#it was kinda hard to find a color scheme i liked here because what part of his body are you supposed to yellow here

[wetwaluigi]

i see no reason why super zavok cant exist

i looked up super zavok out or sheer boredom to see if there were any attempts and there really weren't so im doing my duty as a zeti fan

[floof-wulf030]

GIVE ME UR DON PAOLO THOUGHTS HES AN INTERESTING CHARACTER IVE HARDLY SEEN TALED ABT

Ummm…. Where do I start?

Yeah he doesn’t really get talked about a lot… though I’m not really surprised because you know…

I feel like many don’t really care much about or always forget about him.. like yeah there are some people who like him but??? It seems like people focus more on villains that are more complex and sympathetic. (Which… DON’T GET ME WRONG! I totally understand that and I love those too, and I’m also a huge fan of Clive and Descole too but this ain’t about them..)

I know Paul doesn’t really have this tragic backstory like the rest of them but hey not all villains need a tragic backstory right?? Sure the reason of him being evil is ridiculous and stupid but I personally think it fits his character more. I personally find it funny and a little entertaining. Tbh I never really did expect him to be very complex even before playing Lost Future a year ago. However yes, parts of me wished Level-5 gave Don Paolo more time to marinate as a character. One thing that bothered me though was the whole thing about him being exiled from the society of scholars. Like it was only mentioned in Curious Village then it was never talked about ever again?? Like whatever happened to that???

In general though, I really like Don Paolo aesthetically. I established this many times already but I just love wacky and goofy looking villains, probably even more than the whole “Tall dark and Handsome” ones. Again, don’t get me wrong I love those too! There are many handsome villain designs that I love. I just find myself fawn more towards the weirdos lol, LET THEM BE WHIMSICAL CREATURES. (Kinda wished we had more of those in the PL series if I have to be honest here..) His design definitely reminds me of Dick Dastardly or Robbie Rotten, which both were some of my favorite villain characters from my childhood lol. Maybe because of the whole color scheme. I feel like SOME also don’t really pay an attention to him either was because he’s not one of the attractive ones, idk??? Honestly that’s what I really like about him though! Also the whole disguising thing with the latex masks?? Like how the hell did he PULL that off? (No pun intended) How was he able to change his size? This man is like spineless or perhaps just liquid!

My favorite tiny little fact about him is that he plays music. I know this could refer to listening to music, but him being some sort of musician is so fun and interesting to think about. Like what instrument would he play? I’ve seen some people hc him being a guitarist which I’m totally on board for. The fact that he likes playing music and that he’s also Tomohito Nishiura’s (The composer for the PL games) favorite character is really cool :3

Anyways yeah! I personally think Don Paolo deserves more love and appreciation than what he was given. I noticed he’s been lacking some fanart (oh and fanfics too), which is why I’ve been wanting to draw him a lot more often. Just to fill up the tag (and that empty void in my heart) Ngl at first impression I thought he was going to be hard to draw but it turns out that he is really fun to doodle

I would love to talk more about him but for now I’ll leave it here, because I’ve been typing for so long lmaooo.

Thanks for coming to my Tedtalk

(Also feel free to leave any thoughts if you have any)

[toruq]

im sending u these ones specifically bc i know ur less connected to ur mc than to anne muhahaha >:333

12. What does your character look like? Which hairstyle and make up do you prefer on them?

13. What is your character's name? Do you wish to change it, if the function ever makes its way into the game?

14. How do you dress your character? Do you coordinate the outfits between Rider and Horse?

and if u feel like it im curious about these:

23. Which Druid Circle do you prefer? Is there a reason for your preference? Is it tied to the Soul Rider of the Circle?

20. What part of the Main Story is your favorite?

11. How many horses do you own in total? Did it use to be more, or are you still missing a few?

04. Which Horse was your first purchase? Do you still own that horse, and what did you name it?

05. Which Horse is your favorite? Do you own said horse, or are you simply dreaming of buying it?

juni you must hate me or something

under the cut because there's so much to answer (mostly about my mc that i neglect so hard)

12. What does your character look like? Which hairstyle and make up do you prefer on them?

ok, here is ida. i draw her based on the old player model but in the new player model she looks a bit different. I use this chunky highlight hair because it somewhat hides the fact that her ears stick out now when wearing a hat/helmet (this pisses me off the most about the new characters). but she used to have this black hair, and of course dark eye makeup. it's a lot like what i do irl

13. What is your character's name? Do you wish to change it, if the function ever makes its way into the game?

Ida Riverwood! I don't ever want to change it. I actually really like it and I'm surprised my kid self was smart enough to choose that

14. How do you dress your character? Do you coordinate the outfits between Rider and Horse?

you can kinda see how i dress her in those pics of her, usually a dark color scheme and yes I coordinate it with the horse. I actually dress her in a lot of sweaters and typically with proper breeches and tall boots and helmet as if it were a regular english outfit irl. I occasionally dress her and her horse in western gear, or use streetwear if she's off the horse

23. Which Druid Circle do you prefer? Is there a reason for your preference? Is it tied to the Soul Rider of the Circle?

you may be surprised, but I like the moon circle just a smidgen more than the sun circle, though they are in close competition. I just love the aspects of both of them, visions & teleportation. I find it so interesting and quite applicable to real life, at least personally, because of how I experience life with PTSD. it is easy to convey my mind through comics about the powers of these circles.

20. What part of the Main Story is your favorite?

oh my, if you can count the storyline in SSL as a predecessor to SSO, i would say Anne's first trip to Pandoria to save Concorde. in SSO, it's surprising but seeing Anne without saving her must have been my favorite. I was disappointed with the actual saving Anne quest, but seeing Pandoria for the first time in SSO was an experience I won't forget, even though I prefer the atmosphere of Pandoria in SSL

11. How many horses do you own in total? Did it use to be more, or are you still missing a few?

oh my. 64. I once sold the green whinfell because i found it so ugly. But I felt so bad and rebought it a year or two ago.

04. Which Horse was your first purchase? Do you still own that horse, and what did you name it?

this little POS, Carrotwinner. I still have him. pic taken just now

05. Which Horse is your favorite? Do you own said horse, or are you simply dreaming of buying it?

can you logically ask me this question Juni?

just kidding, my favorite (purchasable) horse is this little guy, and I'm so lucky to have him. I think he was either the second or third old fjord I bought, and I have three. the white one, and orange thing I also have.

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

One time on my parents' old Macintosh, I made an irradiated people kinda thing, except with different colors and an extra layer of complication. It had some kind of "weirdness" selector that made it freak out. You'd select the kind of weirdness and then it would just kind of warp, I think. And the color scheme and weirdness scheme would sometimes synchronize (make it look less weird, I think?).

It was maybe the coolest thing I'd ever created, and I was very proud of it. So much so that when a friend visited a couple weeks later, I proudly showed it to him. In retrospect I'm sort of surprised he didn't get creeped out by it, but he was really impressed and everything.

And then, one day, I was just minding my own business, staring vacantly at a piece of paper, when my parents said, "Hey, Joe, do you remember that weird irradiated people thing we made back when we had that old Macintosh? Your friend saw it and was really impressed by it."

I had no memory of making this irradiated people thing. Every aspect of it was a mystery to me. It was a black hole of my consciousness. Why did I make this? Why did I take the time to do this? I must have spent days on it. My parents wanted to see it again, and I didn't even remember seeing it the first time. And the part that's really weird is that I've only had two moments like this, that I can remember, in my life -- not moments of amnesia exactly, but moments when I remember being certain I remember a specific incident (being sure I remember it, down to what it was like and who I was with) . . . and then, after further reflection, I can't find any memory at all of it. I know something happened, and I know I was certain I was certain, but I don't know what.

For example, here's what I remember about the other incident: I remember being at a picnic in the park. I remember being with my friend Tim, and that we were playing a game that involved two people trading places between circles of people they knew and saying stuff about themselves. It was very fun. And I remember having fun with it and then suddenly becoming aware that I was sitting on a bench that had a fairy-tale illustration carved into it, a bench that I had noticed a few times before and always thought was cool, but had never actually bothered to examine. The bench was carved into some kind of sculpted wood, and the wood was polished, so it had a kind of smooth, reflective sheen, and I saw that the wood looked like it had been carved into the shape of a face. A lovely, exquisite, fairy-tale face, all curling, rounded lines, no hard angles or anything, no sharp edges or points or anything. It was a face of something -- I don't remember what -- that looked like it was suspended or floating, like it was in the process of becoming something else. And then, just as suddenly as I had become aware of this face, I disappeared from the bench and, presumably, from the picnic altogether, and was standing alone in a small, empty room in my house, staring at the fairy-tale face, trying to recall what it was from. And I'd stare at it in this room in my house, and I'd look away, and then I'd look back, and eventually I could see it, and see what I had seen, but the fact that I had seen it vanished, and I was certain I was certain I was certain, but all the memory I had was a memory of staring at something beautiful, a memory that I had spent years on, again and again, with no direction or meaning.

I know it is possible that I made it up, or that it never happened. It is possible I can't remember because I don't care. I know I have forgotten a lot of things, and this is just one of them. (And yet, in some way, I have the impression that these two things -- the irradiated people thing and the fairy-tale face and the picnic and the bench, the "revelation" that I spent years thinking about and staring at something beautiful and pointless -- are closely connected. But I don't know that, I just have the impression of it.)

It's a hard thing to explain. I've had two of these "revelations," that I can remember. And I have no idea why I don't seem to remember this stuff.

[martianbugsbunny]

OUAT Thoughts Pt.33--Episodes 2-3

I have watched through S4E3; spoilers DNI. Also, spoiler warning for anyone further behind than I am.

—I understand the point Anna is trying to make to David, but she’s coming off as oblivious. Her problems with Elsa were backed by the fact that they’re royalty, rather wealthy, with no concern about immediate survival. She speaks from a place from very high privilege, and as a result she comes off as condescending.

—lol David with long hair

—I can’t believe Bo Peep is a warlord! Only in this show….

—But her dress is gorgeous. The skirt is above ankle length, so there’s no risk of tripping. There’s a big old skirt with a couple of layers. There’s a rather fetching bodice. The mix of stripes, decorations, and solid colors is balanced just right.

—It’s kinda disconcerting how tall Henry’s gotten. It’s like watching my kid brother grow up, but in extreme time-lapse.

—Love is stored in the Killian Jones. This dude is killing me with how good a boyfriend he is. He’s genuinely affectionate with Emma, and even in their more casual moments it’s obvious how much he cares for her. He gets this beautiful look of desperation in his eyes when she’s in trouble. I could use a Killian Jones in my life.

—Or a Queen Elsa. I tell you, the second I saw her with her hair in that fancy-ass updo, I had *visible sapphic panic* She gives me those pleasant little palpitations 💓

—Archie wandering around town apparently giving random, unsolicited psychiatric advice is hilarious. And these emotionally constipated Charmings definitely need his assistance.

—At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that Jack Frost is Elsa’s slightly evil grandfather. Which, btw, would be amazing.

—I’m not sure how confident I am that this other Snow Queen is actually related to Elsa. Her timing is beyond suspicious.

—I kinda wanted to see more of Hans. He’s got some decent potential, assuming he’s not dead, which he probably is. But here he’s a bit more of a threat, and he’s got something to prove, which makes him even more dangerous. I also like the angle where his brothers are in on his schemes to take over other kingdoms. And their dynamic within that new angle, where it seems that Hans has all the ambition but his brothers have most of the power, is intriguing.

—Hahahaaa!! True Love’s Kiss didn’t work! Take that Marian!

—I probably shouldn’t hate her, cause even if she is a little snotty she hasn’t done anything wrong, but still! She’s getting in the way of Regina’s happy ending!

—But the Hood family going for ice cream is adorable. I think the kid’s name is Roland? Whatever his name is, he’s a cute kid. HE WOULD MAKE A VERY NICE LITTLE BROTHER FOR HENRY.

—Hook’s dark sense of humor is awesome.

—I loathe Kristoff. First of all, the hair color, while spot-frickin-on, is the only physical thing about him that works. He’s not stocky enough, and his nose isn’t big enough. Second, Kristoff’s intelligent, good-natured, kind-hearted personality has been replaced with abrasiveness and snark. And frankly I don’t think it works. I also see no reason to give him and Elsa beef; it doesn’t really fit, and while I think maybe some initial friction between them could work, having them legitimately fight the way they have is unnecessary. Part of what I like about the Frozen trio’s dynamic is that they get along. There’s no fighting for the sake of fighting. Basically, because Anna loves Kristoff, Elsa loves Kristoff, because she can tell that their relationship is for real (unlike Anna’s feelings for Hans and vice versa). He just doesn’t work.

—If I ever see Olaf in this show I riot. I don’t hate him; I don’t find him to be the Jar-Jar of Disney sidekicks or anything. And if I am a little tired of Josh Gad, that’s not his fault, and I have nothing against him as a person. I just don’t want to see Olaf in OUAT. Flat-out.

—Charming’s father trauma was a lil hard for me. I have previously written a post regarding the use of alcoholism in media, which kinda but not really skirts around my issues, but here we go: about two years ago at this point, one of my grandparents, who isn’t the healthiest person to begin with, fell down the stairs. And lo and behold, it was a fall apparently influenced by alcohol. That grandparent was in the hospital and then a rehab center for a decent chunk of time (and, being the height of the pandemic, and also my being hundreds of miles away, I couldn’t exactly visit). So, I’ve some alcohol-related trauma, although I think compared to what a lot of people have, and what it could’ve been for me, I got off easy. Suffice it to say, I appreciate the serious, realistic tone Charming divulged that information with. That kind of thing wins me over quick.

—Kinda disappointed there has been neither hide nor hair of a Yen Sid character. I love both the Sorcerer’s Apprentice and Kingdom Hearts, in which he played a fair role, and seeing Yen Sid in my new favorite show would slay me.

—Seriously, is Rumple doing evil things again? He needs to chill for a couple seconds.

[lemonpeter]

🧡Day 2: Public S*x🧡

I literally could only think of Harry x Peter scenarios for this fic (I’m seriously fixated I’m sorry) but finally shook this little thing out of my brain lol I hope y’all enjoy 🧡

Warnings: nff, 6 9, public s*x

***

“You’re a menace, you know that?” Tony shook his head. “I’m supposed to be on right now.”

Stark Expo. He hadn’t hosted one in over a decade, since the whole Hammer/Vanko incident, but he’d decided to try and revive it again. He had hope for it.

Of course, things were made exceptionally difficult when his boyfriend couldn’t keep it in his pants.

Peter grinned down at him with his mask pulled halfway up his face, dropped down from the ceiling on a web. He tried to go on patrol, just so that he could stay away so Tony could work, but he just couldn’t help himself. There was something about the whole thing that got him so damn worked up. “I know, I know. But we can be fast.”

“That’s what you said the other…what, four times today? I don’t know that you’re going to get anything else out of me, honey. I’m not young and superpowered like you.”

The younger man pouted, leaning in for a kiss. “Mmmm, but you’re sexy and powerful and I-“

Tony quickly put a hand over his mouth when he heard voices close by.

Peter got a flash of ice water in his veins when he heard, but it heated quickly. People could find them at any moment.

That was so fucking hot.

He moved Tony’s hand away, biting his lip. “Let’s do this,” he whispered.

Tony laughed softly, smiling fondly. “I say again, you’re a menace. But what do you have in mind?”

Peter grinned at him. “Let’s sixty-nine like this.”

“Like this?” The older man looked at how Peter was suspended from the ceiling, raising an eyebrow. “Will you be able to stay steady?”

“Maybe! Pleeeeeease, baby, it’ll be so much fun.” And risky. Which just turned him on that much more.

Tony’s tongue slid over his bottom lip as he thought about it. “What if someone comes over here? It’s kinda hard to ignore the bright red and blue.” Maybe he needed to work on the color scheme some.

Peter leaned in again, lips brushing against his partner’s ear. “Let them see.”

He wasn’t sure where the confidence came from. But he wasn’t going to take it back. Maybe he’d be embarrassed later, but for now it was only fueling the situation.

The older man leaned against the wall, nodding. “You’re…mmm, you’ve gotten bolder,” he murmured.

Peter smiled a little, slowly lowering himself until he was eye level with Tony’s zipper. “Maybe I have. Do you like it?”

“I love it, baby.” He slid his hands over the younger man’s hips, finding the hidden seam and slipping his fingers between the two pieces of the suit. “There we go. I knew this was a good idea.”

He pushed at the tight bottom piece, getting it just over Peter’s hips and barely under his cock before it wouldn’t budge anymore. “I guess this is how we’re doing this. Your position makes this difficult,” he mumbled.

“We can make it work.” Peter undid Tony’s slacks and pushed them down to his thighs, not wasting any time in getting his boxers down too. They really didn’t have much time, he could hear confusion from the other room about where the host was. It was only a matter of time before people came to look for Tony. And found them.

His dick must have done something upon him having the thought, because he heard a soft laugh above him.

“I’ll never get tired of how eager you are.” Tony used one hand to hold onto his boyfriend’s cock, gently rubbing his thumb over the head.

Peter moaned, getting momentarily distracted by the feeling. Tony always knew exactly which buttons to press. But he kept going, gently taking the man’s cock in one hand and stroking him slowly.

He knew that Tony didn’t have nearly the same stamina that he did. He couldn’t go as many times. But that didn’t mean that Peter wouldn’t try.

And slowly but surely the cock started filling out in his hand and he smirked. “Knew you could do it.”

Tony’s hips rocked slightly and he groaned. “Yeah, yeah. You have that effect on me. Now hurry up, we- fuck.”

At “hurry up”, Peter wrapped his lips around the tip and sucked, just the amount of pressure that he knew drove Tony crazy. He didn’t need to be told twice.

He stayed there for a moment, enjoying the sounds that it got from the man above him. But he started taking down more inch by inch once he remembered how little time they really had.

Tony seemed to snap back into it too. He placed kisses from the base of Peter’s dick all the way to the tip, being tender the whole time. Then he wriggled his tongue back and forth gently once he got to the sensitive spot just underneath.

He was rewarded with a barely-hushed moan around his cock and a weak thrust of Peter’s hips.

He chuckled, tongue still rubbing over the spot. If he kept up like that then he could probably get Peter to cum pretty quickly. But he knew that it could get overwhelming, so he started jerking him off with one hand while taking the tip into his mouth.

They both started out keeping vigilant in case they heard someone coming, but the effort was quickly lost as they each got lost in the sensations.

Aliens could have attacked the expo and neither of them would have noticed. For those few minutes they were in their own world.

But soon, Peter knew that Tony was getting close and that brought him back to reality, out of his pleased trance.

Tony’s free hand was gripping his hip, loosening and tightening rhythmically as Peter kept moving. It was just one of his tells.

Another tell - although this one wasn’t exclusive to Tony - was how the cock on his tongue got impossibly harder and throbbed just before he came.

Peter didn’t stop, taking him down further and making sure that even the last few moments were as good as possible.

“Peter,” Tony moaned, his head hitting the wall behind him gently as he felt himself getting right to the edge of his release. His hips twitched forward ever so slightly as he toed the line before slipping over the edge. “Fuck, honey….”

The younger man moaned around him, eagerly swallowing everything that he was given.

It was difficult for Tony to keep up his own work while he rode out his high, but he kept jerking Peter off as best he could. It was uncoordinated and completely lost its rhythm, but it was still getting him there.

“Tony,” Peter warned, hips rocking weakly. It was difficult with the angle, but he didn’t care. Now he just needed to cum.

“Hmm?” The older man leaned up to lick over him again. Although he was still dazed.

“I’m close, Tony, I don’t want any to get on your suit.” Even though he was almost useless when he was that close to an orgasm, he at least could think that part through.

Coming out late with a cum stained suit probably wouldn’t be the best look for Tony. But possibly not his worst, either.

Tony nodded, coming back enough to take the head of Peter’s cock into his mouth when he realized what he meant.

He bobbed his head slightly, sucking mildly harsher than he had before. All while using one hand to jerk him off.

Peter moaned, resting his forehead against Tony’s hip as he thrust slowly. “That’s it…I’m gonna cum, fuck.”

Tony groaned softly when he felt the salty fluid spreading across his tongue, not pulling off.

He helped Peter ride it out, closing his eyes and swallowing.

After a moment he pulled off, a little dripping from the tip onto Tony’s lip.

Tony just laughed, licking it away. “Thanks. As soon as I think you’re done, there’s more.”

Peter grinned shyly up at him. “Sorry.” He slowly started getting upright, lowering himself until he could stand on the floor.

He fixed his suit while Tony tucked himself back into his pants, both of them straightening themselves out in order to be presentable.

“I love you.” Tony kissed his partner gently before helping him pull his mask down.

“I love you too.” Peter smiled a little. “Okay, I really think I’ve kept you too long. Sorry.” He grinned.

“You come first, baby. Even if it’s just for something like this. Now you go patrol, I shouldn’t be too late.”

Peter made his way outside and swung away, Tony making his way onto the stage where everyone cheered.

“Hope no one missed me too much,” He commented cockily to the crowd.

One hand came up to his mouth quickly to wipe the corner. Maybe no one else would notice it. Everyone was far enough away that the small drip of cum that remained there couldn’t be seen, he hoped.

But Peter saw before he left. And he swung away from the expo with a smirk, thinking through how he’d surprise Tony when he got home that night.

[simeonisalesbian]

Pretty eyes

I've been working on this on and off for a few months now and i finally finished it :3 So have some MC telling the boys how pretty their eyes are.

Lucifer's look like a Garnet. Arguably they’re his best feature.

“Is there something wrong with my face Mc?” Lucifer set his pen down and tilted his head in question. “You’ve been staring for quite some time now.”

Mc was supposed to be helping with some of the paperwork but they ended up starting at Lucifer as he worked instead. "Sorry I was just lost in thought for a minute there."

"Oh? What were you thinking about if I may be so bold?" Lucifer smirked, and Mc was almost certain he was aware the answer was about him.

"I was just thinking about how pretty your eyes were."

"Oh?" His eyebrows raised in question waiting for them to continue.

"They're a nice dark red like a ruby or Garnet stone. They also seem like they're almost glowing at times." They left out the part about how they seem to soften just a bit when it's just the two of them alone like this.

"Seems you've thought on this for quite some time." Lucifer chucked when Mc blushed slightly at the observation. "Either way, thank you, Mc. Compliments are always nice to hear from you." He finished going back to the paperwork that littered his desk, a smile still on his face.

Mammon's are like a pretty blue sky like I could really get lost in those fuckers. The gold in his eyes is also really cool like how there is gold in a lapis lazuli.

Mc watched as mammon excitedly explained his latest money makin’ scheme, his eyes lit up to match his bright smile.

“What do ya think?” He finished explaining, hoping for some sort of feedback from his human.

“Your eyes are really nice,” Mc said, fondly smiling at the demon who was now a blushing stuttering mess.

“Wha?! Mc- Oi-” He buried his face in his hands softly yelling for a moment. “Ya can’t just say shit like that outta nowhere!” He pouted, crossing his arms trying his damndest to look upset.

“It’s true though. I like looking at them, they're like a bright blue sky.” Mc expected Mammon to preen under the praise but instead, he got a bit smaller looking off to the side. “You don’t like them do you?”

“They look the same as the damned angels. Demons ain't supposed to have angel eyes. Makes me look weak.” Mammon refused to meet Mc’s gaze.

“The great mammon? Weak? I don’t think those fit together very well. You’re one of the strongest demons I know.” Mc insisted, hoping to boost the demon’s ego a bit. “They also remind me of Lapis Lazuli. Did you know that royalty used that stone a lot?”

Mammon looked up at the mention of royalty. “You saying I’m like a king or somethin’?” He paused thinking over it for a second before smiling widely. “I like the sound of that. King Mammon. You gotta be my second in command though ya hear?”

Levi’s reminds me of a goldfish. Like Henry. Feel like it’s lame but he’d probably just be impressed u noticed something to compliment lmao weeb boy with no confidence

“Hey, normie? Are you even paying attention still?” Levi waves a hand in front of MC’s face as they snap back to reality. ”If you didn’t want to listen to me you didn’t have to come. I get that it’s probably boring to listen to me talk on and on like this.”

Mc shakes their head. “Sorry Levi I didn’t mean to zone out and you aren’t boring me.” They were listening to him at first however the way his eyes always lit up when he talked about his special interests. “Your eyes are really nice, you know that right? They’re like…” they paused, their mind coming up a bit blank. “They're kinda like Henry 2.0 I guess. A nice golden orange… sorry that sounds kinda lame.” They turned attention back to Leviathan who was covering his face in an attempt to hide his blushing embarrassment.

“Yo-you can’t just say- say stuff like- like that normie! It’s like you’re trying to kill me here! A direct hit to my heart, It’s super effective!! Stop laughing!! I could have died MC!”

Satan's are also hard to describe because they’re such a unique greenish-blue color. The forest. They’re like the forest. They’re wild and unknown but you can’t help but wonder what lies within.

"Do I have a cat on my head again Mc?" Satan barely even looked up from his book. "You keep staring."

Mc laughed pointing at the cat that had settled on their lap a whole ago. "No, the cat is sleeping, I was just thinking."

"Oh?" Satan fumbled around on his armrest looking for something to save his page in the book."Penny for your thoughts?" He picked up a random piece of paper looking it over before closing it in his book and turning his attention to you.

"It's just your eyes, they're pretty." Mc shrugged.

"Pretty?" Satan sounded genuinely confused. Though when you think about it not many people would be calling the Avatar of Wrath's eyes pretty.

That is except for the human sitting right in front of him. "They're like a nice deep green forest. And they match the cat's." They set a hand on the cat's head as if to emphasize their point.

"Oh. That's…" Satan sat trying to figure out what to say. He apparently couldn't find the words since he just smiled before settling on "Thank you Mc. That means a lot."

Asmodeus’ are hard to explain but god they’re pretty…. They feel like the taste of the orange creamsicles. That makes no sense but that's the best way I can describe them.

“I can see you staring at my reflection darling.” Asmo smiled at Mc through the mirror on his vanity. “I don’t mind of course just wondering if you’d like something from me.

“I was just admiring your eyes, Asmo nothing big,” Mc replied simply. There wasn’t any reason to hold back any compliments from the demon, in fact, he’d be more upset with compliments being withheld from him.

“My eyes? Well, keep talking Mc. I’m sure you have lots to say about them since they’re the best in all of the Devildom after all!” Asmo quickly got up from his vanity sitting down in front of his human as if to give them a better view of his eyes.

“Well, they’re very pretty.”

“I know they’re pretty Mc.” Asmo playfully rolled his eyes. “Come on, don't hold back now. I know you have some better words in that pretty little head of yours.”

Mc tilted their head and sat thinking for a few minutes. “Well, I guess they kind of remind me of those orange creamsicles but specifically the taste of them if that makes any sense.”

Asmo giggled. “Well, it’s certainly a unique way of describing something. But I get that you can’t find words to describe something as beautiful as me. You have wonderful eyes as well darling. Only second to me of course.”

Beel’s and Belphie's are like dawn and dusk and I think that's beautiful…

Mc sat across from Beel and his twin who was snoozing away. It was quiet and peaceful for once, aside from Beel’s munching away at his pile of snacks. They smiled to themselves staring at Beel’s violet eyes.

“You okay?” Beel asked, pausing before taking another bite. His eyes shifted to a slightly more worried expression.

“Yeah, why?” Mc asked, tilting their head slightly.

“You’ve been staring at me a while now. I was worried I did something.” He smiled happy that nothing was wrong but was still curious why the human had been staring for so long.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Beel.” Mc was quick to reassure the demon. “I was just thinking about how pretty your eyes are. They’re kinda like a sunrise you know.” Mc smiled fondly at the demon.

“You’re too sappy, it's gross,” Belphie spoke up causing the other two to turn their attention towards him. “Not to mention you sleep in too late; you probably don't even see the sunrise.” He lifted his head just enough to glare at Mc. There was no malice behind it though and felt softer than what was clearly intended.

“I’ve seen a couple here and there.” Mc shrugged now staring into Belphie’s eyes causing the demon to avert his gaze. “Your eyes are like a sunset.”

“We have the same eyes stupid. Can’t be both a sunset and a sunrise.” Belphie mumbled just enough to be heard.

“You don’t though. Beel’s eyes are more warm and optimistic like the coming of the new day, while yours are cold yet peaceful like the cover of the night sky. They’re the same yes but they’re still different.”

“That’s beautiful Mc.” Beel happily smiled as if the human had hung the stars.

His twin just mumbles something about them being gross and sappy again burying his head in his arms to hide his blush.

[masterhandss]

Who do you think katarina will end up with?

Anonymous asked: Who do you ship katarina the most with ?

I got these two questions consecutively, I'm assuming they are coming from the same person so I'll combine them to a single reply, if that's okay.

People who have been following me since the first season can probably tell that I really like Geordo x Katarina (GeoKata) the most out of all ships. At first it was mostly just because I have an unintentional biases towards characters with blonde hair, which is why favorites were GeoKata and MariaKata, but then when I slowly got into the series more, my biases permanently shifted to the G-boy.

I'm not really a fan of laying out why I like certain ships through test to be honest. I usually get super frustrated when zine mods ask contributors to explain why they like a character or ship for contributor spotlight graphics because I can never really say everything I feel correctly hgdsjsdgfj, which is a good thing someone had already asked me a similar question before so I'll just copy paste my response here if that's okay :DD

TLDR; I ship Katarina with Geordo (Maria, Sora and Cezar behind him), and I think Katarina will end up with Geordo :))

You didn't really ask why but I'll give it anyways :)) -> major light novel spoilers, by the way <-

I'm not really the most deep person, if a ship has the bare minimum of something that I like (a trope or a hair color combination) then I stan it hard. That's why I used to be so equally adoring to both Maria and Geordo, because hurrdurr blonde hair hurrdurr. But the more I read the books and got into the community, I eventually liked him more than Maria. I didn't understand how or why at first, since Geordo and Maria are undergoing a very similar character arc: both characters wants to become better people in order to become worthy of Katarina (Geordo emotionally, and Maria physically? magically? in terms of her position/social status? I can't think of a right word but you get it). Again, Maria and Geordo's struggles are similarly written but one of them is more compelling to me. I feel like Maria's problems are easier to solve (her inability to rely on people, her attention seeking and her desire to be more magically powerful) imo, since she's already a well-liked figure in the Ministry and she's already a high-level magic user. Geordo's though; the series doesn't put too much attention on it, but despite the fact that Katarina gave his life color, he still somewhat sees the world in a desaturated light even post-childhood according to the novels and his lack of empathy still prevents him from completely absorbing all the colors. He's still learning how to see and he is happy that Katarina is always there to help him learn how.

I just love the irony that Katarina sees Geordo as a Perfect Prince and feels that she is inferior and unworthy of him, but then Geordo also seems himself as flawed, inferior and unworthy of Katarina and sees her as someone perfect. Geordo constantly wants to be better for Katarina (and for the people around him), and in time, maybe he could become a motivation for Katarina to be better too (on Katarina's side though, because on Geordo's she doesn't have to because she's already perfect the way she is). Geordo, while being self-centered and aggressive in his pursuits, isn't always selfish and thinks about what Katarina wants too. He'd fight tooth and nail for her and will do whatever he can so that Katarina will love him in the same way, but that doesn't mean he wont respect her decision if she falls in love with someone else, he just wont lose without a fight that's all (and fight, he'll give that's for sure).

Geordo is crazy in love with her; wants to protect her happiness, keep her safe whenever he can, and is even willing to both fight to become king and throw away the life he currently knows if it means he can live a life where he and Katarina can be together wherever she is most content and happy. He wouldn't lock her up in the castle like a caged bird like what Keith and some fans of the series thinks, whenever he does have thoughts like that like in Volume 6, its his internal response to the lack time they can have together alone, rather than being indicative of how he wants to treat her (like in his desire in Book of Desires, he conjured up a literal honeymoon because a honeymoon is the only time where he can spend it with her alone without someone butting in! It's weird and exaggerated, but his desire is simply to just be able to spend a day with her and be able to pursue her romantically without the threat of people like Keith and Mary).

Katarina sees him for himself, and she extends her hand of friendship to him despite all her fears of her bad ends involving him. She knows he's a "sadistic prince" but doesn't always tie him to that title. Out of everyone, Katarina has just as bad, if not worse, initial impression of Geordo compared to almost everyone around him (Others sees him as a Perfect Prince while she sees him as a Sadistic Prince and Future Murderer), and yet she accepts him and wants to learn more about him. She supports him and wants him to find happiness in love with Maria, even if it means she'll get exiled to another country or to a far off farm! (i'll edit this with citations later)

I can't help but want that for him, someone who there for you through thick and thin, who supports him despite everything she knows about her future involving him. Katarina is everything he would ever want in a partner: someone who isn't disturbed by his past, can see through his fake smiles, constantly cares for him, sees him beyond his princely façade, is one of his first friends who has helped him create friendships with other as well that prevented him to wallow in isolation and hate of the version of himself that society created for him, is genuinely interested in him as a person, is endlessly fun to be around and unpredictable, and is overall beautiful inside and out.

Again, a lot of Maria and Geordo's struggles are very similar to each other, but I'm more interested in Geordo's side. I find it more compelling. Geordo's scenes always almost provides something new, we get to see him angry, flustered & embarrassed, scheming/conniving, possessive, grateful, sad & frustrated and so much more. Maria has that too (we get to see her sad and thankful), but this might be my own perspective of reading the novels, but Maria's scenes kinda feel the same to me. It almost always starts with Katarina helping her and her realizing time and time again how much she loves her and become more motivated to be a better version of herself. I mean its unfair to say that they are all the same but that might just be me. (Maria: wow I'm so grateful for everything Katarina has given me, I want to be with her forever (rinse and repeat for the next 5 books))

Yes I know it's beautiful to see Maria falling deeper and deeper in love with Maria, but I'd rather see moments of someone who is trying to advance on those feelings rather than someone who is still trying to understand what they feel. Declarations and descriptions of love are beautiful in literary works and it always gets my heart fluttering, but I can read fanfics if I want to see that be written in 8 or more ways. Give me some action, some internal conflict!

It also doesn't help that it makes me really really happy for Geordo that he's made a dent in Katarina's baka shield? Katarina's heart skipped and fluttered for a second when Geordo was patting her head, and it makes me want to root for him even more! (Yes, go break the bubble! You can do it!!)

It's not even the same doki-doki as when she gets charmed at how pretty Maria is, to me its different in a way that my small vocabulary can't explain.

And besides, it really is just a battle between the protagonist that almost ruined her life (Maria) and the love interest that almost ruined her life (Geordo). Keith is part of that equation too, but he was never a threat after they became close (narratively, its seriously just Maria vs Geordo vs Keith, ignoring the changes to that narrative by FL2). It's always about Geordo (and Maria), everything she's doing in the Fortune Lover 1 Arc is because of Geordo (and arguably, Maria & Keith too) and the consequences of where he decides her future to would lead to.

It has to be Geordo, in my opinion, to show her that things aren't the same as the game (and he already kinda has, just a dent though) (If not Geordo, it should be Maria). He, who she feared and yet cared for so much

(I know Fortune Lover 2 basically removes that importance of Geordo and Maria specifically to Katarina's narrative by making her an active problem in all routes, finally becoming loyal to the title "All Routes Lead to Doom", but its not like the story is digging into Katarina's brain that she's sword training for the purpose of fighting back against all the boys, its still just Geordo, so idk I still count that in my shipper brain)

It also also helps that Geordo is basically the poor bullied animal in the hamefura community's eyes, regardless of how far he is into the battle (like in the reddit discord lmao). Yeah he has the best chances which is why many people both in and out of the series find it so fun to drag him under because of his unfair advantage, which is fair, but just like how you feel when you see a small wounded animal, you can't help but want to help someone who has the whole world against him (there's literally a canon manga page with that joke lmao), which is how I eventually felt over time. He's so misunderstood and bullied by people despite the authors dedication to flesh him out more beyond being a possessive prince fiancé of Katarina because of the anime's adaption, so I'd rather give my biases to someone who needs (and deserves it) rather than other contenders who are already overflowing with love and support. Also who doesn't love a perfect guy who breaks when his beloved is harm/who opens up to the person he cares about most?

I know people will read this and find it unfair that Katarina is giving so much to Geordo, but he isn't really giving anything to her. One thing I'll agree that Maria has over Geordo is that Maria makes Katarina want to try and work hard. Seeing Maria improve her magic wants Katarina to do the same, and whether or not it's from motivation or fear of getting left out depends on the reader. So far we don't really have anything like that for Katarina with Geordo because most things involving Geordo intimidates her, compared to Maria who is surrounded by mysteries and adventure (though arguably it's Katarina and not her lmao, but Kat doesn't know that).

Katarina is already the most well-adjusted character in the story even as a child so the only thing to really explore from her is mostly just her relationships and skewed sense of reality. That's why I hope that Geordo will not only help her realize that she can be loved by her peers romantically despite her self-perceived position/role, but also be one of the persons to make her completely realize that she isn't living inside a game. I mean like I said a few paragraphs ago, he's already kinda doing it by constantly confessing his feelings to her, reminding her that he is a person with his own feelings and not a character programmed to fall for a heroine.

So yeah, I ship Katarina with Geordo for those reasons and believe they should end up together for those reasons.

If you ask me who I think would she end up with objectively, I'd still say Geordo. The author's focus jumps between Geordo and Maria so that really depends on who you're asking. It also doesn't help that Geordo is always in the marketing with Katarina in the books and games, which pretty much cements his Male Lead status to Katarina's Female Lead status lmao

Thank you for the ask lmao, I'll be updating this with more thoughts and possibly citations later :))

[gnocchighoul]

Operation Hot Potato

Summary: 

“See? She’s just a baby~” you coo, gently wiggling the kitten in his face.

Lucifer grimaces. Takes another, larger step back. “If a baby is what you want, I’d rather give you one myself.”

(You bring home a kitten and try to hide her from Lucifer. Unfortunately for you, nothing gets past the House of Lamentation’s resident pet-hater.)

Word Count: 3.6k

AO3 Portal

You found a kitten.

Well—kind of. It’s debatable.

You think it’s a kitten. She certainly looks like one—fluffy little thing with snow-white fur, blue eyes, a poofy little triangular head, and the most perfectly pink toe beans you’ve ever had the pleasure of squishing. 

The reason why you’re so hesitant to call her a kitten? 

She breathes fire. Hiccups fireballs. Sneezes flaming hot streams of… well, flames.

You learned that firsthand ten minutes ago, when you nearly got your eyebrows singed off by a particularly dangerous sneeze. All you wanted to do was give her a smooch on her wittle pink nose, you weren’t expecting to get blasted in the face with an orangey-red inferno.

But you know what? It doesn’t matter if she’s a little strange. You’ve sworn your everlasting love to your newfound daughter—your secret daughter that the demon brothers can absolutely not know about under any circumstances whatsoever, because you just know that Lucifer will make you put her back in the wild where you found her.

Your fire-sneezing, bouncing baby girl wouldn’t last another day out in the harsh wilderness (aka the dumpster that you retrieved her from). In the forty-seven minutes that you’ve had her, she’s grown accustomed to belly scratches, sleeping in your bed, and gnawing on only the finest tortilla chips in the Devildom. 

Her name is Tater Tot.

She sticks out like a sore white thumb among your colorful assortment of pillows. Not that she cares. She’s living it up in the lap of luxury. Tater Tot stretches—turns around with every paw in the air, proudly showing off her rotund little baby belly, and mrrps at you.

Its the cutest thing you've ever fucking seen. You just wanna SQUEEZE her. Ugh, who would've guessed that a little trash fire baby would steal your heart so quickly?

And it’s not like you broke the rules and brought home a pet on purpose. Tater Tot had chosen you. By choosing to rummage around in that specific dumpster that you just so happened to walk past on your way home from RAD, Tater Tot had effectively decided that you were to be her new caretaker. 

It’s fate. Kismet. You’ve wanted a pet for so long—dog, cat, dragon, gremlin, doesn’t matter. You’ve spent hours upon hours bitching and moaning to anyone that’ll listen about how badly you’ve wanted a pet to smother with your love. Nobody has been able to escape your woe. Everyone—the brothers, the angels, Solomon, and even your good buddy Diavolo (somehow, Barbatos has managed to evade you) have all been forced to listen to your lamenting about the pet-shaped hole in your heart. 

But finally—finally—your prayers have been answered.

With a fire breathing kitten. 

Oh yeah. Kismet.

You’re fairly certain that Tater Tot has never lived in a house. She had been perfectly content to snuggle up in your school uniform like some kind of tiny, pouch dwelling, heat seeking creature, until you had snuck into your bedroom and closed the door behind you. 

The second you set her on the floor, it was like a switch flipped. Tater Tot had shown off her unnatural strength by flinging her little puffball body around the room like a possessed tumbleweed, spastically crashing around the room and knocking over furniture and keepsakes alike.

You had finally cornered her under your bed and sat peacefully nearby, humming quietly to calm her. It didn’t take long for you to coax her out with snacks—she liked the chips, but passionately disliked the gummy worms—and within twenty minutes you had Tater Tot lounging with you on the bed, rubbing her soft little cheeks into your palm for rubs and scritches. 

You need to come up with a plan to hide your beloved child ASAP. It’s only a matter of time until either Lucifer hauls you off to his room or one of the brothers decides to camp out in yours for the night, and if word gets back to Lucifer that you’re harboring a fugitive animal… Well, favoritism or not, it won’t end pretty.

Though perhaps there is one person who can help you with this little secret.

Satan. The cat-loving fourth brother. 

Man oh man, he’s going to be thrilled with sweet little Tater Tot. You have to be careful though—you reckon that there is a 96% chance that he’ll try to steal her away from you. Trying to juggle custody battles and harboring your secret daughter from Lucifer all at the same time sounds like such a pain.

But… That would still be better than having to put Tater Tot back on the streets.

With the threat of big-meanie-Lucifer looming over you like a particularly gothic and pet-hating phantom, you come to a final decision. You’re just going to have to pull on your big girl pants and accept the soul crushing truth of the situation.

Satan is your only hope. 

But how are you going to sneak your daughter all the way over to his room?

You look around your own room for something, anything that can hide your beloved dumpster pet and—ohohoho.

 ~

“Darling?” 

You freeze midstep.

Busted.

“What’s up, Lucifer?” You try so hard to keep your voice calm and normal. So hard. 

Judging by the way Lucifer looks at you, you’ve failed. And you were so close. Satan’s bedroom is literally right there! Only a few yards away! If only you’d just had ten more seconds to yourself in the dark hallway... Alas, the warden your beloved Lucifer aka the resident pet hater stands between you and the dusty salvation that is Satan’s library of a bedroom.

You shuffle your feet a bit nervously. Readjust your grip on the cardboard box. A bit warily, Lucifer eyes it.

“What’s in the box?”

You panic. “What box?” 

Fuck.

Lucifer cracks a smile, though it doesn’t meet his gaze. He gestures to the cardboard box that you are currently holding near to your chest like some sort of ugly, cubic liferaft. 

“Oh!” You laugh. It’s too high pitched. Suspicious. “This box? It’s just some books for Satan, it’s nothing—”

The box sneezes.

Your mouth snaps shut and you thank all the fucking stars in heaven that this sneeze didn’t flambé you.

Lucifer’s eyes narrow accusingly. Tone icy and sharp, he says, “Books? Is that so?” 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

You wilt a bit under the intensity of his gaze. “They’re… cursed books? Yeah, so cursed and dangerous and only Satan knows how to nullify the evilness of these books so I’m gonna just slip past you—”

Lucifer takes a step to the left, planting himself firmly in your path and effectively thwarting your desperate grand escape. A single blade of moonlight cuts through the curtains and slices through the shadows, Lucifer now caught in the spotlight and—oh that fucker did that on purpose. Ugh, what a drama queen.

Red eyes practically glowing in the dark, he nods menacingly at the box. “Go on then. Open it.” 

“I dunno, I really shouldn’t because of the curses and—”

Clearly not in the mood to entertain your scheming-slash-rambling, Lucifer takes matters into his own hands. Before you can twist away, one of his hands darts out to knock the lid off of the box and—

Books. It’s filled with books.

He frowns. Lifts one up and—nope, there’s just more books underneath. “...What?” 

“Happy? Now if you don’t mind I really should get—”

“Let me help you with that.”

Your reflexes aren't fast enough. Before you can leap back or Sparta kick him away, Lucifer plucks the box right out of your arms… and reveals a squirming lump beneath your sweater, right inbetween your breasts. The box hits the floor. Lucifer stares at your newly acquired mass with a very particular sort of horror that you’ve never seen before. 

You panic. Again.

“...I grew a new boob. I think the Devildom air is toxic or something, but it’s okay! The more the merrier, right? We can still—gET YOUR HANDS OFF MY TIDDIES—”

Lucifer presses one hand to your lower back, trapping you, and yanks down your zipper, revealing the purrito that is wrapped kind-of-securely to your chest with a scarf. He recoils backwards, looking equal parts horrified and peeved off.

Time for Plan B.

93% sure that you can still recover from this situation that is rapidly soaring downhill, you stuff your hands into your pockets and then throw them outwards, flinging fistfuls of rainbow confetti into the air. “Surpriiiise! You’re a daddy! Say hello to our daughter.”

“No.”

“Her name is Tater Tot. Personally, I think she takes after you.”

The Tater in question shimmies out of her silky prison and tumbles nose first into your palms. You hold her right up to Lucifer’s face, grinning like a goddamn sociopath when he takes an alarmed step backwards. Little puffball paws desperately try to swipe at his nose. Lucifer looks downright offended by the assault of pink toe beans.

“See? She’s just a baby~” you coo, gently wiggling the noodle-limp kitten in his face.

Lucifer grimaces. Takes another, larger step back. “If a baby is what you want, I’d rather give you one myself.”

“As fun as that sounds, we have a perfectly good one right here!” 

“That thing is not a baby. Where did you find it?” 

There’s a concerned little scrunch in his brow that you wanna smooth over with your thumb, but when you try to close the distance between you two, he moves further out of reach. Frowning, you hug Tater Tot to your chest. She snuggles her face into the crook of your neck and purrs like the smallest biodiesel engine in all of the realms.

“I found her in a dumpster!” you say, perhaps a bit too proudly. 

Lucifer’s eyes widen. “In the city?”

“Why is that so shocking? Does the Devildom not have stray cats?” 

“That’s not a cat.” 

“Well yeah I kinda figured, what with the whole fire breathing thing and all, but—”

“It’s a chimera.” 

You stare at Lucifer. Try to gauge how serious he’s being. Tater Tot nibbles on your thumb with little needle-like teeth. 

Surely he’s joking. 

“...Like the lion-goat-lizard thing? That chimera?” 

Lucifer nods. 

Like you’re in some twisted version of the Lion King, you hold Tater Tot up in the beam of moonlight that Mr. Doom and Gloom had previously been occupying. Examine her totally normal kitten-features. The distinct lack of goat hooves. Miss Tater licks her nose. A Chimera? Her?

Surely he’s fucking with you.

But… it would explain the whole fire-breathing thing. Kind of. You’re not fully convinced he’s lying, but the truth doesn’t make much more sense.

But if she is a chimera… that’s so badass.

If Lucifer thinks for one second that Tater Tot being a nightmarish Hell creature is going to scare you into giving her up, then he is sorely mistaken. (You did choose to date him, after all. You're an expert at loving on Hellish beings.) At the end of the day, whether Tater is a chimera or a cat or whatever the hell else, you’ve already bonded with each other. She’s your baby and you are not going to let him get rid of her. 

If he gets Cerberus, then you get your funky little Tater Tot, dammit.

Lucifer watches this journey of emotions play out on your face. His eyes narrow. He says your name slowly, strained—a thinly veiled warning in his voice.

The grin that overtakes your face can only be described as evil. 

“We’re keeping her.”

“Absolutely not.” 

 ~

“You can’t be serious.” 

From the depths of your blanket fort, your hand emerges to flip Lucifer off. He scowls. 

“This blanket fort is only for Tater Tot and me.”

“Then perhaps you should relocate to your bed.” Lucifer growls.

You snuggle further into the black sheets cocooning you. With impressive speed, you had raced back to Lucifer’s room and stripped every piece of fabric from his bed in record time. From there, it was simply a matter of combining the dark sheets with a bunch of pillows and voila. You had created your very own anti-Lucifer fortress, right in the middle of his bed. 

Tater Tot army-crawls across your thigh and worms her way into the sheets, vanishing like a ninja.

"What?" You peek at Lucifer through a small opening in the fabric. “But then you would just ignore me and Tater Tot.” 

“Yes, exactly. I’m glad that we’re on the same page.”

“No! We’re not on the same page at all,” you scowl. “I’m not moving until you bond with her.” 

“Then I suppose you’ll be stuck there forever.” 

“Maybe I will!”

You can’t see him right now, but you know in the depths of your heart that Lucifer is rolling his eyes at you. 

Which, y’know. Fair. You are being a little bit ridiculous. But what choice do you have? The confetti didn't work and Lucifer needs to form an everlasting bond with Tater Tot. He needs to experience how lovely and precious and wonderful your little baby is, so that he won’t make you put her back in the dumpster where you found her.

You have one last tactic. It is by far the absolute worst. 

Talking to him. Like some kind of functioning, responsible adult, because apparently that's what you're supposed to do in a healthy relationship. Blegh. 

While you agonize over stooping to this final resort, Lucifer climbs into the bed without a word and settles himself in like he owns the place. Which he does. But that’s beside the point. 

One of your arms emerges from the blanket shield to poke at his pajama clad thigh. He doesn’t react. So naturally, you poke him again. And again. And again, until finally he sighs, “What?”

You squirm your way out of the stuffy blankets, gulping down air once you're free—sweet baby Jesus, fresh air has never felt so good—and Tater Tot flies out after you, rocketing across the mattress at the speed of light and tumbling around like a little white pom pom. While she does her own thing, you worm your way into Lucifer’s side so that you’re halfway on top of his chest. He huffs and lays there like a board, refusing to hug you, so you grab his arm and wrap it around your shoulders yourself.

Here goes nothing. 

“Why are you so against having a pet?” you ask, dancing the pads of your fingers over his chest.

Lucifer cracks one eye open. “The first and last time I allowed pets in the house, Satan brought home 48 cats. In one hour.” 

...You really should have seen that one coming.

“Oh. Well, I mean… Is that reallyyy a bad thing—ow! You jerk, I was just kidding.” You pout. “You didn’t have to pinch my butt that hard.” 

Lucifer snickers and pats your butt consolingly. “Mmm, no, I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

Briefly, you consider headbutting him right in the chin. But alas, that wouldn’t solve anything, so you settle for pressing a kiss to his collarbone, then reach a hand up to play with his hair, just how he likes. It’s not very ~vengeful~ buuut it’s bound to put him in a better mood. 

You trace cutesy little heart shapes on his right pec. “You know what I want?”

Lucifer closes his eyes—lets his head fall back onto the mattress. “We’re not keeping her.” 

You snuggle into his chest with a happy little hum. “Yes we are.”

“...Just for the night. Tomorrow you're putting her back where you found her."

 ~

You wake up in agony. 

It feels like you’ve had a lung ripped out and replaced with serrated knives. Or shark teeth. Each breath drags oh so painfully at your—just kidding. 

You wake up well rested and tangled in the bedsheets, your head hanging off the side of the mattress. You’re a little hazy-brained and your skull feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, but that’s probably because of all the blood rushing to your head. When you roll over and haul yourself back up onto the bed, a noise escapes you that is definitely not fit for polite company.

The murky depths of slumber threaten to take you again, so you pat around the bed with your hand, looking for your favorite demon-slash-body pillow. You pat. And keep patting. Where the hell is Lucifer?

You crack one bleary eye open, trying to find Lucifer and—

Where the hell is Tater Tot?

Your heart jolts in your chest as you realize a few things all at once.

One: Lucifer is missing. 

Two: Tater Tot is missing.

Three: You slept through breakfast, but that’s less important. 

You’re off like a shot, wrestling yourself out of the sheets and flinging them to the floor, then stumbling across the room to get to the door before your brain can even fully wake up. It’s fine, you don’t need 100% brainpower, you just need to find your baby. 

You’ve barely taken four steps into the hallway when you slam nose first into Mammon. He catches you, saving your face from becoming acquainted with the floor, and you grab him by the leathery lapels of his jacket. 

“Where’s Lucifer?!” you hiss.

Mammon desperately tries to squirm out of your feral grip. You shake him like a polaroid picture.

“Geez, knock it off would ya?! He’s in his office, what the hell is up with you? Wh—HEY! I’M NOT DONE TALKIN’ TO YA!”

Whatever the Weenie has to say to you is less important than finding your child, so as soon as you acquire Lucifer’s location, you haul ass to Lucifer’s study.

 ~

In a raging fury that could rival Satan’s existence, you fling open the door, ready to tear Lucifer a new one for not even letting you say goodbye to your beloved kitten and—

And your heart melts into a warm, gooey puddle. 

Lucifer is sitting at his desk. Tater Tot is draped across his shoulders.

Lucifer glares at you, but there's no real bite in his gaze. “Keep it down, Phobos is sleeping.”

You blink stupidly, your brain racing at a thousand miles an hour to catch up with whatever the hell you’re currently feeling that has you all mushy and moon-eyed. “Phobos? What the hell? That’s not her name at all.” 

“My love, we are not naming our daughter after potatoes. Her name is now Phobos. She and I came to a mutual agreement that it is far more fitting of a name for a creature of her pedigree.”

...You’re so torn. On one hand, you want to argue that Tater Tot is a lovely name for your dumpster kitten-chimera-thing, but on the other hand… he called her ‘our daughter’. As in your guys’s daughter. This can only mean one thing, and you clutch at your heart when you realize what’s happening.

They bonded.

It damn well might bring a tear to your eyes.

You make your way over to Lucifer, shove aside the papers on his desk, and perch your happy ass right on the hardwood.

With a bone deep sigh, Lucifer leans back in his chair. “Why do you always do that? My lap is available, you know.”

Tater Tot wakes up and lifts her heavy little sleep-addled head to meep at you.

You grin—hook your ankles around the armrests of his chair and pull him closer. “So… does this mean we’re keeping Tater Tot?” 

“... Yes, we’re keeping Phobos. But that’s it, no more pets.”

“Okay, wait. Hear me out. What about a dog?”

“Absolutely not.”

Lucifer plucks another white hair from his RAD uniform and holds it up to the moonlight, scowling at the offensive thing. Why in all the realms did you have to find a white cat? The damned thing has only lived with you lot for two days and yet somehow its hair has already gotten over every article of black clothing in his wardrobe. It’s infuriating.

His gaze wanders across the courtyard to where you’re sitting pretty on Beel’s shoulders, clawing at his face with your fingertips and screaming in terror at how high up you are. He grins. 

He can put up with the shedding fur, so long as he gets to see how your eyes shine like the stars when you see Phobos.

Still though. Why couldn’t you find a black kitten? 

“Lucifer! There you are!” 

Lucifer flicks the cat hair—lets the breeze catch it and float it away. Before he can even get a proper greeting in, Diavolo is pulling him in for a bone crushing hug.

“You’re here a bit later than usual. How’s life with the new kitten treating you?” Diavolo asks.

Lucifer steps out of the hug and eyes Diavolo warily. “Just fine, thank yo—wait. How do you know about the cat?”

Diavolo blinks innocently. “Surely you told me about her, didn’t you?” 

No, he definitely did not—oh no. 

Lucifer stares, slack jawed and horrified, because in that moment, he realizes something that he refuses to accept.

No.

No. It can’t be.

Diavolo would never do that to him. He would ne—oh fuck, he absolutely did.

Diavolo planted the cat. He knew that you would find her in that dumpster and take her home.

Lucifer has never known a betrayal quite like this. Diavolo says something about heading off to his office, but he doesn’t hear him over the rushing in his ears.

“Diavolo.” 

The demon prince in question pauses in his escape to look back at Lucifer. “Yes, Lucifer?”

“Why did you have to pick a white cat?”

And oh, Diavolo laughs. A full belly laugh that quite honestly kills Lucifer. Just a little bit.

[haikyuu-scenarios-drabbles]

Shower Friends (Miya Atsumu x F!reader)

The dorm you live in has co-ed bathrooms. Why that’s remotely a good idea is beyond you; and recently, your precious shower time is being interrupted by a certain blonde haired setter for the volleyball team. When he lies to his teammates that he has a girlfriend, somehow you get roped into his scheme.

genre(s): college!au, fake dating, angst, fluff, mutual pining, enemies to lovers (kinda), eventual smut (maybe)  words: 3.5k

a/n: ah the sweet sweet smell of mutual pining. also 3 more chapters are planned, not written yet though bc i just decided i’d be writing them lmao. hopefully can get started on that this weekend and post them next week 🤗

taglist:  @apollochjld @kurosarium @vicassa @carbs-need-more-love @underratedmage @idek-at-thispoint @wtfeverbrandi @food8me @yikes-buddy @ntimacy @nyxiie @oikawasbooty @chocolate3010 @sugawarabby @greenyiplier @kritiiiii @tokyosdawn @youstydiaa @h3llok1ttygirl 

one | two 

Chapter Three

“You want me to help you with what?” You ask, a bit stunned when he showed up at the door, a terribly annoying but also cute pleading expression on his face.

He groans, his shoulders hunching forward in exasperation. “Ya really gunna make me repeat it?”

You peer closer at the top of his head and see that he’s being serious. The roots of his hair growing in are a dark brown and it had never even occurred to you that he dyes his hair the blonde color you’re so used to. “No, but why do you need my help?”

This is so embarrassing. Normally his roommate or a teammate can help him but none of them are available today and he’s already let the roots grow longer than he likes. But when one of them suggested you help him out instead, something inside him rebelled. For some reason, the thought of having you dye his hair for him made him uncomfortable, like he’s showing you an intimate part of him. This hair has been a part of him so long he can’t remember the last time he’d let it grow out.

“I can’t see if I got everything,” he admits. It took a lot of pacing around his room and staring at his roots for him to get up the courage to come over here to ask you. He can’t really explain why he was so against it, especially since you don’t seem to mind after you got over the initial shock of realizing this isn’t his natural hair.

A wave of relief washes over him when you sigh, conceding, “Alright. Just let me change into something I can get bleach on. I’ll meet you at your dorm.”

While he waits for you, he busies himself with mixing the dye together so it’s ready for you, and when you arrive in a t-shirt and shorts with paint splatters all over them, he mentally kicks himself for thinking about how even wearing something so simple you still look better than anyone he’s ever seen. Crossing your arms, you motion for him to take a seat at his desk. Before he does so, he reaches behind his neck to grab at the collar of his shirt and pull it over his head.

You stand there dumbfounded for a moment, it taking you a second to process that he’s now standing before you shirtless and you’re free to ogle his muscular chest and arms to your hearts content. He doesn’t pay any attention to you, knowing if he meets your gaze, he won’t be able to stop the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. Instead, he wraps a towel around his waist to protect his shorts and sits in the chair to wait for you.  

Except now, you have free reign to stare at his back, which is just as defined as the front of him and you need a few more seconds to reel your thoughts back.

“Whaddya waitin’ for darling?” He drawls, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, not expecting you to be standing there frozen, eyes pinned to his now bare chest.

He opens his mouth to tease you further, but your eyes snap to his and you practically shout, “Do you have another towel?” He just cocks a brow and then points to his closet where another towel is hanging on a hook. Snatching it, you return to him and drape it over his shoulders, hiding most of his annoyingly toned body. “Don’t want to get any bleach on your skin,” you explain, no way in hell ever admitting to him that you’re finding it hard to focus with him on display like that.

Absentmindedly, he hands you one of the clips he bought a long time ago, one that’s almost completely bleached itself and you start running your fingers through his hair to section it. He closes his eyes, focusing intently on the soothing sensation of your fingers on his scalp, doing his best not to groan out loud at how good it feels. With anyone else, this isn’t anything special, normally he sits as patiently as he can whilst trying not to annoy whoever is doing his hair (lest they decide to ‘mess up’ as punishment). But with you, it’s a different feeling entirely.

It's jarringly intimate as you clip his hair back and reach over him to grab the plastic gloves that came with the dye. Lathering up the applicator brush, you start slathering it onto his hair, trying your hardest to make sure it’s evenly distributed and surrounding each strand. As you do so, you ask, “How long have you been doing this?”

He resists the urge to shrug, not wanting to jostle you, replying, “Osamu and I started in middle school.”

“Osamu dyes his hair too?”

“Yeah, he goes for gray. But I’d heard blondes have more fun so—here we are.”

He grits his teeth as your fingers skim over his scalp, glad for the towel you wrapped around him to hide the goosebumps skittering along his bare skin.

“Let me guess,” you muse. “You guys did it because people couldn’t tell you apart?”

“That,” he laughs, “And we thought it would look cool. The first time we did it, it looked like shit.”

Your answering laugh warms his heart as you unclip a section of hair and keep working. “I can’t imagine your mom being too happy about it.”

“Livid. We got bleach everywhere.”

You laugh, continuing to move through his hair methodically. It doesn’t take very long as you’re just dying his roots and they weren’t that bad to begin with, contrary to what Atsumu thinks. When you finish, he gives you a sheepish look and has to swallow his pride to ask you to help him wash it out. Every time he’s tried to do it himself, he always ends up leaving a huge chunk of bleach somewhere.

You oblige, following him to the bathroom, not bothering to care about the looks you get along the way. If they want to stare at a shirtless Atsumu and then glare at you for having that all to yourself, that’s their prerogative. It does wonders for your confidence, regardless that all of this is a ruse.

Luckily, the bathroom is empty and Atsumu dutifully bends over the sink to let you start washing the dye out of his hair. He’s immensely grateful his eyes are shut, and his face is shoved into the sink to hide his flushed cheeks as he thoroughly enjoys your fingers running through his hair. The sensation of your fingernails lightly scraping over his scalp makes him ball his fists as he has to bite his lip to keep from making any sounds.

You’re unbothered, until you notice the towel has slipped from his shoulders and with the way he’s bracing himself against the counter every muscle in his back and arms is on display for you to see. It’s an effort to continue your task as if nothing is wrong and force yourself to look off into the distance instead of eyeing him up.

It’s no easy feat. Especially when you finish and he rises, scrubbing at his face with the discarded towel before moving on to his hair. You press your lips into a firm line and let yourself indulge just a little bit looking at the way his muscles flex with the movement, droplets from his damp hair trailing down the planes of his chest towards the waistband of his shorts and—your attention is broken at the sound of him chuckling and you snap your gaze to his.

You find him staring at you with mischief sparkling in his eyes, so you speak before he can tease you. “Is that it?”

“We have to actually dye it now.”

“Oh.” You turn on your heels desperate to escape his gaze. “Let’s go then.” A smirk plays across his lips, but he refrains from teasing you, solely because he very much enjoyed the way you were looking at him and doesn’t want you to stop.

And yeah—sue him if he thinks about your hands in his hair for the rest of the day. In the end, he might be a little grateful no one else was available to help him.

When mid-semester break arrives, it comes as a surprise that you actually miss each other. What surprises you even further, is that he’s the one to bring it up. Within the first night, he video calls you, a sheepish expression on his face, explaining he needed someone to complain to.

“What do you mean?” You teased. “Sounds like you’re getting stuffed with good food from Osamu and you have plenty to brag about.” You winked, smiling devilishly at him and pointing to yourself. You’re only joking. Slightly. You aren’t sure what will come about if he tells his family about you, or if that’s even a good idea. It’d be much easier to break this off cleanly without the involvement of each other’s families.

He sighs, flopping down on his bed and scrubbing his face with one hand. “They’re just dyin’ to meet you now.”

Your brows lift, half-expecting him to have tried to keep this a secret. “You told them?”

“I wasn’t gunna,” he explains. “But apparently some college sports news channel caught um—,” he coughs awkwardly, remembering very vividly this day, yet the two of you haven’t acknowledged it since. “Our—uh—celebration.”

Eyes widening, you stare at him a moment before the both of you burst out laughing. Between your giggles you manage to say, “Oops.”

Laughing alongside you, he grins, despite the pang in his heart at the voice in his head desperately trying to remind him all of this isn’t real. You aren’t his girlfriend and the moment all of this ends, you probably won’t bat an eye at him ever again. He hates how much that hurts.

Forging onward towards his demise he discloses, “I am now a very proud owner of a very jealous brother now, so thank you.”

That only makes you keep grinning, setting a hand on your cheek and dramatically saying, “What? Of little ol’ me?”

He fights the urge to tell you that yes—jealous of little ol’ you. The girl who is slowly becoming the girl of his dreams. The beautiful, funny girl who deals with him and everything that comes with him. He swallows all that, keeping the mood and saying, “He refuses to let me try any of his onigiri. A crime, really.”

“Of the highest caliber,” you agree, stifling your laughter. “Though I’m sure you steal some when he isn’t looking.”

“Yeah, but he caught me and hit me on the head with his spoon.”

“How dare he. Lucky for me, my family is clueless.”

“What do they think yer doin’ right now then?”

Shrugging you say, “I told them I had a project to work on with a classmate. Which isn’t entirely a lie, I do have a project to work on. But someone interrupted.”

He smirks. “Wonder who that could be.”

“Beats me.” His responding grin does something to you that’s been happening a lot more frequently lately. Making you feel like all the air has been punched out of you and like your heart is going to beat out of your chest. Though, you’ve gotten quite good at hiding it.

In the distance, you hear someone calling his name. He panics, it’s bad enough his family knows about you now, but he isn’t sure if he’s ready for them to meet you. Especially Osamu, who he has the sinking feeling is already suspicious of this. It’ll be a miracle if he can slip this by him.

“Gotta go!” He says quickly, and before he ends the call, he hears you chuckle and say, “Beware the spoon.”

Every day his situation only gets worse.

The next night he can’t get Osamu off his back. Enough that when he tries to retreat to his bedroom to give you a call, pathetically missing you again, Osamu bursts in when he’s about two minutes into the video call with you. He tries to shove him out, embarrassed and afraid Osamu will see straight through him. But Osamu is stubborn, and he hears you laughing on the other end of the call before saying, “Aww, Atsumu won’t you at least let me try to charm the pants off him?”

He grits his teeth, the thought that he wants you to charm the pants off of him, not his brother flitting through his head before he can stop it. But he relents, letting Osamu sit backwards on his desk chair to join the conversation.

He isn’t sure how, but somehow you get Osamu to believe this is real in a matter of minutes. You have him laughing and talking about culinary school and he almost feels jealous that your attention is now on Osamu instead of him. It’s a ridiculous notion, he knows it, but it doesn’t stop him from keeping the camera on him as much as possible.

When the call ends, Osamu looks at him seriously, and for a moment Atsumu thinks he’s just been pretending to believe you this entire time. However, he breaks into a smile and smacks him on the back saying, “Got yerself a keeper, there.”

Atsumu tries to grin with as much sincerity as he can. Yeah—he knows he does. But that isn’t going to stop this from ending.

That night, both of you go to bed feeling like you’re getting in too deep.

And as per usual, when school starts back up again, neither of you bring it up. You’re happy to keep ignoring it, hating yourself for liking this arrangement and him more and more every day. It sad really, how much time in your day is spent thinking about him. Wondering if there’s any possibility that the two of you could just transition to a real relationship. Because to you, that’s already what this is. Nothing would change, but at least you’d stop feeling guilty every time you enjoy his hand in yours or the soft press of his lips to the top of your head.

A few days after returning to school, you find yourself alone with him in his dorm room studying. He’s sitting at his desk, hunched over a textbook while you lay on his bed, head propped up by an elbow. You can feel your eyes drooping, the words blurring together, it becoming harder and harder to stay awake. His bed is too comfortable and smells overwhelmingly like him, a scent you’ve come to enjoy every time you’re pressed up against him. A mixture of his body wash and the ever-present faint smell of the volleyball court. Eventually you’re powerless against the solace of sleep.

When Atsumu notices you, his heart jumps into his throat. You look so serene and peaceful, your chest rising and falling ever so slightly, part of him wants to crawl in beside you and press his face into your neck and fall asleep right along with you.

But he too has begun to feel like this game has gone too far. The moment he had to tell his family, lie to Osamu, he knew he’d crossed a line. It isn’t fair to you. No longer does he need to pretend for his teammates that he can have a serious relationship, there isn’t a reason to torture himself and keep you tied to him anymore.

Yet, thinking about not being without you, no longer eating lunch together, studying together, or having you in the stands at his games wrenches his heart in such a way he actually feels like it’s crumpling inside his chest. He hasn’t been able to admit it, but at some point along the way, he thinks he fell in love with you. And it just hurts too much to keep pretending. Especially when you’re only doing this for peace and quiet during your showers.

For you, he shouldn’t drag this on any longer.

So, a couple days later, you texted him telling him you were in the library and can join him anytime if he wants. A harmless text, one you’ve sent him many times since this whole thing started, but this one makes his heart sink. Knowing this is the opportunity he’s been waiting for to talk to you. He tries to not think about it, trying to let volleyball take over his thoughts, but it’s futile. All he can think about is saying those words to you, and how it’s quite possibly going to utterly destroy him.

But you take it well, as he expects, squashing the hope that you might feel something for him too.

That night in the library feels particularly lonely. There’s no quick-witted remark from the boy who carved himself a place in your life, no one there to make you laugh when you’re struggling with a problem. Instead, you’re met with nothing but the darkness and silence of the library. It’s almost too much to bear, and once the silence starts closing in on you—you force yourself to leave, refusing to let yourself wallow.

The next weeks are hard. He never imagined that he’d think that after all of this was over. He keeps showering in the mornings to avoid you and uphold the deal you two struck months ago. He ignores the empty hole in his chest when he eats lunch without you, or studies late alone. The most jarring thing is your absence at his games. He constantly finds himself searching the crowd for your face, before remembering you won’t be there. He misses that intense gaze he could always feel on his back, the one that kept him awake at night when he let his thoughts run wild.

He feels as though something has been ripped from his life, leaving nothing but a gaping hole behind that seems intent on devouring him whole.

The same can be said for you.

Who knew you’d ever miss his teasing remarks while you shower? Or miss how you could complain to him endlessly about classes and then have him comfort you in the warm solace of his arms? Even the little things like walking to class together, now that you do it alone, it feels like there’s something missing.

The two you go on like that, thinking of the other every night before sleeping, tossing and turning with the thought of what could have been.

And eventually, you reach the point where you’re over it. Over pining after him day after day, peering out your door to make sure he isn’t around, or taking detours just to avoid him in the hallways. You’re over it. Enough that you’re willing to swallow your pride and confess to him, even if he doesn’t feel the same way—maybe you can fucking move on then.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you stomp to his dorm room, his roommate opening the door; his eyes widening upon seeing you. Immediately, he grabs his keys saying into the room, “I forgot I need to go to the store Atsumu, see you later.”

He leaves no time for Atsumu to protest, out the door in a matter of moments, leaving you standing in the doorway. Atsumu is just sitting in his desk chair, looking dumfounded at you, having fully expected to never see you again.

The gears in his head grind to a halt as you say, “This is stupid.”

He gives you a bewildered look, unsure what exactly you mean by that.

You steel your courage and press on. “I like you. And you like me. I think. And all this pretending that we don’t is stupid.”

After a few moments, his lips curve into a smile, the mischievous one you used to hate but now feel relief seeing. He can’t help the joy building in his chest at your confession. How many sleepless nights thinking about this very moment did he endure?

“You said it,” he teases.

Despite giving him a look, you do nothing to stop the grin rising to your lips. “Well, it didn’t seem like you were going to.”

His smile only widens, and he motions you into the room. “Get yer butt over here already.”

You move on instinct, striding into the room and climbing into his lap, settling your legs on either side of his you wrap your arms around his neck. The overwhelming sense that yes—this is exactly where you want to be, washes over you. He smirks up at you, his large hands resting at your waist, waiting for your next move.

“I can’t believe I actually missed that stupid smirk,” you say, lowering your lips to his, fingers slipping into the short hair at the base of his neck.

His smile hasn’t faltered, muttering against your lips teasing, “Does this mean I can shower at night again?”

A laugh bubbles out of you, but he smothers it in another kiss and refuses to let go.

[nattikay]

So I saw this post while browsing toa tags the other day. While I don’t think being obsessed with the school mascot automatically makes Toby a furry (though it is funny to joke about lol) since “being a furry” actually just means “being a fan of anthropomorphic animals” and doesn’t necessarily require any form of costuming or interest in such, it did get me thinking, hmmm...if he was a furry, what would his fursona be? 🤔 And from there I started wondering what Jim’s and Claire’s would be as well because y not ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  

BUT WAIT, I hear you say--haven’t you already drawn the trio as werewolves and wolfwalkers etc.? Wouldn’t those be their fursonas??

Well yes....but actually no.

I guess it’s a little hard to explain, but there’s a nuance between “[person] but as an animal” and a proper “fursona”. While a fursona is an animal character used to represent its person, it doesn’t have to physically resemble them at all as you would expect [person]-but-as-[animal] to. For example, if you were to design me but as a cat, you’d probably give it light brown fur and green eyes like I have irl. But my fursona, unlike my human self, actually has blue fur and purple eyes. You can give your fursona matching physical traits to your own if you want to, and some people do, but most use only a pinch of their irl appearance, if any at all.

The choices people make when designing their fursonas vary wildly from “it looks like me irl” to “it looks like who I want to be”  to “I just really like this color scheme” to “this particular color/marking holds deep personal meaning to me” to “this particular pattern represents a particular defining moment in my life” to “idk it looks cool and i vibe with it” etc. etc. etc. Everyone has different reasons of varying depth for the decisions they make in designing their fursona.

Therefore, to design a fursona for Toby etc., it’s less a question of “what would this character look like as [insert species here]?” and more of “how would this character choose to present himself with his own [animal] character?”

And that’s a much trickier game than just transferring a character aesthetic to a new species. ^^; We have to kinda dive into the characters and makes some guesses about how they, if given infinite creative freedom to design an animal avatar with no rules or limits, would choose to present themselves.

So all that said, here’s what I came up with:

Starting with Toby because he’s the one who inspired the post. I think Toby might choose a wolfdog fursona. A lot of people who choose wolves as fursonas consider themselves to be overwhelmingly loyal to their friends, a trait that fits Toby very well. However, while Toby likes to be “cool”, I don’t think he really thinks of himself as much of an “alpha” type--he’s more of a sidekick, and he knows that, and he’s ok with that. He’s the wingman. So what better way to incorporate that than to add dog into the mix? Man’s best friend=Jim’s best friend. Sociable, humorous, and unwaveringly loyal. Wolfdog it is!

With the species decided, we can move on to the design itself.

I can’t imagine any form of Toby in anything other than warm colors. This is extra emphasized by the flamelike patterns on his legs and tail, which both speaks to his desire to be totally awesome-sauce as well as acts as an allusion to his flaming warhammer. It’s fairly common (not universal, but common) for people to give their fursonas a more “ideal” physique than the person actually has as a sort of way to live by proxy physical goals or fantasies they’ve been unable to attain irl for whatever reason. Given that we’ve seen Toby struggle with fitness from time to time, it wouldn’t shock me to see him take this route. His wolfdog self is still relatively short and stocky, but it’s all muscle, babey. 

This fursona is strong, fun, boisterous, and generally just kicks butt. Concentrated awesomesauce flows through his veins. Just don't mess with his friends, or you’ll feel the flames!

.

Moving on to Jim. Jim was the hardest to nail down, and most definitely the hardest to keep my personal biases out of oof. Which I may have failed to do anways because yes, ok, I made my favorite character a blue feline, sue me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  But hear me out first!

For Jim I ultimately settling on a cheetah/lion hybrid.

Cheetahs, in a way, are sort of the underdogs (er...cats?) of the feline world--at least, in their local ecosystems. They are built wholly for speed, not strength--and as such, just about every other large predator in their environment has them beat when it comes to raw strength. Remind you of a certain Trollhunter? plus the long lanky legs. don’t forget those lol

However, because of this disadvantage, cheetahs...usually surrender. They know it’s not worth it to defend their kill from larger, stronger opponents, so they’ll give it up and just catch something else. This aspect doesn’t quite fit our protective, selfless protagonist all too eager to risk everything to save his loved ones--so a pure cheetah may not be the right choice.

So what animal is brave and protective? That’s where the lion part comes in, of course!

Why not just make him a pure lion? Well, a little similar to making Toby a wolfdog instead of a pure wolf. A straight-up lion feels a little too “chad” for our sweet Jimbo. Too much of a jock. 

Jim has the humble underdog nature of a cheetah as well as the bravery and fierce protective drive of a lion. Cheelion? Leetah? idk, but let’s design it!

Like Toby and warm colors, I don’t think I can possibly associate Jim with any color but blue. While it’s never directly stated, given that we’ve never really seen him wear any other color (with the exception of the Eclipse armor), I think it’s pretty safe to assume that that’s his favorite. Blue sweater, blue jeans, blue shoes, even his backpack and bedsheets are blue. So naturally, his fursona would be predominantly blue as well! Plus some yellowish accents to (somewhat) match the natural colors of his chosen species(s).

I imagine he originally designed the character without horns, but then added them after becoming the Trollhunter, since it became such a major and impactful aspect of his life.

His lion’s mane also continues down his back in imitation of the “mantle” found on baby cheetahs. This youthful feature could subtly represent the fact that he’s been forced to grow up too fast and take on so much responsibility so young--so his fursona can still be young and carefree as long as he likes even while his real self struggles with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

This fursona is relaxed, calm, and confident. He’s not just cool--he’s crispy!

.

Lastly but not leastly, we have Claire. Out of the three, I think Claire was actually the easiest to choose--or at least, I had the clearest idea of what I thought she might go for.

Claire is a bit of an interesting duck, because while she’s shown to be fairly popular at school, she’s definitely far from the stereotype of The Popular Girl™. Yes she’s smart and pretty, but she’s also a little spunky or even a bit quirky--she’s a theatre kid, she’s a huge fan of hard rock band Papa Skull, and while I wouldn’t quite call her “rebellious” per se, she’s certainly willing to bend some rules if she feels the situation calls for it (not telling her parents that she was going to the concert with Steve, literally sneaking into Jim’s basement to try to find out what was up with him, etc).

That said, I think Claire might go for a hyena fursona--something a little out of the box, but not totally out of left field. (she also shows a slight Gurl Power™ streak here and there “the staff was not meant to be wielded by man--” “I am not a man!!!”) and if you know anything about hyenas...well, yeah lol)

I think Claire would lean into her punk-rock “rebellious” side with her fursona design. This character is completely free of the pressure of being the councilwoman’s daughter and having to maintain her mother’s public reputation, and thus allows Claire to express a less restrained side of herself. She has a bold semi-edgy color scheme with bright accents (and some earrings to match her person’s hair clips) while still remaining feminine and (her own brand of) fashionable. 

This fursona is spunky and sassy; she’s spicy and sweet all rolled up into one. She knows what she wants and she’s not afraid to chase it down. She lives her own life and she’s dang proud of it.

.

....sooooo yeah there’s my take on what Toby’s, Jim’s, and Claire’s fursonas could hypothetically be. And I guess since this post was inspired by a joke about Toby’s infatuation with the school mascot, here’s just some quick thoughts on how they might approach fursuiting to end us off:

Jim I don’t see as much of a suiter. He might try it once or twice if given the opportunity, but at the end of the day it’s not really his cup of tea--he’d rather act as the “handler” for his friends, if anything.

Toby and Claire, on the other hand, I could definitely see as suiters. In fact, with her interest in acting, Claire would probably particularly enjoy it--she’d be one of those suiters who really gets into character, absolutely refuses to break the magic publicly (outside of any actual medical emergency), and popular at cons because she just performs so well. 

Toby, meanwhile, would be the more chill type--uses his normal voice in-suit, isn’t really too stressed about “breaking the magic”, just kinda hanging around like he would normally except “look I’m a talking dog, cool right?”. 

also while I was typing this it occurred to be that since Eli is canonically a cosplayer then he could be a fursuiter as well; in his case i imagine he actually made his own suit it’s a protogen and it’s full of little LEDs and other electric gadgets, it’s not the prettiest thing ever as sewing is not his forte but boy did he try!! good for him. good for him

[portalford]

I Can Picture You So Easily

AO3

It hits Stan at the stupidest times.

Well.  That makes it sounds like Stan just forgets, when really it never quite goes away — sometimes it’s just more.

Like now.

He’s looking in the mirror — he found it tucked way, way back in a closet (and he’s gonna skip right over that because when he got here the mirror in the bathroom was broken, cracked until you couldn’t see a thing and why was Ford—nope) — and he’s trying out a new look for Mr. Mystery.

Gotta keep it fresh, right?  Accessorize?

Glasses aren’t accessories, unfortunately.  He can’t go without them anymore.

(Really, he needed them years ago, but he was too stubborn to admit it, or too broke, or whatever, but he’s literally tripping over his own feet now.  Needs must).

Ford wouldn’t be caught dead in this getup.  No sense of fashion.  So that’s fine.

The glasses—

(Ford started wearing glasses when he was six.  Stan had laughed himself silly when they went to the drugstore and tried on the biggest, most obnoxious frames they could find.  Ma had scolded, but she’d been too distracted checking price tags to do more than scold.

In the end, they went with some cheap horn-rimmed frames that Stan wouldn’t be caught dead in even now.  Old-man glasses, at six.  But that was Ford all over).

—they bring some stuff up.  The twin thing sucks, sometimes.  

(Looking in a mirror and seeing the changes, the lines in his face, the grey in his hair — does Ford have crow’s feet now?  Is his hair going silver?  It was always unmanageable — is it thinning like Stan’s is now, or is it still thick and flyaway, like it was when Ford was sixteen?  Did he even live long enough to get lines in his face and aches in his joints, or is he forever twenty-eight, dead somewhere in the universe?)

Time to stop thinking.

Notice the differences.

Stan’s ears and nose are bigger than Ford’s, always have been.  He’s heavier and his shoulders are broader.

(Has Ford gotten bulkier, fighting to survive?  Or is still he halfway to gaunt, like the last time Stan saw him?)

Definitely time to stop thinking.

Stan flashes a smile, and yeah, that’s all him.  Cheerful, magnetic, and a hundred percent fake.

Time to work the crowds.

*****

There’s an ad for the nice ink pens Ford saved up to buy when he was fourteen.

Stan turns it off.

*****

Mabel finds a picture, once.

“Grunkle Stan!”  Her eyes are all lit up as she shows him the torn photograph.  “I found this under a floorboard in the attic!”

If Stan ever had any doubts about his poker face, he can lay them to rest now. It’s all on the ropes and his expression is perfectly level, maybe even a little curious.

Mabel is still talking.  “I didn’t know there were pictures of you before you were all old!  Do you have any others?”

Oh.

Stan still forgets sometimes, even after everything, that most people can’t tell him and Ford apart.

He knows better.

The young man in the photograph is unmistakably Ford, taken while he was living in Gravity Falls.  He’s got his head bent over that journal of his, but the photographer managed to catch the eager light in his eye, the edge of his smile.

Stan wonders who that photographer was, all those years ago.

A tug at his shirt reminds him he’s not alone, and he definitely can’t get messed up about this picture of his secret twin brother.

Mabel’s face has fallen a bit.  “Grunkle Stan?  Are you okay?”

Stan gives himself two more seconds to look at the picture — Ford just looks so happy; Stan can’t even remember the last time Ford looked like that, even before it all fell apart — and turns to Mabel.

“Yeah,” he says.  He smiles and ruffles her hair.  “Pretty good picture, huh?”

*****

The name is the worst.

Stan never thought identity theft could involve so little fun.

Usually he can get away with just “Stan Pines,” and that’s fine.  That’s his name.  That’s who he’s supposed to be.

Sometimes, though, that’s not enough for whoever’s asking.

“What did you say your name was again?”

He smiles.  Lays it on thick.  “Stanford Pines.”

“Could you sign here?”

He does.  His blocky, uneven handwriting looks even worse than usual where he’s expecting to see neat, flowing script, the way Stanford Pines is supposed to be written.

“This is Stanford Pines,” someone will say.  “Mr. Mystery.”

Stan smiles some more.  Yes, Stanford Pines is certainly that.

Gideon is the worst.  Stanford this and Stanford that and Stan’s never wanted to punch a child so much in his life.

“Stanford Pines!”

He smiles, and he lies.

*****

Dipper halfway drives him nuts sometimes.

It’s not like the kid’s a mini-Ford — he reminds Stan enough of himself, sometimes, though Stan’s not sure that’s great either — but he’s got the brains and the stubbornness and the love of weird nonsense, for sure.

He’s also got that obsessive edge, the drive that sent Ford right off the metaphorical cliff.

Usually Mabel tags along on the weirdness hunts — they make a day of it.  They go out, just the two of them, and come back laughing and joking and shoving at each other.

That’s enough of a painful reminder, but sometimes Stan will catch Mabel sitting by herself, coloring or crafting with a little less energy than usual, and he’ll realize that Dipper’s buried himself in monster theory again.

He tries to keep the kid busy with chores and hustle, but it’s a losing battle.

It was the first time, too.

*****

There’s this old song that Ford used to love when they were younger.

It’s got no words, and Stan used to make fun of it — what's the point of a song with no words?  But Ford insisted it had Meaning, capital M.

It comes on the radio now and then.

Depending on how masochistic Stan is feeling that day, he might let it play.

He still wonders what Ford heard in this song, and if Ford would hear it now.

*****

He realizes, one day near the end, that he’s been Stanford longer than he’s been Stanley.

What’s the point, really?  What does a name matter if it’s so easy for someone else to take your place?

(Did Ford matter so little, in the grand scheme of things, that not one person could recognize him in a place he lived for six years?

Does Stan, in a place he’s lived for almost thirty?)

If he could just stop catching Ford in his reflection now and then, that’d be great.

*****

It’s not any better once Ford gets back (once Stan brings Ford back, the ungrateful bastard).

“Stanford!”

Stan’s got a smile on his face before he even turns around, and what’s wrong with him that he’s halfway made this lie into a Pavlovian response?  Someone calls him Stanford, he smiles and lies.

(Stanford — the real Stanford — is in the basement right now.  He doesn’t even exist, as far as anyone else is concerned.  Stan is Stanford, Stanley is dead, and Ford is a nonentity.

What a life this is).

*****

“So how was it?”

Stan grunts.  “How was what?”

Ford rolls his neck, wincing a little as he works out the unavoidable crick from hunching over a drawing for twenty minutes.  “Being me.”

Stan shrugs.  “Wasn’t hard.  We’re basically the same person, y’know.”

Ford snorts.  A long time (a lifetime) ago that comment might have gotten him worked up, but he’s steadier now, softer around the edges.  “Very funny.  I saw your lease renewal.  You didn’t even change your handwriting, for heaven’s sake.”

“Ford, I rolled up to town, said I was you, and started a tourist trap.  You had a total personality transplant and nobody noticed.”  Stan grimaces.  That sounded really bad.

Ford’s expression has gone rueful and a little sad at the edges, but he doesn’t seem like he’s about launch into full-blown self-recrimination, so that’s fine.  “Yes, well.  That’s what happens when you isolate yourself for six years and your only friend erases his mind to cope with the mistakes you made.”

And that’s Ford trying to shoulder all the blame again, but Stan keeps his mouth shut.  They’re both too comfortable to argue right now.  “Being honest — for once — it kinda sucked.”  Ford’s looking at him, open and encouraging, so Stan keeps going.  “Everyone thought I was you, and it—I wasn’t.  I didn’t want to be.”  Stan shrugs.  “I wanted you you.”

Ford smiles, and it’s a little more worn than Stan remembers, but it’s real, and it’s him.  “I understand.  I met a few parallel versions of you on my travels, and they were you, but — they weren’t really you.”  Ford closes his journal (his new one) and sets it aside, tipping his head back over his chair.  More playfully, he adds, “I wouldn’t want to be you either, Stanley.”

Stan laughs.  “Yeah?  Couldn’t handle the salesmanship?”

“Have more self-respect than to wear any part of your wardrobe.”

“Says the man who wears sweaters in the summer.”

Ford lifts his head and smiles, and this time it’s almost exactly how Stan remembers — quick and a little crooked.  “Fair enough.”  Ford stretches, rolls his neck again.  “For what it’s worth, Stanley, I am glad to be back.”  A wry look.  “Even if it’s going to take ages to sort out the criminal record you gave me.”

Stan slouches deeper into the couch.  Any further and he’s going to slide off, but that’s a risk he’ll take.  “Yeah, yeah.  Talk to me when you’re legally dead.”

“You did that.”

“And?”

“I legally don’t exist.”

“I was trying to learn theoretical physics at the time, Stanford; cut a man some slack.”

Ford laughs, quiet.  “Did I ever thank you for that?”

Stan cracks an eye open.  He didn’t realize he closed them.  “What, learnin’ physics?  Because I’m pretty sure that’s some of the stuff that’s not coming back.”

Ford rolls his eyes.  “For saving me.”

“Hm.”  Ford’s thanked him several times, but lately it’s been less Ford kicking himself and more Ford cautiously trying to engage in the old back-and-forth they used to have, and Stan can get behind that one.  “I dunno.  Might have to say it again.”

“You’re burning through my gratitude very quickly,” Ford says mildly, “but all right.  Thank you for saving me.  You knucklehead.”

Stan never got called that when he was Ford.  He thinks he’s missed it, at least the way Ford says it — like it means something completely different.

“Uh-huh.”  Stan’s eyes are closed again.  He figures he’ll just leave them closed.  “Missed you too, nerd.”

And maybe there’s something to be said for being your own person.

It feels pretty good.

[feeling--pink]

My Sweet Ride is an amazing episode of Phineas and Ferb and the only thing bad about it I that I wish we could have seen more people in full out 1950s clothes!! So I did that!! (Also including some MML kids because I love them and don’t draw them enough!)

Anyways!! If y’all want to see me rant about 1950s stuff for a very long time because I had a blast doing research for this project you should click the keep reading!! :D

Okay a quick prelude!! Not only am I going to talk about outfits I designed, but while doing research I was blown away about the attention to detail the original designers had for these outfits and characters so I’m going to talk about their outfits too! :D

Here are my sources if you want to look into this btw!! :D

https://vintagedancer.com/1950s/1950s-teenager-fashions-girls-fashion-trends-and-clothing-styles/ 

https://vintagedancer.com/1950s/1950s-teen-boys-clothing/ 

https://vintagedancer.com/1950s/1950s-hairstyles/ 

https://vintagedancer.com/1950s/1950s-dress-styles/ 

https://vintagedancer.com/1950s/1950s-womens-hats-by-style/ 

https://vintagedancer.com/1950s/1950s-womens-shoes-style/ 

Candace

Okay I’m going to start out by saying I just adore this outfit

That has nothing to do with anything I just really love it!!

I’m thinking I might make one of my own for Halloween but that’s off-topic

Okay- 1950s clothing!!

Candace is wearing a blouse (?) with a cardigan over the top, and a pleated swing skirt.

This is a classic 1950s girl’s style

More specifically its also a classic “preppy good kid” look

Which Candace absolutely is!!

Y’all should notice that all the skirts are past knee-length, which was standard of the time.

Candace also has a neck scarf, a common accessory, and a headband.

Ribbon headbands were still a thing in the 50s but the hard plastic headband was also coming into style in the later 1950s.

She’s wearing a pair of saddle shoes which were one of the popular options of the time among boys and girls

Her hair is long with curls at the end, another classic teenager look in the 50s!

While short hair was more popular among adult women, teenage girls often kept theirs long with slight curls on the end!

Bangs were also standard, but usually shorter than how I drew them

Sorry that bit’s inaccurate through all of them, it’s just easier for me to draw long!

Finally, in case you had any doubt about Candace’s outfit being time period, here’s an advertisement from the article I read:

Vanessa

To start off we have a blouse and pencil shirt for Vanessa

Pencil and swing skirts were the two most common skirts of the time

She’s also wearing a belt, which I modified slightly to look like-

The wide contour belt on the bottom right!

She’s also wearing a pillbox hat, one of the popular hats of the time!

Hats were generally not worn by teenagers because they were seen as “mature” 

But that fits pretty well with Vanessa’s character

It’s the same story with the pumps, which I also changed lightly to match time period ones a bit more

Now what made me make my original post about the outfits in My Sweet Ride was actually the hair

Specifically, Vanessa’s hair is modeled after the Bettie Page style

This hair wasn’t actually that popular with the masses because it was seen as too simple, not classy, etc.

BUT it was popular among rebel girls in the USA

And like!!!!!! Y’all the designers did SUCH a good job to get down into details like that!!!!!!!!

But yeah her outfit’s great!! Next one!

Stacy

For Stacy, I decided to change things up slightly and give her a dress!

Specifically, it’s a shirtwaist dress, which I modeled after the reference below

Why the shirtwaist dress you may ask? Idk I think they’re neat

I thought it fit the vibe I was going for so I did that one I don’t know what to tell you jkdshsf-

Okay so generally, the belt wouldn’t have been a different color but I wanted to tie the green I used in a little more

Btw sorry I changed her color scheme a bit

I honestly haven’t fully figured out her original color scheme so I modified it a bit so it would look nice for this!

Pastels were very popular in the summer after all

I tried to stick to everyone else’s original color scheme though!

Stacy also has a headband tied up into a bow, which was standard

And to change things up I put her in a ponytail (with the end curled) which was popular with the teens!

Sklsdjhdkj I sound very “how do you do fellow teens“ while writing this that’s unintentional sorry

Shoes are penny loafers, another popular shoe at the time

I liked the little bows on the ends of some of the ones I saw and thought it was very Stacy!

That’s about it for her!

Phineas

This has nothing to do with anything but I love drawing Phineas

He’s just a funky little triangle!! I love him!

I’ll admit here that I didn’t look into men’s hairstyles, so you won’t hear about that from me sorry!

Phineas is wearing a black button-up, standard. 

Black and white matched everything so they were the most common undershirt colors

Over that, he has a jacket that looks to be varsity jacket inspired, which was seen as super cool!

Full jeans were coming into popularity in the 50s but only with the younger generations

Finally, he also has saddle shoes like Candace does

So yeah it’s a solid 1950s outfit!!

Ferb

Ferb’s a greaser, need I say more?

No, really he has everything

The white t-shirt and jeans combo is exactly the greaser look, so much so that most teenagers avoided it to not fall into stereotypes

Tighter fit jeans were coming into style in the later 50s, so that’s also accurate

The leather jacket just amplifies the greaser look

The one thing is that for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what shoes he was wearing

So I gave him a pair of sho-loks and called it a day!

More about sho-loks in Milo’s portion!

Isabella

Isabella makes an appearance with the first (and only) poodle skirt of the group!!

Poodle skirts, while definitely what most people think about when you say the 50s, actually weren’t that popular among teenagers

The embroidered designs were seen as childish, so children and preteens wore them the most

But here’s a fun tidbit you may not have caught from the show, Isabella is, in fact, a child

(I don’t know why I built that up so much sorry ldksjfhkds)

Anyways I decided if I was going to give anyone a classic poodle skirt it might as well be Isabella!

I modeled it after this poodle skirt:

She’s also wearing a blouse with a peter pan collar, the most popular collar of the time

Another headband tied into a bow because it’s Isabella I had to give her a bow

Standard belt (nothing really to say about that)

And another pair of penny loafers with little bows because they’re cute gosh darn it!

Milo

Okay, I’ve been writing for a while but honestly a lot of the rest of these I just drew directly from reference so…

I did say I would talk about shu-loks here though and I will!!!

Now we know Milo is shoelace-adverse

And while there are plenty of slip-on options I found the shu-lok to be fascinating!!

As you can see above, the tongue snaps down to keep the shoe on your foot!! Isn’t that cool? :D

So yeah I gave Milo those!!  

Zack

We know Zack plays football so I gave him your standard sporty outfit

Sorry I just find girls outfits infinitely more interesting so I kinda focused on those skjhgfdss

Oh! I do have something to say here!!

Converse were your typical sports shoe for the 50s so he has those!! Almost forgot that tidbit!!

Yeah, thick soles with wrinkles and stuff were seen as cool among teens so they got popular!

Melissa

Finally, we have some patterned pants!!

Yeah- checkers, plaid, stripes, polka dots, etc. were all very popular!!

I just didn’t want to draw them a lot ‘cause it’s hard sksfjdhgs-

But I gave Melissa checkers because it would get the black and white of her color scheme and I liked the way the checkered pants looked!!

Girls did wear pants at the time by the way!!

During summer and weekends mostly since they weren’t allowed to wear them to school

Short-sleeved turtle necks were also a thing and I thought that combo would look neat!!

Also, converse because it went with the outfit and that’s kinda what she’s wearing in the show!

Hair in a ponytail and side part bangs, both popular!

Yeah okay, that’s about it for Melissa!

Amanda

By this point, y’all are hopefully getting the gist of 50s fashion so we’re going fast now

Blouse, swing skirt, penny loafers (different style but still penny loafers), headband

(here’s what I modeled the whole thing after:)

I do want to mention the pullover sweater because I thought I should include one and I really like the flower embroidery on them

Then finally we come to her hair!! I already mentioned the headband but I was specifically modeling her hair in the pageboy style which looks like this:

Obviously, it looks a little stylized but what can you do?

And that’s it!! I had so much fun doing research and designing this and I think they all turned out pretty good!! I’m going to do more go this in the futures so if there's someone in particular you’d like to see let me know!! I’m planning on doing Cavendish, Dakota, and Sara at least in the next batch!! 

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas​ donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT �� ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

*

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

       rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

               teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

 December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

       rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :(  :(

       rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

             teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

                     coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

 November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

    rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

         bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

               rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

 November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

 November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

     bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

           teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

     rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

          bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

*

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

*

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

*

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

        bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

              rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

     rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

    rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

[luminisvii]

RATING! ALL! THE CHAR CLONES!

i love char and gundam loves him too so because i am BORED i'm gonna rate all characters that the wiki tells me qualifies as a char clone!

many of these men will be rated on aesthetics and their wiki blurb alone since i have not watched all gundams

i tried to include pics but it SAID i can only use ten. WHAT? how am i supposed to rate how sexy they are?

Char Aznable

the man. the myth. the legend. i love him so much. hes super fucking hot bc of how bad he is. like an absolute madlad he goes around destroying the zabis and giving amuro hell. hes so good that despite being on team evil he regularly tops popularity polls and is widely regarded as being super attractive. im asexual but i agree. char is supreme. he and his red mobile suits cannot be topped. 20/10

Quattro Bajeena

now, char might be evil, but this guy is totally a stand up dude who is definitely not char. and the hyaku shiki? top tier. also very sexy. maybe char should take a lesson or two from this lovely man. 18/10 could not possibly be char himself

Glemy Toto

i have not watched ZZ. this dude upholds the tradition of stupid ass names in gundam. he just kinda look like hes a good person, though, which would be nice, but i prefer the evil men here. 6/10 love the idiotic name

Afranche Char

apparently a literal char clone. don't give a fuck. 1/10

Carozzo Ronah/Iron Mask

this guy really takes the mask thing seriously. i have also not watched F91. i love the just robot lookin mask and the purple color scheme. 8/10

Anavel Gato

this guy is kind of a chump. i get the feeling i'm supposed to find gato very cool, but all i could see was a total loser pushover as long as it was in the name of zeon. although to be fair, he was basically one of the most enjoyable characters in the mess that is stardust memory. 7/10 too much of a zeon apologist

Chronicle Asher

i called gato a chump but this guy looks like a tool. hes got the mask! i know nothing about victory gundam but this guy looks like, okay. 5/10

Schwarz Bruder

im ignoring the other guy listed with him on the wiki bc Herr Bruder is in fact, awesome. he isn't on team evil like some others, but he doesn't need to be. hes a JESTER NINJA. what's not to love? somehow, despite me thinking i knew the twist that was coming, he was still full of surprises. you cannot possibly predict the actual twist here. he really teaches domon how to get shit done. 15/10 absolutely sublime take on the trope

Zechs Marquise

not only is he voiced by takehito koyasu, but he chars so hard he chars three times as fast! we LOVE his dedication to being a char clone. i will never forget how treize challenged him to a fair fight and he was just like nah lmao. you go you stinky man! 10/10 for char-ing hard

Lancerow Dawell and Jamil Neate

i am fascinated by after war X and i'll watch it one day. it seems like the wiki is confused about these two and is going with very surface level details for these two being char clones. however i'll rate them both higher bc i think mr. neate's sideburns and glasses are just top tier character design. 9/10

Harry Ord

10/10

Rau le Creuset

i think i saw him in the like three episodes of SEED i watched. he definitely looks the part. seems kinda lame though. 6/10

Athrun Zala

this kid is hilarious, and also the most likable character i met in SEED, and he even has a quattro phase as he goes by alex dino! we'll give him points for effort. 9/10 you tried

Neo Roanoke

definitely not mu la flaga. hes also voiced by takehito koyasu. his mask looks kinda dumb, but i think the long hair look upgrades my man mu. takehito koyasu makes everything sexier. 8/10 bc i also simp for dio brando

Rey Za Burrel

how many char clones does the SEEDverse have? i do appreciate rey's early 2000s brooding anime boy look, though. 5/10

Gilbert Durandal

WHY ARE THERE SO MANY SEED CHARS!!! this guy doesn't even look like a char clone, but he has the same voice actor and also apparently tries to drop shit on earth. we stan a king, honestly. 6/10 being in SEED deducts points

Hal Vizardt and Vladi Zarth

the wiki wont even give me a picture of these guys. 2/10 they get a point each

Ali Al-Saachez

i hate this guy. he sucks. normally i would find such endless villainy entertaining, but ali simply cannot work it in a way that's fun to watch or even in a way where you're like 'he's got a point.' he just sucks and i wish he could have been funny. we already have a char clone in graham anyway, so why are you here? bitch. 0/10 i was waiting for him to die

Graham Aker

he has all the tropes of being a char clone, and i loved him at first bc of his flair for drama and poetry, but alas! he got more and more sidelined for a different motherfucker. it's okay graham, i still love you! your mr. bushido phase was hilarious! 9/10 you deserved so much more

Full Frontal

hes getting points for the hilarious name but thats it. he is otherwise very boring. you cannot make me love a man just bc he is a literal char clone. 3/10

Zeheart Galette

AGE is also on my "deeply fascinated" list. eventually, eventually. i kinda dig this one's look. 7/10

Tatsuya Yuuki

initially, i hated yuuki bc i thought he was beating on middle schoolers for fun, but then i learned the dude is so goddamn passionate about gundam that he HAS to share it with others and honestly? king shit. while he's technically a char clone, i think he's actually a graham aker clone. the dude stans 00. an admirable position to be in. i love yuuki so much and hes my favorite build fighters character. 15/10 i will always respect the meijin

Captain Mask

the name is hilarious. hes got a cool mask too. i'll maybe watch recon one day bc of how ridiculous the reputation is. 8/10

Lady Kawaguchi

the rare female one, and proves that the kawaguchi name requires you to be extra as fuck. compared to yuuki's raw passion, she's cool and knows it, and doesn't need to flex. sadly doesn't get to do a lot. 10/10

McGillis Fareed

MCGILLIS MY BELOVED!!!! perhaps the only char clone that matters. this dude brings back the classic level of backstabbing, the supreme attractiveness, and in general, being an awful person. but i can't help but feel for the guy. he was trying his goddamn hardest to overturn a fucked up system. he also simply could not fathom having friends. mcgillis might only do the mask thing for a little and also wears a wig (McWiggis) but i forgive him, because the moves he does in bael are truly sexy. i adore mcgillis i have to rate him high but he cannot overtake the classic. 19/10 would let him betray me

Kyoya Kujo

even the wiki doesn't seem confident in this one. i like his look though. hes kinda got some gentle eyes, so i will assume he's the more quattro flavor of things. 6/10

Masaki Shido

BRUHHHH HE LOOKS LIKE A KNIGHT. 10/10

Honorable Mentions:

Master Asia

i didn't think he truly qualified as a char clone. he hits the villain thing and technically has some ideals aligned with char ? but he's a little too different. lacks majority of the archetype tropes. i still love him though 9/10

Vidar

hes got a mask and wants revenge. definitely not gaelio. the problem is, we already have mcgillis in IBO. i just don't register gaelio as being a char clone, because mcgillis is out here being the worst. gaelio is a wonderful character in his own right for all the opposite reasons that mcgillis is fantastic for being the worst. 10/10 i want nothing but the best for him

Ulube Ishikawa

just bc he has a mask covering half his face and is evil doesn't mean he's a char clone, wiki! and how dare you take away from schwarz just to be like "well ulube has a mask" WE HAVE ONE ALREADY!!! i also hate ulube. he is not a particularly charismatic character, but he isn't supposed to be. 2/10

and thus is my arbitrary ranking of the char clones. some people think char clones are bad. i for one, love them! i hope future entries have more masked men.

[rabbiteclair]

So, about the new fic. Like I’ve said before, descended from this thing. The current planned title is The World, Upside Down, but I reserve the right to change it if I find one that I like better. Which I would like to do, but seems unlikely.

My earliest outlines for this story go back to April 2014. In those almost seven years the core concept hasn’t changed much: All the characters are shuffled around into different positions and lives, but rather than being an AU the swap is an actual thing that happened, and people figure it out. Many things ensue. Even a lot of the individual plot beats haven’t changed all that much. I just had to flesh out a whole lot of stuff in the process, which is why this ended up being almost 150,000 words.

And the swapping is why it took six years.

The very first part that popped into my head for this was ‘oh, Yukari could be the Hakurei shrine maiden!’ So I decided that all of the hierarchies had been inverted, and I was shoehorning Reimu into the Yakumo family because it isn’t like she’s in a hierarchy. ... which is kinda the problem. If the hierarchies just swap, then what the heck happens to, like, Mokou? (Pay attention to Mokou, she spent the next five years repeatedly ruining my life.) Okay, so obviously that couldn’t work.

The next idea was just to take prominent pairs and swap them. So Yukari and Reimu swap, and Mokou and Kaguya swap, and... okay so if Kaguya swaps with Mokou, what happens to Eirin, Reisen, and Tewi? If they don’t swap with her, then the majority of characters aren’t changing. If they do swap with her, then... I actually did have one short-lived draft where Eirin/Reisen/Tewi were some kind of human devotees of immortal human Kaguya, and I got about thirty words into it before I decided this sucked.

Next idea! Each faction swaps or inverts, but not both. This one mostly worked. You can sort everyone out like this. It had two big problems, though: 1) I found it kind of hard to keep track of the characters, and some of the roles just didn’t work well. There are lots of factions where if you invert them, you get, like... White Hare of Inaba Eirin, or Buddhist Magician Kyouko. Which were both big enough swaps that I pretty much had to reinvent everyone from the ground up, and hard enough to keep track of that I thought readers would just lose patience for it. And 2) It didn’t shake things up enough in places. I found it kind of weird to, like, have Reisen be a human maid, and meanwhile Yuyuko just has 50% Less Ghost. So no more Mokou problem, right? Kaguya can just get swapped with another faction along with the rest of Eientei, Mokou can swap with Keine, Akyuu can swap with Kosuzu, which leaves... Rinnosuke with nowhere to go. Goddammit Mokou.

So what I finally settled on is: All of the factions swap, and individual characters swap with each other apart from very few circumstances. In some cases, these swaps can be circular. (Remilia &co in Eientei, Kaguya and friends in Chireiden, and Satori’s gang in the SDM, for example.) Then, and here’s the important part, everyone just rearranges to whatever feels right to me. So fuck it, however you wanna parse the hierarchies of the two factions, as a Lunarian Patchouli’s the pharmacist because she’s the most Eirin-like of the group. Yukari’s in charge of the Yakumos, but as a Hakurei she’s below two goddesses because she makes the best Reimu substitute. Etc. This one, I finally found easy enough to remember, and everyone felt pretty natural in their roles.

And then I took all the stuff that still bugged me and made it into plot points, because really, you cannot make a perfect, 100% consistent system for this.

Anyway, the character list I ended up with, incident resolvers in italics:

Hakurei Shrine Ran (Calculating Goddess of the Hakurei Shrine) Chen (Black Cat Apprentice Goddess) Yukari Hakurei (Elusive and Two-Faced Shrine Maiden)

Forest of Magic Alice Kirisame (Seven-Colored and Tactical-Minded Magician) Marisa Margatroid (High-Firepower Puppeteer)

Hakugyokurou Eiki Saigyouji (Supreme Ghost of the Netherworld) Komachi Konpaku (Half-Human, Half-Phantom, Half-Diligent Gardener)

Scarlet Devil Mansion Satori Scarlet (Eternally Lonesome Scarlet Moon) Koishi Scarlet (Closed-Hearted Sister of the Devil) Rin Izayoi (Perfectly Macabre Maid) Utsuho Hong (Earth-Rending Gatekeeper)

Youkai Mountain/Genbu Ravine Aya Yasaka (Self-Serving and Troublesome Mountain Goddess) Momiji Moriya (The Most Diligent of Native Gods) Hatate Kochiya (Modern-Day Shrine Maiden of the Human World) Mamizou Kawashiro (Shrewd and Surprising Kappa Engineer) Kanako Shameimaru (Scheming Reporter of Fantasy) Suwako Himekaidou (Thoughtography Reporter Looking Forward to Retirement) Sanae Inubashiri (Upbeat Patrol Tengu)

Human Village (and environs) Hieda no Mokou (Nine-Generation Immortal Human Sage) Akyuu Kamishirasawa (Half-Beast Savant) Rinnosuke Motoori (Modest and Content Bibliophile) Kosuzu Morichika (Junk Collector with a Deciphering Eye)

Bamboo Forest Fujiwara no Keine (Bookish Hermit of the Bamboo Forest) Patchouli Yagokoro (The Unmoving Brain of the Moon) Remilia Houraisan (Inhuman Princess of the Full Moon) Flandre Houraisan (Destructive Sinner of the New Moon) Sakuya Udongein Inaba (Perfectly Lunatic Rabbit) Meiling Inaba (Colorful Rabbit of Good Fortune)

Underworld Eirin Komeiji (An Eye Feared By All) Kaguya Komeiji (The Satori Who Sees Eternity) Reisen Kaenbyou (Overworked Hell Cat) Tewi Reiuji (Divine Flame of Mischief)

Myouren Temple Miko Hijiri (Supreme Buddhist of the Youkai Temple) Seiga Toramaru (Wicked Tiger Representing Bishamonten) Futo Kumoi (Youkai Monk of Esoteric Arts) Tojiko Murasa (Beached Ghost of the Drowned Dead) Yoshika (Eloquent Mouse Who Serves Two Masters)

Senkai Toyosatomimi no Byakuren (Entirely Too Enlightened Taoist) Shou Kaku (Noble Hermit with Wicked Arts) Nazrin Miyako (Crafty General Who Transcends Death) Mononobe no Ichirin (Ascetic Hermit of Old Japan) Soga no Minamitsu (Vengeful Spirit of an Undying Grudge)

Ministry of Right and Wrong Yuyuko Shiki (Supreme Judge, Napping in Paradise) Youmu Onozuka (Shinigami with a Sharpened Scythe)

??? Reimu Yakumo (Carefree Fox with an Absent Master)