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magewritesstories · 1 year

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James Potter // I Love You

summary: The three times James Potter tells you he loves you, and the one time you say it back. TW: mentions of fighting, James being James and not taking no for an answer (not completely creepy though), and alcohol consumption note: I love this man, and this aesthetic

The red and orange leaves crunched under your feet. It was the first week back at Hogwarts, and also your first Care Of Magical Creatures class.

The schoolyards smelled like rain after a long dry season, and it was just warm enough for you to dress in a comfortable white cardigan— made of wool because it’s still winter in England— and your white maxi skirt which had a pink flower print.

You closed your eyes, taking in the peace and quiet. It was 8:45 in the morning, and most classes didn’t start until 9:30, so there was barely another student in sight.

“Hey!”

You instinctively rolled your eyes at the sound of the voice behind you. You pivoted, fully-facing James, and you gave him a tight-lipped smile, “Hello, James.”

The brunet grinned at you, “Hey, [Y/N], so, have you made up your mind yet?” he asked, sheepishly rubbing his neck.

You raise an eyebrow at the question, “I thought I was pretty obvious last night James, remember when you decided to declare your love for me during dinner?” the 13-year-old shrugged, “Well, I just thought you were a bit vague is all.”

“ “When pigs fly” is vague?” You asked incredulously, but before he could reply, “Well, let me be more clear: I, [Y/N] [Y/L/N], will never go out with you.” The boy laughed, “Never say never, darling.” You rolled your eyes, turning back, “Whatever, Potter.”

“But I love you!?”

“Too bad!”

You sighed twirling your pink pen in your hands. Spring of ‘74 had decided to be unbelievably nice. There was a cool breeze ruffling through your hair, as you sat under a large willow tree trying to finish your arithmetics notes.

All your friends still had classes— since they all had a different schedule than you— which meant you were sitting alone, wracking your brain and regretting your decision of picking this over divination

At least Trelawny gave out sympathy P’s...

“[Y/N], my darling, treasure of my heart, how are you on this fine day?” James asked, loudly announcing his presence. You sighed, letting your head fall. Great, first Professor Fahey was giving you a hard time and now this guy.

“Amazing, until you came along.”

James let himself fall down onto the blanket, hand over his heart, “You wound me, my love,” He sighed, dramatically, “Why do you hurt me, when all I do is love you?”

“Leave me alone, James.”

“Never, [Y/N].”

You buried your face in the pages of Arithmetics For Dummies, half out of annoyance, and half as an attempt to hide your blush. But apparently, your ears liked James more than you, and they betrayed.

“Oh. My. Merlin!” James exclaimed, practically jumping up, he softly pulled the book away from your face. He leaned in to get a better look at your face. The two of you were now nose to nose.

His lips looked so soft, and kissable, maybe—

“I actually made you blush!” He said happily. Welp, there goes that thought. You quickly turned your head. You grabbed your bag, as well as the books and notebooks scattered across the blanket, before standing up and walking away.

“Oh come on, [Y/N] don’t be shy, it’s okay, you like me!”

A cold breeze ran through your sheer navy blue top. It was nearly midnight, and the stars were out on full display. You sighed, looking at the seemingly never-ending shining specks of light.

“Hey, you enjoying yourself?”

You almost didn’t recognize the voice, because of the softness. James sat down next to you, dangling his legs down the pier. You buried your face in your arms, which were wrapped around the knees and pressed against your chest.

“What do you want James?”

“Nothing, you just looked like you could use the company.”

“Why are you so persistent, James?” You asked, turning your head towards the Gryffindor prefect. He shrugged, looking up at the sky “I thought it was obvious— especially after I’ve said it a million times— I love you, [Y/N], I think you’re amazing and cool and way too smart for your own good, and I would be very lucky to date you.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his cheesiness. He turned his head towards you, offering you a small smile in return. You leaned in, pressing a small kiss to his cheek.

“So take me out on a date.”

“What?”

“You, me, Honeydukes next weekend.”

James stared at you like a deer in headlights. “Really?” He asked, trying to fight the grin forming on his face. You nodded shyly, hoping that the redness of your cheeks wasn’t visible against the stark darkness of the night.

Once it was completely processed, James tackled you onto the ground in a bear hug. “Yes, yes, yes!” He shouted, “I promise you won’t regret it!”

You laughed at the elated expression on his face.

“I’m sure I won’t, Jamie.”

The room was an absolute mess. There were posters all over the wall next to them, and there was a cabinet above his desk filled to the brim with trophies. Three walls were painted a crème-coloured white, with the accent wall a muted red.

You sat on the bed, back pressed against James’s chest, snuggled up under a blanket, despite it being 20 degrees out. You squirmed a little as James attacked your neck and jaw with loving kisses.

You let out a laugh, something that James always argued sounded like angels singing, trying to get out from under his grip. But he just tightened his arms around your waist.

“James— James, let go,” you managed to say in between laughs as he started to tickle you.

“Never, [Y/N],”

After a few minutes, he stopped, letting you catch your breath. By now you’d fully turned towards him. The book you’d been reading long forgotten on his bed. James pulled you closer, placing a kiss on your lips, and then another one.

“James, stop it, you’re mom’s gonna walk in!” You chastised, although you kept complying every time he leaned in for another. He shrugged it off, “Nah, my mom won’t come in,” before you could add to the concern, he added, “And neither will Sirius unless he wants to be traumatised.”

You rolled your eyes that the exaggeration before placing a chaste kiss on his lips. You smiled, looking into the brown eyes that had slowly but surely become a comfort for you over the past year.

You’d fallen in love with James Potter.

You could practically hear the younger version of you let out an offended gasp, with bright red cheeks, of course.

But there was nothing you could do about it now, except for tell him and hope he felt the same.

“I love you,” you said shyly, trying to avoid looking into his eyes. You felt his grip on your waist loosen just a little. His face fell into an expression of shock, before splitting into a grin. “What did you say?” He asked teasingly. You rolled your eyes, face still burning, “You heard me.” James grinned, “I’ve waited three years to hear that.” You rolled your eyes,placing a kiss on his lips.

“I love you, James Potter.”

“I love you, [Y/N] [Y/L/N].”

#james potter #james potter x reader

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lilyrizzy · 3 months

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For the writing promot: yell 👀

The beginnings of a lesbian maxiel story bc…why not! cw: creepy straight guys & their slurs

“You two should kiss.”

It’s not the first time strangers have asked this of her and Max. It’s always guys too, hung up on the fantasy of two gay women being in the same room as each other, how it must mean they are entitled to a free show.

Daniel blames Pornhub and the videos she used to get herself off, hidden underneath her teenage bedcovers. All before she knew any better, before she knew where to find the stuff made for women.

Now, she just laughs like the good natured girl she is, while Max shoots the guy a death glare he can’t see.

The air of the bar is damp, sticky like you could cut it with a knife if you tried. Each breath she pulls into her lungs tastes a little like the tequila she’d merrily accepted and Max had refused, brought by the same assholes trying to hold their attention now. She might be a millionaire, but she’s not about to turn down free booze.

There are two of them this time, nicknamed Cocky and Cockless in her brain. She’s not going to bother remembering their names when she’s sure they know nothing about her beyond that she is a woman, a race car driver and bisexual.

“Maxy here isn’t my type,” she half shouts over the stready thrum of bass that is vibrating the floor underneath her feet. “As cute as she is.”

She shoots Max a wink, but it only has Max’s expression darkening and her eyes narrowing, all while Cocky, perched in the stool between them, grins. Cockless, stood besides Max, tries to get her attention by tugging at her elbow. She shrugs him off firmly, then harder when he tries again.

True to his name, Cocky is bolder. He leans further into Daniel’s space, not at all hiding his attempts to look down her top.

“I thought all the pretty girls were into the butch ones,” he says, a grin on his face as his eyes flick back up to hers, like they are in on this joke together. Like it’s not being made at both her and Max’s expense.

His words press against the same bruise that has been blooming across her chest since the day Max joined their team. Raw talent in the car and all cool confidence once you dragged her away from it. Everything Daniel both wanted and wanted to be.

It’s too much, too close to the bone, the same way the hand that comes to rest on her leg is, big and clammy, engulfing her kneecap.

“Daniel,” Max says, something deliciously demanding in her voice, like she wants this man’s hands away from Daniel’s body as much as Daniel does.

Daniel can’t make herself look at her, afraid she’ll give something away.

“Not me,” she forces past her teeth brightly.

Cockless has given up with Max, is instead flagging down a bartender to order another drink. Cockless, who seemingly only has eyes for Daniel, keeps laughing.

“And what is your type then, sweetheart,” he asks, and the condescension in the pet name is all it takes for her decide she’s done playing nice.

He’s running his fingertip of the hand not touching her across the rim of his glass. She’s sure he thinks is sexy, but in reality looks fucking stupid. She keeps the smile on her face and makes sure all her teeth are showing when she answers.

“Someone with a big cock,” she says sweetly, letting her eyes drag over his form. “But it looks like I’m not finding that here either.”

Finally she looks at Max who is still hovering at Cocky’s shoulder. Nodding at her, Daniel stands, shoving the creeps hand from her skin. Max doesn’t need words to know they are leaving, and instead simply follows as Daniel leads them away from the bar and back towards the teams booth booth. It’s filled with the foul mouthed Red Bull mechanics they call friends, that at least pretend not to imagine them fucking at all hours of the day.

“Hey!” The Cocky calls to their retreating back, and his sweaty fingertips slide against the bare skin of her shoulder for just a second as he reaches to stop her.

She turns, ready to tell him to fuck off, only to find Max already in his face.

“If you touch her again, I will break all of your fingers,” she tells him, like a promise. “And shove my cock down your throat.”

Cocky backs off, hands in the air as he mumbles something about, fucking dyke bitch.

Daniel hardly hears him over the pounding of her heart, the clenching of her cunt.

#ofc max has the big strap Daniel wants and needs;)#but more on that next time….#max/daniel #written for Lorna for being so brave today #fic

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magicalrocketships · 11 months

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Hmmmm, remember those 1200 words of de-aged Max that I absolutely wasn't going to write any more of, and then I wrote 1000+ words of de-aged Daniel in the same verse but I was absolutely not going to write more?

Well, anyway, here are 1500 words of de-aged Max in the same universe:

A tiny Max Verstappen is a bit of a shock to the system.

There is none of the blunt confidence and fierce determination that Daniel had just assumed had always been there to some extent or other. Instead, baby Max shrinks away from him into the corner of the sofa and offers one word answers at best ("How old are you, Maxy-Max?" Seven. "What would you like to eat?" Shrug).

It is even worse when baby Max hands him a little creased card, obviously pulled from the pocket of a wallet, which says in grown up Max's careful handwriting, if you go small then Daniel will look after you, followed by Daniel's address and phone number. The phone's been crossed out and updated as Daniel's changed his number. On the other side is presumably the same message but in Dutch. Little Max blinks up at him and chews on his lip and offers him absolutely no explanation for why his grown up self never actually mentioned his Go Small plans out loud. Sure, Daniel's offered, and he doesn't mind, but that was years ago and an actual heads-up that he's the only name on the list might have been nice.

But Daniel smiles at baby Max even though he's not entirely sure what the fuck is going on. He puts the TV on and chooses the first suitable-for-kids thing he finds on Disney+ (Bluey, which may or may not be too young for Max, Daniel doesn't know, but it's fine for now) before going to root in the cupboards by the bathroom to see if he can find a dusty Go Small kit that he's pretty sure he never got rid of. He might have had his turn going small (from what he remembers of it, a pretty cool day hanging out in the paddock in Malaysia) but it's not unheard of to go small twice, and you never know when you might need it for someone else - case in point.

He comes back to find Max in the same position he left him in, drowning in clothes far too big for him and being far too quiet for Daniel's liking.

Getting Max out of his grown up clothes and into the Go Small kit is an exercise in frustration, because Max doesn't want to wear them and won't capitulate and at least he's just as stubborn as ever even if he's so shy and uncertain that Daniel just wants to bundle him up into a blanket and give him a hug, except Max very clearly does not want one.

If Max is still little in the morning then he'll have to figure out another outfit, but as it is, it's evening and time for small people to be in bed, but first— food. Daniel cycles through his fridge and then his freezer. Max's response to literally everything offered is a little shake of his head. In the end Daniel makes him a piece of toast and puts a smiley face on it in jam, sits it next to a bowl of cereal and a bottle of milk, and puts some sweets next to that.

Max eats some of the dry cereal, half of a piece of toast, and — without taking his eyes off Daniel, which is only slightly creepy — slides one of the sweets off the table and into his lap.

"Okay," Daniel says, with a smile. "That wasn't so hard, was it? You ready to go to bed now?" With any luck, in the morning, Max will be big again and then Daniel can have some words about preparation and likes and dislikes and planning. Then— "Tomato soup. You like tomato soup."

Max looks at him with bright eyes.

"Is that a yes?"

Max gives him a little nod.

"Perfect, great. That's what we'll get you tomorrow. Tomato soup. Lots of it."

Max follows him into his spare bedroom like a silent shadow.

This is fine. Daniel is fine. Max is fine. Everything is fine.

&&&

Daniel wakes up to someone moving around his apartment.

It takes him a moment to think: Max, and another moment to blink away sleep and realise it's still the middle of the night. He rubs at his eyes and goes to investigate, stumbling into his spare bedroom and finding the doona on the floor and the sheets missing from the bed.

He discovers baby Max by the washing machine, his sheets on the floor, an extremely tell-tale wet patch on the front of Max's shorts, and Max trying and failing to get the washing machine door open.

Max shrinks into the wall.

Daniel very, very deliberately drops his shoulders. "Hello, Maxy-Max," he says softly. Max's eyes are wet. "Did you have an accident?"

"I didn't mean to," Max says very quickly.

"I know," Daniel says. "It's okay. That's why they're called accidents. Shall we go get you cleaned up?"

Max glances at the washing machine and back up at Daniel. He chews on his lip. He's been crying.

"It doesn't matter," Daniel says. "It's okay. You're still a good boy."

Max shakes his head. Daniel decides to have an internal meltdown about this another day, and channels his best and most organised self instead.

"What's going to happen," Daniel says, "is we're going to go and give you a little bath, and then we're going to get you all clean and dry, then me and you can have a warm drink and a story, then we'll get you back into bed and back to sleep, okay?"

Max glances down at the wet sheets.

"And in the middle of that, I'm going to put new sheets on your bed, and in the morning I'll look after the laundry. Washing machines are for big Daniels and not for little Maxes."

Max looks up at him, blinking.

"That's right," Daniel says, and he holds out his hand. "Good boys like little Max don't have to worry about things like washing machines."

Max stares at Daniel's hand for the longest time before, finally, slipping his hand into Daniel's.

Okay, Daniel thinks, only semi-hysterically, this is fine.

&&&

Daniel doesn't have another Go Small kit lying about, so he picks one of his t-shirts for Max to wear like a nightie after his bath. Max perches on the chair in the spare bedroom with a cup of warm milk as Daniel surreptitiously Googles "how to clean up a wet bed" and, realising he doesn't have the baking soda the first three webpages recommend, settles for giving it a quick spray with some Febreze and covering the mattress with a fresh towel. Going small rarely lasts longer than 2-3 days, so at the end of it he can always just chuck the mattress and get a new one if he's fucked it up. Then he puts fresh sheets on the bed, gets Max settled under the covers, and tries to figure out what the fuck story Max is going to want to hear from his vast collection of zero.

He remembers— he remembers something about Max having a flag poster on his wall.

"Do you like flags, Max?"

Max's eyes light up.

He falls asleep curled into Daniel's side, half way through Daniel reading him a list of facts about the Australian flag from a kid's geography site. Then after gently removing himself from Max's side, Daniel goes back into his bedroom, stares hopelessly at his own bed for the longest moment, and then Googles Go Small specialists in the local area.

There's no real build up to going small. Nobody knows when it's going to happen to them, nobody knows what age they're going to be when it happens, or what season it's going to happen in. Which means there's a very lucrative business market in being able to provide 48 hours' worth of clothes, entertainment, and supplies at incredibly short notice. In somewhere like Monaco, where there are people with money to burn, they offer a 24 hour service.

Daniel orders a 48 hour kit, requests a bed-wetting supplies add-on, and books an at-home shoe fitting for first thing in the morning. He makes a special groceries request for cans of tomato soup. Even if Max is back to his normal age in the morning, Daniel can donate the supplies away. It'll help someone, even if it doesn't help Max.

He thinks about Max's small, tentative hand in his, his silent shadow, and the way his eyes lit up at Daniel offering him flag facts. Daniel reaches for his phone again, and special orders a kids' book about flags for delivery in the morning.

With half an ear and eye open in case Max wakes up again, he tries to go the fuck to sleep.

&&&

In the morning, when he wakes up, Max is still seven and Daniel is still way, way out of his depth.

Shit.

---

Thank you to Lena @stolemyhheart and Em @powerful-owl for reading this over!

There is now more of this posted here.

#fic that i wrote #my fic #de-aged maxiel #baby max

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morvantmortuary · 5 months

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the night before -

The Morvants have their own Christmas Eve traditions.

warnings: allusions to child death and animal death, some gore, necromancers being creepy and possessive.

(I wanted to get this up earlier tonight, but my sister in law got in and I got distracted visiting, so! consider this a late night bite for the nocturnal crowd 🖤

As always, you can read this for just your favorite, or you can read it as though you’re dating a combination of all three - so long as you don’t mind your bed being very crowded at the end 😜)

All three Morvants share memories of the looming dread the holiday previously inspired:

The skeletal revenants that glowered through the House in the days leading up to the gathering — ritualistically sweeping, dusting, and mopping until their fingers fell off, or their task was complete and they immediately collapsed again into a heap of paper-thin skin and bones (that the boys then had to sweep up themselves and return to the basement).

The continued frustration of Maxi and Hector being constantly shooed out of the kitchen, despite both eagerly wanting to help prepare for the festivities, and being forced to go sit uncomfortably with the other men of the family as they visited before The Night’s Trial. Not to mention the guests of They Who Decide, who lounged around smoking eye-watering cigars and drinking heavily in the parlor while they talked of their grim variations of business.

The fury of a protesting Rora repeatedly being near-dragged back into the kitchen by her mother’s iron grip at her elbow, no matter how often she tried to slip away, or fake cramps or a headache in the later years, because Mathilde insisted it would be Rora’s duty to be hostess of such glittering evenings herself one day.

(Hector, to this day, swears that whatever dish Rora was forced to touch during the cooking process always tasted bitter. Like her anger had seeped into the food itself.

Rora, when asked, would simply say it was a trace amount of the cyanide her mother had caught her trying to slip in when her back was turned.)

The stiff, uncomfortable clothes - starchy old-fashioned suits for the boys, a tulle nightmare-confection for Rora, all with entirely too much ancient lace and in a grim grave-shroud white for the season.

They would be buried in them, after all, if they failed. As Vincent so loved to remind them.

Where other children waited eagerly for Christmas Day, eyes bright with the hope of presents to come, the three little ones all felt dread piling up in the pits of their stomachs like snowdrifts for weeks in advance. Each door of the antique wooden advent calendar revealed another implied threat — behind one, the baby teeth of a long dead relative who had neglected his necromancy studies. Another displayed two desiccated little slips, barely bigger than moth wings: the eyelids of a little girl who wasn’t asleep when Saint Nicholas arrived.

None of them cried when they took turns unveiling each grim reminder. They stopped all that carrying on when they were seven and eight, respectively, even when the occasional wet specimen — already milky white from a century of preservation — made one of them shiver, unsettling their breakfast in their stomach.

The little cabinet of horrors sat on the mantle all the way up to Christmas Eve, Vincent’s recitations of how each souvenir came to reside there echoing in their heads as they went about their Yule preparations.

Maxi would join his father in the embalming room, preparing for his teenage apprenticeship that would be his destiny. He learned how the dead would whisper anything they could still remember, too terrified to remember restraint, and how to salt the wards in the House’s guts that kept madness and death where they belonged.

Hector’s father would take him into what would one day be repurposed as his dark room, where he would study how to make himself a better vessel for the dead (until his mother Esperanza found an excuse to spirit him away, and showed him how redraw the boundaries within his own head).

Rora would be left alone with Mathilde, who would at first be eager for the prospect of time shared with her only daughter… until she sulked and snapped her way through every attempted lesson in the Things A Lady Should Know, be it cooking or sewing or coquetry. When Mathilde at last threw her hands up in disgust, waving Rora away, she would be left to her own devices… as well as her grandfather’s taxidermy diagrams and tools.

The three would study as diligently as each knew how, learning whatever tricks they could that might give them a way to survive the encounter.

At midnight, they snuck into each other’s rooms - a different one every night, so they might avoid any lurking ears or spectral gaze - and traded what little they knew. It was against the rules of the challenge, and if caught, they would all have to pay the price.

But none of them wanted to see the others lost. Especially to the black teeth and sightless eyes of that ancient wretched thing.

Though they had no way of knowing it yet, this would be only the first instance of breaking every rule they were ever forced to learn,

Ten Christmas Eves, they survived.

Every one of them made it out of the midnight maze one way or another, some years by the barest strands of ectoplasm.

Sometimes Saint Nicholas stole a strip of skin, a hank of hair from their scalp — anything it could get its bone-thin hands on, desperate to sate the aching hunger that plagued it. Hector lost one of his back molars the year he turned fifteen, and saw the creature place it right in his own jaw before he fell back through the other side of the dark.

They found each other every time as dawn broke over the cemetery on Christmas Day, wrapping each other in the by-then damp blankets that had been left out for them on the frozen ground, and watching the light push back every scrap of night left to make sure the creature in red couldn’t find its way back out to them again.

Then Hector was taken away to Mexico when he was sixteen.

Rora died the day she turned eighteen.

Hex completed his last run through the midnight maze by himself, and Maxi’s first Christmas Eve not spent fleeing in terror happened in a House where the only voices were those of the dead.

Those years, they all agreed, were the worst.

Christmas Eve with you is so different, for them, it’s surreal.

While Halloween holds his heart, Maxi doesn’t mind Christmas so much anymore. After years of keeping only to the traditional decorations so his late ancestors didn’t complain - red candles, white lights, garlands of dried herbs that had been handed down for generations - he finds he actually enjoys dressing up the House when you’re around.

He lets himself be silly now, hanging black stockings with skulls and crossbones for each of you on the mantle, decorating a tree with peculiar and morbid little ornaments - many of which are now momentos from the odd places the two of you end up together. He insists on watching Nightmare Before Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life at least once each season, in pajamas with hot cocoa, and he has a whole other repertoire of cookie recipes that he only makes in winter.

(If he holds you a little tighter and kisses your temple during George Bailey’s shouts of delight as he realizes he’s alive again, you don’t notice enough for it to strike you as odd.

You’ll never know how happy you made him to be alive again, too.)

He relishes the hunt for the perfect present, spending all year making notes to himself about the things you want but hesitate to buy yourself, or what you’re still trying to convince yourself you need. He wants to take care of you in any way he can, and if that means giving you permission to let yourself have something, then he’s happy to grant it.

A pattern returns from your more intimate moments, though: he focuses all his attention on you, eager to please, but the minute you show him any attention in return, he’s so overwhelmed he nearly forgets what he wants altogether.

You’re enough.

Every Christmas morning he wakes up in your bed with you, unscathed and unbloodied, unafraid, is more than enough.

Christmas Eve, however, he still insists on the two of you staying at your place.

He frames it more as wanting a break from the House, with all the decorating he’s been up to, and that’s sort of right. But truthfully, it’s because he’s certain he’ll never be able to sleep there on Christmas Eve as long as he’s on this side of the Veil.

At night, after the two of you have finished your last sugary snacks, and he’s held your back against his chest until you slip into a seamless sleep, he still lies awake until he absolutely has to move. He kisses the soft center of your cheek before he does, as if that itself is a spell of protection for the brief time he’s away.

He pads on silent feet to your living room, pausing at your fireplace with a wary glare to ensure his contingency measures are still in place.

The fine strand of silver-coated wire glints in the light, stretched taut across the width of your firebox and deceptively smooth for how sharply razored it actually was.

On your hearth, there are wards and glyphs in an unrecognizable dialect, all written in something the dull color of dried blood.

Subconsciously, he sucks the tip of his index finger as he turns towards your front door, the faint taste of iron filling his mouth.

Toeing into his shoes and sliding on his coat, he steps outside onto your porch as silently as he can manage. When he hears no noise from your bedroom at the creak of the floorboards of the soft squeak of the door hinge, he finally closes the door.

While you sleep, warm in your bed and your sugarplum dreams, he circles your house counter-clockwise seven times, trailing salt behind him as he speaks in a dialect of Louisiana French you’ve never heard from his lips in the daylight.

When he hears the slow, rhythmic ring of distant sleigh bells, he doesn’t stop or hesitate. He keeps one eye on the moon, iris reflecting solid red in the winter light.

He’s not a crying little boy anymore. He can fight back now, and he knows damn well how.

If he speaks the invocation a little louder, a challenge to the listening dark, he doesn’t realize it.

He’d take apart a centuries-old shambling corpse of Theseus of you. In a heartbeat.

When he enters your house again, the salt border over the sparse ice on the ground gleams with a tinge of red like bloody snow.

After checking the fireplace one more time, he finds the most central, load-bearing wall in your house. It has to be this one. No other will do.

He sets his left palm against it, feeling for something… before he sets his right one against it as well, satisfied. He leans his forehead in the space between them, and as his eyes close, the words tumble out of his mouth on an exhaled sigh.

If he’s learned anything in all of this - how the flesh and the sinew of a body calls to him above all else, how blood controls the flow of life, how decay is the purest form of devotion - he knows how to protect you.

And he’ll do it with everything he has, to his last breath.

Then he’d come back and do it again, so long as you were still alive.

The heater in your house kicks on briefly as something seeps deep through the wall, starting and stopping in a perfect imitation of a single human heartbeat.

Satisfied for now, Maxi abandons his shoes and his coat, padding his way silently back towards your room.

When he passes the innocuous milk and cookies waiting on your coffee table, he mutters a curse for the devourer to choke on them, long and hard.

He’ll spend the rest of his night with one of his hands under your heart and the other wrapped around his scalpel.

If he looks a little tired in the morning, when you kiss the edges of the bags under his eyes, he’ll only grin and tell you he was too excited to sleep.

Hector is used to loud, crowded Christmas Eves, whether it’s warm and welcoming with his mother’s family, or cold and cramped with the elite of They Who Decide.

The ones he spends alone with you, however, are always his favorites.

Hex, for not liking to sing too much, is nearly always humming something cheerful under his breath when the two of you are together. He’ll sing quietly along to the remixed and traditional carols from his childhood that he has on a playlist dancing in small, shuffling steps through the kitchen as he prepares his next creation. If it’s a baked good, there might be a few pleading prayers in between verses, oscillating between languages, desperately trying to thwart the curse that causes some of his most beautiful creations to end up frosting-side down on the floor.

If it’s something he’s cooking, though, then whichever of your houses he’s in will be pleasantly warm and delicious-smelling for the rest of the evening, and even a bit into the next day.

When he’s not in the kitchen, then all the man wants is to be warm, and his favorite way to be warm is with you. He’ll spend all his time sprawled across your couch, keeping you next to him with a fuzzy blanket, or tucked into the other half of his hoodie. Being colder than you, he breaks out his collection of fuzzy socks, only sliding one off when he sneaks his toes onto the back of your knee to shock you awake from an afternoon doze.

His presents, while maybe not as obsessive, are still thoughtful. Something that makes him think of you, even if it’s not something you strictly need, per se. It’s also more likely to be something the two of you can share somehow: a movie you both wanted to see, a video game you can tag team on, a bottle of some really lovely mezcal to split after Christmas dinner. Something to give him an excuse to spend more time with you, even though he already loves being attached your side.

He’s going to be here forever. He’ll make sure of that.

He also would insist on spending Christmas Eve at your place — he knows the ghosts in the House very well. They’re family, after all.

But even that doesn’t mean shit on a silent night.

He makes sure to serve your favorite at dinner that night, getting you nice and pleasantly full and sleepy on something delicious. If you drink, he’ll encourage you to imbibe a glass or two, maybe three. Anything that will get you through this evening as quickly and painlessly as possible, to make sure there’s no risk of you waking up.

He couldn’t stand it if that scarlet-suited fucker ruined it for you.

He knows what that’s like.

He’s a restless sleeper, but he lays still with his lips to your shoulder until your breathing settles, and he can watch the gentle little twitches of your deepest dreams. He only moves when he’s sure it won’t disturb you, and even then, he lingers for a moment, caught by the curve of your eyelashes against your cheek. He has to remember to take a photo of that sometime. Capture it against film, so the beauty of it can be seen for long after you’re both gone.

He slips out to your living room, checking the precautions he’s set up for the umpteenth time: the firebox wire is fit in place, and he’s strung its match across the bottom of your bedroom door for good measure.

He can be hard to reach, sometimes, if his soul wanders away from his sleeping body. He’s not about to risk drifting off on the job when it comes to you.

If he’s lucky, he’ll remove it in the morning, and you’ll never be the wiser.

But better safe than sorry.

On the brick floor of the firebox is a thin scattering of terra-cotta colored ash, the scent still heavy on the air as if something beautiful was freshly burned. On the back wall are etchings of the same color: wards, drawn with a smoldering stick of his mother’s incense.

He isn’t sure if the remaining curls of smoke are actually comforting, or if it just smells to him like coming home after a long time away.

Seating himself in the dead center of your couch, he lets his head fall back, his hair spreading across the tops of the cushions. He puts his hands, palm-up, out to either side of him, arms limp like he excepts to fall asleep at any moment.

He listens to the soft sounds of your house, the settling of the floorboard, the winter wind tapping at the windows.

Like the ends of fingers, flesh gnarled away at the tips down to bone…

When he thinks he hears the faintest hint of crunching ice, he closes his eyes, and his chest falls still.

For a few minutes, there’s nothing. Utter silence, muffled by the cold against the glass panes.

His fingers twitch, moving like they themselves are dreaming.

When he opens his eyes again, breathing deep like he’s just come up from under water, both hands are being solidly held.

He sits up, looking to his right — and sees a stranger in a white nightdress.

Her features are pale, her lips blue like she was kissed by frost. Her hair hangs around her face like it’s still faintly damp with clammy sweat, and her eyes are glazed, even when it’s obvious she’s trying to focus on his face.

When he looks to his left, his heart drops.

Seated next to him is a young boy, no older than eight or nine. His clothes look like something out of a period film, patchwork at the knees of his pants and elbows of his jacket like they’ve been darned and re-darned multiple times.

His skin might have been tan, but the full color of it is lost under a disquieting yellow from underneath.

He must have been sick.

When he smiles at Hex, hopeful, one of his teeth is still missing.

Hector sighs, returning the smile somewhat guiltily.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

Quietly, he looks between them, and explains what they need to do. Where they need to stand, and for how long.

What to do if Saint Nicholas tries to talk to them.

They listen, and when he finishes, they sit so still he’s almost afraid they don’t understand.

But as one, they both silently rise to their feet, and turn in opposite directions. The woman exits through the back wall of your house, melting through like water. The boy, holding himself straight and proud with the weight of his new responsibility, marches through the front wall and out onto the porch.

With a quick look over his shoulder, and another smile through the window, he begins to circle your house.

Hector stays until they’ve both covered one counter-clockwise rotation, then rises to his feet. His joints crack a little as he does, and he winces slightly.

Before he heads back to your room, though, he looks over to where the milk and cookies are perched on your coffee table.

He uses both hands to flip it the bird. He put red pepper and cayenne in that shit, he hopes it hurts like hell going down.

Rora has… never been much of one for holidays. Especially not the ones that require being performing for family. She was already reminded every day how much she disappointed them by being something other than the perfect debutante; the holidays only heaped that on in spades.

But you. You are an excellent reminder of the joy that can be found by being alive.

In an attempt to make some cash (the whole ‘being undead’ thing kind of hampering the legal on-boarding process at most companies), Rora would be spending the season harvesting fresh mistletoe and American holly out of the swamp to make her own wreaths and decorations. She figures, having already established herself as a local artisan (to the degree that taxidermy dressed in burlesque gear counted as art — which maybe you would argue for more than her).

She wouldn’t drag you along to come foraging with her - unless you wanted to, in which case, you’d be more than welcome.

But she would be happy to spend the month joining you in whatever holiday traditions you preferred, as long as you didn’t mind her braiding and weaving various forms out of her plants when she did.

You’d sit with your head on her shoulder, your eyes torn between the black and white movie on the screen and the skillful work of her nimble hands. While you wrapped presents or trimmed your own tree, she’d be a chair away, working on her latest projects (until you needed help reaching something on the tree itself, in which case she’d immediately shoo you off the ladder like you were something fragile and take your place).

The only time her hands would stop were when the two of you were getting ready for bed — or when she’d abruptly appear next to you when you were reading or watching something, holding a sprig of fresh mistletoe over your head with a sly smile on her face.

For the holiday, you would find at the end of a silver chain a resin pendant, encasing a smaller sprig of mistletoe.

Rora, at your request, would put it on you immediately, her eyes glowing the same soft green as the leaves inside…

And then immediately bend down and enthusiastically kiss your chest, all over and then some.

She was only human, after all.

Mostly.

She, too, would insist on your house for Christmas Eve.

The House didn’t frighten her. Nothing really frightened her anymore, after being dead for so long.

Save for something happening to you. She would do anything, bend this world and the one beyond to her will, if it meant she could keep you from seeing a tenth of what she’d had to endure.

The mistletoe and holly served a dual purpose, you see. For every so many sprigs and boughs set aside for her little stand at the local flea market, she set one aside for you.

In the winter evenings, when you were busy with your own holiday secrets or blissfully asleep, she would tinker with the branches and the leaves, waiting for them to dry and diminish of their original hue before she infused it with some of her own.

On Christmas Eve, after she’d thoroughly worn you out before bed (she couldn’t cook, but she was always delighted to dine) and laid out milk and cookies both laced with enough cyanide to kill a horse (it wouldn’t work, it was just for her own catharsis), she set to work on her true, intricate design.

Yes, she uses the firebox wire, same as the boys. They’d been using it since they were thirteen, she wasn’t about to abandon tradition. But she also etches her own runes around your mantle, hiding them after with a garland of beautifully arranged plants that seems to nearly glow with just how verdant they are.

When the whole fireplace almost seems alive with fresh greenery, she settles herself on the hearth, pulling on the protective smock she wore over her clothes for all her taxidermy projects.

After a deep breath, and a moment to angle her arm around the firebox wire, she shoves her hand as far up the chimney’s throat as she can manage it.

She grumbles as she searches, wincing at the ash that falls while she moves her hand over the bricks and around the lintel - and nearly smashes what she’s looking for.

Oh-so-carefully, moving as slowly as she can, she frees the pathetic little bundle from its tomb before bringing it back down to her own eye level like she’s holding a handful of diamonds.

It is, in fact, a collection of mouse bones.

Small, sad, discolored from age and long shot of any fur it might have once had in life, the skeleton nearly crumbles apart in Rora’s hand.

She holds it close to her face, poking through it with her index finger as she counts. When she knows for sure she has the skull, and enough limbs for it to work, she folds the tiny remnants into her delicate fingers.

What happens next is hidden by the dark veil of her hair, her own deep green shining between the strands as she whispers something in Latin.

Around her, a breeze gathers in your perfectly still house, tiny whispers seeming to echo off the walls.

When she raises her head again, the scars from her own resurrection are a deep, pulsing green -

But the mouse skeleton is standing upright in her palm, assembled like it hasn’t been in years.

The eyeless little thing looks up at her, and if it had a nose to sniff and ears to twitch, it would.

She smiles at it - a soft one, one she usually only saves for you - and kisses the tip of her finger before pressing it to the tiny arc of the dusty skull.

The mouse, at first surprised despite its featureless face, presses back.

Rora strokes her finger along its spine, watching it shiver its little vertebrae in happiness as she whispers to it.

She holds her hand back to the firebox, and with some gentle urging, the little skeleton skitters onto the bricks again. Glancing back over its tiny scapulae, it eyes her with its empty sockets, before scrabbling its way back up into the chimney from which she pulled it.

Rora stands again, dusting her hands off on her smock before just standing there. Waiting.

Then, just as whispers had filled your house before, a new breeze sweeps along something else: squeaks.

As she listens, the tiny, echoing squeak develops yet another echo. Between your floorboards, she can see the hint of a deep green spark, which in turn seems to split itself in two.

She stares down, watching the green spark divide itself over and over as tiny echoing squeaks grows into a veritable chorus.

When it finally stops dividing itself, she stamps twice on the floorboards, and a mass of something that grows vivid green rattles incessantly in the direction of your chimney.

A small army of skeletal creatures in varying states of assembly squeezes its way out between the cracks in your floor, the pieces throwing themselves into the firebox and up the flue like some sort of horrific reverse vacuum.

Rora supervises until an entire extermination van’s worth seems to have shoved itself up your fireplace, glowing a nuclear green that fills the whole room, before it at last falls deceptively silent.

Smiling like a cat, she steps out of her smock, depositing it behind a chair and out of sight before sauntering her way back to your room.

Let that dead fuck try his luck against her new darlings.

She’d been wondering how well that petrified skin would hold up against thousands of little tiny teeth.

When she crawls back into your bed, you barely even stir when she pulls you close.

You will never know the terrors that lurk in the depths of old magic.This time of year will always be joyous for you.

They will each and all make sure of that.

(if you read this far, I hope your holiday is going swimmingly - or at least, less stressful than theirs. :’D thanks for stopping by and sharing part of it with us! 🥰♥️

merry creepmas to all, and to all a good fright! 🖤⚰️)

#slasher ocs #southern slasher ocs #necromancer ocs #queer horror ocs #original queer horror #christmas at the mortuary #morvant mortuary #maxi morvant #maximilian vincent morvant #hector morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #hector emile morvant-casares #aurore morvant #rora morvant #aurore marie morvant #daniel brühl fc #diego luna fc #eva green fc #monsterkisser fics

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ieatnomnom9823 · 2 months

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Beavis and Butt-Head fanfiction

Butthead was sitting outside of Maxi-Mart eating a hotdog, waiting for Beavis to come out of the bathroom. What’s taking him so long? “Huh huh huh, he’s probably spanking his monkey, huhuhuhuhuhuhu..” A shady looking woman covered in a cloak comes out from behind the alley. Probably just some homeless lady. She starts approaching Butthead. “Hey, I don’t have any money, huhuh, you’ll have to get your funny powder another time.” She keeps on walking up to him. “Lady, are you deaf?? Huhuhuh, I don’t have any money!” She gets close to him and extends her hand, with a doll in it. “This is for you, Butthead…” Butthead looks at the doll and grabs it, now holding it in his hand and looking at the detail, not watching the creepy woman anymore. “Uhhhh… I don’t play with dolls, huhuhuhuh. Here you go” He tries to hand the doll back to the lady but she is already gone. “Huhuhuhuhuhuhu, creep.” Beavis finally leaves the bathroom and sits down next to Butthead, not even noticing the doll and just eating some nachos he got from inside.

“Hey, Beavis, huhuhu..While you were in the bathroom beating it, some creepy lady… I think… gave me this doll, huhuhuh. It kinda looks like you, huhuhuhuhu.” Butthead hands Beavis the doll. “Uhh, Butthead, I don’t think you should be messing with this. I’ve seen shows on TV, and they’re dangero-” “Shut up, Beavis, huhhuhuhuh.” Butthead slaps Beavis across the face to shut him up. Beavis screams out in pain and just mutters under his breath, “hmm, sure sure, yeah I- I guess you’re right, hmm..”

Over a few days, Butthead grew very attached to the toy, not listening to Beavis’ warnings. On a random Tuesday, Butthead decided to steal Mr. Anderson’s riding lawn mower and take the doll out for a ride. “Huhuhuh, hey baby~, huhuh. This is my kewl car, uuuhuhuhuhuhuhuh..” Butthead says to the toy, which he has now named Beaver. (He took it out for a date and saw a beaver and named it that) Beavis was wearing his finest suit, which isn’t very fine, because Butthead had asked him to be the waiter and bring them some food he had taken from Mr. Anderson’s pantry, which was mostly just cheetos and beer.

As Butthead is poorly driving the lawn mower with Beaver, Beaver falls out and gets its left arm stuck under the lawn mower and is very easily torn off. Beavis was walking out of Mr. Anderson’s house, carrying the beer in his left hand and the cheetos in his right, he suddenly drops the beer. And his whole arm. Beavis shrivels up in a ball, and sobs in agony. Butthead hears the cries and stops the mower. He gets off and picks up poor, poor Beaver. He sees some glistens of red in the corner of his eye and starts running towards it. He sees Beavis sobbing, as his arm is pulled off and he dropped the beer. Butthead sticks Beaver in his pocket and scoops up Beavis in his arms and carries him to the house.

He sets down Beavis and gets some gauze for Beavis’ severed shoulder, clueless on what happened and where his arm is. He starts soaking up the blood, but is also kind of laughing at Beavis’ horrible predicament. A few days later, Beavis and Butthead and Beaver are sitting down in front of Maxi-Mart, when that same shady lady walks up to Butthead again. “Give it to me, boy.” She says. Butthead looks confused as hell and says “What do you want, asswipe?” She says, “give me the one you have named Beaver”. Butthead just looks pissed off now, and shouts “I’ll never give you Beaver! I love it. Go away, dill weed” She starts looking angry now, too, and says softly but angrily, like a mother, “Beaver or Beavis. Take your pick.” Beavis hears his name and starts getting nervous, but also angry. “H-hey, buzz off, bunghole!” He stands up and kicks the lady in the girl balls. The lady just disappears into thin air, but so does Beaver. A note is left behind, probably saying what happened, but we will never know because Beavis and Butthead set fire to it in an alleyway.

#beavis and butthead #i dont know what to put here #nom nom loses her shit #idfk whats wrong with me #my sister forced me to write this #it sucks ass btw #beavis x butthead

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simmer-until-tender · 11 months

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Sims tag

Thanks to those who tagged me~

1. what’s your favorite sims death?

satellite. It's so sudden and random and weird. Death be that way sometimes.

2. Alpha CC or Maxis Match?

whatever makes my game look like a dog ate a box of crayons and vomited all over everything

3. Do you cheat when your sims gain weight?

hell nah, I have too many skinny bitches in my game as it is

4. Do you use move objects?

religiously, and then I yell at my sims when they throw routing errors

5. Favorite mod?

whichever one makes the hobby NPCs go fuck themselves

6. First expansion/game/stuff pack you got?

I got university from the library lol but I think the first one I owned was open for business, which was a revelation at the time. I always wanted nightlife but was too afraid to ask my mom for it cause it looked SEXY. now, as an adult, can confirm nightlife is the best one. but I am a sexual deviant, so.

7. Do you pronounce “live mode” like aLIVE or LIVing?

in my head it's like "aLIVE" but from a linguistic perspective I gotta concede that the "LIVing" pronunciation makes more sense because it's consistent with the other modes (buy/build) which are verbs not adjectives

8. Who’s your favorite sim that you’ve made?

I hate all my loser sims I guess I have a sweet spot for a child sim I made back when I was a child. She lived in a trailer, had big droopy eyes like Brittany Spears, and was named Miami.

9. Have you made a simself?

yeah I basically always have one but she's a townie. to play her would be weird. here's the bitch

10. What sims traits do you give yourself?

sloppy and lazy yeeeeeee

11. Which is your favorite EA hair color?

the custom mohawk colors bro

12. Favorite EA hair?

this bitch still has a hold on me

13. Favorite life stage?

I like teens, they're so sassy, getting them to do their homework sucks but also unlike children they can just get bad grades, nobody cares

14. Are you a builder or are you in it for the game play?

I'm a builder but I'm trying not to give up on gameplay. It's not working.

15. Are you a CC creator?

not really, I like recoloring things to look like an 80s train-wreck though

16. Do you have any simblr friends/a sims squad?

.....there are sim-cliques?

17. What’s your favorite game (1,2,3,4)?

sims 3 is hideous (sorry bout it), sims 4 has lovely landscapes but the gameplay is akin to watching paint dry. I'm sure I'll love the sims 1 once I get around to playing it. I like creepy weird stuff.

18. Do you have any sims merch?

i wouldnt let myself be seen dead in sims merch also fuck EA

19. Do you have a youtube for sims?

I have too much CC to also run a screen recorder without tons of crashing lol I have no self control

20. How has your “sims style” changed throughout your years of playing?

with every passing day i am more of a builder and more of a maximalist also i keep making animal sims now like some kind of furry *shudders*

21. What’s your origin ID?

lol just say no to origin

22. Who’s your favorite cc creator?

who made the baby bbq? them

23. How long have you had a simblr?

since 2017. I was a baby in undergrad then. making sims stories was like my therapy. now im an adult with real therapy.

24. How do you edit your pictures?

I churn them mindlessly through photoscape generally. anything else is too much work.

25. What expansion/game/stuff pack do you want next?

SIMS 2 REMASTERED

SIMS 2 THAT RUNS WELL ON A MODERN COMPUTER WITH SIM HANDS THAT ARE MORE THAN 7 POLYS PLZ

I'm not sure who has/hasn't done this. I'll tag @sicksadsim, @pixelatedpanic, @letomills, @snapdragoned, @ivycopur, @bubuthejedi, @lifetime-want

#sims #simblr #the sims

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nevloveslemons · 8 months

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Falling For the Saint (Clive Babineaux x Reader Insert)

Tags?: AFAB Reader, Clutzy reader, Season 1-2 ish, reader type to try and quietly eat at 4 am and end up accidentally walking up everyone, Fluff, strangers to friends to lovers, I’m giving you a name a personality, Pink haired insert (dyed,) ummmmmm I dunno let’s feel the vibe. probably many police precinct inaccuracies.

Today was going abnormally slow today, like usual. From the moment Clive hit his snooze button at 5, he decided today was going to be low key. Today somehow drained him, thinking about what whacky personality trait ‘Liv’s going to have today from trying to bring up the missing kids to his Lieutenant, from deciding what stale donut he’ll snack on for ‘lunch’ because he forgot his homemade packed lunch in the fridge somehow. (He even sat on the couch for 5 minutes just sitting.)

after getting ready and getting his holy grail; black coffee (he hate’s the stereotype of cops; donuts, plain coffee because they can’t afford the time, stiff posture, proper, despite showing many of them.) He walked into the precinct, unconsciously checking to see if everything’s under control and calm, which it was not.

In the bullpen he noticed an abundance of his fellow detectives here ON time with is unusual as his superiors aren’t as strict as they should be when it comes to being on time. He passed through the gate and saw his co-workers surrounding someone. You. He pauses, he’s never seen someone so… colourful?

You’re clad in a cat-red, maxi skirt with matching coloured beret and pumps. You had a black and white pocadot blouse with small-medium, poofy sleeves. Even your makeup was bold, bold but colourful, his mind actually went to Marilyn Monroe. Your lips were glossy and red, blush a cool rouge, your cat eyeliner and eye makeup drew him in, kin to the characters he had a crush on as a child in animation movies.

He realized after analyzing your outfit he was being creepy. He quickly snapped his head away from your being and started towards his desk. “Clive! Clive!” One of his co-workers grabbed his jacket with their fingers. He was surprised but held his strong expression, instead letting an exasperated looking face whilst raising his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. “Have you met Beth?” They asked with excitement clear in their tone.

“Uh, no considering I just walked through the gates.” He answered. His tone coming out bored and annoyed, he was a tad annoyed; yes, but it was mainly just his tone/being. He wasn’t trying to sound like this. “We’ll turn your frown upside down” he couldn’t resist, he rolled his eyes. “She’s so bright honestly! A bit of a clutz; I moved in everyones mugs away from the edge of their desks, but she just got transferred from the 99th precinct!” They then pull him to the box of muffins that caught his attention. (other than you lol, if i got to- man now I want a Timmies blueberry muffin :()

“Beth brought these in as a like ‘token of appreciation?’ If we cops were doing that pretty sure we’re supposed to but, eh?”

Pumpkin-Walnut. Acquired.

After his brunch muffin he did a bit of paper work, some back and forth between his desk, the board, and the morgue and by time you know it. It’s lunch. Like stated, brunch muffin, Clive thinks it’s okay to make breakfast count as lunch (8-10 bfast 11-1 lunch, he had his muffin at 7 and hasn’t eaten since.) He was sitting at his desk, leaning his chin on his right hand whilst closing his eyes and not thinking… just, sitting? Then he could feel someone approach him so he eyed his eyes to see you. The Newbie.

“Hello, Detective Babineaux, I’m Elizabeth Johnson. I transferred here from the Nine-Nine and according to our Lieutenant, you’ve been put on my ‘babysitting?’” He looks at you whilst you explain your being there when he hears a rather loud, gurgle. His eyes go from yours to your stomach and back to yours, once he sees your face he notices how quickly you flushed.

“Ah, I apologize. I forgot my lunch at home and planned to have a muffin for lunch only to find them gone.” You let a small chuckle out and let your eyes wonder to anywhere but Clive’s eyes.

“I guess you and I are in the same boat, huh?” He says in hopes of settling some of your embarrassment.

“Oh! You forgot your lunch too?” Your eyes light up, seemingly forgetting about your former emotion. “Uh, yeah-“ He begins going on about what he had packed for lunch. You two talked the duration just about food. You’re not sure how, it went from your lunches and how you wish you had them to the containers their in to the spices and seasonings used. Clive doesn’t realize it but he started to smile when talking to you.

(First time writing on here…..)

#izombie x reader #clive babineaux #izombiereaderinsert

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im-an-anthusiast · 2 months

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I'll Let You Have a Bite

Maxwell couldn’t see the man up in the tree. He couldn’t see much of anything, not ever since he lost his eyes. Yet, the presence of Magic – which he could usually feel permeating and infusing every inch of the world around him – had a suspiciously human-silhouette-shaped hole torn into it. And Maxwell could tell what – or who that meant by now.

“Albion.”

“Maxy! Dear, what a surprise it is to see ya!” Albion drawled out, taking a loud bite out of something crunchy and juicy.

“You are in my backyard. Can’t be that much of a surprise. And do not call me that,” Maxwell replied, keeping his voice flat and trying not to let his annoyance seep into it.

Albion laughed softly, bringing the something to his lips again – which Maxwell couldn’t help but notice was gushing with Magic. Magic wholly distinct from that all around them, only similar to one thing Maxwell has ever felt before.

Albion exclaimed, “Smart boy. I knew you’d sense it right away.” He continued, asking sweetly, “Tell me, what d’ya feel when you look at it, dear?” In reply, Maxwell merely did his best to point his eyeless gaze at Albion, who - with a chuckle - added, “Oh, you know what I mean. Sorry Maxy.” Maxwell scowled in response – but focused on Albion’s snack. It seemed to be in the shape of an apple, and most of its Magic was gathered along its outer edges. The Magic itself felt oddly mixed. Maxwell was taught that everything in the world was either infused with Magic – no matter the intensity – or it wasn’t. Yet the apple felt like a coalescence of the two, both devoid of Magic yet brimming with it, projecting it outward. Much like Maxwell’s own flesh was.

Maxwell’s features tugged into a frown, and he flexed his jaw in thought. "I sense... something. Something I don't understand. However, I can hardly think it is very special, if you're here bothering me about it. And eating it with such an... appetite," he said matter-of-factly, though a slight sneer – further denoting his last point – did grace his face. Albion made a loud sound with his mouth in response, (poorly) imitating a buzzer. “Not quite, my dearest Max, ‘tis something very special – an Epli."

“And that is...?”

“An Iðun’s apple – they're quite legendary. I had expected Erin to have told you a hundred times over by now.”

“She’s hasn't had much of a taste for mythology these days. And we haven’t talked in a while anyway.”

“Ah, right. The drama. The point is, these are very sought-after. They’re said to have kept 'em Norse “Gods” youthful," Albion said before scoffing and taking yet another bite.

“And you’re explaining your beauty plan to me... why exactly?”

“Figured you’d want a bite.”

“May I?” Maxwell asked inquisitively, raising an eyebrow.

Albion burst out laughing. “That looks creepy as all fuck, honey...” he said, before sobering up and turning his voice serious, “Seriously, don’t do that. That shit is scary. You need eyes.”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“So impatient.”

Annoyedly, Maxwell held out his hand and stared at where he hoped Albion’s eyes were. He was heavily considering wiggling his eyebrows again for good measure. Albion’s response was a hum, as if in mock thought – before he spoke up, “I’ll let you have a bite if you let me have one.”

Maxwell startled and retracted his hand, but Albion continued – the levity in his voice slowly dropping, “You can tell it’s just like you, can’t you? You’ve got enough Hexstarved blood to sense it. You play dumb, but you’re a smart, smart boy.”

“Once again, what is the point of this?”

Albion spoke again, and Maxwell could hear the smile return to his voice, “Epli are very expensive, Maxwell. They are made with the processed flesh and blood of your kind. You’re not careful enough, you know? Half-breeds like you are oh, so rare. And after what your father did to you,” Maxwell tensed, “you are especially unique. Which means that there are plenty of people who will want a taste. And we certainly don’t want that happening.”

Maxwell growled through gritted teeth, “People like you?” Albion retorted, “Exactly like me.” A hungry intensity oozing and dripping off his every word. Suddenly, the gap in Magic – indicating where Albion was – moved swiftly. Maxwell just barely didn’t flinch as the void appeared right in front of him – less empty than it felt before. He felt Albion’s hot, sweet breath on his face. His hand immediately darted to Albion’s grasp, snatching the Epli out of his hand. “It isn’t of much use to you, anyway. We both know old age is not what you have to fear.” Albion whispered, and any trace of him – of his absence of Magic – disappeared. Maxwell could feel his own Magic festering and buzzing at his fingertips painfully as it started flowing into that loathsome apple, which had been growing heavier in his hand ever since he grabbed it. A golden nugget, shaped much like the eaten-around core of an apple, dropped into the soft grass silently.

#Maxwell my dear #if it weren't for you who would suffer so #and albion of course #my flesh eating son #Magic drug reveal #1 out of 15 Magic drugs unlocked #also yeah I am not great at writing dialogue in case you haven't noticed #writing #creative fiction #fantasy #urban fantasy #disabled oc #aspiring writer #aspiring author #writeblr #prose #my prose #my writing #signed; fa

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pigeonflavouredcake · 2 years

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🌸🔮💕🕯️Pink Witch Aesthetic🌸🔮💕🕯️

Because i'm a witch and pink is my favourite colour but not much is written about it so why not do it myself.

(Other names: Bubblegum Witch)

The Pink Witch aesthetic centres around themes of witchcraft with pink as the colour of focus.

Pink Witch is an aesthetic that can be adopted by anyone regardless of gender or presentation but as the colour and parent aesthetics imply culturally, it does hold feminine connotations.

Key Motifs of the Pink Witch

The most important is emotional literacy, unlearning internalised misogyny and embracing the colour pink. Other motifs include:

pink stones and charms

glamour magic

protection magic/symbols

cleansing

pink fairy lights/led lights

strawberry, raspberry, rhubarb, red apple

pink hair/clothing/makeup

pink/purple crystals i.e rose quartz, strawberry quarts, rhodonite, pink agate, amethyst, fluorite, grape agate.

tarot cards, potion bottles, pentagrams,

pink/white/purple candles

Fashion

chokers and layered crystal necklaces

layered crystal rings

wide brim hats

babydoll dresses

lace maxi dresses

fishnet tights

doc martens/mary janes/creepers

bell sleeve/bishop sleeve/bardot shirts

maxi skirts/skater skirts

hooded cloaks

pink/black/brown lipstick

pink eye shadow

Inspirations

Film and TV

The Love Witch

Kiki's Delivery Service

Practical Magic

Matilda

Nanny Mcphee

The Addams Family

Card Capture Sakura

Sailor Moon

Winx Club

Little Witch Academia

Music

Alice Phoebe Lou

Stevie Nicks

Gregory and the Hawk

Hayley Henderickx

Liana Flores

The 1975

Cat Power

🌹🌸🍄Adaptations💀🌙🕸️

Pink Witch can be adapted with elements from other aesthetics based on the complimentary colours. Green and brown will include elements of cottagecore or fairycore. Black and purple will include elements of pastel goth or Creepy Cute.

🌹🌸🍄 Cottagecore Additions

neutral tones

dried flowers

floral/woodland imagery

vintage/romantic style clothing

fantasy films

💀🌙🕸️ Gothic Additions

black and or purple colours

decorative skulls

celestial/occult imagery

lolita/romantic/nu-goth style clothing

horror films

Related Aesthetics

Witchcore

Lovecore

Cottagecore

Fairycore

Creepy cute/Yami Kawaii

Pastel Goth

Dual Kawaii

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shopwitchvamp · 7 months

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Spooky Season designs that are up for preorder! Only a couple hours left to snag one!!!

Vampire Night Joggers, Creepy Eyes Maxi, and @vetiverfox Bone Collector Skater 🖤witchvamp.com🖤

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proteus-no · 1 year

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Disco Elysium trainer card masterpost

Well. I've made trainer cards for Kim, Harry, and Jean. So here:

(Go ahead and tell me Kim doesn't match Maxie's vibes.)

Yanma: Kim’s first pokemon. He does not like battling with yanma or putting her in danger. He greatly enjoys watching her fly around. His baby. He leaves her with Alice when working on long cases.

Bisharp: For obvious reasons. His ace back when he was serious about being a trainer before he joined the RCM. Everyone calls Bisharp Kim Jr. For how well he imitates his trainer.

Arcanine: Standard issue RCM pokemon. All Lieutenants get one. He tries to keep a working relationship with his arcanine, but off duty she demands cuddles, and who is Kim to deny his arcanine snuggle time? But on the clock they are very, very professional. No funny business or tummy rubs here.

Joltik: Kim thinks they’re cute. He caught a joltik, named him Bob, and it nests in Kim’s hair whenever he’s home. Sometime even when he’s at work, since joltik’s too small for anyone to see in Kim’s hair.

Magneton: A magnemite kept hanging around the Kineema in the 57ths motor pool so he adopted it. He keeps his magneton polished to perfection. His magneton is very stubborn and is probably in love with the Kineema. It keeps trying to woo it.

Cryogonal - A gift from Eyes. Kim has gotten very attached to it, as cryogonal disappears in the summer (vaporizes in the heat), and reappears in the winter. There’s a wives tale that those who die in the winter are reborn as cryogonal. So. Yeah.

Butterfree: Lovingly evolved from a caterpie Harry’s dad caught for him as a kid. The butterfree has been with Harry since the beginning. Despite being a total wreck most his adult life, Harry took good care of butterfree. However, butterfree has been taken away after Harry for his own safety. Judit is taking care of him in the meantime.

Crobat: The first pokemon Harry “caught” by himself. Harry nursed an injured zubat back to health, and it went into a pokeball on its own. Crobat is extremely attached to Harry, and will not allow himself to separated. Crobat is extremely untrusting of other people, as of late many have tried taking crobat away for Harry’s own safety. Crobat likes to nest in Harry’s hair at all times.

Dragonite: Harry also used to be a pretty serious trainer in his youth. He’s completed the gym challenge, though never went on to defeat the elite 4. Dragonite used to be his ace, and later his teaching assistant when he was a gym teacher. She has been known for going on rampages and destroying Harry’s stashes. Dragonite is loyal to Harry, but loves Jean. Maybe because they have a kinship for picking up Harry’s messes.

Gardevoir: Was traded over as a kirlia to Harry while he and Dora were dating. Harry traded her his machamp. Gardevoir rarely listens to Harry, but is still very protective of him. She was there while the whole relationship was falling apart, and became deeply wounded when Dora left without her. Gardevoir does not like being out of her pokeball, because she does not like being around Harry when he’s drunk.

Mabostiff: I know maschiff is cuter, but I think mabostiff looks more like Harry lol. Probably got maschiff when he first started out in the RCM, his partner pokemon. Mabostiff is a resolute professional police mon, especially when Harry can’t be. Lives at the station because it runs away whenever Harry brings him home. He would get along great with Kim.

Shedinja: Jean’s party was full when his nincada evolved, so shedinja just moved into Harry’s party. Harry tried giving it back to Jean but 1.) Jean thought it was creepy, and 2.) It chose Harry has his trainer. Everyone in the station is creeped out by it, but Harry LOVES this thing. Spends hours staring at the hole in shedinja’s back. Though it can’t emote like normal pokemon, shedinja adores Harry. It’s also very affectionate and does float around the station bumping officers to get them to pet it. Shedinja is content to float around following Harry most days.

Houndoom: Jean's first pokemon. He used to be a semi-serious trainer at the fire gym in Revachol. His houndoom looks intimidating, but she's just a silly little girl. Also a whore that got knocked up six times from Jean's neighbor. The sole reason why the 41st's new patrol dogs are houndours. But she's a good girl, and loves Harry bc he feeds her snacks. Jean's pissed about it, because his girl likes Hary more than him, but also because Harry's making her fat (spoiler alert, she got knocked up again, this time by Harry's mabosstiff).

Rapidash: Jean's always loved horses. He originally got her since he worked at the fire gym, but once Jean became a police officer, he chose to use her instead of the mudsdales that were typically used as patrol horses. She doesn't really express herself much, but she'll nuzzle anyone that brings her oats. She desperately pines for Captain Pryce's mudsdale. It's a very torrid love affair the whole station keeps up on.

Mighteyena: Poochyena was Jean's partner pokemon when he first signed up with the force. At first, the poochyena hated Jean. Dug his paws in whenever Jean tried working with her. But through the fire of service, they've bonded. Mighteyena HATES Harry so much. She'll snarl and chomp whenever Harry's near. She'll only tolerate him when he's sober, in that case she sleeps near Harry's feet because she DOES recognize him as a superior detective.

Phantump: Jean found a lone phantump when they were working a case in the Pox. Just a single, lone phantump. They were working a missing child case. Neither Jean or Harry could leave him behind, so Jean took him in. Phantump makes Jean sad, but Jean is determined to give phantump the best life as a pokemon. Phantump is shy around adults, except for Jean and Harry. Likes to be babied and held. It does throw tantrums when it doesn't get what it wants, which as led to many officers figuring out what being hit with phantom force square in the chest feels like.

Ninjask: Nincada was another pokemon Jean picked up while on the force. It was found by an officer on Boogie street. No one knew what to do with him, to Jean took him in. He always thought bug pokemon were cool. Then it evolved while Jean and Harry were on a case, and Harry ended up with shedinja. Ninjask does not like Harry either, and cries until Harry leaves, or Jean puts him away. However annoying ninjask can be, there's no pokemon he trusts more to work with.

Deino: Jean doesn't know how Harry ever got his hands on a deino, but Jean didn't question it. He was a gift from Harry, and at first Jean thought he could handle the deino. But like it's temperamental. Jean's hands are covered in scars from how many times he's been bitten. But he still loves the sucker, and trains really hard with deino to evolve it. They're workout buddies. Jean distracts deino with squeaky toys at work and at home, so everyone at the 41st is accustomed to faint squeaking in the bullpen.

@brainrotdotorg @chewyguts Tagging bc i know you're interested.

#disco elysium #pokemon #kim kitsuragi #harry du bois #jean vicquemare

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deniisu-sims · 11 months

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Get to Know Me - Sims Edition

Tagged by @puffkins2000 and several others!

What’s your favorite Sims death? Never thought very well about the death types but I'll go for Time Anomaly because the ghost actually looks kinda creepy!

Alpha CC or Maxis Match? MM clothing, semi-realistic Asian-made skins, ALPHA HAIR ONLY. Furniture is a mix, really, but I can't stand MM hair in TS3 AT ALL.

Do you cheat your sims weight? Not at all - if I want to change their weight, they'll go to the gym! Now, for other physical features (read: getting rid off EAxis cartoonishness) Edit in CAS is my best friend :P

Do you move objects? But of course?????? XD

Favorite Mod? The NRaas suite in general + Lazy Duchess ones, but if I need to choose JUST ONE I'll go with DebugEnabler just for the item spawn function and the shifting up/down walls without Decorator's Best Friend (which I like a lot too)

First Expansion/Game Pack/Stuff Pack? I... found this game in the seven seas so I got them all at the same time...

Do you pronounce live mode like aLIVE or LIVing? The former - never figured out people considered the "live" from "live mode" as a verb until NOW.

Who’s your favorite sim that you’ve made? Melody Hills, the cute Black girl with natural hair I often put on my previews (she's the youthful one often with protective hairstyles). Minato Hawthorne (half-Japanese guy with glasses and blue eyes that often goes for my more... twinky stuff) and Lise Béranger (the one with the really pretty long curly hair) are close runner-ups.

Have you made a simself? Yeah, but I ended up not liking it (not a case of self-consciousness) and deleted her x_x

Which is your favorite EA hair color? Eeeeh the dark brown is useable I guess...

Favorite EA hair? NONE, I HATE THEM ALL

Favorite life stage? I readily admit that I'm part of the Millennial Party Simulator school of playing and 90% of my Sims are Young Adults.

Are you a builder or are you in it for the gameplay? I don't BUILD per se, all my lots are downloaded, some build tools are still a bit intimidating, but I rotate between (re-)decorating and playing.

Are you a CC creator? A converter, actually XD Quite balanced between objects and CAS.

Do you have any Simblr friends or a Sim Squad? I'm closer-ish with the Brazilian TS3 Simblr guys and EAxis 4t3 converters but to call it a squad is a tad too much! But I'm on friendly terms with the folks from the Creator's Cave server, yes.

Do you have any sims merch? / A Youtube for sims? Nope and I don't intend to.

How has your “Sims style” changed throughout your years of playing? I actually find very difficult to let go of my powerplaying and shift to a more roleplayer style :P THAT SAID, in my decorating I finally found a balance between bare and overcluttered!

Who’s your favorite CC creator? it's a secret to no one that @joojconverts and I have very similar styles and we often suggest and beta test stuff for each other, and @bellakenobi and I are friendly outside Simblr too, but to say I have a Favorite CC creator wouldn't do justice to my 28GB CC folder 8D

How long have you had Simblr? I actually wanted to make a simblr for TS2 first but it never went forward (at the time I only did some mailbox recolors that I never released), so it's older than I believe, but I started getting active in TS3 around 2017-2018 I believe?

How do you edit your pictures? I cut, resize and add text ONLY. I have no patience for extra editing.

What expansion/ gamepack is your favorite? Can't choose between Ambitions and Supernatural XD

I tag everyone!

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condensedpigeonmilk · 7 months

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Get to know you: Sims Style

This tag game popped up in my recommended as one of @deatherella's posts and looked super fun, so here we go! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

What’s your favorite Sims death?

When they get squished by a satellite while cloud or stargazing, although getting eaten by a cowplant is the runner up.

Alpha CC or Maxis Match?

I have no coherent style. If it's pretty and I like it, I use it. I typically like to keep it more cartoony and away from the uncanny photoskinned stuff, though. That legitimately scares me. ૮₍˶Ó﹏Ò ⑅₎ა

Do you cheat your sims weight?

No, but fitness is important to me personally IRL due to mental health benefits, so I like to keep them healthy too.

Do you move objects?

Totally, all the rugs, curtains and blinds have to be perfectly centered.

Favorite Mod?

My favorite gameplay mod is this one but the one that has saved my sanity is this one. I don't use any adult-oriented mods, I even leave the censors on TBH- I have no desire to see pixel butt.

First Expansion/Game Pack/Stuff Pack?

My first game was The Sims 2 base game! The big one, with the four discs. I still have it, actually.

Do you pronounce live mode like aLIVE or LIVing?

Living.

Who’s your favorite sim that you’ve made?

I'm a big D&D nerd, so I made one of my characters as a sim. He's a dryad and his name is Wisteria Vines. I'll be re-uploading him soon. :3

Have you made a simself?

Yes, she is always friends with all of her neighbors, but I'm going to be doing a legacy with her for the first time soon since I've never done that. ^^;'

Which is your favorite EA hair color?

Blond, it's so pretty!

Favorite EA hair?

I really love the vampire/countess hair from NIghtlife, but I use a mod/replacement to remove the headpiece. Before that, it was the hair that Angela and Lilith start the game with.

Favorite life stage?

Toddlers, I love kids! I'd have some real ones if I could.

Are you a builder or are you in it for the gameplay?

I love building and giving the houses as much detail as possible with just Maxis items, but I really love the raising multiple generations aspect too, so both.

Are you a CC creator?

Yes, but only recently. I prefer making Sims characters for other people to play with but I also really enjoy making eyes, I just love eyes in general. They are the windows to the soul, after all!

Do you have any Simblr friends or a Sim Squad?

I have a couple of Sims friends! I actually met my longtime online friend @littleballerina through The Sims 2 when we were in middle school. We've been friends for 16 years this year. @furbyq is pretty cool, too! I'm up for making more Sims friends as long as they don't act creepy. :P

Do you have any sims merch?

Nope. I'm hoping to change that, but I don't want people to think I like The Sims 4 LOL. Gross!

Do you have a YouTube for sims?

Err, kinda? I plan to just put a bunch of game-related (Animal Crossing, Life is Strange, Sally Face, Undertale, yada, yada...) junk on it. I plan to make Jaydee-esque Sims music videos over the winter because it'll be freezing this year. I haven't posted anything yet, though. T^T

How has your “Sims style” changed throughout your years of playing?

Just a little bit, I went from entirely out-of-the-box-vanilla to vanilla with sprinkles and now my Sims look kinda like they're from Silent Hill 2 or something. I'm pretty sure James Sunderland is actually running around in the townie pool somewhere.

Who’s your favorite CC creator?

Hoo, boy. I have so many! Let's just go with top five, or we'll both be here for awhile.

@llamaloaf

@furbyq-sims

@pooklet

@polygonbeach

@platinumaspiration

How long have you had Simblr?

The end of 2017, I think? Probably better to just go with 2018. Life whacked me over the head with the responsibilities stick so I was just recently able to come back after 3.5 years.

How do you edit your pictures?

I don't, really? Aside from resizing them and brightening them a little, I mean. I just use the default photos app that comes with my computer.

What expansion/ gamepack is your favorite?

My favorite expansion pack is totally The Sims 2: Pets. I can finally live out my dream of being a crazy cat lady!

╱|、 (˚ˎ 。7 |、˜〵じしˍ,)ノ

I tag: @furbyq, @horusmenhosetix, @pooklet, @berrynooboos, @polygonbeach, @nervoussubject9000 and whoever else wants to play (feel free to ignore, if you want)!

#ts2 #The Sims 2 #text post #pockethamster #tag game #ask game

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magicalrocketships · 10 months

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Maybe you’ve moved on but I gotta ask.

How is de aged Max doing today? What is him and Daniel up to?

I will never have moved on from tiny Max. Never! He has my full and entire heart. I have at least three versions of this entire universe running concurrently in my head at any one time. But today Daniel has to find some clothes and shoes and toys for a newly small Max, and Max still refuses to tell him what he would like to eat for breakfast.

There is a POSSIBILITY that this link shows the stuff I've already posted in chronological order. Will it work on both mobile and browser? Who knows. Anyway, this bit follows directly on from this part.

1100 words of de-aged Max:

The woman who comes to deliver Max's Go Small stuff is called Charlotte, she's dressed impeccably, and she obviously thinks she's extremely good with children.

She has, however, met her match in Max, because Max maintains the same stubborn silence he's been giving Daniel all morning. He folds his arms and sits on the sofa in Daniel's hastily washed and dried old Go Small kit, and barely allows Charlotte to measure his feet for some shoes. He does not answer any of her questions, and buries his face in Daniel's side when she has to put his foot in the foot measuring thingy.

Max is not very good in the morning when he's normal sized, but when he's just a baby and he's scared and trying to hide it and he's been up in the middle of the night having adventures with washing machines and unexpected baths and too-big Daniel t-shirts, well. He'd barely consented to eat any breakfast, even after Daniel had gone all out (little bowls of the two different types of cereal he has, another piece of toast with a jam smiley face on it, and then a fuck-it bowl of sweets from his bag of M&S Percy Pigs from when he was in Milton Keynes last month, because Max won't be small for long and he has to eat something). Max had sat at Daniel's table, sleepy and quiet and stubborn and shy, had eaten two bites of toast (avoiding the jam), a handful of cheerios, and three of the sweets. He'd eaten the sweets without taking his eyes off of Daniel's face, which remained creepy. He is absolutely not up for meeting strangers in Daniel's living room who do strange things like deposit bags and boxes in the doorway and then ask to measure his feet.

"What kind of shoes would you like, Max?" Charlotte asks, which seems like a stupid question to ask given that Max has given her exactly zero interactions since she arrived, and he very clearly does not want any shoes at all. "We have red ones, and green ones, and blue ones, and some with pictures on, if you don't want a colour. We have Spider-man, and Pikachu, and—"

For the very first time all day, Max makes a voluntary noise. His gaze darts to Daniel, his eyes bright.

Daniel purposefully softens his smile. "Something there you like the sound of, Maxy-Max? Was it the green ones?"

Max shakes his head no.

"Well, it must be the Spider-man ones, then." He turns to Charlotte, giving her the ghost of a wink. "I think—"

"No," Max says quickly. When he says "Pikachu please," he says it so quickly the words run together, all mixed up like they've just run into a wall and scattered letters everywhere.

"Pikachu, hey?" Daniel says. "That's a very good choice, Maxy-Max."

"They're in the van," Charlotte says, getting to her feet. "I'll go and get them, and some socks to match, maybe? Then we can try them on, make sure they fit nicely."

As she leaves, Max stares wide-eyed up at Daniel. "Pikachu shoes?"

"Pikachu shoes," Daniel agrees. "Pikachu, that's the chicken, right? Cluck-cluck."

"No," Max frowns. "Pikachu is a mouse, Daniel."

"Right," Daniel says, nodding. "The purple mouse, I forgot. Silly Daniel."

"He is yellow," Max says, still frowning. "Pikachu is yellow and he's a mouse and he's the best one. He has a tail that goes like this--" he shapes out a lightning bolt in the air, kind of, and Daniel puts on his best learning face. "He likes ketchup."

"Ohhh," Daniel says. "Like you like tomato soup."

Max's eyes get really wide. He beams.

Daniel rests his chin on his palm. "Do you know anything else about Pokemon? I don't think I know anything. I thought Pikachu was a purple chicken."

Max tells Daniel at least fifteen things about Pokemon before Charlotte comes back brandishing a pair of Pikachu trainers in one hand, and a bag of things to up-sell Daniel in the other. Daniel doesn't bother reviewing them, since they're clearly Pokemon clothes and books and socks and toys, and he's not exactly poor. If Max gets big again today, they can all go to some other Pokemon-obsessed seven year old. He agrees to take them all, even as Max tells him all about Charmander — his tail is on fire, Daniel, but he doesn't set on fire, it is all right, it is just his tail — and Squirtle, who Daniel believes is a horse and Max has to explain is a turtle.

"Of course," Daniel says, as he finishes velcroing Max's Pikachu trainers closed. They're teamed with matching socks. Daniel does not choose to think about what he's just paid for either of them. "Silly me. The horse is the other one, right?"

Max blinks at him like Daniel is extremely stupid. It's the cutest fucking thing Daniel has ever seen in his entire fucking life. He's seen that expression on Max's face before, only more grown up-shaped and usually directed towards the journalist with the stupidest question in any given press session. Right now the full baby force of it is directed towards him.

"Jigglypuff, right?" Daniel says. "The horse?"

"He is not a horse, Daniel," Max says finally. Daniel's stupidity is clearly weighing heavy on him, because when Daniel gets up to say thank you and good bye to Charlotte, he gets up too, complete with new shoes, and hides behind Daniel's hip, hands to Daniel's waistband. He does not say goodbye. Daniel doesn't ask him to, particularly as when he shakes Charlotte's hand, she whispers, got yourself a handful there, and nods towards baby Max.

Daniel is glad that he's standing as a physical shield between her and Max, because right now he feels like he could evolve into some kind of huge fucking terrifying Pokemon if anyone on the planet said anything mean about the scared little boy clutching his t-shirt. "I've got pretty big hands," he says finally, and shuts the door on her.

Then, he turns back around to Max, who's looking down in wonder at his yellow Pikachu trainers and matching socks, his hand still tangled in Daniel's shirt.

"You like your new shoes, Maxy?"

"Yes," Max says, wiggling his toes. "Is she coming back?"

"No," Daniel says, as Max slips his hand into his. Daniel's heart expands about fifteen sizes. "Do you want to look at your new book about flags?"

"A book about flags?" Max asks, blinking.

"Yeah," Daniel says, grabbing the package off the table. "You want to look?"

"Yes, please," Max says, and doesn't let go of Daniel's hand.

[continues here]

#my fic #de-aged maxiel #baby max #fic that i wrote

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