A Skewed Sense of 'Fine'A prompt-fill for the Disney Kink Meme, concerning Christmas even though it's definitely not Christmas anymore."There's no tragic holiday-related backstory in my past. Christmas was always fine growing up. It wasn't great, it wasn't horrible."-DoofenshmirtzThe first five or so Christmases of Heinz Doofenshmirtz's life, he didn't even know that there was a Christmas. Looking back, he supposed that there must have been decorations and traditional folk songs, but mostly it was just another day when the neighbors acted weird and his parents remembered to feed him. He figured something was up after he took on the post of family Lawn Gnome, and they let him back in the house that Christmas night—at night! When all the nasty spirits were just falling over themselves to have a crack at an unguarded home! But they let him come inside, so he knew there was something different about the twenty-fifth of December.The trainset he never actually got to play with probably a
Beat Still -1MassachusettsThree Years after the Treaty:It was a soft June night on the New York Stateline, and Worth was working with about half an hour in the worst case scenario before Captain Goodvibes and his loyal undead lieutenant came stomping back in. Worth had woken up that evening to an empty RV, and a note on the kitchen table informing him that Hanna was out getting his marching orders from the council—although how that worked, he wasn't quite sure. Last time he checked, the great omnipotent council of delegation was still in Massachusetts , and they were all the way in New York. But whatever. He was satisfied to know that he had the place to himself for now.Mostly to himself.With a shoulder propped against the exit doorway, the doctor observed his ever-so saintly and even-tempered roomie seated on the other side of the tin can they called a home, tucked into the far corner of the booth at the kitchen table. Conrad had a book in his hands. The title
Dreamers Often LieI've often dreamed a lover's dreamsOf he and I, by battered nightAnd dripped my thoughts in silver streamsAnd pooled them so they caught the lightOf stars and made my pillow bright.The hand of Hypnos shapes the clayFrom shadows of the buried dayIn half-mad sculptures as he deems.Oh phantom creature, do not tryTo press your starlit lips to mine!One tender touch and I shall cry--It is the spectral sharp-toothed dayThat bids my broken heart decline:You do not love me, and dreamers lie!