about me: my name is alex, im italian and 17yo. i go by he/him, im obsessed over jhutch and simply post a bunch of random stuff abt him, even write oneshots of his characters and all. ah, and i call myself his son!!
interests: josh hutcherson, jules verne, the hunger games, fnaf, dead poets society, reading, drawing, painting and editing.
dislikes: dolls and homophobic, transphobic, racist ppl. dni if ur one of those!!!
sooo...gotta tell yall this. im leaving tumblr. x, too. and instagram and tiktok. i mean, as in the fandom. im not a very social person, and i dont have the time anymore to keep my passions going. im growing up, and my passion for editing just left. im always going to be josh's fan. im still going to see him as my favorite actor and father figure, im still going to look after updates about him and im still going to follow his work, but i dont think i'll keep editing and writing about him.
sorry yall, kinda unexpected ik. i thought about this for a long time, but i think it was time. not everything lasts forever, even if i wish it did. love u all, alex's out🫶
Post FNAF AU (for more explanation check “Bookshelf” story)
Author’s note : Unfortunately inspired by my yesterday’s events during dogsitting but as long as it gives some motivation to create stories I’ll take it ig
Money had been tight lately, and both of you knew it. Between Mike’s new job and rent, there wasn’t a lot of room for surprises — which was why, when you came home one afternoon cradling a shivering, scruffy little dog wrapped in your jacket, Mike froze mid-step in the kitchen doorway.
He blinked once. Twice. Then:
“…No.”
You smiled innocently. “Hear me out.”
“No,” he repeated, pointing toward the door like the word was a command. “Whatever that is, put it back where you found it.”
“It’s a dog, Mike. A lost dog.”
“Yeah? Well, it looks found now,” he said, already dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t just— we can’t—” He gestured helplessly, searching for logic. “You can’t adopt every sad pair of eyes you see on the street.”
The dog whimpered. You looked down at it, then back up at him. “He followed me home.”
“Sure he did,” Mike muttered. “You probably offered him half your sandwich.”
You said nothing, which was answer enough.
He sighed — that long, resigned sigh you’d come to recognize as Fine, I’m losing this argument but I’m still going to complain about it. He crouched, looking at the dog warily. “Great. He’s dirty, he’s probably covered in fleas, and we can’t even afford a real couch right now.”
You smiled a little. “But look at his face.”
“I’m trying not to.”
The dog wagged its tail once and then, like some sort of divine test, leaned forward and licked his hand. Mike froze, stared at the dog, then at you. “He did that on purpose.”
“Maybe he just likes you.”
“Yeah, that’s worse.”
But he didn’t tell you to take the dog back outside. Instead, he grumbled something under his breath about giving it food “just this once,” and disappeared into the kitchen.
Three days later, Mike’s stance had softened from absolutely not to temporary house guest under review. The little dog — you’d started calling him Bean — had claimed a blanket by the couch and followed you everywhere. You’d even caught Mike sneaking him leftover chicken once. He swore it was an accident.
Then came the morning disaster.
You woke to the sound of Mike muttering from the living room, the low rasp of his voice sharp with frustration. “You have got to be kidding me.”
You stumbled in, half asleep. “What’s wrong?”
He turned, holding up the frayed end of his laptop charger like it was a crime scene exhibit. “This. This is wrong. Your little angel decided to eat forty dollars’ worth of electricity.”
You glanced down. Bean sat nearby, tail thumping nervously, a small piece of wire insulation still stuck to his whiskers.
“Oh no…” you said quietly.
“Oh yes,” Mike replied. “He chewed through the only thing I need for work, and now I can’t even check my emails. Harris is gonna think I died.”
You bit back a smile, trying to sound serious. “Maybe it was an accident?”
“An accident,” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “He dragged it under the couch like a trophy.”
You crouched beside Bean, who promptly rolled over and exposed his belly. “He feels bad.”
“I feel broke,” Mike said flatly, dropping the charger on the counter. “Do you know how much this costs? Of course you don’t, because you were too busy running your stray dog rescue.”
You stood and crossed your arms. “Okay, first of all, our stray dog. And second, I’ll cover the charger.”
“With what, optimism?” he asked, but there was already a trace of humor fighting its way into his voice.
You sighed. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll pick up an extra shift this weekend.”
He looked at you for a long moment, then rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s fine. I’ll ask Harris if he’s got a spare one at the shop. He’s got, like, a junk drawer of random cords.” He paused, then added, “But the dog’s on probation.
You smiled. “Probation?”
“Yeah. One more offense and he’s out. No appeals, no second chances.”
Bean barked once, as if in argument.
Mike pointed at him. “Don’t talk back.”
You laughed, and he tried not to smile, but failed — just a little. “You’re lucky he’s cute,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket.
“See?” you said, following him to the door. “I knew you’d come around.”
He stopped, turned halfway, and gave you that half-smirk, the one that always carried equal parts annoyance and affection. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Yeah,” you said, leaning on the doorframe. “But you like me anyway.”
He rolled his eyes, muttering something about “questionable life choices,” but when he bent down to tie his boots, Bean waddled over and pressed against his ankle. Mike didn’t move for a second, then gave in with a resigned sigh and a quiet, “Fine. But you’re paying for the next charger, pal.”
Liam Hemsworth, Jennifer Lawrence and Josh Hutcherson on the red carpet at The Hunger Games: Mockingjay - Part 2 premiere at the Microsoft Theater in Los Angeles, CA on 16th November 2015.
