to go over. "Oh my god! Why would he do that?"

Hobie's mouth dropped in shock, "What the fuck, bruv!" He shouted out loud in anger.

The figure grins widely seeing the security guards being stopped by the owner, he took out his bright yellow Spray paint, and wrote in messy dripping text, "Miles wazz here!" He put down his hoodie revealing his face.

Hobie's eyes widen at such a handsome young man; big honey brown doe eyes, wearing earrings, septum nose piercing, and a bright glowing face. His hair a tapered Afro with a fade. Wait, this is Miles? Miles G. Morales?

"Easy. Easy. He's an artist. This is his installation piece." The owner explained.

Miles let the painting dripped showing how the painting still revealed a bit. "I call this, 'I'ma do my own thing.'" He grins widely at the crowd.

Noir nodded giving a loud clap in approval. The rest of the crowd awed, by the piece looking beautiful with the add on drips and markings. Gwen shouted, "Holy shit, Miles!"

"Wow, amazing!" Pavtri claps like crazy being so excited, "I was filled with so many emotions!" Everyone went back to looking at other works.

Hobie finally got the chance took a look at the painting, "Ruining it, eh?" He saw Miles finished talking to Pavtri, who hugs him before leaving them.

"Is it ruin to you?" Miles stood with a grin, he wore an oversize black hoodie, some tight jeans and black and yellow Jordans.

"Nah, it's perfect. I believe chaos, luv." Hobie grins at him.

Miles giggles, "I bet, you known for that."

"So you heard of me?"

"I mean, who doesn't know Hobie Brown? The lead singer of Spider band." He giggles in amusement, "So, I heard you're gonna buy my works. I'm surprised. I thought my shit would be too much for a celebrity."

"Pfft, I'm a different kind, Sunflower." He sips his wine, "I always love works about black empowerment and to support a fellow one at that."

"Aye, gracias papí." Miles spoke Spanish.

"Ah, so you're Puerto Rican?"

"I'm half black and half Puerto Rican, my parents are over there." He chuckles seeing the punker looking over to find the same woman from the painting and a little girl.

"Ahh, inspiration?"

"They were the reason for my Sunflower series." The artist explained, "Honestly, I was so nervous for tonight because I'm a new comer and being with these amazing artists of New York- Ugh, I can't believe I'm here."

"That's why you doubted your work?"

"Pretty much." Miles admitted, "Funny, you're easy to talk to."

"I'm always listening, Sunflower." He leans over to get a closer look at the artist, "And I listen to the person I like."

Miles felt flustered then giggles, "Haha, funny."

"Oh yea? Gimme your number and let see if I'm playin?" He flirted with a deep voice. Miles didn't know what possess him to hand him his smartphone but he did. The Punker happily type his number into the phone and put his private social media too.

"Text me, Sunflower." He winks at the artist as he handed back his phone.

"Okay." Miles did the basic hey.

Hobie chuckles, "So soon? You really want me."

"No-no, I mean- awe man! I suck at this stuff." Miles pouts.

"Oh yeah? So you want me to be forward," The punker lift his chin up about to lean in, their lips close to almost touching, "Because I can."

"Eh?" MIles' honey brown eyes widen, he didn't think the punker would be this bold!

"NO! My big bro!" A little girl ruffling shoves Hobie away from her brother.

"Billie!" Miles saw his seven year old sister, "Awe, come here." Thank god, because he wasn't ready for a kiss like that. His face felt so warm.

Billie happily hugs her brother being picked up, "Yeah! Only I give kisses to mi hermano!" She kisses her brother's cheek. "Your painting of me and mamí esta may bueno, hermano!"

"Awe, thank you, Billie-boo."

Hobie only rub his nose then sniff. Damn, he almost got to taste him. Shame, but he does like it when they play hard to get. Licking his lips, his eyes yearn for the artist. Something in him wants him. Putting on his charming smiles, "So this is your little sister?"

"Yeah, I am Billie!" The little girl stated, "Who you are? You don't kiss my brother!"

"Sorry, she loves me too much." Miles giggles. "Billie, this is Hobie. He's a popular singer. Hobie this is Billie."

"Hmph," Billie pouted giving a look at the punker.

"She is small. What is she? four?"

"I'm seven years old!" Billie huffs, "I am a BIG GURL!" She hugs her brother around his neck.

"Eck, Billie. Not too tight." Miles almost choked. "Sorry, she was like this with my friends."

"No problem. I love lil sprogs." He chuckles lowly, "Also, how do I book for a custom painting?"

"Oh, on my social I have a link to my studio website and there's a form for custom orders. You really gonna buy another painting from me?"

"Of course." He saw his assistant near him, "Mindy, darling. Have you met the seller?"

"Yes, sir. They are willing to sell all five works." She said.

"Alright, add another one. A custom on from Miles' website." Hobie smirks widen when he saw how Miles' eyes widen.

"Alright, if you wish to purchase it now, we need to go to the owner and have it ready for shipping." Mindy hums.

"Very well."

"Also, we should be leaving soon. You have a recording session tomorrow." She hums.

"Alright. Alright." He winks at Miles being a show off, he lifts Miles' hands up to kiss it, "It was wonderful seeing you. I hope we can meet again... without me buying paintings- perhaps a date?"

Miles' face went super flustered by the punker. He never thought this famous singer would be so sweet, so charming, so damn cute! "Huh uh." That's all came out of his mouth.

Billie side eye at her brother seeing how shy he became. "Lil one, I hope you will protect your brother from untamed men." Hobie smiles at her before handing her a crumble hundred dollar bill.

"Aye, Ayi! Cap'n!" Billie nodded at the tip.

Miles said, "Wait, you don't have to-" Hobie shrugs, "She can buy whatever she wants with it. Anyway, I'll see you later."

"Oh... Okay. Bye Hobie." Miles hugs his baby sister tightly feeling so bashful, his heart fluttering.

The punker left with a large receipt of five expensive paintings. He wave his fellow friends goodbye.

In the limo, he had a big smile on his face thinking about his Sunflower. "Never see you this happy? You really like the artist, huh?"

He sighs lovingly, "Yeah... do you know where he lives? I want to send him some flower." He breath exhale on the cold window letting it fog up, then he drew a crappy sunflower.

"On it." She nodded.

-Present Day-

Hobie chilling outside enjoying his pool after his record session. His Smartphone vibrating, he looks to find Miles calling him. "Sunflower! Surprised you called, miss me?" He flirted removing his dark shades.

"Hobie, I think you send me too many flowers...." He said.

"Oh? Fifty bouquets didn't come to you?"

"Fifty? There's like one, two, three.... forty nine-" Miles stops hearing the door bell, "Never mind, fifty."

"Then you got them all. How about the gifts?"

"Hobie, you shouldn't have sent this- I- It's nice of you for-" Hobie waves it off, "Nah, it's fine. I got money and wanted to spend it on you, Sunflower. Now, that you called- How about a lunch date?"

"Huh? A date?"

"Yup." Hobie sips on his sparkling water.

"Ummm," Miles felt bashful again, "Sure... where-where?"

"I'll pick you up. I know a great place. Also, I might bring another bouquet for you." Hobie happily said.

Miles nodded, "Okay. Do i need to wear anything?"

"I prefer lingerie."

"Huh!"

"Joking. I'm joking, luv. Something you want to wear. Don't worry it's a chill spot."

"Alright, man." The artist bite his bottom lip, "I... I don't do sex on the first date, by the way...."

"Oh? I'm surprised you expected me too." The singer chuckles.

"No, I mean- I'm so sorry that's rude. I just have to always-" Hobie chuckles, "It's okay, luv. I promise I'll give you a kiss on the cheek."

"Just a kiss on the cheek." Now he sounded disappointed.

"Or you want on the mouth with tongue?"

Miles never felt so embarrassed, "Your a jerk, Hobie Brown."

"You seem to like it." He laughs.

"I do actually." His pouty lip more enhance as he listens to Hobie's voice. Something about this punker got him thinking about him. He had a beautiful dream with him and it feels like he known him. Its weird.

"Then, I'll pick you up soon. See you later, Sunflower."

"See you, Hobie." Miles hears him hung up, then he hung up. The artist never felt like this. Touching his lips feeling the cracks of his dry skin, "I need to moisturized! Lip scrub! Look good for him!" He rushes over to the bathroom to get ready.

A special bond formed between the artist and the singer.

#punkflower #hobie brown #miles morales #spiderman #across the spider verse #spider verse #spiderverse

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ckret2 · 9 months

Text

Chapter 14 of Human Bill Is A Prisoner And Only Mabel Is Being Nice To Him (real title TBD), and the conclusion of the first big plot arc:

Also featuring: what Pacifica has been up to the past year! Dipper and Mabel arguing about Bill! The hand witch, briefly! Funny pranks that Ford does not think are funny! And other things.

####

Dipper and Mabel waved goodbye as they left the Hand Witch's cave. The witch, her boyfriend, and Mabel's spare right hand on the witch's shoulder waved back.

"Thanks for helping us out on such short notice," Dipper said.

"Oh, any time!" the witch said. "Come back whenever you like! I'll make tea and snacks again."

"Girl, you know I'm always up for more of your..." Mabel flashed the witch a pair of finger guns and a wink, "... finger food!"

Her spare hand made a finger gun back. The witch laughed so hard she wheezed. Her boyfriend leaned down to pat her back.

As Mabel and Dipper wove their way down the Hand Witch's mountain, Mabel said, "It's good to see she's found a relationship. She seems happy! And less desperate."

"I dunno, I'm kind of worried about that guy. What if he's just using her to learn her handomancy secrets?"

"Naaah, I'm not worried about him. He's a really bad apprentice. I think he's just letting her train him as a bonding activity. Like when girls let their boyfriends explain football so they can watch games together." Mabel turned to peer at the dark cave above. "Do you think Alehandra will be lonely without me?"

"Wh—you already named it?"

"Hands come in pairs, Dipper. Maybe she'd like a twin sister." She looked at Dipper's hands. "Or brother."

"Oh no. Uh-uh, I can see where this is going. We've already gotten in enough trouble with that stuff."

Mabel's phone buzzed. They must have gotten near enough town to get reception again. She pulled out her phone, saw a text from Soos, and swiped it open. "Mabel, this is Ford..."

"Speaking of growing extra hands," Dipper said. "Mabel... I think this whole thing is a bad idea. I mean—worse than it was originally. Getting Bill magic hair growth formula is one thing, but, growing extra limbs? I don't know what he could do with that, but he could do something."

Mabel's thumbs hovered over the screen, paralyzed as she tried to figure out what to tell Ford and Dipper at the same time.

The truth was, she'd had the same worry as Dipper. She lowered her phone. "Yeah, okay, maybe he could possibly do something with it hypothetically—but clearly the whole reason he asked for it was for the hair growth part! Because he's bald. So maybe he just... doesn't care about the rest? If we get only enough Hairy Fairy to regrow his hair and use it all up, then he won't have a chance to use it for anything evil, right?"

"Unless he's not even interested in regrowing his hair." Dipper pulled off his backpack and rummaging through it until he found the advertisement Ford had given him. "Look, everything in this ad lines up with what Bill told us about Hairy Fairy's history. If he knew that much, he definitely could know it can grow extra limbs. He might have even known it was coming back on the market before he saw the commercial! What if the only reason he burned off his hair was to manipulate us into getting this formula?"

"What would he do with a bunch of extra body parts?" Mabel asked. "He's clumsy enough with the ones he already has. I kinda think more would make him weaker."

"I don't know, but—I didn't know what he wanted a 'puppet' for, either, and see how that turned out?"

Mabel bit her lip, looking at Dipper's face—and then looked down at her phone, rereading the last sentence of Ford's text. "I'm worried he might be up to something nefarious."

She couldn't have this conversation in two places at once. She typed a quick reply to Ford—"It's too complicated to explain in text! I'll tell you when Dipper and I get home. (It's NOT dangerous, don't worry!) ❤️"—and stuffed her phone in her pocket. "Okay," she said. "Look. Sure, it makes sense to be extra paranoid with Bill—especially when we saw him finish his big master plan last summer—but honestly? I kinda don't think he's that good. Think about how many times Grunkle Ford says he tried and failed to get into our universe! I don't think he's a big alien super-genius with a careful zillion-year plan; I think he's just some guy that needed to try a zillion years just to get one plan to work. And that's... kind of lame. What can a guy like that do with hair formula?"

Dipper absorbed that. "Wow. Yeah, actually, when you put it that way, that—that isn't very impressive." He grimaced. "But—okay, even if he didn't have a complicated escape plan, what if he saw the hair formula and thought of one that he needs extra arms for—?"

"Dipper, we can 'but what if' Bill forever!" She flung out her hands in frustration. "If we second-guess everything he says, we'll start wondering stuff like 'what if he wants us to distrust him so he can reverse-psychology us into doing the thing he actually wants?' It'll drive us crazy! And letting Bill drive us crazy won't make us safer! We can't spend another summer being paranoid about Evil Bill Tricks!"

"Okay yeah, you have a point, but—why is the solution 'do what he wants'? Why isn't it 'tell him no, and cover our ears whenever he tries to say he wants something so we don't even know what he wants and he can't manipulate us'?"

Mabel's mind flashed back to the sad ghost under the zodiac blanket, huddled in a dusty corner. She looked at her feet and kicked a clump of grass self-consciously. "Because... he's sad and it's making me sad."

Dipper groaned. "Mabel."

"I know—"

"Mabel, he could be acting sad on purpose—"

"I know he could, I know, I KNOW!" Mabel let out all her accumulated Bill-induced frustration in a scream that startled several birds out of a nearby tree. She jumped furiously on the clump of grass. "He probably thinks I'm a big soft sucker! He's the worst and I hate him so much!"

"YES!" Dipper aimed a kick at the grass clump. "He's the worst ever! It's his fault we're even having this argument!"

"This summer was supposed to be different!"

"No apocalypses, no murder attempts, and no demon triangles!"

"No triangles at ALL! I don't even like geometry!"

When they'd collaboratively destroyed the grass clump, they fell silent, breathing heavily, staring at the upturned dirt. "I needed that," Mabel said. After a moment, she knelt down and tried to set the mangled grass back upright. The grass did nothing to deserve this.

Dipper leaned against a tree. "So. Are we giving up on the hair stuff?"

Mabel carefully patted a mound of dirt around what was left of the base of the grass. "I... still wanna go through with it."

Dipper had used up all his frustration on the grass. He sighed. "If you're gonna get that stuff for Bill no matter what I say, then... why are you trying to talk me into it?"

"Because I'm not going to do it. Not unless you agree."

"You... what?"

"Dipper, I feel like this is the right thing to do—but that's why I need to know what you think. The last time we didn't talk things out, the world almost ended! We always make better decisions together than we do apart. If I can't say anything that makes you think it's worth the risk, then—I'll give up. I'll tell Bill we couldn't get the stuff, and offer to get him a discount wig after Summerween, and... that's it." Mabel shrugged. "I'm scared too. I keep wondering stuff like 'what if he gives himself leg stilts and climbs out the chimney? What if he grows seven fingers and can finally overpower Ford?' But that's stupid."

She looked up at Dipper. "I want to make sure that if we give up, it's because there really is a danger. I don't want to refuse to help somebody suffering just because we're scared of him."

Dipper slid down to sit on the grass and watch Mabel give the grass clump first aid. Once Mabel was satisfied enough to sit back and wipe her hands off on her skirt, Dipper said, "Yeah. I am scared of him. He's tricked me with some misleading wording before, and I don't want it to happen again. I want to say I'm just being logical, but... right now, maybe I'm doing more feeling than thinking, too." He shrugged. "The truth is, I can't think of anything he could do with the hair growth formula that isn't so ridiculous, even I don't believe it's possible."

Mabel nodded. "Are you scared enough to say 'no'? If you are, we'll quit."

"No, I'm not." Dipper heaved a sigh. "I guess... let's do it. But I want to be as careful as possible. We'll get just barely enough to regrow his hair, one of us will apply the formula so he can't misuse it—"

"I can do that," Mabel said. "I've already slathered like a whole bucket of yellow paint on his face."

"Okay. And I'll watch the whole time as backup, in case he tries anything."

"Barty can watch from the vents as the backup-backup, too!"

"Good idea."

"Boom! Flawless plan!" Mabel grinned. "Now let's go see Pacifica!"

####

The address Pacifica had given them led to a small fenced-in pasture outside town.

Over the main gate was a sign that read "Platinum Alpaca Estates".

In the pasture, a half dozen pink-collar-wearing alpacas placidly grazed.

And standing in front of it all—wearing immaculately tailored lavender overalls, a set of white rhinestone-studded boots and cowboy hat, and a nervous smile—was Pacifica.

Dipper and Mabel gaped.

Dipper said, "What the— What is—"

"Pacifica what."

Pacifica held up her hands. "Okay wait, just let me explain! After my family lost our mansion last year, I could only keep one horse? Which was devastating! I needed to fill the void of hoofed mammals in my life somehow."

Mabel leaned over the fence. "So you got alpacas?"

"I was actually inspired by the llama sweater you gave me." Pacifica gave Mabel a small, crooked smile. "It reminded me that I've always secretly thought alpacas are cute, and I really like alpaca wool goods, so I thought... you know... what if I try it out?" She opened the gate, gesturing for the twins to follow her toward a small barn. "And I actually really love it! These are like, my babies. And I'm talking with some fashion brands about maybe selling them some luxury wool?"

She led them into the barn, and then into a small office being cooled by a window A/C unit. Several wool garments, protected in glass cases, were proudly displayed on the walls with labels underneath: "First Sweater", "First Scarf", "First Blanket"—

"Hey!" Mabel pointed at the familiar blanket, creamy white with the anti-Bill zodiac in ochre yellow. "That's the one I made! Did the yarn you sent me to make it come from your alpacas?"

"It did! You're the first person to make anything with their wool."

"Whoa."

"I actually want to use my symbol from the circle as our brand. I'm waiting to hear from my copyright lawyer about who I need to talk to for the rights to the image—if it's you or your great-uncle, or if it's still with the tribe that left the valley like a thousand years ago, or if it's public domain," Pacifica said. "It's a vague enough shape, I think it could look like either a llama or an alpaca, right?"

Mabel considered what Bill had said about Pacifica's symbol, considered the small alpaca herd visible through the office window, and said, "I have it on good authority that it's supposed to be an alpaca."

"So, wait," Dipper said. "What does this have to do with your modeling job?"

"The ranch isn't turning a profit yet. I'm still in talks with the brands that want our wool, and in the meantime I've got to hire more people to help. I don't know the hard stuff about taking care of alpacas, I just kind of brush their wool and make friends with them while my employees do the hard stuff."

Dipper snorted.

"Hey! I'm learning! But I've only been doing this a few months." Pacifica sank down into her desk chair, propping her chin in her hands. "Almost all my allowance and side gig income is going toward my alpacas. My parents don't want to invest in my startup!" She pouted. "They said if I want to act like a rancher instead of a socialite, it'll be on my own dime."

"So that's why you're working two summer jobs?" Dipper said. "Oh, man. I should have known something was up. I thought it was weird when you said your parents wouldn't pay for a spring and summer wardrobe."

"Yeah, I spent my spring wardrobe budget on this barn," Pacifica said. "I figure I'm investing in my future wardrobe, you know?"

Mabel planted her hands on Pacifica's desk. "Pacifica, I can see how important this is. I've run a business myself—I appreciate the pressure you're under. But, how about this: we could help each other! If you get us a tiiiny bit of that formula, I'll come over once a week for the rest of summer to help out with your alpacas. For free!"

Pacifica blinked. "What?"

"And that way, even if you do get in trouble and lose your Hairy Fairy job, you'll still have someone to help you out!"

Dipper's eyes widened. "Um—Pacifica, could you give us a moment?" He grabbed Mabel's elbow and tugged her out of the office.

"What is it?"

Dipper whispered, "Are you sure you wanna make that kind of commitment for the rest of summer? For Bill's sake?"

"Dipperrr, it's like working in a petting zoo!" She gestured toward the office window. "Look at how soft they are!"

"Oh, boy."

"And maybe I could get some luxury alpaca wool! I'm gonna have the fanciest sweaters."

Dipper grimaced, but decided Mabel would probably have looked for an excuse to spend time around the alpacas regardless of the situation. "Okay. Have at her." He nodded back toward the office.

When Mabel and Dipper came back in, Pacifica was sitting up straighter, hands laced on her desk, a miniature businesswoman entertaining a business proposal. "I appreciate the offer," Pacifica said. "But I don't think a few hours of labor a week balance out the profits I could make at my modeling job. It just doesn't make financial sense. I'm sorry, Mabel. I've got to think of my alpacas."

"I understand. But—I've got to think of my not-friend. If you could just see..." She trailed off as a thought occurred to her. "Dipper! Let me get in your backpack."

"Um, okay—?"

Mabel rummaged around in the main pouch. "I'm sure we left it... Ha!" She slapped down a ziplock bag containing the lock of Bill's hair that they'd collected to make his poppet. "This... is the person I'm trying to help." She crossed her arms triumphantly. "Okay, not the person, but it's his hair anyway."

Pacifica's brows shot up. "Oh, wow." She opened the bag and carefully extracted a few strands to examine. "This is the most golden golden hair I've ever seen. And look at it. Little oily, could use a good conditioner, damaged roots, but otherwise amazing health, no split ends..." Pacifica looked at Mabel, pointed at the baggie, and asked, "Virgin?"

Mabel laughed nervously. "I have no idea and I never ever want to find out."

"No! I mean is this the natural color and texture, or has it been treated?"

"Oh. I'm pretty sure it just came like that?" She looked at Dipper.

Dipper shrugged. "I mean, probably? I doubt he hit up a salon before coming to the Mystery Shack."

"And... you say he had a bad haircut?" Pacifica asked. "What does he look like now?"

Gently, Mabel said, "Bald."

Pacifica let out the softest gasp. "Okay. I get it. I'll help. And also send over a couple of conditioner samplers, because whoever your friend is, he has not been taking care of his hair lately. Natural beauty can only carry him so far. I'll have the conditioners overnighted to your shack."

"Great!" A wide smile broke out across Mabel's face. "Thank you so much, Pacifica! And the formula, too?"

"Actually, I can give you that right now." Pacifica pulled a small green Hairy Fairy bottle from one of her overall pockets.

Mabel gasped in delight. Dipper said, "Wait, you had that the whole time?"

"When we escaped the country club, I accidentally still had the bottle we'd used for the live demonstration in my pocket," Pacifica said. "I was going to replace it tomorrow morning before anyone goes looking for it; I'll just give you guys a few drops and make up the difference with a little alpaca shampoo. Hopefully, nobody will notice the difference."

Mabel said, "Pacifica, you're the best!"

"I know." Pacifica leaned across the desk to put a hand on Mabel's shoulder. "Just promise me one thing."

"Sure! What?"

"I won't be able to do this a second time," Pacifica said. "So you'd better make sure your friend takes care of his hair."

####

Bill squinted at the chocolate chip-sized dollop of lotion at the bottom of the quart-sized plastic food container. "Gotta hand it to you, Shooting Star. This is the funniest way you could have transported the formula."

"We forgot to bring anything to put it in." Mabel snapped on a pair of yellow dish gloves and pointed at the kitchen floor. "Okay! Sit down so I can reach and let me work my magic."

"What, don't think I can handle it myself?" But he sat down even as he protested. He'd already removed his cardboard triangle helmet—which now sat, battered and bent, on the kitchen table—and had washed off his paint/makeup as well as he could without requesting shower access.

Mabels scooped the dollop of lotion onto one gloved finger, then massaged it across her fingertips. "I'm your official makeup artist now! I've gotta do it. Besides, you missed a chunk of hair when you were removing it, you'd probably miss a chunk when you were putting it back on."

"Eh, fair enough. Okay kid, do your worst."

As Mabel coated Bill's scalp, the chemical burns he'd given himself while removing his hair vanished, replaced with new healthy skin—and Dipper quietly lamented, once again, that this stuff was being marketed to grow hair and not regrow limbs. He'd have to document it thoroughly in his journal later.

Dipper was sitting at the bottom of the attic stairs, watching the proceedings in the kitchen, armed with Mabel's grappling gun to use as a projectile weapon if Bill dared try anything. But Bill just sat there, legs crossed with his feet on his thighs and his hands palm-up on his knees like he was meditating, not even turning his head as Mabel worked.

Mabel jerked her hands back in surprise as a fresh layer of golden hair sprang out of Bill's scalp—then quickly reached in again, massaging the lotion into all the strands and coaxing them out until they were all around shoulder length, the same as they'd started. "There! Ta-da! Good as new!"

As the hair crawled down Bill's temples, tickled his ears, brushed his cheeks, he squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could and clenched his jaw, straining hard to keep from moving. His open hands curled into fists. Dipper raised the grappling hook. But when Bill turned to face Mabel, he was all grins again, and if Dipper hadn't known to look for it he wouldn't have noticed the anxious tic in Bill's eyebrow. "Well? How do I look?"

"Gorgeous! If the real Goldilocks saw you, she'd have to change her name in shame."

"Ha! That's what I like to hear!" Bill un-pretzeled his legs and stood up. "And you did it without giving me any spare eyebrows, too." So he did know about the side-effects.

"Oh, pfff, yeah, I'm not lowering my guard around that stuff again. The first time I opened a bottle, I got some on me and grew an extra hand!"

"No! Really?" Bill gave Mabel's gloved hands a skeptical look. "Where's it now?"

"I donated it to the Hand Witch."

"Ahh, pity. You could've had some fun with your temporary crown."

"'Crown'?"

"Most fingers in the household?"

Mabel's eyes bugged out, and then a manic smile took over her face, as if her brain had just been flooded with more glee than her face could process. She yanked off the gloves, hastily rubbed them on her left wrist, and shouted, "GRUNKLE FOOORD!" She sprinted through the entryway and took the turn down the hallway so fast she ran a couple steps up on the wall before landing back on the floor. "Grunkle Ford, guess what!"

Dipper almost followed her—until he caught Bill moving in the corner of his eye, bending down to pick up the discarded gloves. Dipper raised the grappling hook. What was Bill planning to do with them—use the remainder to mutate himself? Save them to use later? Eat them—?

Bill dropped the gloves in the plastic container the lotion had come in, sealed the lid, and dropped them in the kitchen waste bin. Under his breath, he muttered, "The last thing I need is the pig sniffing this and growing an extra snout." He paused. "Wait. That would be funny."

From the other side of the house, Ford's voice bellowed, "BILL!"

Bill's head snapped around to face the kitchen doorway—and for the first time he glanced at Dipper sitting on the stairs. "Hey. What do you bet he didn't even let Mabel explain before deciding this is my fault?"

"Uh..."

Mabel and Ford's approach could be tracked through Mabel's hasty explanation: "Grunkle Ford, it's just a prank! I'm okay, see? I'm gonna donate Mirhanda to the Hand Witch, it'll be fine—"

The moment Ford saw Bill, he made a beeline for him and seized him by his t-shirt collar. "What did you do to her?! Answer me, Cipher!"

"I didn't! I'm innocent! I plea the fifth! I've been falsely accused! I was framed! Mercy!" The sincerity of his pleas was somewhat undermined by the fact that he couldn't stop laughing the whole time Ford was trying to menace him. His too-wide gleeful smile looked a lot like Mabel's.

####

"Okay, Pacifica," the director said. "This commercial is for the teen market, so we want you to talk to the camera like you're talking to your peers, all right? And by that, I don't mean your real peers. I mean the slightly less rich girls who would do anything you asked to be considered one of your peers."

"Don't worry, I've got this," Pacifica said. She positioned herself on her stool, hands laced over her knees, and said, "Ready when you are."

"And... action!"

Pacifica gave the camera her best haughty-but-not-too-haughty look, the one that said maybe if you say something interesting to me I'll double your social standing for fun, and launched into her memorized lines: "Hey, I'm Pacifica Northwest—you all know me, most of you probably want to be me. Listen, girls: have you ever tried to go short and it just didn't work out? Maybe that pixie cut makes your ears look weird, maybe those bangs are not for you. If you wish you looked as great as me, I have just the thing for you..."

Everything continued as normal, until Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula was applied to her hair... and nothing happened. Pacifica stumbled over a word, and then kept going, as if maybe no one would notice if she didn't draw attention to it. As she was wrapping up her monologue, her hair finally... slowly started growing... and stopped at half its usual length. Pacifica bit her lip.

"Pacifica!"

She winced and turned toward her boss, feigning a look of innocent surprise. "Yes, Mr. Haroldson?"

"What did you put in your hair! You know you're not supposed to have any product in your hair on shoot days!"

"Nothinggg! I've been following my hair care instructions perfectly! And I had it rinsed just before the shoot like always!"

"Well—what's the problem, then?" Mr. Haroldson turned to the hazmat-suited hairdresser holding the formula bottle.

"I don't know." He took off his mask. "This is the same sample bottle we used at the country club demonstration, it should be fine..." He took a sniff of it, and grimaced. "What...? That's not our usual fragrance, is it?" Mr. Haroldson leaned over to sniff as well.

She'd been found out. She was doomed. Her poker face collapsed like a house of cards. "Okay fine I took a few drops for a friend and maybe replaced it with a little bit of shampoo, so what!" She pointed at Mr. Haroldson. "What are you gonna do about it, huh? Fire me? Go ahead, see if I care! I can get a million better modeling jobs in a week!"

Mr. Haroldson's expression darkened in rage—and then he said, "Pacifica, you're a genius!"

"Huh?"

"Watering it down! Of course! We can sell unaltered bottles to hook new customers and then stretch out our supply by giving repeat customers the weak stuff—we'll tell them that it's less effective if they're overusing it! We can keep up that scam for years, it's not like the FDA is regulating this stuff! Why, we could even make a whole new product!" He turned to wave at an assistant, "Call R&D, get R&D on the phone—we'll make a formula designed to grow short hair. We can call it... Pixie Dust Pixie Cuts! It's all thanks to you, Pacifica!" He beamed at her.

She beamed back.

He said, "You're not getting credit or a raise though."

"Pshhh, obviously. I know how this industry works."

"All right, back to work." He pointed at the director. "Crack open a new bottle and let's wrap this up ASAP. I've got to schedule some meetings about the new product line."

####

"Well, he didn't grow himself eight arms," Dipper said, sitting cross-legged on his bed. He was going over a map of Gravity Falls he'd taken from the gift shop, circling locations of potential paranormal activity he wanted to investigate over the summer. Bill-tainted places got an additional triangle. "And I took out the kitchen trash to make sure Bill couldn't go back for the formula later. I guess he wasn't up to anything after all." He paused. "... Unless he wanted the formula in our trash, and now it's multiplying the garbage or getting picked up by some sleeper agent outside the shack—"

"Stooop," Mabel said. She was carefully coloring in a green bottle of Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula in Dipper's journal; Dipper had started entrusting his journal's art duties to Mabel whenever they went on a joint investigation. "We can't start thinking like that! Remember, our therapist told us that paranoia is a natural coping mechanism for dealing with scary situations, but trusting people is healthy and a sign of healing!" She set down the journal so she could emphasize the word "healing" with jazz hands.

"I think that's supposed to apply to trusting normal people."

"Yeah, but still." The journal flipped a few pages as she picked it back up, and her eyes were caught by scribbles in bright highlighter yellow. "Hey, what's this new stuff? Did you make up a secret code to keep notes in? Can I learn?"

"Ugh. No, Bill did that. I left my journal out and he wrote a bunch of secret messages. It's probably telling me how I'm going to die or the names of all the girls who will reject me or something."

"Pff, probably. Have you shown Grunkle Ford? Maybe he knows it."

"Not yet. He's been too busy."

"Right..." And now, she was sure, he was probably mad at her personally for worrying him with the hand prank.

Mabel flipped through a few more pages, looking at the bright yellow notes. She glanced toward the window, scanning the trees outside. She sighed and got up, leaving Dipper's journal on her bed.

"What's up?"

"Now you've got me worrying about sleeper agents. I'm gonna make sure the gloves are still in the trash."

When she'd confirmed all the garbage was right where it was supposed to be and came back in the shack, she spotted Bill in the living room. He was scrunched up on one side of the sofa as close to the doorway as he could get, watching TV. He glanced over as she shut the front door and flashed a grin. "Hey, Shooting Star. What're you up to?"

Ah, great. They were on casual chit-chat terms now. She edged toward the doorway but stayed outside the living room—sorry, not staying long—and said, "Oh, you know, just—looking at... the outdoors." Before he could dig further, she changed the topic. "So! How's that hair working out for you?"

"Ah." His smile wilted and his glance drifted back toward the TV. (He seemed to be watching the local news. Mabel decided he must've been really bored.) "Well, hair's still the worst thing that's ever grown on me and I still see a human in the mirror—but at least it's a human with a vaguely triangular silhouette. I can live with being back where I started."

"Sorry we couldn't come up with a real solution." As glad as she was to finish her obligation to Bill, she hated that all her efforts hadn't even really helped. Some problem-solver she was.

"Yeah, well. You can't build a pyramid out of meat. You did the best you could." Bill turned to fully face Mabel. "But, hey—listen." He had one eye squeezed shut but the other one stared her down with the intensity of a spotlight, paralyzing her in place. "Even if it's not perfect, I appreciate the effort you put in."

"Hey, it's no big deal. Crafts are my whole thing! It was kinda fun."

"No, I'm serious," Bill said. "I know I'm the town bogeyman, and everyone's only putting up with me until they find the easiest way to obliterate me. But you did a lot more than just 'put up with me.' And, well—don't tell the others I said this," he rolled his eye toward the hall to the rest of the house, and lowered his voice, "but... it's been a long time since anybody's treated me with a little kindness. Longer than you can imagine. I think I'd forgotten what it feels like. Even if I don't have much time left to enjoy it—I'm grateful for the reminder, kid."

Mabel's eyes widened. "Bill, that..." A lump formed in her throat. How long had it been? As big a jerk as he was—centuries? Millennia?

She darted into the living room, squeezed Bill in a hug before he could protest, and then bolted up the stairs two at a time.

And Bill thought to himself, got her.

Humans were so easy. Once you figured out what they wanted to believe in, you could make them do anything you wanted.

Mabel wanted to believe that everyone everywhere yearned to be friends with everyone else, and that the only thing holding them back was the defensive walls they built around their emotions. Mabel wanted to see people's walls come down. Mabel wanted every social problem to be simple enough that even a child could solve it if they were earnest and honest enough.

Mabel shouldn't have let Bill watch Color Critters. It told him too much about the kind of world she idealized. He had that kid completely figured out—

There was a loud pounding as Mabel leaped back down the stairs three at a time. "On your feet!" She grabbed Bill's hands and tugged him off the sofa, then wrapped a measuring tape around his hips.

He twisted around in bewilderment as she circled him, now measuring his chest. "What—?"

"Face forward! Arms out from your sides!" She measured his shoulder span, then grabbed one arm to measure the length. "I'll be back later. I've got work to do. Do not come upstairs!"

Bill leaned out the doorway to watch her bunny-hop back up to the attic.

Okay, he had that kid mostly figured out.

Well, the odd quirks just made her a little more interesting than the average human. The important thing was that, whether she knew it or not, she wanted Bill to be her friend. She wanted to be the horse girl who tamed the hostile bronco, the beauty who saved the beast. She wanted monsters to swear their loyalty to cute spunky protagonists, and she thought she was a protagonist.

The "reformed bad boy" was outside of the usual characters he played—he was better as the ancient teacher, the playful trickster, the divine messenger—but it was an easy enough role, and it gave him plenty of room to misbehave while staying in character. It's so hard to change my old ways—but maybe it would be easier if you give me another chance, if you help me, if you do this one little thing for me...

There was a fun little quirk of human psychology that was so well-known they'd even given their own name to it: the Foot-In-The-Door Technique. Once you get a human to do you one small, tiny little favor, they'll be more likely to do you another, bigger favor later. Borrow a dollar today and they'll be more likely to let you borrow a hundred dollars next week. Ask them to drive you to the auto shop and you'll have a better chance of asking them to help you move. Get them to bring you a little hair solution, and... well, Bill would just have to wait and see what he wanted next.

As long as everything Bill asked for was harmless, there was nothing the warier members of the household could do to intervene without making themselves look like the unreasonable ones. And by the time Bill started asking for anything dangerous, he'd have Mabel eating out of the palm of his hand, and she'd have no idea until it was too late that she didn't mean a thing to him—

####

Bill stared dumbly in the mirror at the yellow yarn hoodie. "H—Did you just make this?" With his arms at his sides, from the shoulders down, it looked like a decapitated triangle.

"I used velvet yarn for your brick pattern," Mabel said. "It makes the lines stand out more! And I cut one of Dipper's bow ties in half to make the hood's drawstring so you can tie it into a bow!"

Wordlessly, Bill tied the bow—it hung in the center of his chest—and then he pulled the hood on, tugging it low over his forehead, completing the triangle. Mabel had put an eye on the hood. She'd even remembered Bill's eyelashes.

"I thought, hey—if the mask was too much, and the hair is too little, maybe a hoodie's just right," Mabel said. "I don't usually make sweaters for people—sweater curse, blarrr, you know—but, this one time, I thought it was important." She gave Bill a nervous smile. "So... what do you think? Do you like it?"

Bill stared at his reflection. It was hideous, misshapen, and alien, but it was almost himself.

He looked at Mabel. He got down on his knees. He put a hand on her shoulder. He said, "I will kill one enemy of yours, for free, no questions asked, in any way you want."

Mabel blinked. "Please don't do that."

"When I take over the universe I'm giving you your own galaxy."

"I don't—I don't want a galaxy. What would I do with a whole galaxy?"

"A solar system. A planet? Everyone wants their own planet!"

Mabel shook her head.

"Then what do you want?" What the heck do human children like. "Can I show you a magic trick?"

Mabel considered that.

####

"Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford!" Mabel ran into the kitchen, pushing Waddles in front of her, breathless with excitement. "Look what I can do!" She held a clear plastic spoon at arm's length, peered through it at Waddles like it was a magnifying glass, and slowly lifted the spoon up. Waddles floated up into the air as well. He snorted in mild bafflement.

Stan's jaw dropped. Ford said, "Ohhh, boy."

Mabel beamed at them both.

####

(This chapter isn't quite as edited as I usually do, because I've been sick this past week but wanted to get it out anyway. Apologies for that and I'd appreciate if you noticed any typos or disjointed sentences! And I'd doubly appreciate any nice comments, I've been having a hell of a week.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #gravity falls #mabel pines #fanfic #gravity falls fic #my writing #my art #bill goldilocks cipher

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