#WE ARE JAMMING NOBODY INTERRUPT US!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ckret2 · 11 months

Text

The latest installment of "literally nobody is happy about Bill being the Mystery Shack's prisoner," chapter 8: Bill attempts to manipulate the humans with the only weapon he still has at his disposal: grossing them out. Also featuring: dramatic arguments with Ford, a surprise bath, and me trying my level best to convince you all that hair is the most disgusting substance in the universe, let me know how I do at that. Chapters one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven if you missed them.

A few days into summer vacation, just before dawn, Dipper and Mabel were woken by a series of thunderous crashes and pained screams, followed by Bill's piercing, maniacal laughter. They were armed and out the bedroom door in seconds.

Mabel said, "Who did he kill?!"

"I think he blew up a wall to escape—"

They skidded to a stop at the top of the attic stairs. Bill had tumbled halfway down, crashed into the wall where the stairs made a ninety degree turn, and was now sprawled upside-down on the steps, giggling.

Dipper lowered his weapon. "What."

"I ff—" Bill was interrupted by a wheeze of laughter. "I forgot how stairs work."

He spotted the kids—Dipper holding a metal claw hammer, Mabel holding a kitchen knife longer than her forearm—and abruptly stopped laughing. "Wow, you kids came ready to commit murder! Just waiting for the first excuse, huh?"

"Shut up." Dipper looked at Mabel. "Wanna go back to bed?"

"I think my blood is all adrenaline now."

Dipper sighed. "Yeah. Let's get breakfast, I guess."

They trudged down the stairs, shoulders pressed to the wall to stay as far from Bill as possible. As they passed Bill, Dipper muttered, "You could at least get out of the way."

Bill—who'd been about to gingerly sit up—lay back down and spread out across the landing. "Think I'd rather mildly inconvenience you!"

Mabel threw in, "And take a shower! You smell like an outhouse."

"That's my human-repellant forcefield."

The twins headed for the kitchen for a snack they could take out of the shack—and were blocked by Stan in the doorway. "Hold on. Don't go in there. You smell that?"

Dipper and Mabel sniffed the air, and grimaced. Mabel stuck out her tongue. Dipper said, "Ugh. We thought that was Bill, but it's worse down here."

"One of two things happened here," Stan said. "Either a squirrel and a raccoon fought to death under the fridge and started rotting; or the space demon cast some kind of stink curse. Personally, I'm hoping for dead wildlife. But until I find out, you two stay out of the kitchen."

There were several more crashes as Bill tumbled down the second half of the stairs, a groan, and a muttered, "What am I getting wrong?"

Stan rounded on Bill. "Hey! Demon. Don't suppose you happen to know why the kitchen smells..." He gestured vaguely, "like that."

Seated on the floor, Bill had been absorbed in prodding his limp left arm; but at the question, he looked up with a worryingly bright smile. "It just so happens I do!"

"Explain."

He twisted his left arm with his right, jammed it back into its proper position with a pop, and straightened himself up. "Funny thing—you know how I can't open doors? Because of the curse your brother put on me? Of course you do. Well—darnedest little quirk of human architecture—I don't know if you noticed, but it just so happens that all of the toilets in this house are behind doors!"

Stan's face blanched. "Oh no."

"At any given time, this body I'm in is freely secreting about half a dozen different bodily fluids—snot, spit, sweat, I could go on—and you humans are perfectly comfortable with that. But you think one bodily fluid is special and can only go in the special white bowl. Me, on the other hand—I'm an energy being that doesn't leak all day! Your fluids are all equal to me! I don't care about your special white bowls!"

Hotly, Stan said, "You're in my house—"

Immediately twice as angry and twice as loud as Stan, Bill said, "So if you think I'm going to lower myself to asking three times a day for permission to use a STUPID TOILET for YOUR COMFORT—"

And that was when they started screaming.

Dipper looked at Mabel. "Let's eat out."

Mabel nodded. "You know that burger place where Wendy gets breakfast—?"

"If we hurry, we can probably meet her there."

By the time they'd changed and come back downstairs, Ford had joined in the argument, Abuelita had set up a folding chair to watch it like a wrestling match, and the volume had doubled. (Bill: "BE GRATEFUL I USED THE SINK INSTEAD OF YOUR CEREAL BOXES! NEXT TIME I WON'T BE SO MERCIFUL!" Stan: "I'M GONNA INSTALL A DOOR KNOB ON THE KITCHEN FAUCET AND THEN YOU'LL NEED MY PERMISSION TO DRINK, YOU LITTLE—") Dipper and Mabel squeezed around the crowd, slid out the door, and biked into town.

They decided they'd just stay out the rest of the day.

They'd been doing that a lot lately.

####

When they made it home that evening, the first person they ran into was Soos, relocating a detached door. "Oh, hey dudes! Okay so, update on the Bill situation." Soos leaned the door against the wall. "We removed the door on the downstairs half bath and nailed up a curtain instead, so, now it's curse-accessible, but Bill can't lock himself in and do—" he wiggled his fingers, "secret Bill things. So. If you wanna use a bathroom with a real door, you've gotta go upstairs now."

Mabel considered that. "The bathroom with the tub still has a real door, right?"

"Yeah dudes, it's fine!"

Dipper said, "So... do we have a way to get him to shower...?"

Mabel said, "Yeah, whatever Bill's been doing in the kitchen sink—"

(Soos said, "And the trash can, it turns out.")

"—it hasn't included sponge baths, and it's getting obvious."

"And I'm not really comforted by his 'human-repellant forcefield' comment," Dipper added.

Mabel nodded. "I'd kinda like Bill to clean up before he gets as bad as Dipper last July."

"Hey."

Soos pointed toward the attic. "Ford's working on that right now." He whispered, "He's got a theory that Bill's just just too proud to ask for permission to use the facilities? So maybe if we ask him to take a shower, he'll go, 'oh, okay, I'm doing you guys a favor,' and then he'll agree to be let in and out of the bathroom."

Dipper grimaced. "I don't like the idea of begging him to shower."

"Uh... I'm fine with it." Soos shrugged. "Better smug than smelly."

####

"All right, Cipher."

Every time Ford came upstairs, Bill was curled up in the window seat, one side pressed against the glass. If it weren't for the crumpled jerky and granola bags and the empty energy drinks scattered beneath Bill's window seat—or the occasional downstairs argument—Ford would have suspected Bill hasn't budged in days. It made him nervous. There was an ice pack on Bill's left shoulder that had sat there so long it was completely melted.

"You got the bathroom you wanted. Now, would you take a shower?" Ford mustered up all his willpower as he prepared to mortify himself, and added, "Please."

It was important to note that Ford had spent his youth as the golden child; Stan had been disowned before his desire to please his parents had a chance to wilt and die; and Ford had barely seen Shermie's teen years. He'd spent his own adolescence isolated from his peers, and hadn't gotten to know any youths except Dipper and Mabel since then.

All of which was to say, the look Bill Cipher gave Ford, shocking in its ferocity, was utterly alien to him; but would have been familiar to millions of humans around the world.

It was the same look received by authoritarian parents whose tyranny had squeezed a little too tight, and whose offspring had realized they were grounded so severely they no longer had anything left to lose. It was the wrath of the defiant teenager.

And then the most pleasant smile snapped on Bill's face, quick as flicking a light switch. "What's in it for me?"

Ford blinked in disbelief. What needed to be in it for Bill? It was a shower. "Being... clean?"

"Eh."

Ford's shoulders sagged. "At least use deodorant?" he pled. "Change clothes? Brush your hair? Something?"

"No, no, absolutely not, aaand no. What's the matter, Stanford? I've been staying out of your way! You don't even see me up here. The stench can't be getting to you that much, so what do you care what I do to this body?" Bill's grin widened. "Guilt starting to set in? Must be hard to pretend you're a hospitable host rather than a kidnapper when your 'guest' is living in squalor—"

"Enough," Ford snapped. "So this is what, your way of protesting your own captivity? You have to realize how stupid this is."

"Buuut it's wooork-iiing," Bill said, a singsong lilt to his voice. "It's getting on your neee-eeerves."

"You're going to cause yourself problems in the long run! Diseases, infections—don't tell me I have to explain germ theory to you, you're smarter than that."

Bill scoffed. "I'm flattered you're so concerned about my health, but you can relax. I've been washing my hands and brushing my teeth like a good little potential disease vector. But you humans are so safe inside your modern fortresses with minimal carnivorous bugs and flesh-eating fungi—most of your hygiene expectations are cosmetic! I'm more willing to put up with itchy dandruff than you are to put up with the smell."

"Are you listening to yourself? This is—" Ford paused. "You've been brushing your teeth? Where did you get a toothbrush?"

"I've been using the dish brush and liquid dish soap in the kitchen." Bill laughed. "Wow, look at you—lecturing your prisoner on poor hygiene when you didn't give him any way to clean up! That's not a good look, pal."

Ford made a mental note to find a spare toothbrush for Bill. He flung his hands out in exasperation. "But—why put up with itchy dandruff at all? Why refuse to shower, of all things? And don't say to be annoying—you're cutting off your nose to spite your face!"

"Because cutting off my nose is the only bargaining chip I've got, and you know it."

Seeing expressions on Bill's face—smiles and scowls and smirks and sneers, mouth and tongue and cheeks and eyebrows—still felt wrong. No matter what expression Bill put on, it always felt to Ford like he was using his face to tell some sort of lie. But his eyes—Ford was familiar with Bill's eye, and doubling them didn't banish that familiarity. He knew this heavy, hard, emotionless look. It was the same look he'd seen just before Bill had shown him, through his own eye, the sight of his home dimension burning. Of all the looks he'd seen in Bill's eye—curved crescent with sadistic glee, literally red with fury—something about this heavy look chilled Ford the most. It was, somehow, the cruelest he'd ever seen Bill.

Bill got to his feet, wincing as he uncurled his hunched back. He stretched, spine cracking, as he sauntered lazily toward Ford. "Can I speak frankly with you, Sixer? I can't do a lot of tricks in this body. Heck, I'd try to tell you I don't have any tricks right now—but I'm sure you'd just say I'm lying to get your guard down, blah blah; so let's agree that, at least, I don't have the power to escape or kill you all, or I would have by now! This body—" he gestured grandly down at himself, "—as far as I'm concerned, is a dirty sticker stuck on the bottom of my shoe. It's trash. It's disposable. It's worth less than nothing to me. But it's all I've got at my disposal. So I'm going to be disgusting, until you start doing me favors to make me stop."

"Favors," Ford said. "And if we don't?"

Bill shrugged, hands raised. "Then I guess I'll keep being gross! But I cannot overemphasize just how little I care about your species's ideas about minimum hygiene standards, or how far I'm willing to go to irritate you all. This morning's hazmat crisis in the kitchen was just a warning shot. You will cave first."

As unnerving as that heavy look in Bill's eyes was, simply seeing it wasn't what rattled Ford. It was knowing that Bill could wear that cruel look while talking about committing quiet, passive violence on himself.

Bill stared Ford down for a moment; then apparently took Ford's silence for a small victory. "I want a drink strong enough to rot a bootlegger's guts, a hot meal that hasn't been cooked by Grandma Guilia Tofana down there, or—" Bill pointed toward the attic window that his curse prevented him from opening, "a breeze and some fresh air. I'm flexible. Let me know when you're ready to negotiate." He returned to his seat in the window. "I won't be far."

Giving Bill "a breeze" would obviously give him an escape route, and Bill was no doubt angling to accumulate tiny, "harmless" favors until he tricked the humans into doing something that would let him escape; but... Ford eyed the empty junk food bags on the floor. He tried to remember whether he'd seen Bill eat anything except for unrefrigerated factory-sealed snacks he could forage from the open kitchen shelves—or if the last fresh food Bill had tasted had been Abuelita's cyanide cooking.

Bill wanted Ford to pity him. That was what this whole charade was about. Ford hated that it was working. Not because of Bill's performative filthiness—but because Ford knew, too well, what it was like to be trapped, powerless, and hungry in an alien dimension; and because even when Bill was all but confessing he was trying to exploit Ford's pity, he was still trying so hard to pretend he wasn't afraid.

"I'll let you know what Stanley says."

Bill didn't turn away quite fast enough to hide his smile of triumph. "I'll be waiting." He settled back down into the same position he'd held for half a day and stared out at the night sky.

####

After several days in this body, Bill could definitively conclude that sleep was the worst part of being human.

Repeatedly blacking out and coming to, only to realize he couldn't remember anything for the past several hours. Usually he didn't even remember dreaming, even though he knew he must have dreamt for at least a couple hours. He hated not knowing what had been happening around his physical body for all that time, and he hated not knowing what he'd been doing in his dreams. Anything could have happened to him during those missing hours in the mindscape.

The few dreams he remembered were little comfort. Nightmares about dying, about faces and places he was galled to find out had been lodged in this human brain's subconscious—but the subject matter wasn't the important part. What mattered was that, while he was dreaming, he didn't know he was dreaming.

He didn't know how that was possible. He couldn't remember how the dreams started, what trick they must have pulled to persuade him that this was reality even though he couldn't remember what had happened five minutes earlier, or how they hypnotized him into unquestioningly playing along with their bizarre impossible Wonderland plot lines. Waking up was more terrifying than his nightmares, as he reoriented himself to reality and he had to grapple with how helplessly delusional he'd just been—and the knowledge that it would happen again, and again, and again.

Bill knew how human minds worked. He knew how humans dreamed. He'd been swimming through their dreams for millennia. This was normal for humans, and the knowledge that it was normal was the only thing keeping him from going mad with terror.

But the fact that it was normal for humans didn't mean it was normal for him. Because he was not human, and he hated blacking out for hours at a time, and he hated being so foggy-minded and vulnerable in the mindscape.

Most of his diet of the past few days consisted of energy drinks. His throat constantly blazed with heartburn. He needed a better solution—and maybe he could think of one once he got a decent meal or a drink that could help him sleep without dreaming.

He was hungry, he was tired, and he was weak.

####

But in spite of the caffeine, at some point Bill must have fallen asleep—because he woke up.

For once, he didn't wake from the searing heat of psychic fires.

He woke from the deadly chill of ice cold bath water.

"HELP!" Bill flailed, bashed both elbows and a heel against porcelain, and went under. He came up spluttering. "Mayday! Charybdis! Carpathia!"

The bathroom door slammed shut. From the other side, Stan shouted, "We considered your terms, and uh—we decided we're rejecting your demands, you get nothing, aaand you've gotta bathe."

Bill heaved himself out of the tub, flopped on the floor, and lay there wetly. Like a fish out of water, if the fish had given up the will to live. "Texq exmmbkba?"

"We dropped you in the tub," Ford said. "And we're going to do that every time your stench becomes intolerable, unless you bathe voluntarily. Is that clear?"

("What the heck language is he speaking now?" "Not a language. Caesar cipher." "You're tellin' me Cipher was Caesar, too?")

Bill coughed out a mouthful of water. "I'll drown myself."

"No you won't."

"I'd enjoy it. It'll be fun."

Ford hesitated. "Knowing you, you probably would. But you could only do it once."

"I'll slaughter you both."

Stan laughed. "Sure, if you ever reach us!" He jiggled the doorknob tauntingly.

Bill dragged himself across the floor and pounded on the door. He hollered, "I'll make meat linguine out of your skins with an orange peeler! I'll cook it in bone broth made by boiling your teeth!"

There was an awkward pause. Stan said, "I don't have teeth."

"You two are a loser who was only ever likable when you were pretending to be your brother and a puffed-up self-pitying nerd who never learned that no one's impressed by a child prodigy after age twenty-two! The biggest impact you'll ever have on each other is derailing each other's life dreams, and all your friends are worse off for knowing you! Your father died ashamed of you both and if he knew the truth about your lives he'd have been even more ashamed! Sherman has no positive memories of you, your obituaries will spell both your names wrong, and I'm going to feed your souls to an ouroboros that will repeatedly digest and defecate you for ten thousand years!"

After a couple more minutes of threats and insults, when Bill had to slow down to catch his breath, Ford calmly said, "Have you got that out of your system?"

A pause. "Think I'm good now." Bill slumped back to the floor, his cheek pressed to the cool, damp floorboards. "Okay. You win. Name your terms."

"You're not coming out of there until you've bathed," Ford said. "We'll let you out when you tell us you're clean. If you're not clean, we close the door again. If you want to sit there and sulk, then we'll leave, and once you're clean you'll have to wait until somebody feels like checking on you. Is that clear."

"Clear as crystal."

"Good. On the cabinet by the tub, you'll find a towel, washcloth, brush, comb, bar of soap, and shampoo. Are you familiar with how to use all of them."

"Sure! Course I am." Bill picked up the bar of soap, dipped it in the water, and experimentally rubbed it on his forearm. He pursed his lips dubiously at the results of this experiment. In a flash of brilliant inspiration, he peeled the cardboard box off of the soap bar. "How hard can it be?"

"Fine. There's a clean change of clothes next to the supplies. If you can get this over with in a timely manner, without wrecking the bathroom or wasting all the toiletries, we can talk about letting you choose a shampoo brand for next time."

Bill considered pointing out that that was a pretty stupid bribe to offer a creature who didn't have the slightest emotional attachment to organic toiletries; but then he remembered one of the cults he was affiliated with in New England made a shampoo line using its traumatized worshippers' tears, and he grudgingly decided he'd like to support them if he could. "You're enjoying this, aren't you."

"No." Ford was enjoying this.

"Gimme an hour. I've never done this start to finish before."

"Fine. We'll be back in sixty minutes."

Bill could hear the creak of the floorboards as the Pines left, and the fading sound of Stan's voice as he quietly asked, "Do you think what he said about Shermie..."

Yeah, Bill hoped that haunted him. He reached for the towel, and then jerked back his hand, startled, at the sight of another person in the bathroom.

"Oh." Bill experimentally waved a hand at the human, confirming that the strange alien staring at him was a mirror. "Hey, there." He stared glumly at the face he was trapped inside.

He'd never seen it before.

He was sure there used to be more mirrors in Ford's shack, but they must have been among the "potential weapons" the Pines had hidden away. Up until now, he'd kept imagining himself as a triangle. Some half-dead shape fraying golden curls around the edges, fused atop the rib cage of a humanoid puppet. Seeing the reality felt wrong, disorienting, like staring at an optical illusion but not being able to pick out how it worked.

He searched for any sign of himself in the face staring back at him. It was like trying to find something reminiscent of Chopin's piano Nocturnes in the shape of a lawnmower: a task so impossible it was unintelligible.

The only thing at all familiar was the color of the hair; not quite as bright as the dazzling electric gold of his true form, but still achingly similar.

Gold formed into lines—gold lines that bent and curled with acrobatic, contortionist flexibility.

"Well, whaddaya know," Bill sighed. "It only took a few dozen eons—but you finally grew up to look like your mother. Ha. Ha ha." The joke left a bitter taste behind his eye. (Eyes.) "Ekoj kcis a fo aedi ruoy siht si, Ltoloxa?"

The Axolotl didn't answer. Bill didn't expect him to.

He tossed the clean shirt over the mirror, discovered the bathroom had a second mirror, and took off the shirt he'd been wearing for almost a week to cover that one, too. He unpeeled the rest of his clothes, trying to avoid looking too close at the human body as he did—it seemed worse now than it had when he'd first gotten this body, with the image of that alien face seared into his memory, knowing he wasn't on this body but dissolved inside it.

Once he'd cleaned this body to the humans' satisfaction and gotten out of here, he could handle future hygiene issues by scrubbing off in the sink in his curtained bathroom downstairs. He'd only have to go through this indignity once.

So just get it over with. And use the time to think up new ways to irritate the humans into doing what he wanted.

####

He tried first bathing in the filled tub, until the cold water had him shivering so hard he couldn't properly coordinate his hands; then drained it and tried showering; and then filled it with warm water and attempted bathing again.

Most of him, he supposed, was clean enough for a human's tastes—any signs of peeling dead skin scrubbed off, no visible dirt, no noticeable smell but the smell of soap—but he doubted the hair would pass muster. It still had asphalt dust in it from almost a week ago, not to mention whatever his scalp had been shedding since then.

But, unfortunately, the hair was the worst part. He could scrub skin with no trouble; but when he was bathing, sunk down to his chin, trying to feel weightless again, the hair floated around him like a grotesque ghost, closing in. When he was showering, it dangled on his face, clinging to his skin, like it was trying to creep under his eyelid and down his throat and choke him. Just knowing it was there made his stomach turn; touching it made his throat burn as energy drink bile tried to escape his stomach.

Maybe if Bill brushed the tangles out first. That would knock out some of the dirt without him having to touch it himself. He sat on the edge of the tub, letting the growing tingling pain in his legs as his circulation was cut off distract him from the feeling of hair sticking to his cheeks and shoulders.

He tried to brush it out with his eyes shut, and his knuckles accidentally dragged across the filaments, wet, clammy, clingy. He yanked the brush free and felt hundreds of hairs jerking against their follicles. He forced himself to try again with his eyes open, holding the brush by the very tip of the handle. The bristles sank into the lumpen tangled mass of dead curling skin, and, as he tugged it down, slowly peeled the soggy strands of flesh apart—

His stomach hurt with the force of his retch. He clapped a hand over his mouth, dropped to his knees, and barely managed to get his dinner on the floor instead of on himself.

Voice a shaky, plaintive whine, he said, "Stop doing that to me." He shut his eyes, pressing his sweaty forehead to the cool rim of the bath tub. (Should he have aimed for the tub? Maybe the toilet? Were the humans going to get on his case for getting sick?) "It doesn't help," he hissed. "If I'm already neauseous, purging a load of bile does not help. It makes—it—worse. Why are humans built like this."

The Pines were tyrants. If he begged to be let out with his hair still grimy, the best he could hope for was mockery. Any pleas for mercy would cost him dearly. He wasn't getting out of here until he'd dealt with the hair.

He pulled the makeshift curtain aside on one of the mirrors. His vision was bleary from soap; the soggy hair draped in a loose, disheveled triangle shape around his head, like a mangled corpse. He shuddered and let the fabric drop.

A knock on the door. "It's been an hour, Cipher."

Ford. Bill rubbed his throat and hoped he didn't sound like he'd just been sick. "Gimme another hour."

"That's ridiculous. It takes less than ten minutes to shower, how could you possibly need two hours?"

"So I haven't had the practice at scrubbing skin folds that you have! Give me a break! How many hundreds of showers do you take a year? Do you know how hard it is to hold a bar of soap for more than half a second, or are you so used to it that you've forgotten these things are slippery?"

There was a pause. "You can't hold soap."

"My hands are small, Stanford."

"Fine. One more hour, but that's all you get."

"Fine, I don't care! If I'm not done in an hour, kick down the door and call the hygiene police on me." Bill was pretty sure you couldn't even get a call through to the hygiene police from this dimension. "Go away. I'm focusing."

Why had the Axolotl given him hair. Why hadn't he dumped Bill on Earth bald and balloon-smooth, let the patchy human fur patterns grow in over time? Why hadn't he at least given Bill less hair—why did it need to be so long—

But his hair didn't need to be long, did it? Bill didn't need to have hair at all. Hair was the easiest human body part to self-amputate, easier even than fingernails or ears. Inspired, Bill started searching the bathroom cabinet drawers—et voila. The Pines had no doubt removed any razors or scissors before leaving Bill in this bathroom, but he managed to find a bottle of hair removal cream. Probably courtesy of Question Mark's girlfriend. Cosmetic acid: one of humanity's many endearing little quirks. This would liquefy the roots of the hair, and Bill could get out of here.

It was easier to touch the hair when he was powered by rage, sliding his cream-coated fingers through the clingy filaments in service of burning it all away. The tingle on his scalp was a welcome distraction from the feeling of the hair itself, and feeling the tingle gradually blossom into a full blaze was a relief. Chemical burn. That was a luxurious pain—it tightened his lungs and squeezed rapturous tears from his eyes, so good he almost forgot there was another goal to this pain.

Maybe it would damage some of his follicles enough to prevent the hair from regrowing. Maybe he could wring some pity out of his captors—see this damage, isn't it hideous, look what you made me do—how long could he milk that? A few weeks?

He tolerated the burn as long as he thought he could get away with it without requiring hospitalization, then turned the shower on again. The ice cold water didn't wash the dead hair off fast enough. Some of it stuck to his skin; some was brittle, but not quite fully dissolved.

And that one, last, tiny inconvenience was more than he could stand.

The hair stuck to his chest, his arms, his hands as he ripped it off. Dead flesh, peeling apart and rotting, dead flesh all over him. He ran his hands over his head, fingers trembling with disgust, and tore out clumps of hair to fling to the ground. His eardrums boomed with his heartbeat. If there had been anyone else in the room he would have murdered them with his bare hands just to purge some rage. Over and over, desperate, obsessed, get it off get it off—

Until his head was so smooth that the pain of the chemical burns masked what few fibers were left. Until the icy shower left his skin so cold it hurt. He stepped out of the shower, triumphantly tore the shirt down from the mirror to see the results—and froze in horror.

When a cloud of gold hair had dangled down from his scalp, he'd looked like a triangle rotting apart—the corpse of Bill Cipher.

Now, he looked at his face, and he didn't see Bill Cipher at all. He'd destroyed the last of himself.

At his feet was a murder scene, all mangled golden gore.

####

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

169 notes · View notes

darkpurpledawn · 2 years

Note

for the writing prompt thing if you’re still doing that maybe something where the joker kidnaps a marriage counselor or something and forces Batman to go with him (by probably threatening to kill a bunch of people or something)

“He’s insane!” the terrified woman tied to the chair whispers to Batman, who’s sawing through her restraints with a bat-shaped file.

“I know, ma’m,” Batman sighs. “It’s the Joker.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she hisses. “I’m a marriage counselor.”

“An admirable vocation. Can you move your elbow a little to the left?”

“See he thinks you’re–”

She’s cut off by the bang of a door and a burst of confetti.

“Bats! You’re unfashionably early.” Joker, as usual, greets Batman with the cheerful nonchalance of someone who has asked his companion to pass the strawberry jam at a picnic. “I see you’ve met Carolyn.”

“Put the gun down, Joker,” Batman snarls. “You won’t be hurting her anymore.”

“What? No, no, of course I’m not hurting her, I kidnapped her and let her sit in this basement full of rats so that we can have a little chat about where our relationship’s going.”

“You’re not usually this delusional before lunch,” Batman says flatly, and hoists the newly-freed Carolyn from her chair.

“Ah ah ah, I don’t think you want to be doing that,” Joker says. He prances over to a pile of garbage propping up an old cathode-ray television and turns it on with one gloved finger. “See, I’m not hurting her, but if you make another move I will tell my associates you see on the screen there to throw everyone who was unlucky enough to be waiting at the intersection of 3rd and Daggett Memorial into the knife hole.”

There are a dozen people on the screen, eight of whom are not clad in clown masks or oversized shoes. And there’s an aperture on the floor, presumably–

“The knife hole?” Batman says doubtfully.

Joker sighs. “I started letting my henchmen name the death traps. Does a lot for morale, you know, but they haven’t exactly got the souls of poets.”

“At least let the counselor go,” Batman says, looking at the unguarded exit as if calculating how long it would take to sprint there.

“No you don’t, I need her! Well, maybe not her exactly, I just picked her out because we have the same nail color”--he draws off a glove and shows Batman a bright yellow lacquer–”but you get the point.”

Carolyn inhales sharply with the air of someone for whom no amount of acetone could be enough.

“Anyway, bats, I assure you the knife hole is fatal indeed. Threw an underperforming goon in it the other day and he’s quite dead.”

“Can’t imagine why you’re having morale problems,” Batman deadpans. “Let’s talk about this, OK? Nobody needs to get hurt.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, bats,” Joker says, exasperated. “We need to talk. Are you getting enough oxygen in your little cave? Why do you think I kidnapped a marriage counselor?”

“Because you’re insane?”

Joker rounds on Carolyn. “You see what I put up with!

Carolyn stutters. “It, um, it seems like there’s a fundamental disagreement about the presence or absence of a partnership here, which is really, uh, out of the scope of what marriage counseling can help with–”

“Oswald told me you let him sit in the front of the Batmobile,” Joker interrupts, pointing the gun at Batman accusingly. “Last time you took me to Arkham you made me sit in the back.”

“Does that m-match your recollection of events, Batman?” Carolyn asks in a near-whisper. “Also, um, Joker, your body language is fairly threatening right now, this doesn’t feel like a very voluntary discussion.”

“The Penguin does not push buttons on the dashboard trying to find the eject button or the most annoying radio station,” Batman says.

“But I called shotgun!” Joker protests.

“You shot me in the leg with an actual shotgun,” Batman yells.

“See, it’s communication issues like these that are holding us back, Batsy. Not to mention our intimacy problems.”

“Wait, are you really–?” Carolyn asks.

“No,” Batman growls and Joker moans at the same moment. “Not even once,” they say in tandem, Batman with a shudder and Joker with a rhapsodic sigh.

“Oooookay,” Carolyn says, backing away from both of them.

Batman clears his throat awkwardly and activates the com link on his gauntlet. “Robin, begin rescue procedure. Careful of the knife hole.”

“No, no, not again!” Joker yelps as the television shows one of the captured civilians pull out an extendable stick and start doing backflips. “Really have to work on a screening process for kidnapping victims.”

“C’mon Joker, the back seat of the Batmobile is waiting.”

#batjokes #batjokes fic #my fics #prompt fics #batblogging #thanks for your patience anon! and these are aways open!

209 notes · View notes

saintmeghanmarkle · 28 days

Text

Recap of Juicy Scoop episode w/Spencer Pratt from April 23 2024 re: polo show by u/RBXChas

Recap of Juicy Scoop episode w/Spencer Pratt from April 23, 2024 re: polo show Spotify link: https://ift.tt/AX2jUMs at ~32:35Heather asks Spencer if he’s gotten any jam, and Spencer sounded confused and said he thought she was doing some coffee thing. Then Heather got confused and asked if M was working at a coffee shop like Ben Affleck making donuts at Dunkin’ Donuts. (They go on a bit of a tangent here, so I’ll skip ahead.)Heather asks Spencer if he’s a M fan (he says he’s a big fan) and if he thinks her creating ARO is a good move. She says that some say it’s a long name but is supposedly the actual name of the orchard “in which she lives on or where she’s grabbing her berries from.” Spencer says he would be more excited if she figured out a way to be on a reality show without saying she’s on a reality show, and he feels like “the polo show” is the way to do that. Heather asks what that is. Spencer says M is executive producing it with H and goes into how Heidi used to go to polo matches in Santa Barbara and thought it would make a good reality show, so he told her that now the show she always wanted is getting made, except it’s even better because it has H&M in it. He said these are some of the richest people who get together and drink. Heather basically expresses that she doesn’t know anything about polo. Spencer recounts what we all saw about the cameras being at the recent polo match in Florida.They move on to talking about Harry’s announcement that his official residence is no longer in the UK as of June of 2023. Spencer says it could be “a tax thing”, and Heather says she doesn’t know about that but thinks that they tried the documentary thing and the podcast thing, realized it was harder than it seemed, so now the cameras just follow them around because that’s what we all want to see, since they hang around with rich people who can just hop on private jets and go to things, then throw in a charity event here or there to make it look like they care about people.Spencer says he saw “the best clip” from the polo match after the trophy ceremony. Heather interrupts to say that he’s talking about old footage, the stuff where M is trying to take the trophy, but Spencer corrects her and says that this is something from the recent polo match. He goes on to describe the lady who stood next to H, but M whispered something to her to make her move away, which Spencer says is the show he wants to watch. (In other words, he wants to watch some drama.) Heather says that M is beautiful and stylish and that even if you don’t like her, you’re still intrigued, so Netflix should go for it.Spencer lamented that M and her team still haven’t figured out a way to get in with Taylor Swift, which is “such a no-brainer”. M and Taylor could hang out while H and Travis could hang out, and Travis has a new show that H could go on._______________________________My take? Nobody in the US cares about polo, and IMHO, making a documentary about a sport that’s too expensive for most people to play is not exactly a good look. “Waaaah, King Pa cut me off, waaaah, M can’t even afford her own lip gloss, waaaah, I can barely see through my tears when I brush my ponies, and the only thing I have to wipe my tears is the wads of hundred dollar bills that my pockets can’t seem to contain.”However, I think people will watch if only to see how gruesome H&M are. I certainly won’t tune in but will have my eyes peeled for recaps. post link: https://ift.tt/FSVXMjz author: RBXChas submitted: May 01, 2024 at 02:45PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

5 notes · View notes

helmort · 5 months

Text

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝑩𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝑬𝒍𝒐𝒏 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒌⭐(Friday's Tale)

On the frigid morning of January 1, 2024, an ungodly hour past midnight, Elon Musk found himself knee-deep in the ultimate glitch. Picture this: London on the horizon, a pivotal conference at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m., and an unforeseen digestive apocalypse curtesy of some dodgy sushi. His plush ride turned into a war zone, and the richest, most powerful man on Earth discovered a new definition of rock bottom – he'd shitted himself.

The streets teemed with life, paparazzi sniffing for their next scoop. A crisis unfolded. Hotels, no refuge. Commerce, on pause. Jammed phone lines condemned him to the clutches of a dilemma only a laundromat could remedy. In the city's underbelly, he stumbled upon a humble establishment run by an Indian family. The scent of spices and incense masked the scent of Musk's misfortune, but a crowd of over twenty had already gathered.

Clad in a jacket disguising the wreckage below, Musk attempted to navigate the disapproving glares. Asserting his identity became the only way out. "I'm Elon Musk, and I need immediate assistance!" he proclaimed. The Indian proprietor, undeterred by celebrity, retorted, "I don't care who you are; you wait!" Musk cranked up the volume, "I'm Elon Musk, the CEO of Tesla and Twitter, and it's of vital importance that you…" the Indian, cut him off, "I'm Jagdish Patel, I don't give a bloody bloody who you are! You wait!" An air of tension thickened. Musk persisted, "It's crucial; I have a conference with the most important people on Earth about…" Patel interrupted again, "I don't bloody care! We're working since morning, and nobody on Earth cares about us, so we don't care about them!" Unyielding, Musk continued, "I can give you $1000 if you…" Patel shot back, "You can give me all the money in world, but you wait! This old woman is here for hours!" Anger boiling, Musk threatened, "You know!? I can pay somebody to kill you if you don't help me!" Patel, indifferent and powerful like Shiva in person, replied, "I don't care! I'm Indian; if you kill me, I reincarnate and kick your ass in another life!"

The dialogue hit a crescendo when two towering, Jamaican-accented men intervened, "Yo, yuh haffi wait like everybody else, or we mek yuh shit dat second time inna row!"

At the stroke of 5 o'clock, wearied by the relentless standoff, Patel apologized, "We're closing. Come back tomorrow, Sir." slamming the door on Elon Musk's face.

In the heart of London, the man who could launch rockets to space and redefine social media was defeated by a humble Indian and a touch of poop, a stark reminder that money can't buy everything.

💀

3 notes · View notes

gayhawkelatehomicide · 1 year

Text

Names

Honestly I... Don't know what this is. It possessed me and now it's here. Uhh I know that headcanoning Anders a name other than yanno, Anders, isn't everybody's cup of tea, so fair warning? It's not like I plan to have anybody call him that, I just wanted to think about what this conversation might look like and the name bit me. So here, have a handers that I wrote in like 20 minutes on my phone.

***

Word Count: 1339

Rating: G

Additional Tags: Hawke is an adorable dork with a heart of gold and no one will take this from me, cat bf and dog bf are the best kind of relationship, genuinely could not tell you where this came from, names and naming, the importance of calling a thing by the correct name so as to be able to recognize and understand it, boyfriends being soft about stuff that hurt a long time ago

***

Hawke walks in already complaining. Anders smiles and puts down his quill to stretch his aching hand, feeling a twinge of annoyance in the back of his head at being interrupted. He recognizes it for what it is—not entirely his own reaction, but not entirely that of his passenger—and ignores it. He was going to go to bed soon anyway. By the time Anders gets turned all the way around, Hawke has leaned his staff in the corner and is peeling out of the top layer of his robes.

"You know nobody in this entire city but you calls me by my given name? Seriously, think about it! With most of the citizenry, especially the ones in Hightown, it's 'Champion' all day long. 'Oh Champion, my brother's caravan is late' and 'Champion please, you have to help my mother,' and 'Dear Champion, my cat went up that tree and can't get down. Again.' It's as though they've all forgotten I have a name instead of just a title." He unties the fastenings on the leather cuirass he wears between his outer robe and the sweat-stained under-layer. The poor clasps creak protest at Hawke's enthusiasm.

"And I know at least some of them know it! Fifi de Launcet used to simper at me when we first bought the house and Mother was trying to get me married off respectably. Sure, a few of them probably think it's a compliment or some nonsense, but you'd think at least Lady Elegant would call me Garrett every now and then. If not in the course of business, then maybe when I'm poking around her stall doing something irritating."

He bends at the waist to unlace his boots, presenting Anders with a lovely view of his ass as he struggles with laces that he obviously tied while they were still wet. Hawke has been through four sets of laces for those boots in the past few months because he's too impatient to let them dry before jamming his feet in them and running off to do whatever it is he does when he's out of Anders's direct line of sight.

"Most of our friends don't use my given name either, did you notice? Varric calls me Hawke like it's a title more than Champion, which is *fine*," he manages to get one boot off, mostly by sheer brute strength. The sock comes with it. "Even Aveline doesn't three-name me when I'm misbehaving, just says," and here he drops into a worryingly accurate imitation of Aveline. "Hawke, if I catch you trying to breathe fire in the Lowtown market one more time, I swear-!"

The other boot comes loose with enough force to nearly knock Hawke off his feet. He catches himself with all the grace and poise of a moderately sized druffalo, then grins triumphantly over his shoulder at Anders, holding up the boot. The look on his face is incredibly similar to the look his mabari wears when he drops dead vermin (or, on one memorable occasion, a mangled burglar) at his master's feet. Anders applauds politely.

Hawke kicks the boots into the corner by the fire and starts on his greaves and bracers, still talking. "Hell, even the villains and other assorted bastards whose teeth we kick in regularly call me 'dog lord' or 'mage' or something equally obvious. You'd think at least one of them would've done his research. Evets, maybe, of Evets' Marauders. You remember them, don't you love?"

Anders does. Distinctly. He remembers wrapping Isabela in shield after shield as her quick fingers teased apart rows of traps while Hawke traded bolts of fire and sneering retorts with the blood mage on the other side of the bluff, and Aveline kept her shield between the mages and that terrifying longbowman. He remembers the reek of burnt flesh and armor and the despair in the eyes of the guardsmen, and the way they'd rallied around their captain and Hawke. He remembers the way more of them died, pinned with arrows or rent apart to fuel the blood mage's spells. Anders makes a noncommittal noise, which Hawke takes as an agreement.

"You'd think maybe that guy would've learned my name, right? I mean, he spent what, three years tracking me down? Some kind of criminal he was, I've been in the same place the whole time, but it's not like I care." Hawke sets the last pieces of his armor in a pile on the desk and flings himself diagonally across the bed. His curly black hair fans out around his head—it's getting deliciously long now—and he throws an arm over his eyes. The other one continues gesturing emphatically.

"Shit, even Carver just calls me 'brother' most of the time. The last letter he wrote home barely sounded like he was talking to me at all, just a quick update and one of his sullen little 'try not to get yourself killed too stupidly' things at the end. What is this resistance to using my given name, huh? It doesn't make any sense. I have a good name, I think. Mother made plenty of mistakes, but that wasn't one of them. Why does Kirkwall hate my name?"

Anders is gripped by a strange impulse. Later, he'll pick it apart looking for Justice's influence, but in the moment all he's thinking about is Hawke's running complaint and how the names a person wears can come to define them.

"Valery," he blurts before he can stop himself, then clenches his mouth and eyes shut.

Hawke makes an inquiring noise from the bed. The sound of sheets shifting, presumably as he sits up. "What was that, love?"

Anders grapples with a long-kept promise to himself for a long moment before giving up and sighing. He's said it already. Too late to take it back now. He might as well explain. Besides, Hawke already knows every terrible thing about him. What's a name, compared to that?

"Valery," he repeats. "It's the name my mother gave me. She was from the Anderfels; wanted to name me after her brother. My father didn't like it much, but he always let her have her way. Well, almost always."

The old bitterness threatens to swamp him, so Anders forces a smile onto his face and looks up at Hawke, still on the bed, looking stricken. "I've no clue why the templars didn't make a note of it, but when they took me to the circle they claimed they didn't know my name, just that I was half-Ander. I've been Anders ever since."

Hawke is out of bed and across the room in the space of a few heartbeats. He kneels on the floor at Anders's feet. Takes his hands in his own. "Oh, love. I'm sorry. I didn't think... Do you want-?"

"No, it's fine," Anders shakes his head. "It hasn't been my name for a long time." He squeezes Hawke's fingers, feeling the callouses and old breaks that didn't set right, the faint tremors that tell of using too much force magic without a focus. The way this city weighs on him day after day, expectations pressing, thousands of lives depending on his actions, is always evident in his hands. He always claims they don't bother him, but Anders sees the way he grasps his cup more gingerly on cold mornings than he did years ago, and he knows how quickly a hand massage turns Hawke into a puddle of warm goo. Anders squeezes Hawke's hands, feeling his smile warm into something genuine.

"Valery." He says it so carefully, the same way he's treated every fragile broken-glass part of Anders since the moment they met. The old name sounds so beautiful in his voice, and with his big dark eyes turned up like a sinner in prayer, he looks like a penitent angel. "It's a beautiful name, love. Thank you for trusting me with it."

Anders really can't be blamed for knocking them both to the floor in his rush to kiss Hawke as thoroughly as physically possible.

#dragon age #da2 #handers #m!handers #my writing #m!hawke #anders #anders dragon age #hawke is an adorable dork with a heart of gold and no one will take this from me #cat bf and dog bf are the best kind of relationship #genuinely could not tell you where this came from #names and naming #the importance of calling a thing by the correct name so as to be able to recognize and understand it #boyfriends being soft about stuff that hurt a long time ago

9 notes · View notes

creativia10 · 11 months

Text

The Merits of Scientist Lab coats

Logan was preparing how he would want a Crofter's commercial to go, for if he gets the chance to share. Janus comes in while Logan is practicing to flirt with him.

Warnings: suggestive themes

Relationships: Logan/Janus

Wordcount: 1405

Notes: Loceit Week 2023 Day 5 Philosophy/Science (I chose science) Sorry this is late. I don't know if I'll have any more for @loceitweek as I only decided this week to write this one. The topic this week has inspired me though. I may write other Loceit fics, like maybe for the multifandom pride prompts I've been attempting (which will also be late).

Logan looked around at his setup with a nod. It wasn’t much, but it was perfect for what he was going for. Logan had been preparing in his head what kind of commercial he would have proposed for Crofters. If it ever came up that was.

He cleared his throat and smoothed out his lab coat. Logan then waved a hand at the nearby whiteboards to write out what he said. It would look better to be handwritten in real time for the actual thing when he showed the others. This was just for practice though.

He held up the crofters’ jar, presenting it to where he knew the camera would be. Logan had been listing helpful facts about the jam for a minute and a half when he heard someone go,

“Hmm.”

Logan stopped and looked in that direction. He hadn’t thought anyone was in here. To his surprise, Janus was sitting nearby, smirking at him.

Janus clapped.

“What a well-done presentation, Logan. I apologize for interrupting you. It was not my intention.”

Logan frowned at the other, unsure about that. Logan cleared his throat and set the jar of jam off to the side.

“Janus. I did not expect you in here. Did you need something?”

Janus hmmed again and stood up. He stretched languidly, bringing attention to his different outfit of choice. Then he started to walk over to Logan.

“Noo, not necessarily. Perhaps I just wanted to hear you ramble on intelligently about something of interest to you,” Janus said with a smirk.

Logan’s eyes widened. Janus walked closer to Logan, who then coughed to the side. Logan hadn’t expected anyone to actually want to hear him spew facts like that. The others had always acted like it was a necessity that nobody actually liked.

“I-is that so?” Logan cleared his throat again. He was usually so much better at holding his composure than this. Janus had simply caught him off guard by saying so.

“And the outfit?” Logan asked, gesturing to Janus’ new getup.

Janus was wearing a lab coat, like Logan’s own. Except he had a yellow shirt peaking out where Logan’s typical polo was similarly visible. Janus was also wearing safety goggles as well.

Janus hummed again, stepping even closer.

“Maybe I just wanted to match the vibe of your setup, hm? I think the scientist look works, don’t you?” He asked with a playful smirk.

“Ah well, yes. Of course, it works,” Logan started,

“I had the lab coat set up for this scene to show safety was a priority. And how the production of Crofters would be hygienic. Of course, we wouldn’t be near anything that would be a contamination concern anyways, as it is more for the aesthetic of the commercial.”

Janus sighed at that.

“Logan, I’m not doubting the merits of wearing a lab coat here. I know you have good plans for these things,” Janus said.

“You do?” Logan asked.

“Mhmm,” When Janus was close enough, he reached over and started toying with the lapels of Logan’s lab coat.

“I just think the whole scientist look, with the lab coats, works for us. Aesthetically, as you would say. I certainly appreciate intellectual looks,” Janus said with that smooth voice of his.

“O-oh,” Logan said. Janus’ fingers were warm where Logan could feel him brushing against his coat. Amidst messing with the lapels.

Logan found he didn’t mind it, even if it was unexpected. Nobody got this close to him.

Janus leaned in.

“Did you want to keep going? I wouldn’t be opposed to assisting you.” Janus said.

Logan hesitated. He was sufficiently distracted now. Admitting such a thing felt embarrassing though.

“Uh, well,”

“Or did I throw you off your vibe?” Janus asked.

Logan really needed to add that word to his slang vocab. He was hearing it a lot more now.

“I wouldn’t say you threw me off. I am physically right where I was when I started. I also knew I would be presenting this in front of others at some point. Theoretically, I should be fine.”

“Theoretically?” Janus asked with a knowing smile.

“Uh, well,” Logan wasn’t sure what he should say here. Janus hmmed.

“It’s okay if I distracted you, Logan. I am well aware you didn’t expect me to be here,” Janus said.

“How did you know I would be here anyways?” Logan asked.

“I didn’t originally,” Janus continued. “But I was bored and I overheard you as I passed this room amidst my wandering. Figured I could learn something and maybe have some fun. Which I definitely have.”

Janus was smirking again, which e often did.

Logan blinked. “Oh? You were enjoying my presentation?”

“Of course,” Janus said, “Although, I have more fun interacting with you.” Janus paused in his teasing to lightly poke Logan in the chest.

“I-is that so?” Logan asked.

Janus winked at him in response.

“Why are you interacting with me in this way?” Logan asked.

“Because it’s fun, as I said,” Janus continued, “Is that alright?”

“I suppose,” Logan said.

Janus frowned slightly and stepped away.

“Logan, I know you’re not the best at admitting to your wants, but you need to be clear about how you feel about my teasing. It’s no fun if I am actively making you uncomfortable. I get a hard enough time from the others. About whether I actually respect personal boundaries.”

Logan blinked at that.

“Wouldn’t that be more of a concern from Remus than you?” Logan asked. Janus sighed and shrugged. Logan frowned but nodded.

“I see what you are saying. I would not want to make things worse for you.”

“Logan, it’s not about that,” Janus said. “You are not responsible for anything that affects me except your own actions. Which you are fine with at this point by the way. Nothing else should be a factor in stating your boundaries. Aside from what you are comfortable with.”

Logan nodded again. He knew Janus had a point.

“Right, of course.”

But then came the harder part of admitting he didn’t mind Janus’ actions, because what would that mean next?

“It’s okay if you don’t know, Logan,” Janus said with a more genuine smile this time.

“I should have asked earlier anyways. I just like to be playful, you know how I am.”

Logan supposed he did. Although Logan saw this side more when Janus was around Logan now.

Logan took a breath. He was curious though where they could go from here. Logan was definitely one to seek after knowledge. Even in the case that it could affect his personal relationships, though not in a bad way.

“I…did not mind, Janus,” Logan said, not meeting the other’s eyes. He figured he should have at least looked at Janus while admitting so. But it was harder than he expected for some reason. Plus, Logan could feel his cheeks warming.

After a moment, Janus stepped up to Logan again.

“You are sure?” Janus asked.

Logan nodded.

“Yes. I am just…not used to admitting such things.”

Janus hummed again before reaching forward again to trace his fingers against Logan.

“That’s okay, Logan. It can be a process. It does make me wonder if you would prefer moving slower than I had in mind then.”

Logan’s breath caught, and he got himself to look at Janus in the face then. Janus looked back at him.

“I would like to know what you mean, first. And, I’m sorry if my need for clear wording changes the uh ‘mood’ at all, as the twins have told me in the past.”

Janus gave him a soft look at that and shook his head.

“Logan, you are not ruining anything. I know who you are. How do you know I don’t get hot and bothered by more words anyways?”

Logan narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“Hot and bothered? I certainly wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable at all, that doesn’t sound pleasant. Should we get some air in here?”

Janus threw his head back in a laugh. Then he suddenly gripped his fingers around the coat lapels and pulled Logan against him. The breath from Janus’ lips brushed Logan’s own as he said,

“How about we head up to my room and I show you what I really mean by that?” Janus asked.

Logan’s breath stuttered.

“Okay,” Logan choked out.

#sanders sides #loceit #logan sanders #janus sanders #loceit week 2023 #sanders sides fic #ts logan #ts janus

4 notes · View notes

olivish · 2 years

Text

Ben finds a cat, Chapter 3 continued from here.

Andre Layton steps over planters and crates as he wends his way through Snowpiercer's greenhouses, which grow more chaotic by the day. According to his morning council meeting, AgSec production is up 180%, which is getting close to their target. The downside is shortfalls in other departments as manpower and resources are reallocated to "the Grow". Even here, amongst the squash blossoms, few, if any, workers seem to know what's going on. Asha catches his attention, her dark eyes beaming below the brim of a straw hat. "Andre!" she exclaims. "You're just in time. I made some chai to break up the morning."

"Thanks," he says, leaning in for a hug. "I wish I could, but I'm kind of on a mission."

"Surprise, surprise." Asha breathes in the aroma wafting from her cup, her eyelids fluttering on the first sip. "You're always on a mission."

"Yeah. You seen Melanie? I heard she was down here."

"Ten cars over, Livestock." It's Osweiler who answers, his gloved fists full of chili peppers. "Up to her knees in shit, that one."

"You don't know the half of it."

"How d'you mean?"

"Nothing," Andre answers. "Thanks."

"By the way boss, where do you want us to put the--"

"I'll catch up with you later."

Andre walks as quickly as he can without tripping over anything, keeping his eyes on the path in front of him, determined not to get sidetracked. He hates coming downtrain. Everyone is always asking him questions he doesn't know the answers to.

When he reaches what was formerly the cattle car, Andre discovers that his chip doesn't work. Of course. "Hey!" he yells, banging on the glass. Melanie is in there alright, doing something to the feeders, a heard of sheep shuffling around her workstation. "Hey!" he tries again, hitting the intercom. "Melanie!"

"Hey yourself," says the engineer, once she's noticed him and let him in. Off his annoyed expression, she explains, "People keep interrupting. I find it easier to just jam the doors and pretend I can't hear anything."

"Sounds idyllic. You have a minute?"

"Sure. If you don't mind talking while I work."

Andre follows her back to the feeders, where an array of tools are splayed out over the deck. "Not exactly a complicated job," she allows, "But apparently, most of my mechanics are on canning duty today. And I'll admit," she nods at the sheep. "I enjoy the company. I grew up on a farm, you know."

"You told me. Listen, what I have to talk about... it's a little touchy."

"Uh-oh."

Andre watches as she goes back to work. He has the sneaking suspicion that Melanie knows why he's here, and why he's pissed off.

"I'm just gonna come out and say it. There's a rumor going around that you met with Wilford yesterday."

"Uh-huh."

"So?"

"Did you? Meet with Wilford yesterday?"

Melanie pauses. With a frown, she slides her lug wrench into a loop on her belt. "Yes," she admits, turning to face him. "I did meet with Wilford yesterday."

"Why?"

She doesn't answer. Her expression is perfectly implacable.

"Melanie, this will go a lot faster if you just-"

"We weren't planning a coup, if that's what you're worried about."

"Jesus. Are you for real? I didn't think that. But as leader of this train, I have to worry about what everyone else thinks. To maintain order, I need the people to see us as a united front. And its hard to convince them of that if there's rumors flying around that you're meeting with Wilford behind my back."

"Joseph is an engineer. As Head Engineer, I need to have access to the people in my department."

"So the meeting was about engineering?"

"If you must know... I went to see him about a problem I had with the Caterpillar manifold."

"Caterpillar manifold. What is that? Nobody mentioned anything about that."

"It's a fairly technical issue that has since been resolved."

"Okay." Andre stares at her, trying to discern anything at all from her unreadable face, but it's no use. He overstepped a boundary, and now he's locked out. He huffs. "I'm trying, you know. This thing with you and me. I'm really trying."

The two leaders fall into silence. As the sheep bleat and meander around them, Melanie rolls her head from one shoulder to the other. "How about..." she begins, putting her hands on her hips, "Going forward, I'll be more discreet about my comings and goings on Big Alice."

"More discreet?"

"I'll take the vents next time, okay?"

Andre chuckles. He knows she's not kidding. "Or you could just, I dunno, tell me the next time you wanna cross the Neutral Zone to go visit Voldemort."

"That's a very strange, mixed metaphor."

"Yeah. Well, I'm operating on like, no sleep. Liana has colic." "Oof." Melanie winces in sympathy. She scratches behind her ear. "I've been there."

Layton nods, and then notices something. He leans in. "Holy shit. Melanie, you're got red spots all over your neck."

"I know, I know." She sneezes. "Ben got a kitten. Fucking thing's wreaking havoc with my... systems."

"A kitten?"

"Yeah, he's over the moon. Ben is, I mean. Over the moon. He named it. He won't put it down for a second. The problem is, I can't figure out where it came from. Because LJ had a cat, right?"

"Snowpeter."

"But it was just the one. And I had it composted while she was in lockup."

"You did what?"

"And anyway, you need two cats to make another cat."

Andre doesn't say anything. Her logic is sound, if nothing else.

"I don't know," Melanie sighs. "It's driving me crazy. A single kitten, appearing out of nowhere, in the subtrain. Did you have any cats in the tail?"

"We did, actually. Two of them, snuck on in a kid's backpack." Andre pauses. "We ate them, though."

"Right."

"So."

"Makes sense."

"Yeah."

"Another dead end." Melanie scratches harder, biting her bottom lip in frustration.

"So, good talk, then?" Andre ventures, eager to bring the conversation to a close.

"Yup. Good talk."

He reaches out and shakes Melanie's thin, grimy hand. "Maybe see Pelton about that rash."

"Maybe," she says, in a way that makes it clear she has no intention of ever doing so. Andre can't help but smile as he turns and leaves her to her work.

On his way to the door, Melanie yells suddenly, "You should take Liana to the engine room."

"What?"

"For the colic. I used to take Alex into the engine room, where the vibrations are strongest. Sent her to sleep every time."

"Huh. Yeah, oaky. Maybe we'll try that."

Melanie can't stop scratching. "Bring her by any time."

#snowpiercer #I really have no idea

4 notes · View notes

mlobsters · 2 months

Text

supernatural s15e7 last call (w. jeremy adams)

this bit with eileen is cute

DEAN It means I got to... I got to get out of here, okay? I just... I got to... I'm gonna take a drive, clear my head. SAM Alone? DEAN Yeah, you know, you and Eileen, you guys are having fun. I don't want to spoil that, you know? SAM Yeah, go, go. Clear your head. Eileen and I have stuff to do. DEAN Yeah, I'll bet you do. Yeah? Hmm? SAM It's not like that. I-I-I meant looking for Chuck and Lilith and... DEAN Sure. Got it. Um, okay, but if, uh, things go your way, just make sure you put the sock on the door so I know.

throwing a love interest at sam real fast out of the blue and i'm like hey wait slow down what now? and i mean, we're not completely blindsided, they set up the flirty thing between them before she died and all. but having her pop back up, sam turned into a witchy genius and finished rowena's spell licketysplit, magicked up her a fresh body and now they're getting drunk at night and making hangover breakfasts in the bunker in the morning. that's a lot. and dean bolting out of there too to stay busy and let them be alone. anyway, solo hunt and lying about it, that always goes well

i dunno, man. i'm having a hard time believing dean would be okay with dumping his cell off no questions asked just walking into this bar

i don't think i'm in the right mindset to watch dean flirting and gallivanting living his swayze road house dreams

next day, not sure it's improved (i've been sick [stomach variety] coming up on a week, i am so tired of this) but maybe i can get it done anyway.

i gather this dude christian kane must be a music friend too since i guess they have a bandmate in common, steve carlson? i tried to watch leverage but it didn't grab me, i think it made it through a season or so? and funnily enough, the music kind of put me off 🥴 the cheesiest of heist music

i watched the trailer for road house from 1989 (because apparently there's a new road house (2024) with gyllenhall) and wow. something about bouncing people in pleated pants. i probably would have enjoyed it when i was teenager but i think i need the modern sensibilities of the remake if i'm gonna enjoy a big ridiculous action movie that focuses on just punching the shit out of each other :p

the tone of this scene where sam's about to kiss eileen is just weird. the music is kind of.. mushy wistful, like the mushy music theme but different. and there's a lot of awkward exchanging of looks. and then sam gets clued in what eileen's talking about. i'm just really not picking up what they're putting down. but get a big dramatic interruption with cas popping back in.

also fucking netflix and its caption placement is consistently awful.

CASTIEL Good. I've been thinking about that gun, the, uh... the Equalizer? When you shot God, it fired a piece of your soul.

his SOUL. sure. SURE

DEAN Man, so I don't think I've seen you since Sammy was in college.

gotta tally up all the hunters they mentioned he worked with while sam was in college. think richie too? sure there's others

from 3x04 sin city SAM Not too bad. How do you two know each other? DEAN You were in school. RICHIE It was that succubus, in Canarsie right?

CASTIEL No, but I am sure I can't heal the wound. Maybe I can probe it. SAM Probe it? CASTIEL Study it, see if it can lead us to Chuck.

jamming his fist into sam's chest rooting around for his non-existent soul, sucking the leftover angel grace out of his neck with a needle, what's a little probing of a soul wound from god

DEAN Okay. One, three bottles of Jaeger is nobody's friend, and "B," they were twins.

may have just yelled, BRO! DAMNIT! lol i thought we were done with the 1, B (A, 2) thing that drives me up a WALL whenever it comes up because i can't find the paul reiser mad about you reference to him doing it despite being quite sure that he used it a lot in that show

LEE Whoa, no, they were not twins. They were triplets, uh, and we split them up fair and square.

dean and dudes and triplets.

from 10x01 black DEAN Okay, see, the deal was we howl at the moon -- no time stamp, no expiration date. CROWLEY We've howled. We've bayed. We've done extraordinary things to triplets, all of which have been massively entertaining. I will treasure our Flickr albums forever. But now it's time for us to accept what we are and go back to work.

DEAN Trust me, uh, bigger doesn't always equal better. Besides, who's gonna look out after the little guy? God certainly isn't. LEE Damn, brother, that's dark. DEAN Yeah, it's been a rough, uh... it's been a rough decade, Lee.

understatement of the century

(wiki)

The band at Swayze's Bar is a band made up of the Supernatural crew called The Impalas that has played together for many years. Here they are called "The Texas Impalas" and are made up of Perry Battista, Tracy Dunlop, Dave Webb, Cam Beck, and Chris Glynn Jones.

that's neat. i'm glad at least we got some dean singing that wasn't intentionally cringey. i feel like this episode is fan service, but dean/jensen is the main fan in question lol

SERGEI Small thing. CASTIEL What is it? SERGEI Sam is... dying.

of course he is! he's almost dead or actually dead CONSTANTLY. jesus.

and dean's buddy acting shifty, of course. also rolling my eyes that they had this friend insist that the car was raptured based on no info

SERGEI Ah, well, there you go. Most wounds want to be healed, to be whole. But this, this wound is different. It goes down to his very soul. But also out into the world. From what I can tell, his soul, it's connected to something or someone somewhere. Except, as you probed deeper, you forced the soul to stretch from Sam's body to... EILEEN Where? SERGEI I don't know. But now it's like a rubber band. If it is stretched too far, too long, pop, it snaps, and Sam dies.

LOL sure. they've destroyed my suspension of disbelief i just can't haha and castiel's face made me laugh

and now cas just had supposedly bobby?? watching this rando's niece so he could threaten with killing her to get what he wants? sure!

LEE Well, not the old me, anyway. I wasn't kidding about Arizona. What that thing did to that family, those kids, it stuck in my head. If evil like that exists in the world, then guys like you and me, we ain't ever gonna win. The best we can do is just have a little fun. The last Hunt I did, the one right around here, I found something.

very logical and sense-making

LEE You don't, Dean? I am you. I'm just you that woke up and saw that the world was broken. DEAN Then you fix it. You don't walk away. You fight for it.

dean-o gets to remember the lesson that he does actually care and is willing to fight even if it's unclear what's god pulling strings vs his distinct choice

LEE Why do you care so much, Dean? DEAN Because someone has to. LEE Well, then... I'm glad it was you.

uh huh. insert another eyeroll lol. ugh. i'm being an asshole but they lost me :p

SAM Dean, Chuck is weak. I think we can beat him. I think we can beat God.

okie doke. team free will whatever dot whatever, back at it

#supernatural #spnwatch #spn 15x07 #spn clip #jeremy adams #christopher lennertz #tim wynn #spn musical score

1 note · View note

saving-ray-23 · 5 months

Text

BATGIRL (EIGHT)

Barbara was beyond bored. She was suspended from practicing until the next Monday when the trainer checked her over after school, meaning she missed three games and nearly a dozen practices. The Commissioner started driving her to school, so she missed Chess practice and arrived with barely ten minutes to spare. He must've thought he was being helpful, but Babs was just annoyed.

The medicine James gave her hadn't worked nearly as well as she'd hoped, leaving her sore and tense throughout each school day. Her head was hurting constantly for some unknown reason and Barbara kept zoning out during class. A large part of her was tempted to stop taking the pills, but she was desperate to get back on the field.

Babs hated being alone with her thoughts.

She was having nightmares most of the time she tried to sleep, dreams that she hadn't even thought about it months. Barbara kept seeing things she desperately tried to scrub from her mind, memories she didn't even know she still had. A lot of the last summer was blank for Babs, but the nightmares filled in gaps she didn't want to be filled.

The teen had worked for months to move past the dreams and all thoughts she had of her— of Bess.

Not a lot of people talked to Barbara or about her. But, when anyone did, they nearly always brought up Bess.

Elizabeth Keller was Barbara's best friend, up until last summer. They met Freshman year and instantly hit it off, both within a few blocks of each other in Somerset. She was the sister Babs never had and Bess's mother was the closest thing Barbara would ever get to one. And then, shit went south.

Bess was gone now, maybe forever. Barbara lost her best and only friend the summer before their Junior year.

A few times, people had actually tried to befriend Babs just to hear about Bess. Everyone at Gotham Academy wanted to feel like they were a part of the narrative, claiming they had a pencil they once borrowed from Bess or that they ate lunch together. In reality, nobody had noticed Bess until she was gone.

Barbara wasn't the type of person to yell, at least not in school. But, while she never used her fists, she had made it clear that anyone who talked about Bess— anyone who lied about her —would learn what it felt like to have a Lacrosse stick jammed up their—

Well, Barbara had gotten interrupted by a teacher before she could finish the threat. But, a week of detention was worth getting the lies to stop.

And they did, after that. Instead, people would call Babs crazy behind her back, separate her further from the pack. She felt like absolute shit most days and the school year passed in a blur.

And then, she started talking to Dick. And he was . . . great. Sure, she had known him from middle school, but she had changed over the course of her Junior year of school and suddenly everything else had too. It felt like she was in a whirlpool, struggling for air. And nobody noticed or really even cared.

But, then, Dick was there. And he would actually give a shit, ask her about her family and about her. It wasn't just sorry about Elizabeth, it was we still hanging after school?

And she had fucked it up.

It had been weeks since she spoke Bruce Wayne's ward and she realized belatedly how much of an idiot she had been.

She saw him that Monday. The trainer had just cleared her for practices starting the next day and it had completely slipped her mind that Dick Grayson waited for his rides outside of the athletic entrance each day.

She saw him as soon as she pushed open the door, crouched at the top step and tying his shoe. He turned as soon as the creaky door slammed shut behind her and was in front of her before she could think to retreat. The two looked at each other for what felt like hours and Barbara swore it felt like someone was hitting her repeatedly with a baseball bat. And then, everything rushed forward and Babs was suddenly exploding with all of the dumb thoughts she'd had in the past few weeks.

"I'm so sorry, Dick." She breathed out, avoiding his eyes. "I— everything was . . . good for once and then that dumb Arkham trip happened and I was so fucking convinced that you weren't who you said you were and I— "

"I'm not."

Barbara blinked, peering up at him. "What do you mean?"

The teens' eyes met for barely a second before Dick looked away. "I'm— I . . . There was a reason I asked you to hang out that day."

Babs stared, silent.

"We wanted to find some more information out about— . . . about Bess Keller. And you were the only person she was friends with." His voice took on a worried pitch Barbara had never heard before. "But, I swear— I swear to you Babs, I never meant to hurt you. And— and I don't know, I figured you'd get a friend out of it and no harm, no foul, right?"

The redhead's breathing hitched, eyes tearing up uncontrollably.

"Barbara, please. I didn't realize how cool you were back then and now that I do, I just want to say I'm sorry and— Babs, please don't cry." His hands cupped her cheeks, brushing away tears as they fell. "Barbara, Babs, please. I didn't— I'm sorry."

Barbara couldn't— she couldn't do this, not after everything. "I thought you were different."

The girl pulled away, walking because she didn't have the energy or focus to force her legs to move any faster.

Once again, her cousin had been right. Friends just hurt her and would always hurt her.

#dcu #dc #barbara gordon #batgirl #babs gordon #batman #robin #dick grayson

1 note · View note

iplaykora04 · 7 months

Text

A COMPREHENSIVE GUIDE TO BUY BLUETOOTH HEADPHONES IN GHANA

With the introduction of Bluetooth headphones in Ghana, the experience of listening to music has been elevated and without the constraints of the wires constantly wiggling around, the whole game of listening to music has changed in Ghana. However, getting Bluetooth headphones could pose quite a hassle.

In this blog, we will look into where and how you can buy Bluetooth headphones in Ghana.

WHAT MAKES A BLUETOOTH HEADPHONE GOOD?

For something to be considered good, it needs to have the top and the best features installed in it. So, before you go buy Bluetooth headphones in Ghana ask yourself, what makes a good Bluetooth headphone?

Well, here are a few important pointers you need to look for when trying to find the best Bluetooth headphones in Ghana.

Sound quality: when the discussion is about a device that allows you to listen to music or any other audio then the one thing that we cannot compromise on is the quality of the sound, a good headphone in Ghana will give you the topnotch sound quality that you are looking for.

Battery life: Enjoying music, is just not listening to it, it is getting immersed into the depths of the notes and keys, singing along the lines of the song, and dancing with the melody. A music listening session should help you escape into the world where you can express yourself and for that, a good Bluetooth headphone in Ghana should have a good battery life that can last a long time, so that you can enjoy your escape time without interruptions.

Sensitivity: one of the most sensitive features of what makes good headphones is their sensitivity. Nobody wants slow headphone, so look for a headphone that has advanced connectivity Bluetooth features that allows for easy and fast connection.

Comfort: Bluetooth should be capable of offering you a good listening experience while providing you comfort as you may end up wearing it for a long time.

Cost: do compare different prices in the market, however, make sure your views on the product are not entirely based on the price. A highly priced product is not always good and a low priced product is not always bad. Instead, make your decision based on the price and features it offers in that price range comparison.

WHERE TO BUY BLUETOOTH HEADPHONES IN GHANA?

With so many options in the market, choosing the best place to buy Bluetooth headphones in Ghana, that can fit your preferences, can be tough work. However, the company that stands out the most is iPlayKora and their headphones STROM which has been taking over the Ghanaian market like storm.

WHAT MAKES IPLAYKORA'S STROM A GOOD HEADPHONE?

To buy headphones in Ghana, iPlayKora is your best option. However, to prove our claim that iPlayKora is the best headphone brand. Let us look into its features:

Iplaykora comes with an impedance of 32 oms, the standard for an impedance rating, and for your best audio experience.

The battery life of STROM is as great as it can get. With 20 hours of constant playtime and 45 days of standby time. There are no interruptions between you and your music jamming session. And when the battery does die, just a charge time of 3 hours can fill its juices to the brim, for you to go back to another 20 hours of jamming.

With a speaker sensitivity of 100 dB, and equipped with Bluetooth v5.0, connecting couldn't get any faster while enjoying high-quality audio.

Designed purely for your comfort, it comes with a cushion for soft interaction with your skin and easy tap controls.

The STROM by iPlayKora comes at a very affordable price of GH₵ 300.

CONCLUSION

People are in search of Bluetooth headphones in Ghana because of their rising popularity due to their comfort and easy access. However, to find a good headphone people need to consider various things and features of it.

To listen to music or immerse yourself in any audio files, a good Bluetooth headphone can elevate that audio experience by a lot and STROM by iplaykora, will help you experience that audio experience.

#Buy bluetooth headphones in Ghana #Buy wireless headphones in Ghana #Buy headphones wireless in Ghana #best Headphones in Ghana

0 notes

twenytwenytwo · 1 year

Text

Dec 14 2022 (8:16am)

Last night, Ethan and I hung out, jammed, chatted. Had a good time, and I think that him and I are on a really good track to fixing things up. He enjoyed jamming, and again expressed wanting to jam more on leaving. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, or anything funny.

I elaborate on this because I know my relationship with Ethan has many neurotic elements woven into it. Him and I created a band that gave me immense meaning in life, something that was of ultimate value to me. I could express my best self, the part who was skilled and artistic and passionate. I could be good at something, something I was proud of.

Because of how valuable it was to me, I was very aggressive when it came to protecting and growing it. This created stress, which created anxiety. Years ago I began acting from my anxiety, instead of addressing it as anxiety.

I began feeling swells of frustration when Ethan was late (something I felt last night, but pushed through, more on that later), or when I anticipate is disagreeing more generally. On sensing a potential conflict, I’d avoid it any way, because I didn’t want Ethan to have a tangible example of how I factored his opinion out. I made excuses, back doors, etc, all to allow me to make the band into exactly what I wanted, in a timely fashion, so we could get out of the port. This probably would have continued once we left “the port”, realistically.

Maybe me dressing it all up as trying to get us out of the mud at all costs is an excuse for me to take full control over something of ultimate value to me. I like control, or perhaps I just like things being under control, which they weren’t.

I wanted to feel like any conflicts inside the band were purely interpersonal, little things that had to be dealt with on a friend level. All other things would be mostly in order.

I think the band dynamic, the way it was, was not an expression of the band as it was, but rather as it superficially wanted to be. The expectations were cherry-picked from bands gone by. They exasperated weaknesses and suppressed strengths, by having the band contort into a shape that was not the band in it’s most genuine, happy form.

Furthermore, something I believe made things more difficult is that the band was still in a discovery phase in many way. The reason I don’t want to compromise on creative vision is that I want to encounter things about my version of perfection that I don’t like, thus my sense of perfection gets to look at itself and see it’s not perfect.

That’s how I learn what I am. I feel like if all of us were at the controls, turning knobs, adjusting reverb, etc, that it — ironically — would be nobody’s vision. Everyone would compromise their selves for the whole, creating a homogenized product that would be free from the most interesting parts of each person.

But, you may also find yourself so much more in love with the product because it’s not just you, the same way I do with playing in the band. I don’t like full control in that context.

- interrupted

0 notes

guttersniper · 2 years

Text

@curiosityshop said: ❝ we are going to bed. that’s what. at least you are. at your age you need a full night’s sleep. ❞

lamb.

the only noise giving merit to the statement mutt is alive is the scratching of his pencils against fresh paper. he hasn’t made a peep in a few hours. he doesn’t see the reason for talking if he doesn’t feel like it, or if there is nothing to be said. he is a boy well-suited for silences. when the sun started to dip below the horizon, he simply twisted the knob on the lamp to bring forth light. his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in thoughtful concentration, turning the sketchbook at a slight angle to better shade his drawing.

he’s interrupted by the faint whine of his stomach. he ignores it, as he is adept at doing. he’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t feel the worst of it, through years of forcing himself through wrenching, endless hunger pains. they say that’s not healthy, and he must be hungry, and he is, always, not even for just food, and his stomach feels like a black hole, like he’s always hungry, but most times, his stomach closes up as soon as he tries to remember to eat something, something truly filling and not scraps, and he doesn’t have to ration stuff out, not anymore, he can eat as much as he wants, and there’s a refrigerator to keep stuff longer, and--

he scrapes back the chair. he sees no reason to deny himself food where there is food to be had. better still, he won’t be punished for eating whenever he wants.

bread, raspberry jam, cheese. some people might turn their noses up at the very idea, but mutt was fond of odd combinations. all in the near-darkness, he slathers a good amount of jam on both top and bottom, and puts two slices of cheese on each. he smushes them down together, and takes his first bite.

he remembered to eat, and that was good enough. he moves to sit at the nearby table, grabbing the paper still on it from that morning and reading snatches of everything.

he doesn’t freeze when he hears commotion, resists the urge to make some comment about nobody knowing how to move quietly in these parts. besides, he knows he won’t get a word in edgewise when he identifies the particular gait as mrs. mccarthy’s.

he chews, then swallows, listening to her but not exactly taking heed. he takes another bite, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. “ it’s quarter t’ nine, “ he mumbles around a mouthful. it doesn’t sound disgruntled, or even confrontational. sounded more like he’s telling the time, and that was that. he’s mastered the art of saying cheeky things and not exactly acting the part. his dry barbs are evidence of a buried humor, even when he crosses the territory into rudeness, which many would argue is his natural state. he figures it’s no use telling her there’s no way he could put himself in bed that early, or to give his reasons why.

“ shit, then. can i at least eat first? “

#he is so funny. he is So Funny.#curiosityshop #curiosityshop: bridgette.#t. 1950s.#answered.

1 note · View note

punwolf · 2 years

Text

Night of the Mysterious Traveler Chapt 3

Grass, hills in the background, trees, more dust. More rattle of plodding horses. More bones being rearranged under her hide from bouncing off James West and a stagecoach.

How did people ever manage to live like this? She sighed. Because they didn’t know any better. This is cutting edge technology. Gaia help me.

Her descent into boredom was interrupted within the hour as gunfire cracked, puncturing the noise of the stagecoach.

Charlie jolted out of a partial dose, knocking his hat askew. “Was that a shot?”

At least something was happening. Adrenaline flooded through Recycle and she grinned. “Oh yeah, That was definitely gunfire.” It was finally time to play, and smaller caliber weapons discharged behind them. Above, she heard retaliation from something which packed more range and punch from the stagecoach drivers.

Horrified, Emma gasped and recoiled from her window as the guard tumbled from the seat of the stagecoach. “What’s happening?”

The man was briefly visible before he hit the ground, rolling with a pained groan. The constant grate of wheels slowed and went silent as they halted. Color drained from Emma’s face and her bottom lip quivered. “Why are we stopping?”

As unnerved as the woman had been, Mustache maintained a casual calm. “It would appear we’re being held up.”

“It would appear,” West agreed.

Cool?

Horses pulled up near the coach door and a man with a bandana over his nose barked for them all to get out. Emma and Alice blanched but Recycle’s grin turned toothy. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Mustache nodded, his voice level and solicitous as he assured the women. “Don’t be frightened. Underneath that mask he’s probably as worried as you are.”

Recycle’s feral expression curled into her eyes. If he isn’t, he should be.

West was first out, giving Emma and Alice his hand to help them down as the thieves complained loudly about finding nothing of value in the luggage. One bandit had a gun trained on the driver. The man glanced at the revolver as he clutched a hand over the outside of one arm, crimson pushing through his fingers. With a grunt of pain, the driver pulled a bandana from around his neck to make a quick tourniquet.

Charlie scrambled into daylight, hands hoisted skyward. “Say, you boys must not be from around here. I mean, I could have told you, nobody ever robs this stage. It never carries any money.” He nervously looked from one masked face to the next. “The mine shut down two years ago.” His nervous patter was cut by a gun barrel shoved into his back.

One of the bandits decided the passengers might yield better results than the cargo. “Alright, all of you empty your pockets.”

“No.” Recycle folded her arms over her chest, grinning like a wolf in a herd of sheep.

“I said,” he jabbed a pistol in her direction, “empty your pockets!”

She almost laughed aloud. It was a nice looking museum piece, but it held six rounds. They were lethal for the time, but paled in comparison to ammunition she was used to handling.

She met the eyes glaring over the top of a dirty bandana, openly challenging him. Garou were resilient. Like X-Men’s Wolverine, they could get shot and barely miss a stride. Plus she wanted them to focus on her instead of Emma or Alice.

Some of the old westerns didn’t cross a line, but others … They took a darker approach and women were violated, victimized and murdered. Even if the crimes were implied or off screen, Recycle would paint the landscape red with blood before anyone touched the two ladies. She let her hands relax to her sides, readying herself to supernaturally jam the guns.

The bandits weren’t getting any farther with West or Mustache so one grabbed Emma’s bag. Recycle hadn’t noticed it, but he yanked a small purse off the woman’s wrist. “Give me that!”

Tears were on the edge of Emma’s voice, and whatever was inside must have been precious enough for her to struggle. “Oh please!”

West lashed out with a backhand, making solid contact and sending the bandit careening. He was fast. A second punch across the face of another thief put him down.

Mustache smacked metal into bone with the heavy head of his cane.

Horses screamed, half rearing. The unblinking eye of a pistol muzzle aimed at Recycle’s face. Taking a side step, she snapped an open palm up on one side of the bandit’s arm so they were wrist to wrist. Her other hand locked over the barrel of the firearm, twisting it so it pointed away. His finger was on the trigger, but the aim was spoiled. The bullet harmlessly ricocheted off a rock with a tinny ping. In the millisecond it took for the surprised yell to spill out of his mouth, she wrenched the gun out of his hands. It fell into hers.

One nice thing about the old tried and true antiques, they were heavy. She clubbed a bandit over the head, hearing bone crack. Oops. I didn’t mean to hit him that hard.

Out of the corner of her eye, Recycle caught the glint of sunlight wink off metal. A derringer appeared in West’s hand from his sleeve?

Interesting!

With cool efficiency, he dropped a bandit from a horse. Considering the range, Recycle was impressed.

The altercation was over in less time than it took a leaf to fall from a tree. West jogged over to the man he shot, yanked the mask down and called back. “This man is dead.”

Charlie knelt beside the one Mustache clocked on the temple. “This one, too.”

Recycle checked for a pulse on hers. He wouldn’t be bothering anyone else, and the body count rose to three.

West volunteered to help the guard who managed to get to his feet half a block behind them. Yep. Definitely a nice butt under those skin tight blue pants. Woozy, the guard limped toward them and Mustache polished the head of his cane with a handkerchief. “Doesn’t seem to be any damage here.”

The two West punched were laying out on the grass, but their survival instinct took over. They shook off injuries to stagger upright either because they feared West and Mustache or sensed the beast within Recycle. They weaved unsteadily as they bolted for horses, and shoved their feet into the stirrups.

Mustache was quick. He immediately sprang to one of the dead men, pulled the gun from a hip holster, assumed a perfect stance and fired once. He missed and the gun ran dry with multiple clicks.

Recycle reacted rather than thought, but she aimed for the horse instead of the rider. Laming the animal should have been the equivalent of hitting a tire. Unfortunately she overlooked a critical detail. Like a rookie, she forgot to pull the hammer back.

Damn. It’s single action! I may as well have been an uninitiated cub to do something that stupid!

Disgusted with herself, she stuck the pistol in her belt and checked on Alice. The girl was on the verge of fainting. “Go back inside and sit in the shade,” Recycle told her gently. “Everything is alright. You’re safe. Those two,” she gestured toward the men, “know their business. I’m here, too. No one will let you get hurt.”

Alice mustered a watery smile and she held a hand out. Looking at it for a moment in puzzlement, Recycle remembered West helping everyone out. Oh. Alice assumed she was talking to a guy. Recycle awkwardly took her hand and elbow. They were nearly the same size and Recycle was built like an urban jogger. She barely managed to help Alice balance without dropping her.

West jogged to join Mustache, watching the bandits vanish in the distance. “Looks like they’ve lost their taste for the battle.”

“Personally, I’d rather not have their company all the way to New Athens.” Mustache glanced toward the occupants of the stage. “It would upset the ladies.”

“Never upset the ladies,” West agreed congenially.

Recycle was curious if they meant they were going to leave dead bodies on the side of the road for the vultures and scavengers. She supposed that was what the comments meant about upsetting ladies. Corpses dripping blood wouldn’t make for a pleasant trip.

“You handled yourself very well.” Recycle glanced up at Mustache, ready to receive the compliment but he hadn’t been speaking to her. His comment was directed at West. To Emma, he offered a hand once she’d retrieved her purse. “If you’ll permit me?”

She couldn’t argue about James West’s prowess and really wanted a look up his sleeves. If there was anything a proper Glass Walker loved, it was tech and gadgets. She was itching to check out whatever contraption was hidden under his coat and find out how it worked. Unfortunately, there was no sane way of starting that sort of conversation.

“Guard?” West stopped the limping man before he could resume his station atop the outside of the stagecoach. “Why don’t you take my place?” He gestured to the inside of the stage.

Charlie stared down at one of the dead bodies before it was his turn to climb aboard. “The gentleman’s walking stick packs quite a wallop.”

“Yeah, it does.” West was about to reach for the guard’s rifle but Recycle intercepted it, testing the balance and weight without thought.

“I’ll ride with you.” She gave the horses as much space as she reasonably could but they pawed, stamped, and clamped their jaws on their bits. “The driver’s been hurt, too. He can have my seat.”

West’s thoughts were well concealed, but she could see his mind working when he pointed casually toward the gun. “Can you fire one of these?”

She handed him the pistol and ran a loving hand along the rifle. Gaia, it was gorgeous and the only chance she’d ever have to hold such a vintage piece. “Absolutely. She’s a Winchester. Holds ten rounds. Load her on Sunday, she’ll shoot all week. Her predecessor helped the Union win the Civil War.”

“Her?” he asked with the ghost of a smile.

“Beautiful, deadly, and practical. Of course ‘her.’”

“I guess I can’t argue with that.”

It wouldn’t have done any good if he tried. “Unless you’ve got spare ammunition up the other sleeve. I’m not going to waste a bullet proving I can hit a target.”

She eyed his jacket, almost hopefully, but he didn’t comment. “I can shoot and I’m accurate. I also can’t drive horses.” Technically she didn’t know how. The closest she’d come to a tutorial was watching Van Helsing every year before Halloween. “They’re frightened of me.”

West spoke gently to the animals, running his fingers beneath their long faces, trying to calm them. Their eyes rolled back to show white as she climbed aboard and he looked from the team up to her. For the first time, a hint of surprise cracked through his expression. “They are afraid of you.”

She could only shrug and sit as still as possible until their panic wore off. West hoisted himself up to take the reins.

West and Mustache probably weren’t working together from the way they kept assessing each other. She wasn’t any closer to deciding on the star. Both were well dressed, protective, athletic and well mannered.

Happy trails , she sighed mentally.

#Werewolf the apocalypse #wild wild west #james west #artemus gordon #world of darkness #classic world of darkness #jim we #ww:ta #cwod #whuffie writes #fanfic #fan fiction

0 notes

malfoys-demigod · 3 years

Text

The One Where Chandler Takes You In

Chandler x F!Reader

Summary: Chandler lets you sleep in his and Joey's apartment after you had to evacuate yours. Chandler's genuine and over-the-top kindness results in confessing his feelings for you.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: My first Friends fic and it's on Chandler! I hope you like it!

Tag: @bellarkeselection

There was a knock on the door.

“That must be Y/N.” Ross suggested, noticing the clock. So there were times when you’d be late for anything, such as Monica’s daily dinner. But to be two hours late? That was something new.

Monica stood up from her chair from the dining table and walked over to the door saying, “It’s about time you showed up-“

As the door opened, she was met with a messed-up version of yourself, with wet hair, wet clothes, tired eyes, and a self-depreciating smile on your face.

“Hi, everyone.” You greeted the gang, who looked at you with worry.

“Oh my gosh, Y/N, what happened? Are you alright?” Monica gasped, wondering why you were all so relaxed despite looking the opposite.

You laughed at yourself as you entered the apartment, taking the empty seat beside Chandler, “As of tonight, I’m officially homeless! The entire apartment floor happened to have some caught fire. I wasn’t really aware of this until there was water sprinkling over me like crazy from the ceiling. There wasn’t any fire from my end but their sprinklers must’ve been jammed and continued pouring on my room until, well, everything started messing up my place. Hard-headed me didn’t leave the apartment without a few boxes of clothing and other necessary items so yeah, that’s why I look like I showered with my clothes on.”

“That’s terrible, Y/N!” Rachel said in despair, “Where are all your boxes then?”

You gestured to the outside of the apartment with your finger, “Just outside in the hall.” You said in a cool tone.

“How are you so calm about this? You literally have nowhere to go now!” Monica commented, wondering.

“The apartment company made arrangements for us apparently. I just have to call this number,” you said, withdrawing a piece of paper from your jacket and showing it to the gang, “And have them confirm where I’m staying for awhile.”

“Well why don’t you call them now?” Phoebe asked.

You shrugged, listening to her question. You stood up from the dining chair and headed over to the balcony, attempting to call the number.

After a few tries, nobody picked up. You weren’t having this. You turned around and went back inside, now irritated.

“Nobody picked up,” you announced, frowning.

Chandler, who wanted to be the first one with the proposition, proposed, “How about you stay with me, Y/N?” Then stuttered, “I mean with me and Joey? You know, we could take you in for as long as you want, you could take my bed and I could take the couch and it’ll be fine!”

There was a smile that grew on your face, heart melted from the kind gesture of your friend. You placed your hands on your heart, “Aw, Chan, sure, thanks. But I can’t let you take the couch.”

“Why don’t the two of you share the bed then?” Joey whispered to Ross, who chuckled like a child, which Rachel and Monica heard the both of them, rolling their eyes. They all may or may not have thought that Chandler had a thing for you.

“Hey, whatever floats your boat, Y/N,” he agreed, “Do you need help with the boxes?”

“Sure,” you nodded.

—

“Alright, and we’re all set!” Joey said, finally placing the couch into a couch bed.

“Thanks, Joe,” you said, patting him on the shoulder.

You turned around to see Chandler staring at the two of you from the kitchen, to which he started moving away from and towards you since he felt like a creep from the back, “Uh, I guess that’s it for the night. There’s a lot of water in the fridge if you’re thirsty, and if you really need anything, don’t hesitate to knock on my door, alright?”

“Yeah, thanks too, Chandler.”

Joey yawned as he stretched, looking a little tired now. “Well, I’m gonna head to bed. Night, Y/N.”

“Night, Joe!” You waved as he retreated to his bedroom.

Chandler gave you a small and shy wave, “I’ll get going too, see you, Y/N.”

“Sweet dreams, Chandler,” you said, smiling at him. He smiled, turned around, and headed to his room.

When everyone was gone, you tucked yourself into bed and closed your eyes shut with a smile, knowing that you’re being taken care of by your two good friends.

Sometime at 3am, Chandler woke up. He was quite thirsty, which was odd since it was in the middle of the night. He needed to satisfy his body, so he got out of bed and slowly made his way out of his room without making any sound.

As he made baby steps from his bedroom, his eyes darted to the couch-bed. Somehow, he wasn’t in the mood for water anymore. He was curious to check up on you.

He made his way over to you and found you looking like a sleeping beauty. You were dead asleep, but looking so graceful and at peace.

But he knew you could be feeling more comfortable if there was an upgrade to your sleeping situation. He did something he never thought of doing EVER.

He scooped you up from the couch-bed smoothly and made his way to his room. Like the gentleman he was, he placed you on the other side of his bed with ease, placing his blanket over you.

That should do it.

Then he made his way to his side of the bed and closed his eyes. He was at peace. Or at least thought he was.

Five minutes later, he felt your body near his. You were subconsciously snuggling with him, making him feel so flustered about him yet he felt happier.

“Sweet dreams, Y/N.” He murmured to himself, then closed his eyes.

—

Joey woke up to an empty couch-bed as he made his way to get a glass of milk from the fridge. Hm. That was weird. You weren’t the type to wake up early and leave. Well, why would you leave? Your stuff was here. Well, you could be at Monica’s for breakfast but again, it was too early.

An idea popped up in his head. He smiled at himself, hoping he was right. He tip-toed over to Chandler’s door, opening the knob slowly and pushing the door quietly to see you and Chandler, in the same bed together.

He noticed how your arm was spooning over his waist, as his hand was over yours. The both of you look so at peace and so comfortable that Joey wanted to take a picture of you two.

He couldn’t contain himself. Oh man, he had to tell the rest of the gang.

He slowly closed the door and rushed to Monica’s.

—

“YOU WOULD NOT GUESS WHAT GLORIOUS THING HAPPENED OVER AT MY PLACE!” Joey announced himself in a loud tone.

Phoebe, Ross, Monica, and Rachel looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

Phoebe guessed, “You had sex with a girl!”

Joey pointed at her, “Good guess, but no!”

“Well, spit it out, Joey!” Monica demanded, now curious since it wasn’t that.

Joey sat in the dining chair with excitement over his jazz hands, “Okay,” he started, “Y/N started her night with sleeping on the couch-bed, right? Then when I woke up, she wasn’t there. So I checked over at Chandler’s room and SHE WAS SPOONING HIM! Oh man, they just looked so cute together, you know, especially with how Chandler likes her, and even his hand was over hers!”

Around the dining table, everyone’s faces became in awe, as they were surprised it finally happened - something between you and Chandler. Rachel’s opened mouth turned into a proud smile, clapping her hands together with joy, “Well that’s just great! I’m so glad something finally happened. Would you know if she went over to him or if he brought her over to his bed?”

Shrugging, Joey shook his head with no answer, “Nah, but I bet he made the first move. I can tell.”

“Well, are they still asleep?” Ross asked

“They should be awake in a few minutes probably,” Joey replied.

—

Over at Chandler and Joey’s apartment, you and Chandler had just woken up at the same time.

As your eyes started to open, you noticed that your surroundings seemed different. You sat up, quickly turning to the side to see Chandler flashing a small, awkward smile at you.

“Oh, Chan,” you said, as your heart was racing, “Did I sleepwalk or something over to your bedroom?”

Chandler sat up properly now, stroking his hair with a small laugh released from his system, “Uh, no,” he replied, “As a matter of fact I carried you to my bed last night since I figured you’d feel more comfortable here. I hope that was alright.”

“Oh, yeah,” you blushed, appreciating his gesture, “It was comfortable, thank you.”

“Of course,” Chandler replied, smiling.

You then looked away casually, not knowing where this conversation could now lead since there was a potential of it becoming dry sooner or later. There was one thing that you wanted to ask though, now that Chandler had done something out of the ordinary for you.

You looked back at him, feeling a bit stunned since he was staring at you this entire time. He then jittered and started murmuring things that you interrupted by shooting the question, “Chan?”

“Yes, Y/N?” He instantly replied, feeling saved from embarrassing himself even more.

Gulping since this may or may not have been an out-of-the-blue question, “I’m just curious but why would you do this for me?”

“Carrying you over to my bed?” He bluntly asked, raising his eyebrow. You shook your head, “No, I mean yes, but everything on top of that, you know - taking me in. I mean, I know Joey wouldn’t carry me over to his bed or quickly be willing to take me in. Either of the girls would’ve done that but you stepped in so genuinely. How come?”

Chandler looked down, feeling guilty but embarrassed at the same time. He started scratching the back of his head, knowing that it had to come out sooner or later.

“I guess it’s because I-I like you, Y/N,” he confessed, looking up to see your reaction with a hint of fear and anticipation in his face, “And you don’t have to reciprocate if you don’t feel the same way but I’d kinda do anything for you whether you like me back or not.”

You were internally gushing so hard that your heart started beating even faster, seeing how Chandler was basically giving you heart eyes right about now. You placed a hand over his shoulder, and another over your chest with a fluttering feeling, “Oh, Chandler, believe it or not, but I like you too actually,” you confessed back with a blush on your cheeks.

There was a wave of relief and happiness that came from Chandler’s body, as he exhaled with pure joy, “Oh boy, really?” He asked, laughing.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “I was probably just better at hiding it, but yeah, I like you Chan. I wished I started the night last night in bed already with you,” you teased. He smirked, gaining confidence to kiss you on the cheek as he said, “We can make up for that and stay in bed for as long as we want instead.”

“What about the gang?” You asked genuinely. He shook his head and threw a hand gesture saying, “Nah, I think Joey can take a hint and should be over there without us right now."

“Alright, I like the sound of that,” you said, laying your head back on the pillow, which Chandler imitated, as the two of you started getting cozied up again.

“As do I.”

#chandler bing x reader

1K notes · View notes

writinginthedarkwood · 3 years

Text

Werewolf! Kirishimia Eijiro: A New Meaning to Golden Retriever Boyfriend.

Thank you so dearly for this request, it was so much fun to write. Prompt #16 “Not this again.” For the fictober event. If you have a request, please send me an ask I would love to write it.

No warnings, fluffy and cute.

"You've got to be kidding me, not this again." You looked down at your phone, a long paragraph typed up from your boyfriend Eijiro in the same format as last month. An excuse, an apology, canceling tonight's plans, and about two more apologies. Tonight he's claiming stomach issues, but you know the truth. You sigh and check your bank account. If he would just tell the truth you could tell him that it wouldn't be a problem for you to pay for the movie tickets tonight! He makes good money, he must really spend over his budget. He's so chivalrous and sweet, it might insult him to try and pay for things sometimes. You don't mind, if only he'd just open up.

You decide that enough is enough, you're going over there and you're going to put an end to the lying! He's going to let you pay for the date if you have to drag him out by his ears. You throw on the outfit you had planned for your date, cleaned up your hair and head down the street into the night air. Eijiro's house is just outside of city lines in the suburbs. He has a nice end lot with a large field behind it. You're so jealous of his view. You hop on the bus and ride with head phones on, listening to a playlist he made you. The bus can be a little scary at night, but nobody is on here except for you. It's kind of peaceful just listening to music and staring at the full moon. It's large and round face is staring down at you like a caring grandmother.

Another text pops up.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry I disappointed you. I have to get some sleep, I love you baby." You rolled your eyes. It's just past 10pm! You're not letting him sit and sulk in the dark alone all night. You resisted the urge to throw your phone into your bag in frustration. He is such a wonderful boyfriend 99% of the time, but he always seems like he's hiding a part of himself. What is it? A bad childhood? A gambling addiction? Is he secretly apart of the mafia??? The bus halted to a stop and left you outside of his neighborhood, you stomped all the way down the sidewalk to the end of the line of houses and stared at your boyfriends place. The porch light is off, but the lights are on inside. You know where he keeps the hidden spare key and jam it into the lock. You almost kick the door down as you shout for your boyfriend.

He was sitting on the couch, tying his shoe laces. He's putting on hiking boots this late? "Hey! You're awake!" You slam the door behind you and scold your red headed sweet heart. "Babe what are you doing here? It's almost midnight!" His voice is shaking. He nervously looks at the clock on the wall and stands up. "You have to go baby, I'm really embarrassed! My stomach is-" "Stop lying! Your stomach is fine!" You want to raise your voice and yell, but his giant puppy dog eyes are so cute. You jam a finger into his chest and scrunch up your mouth, doing your best to look irritated. "I knew I would get here and see you're not hunched over a puke bucket!" He put both hands on your shoulders and gently rubbed up and down on your arms. He's such a large man, he's practically a wall he's so solid. Yet he always has the sweetest touches, making sure to be so gentle with you. His callused finger tips brushed against your skin and gave you goosebumps.

It took every ounce of restraint in you not to fall right into his arms. "I'm sorry honey, but you really can't stay here tonight. I need you to head back home." He said hardly above a whisper. He kissed your forehead and you shoved his chest with all of your might. He didn't budge, but understood you wanted him away from you so he stepped back. "Oh I'm sorry, is your booty call on the way over and I'm interrupting?" You felt like someone had stabbed you right in the heart. It couldn’t be true, he has never showed any signs of being disloyal. You’re just tired and confused.

Eijiro looked panicked. "Oh god of course not! No, no its not like that I swear!" He swallowed you in his arms pushing your cheek against his pecks and kissing all over the top of your head. "There is nobody other than you, I could never even think of betraying you, you're my soul mate." He said between kisses. You wrapped your arms around him and snuggled in. His warmth overwhelming. "Well then what is it...?" You whined a bit, it's getting later and you want to just fall asleep in his arms. "Are you going to turn into a wolf at midnight?" You chuckled. His hand stopped running through your hair and he stiffened completely. You look up at him puzzled, he's staring down at you with a look of panic. "That's crazy why would you even say that?" He says all too seriously. You nervously laugh. "What's wrong? I was just joking. It's not like I really believe you're about to start howling at the full moon." Eijiro stared off into space, like his brain was loading and he couldn't think of what to say. "Right...?" You cocked an eyebrow at him. "It might be a little bit like that." He scratched his head.

You two sat in the quiet for a little bit. Every time he tried to elaborate he ended up getting caught up in his own words. You two sat awkwardly in his living room until its about 5 minutes til midnight. "I- I'm going to go to the bathroom." He quickly dismissed himself, running to his bedroom and shutting the door. You followed quickly after him. Is he insane? Does he really expect you to just sit out here while he hides pretending to shape shift to get out of movie night? He's obviously having a difficult time, maybe his money troubles make him feel emasculated? You softly tap on his bedroom door and it slips open. The bathroom door is closed shut with the light peaking out under the crack. You walk past his bed and dressers and hear weird scuttling sounds the closer you get. You knock again. "Hey honey, why don't you come out so we can talk about this? It's okay if you didn't want to go out because of money..." You leaned against the door. "It doesn't make you less of a man to let me pay sometimes." He's so wonderful, you don't think there could be any other reason why he can be so flakey.

The sound of shampoo bottles and shaving cream canisters falling to the ground startle you. "Babe are you okay?" You turn the door nob. The door flings open, a large shape tackles you, knocking you to the ground. You let out a large wheeze, the wind escaping your lungs. "What the fu-" Your face was assaulted with a large flat tongue, licking all over you. Slobber flew across the room as a giant red dog panted and whimpered as it gave you kisses. "You're a dog! Oh my god you're a dog!" You pushed your monstrous boyfriend off of you and took a good look at him. He's huge, and even a little scary looking. His fur is bright crimson and his eyes are a daring shade of yellow. But he sat there, panting like a normal dog. You waved in front of his face. "Are you in there babe?" The dog playfully nipped at your finger, trying to pull your hand into his mouth. "Hey! No bites!" You retracted your hand and held it close to your chest. His fangs are giant.

The wolf man got down low to the ground in the stance you've seen puppies do right before they-

He takes off, zooming across the floor and into the living room at full speed. Pictures that lined the hallway crash to the ground. You rush to your feet and chase after him. "Wait!! Down boy! Down!!" You shout. He's already on the couch, gripping a throw pillow between his powerful jaws and shaking it. Cotton stuffing flies across the room, coating the floor. "No! Bad Eijiro! Bad doggy!" You try to wrestle the pillow away from him and fail. He topples over you, knocking you back down onto the floor and taking off across the room again, this time to the kitchen. You tenderly rub your arm, you landed on it weird and it's a little sore. Another crashing sound prompts you to get up onto your feet and run after him. The trash can is toppled over on its side, trash strewn across the floor. His snout was pushing around the garbage, looking for something to swallow. "Are you kidding me? What is with you?" You grab the wolf by the scruff of his neck, and pull him to the other side of the room away from the trash. "You sit!" Eijiro whines and sits down, looking up at you with the saddest eyes. "Oh don't look at me like that. This is not what I thought a werewolf would be like." Eijiro's large head pushed against you, rubbing his face all over your stomach as you pet his head. "You just need to burn some of this energy off."

You can't help but love the silly thing. He is still your boyfriend, even if he is a little different than usual right now. He followed you down the hall, staying right by your side. He takes up most of the space, his large frame almost tipping you off balance with small bumps into your hip. You dug through a pile in his hall closet until you found an old baseball and plastic toy bat. Wow, he really needs to clean up his closet, you think to yourself. "Okay babe, let's go-" He looked up at you with all of the love in the world, hanging on your every word. You crack into a smile. "Let's go outside and play you big goof.

"The two of you trampled through the tall grass behind Eijiro's house, he seemed to use little to no effort at all. His massive paws stomping down the weeds like it's nothing. You decided you were far enough away from the neighbors and took a strong stance. You haven't hit a ball in ages, but this plastic bat is wide and should make it a little easier on you. The baseball flew high into the air, you focused and swung the bat, smacking the ball across the field. Your wolf ran, faster than any animal you had ever seen after the small object, passing it and having to loop around with a terrifying pin point turn. He grabbed the ball off of the ground so quick you barely saw the motion, and in a flash he was back at your feet. You could do nothing but shake your head and laugh. "Are you kidding me? You're amazing!" Eijiro looked pleased, so you scratched his neck fluff.

"Alright let's see if I can hit it a little farther."

Again, and again, and again he chased the ball across the field and back happily dropping the ball at your feet. He only made you wrestle for it once, he could probably keep the ball away from you forever with those intense muscles, but that's not as fun for him. Seeing how pleased you looked when he brought it back was filling the beast with all the pride in the world.

Eventually your arm got tired, and he seemed to have about run out of energy too. He laid down in the field and looked up at the moon. You laid your head on his stomach, the rhythm of his breathing so comforting. You just talked to him, venting about life and how weird things are in the city now. You found yourself thinking about how a simple bus ride was starting to feel too far away from him at this point. "I know you don't really understand me right now, but I really love you. I know we've said it before, but I love you. I think you're my forever person." He was laying on his paws, looking up at the starry sky. "I know you felt like you had to hide this from me, but it doesn't scare me, or weird me out." You talk quietly and close your eyes, snuggling deeper into his fur. "If I have to come throw a ball for you once a month, I'll do it. I've got friends that deal with way worse with their boyfriends." You smirked, thinking you're pretty funny. That'll make Eijiro laugh in the morning, you'll save that for later.

The rising sun burned your eyelids, scaring you awake. You hadn't meant to stay out here for the rest of the night, but it was so late and he was so comfortable. He's much more familiar to you now, he slept peacefully as you rested on his chest. He looks worn out, but the two of you can't stay out there forever. You gently tap his face. He popped one eye open and looked around. "Oh man!" He gasped and looked down at his hands and feet. "I'm so stupid! You could get sick staying outside all night!" He put a hand on your face and cupped your chin. "Are you alright my love?" He asked with the soft voice only you get to hear. "Yeah I'm fine. How are you feeling?" "I feel fine. I'll be a little more hungry today, but it's no big deal." He looked down at the ground with a sheepish smile. "Thanks for staying with me all night." "Aw come on, it's no big deal. You're... a good boy." You teased while ruffling his hair.

"Hey!"

My Ko-Fi -> https://ko-fi.com/writinginthedarkwoods Please send spooky requests!

#fictober21 #my hero fanfic #werewolf kirishima #bnha fluff #Kirishima Eijirou #kirishima x reader #kirishima imagine

255 notes · View notes