#mickey writes

So I have @astroshad to thank because they threw this fic idea and I asked very nicely if I can do it and they were super duper cool and gave me the all clear soooo here we go!

Somebody teaching P how to hold Spring (and cats) in general because holding them by the armpit is NOT IT.

Also found on AO3

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That’s not how one holds a cat.

Eugenie, whether in curiosity or slackjawed in awe, observed how Pinocchio held Spring by the armpits and gave the poor cat a shake, watching how its hind legs jiggled carelessly in the air. Pinocchio tilted his head slightly as Spring let out a meow and did another shake. 

Normally, this would be the part where Spring (or any cat for that matter) would, rightfully, let out a hiss, attempt to swat the wielder’s face, and then wiggle its small body with all its might.

Normally.

tysm for the ask !! <33 i miss cheggsy dearly and they returned to me in visions last night so heres a couple sentences from smth im cooking up rn

Eggsy's brows knit together, processing this, and he tilts his head. He reminds Charlie rather strikingly of a dog.

18k words| Explicit | Buddie

Eddie loves Buck. Buck knows that. It's just that Eddie needs to come to terms with who he is first.

Or the Buck and Eddie have sex problems at the beginning of their relationship because they never talked about it first fic!!!

Part 2! You can find part one here.

This is a gender fluid Steve Fic - if that’s not your bag then that’s okay!

Content warning for: internalised homophobia/transphobia & period typical homophobia. In part one, Steve’s fear was more nebulous but in this part it’s more defined. We also see him start to reluctantly embrace his genderfluidity and his need for self expression. The pronoun usage will remain he/him for now as well.

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The forgetting works for a good long while. A whole year in fact.

The image of himself in that awful skirt gets shoved back, back, back into the recesses of his brain and life goes on. He plays ball. He flirts with girls and likes it. Kisses a few of them and likes that too.

He navigates his way through the drudgery of high-school and finds himself coming out on top. He’s surrounded by people who look to him when making weekend plans or just loitering Hawkins halls. It feels good. He finds himself revelling in the way all the girls make that sweet sighing sound when he stands close or the the way guys puff up their chests like Steve’s attention is worth something.

So he doesn’t think about being pretty. Not for one single second.

He pulls up to Tommy’s place Halloween night still dressed in the stiff dress shirt he’d worn to the dinner his parents had hosted. It had chaffed a bit. Up until two weeks ago Steve had been all set to host the party of the century until his parents had rolled into town. Of course they showed up now. Not during the many evenings Steve had sat down to dinner for one, wishing his mom was there to cajole him into eating something a little better than a frozen Salisbury steak. No, the one weekend Steve had decided to let go of all that and enjoy the big house, no parents privilege they decide show their faces and throw their own party to boot. It was a much stuffier affair than the one Steve had in mind to be sure.

Steve makes his way up the sidewalk to Tommy’s front door, tugging his button down out of the hem of his pants where it was tucked in tight as he goes. Carol beats him to the door before he can knock. She’s beaming at him in a way that screams mischief.

“You made it! Finally. We’re bordering on late-late rather than fashionably so.” She tugs him by the hand up towards the stairs. Above them a chorus of laughter rings out.

Steve takes a second to take in Carol’s costume: a purple dress that hugs her curves trimmed in white, a scarf around her neck, her hair teased all to hell so that it frames her head like a helmet. “Daphne huh? You gonna catch old man Withers stealing diamonds?”

Carol laughs, big guffaws that make her wobble on the top step. She turns to him with glassy eyes. “Don’t worry,” she slurs slightly “we’re not leaving you out Steve-o.” Apparently the gangs already started partying without him.

They tumble into Tommy’s room. Carol still has a firm grip on his hand and he’s got an arm around her waist to keep her steady. Tommy just looks on with a roll of his eyes. “Hurry up assholes. We gotta go. D’you tell him yet?” Tommy raises a brow at Carol.

“No, I was getting to that.” She smiles sweetly up at Steve. He doesn’t buy it for a second.

Because Tommy’s wearing blue jeans and a white shirt with an honest to god ascot tucked into the collar and Frankie (why was Frankie invited?) is wearing a green t-shirt and brown corduroy pants. There’s a theme going and it’s not hard for Steve’s painfully sober brain to catch onto it.

“The Scooby gang? Really? I’m not dressing up as a dog.” Steve insists, entirely unamused.

It’s then that Frankie’s girlfriend Kate skips into the bedroom with a dress just as tight as Carols… and ears in her hair and a tail attached to the back which means-

“You’re not Scooby! Come oooon Steve. We need a Velma.” Carol holds a bundle of fabric (not nearly enough fabric, not at all) towards Steve.

“What? Guys come on. I’m not going dressed as a fucking girl.” Steve huffs.

“Dude! It’s just for a laugh man.” Tommy nudged his shoulder. “We all know you’re not- you know. It’s Halloween! It’s just for fun. It’ll be great. Besides the gang won’t be complete without Velma.” Tommy waves his hand at the small group lingering around his room.

It’s been so long since he thought about it: a skirt settling around his thighs and ambiguous dread settling in his belly. ‘And I’m not gonna start now. It’s nothing. It’s just a costume. It’s just for fun like Tommy said.’

But he’s pushed the boundaries on protesting too much. He’s seen it a dozen times before. He’s seen the tide turn on guys who refuse to change in the locker room; guys who protest just a little too much to the hard slaps the others land on their ass. There’s a thin line between rolling with a ‘joke’ and shying away too hard. It’s like if you say ‘we’re all telling the same joke but is it really all that funny? Is it that YOU want it? Doesn’t that mean-‘ and suddenly every laughing mouth in the room turns sour at the implications of it all. It’s a joke until it isn’t and then it’s a target painted on your back.

Steve could ball up the costume, throw it to the floor, storm out. But he would be crossing that line and then it’s just a matter of time before the one question he doesn’t want asked gets thrown into the atmosphere like a bomb.

‘What are you so afraid of Steve-o?’

It’s just a joke so Steve groans in what he hopes is a good natured sort of way. “Fine but I’m doing shots first.”

The whole room is cackling when he walks back in. He didn’t look at himself in the mirror when he changed and he doesn’t look at himself now.

“Marvellous!” Carol squeals. “To the Mystery Van!”

The Mystery Van turns out to belong to Frankie who is now the only sober member of their little troupe. They arrive at Johnny’s house to find cars parked around the block which isn’t all that surprising. Johnny graduated last year. He’s only home for the weekend before heading back to Indy. Or maybe Chicago? Wherever he ended up going to college. Steve can’t recall through the thickening haze clouding his mind.

Steve moves through the night in a sort of stupor that refuses to lift. It seems the costume, however it looks, is well received for the joke that it is. Steve gets offered drinks and laughs and pats on the back for being a good sport according to Mikey. He does keg stands that leave the burgundy skirt lifting around his chest, baring his boxer briefs to the room and eliciting peels of laughter.

But he doesn’t look at the windows, too afraid of what they might reflect back at him. He doesn’t look down at himself all night even when he can feel the orange sweater hanging loose around his neck and itching at his chest. He smiles and dances and laughs and doesn’t think anything.

It isn’t until he finds himself hunched over his sink with a toothbrush between clenched teeth and foamy paste dripping down his chin that he comes back into himself.

He barely remembers the end of the night: bodies pressed together, the tittering laughter of a girl as she gripped his jaw, a drive home in the back of Frankie’s van, a tiptoed journey through his darkened house. He’s not even sure if his parents are home. He hopes they aren’t. Begs everything good in this world that they left after their elbow rubbing because-

He looks up and locks eyes with his own reflection. He prays his parents are gone because he couldn’t stop the wounded noise that escapes his lips if he tried.

Those fingers against his jaw must have been the culprit behind the smeared black lines around his eyes, the pink dust across his cheeks, the pearly white glitter on his eyelids, and most damning of all: bright red lipstick that’s slowly dribbling down his chin along with the toothpaste.

Steve spits, rinses, and stands. He regards himself in the mirror for several long, silent minutes before he lets out another sound. It’s more of a whine. His fingertips run along the edge of the skirts and against the hair along his thighs.

What would it feel like to wear this skirt during swim season? Would the stiff, pleated skirt feel like silk when Steve shaves all the hair off his body or would it itch? It’s short. Very short. If he shifts his weight he can see the hems of his underpants sticking out. Twisting two and fro sends the pleats flaring outward. A thrill crawls up his spine.

The sweater is a burnt orange. It’s not something Carol would have had in her own closet and he spares a brief second wondering who’s mother she stole it from. The turtleneck collar is loose. The shoulders hang limp where he’s stretched them with the broad sweep of his own arms. The waist however still tucks in close, hugging his hips. The whole look gives the illusion of curves hidden underneath.

Running his hands over his hips leaves him smiling before he can stop himself. He looks like a wreck. Makeup smeared and ill-fitting clothes aside however, Steve looks pretty. That small thrill blooms into something that warms him up from the inside out.

The alcohol still lingering in his blood dulls the part of himself that locked that thought away so long ago. He’s sobering up by the minute but he’s still just loose enough that the shame and the embarrassment and the voices that usually screams out ‘what are you doing? Danger! Danger! They’ll all know. They’ll see. They’ll hate you and hit you and shun you. Danger!’ All of it is blissfully silent for this one moment. In his reflection looking back at him, his smile looks brighter than he’s ever seen it.

They had a test in biology just last week where they were asked to label the parts of the brain. The grey matter was laid out in 2d, all divvied up with thick black lines. Steve had neatly labelled the Occipital Lobe and the Frontal Lobe but there was a blank in the middle that he just couldn’t quite remember. Standing in his bathroom with the sunrise peaking in through the tiny window above the toilet, Steve knows what that piece of his own brain would be now.

‘She’s pretty, she’s pretty, she’s pretty’ clangs through his mind in time with his racing heart. It parks itself right smack dab in the unlabelled middle bit of his brain with no signs of being locked away ever again.

Steve presses his fist to his mouth in an effort to stifle the sobs that wrack his whole body. He can’t escape this thing anymore. If anyone- anyone knew, if they saw-

He tugs the sweater and the skirt from his body. Not violent ripping but rather reverent removal, careful and cautious, with an eye on the stitching because he knows without a shadow of doubt that he’ll wear them again. It’s just there now- this warm feeling suffusing every fiber of his being even as the cold sweep of fear tries to chase it away.

He cries and cries and cries under the shower spray. The kohl runs, stinging his eyes and turning little rivulets of water black before they disappear down the drain.

‘She’s pretty, she’s pretty, she’s pretty.’

—

Weeks pass. Once the perogative is there, it’s like a bumblebee trapped in his chest. It buzzes under his flesh. After riffling through his mothers closet (a fruitless endeavour) and several aborted trips to the few clothing stores around town, Steve comes to the realisation that if he wants to scratch this itch he’ll need to start from scratch. Every other option comes with implications and the possibility of getting caught.

“Will that be all dear?” The woman asks. Steve lays his selection down on the counter. The air is thick with the smell of scented powder and middle aged women slathered in White Shoulders.

“Yeah.” Steve lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “Party went a little too hard. Gotta replace the curtains.”

He’d spent four hours coming up with a cover story after he’d unearthed the dusty sewing machine from the attic. A relic of a time when his mother spent more days at home than not, playing at the perfect housewife. Back before his fathers philandering had her glued to the man’s side.

Perhaps he should have kept his cover in mind. He doubts she believes that the bright neon colors or the flowery patterns are intended to be hung as window dressing. But the lady is already scanning the fabric so there’s no going back now. If she does give it any thought she doesn’t question it aloud, doesn’t seem to care.

The entire weekend is spent sequestered in the attic. It’s easy to see why those skirts back in freshman year looked haphazard at best. Steve works his way through three yards of fabric before his stitches start looking even where they glide across blue satin and forest green cotton. He wouldn’t have known his ass from his elbow if it hadn’t been for the paper envelopes stuffed with patterns he could follow. The ones he had shamelessly snuck out of the store beneath his jacket.

In the end he has a pile of clothes he made with his own two hands. There are sure to be a million things someone with far more experienced than he would do better but it doesn’t matter. Not really. Not when he slides velvet up his legs and over his hips. Not when satin falls over his shoulders just right. He sends up a thanks to whatever deity that it’s finally swim season. It means he can get away with shaving neck to toe without fearing the rest of the basketball teams questioning gaze. It’s alright to do that sort of thing for swim meets but in the off season? He wouldn’t dream of it.

After selecting the first pieces to try on, Steve locks his door then locks his bathroom door for good measure. Already he’s making notes for what he’ll fix next time while scolding himself for thinking next time to begin with.

This whole venture was perpetuated under the guise of being a one time thing, something quick and under the radar to appease the part of his brain that now demands it. Despite the insistence of his cover story, even the one he tells himself, Steve knows he’s hooked the minute he looks into the mirror.

When he twists, the pleats of the skirt flair just so, much more than the Velma one, and it drapes a little longer down his thighs. The shirt he’d made was a simple floral button down but he ties up the hem into a knot so that it sits above above his waist. It’s not perfect but it feels so damn good. The colors pop against his tan skin. He starts thinking about the meagre bits of make-up he could steal from his moms stash. It’s all sitting, collecting dust anyhow. She’ll never notice it’s gone and even if she does, he’ll spin a story about some girl needing to touch up her own. Before he knows it, there’s a smile on his face that he’s never seen before: bright, full of teeth but somehow coy, pretty.

That same refrain, becoming more familiar by the minute, rolls around his mind and any thoughts of getting whatever this is out of his system promptly flees.

John Winchester x reader

947 words

based on this song

warnings: mention of abuse, john kills someone

The headlights were the only thing that lit his way in the middle of the night in some podunk town. He had grown used to driving at all hours and even though he could barely see through the downpour, he still kept going. The truck roared along, sure to wake up anyone that was trying to sleep at this hour. Fresh off a hunt, he was buzzed on adrenaline and whiskey, neither inhibiting him from leaving the bar and heading out for a new hunt. He had places to go, things to kill, a demon to track. 

She was the last thing he had been expecting to come upon. Anyone with half a brain would know not to be out in a storm like this. But the moment she turned into the headlights, his body stiffened. He brought the truck to a stop off the side of the road and he climbed out slowly so as not to startle the young woman. She was drenched from head to toe, only in a tank top and jeans. She was barefoot but what caught his attention most was the blood and bruises all over her body. 

Welcome back, Poker Players.

XXI - Preparing a meal together

She knew that when it came to food, Guybrush wasn't one to think too long about it.

After all, his idea of it was 'if he could eat it and it didn't kill him, then that's all that matters'.

Of course, over time, that had changed as he tried (at least for her sake) to think just a little bit more than five minutes of what to eat. Not what was just available. The only time she had given him a past was when they were short on supplies while sailing from one island to the next.

Thankfully, blessedly, this was not one of those cases. Granted, there wasn't a lot of supplies to waste, but there was just enough to make an easy, simple meal for two.

And more importantly...

"Elaine, mind passing me the onion?"

...He wanted to cook. And with her, no less.