#█║ ⊰ out of character. — prompts. ❜

[moonstruckme]

First time request! I'd love a poly Jily fic based on the prompt "blood swirling down a shower drain." Maybe the reader just got back from a mission that went wrong and is kinda out of it, trying to wash everything off. James and Lily find them and refuse to let them deal with it alone, just soft, quiet comfort, lots of gentle touches, and reassuring words.🥹 Thanks!!

Thank you for requesting! This turned out so much angstier than I intended. I really don't know what happened but...I'm sorry? Or for the people who are always asking for angst I don't deliver, you're welcome I think? I don't know it just happened I wasn't on the decision-making panel

cw: blood (lots of blood), reader is a bit in shock, nonsexual nudity, death (of a minor canon character, not someone we really know and love), set in canon so there's death eaters/the order/etc., quite angsty (for me at least) but there is comfort I promise

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

James and Lily are cuddling when you come home. Well, they’re sort of just holding each other and trying to pass it off as cuddling. Any one of you going out on an assignment for the Order always makes nervous wrecks of the two left behind, but Lily and James doing their best to distract themselves, a film on the television and each trying not to look like they’re glancing out the window every minute. 

The crack of apparition outside puts an abrupt end to the facade. 

They’re both up in an instant, but Lily puts a hand to James’ chest when he goes for the door. “Wait,” she says. She leaves a spot of blood on his shirt from where she’s picked the skin by her nail down to nothing. 

James’ heart revolts, but he listens. They both listen, until they hear the two-three-two knock that means it’s you. 

Lily manages to move faster than him. She has both the muggle and magical locking mechanisms undone in an instant, opening the door to you. 

To you, absolutely drenched in red. 

It’s in your hair; it stains your clothes; it cakes your face and your neck and your hands. There’s hardly an inch of you left clean. James can’t comprehend it. Was there…was there an explosion of some sort? Did you get splattered by something? He feels sick. 

“Is that blood?” Lily’s voice is admirably steady. 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

James really feels sick. 

“Are you hurt?” She reaches for you, bringing you inside. You move like your body weighs a thousand pounds. 

“No, I’m—it’s old. I’m fine. Remus fixed it.” 

“Good old Moony,” James croaks. It’s meant to be a joke, but truly, he’d love to fly to Remus and Sirius’ flat right now to give his friend the hug of his life. If only there weren’t things for James to take care of here first. 

“What happened, sweetheart?” Lily asks, running a gentle hand up your arm. Blood flakes under her touch. 

“They were waiting for us.” Your voice is low, like it’s the sort of truth that becomes worse once said aloud. Your eyes look bigger and brighter in the midst of all the mess. James wants desperately to hug you, and yet—shamefully—he’s afraid of touching you; like despite what you say, he might find you less whole than you were when you left a few hours ago. “It was just supposed to be Dolohov there, but there were a lot of them. They knew we were coming.” 

“They did this to you?” 

“It…I…” Your gaze moves from Lily, to James, back to Lily again. You look exhausted, haunted, but worried beneath that. A moment later, James understands why. “It was Severus.” 

Lily reacts as though you’ve hit her. Her expression looks like a heart cracked open, but she doesn’t let go of your arm. 

“He used this spell,” you tell her, seeming sorry to do it, “that opens cuts all over the other person’s body. Remus was able to figure a counter-curse before I bled out. I don’t think Severus was aiming for me…” 

Even looking at your face, James is unsure of whether you mean that. The odds that Snape would try to hurt you seem equally as likely to him as those that he wouldn’t. You may only be trying to protect Lily. She looks so devastated, James wants to wrap you both up and never let you go again. 

Something Lily and James have always had in common is how they love. They may not always show it in the same ways, but once they’ve chosen someone, that’s it; they’ll live and die for them. They give away their whole hearts. James has just been luckier in who he’s chosen to give his to. His first love—outside of his family, of course—was Sirius. Lily’s was Snape. 

But, as much as James loves Lily, if Snape showed up on your doorstep right now James thinks he would kill him. 

“I’m sorry,” Lily says to you, her eyes shining. 

“It’s okay.” You extricate yourself gently from her grasp. “I’m going to shower.” 

“Sweetheart…” James reaches for you, but you ghost past his hands, only mumbling again, “It’s okay.” 

Nothing’s okay. Lily’s looking after you like her heart’s been cracked open. From the sound of it, you actually were cracked open for a while. There’s a fracture between the three of you that James doesn’t know how to fix. But certainly he’s going to try. 

“Come on.” He takes Lily’s hand, encouraging her down the hall with him. When she comes, he wraps an arm around her shoulders to kiss her hair. “It’s alright. Come on, lovely.” 

The shower is already running when they open the bathroom door. James shuts it behind them before starting to strip, and Lily’s questioning look only lasts a moment before she’s doing the same. He sets his glasses on the counter. 

“Hi,” he says, pulling the shower curtain open enough to pop his head in. You look surprised, which is a surprise in itself; you must really be lost in your own head not to have heard them enter. “Room for two more in here?” 

There is, of course, room—as if James would ever let you get a place without a shower big enough for three—but still he’s relieved when you nod. He steps the rest of the way in, making room for Lily to squeeze in behind him. You seem to have scrubbed your face clean and now are letting the water do the work on the rest of you. Blood swirls down the shower drain. 

James steps closer, giving you long seconds to back away, to let your face reveal hesitation or denial, before he kisses you. Slowly. Warmly. You soften like butter in the sun, arms coming around him as his do you. 

“Didn’t get to do that properly when you got home,” James murmurs after your lips part. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

He fights to keep his lips from twitching at the now-familiar dazed quality to your tone. It is taking every ounce of his concentration to not think too hard about the two stunning women he’s sharing a shower with right now. 

Since Lily is no longer up to being the asker of questions, James gives it a whirl. “Do you want to tell us any more about what happened tonight?” 

Your eyes go weary and somber. He sees your throat bob as if around something painful. “We, um. We lost Edgar.” 

Lily makes a wounded sound. “Bones?” 

James has already drawn you into a hug. You nod against his chest, choking out a weak, “Yeah.” 

“Was it…”

“It was Lestrange,” you answer before Lily has to finish asking. Not Snape. She breathes out. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says, joining your hug. Water runs in rivulets down the three of you, transferring from one body to the other, off James’ nose and Lily’s hair and your chin, pooling in all the places you’re pressed together. James fights an ache in his own throat. You’d all known Edgar, but only you watched him die. This is a grief he and Lily can only share in parts of. 

There’s lots more kisses and murmuring before you get to the business of washing. James runs you over with a soapy cloth while Lily shampoos your hair, the both of them making sure no inch of you goes unseen to. Remus has done a good job; there are no scars where Snape’s curse tore you open. As the blood clears away, James can’t tell where it originated from at all. 

He tells you how happy they are to have you home. You smile at his exaggerated jokes about separation anxiety and squeeze his hand when he presses a thumb into the corner of it, chuffed with himself. Lily apologizes again for Snape, and you both promise her she’s not responsible for him until it seems almost like she believes it. James is kicked out of the shower in disgrace after mistaking your body wash for conditioner. He warms towels in the dryer while Lily works the tangles out of your hair with her fingers. 

When you go to bed, you’re still as exhausted as you were when you came home. You move like your body weighs a thousand pounds, and there’s a haunted look about your eyes, and you don’t seem up to saying much. But you curl up with James’ chest to your back and Lily’s leg draped across your own, and you’re loved, and that counts for something.

[eeriesilkworm]

There's a real possibility we get a Will Byers centric love triangle in ST5

We know the Duffers love a good love triangle.

So much so, they've given us one (or several) in every season of Stranger Things thus far—and I don’t think they’ll break that streak in Season 5.

One thing I’ve noticed is that while some love triangles stretch across multiple seasons (like Steve/Nancy/Jonathan), the writers also introduce at least one new triangle each season.

Here’s a quick breakdown:

S1: Steve / Nancy / Jonathan S2: Steve / Nancy / Jonathan + Joyce / Hopper / Bob + Lucas / Dustin / Max S3: Robin / Steve / Tammy + Joyce / Hopper / Alexei + Joyce / Hopper / Mr Clarke S4: Steve / Nancy / Jonathan + Mike / El / Will + Robin / Vickie / Vickie's ex-boyfriend S5: Steve / Nancy / Jonathan (likely resolved) + Mike / El / Will (will come to a head) + ???

Sometimes they’re played straight, but the writers also love to openly mock the love triangle trope, too—especially in Season 3:

For example, Hopper gets irrationally jealous over Joyce talking to Mr Clarke and even Alexei—prompting Joyce’s sarcastic line about how every man she talks to must be her boyfriend. And of course, there's Steve wrongly assuming Robin has a crush on him, then confessing to her, only to find out she actually liked Tammy Thompson.

Basically, there’s no one way the writers use this trope. They clearly enjoy it—but more importantly, they enjoy subverting it.

So, call me delusional but I think it's likely that we could be getting another Will Byers love triangle in Season 5:

He's the main character of the season and his arc will (partially), revolve around his "coming of age" and acceptance of his sexuality, after all.

Will has consistently been portrayed as someone who is considered attractive or desirable in-universe. In every season except Season 3, a girl shows interest in him despite his nerdiness and perceived queerness.

And now, it looks like the Duffer Brothers are visually rebranding him as a romantic lead:

His new hair and costume design feels both heroic and boyish. The flannel—once a staple of his wardrobe and a symbol of his innocence—is slowly being phased out, suggesting a gradual loss of that innocence. However, he’s still buttoned up. That tells me Will is stepping into his manhood (and by extension, his sexuality), but he's still holding something back. He's going to need to be pushed out of his comfort zone; both physically and emotionally.

Even narratively, there are established links which hint at a possible non-Mike love interest:

When we look back at Will’s comment about not falling in love, we often read it as foreshadowing his feelings for Mike—or hinting that he already is in love with him. But I also interpret it as something more: Will doesn’t believe he will ever inspire love (or romantic attraction). He sees himself as undesirable.

Think about the four original members of the Party. Yes, they’re all considered uncool nerds to some degree—yet three of them are affirmed through romantic connection: Lucas has Max. Dustin has Suzie. Mike has El. They each receive validation and the feeling of being wanted.

Will does not.

And yet, the writers have made a consistent effort to show us that Will is considered attractive—despite his belief that he isn’t, and despite the lack of romantic validation he receives. That creates a real disconnect. A kind of cognitive dissonance.

Having Will repeatedly receive attention from girls—only to reject them or appear disinterested—was an effective way to subtly hint at his queerness. But it’s happened so many times now, that there needs to be a payoff.

What is the long-term point of making the canonically gay kid, who already believes he’s undesirable, only receive interest from women?

Er, there isn’t one.

It makes sense, then, to give Will the opportunity to experience mutual same-sex attraction with someone who isn't Mike.

Because Will's arc about accepting his sexuality doesn't just have to culminate in the realization that Mike loves him too (as sweet as that is).

It should culminate with the knowledge that queerness is valid, that he is considered desirable and worthy of romantic interest, and that he isn't alone in experiencing queerness.

Additionally, as mentioned above, Will is already perceived as queer—he’s been bullied for it his entire life, despite never explicitly coming out. Hawkins is a small town where word travels fast. So if there is another young gay guy in town, chances are… they’ve already heard of “Zombie Boy” Will Byers.

He'd certainly be on their radar: he’s good-looking, he’s mysterious, and he’s still closeted, which means he’d likely be discreet.

And let’s not forget where Will was emotionally at the end of Season 4, especially regarding his feelings for Mike:

He’s starting from ground zero in Season 5. He has zero hope that Mike feels the same way, and he’s likely going to be making zero moves.

In fact, most Byler theorists agree—it makes sense that Mike will have to be the initiator in Season 5. Will is just too emotionally shut down to make the first move.

But… wait a minute.

If this season is supposed to be about Will coming into his own as a young gay man—about self-acceptance, confidence, and owning his identity—how does that make sense if Mike is the one initiating everything?!

Well… maybe Mike needs to make the first move when it comes to Byler. But that doesn’t mean Will has to stay passive the whole season.

It’s possible that Will could gain some much-needed confidence—maybe even a bit of romantic “practice”—by taking a more active role with someone else first.

Giving Will a (temporary) new love interest would also level-out the playing field between himself and Mike:

There's a real sense of karmic justice and ironic foreshadowing in Stranger Things.

Will's jealousy of Mike and El's relationship has been hinted at for two seasons now—and he even complained that Mike only called a couple times while El had a "book of letters" from him.

What’s interesting is that even after Mike takes accountability for their argument and they make up, that specific comment—about the phone calls and letters—is never addressed. It lingers.

That’s why I think we could see a similar conversation (or even a full-blown argument) between Mike and Will in Season 5. But this time, Will might be the one receiving phone calls or letters—from someone else.

And let’s not forget: it’s possible that the Byers are temporarily staying with the Wheelers in Season 5. If Will has a secret admirer, and he’s trying to keep it quiet, Mike is going to find out. (Excellent way to manufacture drama).

I also feel compelled to reiterate that the Duffers have shown time and time again: they can handle love triangles in many different ways.

They can play it for comedy. They can make it completely one-sided or delusional—like Mike projecting his own jealousy, much like Hopper did with Joyce in Season 3. A love triangle doesn’t have to be serious or long-lasting. It could span multiple episodes, or just one. It could involve a kiss—or zero physical contact at all.

And it doesn’t have to disrupt a Byler endgame—in fact, quite the opposite:

Seeing Will Byers receive romantic attention from another male character would serve as a reminder to the audience that Will is desirable and that he has options—this increases the stakes for Mike.

The GA will start wondering if this is really Will's endgame, and if he is truly ready to get over Mike. The GA, especially those who never shipped Byler before, may find themselves unexpectedly invested. They might even feel disappointed or sad at the thought of Will "moving on."

It also creates space for the writers to show us jealous Mike. Just as we've seen jealous, longing Will, a temporary love triangle allows us to explore Mike’s feelings through that same lens of romantic insecurity.

This brings the possibility of Byler to the forefront of the GA's subconscious. At the same time, it invites them to root for Mike, and therefore Byler.

[kdh-tally]

Hi! If your requests are open, is there a chance you can write a oneshot about Mystery and Zoey from Kpop Demon Hunters? They're my favorite characters. I know all of the Saja Boys, except Jinu, are unfeeling demons, but I'm choosing to disregard what's canon. For the story, I was thinking of a scene where Mystery notices Zoey ogling Abby's abs. Seeing this makes Mystery jealous and self-conscious, and he asks himself, "What does he have that I don't have?" I would also lol if Mystery then starts barking at Abby.

Prompt : Mystery is a tad bit insecure

Author's Note : A tad bit on the longer side maybe?

Mystery didn’t intend on enjoying the idol life so much. Jinu had to spend most of his time persuading him out of the four other boy-band members. Mystery had enjoyed his home in hell to some degree. There was nothing to do really, and he wasn’t disturbed as long as Gwi-ma remained focused on someone else.

Of course there were still voices. The voices were always there. Well, they were. Jinu, the idiot, had the bright idea to debut their little boy band sooner than needed.That’s how he and the other 3 boys found themselves being shoved into a sketchy alleyway. 

“Look good!” he whispered yelled orders at them. The boys groaned in unison, annoyance visible in their tones but they listened anyway. 

Mystery was the first one turning the corner. He heard silent squeals coming from the other end but couldn’t see what was going on. He tilted his head slightly, hair flowing gracefully in the wind. The other boys seeing this copied his move, making it look synchronized and purposeful.

He took note of the three girls. Two of them seemed to be fangirling over Abby’s muscles, he didn’t understand why Jinu gave them such basic names, and the other girl looked so done with the situation. 

The girl that stood in the center, short with little space buns, began to turn red. She was the first human he’d noticed and, not that anyone could tell, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. But there were more important things than a cute human girl. Especially when she was a hunter that killed his king for a living. 

Killed them with her voice. Her beautiful, gentle, siren… 

“Mystery?” someone interrupted his thoughts. The man hadn’t even noticed that they had passed by the girls already and were standing near the center of the market place.

“What is it Baby?”

“You need to lock in”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Mystery scoffed at the new terminology the youngest demon had begun using. Baby seemed to really enjoy human humor.

“We’re about to perform so focus you idiot”

—

Jinu never seemed to run out of dumb ideas. None of the boys knew how they found themselves camping outside of the fan sign hall. All Mystery could remember was playing this game called Valorant or something of the sort, only to be summoned away to the front of a line. 

As they were letting it Mystery understood everything. Jinu wanted to flirt with his girl- enemy. Yep. Ignoring the sudden fuss when the purple lady said the groups would sit together, Mystery quickly found himself sitting beside the girl with the space buns again. 

He quickly learnt that her name was Zoey and she was the main rapper of the group. This shocked him slightly seeing as she was so bubbly and sweet. He’d honestly thought the scary pink lady was the main rapper, but seeing as Baby was their rapper he should've known better.

Eventually, Mystery mustered up the courage to ask her a question only to be interrupted by a fan. How dare they interrupt him? He didn’t even notice he was barking at them to scare them away until Zoey began to chastise him for it. 

“No! Bad Saja Boy!” she shamed, tapping his head with the pen until he calmed down. Mystery slouched back into his chair, what was coming over him?? From just two seats across, he could hear Baby snickering at him.

As he watched Zoey reassure the fan that everything was alright, why did she have to hold the fans hands???, he realized this feeling might have started to become a bigger problem than he thought it would be. —

The battle was over. Gwi-ma was finally defeated and the underworld was closed up for good. With the odd stillness that followed, Mystery found himself in a strange place. He found himself at peace. Well.. kinda?

He still couldn’t sleep properly as he wasn't used to the silence of the overworld at night, and his hair still got frizzy and big when it was humid, and sometimes Baby stole his earrings, but all in all, it was fine. Livable. Manageable. Different.

The dance practice room was empty aside from him and Zoey. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors stretched across the front wall, reflecting the two of them. Zoey in her grey sweats and a tiny white crop top (which was so unfair), and Mystery, slouched on the floor, playing dead.

“You’re not even trying to learn the moves,” Zoey said through a laugh, twisting her water bottle open.

“I am,” he groaned. “Just give me a week to actually get interested first.”

Zoey rolled her eyes at his dramatic behaviour, something that only ever seemed to pop out around her. “That choreography isn’t even that hard.”

“Says the girl with demon hunter blood and abs. This must be so easy for you.”

Zoey blinked. “Excuse you?”

Mystery sat up, one knee drawn up, resting an arm on it as he spoke, “It’s distracting.”

“You’re distracting,” she said pointedly, and then immediately flushed when she realized what she said. “I mean..!”

Mystery smirked, tying his hair up into a bun. He was fully aware of the fact that Zoey believed he was ‘just her type’ and took full advantage of it whenever he could. “You think I’m distracting?”

“I meant your weird slouchy pose was distracting,” Zoey huffed, face red, eyes looking everywhere but his face as she sipped her water too fast.

He liked this. The way her cheeks puffed when she was annoyed. The way she was clearly trying not to look at him while fixing her buns. The way she…

Stopped. Right in front of the mirror.

“Oh my god,” she said, squinting at the mirror.

“What?”

“I look jacked,” she whispered, checking her arm. “Is this what Abby feels like all the time?”

Mystery’s smile faded. “Abby?”

“Yeah. Look at this.” She lifted her arm slightly, flexing, and raised a brow in approval. “No wonder people like his stage presence. He’s a wall of charisma and strength.”

Mystery’s eye twitched. “What does he have that I don’t?” he muttered.

Zoey turned. “Hm?”

“Nothing!” Mystery said too fast. “Just… practicing the dance moves.”

Zoey snorted. “Sure you are. Just like how you were 'barking to protect our image' at the fan sign.”

Mystery’s eyes narrowed. “That fan was sketchy. Their aura was weird.” Aura was a word Baby taught him.

“Uh huh. You were jealous,” she teased, walking past him to grab her towel.

“I was not,” he lied poorly. “I’m incapable of jealousy. Demon, remember?”

“Right,” she dragged, throwing the towel at him. “And I’m incapable of sarcasm.”

She left him there on the floor, towel over his head, ego bruised. But even as she walked away, Mystery found his eyes trailing her again. He hated how soft he’d become.

Hated how often his thoughts drifted back to that first fan sign. To the first time he saw her in the overworld. Laughing. Blushing.

She'd been so red when they passed her in the alleyway, her and Mira swooning over Abby’s opened shirt while she looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. He’d noticed her immediately. And it wasn't just because she was cute. (Okay, that was part of it.)

It was because she was human. So very human. Something he, at the time, didn’t realise he would want so bad. And yet she’d stayed in his mind like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

Even now, months later, with the world no longer ending and his contract with Gwi-ma gone, Mystery still found himself aching whenever she looked at someone else with even a fraction of the warmth she gave him.

Abby. Abby.

The name echoed in his mind again like some cursed chant. Summoning courage, he stood and marched up behind her. “You didn’t answer me.”

Zoey glanced at him in the mirror. “About?”

“What does he have that I don’t have?”

Zoey blinked. “Wait. You were serious?”

Mystery folded his arms. “I barked at a fan for you. I gave up my spot as center for that weird duet stage. I let you touch my hair. That’s practically marriage in demon culture.”

Zoey’s jaw dropped in laughter. “Mystery, I pat everyone’s head when they’re being a weirdo.”

“You don’t call everyone a good boy.” he pointed out.

Zoey flushed bright pink. “That was one time! I was trying to calm you down!”

“It worked.”

“Stop being dramatic.” Zoey laughed, softer this time, walking closer.

He hated how fast his heartbeat got when she stepped into his personal space.

“You’re not Abby,” she said gently.

“I know that,” he huffed.

“But you’re Mystery,” she added, poking his chest, her eyes peering into his. “You’re weird and intense and accidentally funny and overly stylish. And I like that.”

Mystery blinked. “Wait. What?”

Zoey turned, clearly trying not to look at him anymore. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“You like me?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m pushing it,” he said, stepping beside her. “You said you like me.”

“Fine,” Zoey grumbled. “I like you.”

Mystery grinned.

“I knew barking was the right way to go.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m going to bark at Abby next time I see him.”

“No!”

But Mystery was already planning it.

If he had a heart, it would be doing cartwheels.

He glanced at her reflection again, her cheeks warm, eyes shy, and something settled in him.

“Hey,” he said suddenly.

Zoey looked up.

“I like you too. Even if your abs are unfair.”

Zoey broke into laughter, her head tilting back.

And for once, Mystery didn’t mind the quiet that came with the over world. He didn’t mind the quiet anywhere as long as it meant he could listen to the girl he probably shouldn’t have fallen for, laugh her heart out.

[nhmkhnh]

#SPECIAL EVENT ──── LOVE AND LUST.

(the layout is ugly please forgive me.)

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ rules.

first of all: mdni and men dni since this space contains nsfw and wlw content only.

hello my beloveds~ sooo i decided to make life harder for myself and open an event hehe. rules are simple: pick 1 to 3 prompts and one character (from the list of characters i write for (or you can look at the hastags under!), make sure to read the rules before sending anything in!) i’ll reply with either a short drabble or a long fic, depending on what i can manage to write. ♡

all the prompts were personally compiled by me through lots of references, inspiration from here and there, and a bit of personal experience too, so some similarities may occur, thanks for understanding!

prompts are below the cut, and yes, they’re all nsfw!

“get on the bed. i’m not gonna ask twice.”

“open your mouth for me, pretty.”

“you make the dumbest faces when you’re about to cum.”

“you're lucky i love ruining you.”

“who told you you could touch yourself without me?”

“i said stay still.”

“hands behind your back, baby. let me play.”

“look at that. all wet for me and i haven’t even touched you yet.”

“you’re mine. say it.”

“louder.”

“aw, baby, can’t take it? that’s too bad.”

“you begged for this. don’t act shy now.”

“let me hear that cute little whimper again.”

“i’ll stop if you don’t behave. is that what you want?”

“good girl. such a good little slut for me.”

“don’t move. you’re going to take everything i give you.”

“why are you hiding your face? i wanna see you fall apart.”

“touch yourself while i watch.”

“messy girls like you don’t deserve mercy.”

“on your knees, sweetheart. that’s where you belong.”

“use your words, baby. or i’ll make you beg properly.”

“don’t look at anyone else like that ever again.”

“you act like a brat just to get me to fuck it out of you, huh?”

“oh, you’re shaking already?”

“swallow it. all of it.”

“what was that? you had something to say, baby?”

“keep moaning like that and i’m never stopping.”

“look how needy you get for me.”

“you're gonna take one more for me, yeah? be a good girl.”

“that’s right. cry on my fingers.”

“tell me who owns you.”

“you like being used this way, don’t you?”

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you’re ruined.”

“mmm. can’t even speak? that’s how i like you.”

“such a slut for my voice, aren’t you?”

“this is mine—every inch of you.”

“want my hand around your throat while you ride me?”

“don’t you dare cum yet.”

“keep crying. it’s turning me on.”

“you’re not done. i’m not done.”

“think i’ll let you cum just because you’re cute?”

“what a good little mess you’ve become.”

“my strap’s still in you. stay like that.”

“you were made for me. don’t deny it.”

“keep those legs open, or i’ll tie them.”

“i love how desperate you get for me.”

“don’t act like you don’t want this.”

“didn’t i tell you to keep your hands to yourself?”

“let’s see how many times i can make you cum tonight.”

“fuck. you sound so good when you whine like that.”

“i should punish you more often.”

“you wanted to be treated like this, didn’t you?”

“come sit on mommy’s lap.”

“say ‘thank you’ for making you cum.”

“you smell like sex and mine.”

“you’re not leaving this bed until i say so.”

“your body belongs to me. always.”

“use that mouth for something useful.”

“i can feel how badly you want me.”

“dripping already? you’re so easy.”

“you really think i’d let anyone else see you like this?”

“on all fours. now.”

“if you cum before i tell you, i’ll edge you for hours.”

“spread those pretty thighs for me.”

“you taste like sin and i’m starving.”

“lick your mess off my fingers.”

“you really wanna be my good girl, huh?”

“let’s see how long you last tonight.”

“use your words or i’ll use your body.”

“i’m not going to stop until you forget your own name.”

“can’t believe you’re this wet for me.”

“hands on the wall, sweetheart. legs apart.”

“you’re not walking tomorrow, baby.”

“i bet your pussy’s throbbing just from hearing my voice.”

“i’ll ruin you so good you’ll forget your ex’s name.”

“keep still or i’ll tie your pretty little wrists.”

“say ‘please’ like you mean it.”

“no touching. you cum when i say.”

“i like you like this—needy and shaking under me.”

“god, you sound so good when you beg.”

“you like it when i’m rough, don’t you?”

“what did i say about disobeying me?”

“if you can’t behave, i’ll treat you like a toy.”

“moan louder. i want the neighbors to know who you belong to.”

“you were so confident earlier. what happened now, baby?”

“oh, you love when i talk dirty to you, huh?”

“wipe that smug look off your face or i will.”

“you’re gonna take all of it, understand?”

“i want to see you fall apart for me.”

“how do you want it tonight—soft or ruined?”

“say my name while you cum.”

“beg for it.”

“put your pretty ass to use.”

“try to stay quiet. i dare you.”

“let me see how much more you can take.”

“you’re nothing but my cute little toy, aren’t you?”

“so obedient when you’re dripping for me.”

“you’ll cum when i let you.”

“i don’t fuck girls—i own them.”

“look at you, ruined and mine. exactly how i like you.”

[camficdiner]

[1.3] [2.9] [3.6] [4.3] andddd maybe it’s at the lake house and Luke can’t handle seeing you in tiny bikinis alll day!!

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 027

🍒 thank you for ordering, babe! here’s your lake house fic with tattoos, tension, and one Hughes brother trying not to combust all day long 💦

💬 “Warm Waters, Warmer Nights”

✨ description and prompts:

character: Luke Hughes

prompt: You meet his brothers for the first time at the lake house in Michigan. Luke can’t handle seeing your perfect, tattooed body in a bikini all day.

word count: ~1.k

type: mixed fluff & smut

🛼🍒✨🧁

You wore the black bikini on purpose.

Not because you were trying to make a scene. But because it was hot out, Michigan summer kind of hot — where the sun sat high and smug, and the lake practically begged you to jump in the moment you arrived.

And maybe — just maybe — you liked the way Luke stared at you when you wore it.

He brought you here to meet his brothers. Officially. That word had weight behind it now. “I want you to see the lake house,” he’d said, casual. But you could tell he was nervous. His fingers had fidgeted the whole drive. His leg bounced every time you looked at him. And when he parked the car? He exhaled like he’d held his breath for two states.

You stepped out barefoot onto the gravel driveway, sunscreen already making your skin shine. Your bikini top hugged your chest perfectly, straps slightly askew from the drive. The hem of your towel sat high on your thigh. Tattoos out. Hair undone.

Luke looked at you like you were going to ruin him.

“Okay,” he muttered, jaw tight, “maybe we go inside first—”

Too late.

Jack opened the door, saw you, and immediately smirked. “So this is what you’ve been hiding in Jersey?”

Luke groaned. “Jack, don’t—”

“Relax, man. I’m just saying. Good taste.”

Quinn followed, quieter. He gave you a once-over — not rude, just observant — and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

He didn’t say more. But you caught him glancing down at your ink as you stepped inside.

The house smelled like pinewood and beer. There were flip-flops by the door, half a sandwich left on the counter, and someone’s wet shirt hanging off the back of a chair.

You felt their eyes on you the whole time. Not in a mean way. Just… assessing. This was the girl Luke was officially introducing. That meant something.

You smiled through it all. You were good at smiling. Even when Luke kept hovering behind you, touching the small of your back, tugging at your towel like he wanted to cover you up and keep showing you off at the same time.

He introduced you. Jack made three sarcastic comments in under five minutes. Quinn asked if you wanted something to drink. You ended up on the back deck, lake glistening in front of you, hot air wrapping around your body like a second bikini.

And Luke? Luke couldn’t stop looking.

—

The tension built all day.

From the dock, while you stretched your arms over your head to dive in — and Luke choked on his water.

From the boat, when you laid back sunbathing and Jack said, “If you don’t make it official with her soon, I will.”

From lunch, when you walked past in dripping lakewater, and Luke fumbled his fork.

Every time you bent over to grab a drink, adjusted your towel, or even just breathed — Luke looked like he was going to combust.

He kept his hands to himself. Barely.

You caught him more than once gripping the edge of a table, knuckles white.

He didn’t sit next to you at lunch. Too risky.

Didn’t help you re-tie your bikini. Too obvious.

Didn’t say a word when Jack asked, “So, when are you two getting freaky in the hot tub?”

Just blushed. Deeply. Silently.

Until the sun dipped low, and the others retreated inside.

And you?

You got into the hot tub.

—

The water steamed under the night sky. Lights from inside the house glowed softly behind you. The jets bubbled around your thighs as you sank in, letting your head fall back, moonlight catching on your skin.

You didn’t say a word when you heard the sliding door open.

Luke walked out shirtless — still in swim trunks, but barefoot, lips parted like he’d run out of self-control the minute Jack and Quinn shut their bedroom doors.

“You good?” you asked, already smirking.

He stepped into the water like he was in a trance. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me all day.”

“I think I do.”

“You wore that bikini on purpose.”

“And?”

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

You moved across the bubbling surface and straddled his lap in one fluid motion, warm water curling between your bodies.

“I’ve been so good all day,” he said, gripping your waist. “I didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a thing.”

You leaned in, teeth brushing his ear. “Want a reward?”

His hands gripped your ass under the water. “No. I want to ruin you.”

And then his mouth was on yours — hot, desperate, claiming.

You moaned when he bit your bottom lip, hands slipping beneath the water to tug at your bikini bottoms. Your hips rolled instinctively against his, the only sound around you the slap of water, low grunts, and the steady ripple of desire finally snapping.

“Luke—” you gasped.

“I’m done playing nice.”

He pulled the fabric aside and thrust into you in one smooth motion. The water splashed against the edges of the tub. You cried out — loud — only to have him cover your mouth with his palm.

“Shh,” he breathed against your throat. “Wanna get us caught?”

You licked his hand. “Maybe.”

“Fucking tease.”

He fucked you slow at first. Teasing. Letting you feel every inch of it. The water kept moving, sloshing, rocking you both like a boat about to capsize.

You clutched his shoulders, panting, whimpering, feeling him grip you harder each time your body clenched.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, “and they’re gonna know it.”

“Then make me scream.”

“I plan to.”

Somewhere behind you, inside the house, a light flicked on.

Neither of you noticed.

But Jack did.

He paused in the hallway. Blinked. Then turned the light off.

—

The next morning.

You sat at the breakfast bar, hoodie on, but still glowing. Luke nursed a coffee beside you, both of you trying very hard to act normal.

Jack walked in, paused, and said, “So. The hot tub works. Loudly.”

You froze mid-sip. Luke groaned.

Quinn entered behind him, deadpan. “At least you waited until we were inside. Sort of.”

Jack raised his mug. “Next time, close the damn curtains. And maybe don’t let her ride you where I eat my dinner.”

Luke turned red. You buried your face in your sleeve.

Jack winked. “Warm waters, huh?”

You coughed a laugh. Luke muttered, “I hate everything.”

You didn’t.

Not even close.

[formosusiniquis]

something green

inspired by @stevieweek day 2 prompt: cryptid | hospital, but this might not be enough stevie to qualify wc: 1.4k | T | cw: minor character death | tags: stobin hivemind

Their Robin part answers the phone when it rings.

They’re home, have been all week scouring the classifieds for a job that they think won’t be completely miserable. It’s been boring, but boring is a lot better than monsters and as the late-July humidity persists outside it’s at least a little bit better than anything else too.

“This is a call for Steve Harrington.”

They’ve not been that for a while.

“Speaking,” their Robin answers.

The voice on the other end of the line pauses, like it’s not sure it believes their Robin, but continues, “Your mother has asked we inform you that she’s currently receiving care at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Indianapolis. She’s been in an accident, I’m sorry to say I’m not sure how much time she has left.”

“Is my father there?”

“He has been informed.”

“But he wasn’t with my mother,” their Robin finishes.

“I have a note that says he told the staff member who called, ‘he would be down from Chicago when he was finished with work.’”

“Thank you,” they say, and their Stevie means it. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

If the employee on the phone finds that strange they don’t have time to say it. Their Robin hangs up the phone with a finality that smacks of disagreement.

“Do we really need to go up to see Mother? Mom is making lasagna tonight and she never got drunk and told us that she thought about going to a special doctor when she learned she was pregnant with Richard’s baby.”

Mom’s lasagna is their favorite, but they’re more prone to regret now. “Call her and tell her we’ll be late. I’m sure she’ll save it for us.”

Mom always said that special occasions meant a dress, father said you don’t go to a business deal unless you’ve shined your shoes.

A hospital visit to see their dying mother, it’s hard to decide if any of those rules apply. But both parts of them are still in the boxers and the white undershirts they’d gone to bed in, so they make due with what they know and the pieces they’ve scrounged from the thrift store since the government check cleared.

They’re used to getting dirty looks when they go places. The perk of their Stevie part still looking beaten half-to-death is most people don’t bother with trying to finish the job. Their Robin finds a nurse who points to the private room Mother is being kept in.

It would be funny that even when she’s dying, Mother still demanded luxury, but then they’d have to admit their sense of humor has gotten a little fucked.

Their Stevie enters the room first, goes to the bed while their Robin stays closer to the door. They don’t need privacy from each other, but they know to others they’re something strange and off putting.

The hospital is one of the worst places they can imagine spending their final moments. The smell of antiseptic and bleach unable to bury the scent of death and bile, even in this room that only privilege can buy. Mother looks smaller than they can ever remember seeing her. Her face and chest a mottle of bruising, a strip of her blonde hair shaved away to make way for a wound the doctors have bandaged. Blood and something tinged yellow are already seeping through it. The machine beside her bed beeps, each one weaker than the last like even it is giving up.

One of their Steve hands brushes hers, gentle. Mindful of the IV going into the back of it. One of her french tips is missing, another broken in a jagged line. The hand reaching for hers is missing a nail too. She’d hate that.

“Mother,” they start. Her eyes are shut, not swollen shut like one of theirs, just closed. The spiderweb of veins is visible through the thin skin, and that’s worse. “Mother, I-”

Mother not Mom or Ma or Momma or Mommy.

It’s always been Mother for as long as they can remember. Mother and Father. It’s hard for them to wrap their mouth around now that they’ve got Mom at home with her lasagna. They’re crying, just a little. The salty sting of tears prick at their Robin eyes.

She’s not going to get better and she’s always going to be Mother. She won’t get to become something different to them, like them.

“Mother,” they try again. Maybe this time the right words will come out. In English or one of the others.

Her spiderweb eyes flutter. They open just a crack. Bloodshot and hazy. “Is that my baby?” Her words are slowed, slurred together.

“Mo-”

Even open all the way her eyes are glassy and unfocused. Her hand tilts up to catch theirs. “My baby.” 

“Morphine,” they remind themself from the other side of the room.

Mother’s eyes track to where the sound came from, and back to the part of them that’s holding her hand. “I always thought there would be two of you,” she says. “The way you’d kick.”

The machine beeps tick higher. Intracranial bleeding, traumatic internal injuries, thrown from the car, intoxicated. Those were the things the nurse had told one half while the other was headed into the room.

She probably isn’t even lucid.

“When they said it was just one, I was sure you’d be a girl.”

“I’m sorry,” they say. They look over at their other half, not for answers but for the comforting reminder that they’re there.

Mother’s hand shakes as she lifts it off the bed, even with theirs beneath it, supporting the weight. The beeps get faster, louder, crying at the effort she’s putting forward. Her fingers are even colder than normal as they brush their face.

“Don’t be sorry, both of you, just as beautiful as I knew you’d be. My twins, my babies.” Her breathing is too fast, too shallow, too much of everything.

But the smile on her face is peaceful.

“I wish I’d been more for you,” she says.

“No,” they choke out from beside the door, tears running faster.

“I couldn’t see it at first, you looked so much like your father; and I missed it. I missed it.” Each word sounds more like an exhale. Each one is harder to hear.

They surround her now, a half on either side of the bed. Their mother is dying.

“Green was always my favorite, you look so nice in it.” Green dress, green button down, emerald and forest.

“I love you.” They manage to say it, gasp it out through the hurt lodged in their throat. She needs to hear it.

The beeps are fast, then slow, she says. “Love you two.”

The beeps stop, the machine whines. A long, loud sound that demands all of the attention in the room. The commotion starts, nurses and doctors flooding in.

But they know death by this point. They slip from the room, walking until there’s a seating area just to the side of a desk of busy nurses. They sit side by side, trying to find the state of whole they only ever feel when sleeping. Thigh to thigh, hand in hand, it’s close enough.

Their mother is dead.

They sit. Mom is at home, lasagna in the warmer; but Mother is cooling on a bed down the hall.

An elevator chimes, a clipped conversation at the nurses stand too quiet to hear, then. “Steven, what in god’s name are you wearing?”

Their shoes are shined, they twitch left and then right on their Robin feet. The white Chuck Taylors had looked better with the dress, they had decided while getting ready.

“What are you hoping to accomplish,” Father continues, his question after all had never really been a question. Much like this one.

“You were too late, I’m sorry,” they say, hoping they manage to sound consoling.

“The only thing to be sorry about is that whoever hit you didn’t do as well as the fucking car did. Christ, I just hope no one important has seen you looking like this.”

Dad said their attempts at makeup were avant garde.

Two separate instincts war within them. The one that’s snarky and snappish and fights demodogs and soldiers versus the one that knows the danger of the wrong idea being shared by the wrong person.

Love you two. Her last words.

They stand, hand in hand, united physically as they are in every other way. They walk past him, sputtering and spitting with a rage no father should have for their child. It will take all four of their hands but they can move their things out of their room to the other in the house where Mom and Dad love everything they have become.

And they’ll grab something green from Mother.

[sicvitaest27]

I’d like to give my two cents on this subject, as an author myself.

Honestly, I consider myself quite a free speaker, and will ask if I have something to ask, just as I’ll comment, when I have something to comment. Also, when I’m done with the story, I’m more than happy to give feedback.

Of course, I understand that one of the beautiful things about writing WIP s is that real time interaction with readers, as the story progresses. But, for me personally, I do find myself waiting for the story to continue, without having the need to input anything. Not because I don’t care about the story, just because I understand what is going on, the direction, and everything else is just explained well, so there’s nothing really prompting me to ask anything, for it would, probably, be spoiler territory.

Now, of course, theories and whatnot are always welcome, but, there’s only so much theories that can be made about a story; and that heavily depends on how vague the story is being written, and don’t even get me started of people guessing and guessing, and then, by so many guesses, finish the story before you even get a chance to conclude it yourself. That’s a totally different can of worms, that I do not want to get myself into at the moment😂

Now, when an author explicitly asks a question to the readers, sure, it is always a welcome thing to answer, but, it should be considered that, unless they have enabled the notifications from a specific blog, chances are, that, if they follow a lot of blogs and people, they simply won’t see it, and for the ones that do, not all of them will feel the urge to respond. Why? I don’t know, that’s just their preference, and the reasonings are their own, and that’s okay. That’s how it is.

I’m relatively close to submitting a story of my own, and honestly, I would love to have interaction with the readers, for them to tell me how did they like the story, the characters, but I understand if they don’t, because, 9 times out of 10, I first, don’t find myself having the need to give constant feedback, and if that’s the case for me, I can’t put different expectations onto others.

But that’s just normal. That’s why you see games on steam, that everyone knows have sold millions, yet have only 300 reviews, or IF s on steam, that have authors on tumblr, and they are writing a second book for their IF, and there’ll still be barely any questions about it, or any theories.

Would I want for the community to be more active? Absolutely, but only because I want people to have a good time, and to feel free to have that good time, without thinking that they’re going to be subjected to whatever. But, if they are still here, following along, then that’s fine too, and that shouldn’t affect the authors, because, I understand that it’s always good to get that engagement, because that tells you that you’re doing something that’s worth doing, worth more than you may initially think, but, as an artist, you should do it because of yourself, first and foremost.

This is not a rant, and this is not a comment made against anyone who feels differently than what I just said; you’re justified in that, and I do feel you, trust me, but, as long as people want to stick around and enjoy your stories, then I say let them! And, if they wish to talk to the brilliant mind behind the story, then by all means, but I don’t see a point in trying to force something to do that. Because, even encouraging can be viewed like that, and I doubt that any of us want that.

So, to conclude this, yes, the community may have gone a tad bit quieter, and the reasons for that are unknown to me, but, should that change? Hopefully, but if not, then hell, it is what it is. There are certainly many factors and reasons that can be taken into account for that, but, what I advocate for, is for people to be comfortable and have a good time. And for authors, to do this because they truly like doing it, and, as Toni Morrison had put it, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” That’s how I view my writing. No one’s written this, in this specific setting or this specific way, with these specific characters, and so, I shall write it, and if people like it? That’s just icing on the cake.

Anyhow, to all my fellow authors, I feel you, I truly do, but hey, things change the way they do, but that shouldn’t demotivate you. People will express themselves when they wish to do so, for reasons only they have, and that’s also fine as well. Hopefully, folks will get more comfortable, for the IF community is a lovely community, which offers a safe space for everyone, but, if they just wish to follow along, let them. It’s all you can really do. Cheers to everyone, and love to all🥂🖤

I think a lot of authors have noticed this lately: Likes, comments, reblogs with reviews... everything seems to be getting quieter. Stories go on, chapters come out, but all too often, it's a great silent nothingness that greets them.

Are we at fault, or is it something else? Yet you're there, we can see you raising the view counters on our demos.

I'm not here to lecture or beg for anything. I'd just like to understand, as many other authors do, why ? Because this statement is the result of a growing concern? Depression?among our ranks. To the degree that some of us have come to say: What's the point?

I'd just like to remind you of one thing: a story is alive, yes, but ! It's alive thanks to you, not just to us.

Every word you read, every emotion you feel, every theory you silently formulate: it's all part of the magic of a story, and it needs to be shared. When you share it all, a comment, a reblog with a fews words, even a brief reaction, that's when it really comes together, you're blowing on the story's flame! You fuel it, make it tangible. You give it a life that an author, alone in front of their screen, can't always sustain over time. Believe me, we try... Some are more gifted than others, but I'm all for helping each other.

Because yes, we write out of passion, out of desire, out of need. Yes, we love our worlds. But the impetus, the joy, the motivation, the feeling of really being read, all that is also born from exchange.

So here it is, just a quick note to say that if you like or don't like something, please say so. No need for a big dissertation but there's nothing worse than silence, it's the great reaper of our aspirations and I don't want to let it win.

And to my author friends: you're not alone. 💙

[cainrising]

propt list #3 the theatre au with choscar???? those boys are built for the stage

prompt 3: theatre AU where one character is trying to goad the other character out of the bathroom and onto the stage from where they are crying in the bathroom because they're on in 5.

I didn't edit this as harshly as I usually do w my stuff, so I'm sorry some bits are rushed and weirdly paced. I know next to nothing abt theatre so 😭 ntm on me

here's 3.6k of sound tech oscar & lead actor charles ^^

“Where the fuck is Charles?” Max is demanding, as Oscar rounds the corner. “Fucking—we’re on in fifteen and nobody has seen him?!”

“He was getting changed, I don’t know,” Lando says defensively, hurriedly shrugging on his waistcoat. “Mate, I’ve got to—Carlos! Carlos, have you seen my script? Carlos!”

Frazzled, Carlos almost gets his eye poked out by a makeup brush when he turns, then nearly trips over an intern, who looks seconds away from bursting into tears. “How many times have I been telling you to keep it in your pocket, Lando,” Carlos scolds. A cloud of powder bursts, and about five people fall into coughing fits. Carlos screws his face up, turning back with a foul twist to his mouth, but the makeup girl has already fled to pursue her next victim—poor, unsuspecting Kimi.

Oscar pushes his hair back off his sweaty forehead, and for the fifteenth time this hour, he thanks his lucky stars he’s only working Sound. Max looks like he’s about to brain someone with his clipboard, Ollie is hyperventilating under the prop table, and apparently Charles, their leading man, has fucked off to Timbuktu. It’ll be a miracle if Oscar makes it out of this without grey hairs.

“Oscar!”

Christ, Oscar thinks, and pulls his headset to the side. Not that he really needs to. His mum probably heard Max back in Melbourne.

“Yeah?”

If stress had a picture in the dictionary, it would be Max.

“Are you busy?” Max bulldozes on, “I need—fucking Charles! He’s waltzed off, and curtains are up in—” he jerkily consults his watch, and his eyes go wide and despairing. “Fuck!”

“You want me to, uh,” Oscar, for some stupid reason, looks around, like Max could be talking to someone else. “I mean, wouldn’t Pierre—?”

“No!” Max snaps, whirling around, to where Yuki is lounging on the stage apparatus. “Yuki! If you fall from there—”

He storms off in a cloud of furious anxiety, and Oscar sighs. He never should have allowed Logan to convince him this would be fun. He’s sweating in places no man should sweat. He’s ninety perfect stage glitter. He’s got a raging headache, and it’s not even six thirty. This? This is not fun. 

“Don’t just stand there!” Max yells, face red, Yuki thrown over his shoulder. Pierre has his phone out, recording. God, Oscar does not want to know. “We’re on in fifteen, Oscar. Fifteen!”

Oscar closes his eyes, dumps his headset on the stack of chairs tucked in the corner, and goes to find Charles.

--

He checks the dressing rooms first. They’re closest to the stage, in a little deserted corridor, where the air is much cooler, free of the chemical stench of hairspray. Oscar takes his first breath free of rancid floral perfume and knocks twice on the door. Pushes it open.

“Er.”

“Oscar!” Alex says shrilly,

Slowly, Oscar glances down, where George’s shirt is chucked. The room is a right state, feathers flung everywhere, tins and bottles of fuck knows what uncapped over the counter, lipstick smeared over the mirrors. It’s what the house looked like when Hattie had her first date. Oscar’s never really forgiven her for smearing eyeliner on his favourite shirt.

Staring at the floor inevitably leads him back to Alex’s bare ankles, then Alex’s bare legs, then Alex’s—

Politely, Oscar averts his eyes. George makes a sound like a drowned cat.

Eyes on the prize. Not—whatever this is. “Have either of you seen Charles?”

“Charles?” Alex repeats weakly. “Oscar. Are you serious?”

Right. Bit of a stupid question, really. Only thing Alex has seen recently is George’s tonsils.

“Sorry,” Oscar drums his fingers against the doorframe. “Er. I would say carry on, but, like…”

“Mate,” George finds his voice, crimson all the way down his chest. His naked chest. Because his shirt is on the floor. With Alex’s trousers. “Can you get out?”

--

“Charles?” Liam frowns, or, well. Oscar thinks he’s frowning. Hard to tell over the stack of boxes towering over him, and, subsequently, his face. “Nah, mate. Haven’t seen him. D’you mind—?”

“Oh—” Oscar steps out the way, and Liam grunts his thanks. “Sorry. Do you know where he might be?”

He doesn’t fancy being guillotined today, which is probably the fate that awaits him if he returns to Max empty handed. It’s looking more and more likely, though, the more rooms Oscar pokes his head into, only to find them distressingly absent of Charles.

How many places are there for someone like Charles to hide? Oscar has never seen him without an entourage loudly announcing his presence for all the building to hear, or one of his fifteen hefty instrument cases, or his ten million rattling keychains. You can hear Charles coming from the other side of campus—quite literally. But with Oscar’s life literally dangling in the balance, magically, Charles is nowhere to be found.

“The café, maybe?” Liam suggests, distracted. “I don’t know. Saw a few of the extras coming back from there. He might have gone with them, you know what Charles is like.”

Indeed, Oscar knows what Charles is like. A breeze, maybe, or a windchime. There one minute, gone the next; chasing the next daydream, as all the artsy types are wont to do.

To Oscar, who lives his life amongst zeros and ones, Charles could not be more of an antithesis.

“Thanks!” he calls after Liam’s strained back.

Liam lets go of his stack to stick his thumb up, and Oscar is halfway down the corridor when he hears a catastrophic crash, and a fervent, loud curse.

He winces and hurries down the corridor.

--

He doesn’t find Charles in the café, but Oscar does pilfer a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and that’s pretty good, too. Logan only stocks Monster—‘doesn’t believe’ in coffee—so Oscar has been cut off from his source of sweet, disgusting, real caffeine for weeks. Honestly, as he peers into the coatroom, Oscar thinks it might be worth getting flayed alive for this. Silver linings, and whatnot.

Mark, his student advisor, would weep with joy at his newfound optimistic streak.

As Oscar sets his empty cup on the carpet and reaches for the bathroom door, it swings open on him. Franco nods in greeting, in full costume. Never in Oscar’s life has he ever seen a tie knotted that sloppily. And are those—hickeys?

“I wouldn’t go in there if I was you,” Franco grimaces. Lowers his voice to a loud whisper. “Someone is having a, uhhh…” He twirls a finger by his temple and whistles. Stares at Oscar expectantly.

“Um,” Oscar says.

“Yes,” Franco nods, “So. Break his leg, or whatever the saying is.”

He proceeds to pat Oscar on the shoulder and stroll leisurely away. His shirt is untucked at the waistband. Oscar considers the absurd state of his life. And of his bladder, because he really needs a piss, but he doesn’t feel like dealing with a mental breakdown, and really, none of this would be happening without Logan. This is all his fault. Oscar will be sure to tell Max that, when he’s forced to turn up with his tail between his legs and without the star of the show. Surely, Max will understand.

Max will not understand, Oscar thinks with dread. Max is an easy-going guy usually, but not when it comes to theatre. He runs the club like the damn navy SEALs. Rumours say he kicked Lewis Hamilton out of his own play for being three seconds late to dress rehearsal. Oscar is so dead, it isn’t even funny.

With a deep breath, arming for war, Oscar pushes open the door and slips inside, and it’s—quiet. Nobody is wailing. It’s just a normal bathroom. If the far stall door wasn’t closed, Oscar would have had no idea someone else was here at all.

Warily, he approaches the urinal. Why he’s bracing for someone or something to leap out of the stall and eat him, he isn’t sure. He’s severely anaemic. Nothing wants to eat him.

Oscar is washing his hands, already thinking about where to check for Charles next, when his peripherals snag on a spike of light. Oscar's head jerks, nearly gives himself a nasty crick.

Lando swears on his nan’s grave he got knifed in the loo once. Oscar has no desire to follow in his footsteps, and—today is not going to be that day, he realises in relief. There’s no Nike tracksuit and balaclava lunging for him; it’s a keyring, laying on the floor, beneath the shut stall door.  A whole host of them.

A mini silver microphone, he notices, somewhat absently, as he rips off a square of paper towel. A prancing horse, a tiny dog, a shark. One of the souvenir types, with a worn French-looking word painted on the fin. A homemade chain of red-white beads, and a CL. A Lion King the musical pendant.

Red-white beads, and a CL, Oscar thinks, and freezes.

--

In any good story game, there comes a pivotal moment in the plot where the character is faced with a panel of critical dialogue options. Standing like the standing man emoji in front of a regular, unimposing loo, Oscar searches the crossroads ahead.

Number one: clear his throat as un-awkwardly as he can and tell Charles that he needs to crawl out before Oscar is nailed six feet under. Probably insensitive if Charles is having a breakdown, and Oscar doesn’t feel like informing Charles that his best friend, who is a loving dad to three cats and two dogs, is most definitely an axe murderer in another life.

Number two: send Charles a text. A very good option, Oscar thinks, but his phone is out of power and—he doesn’t have Charles’ number in the first place. He can count on one hand the amount of meaningful interactions he’s had with Charles since meeting him. Which isn’t to say they aren’t friendly. Charles is friendly with everyone. Oscar, like most poor souls, is more than a little in love with him, in a, like. In a cool, chill, low-key way. He isn’t leaving love letters in Charles’ bag. Or baking him brownies. Oscar is too broke to buy ninety pence ramen, let alone eggs.

Number three (and this one is the worst, but also the most feasible): knock on the door and coax Charles out himself.

Okay, Oscar thinks, nodding pacifyingly to himself. Okay. Splitting things into chunks didn’t help, so he’ll divide it further.

Pros to number three: he lives to see another day. The show goes on, hopefully without a hitch, and Oscar can assuage the guilty conscious he’ll inevitably develop if he scurries off and leaves Charles here.

Cons: literally everything else, but especially the concept of—a crying Charles. Who probably needs reassurance. Reassurance Oscar is infamously bad for supplying.

(Lando came to rehearsals the other week red-eyed and teary over the death of his hamster, and Oscar asked him if he accidentally put it through the washing machine. Because, well, in his defence, he’s heard it was a common way hamsters die, and he likes collecting data, but apparently, Logan explained patiently, it was a little—a lot—tactless. And whatever Oscar does, he should never ever become a grief councillor, God, please.)

A hitching sniffle bounces off the tiles, and Oscar’s choice is taken out of his hands.

“Charles?” he clears his throat, apprehensively rubbing the pads of his fingers together. “Um. Is that—is that you?”

There is a very long moment of silence, in which Oscar tries not to lose his nerve and flee, and Charles tries to pretend he doesn’t exist. Neither of those work out too well.

And then, “Please go,” Charles begs thickly, “I will—I’ll—”

His voice cracks, and there’s a wet gasp, and Oscar closes his eyes, physically pained. He wishes he was literally any other person in the world right now, or at least one who wasn’t a catastrophic failure at human connection.

Max wants you, Oscar goes to say, and pauses. Thinks. He doesn’t want to give Charles the impression he’s only here for Max, even though that is… the reason Oscar is doing this. It doesn’t feel nice when you think you’re a chore for someone, Oscar knows that.

Okay, see, he’s doing such a good job. Just a little bit more.

“Is—er. Can I help… with anything? Would you—” Oscar hesitates, “Do you want to, um. Do you want to talk about it? Or can I—get someone?”

“No! No, don’t get anybody,” Charles says frantically, a jingle of his keychains as his bag is shuffled. “I’m fine, I’m—this is just. I am having a little break, I will be fine, you can go now. Please.” Ruining the effect, Charles’ voice breaks, and a panicked sob wavers beneath the door, reverberates between the walls, and pings directly into Oscar’s brain.

Torn, Oscar chews the nail off his pinky finger and stares at the bronze hinge, as if it holds the secrets of the universe. Or a manual on how to fix a crying person, like they give you in toy sets. Insert battery here. Take out this screw. Press button. All done. Neat and tidy and perfunctory, a perfect sequence of xyz working in expected harmony.

There is no manual for what to do when your sort-of crush, sort-of acquaintance is sobbing in the bathroom, less than ten minutes before a show.

“I won’t tell anyone?” Oscar tries. He winces at his own flat awkwardness. Christ, he wouldn’t confide in himself either. “I mean, I’m a pretty good listener, and…a problem shared is a problem halved?”

Fuck, just kill him. Just shoot him. That did not seriously come out of his mouth. He sounds like his mum.

But, miracle of all miracles, despite the overwhelming odds, Charles says, whiney with hysteria, “I am being stupid, this is all. We’ve practised lots and I know all my lines and I know I will be good, but—but maybe I will not be, and Arthur said he will come, and—and he will—he will make fun of me!”

Oscar still remembers Edie’s giggle fit when she saw him in his donkey costume for the first time ahead of his Year Two nativity. Siblings are evil like that.

“What if I say something wrong, or I trip and break my nose and get blood all over everywhere, and what if I have to kiss Alex with the bone sticking out of my face and—and it gets in her eye and she dies?” Charles wails, and Oscar holds his breath, so he doesn’t do something majorly stupid, like snort.

“That probably won’t happen,” he assures, dropping his jacket on the floor. Oscar nudges it open with his toe, and folds to take a seat. They’re probably going to be here for a while. “Everything will be fine. You’re a good actor, and Alex is a good actress, and everyone’s—you’ve all practiced a lot, haven’t you? So anything that will go wrong, you’ll probably know how to fix it, right?”

“But what if I forget?” Charles insists, “Or what if someone else will forget? And all these people will be staring at me!”

People are usually staring at Charles. Really, Oscar thinks, he could perform thirty minutes of an algebraic lecture, and the audience would still be watching, enraptured, by the end of it.

Logically, Oscar points out, “I’ve watched all the rehearsals, and I know you’re going to do great.”

“You know?” Charles sniffles doubtfully. “How can you know? So many things can go wrong, and I will never live this down, and my whole life will be ruined and buried and it will have all been for nothing, and what if I am really just so bad and they throw tomatoes at me and I get kicked out and have to live on Maman’s sofa for the rest of my life—”

Damage control, Oscar flails. Damage control, damage control—

“I think you’re pretty neat,” he blurts, painfully earnest. Might as well have wriggled his heart out from between his ribs and pushed it under the door, Jesus. “I mean. You’re—um.”

Like when he finally solves whatever’s causing his code not to run, and his chest loosens, and the universe unfurls beyond the gloominess of college work, and Oscar remembers that actually, the world is full of beautiful, lovely things, and he wants to bunch all of them in his stomach at once, so he remembers always.

Oscar blinks. Okay, no. He can’t say that. But it’s true. Charles is lovely and beautiful, and he pours into life like sunshine, and Oscar’s crush on him, perhaps, is not so small. Even though Charles has only ever said hi and good morning to him, and also that one time they got caught in the rain and Charles offered to share his umbrella with Oscar.

“You work really hard,” Oscar salvages, “You’re really, um. Passionate. You make your characters feel real, and you’re a brilliant musician, and, yeah. You’re going to do fine?”

Charles stays quiet. Oscar can’t even hear him sniffing.

Then, “You really think so?”

Oscar closes his eyes in relief. Thank God he hasn’t cocked it up. Again.

“I really think so,” he confirms.

 The door gives way behind his back. Oscar jolts to support his own weight, head swivelling, and—

“Oh,” he says stupidly.

Charles has glitter along his cheekbones.

It’s such a little thing to notice. His eyes are red and puffy, and his white shirt collar is wrinkled where he must’ve been tugging at it, and his hair is in a sorry state, but over all of it, Oscar is stuck on that. The glitter.

In the sterile bathroom lighting, it lays dull against Charles’ skin, but Oscar can imagine it, in the stage lights. The glimmer, otherworldly. How Charles’ entire body throws itself into animation, a fluid extension of somebody else, not a twitch out of his control. It seems ridiculous Charles could ever doubt himself. Oscar knows all this—has known it all these weeks—but it’s thrown into stark relief, here. With Charles looking a little like a wet dog, yet still so—whole, Oscar thinks. So encompassing. It’s like looking into a lunar eclipse.

“Oh,” Charles repeats, and he smiles, sheepish and still glassy eyed and pink-nosed and really pretty. So pretty, Oscar thinks, and realises he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, practically at Charles’ feet.

He clambers upright as gracefully as he can, as Charles collects his backpack and wipes his eyes. Oscar didn’t really plan for… what he would do after. Finds himself at a loss, not sure what to look at, or what to do with his hands.

Thankfully, Charles beats him to it. “I was—I am being very stupid, so thank you,” he ducks his head, rubbing at his nape. He’s wearing rings, Oscar notices, and his brain blue-screens. “It was just—I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I am a little nervous, and—yes. It’s like this, sometimes.”

Weirdly enough, Oscar only likes him more. It’s nice to know even Charles Leclerc cries in the toilet and gets worried about—stabbing his stage partner’s eye out with his broken nose. It’s endearing.

Oh, God. Oscar is endeared. That’s what’s happening here.

“You’re welcome,” he says, strangled. Clears his throat. “It happens to, um. A lot of people, I think.”

“Maybe,” Charles agrees. His knuckles are blanched ivory around the crimson strap of his backpack. He’s staring somewhere over Oscar’s shoulder, gaze darting. Oscar blinks, and Charles is looking at him with big, open eyes, and saying so, how would you feel about having coffee sometime? As thank you—for being nice?

No, he’s not. Oscar is daydreaming. He does this sometimes. Makes up possible conversations before they can happen, just in case. Charles would never in a million years ask him out. Ever.

“If you don’t, this is fine, too,” Charles is rushing to say, “I know you were just being nice, but I—”

Oscar realises three things at once. One: Charles Leclerc just asked him out. Two: he’s standing here, in front of Charles Leclerc, who just asked him out, and saying nothing, like a gormless twit. Three: the only dream this is is a dream come true.

“Yes,” Oscar interrupts, humiliatingly eager. “I mean—yes, yes please. I would like that. Coffee. With you.”

“With me?” Charles points to himself.

Oscar nods so hard he thinks his head will fall off. “With you. Please.”

“Oh,” Charles blinks. “Oh! You—so, that is a yes? To coffee. With me?”

If Oscar opens his mouth, he’s going to make a noise only dogs can hear. He hums instead, ears burning hot.

“Oh, that’s—” Charles is kind of pink. “That’s. Okay! Do you—can I—your number?”

Charles wants my number, Oscar thinks, dazed and dizzy and giddy. Holy fuck. Maybe the bloodline won’t end with him.

“Yep, can I—?” Oscar gestures to Charles’ phone, sticking out of his pocket, and almost sends his jacket flying into the urinals. “To—my number?”

“Oh, right, yes,” Charles hurries to hand it over, and Oscar has to retype it three times before he’s sure it’s the right one. He saves his name as oscar, and, after a careful moment of consideration, adds a :].

“So—coffee?” Charles checks, one last time, as he reclaims his phone.

Oscar has never heard anything sweeter. “Coffee,” he confirms.

He takes back every bad thing he’s ever thought of Max. In fact, Oscar could kiss him right now.

He’ll be sure to dedicate Max a speech at their wedding, instead.

[nerdyjournals]

Incognito

(request)

Idea 1/? from @sooniedoongiedori25

Hi love! It's taken me a hot minute to make something with your ideas. I won't be doing all of them, but a select few have been chosen

Prompt: OT8 REACTION - Being their SKZOO on stage, them realizing in the middle of the fanmeet by something small. Cute silly fluff.

Bang Chan

It's no secret that he loves interacting with WolfChan any time he's around, but something was different this time. Wolfie was more energetic and stuck around a lot closer than before. Their hand never left Chan's as they waddled around the stage with him. It wasn't until Chan felt their hands slam down on his shoulders, clinging to him tighter than any of the kids. Only one person did that outside of his kids...lightbulb. His only other spider monkey was you. From there, everyone could tell his smile was wider, brighter, and all around happier. Many were impressed at how easily he could carry WolfChan that day, never wanting to let go.

Lee Know

If he was a menace, Leebit was worse but somehow, Minho was the sole target of the day. He joked about how his own son could turn on him, making everyone laugh at how HanQuokka defended him. Then came the little tell. That small little kick and tilt you did when you played around, wanting him to chase you like a game of cat and mouse. His words caught in his throat as he began to recognize your little games, how you cutely butchered his choreography and how you'd abandon him for Jisung or Felix when you didn't get your way. He knew you when in there, and he was about to make it everybody's problem.

Changbin

Somehow, having Dwaekki ignore him hurt more than when you did it. You always did it to rile him up, to get the optimal quality time when his schedule took up most of his time. So when it took him halfway into the SKZOO segment to realize that it was you, you felt (almost) insulted. As soon as you hit him with the booty bump-walk away combo, he knew but you kept escaping his reach somehow. You stuck close to the others, dancing with the other mascots, running away with the members, or even causing chaos with the Jiniret performer. You did everything you could to be as annoying as possible until he held you hostage during the final stage. His grip was tight but his smile was wide.

Hyunjin

Hyunjin loves his little ferret son with his whole heart, feeling the same amount of cute aggression he does with you and Jeongin. So when Jiniret came out clinging to FoxI.ny, he knew you were in the suit. It was no secret that you loved Jeongin's little mascot as much as you loved his, but only Hyunjin knew how bad the extent was. Sometimes it felt like he was competing with a cartoon character, but when he could picture your silly smile as Jeongin took you instead of FoxI.Ny, he let his amusement show as he chased you down with Jeongin's abandoned child.

Han

Jisung knew the past wearers of the costume were funny and completely unhinged, but this was a different kind of energy. From the little dances to the bursts of energy, he knew something was special about tonight. When his hand grabbed yours, he felt the thumb dig into the top of his hand. Everyone could see how his eyes widened with surprise and glee as he realized you were inside. This little secret code always brought him back down to earth in a spiral, a small code you two created back when you were just friends. Knowing that you were there, his head felt clearer and his heart fuller.

Felix

Bbokari was everyone's baby, especially to Felix. He was so protective over him and all the threats of "frying." Seungmin and PuppyM had been playfully causing chaos against Bbokari when Felix noticed that same playful but very awful attempt at karate you did, down to the little fall and bounce when you lost balance. He almost didn't believe it, but then they crossed their arms and kicked their little feet in annoyance before reaching out for him. It took everything in him to not reach under the helmet and squish your cheeks as he went to help you up, realization strong in his eyes. He was so happy you were here, even holding you hostage from the others when it came time for you to leave.

Seungmin

What do you mean PuppyM is making problems for him and only him? That's not how Seungmin raised them. Sure, they still bullied the other mascots but whoever was in the suit was not the dancer he talked with. Then came time to come back from the catwalk. That's when it all clicked. The way PuppyM collapsed on the floor, playing dead for everyone to laugh at, had Seungmin realizing it was you. Anytime you didn't wanna agree but disagree, you'd go boneless and make him hold you until the two of you started laughing. So, as he stood there looking confused on what to do, he was actually trying to figure out how to show his appreciation after the show without the guys making fun of him.

I.N

Oh he knew you were in there. No ifs, ands, or butts. You're short and he makes you know it. When all the mascots came out and suddenly FoxI.Ny was a whole foot shorter, he knew. It was endearing how the stylist did their best to pin the pants and sleeves to accommodate you. Though he did worry because he knew how heavy the costumes could be and with no rehearsal time, it was only a matter of time before you'd take a tumble. So he was by your side any chance you got, hand gripping tight to yours as he shared the stage with you for the first time

You 🫵

You never thought this plan would work. You thought the staff would say no. So, when they snuck you into the rehearsals to watch what you'd be doing, you were pleasantly surprised. They had to sneak you time with the dancers to practice with the large helmet and minimized vision. You had so many bruises from falls and sore muscles from keeping the head on, but it was so worth it to see that smile on your love's face when he took off the headpiece backstage.

[goddamnitmahtin]

Real Robins Can Fly

( a dc x dp prompt)

As a part of a charity event, Bruce holds a cosplay contest where contestants show off their cosplays, explain their processes and even show off a little if they have a talent of some sort that kind of fits the theme of the character.

Problem? Everyone he invited to be judges at the event are league members and they all had a case suddenly interfere so Bruce and his colleagues can’t show up. So he asks Dick to round up as many of his siblings as he can to be judges for this event. The lineup ends up being Dick, Jason, Tim, Stephanie and Damian. Duke was almost able to make it but he got caught up with work.

Dick was surprised that Damian even wanted to come considering he was drowning himself in studying for his finals. He was about to graduate high school and wanted to make sure his gpa was flawless. Nevertheless, he found a way to drag his youngest brother out of the library and into the judges panel.

The contest was fine. Most people dressed as local vigilantes or villains that were easy to recognize. There were some really good ones. There were a few that none of them recognized. A few only Tim recognized. Apparently they were from animes or something.

The day dragged on and on, all of them having to stop for breaks at different points. Dick needed to get up and walk around because sitting in one place for too long made his joints hurt. Jason had to leave to do breathing exercises when a really accurate second Robin cosplayer came through holding a crowbar of all things. Tim had to leave a few times to make phone calls as co CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Steph called the babysitter (Cass) a few times about her now 2 year old daughter. And Damian used every single one of those breaks to cram in more studying.

What nothing that day could have prepared them for was the last contestant. The 13 year old boy walked onto the stage with a huge smile in a perfect replica of Dick’s very first Robin suit. Down to the last detail everything was correct. Except that… it had been torn up and damaged in places and there were painted on bruises and wounds in the places missing fabric. Part of the mask was ripped off and being held in the boy’s hand. And the face underneath that broken mask looked just like Tim.

Tim: *after recovering faster than everyone else* Wow. What a suit! What’s your name and tell the process of creating your cosplay.

Danny: *smiles* I’m Danny! I’m 13 years old and I wanted to be Robin! Robin is my favorite vigilante because he’s an inspirational figure for younger people. I decided to design my outfit based on the very first Robin in his first ever suit that he was spotted in but I wanted to pay homage to all of the Robins so I changed it up a little bit. I studied the Robins from the past in photos and was able to come up with at least one thing from each.

Steph: I see. Could you show us these homages?

Danny: YES! *his eyes glowed green in excitement, catching Jason and Damian off guard* I designed the suit itself to look like the first Robin as he was the pioneer of the Robin title but I made the entire outfit from materials only used on the current Robin. As you can see the color scheme for the suit is more muted than the original as the current Robin uses shadows and corners more for attacks than the others did.

Damian: *smiles slightly*

Danny: I chose my wounds and distresses in the costume based on photos of the second and third Robins. They took more physical blows than the rest did. *pointing to each wound, pointing to one in the abdomen* This one is just a theory of mine but I think the third Robin might of at one point had a surgery around here from his fighting style. He would protect his abdomen from attack more.

Tim: …… I see.

Danny: And the fourth Robin was a deviation from the pattern because she was a girl that didn’t have the dark hair that all the others had. She wasn’t Robin for very long but her style and decision making were more unpredictable than the rest so if you just give me a second… *fidgets with his gloves for a moment* Whole watching her footage I noticed how her hair was accounted for in her fighting style without it ever getting into her way. *slides off his glove* So on my wrist I have a replica of the headband she used in her suit but smaller so it’s more of a bracelet.

Steph: *noticing how accurate it is* Oh- wow-

Jason: That’s really impressive Danny. Tell us a little bit more about how you actually created the suit. Your process.

Danny: Well the entire thing is made of an armored flex material that I made in my sister’s basement. I studied pictures of all of the Robin suits and noticed parts of the fabric that stood out and made my prototype from there. *smiles* I have a small sample for you guys to pass around! *hands Jason said sample*

Jason: Oh that’s really impressive-

Tim: You said you made it in your sister’s basement? How did your parents feel about it?

Danny: My parents are gone. It’s just me and Jazz. I spent all of my money on the materials to make this. I’m hoping to win because the prize money will be enough for her to buy a car so she can find a new job. And maybe with the rest I’ll finally be able to go to space camp this summer. I’ve always wanted to go! But we could never afford it.

Steph: *covers her gasp softly* Oh-

Damian: Did you have a talent you wanted to show off for us today?

Danny: YES! *pumps his fist excitedly*

Damian: Could you demonstrate that for us please?

Danny: Okay! *climbs up the light tower next to the stage and hangs from the metal bars like a proper gymnast before jumping off, flipping and grabbing frames and pieces of rigging to swing from, replicating old tricks Dick used to do as Robin that he learned in the circus before flipping down and landing nimbly in the center of the stage* Tadah!

Dick: *absolutely shook* Why did you- choose that as your talent?

Danny: Real robins can fly. So why can’t I?

After Danny leaves the stage, it takes a few minutes for them all to collect themselves from that. Especially Dick.

Steph: So that Danny kid is gonna win.

Tim: 100 percent. He was able to recreate the fabric we make our suits out of through pictures!

Jason: We better not tell Bruce or-

Damian: Too late. I already texted father. He’s drafting adoption papers as we speak.

Dick: *who was planning on doing that himself* Dammit!

Damian: I for one, am thrilled at the prospect that this Danny child will take up the Robin mantle when I leave for college.

Steph: Well real robins can fly so why shouldn’t he? *smiles*

Dick: Stephanie I’m literally going to cry.

[n0tamused]

I have a request!!

Currently watching suits (highly recommend). How about a Lawyer! reader x Dr. Ratio, Sunday, and Aventurine?

₊˚⊹♡ "My partner is a lawyer!"

A/n: This request has been marinating in my inbox for way too long, but regardless, I do hope that whoever reads this enjoys it!<3 I love this request, so please feel free to request more characters for the same prompt! I missed writing Ratio chat </3 Admittedly, I did not watch Suits (shame on me ikik shut up), and so idk really how they talk on the show, so whatever I mentioned here is a dramatized version from my own knowledge in law.

Contents: Dr. Ratio/Aventurine/Sunday(separate) x GN!Lawyer!Reader, fluff

Ko-Fi |  Masterlist

✦ ⋆ ࣪.Veritas Ratio

-As a man of knowledge himself, Veritas certainly holds great appreciation for those that are keen on learning and executing the knowledge they hold, and he is most appreciative of justice - which as a natural course involves admiration for you as well

-He has heard of your achievements far long before he met you. A few times he read the articles you wrote for the local news agencies, but he held most interest for the online educational videos you put out. They were short, concise and aimed to help the people that were not in the financial situation that would allow them to seek out their own lawyer

-So when he did meet you he was full of chitter and chatter for you, all contained in a well crafted box of mannerisms and polite words. But anyone from the outside would notice that he seemed much more tolerable with you than with others

-Many months down the line and with his hand in yours, he wonders how it all came to be - him? Romantically involved with you? 

-If you have a haunch over a certain theory or a certain topic, Veritas is there with you to explore it further and give his own input on the topic. Doesn’t matter if it is a subject that’s not the most familiar to him - he is a sponge for knowledge and knows how to research efficiently.

-He respects your privacy which you uphold with your clients -that is only to be suspected of you to do, otherwise if you told him of the “tea” from your clients, he would have begun to raise an eyebrow and question your work ethics

“Dear,” he began with a huff as he came to stand in your doorway, one hand holding up papers which were clearly not his. “I found the documents you were looking for. Be more careful next time with where you put them” he said as he walked inside your shared bedroom, his slippers making the distinct noise across the floor of shliiippp-shloop. “Where were they?” you question, confusion marking your entire face as you reached out to take the documents scribbled with your handwriting. “I found them on my pile” was all he said as he crawled onto his side of the bed... .... “Veritas..” “Hmm,. yes?” “Is this your handwriting?” The answer was clear as day as you noted the long paragraphs underneath the  big block of text you wrote about a legal theory you wished to dive deeper in. You had stared at them in your sleepy daze, for a moment thinking it was your writing which you, somehow, forgot about. But no, your eyes did not deceive you. Dr. Ratio clearly spent a lot of time on this document. Did he intentionally take it from your pile? One had to wonder. His greed for knowledge sickened you.. He huffs beside you in feigned denial and you chuckle at him.

✦ ⋆ ࣪.Aventurine

-When Aventurine was served the fact you work in the legal field he gave off a crisp whistle, his first thoughts being “that must be a lot of words”, accompanied by a lighthearted jest that he now has someone who he can rely on should he get in trouble. At that you have to jokingly reprimand him and tell him to not get into any unnecessary trouble

-He might start to tease a little, throwing out little remarks that frame that stereotypical view people have on lawyers, or anyone working in the legal field for that matter

“I have cash on me right now that I’d be more than happy to pass on into your capable hands, should you agree to…pull me out of this sticky situation” he says with a wink as he waltzes into your office, his eyes taking in the shelves stacked with books old and new, as well as the statue of a blindfolded woman holding up the scales. His gloved fingertips touch one of the scales, making it tip down. His answer is a long and tired sigh.

-But one day he surprised you with a box of sweets after a particularly harrowing case, his tone unusually mellow and inviting as he invited you to join him for a walk. 

-Aventurine is not the man you go for if you want to have a chat about one legal theory or the other, but if you find yourself in a pinch and could use getting a word with someone out of your reach - Aventurine can make a few calls to help you out

“How do you even have the patience for all this?” he asks incredulously, his pointer finger touching one of the thick files resting on top of your desk. “Don’t tell me you actually read all of this” his figure seemed to deflate, shoulders sagging, face falling, trailing around the table to come up next to you. “I did..” you replied, focusing far too much on the papers before you. “You’re way too boring” he countered, followed by a quick kiss to your cheek.

✦ ⋆ ࣪.Sunday

-Before the Dream shattered, Sunday didn’t think too highly of anyone who wished to uphold justice within Penacony, deeming there was simply no need for it while he was working to set the perfect order. There is no crime, no faulty businesses or people to sue in his world, and there is no place for them either. So why should lawyers and judges exist?

-Of course, this view was nothing but another way he deceived himself into believing that the path he was following was right, just even. This view changed drastically after the shackles on his body were lifted.

-Sunday considers the job rather prestigious. If there were no people like you, or people with the same wish to bring justice and security to your society as you do, the world would be a much darker place

-He is silent in his curiosities and admiration, never directly asking you inquiries, partly due to some guilt still eating away at him from his past

-But he does not shy away entirely if you approach him first

-He knows more about the ways an old monarchy would work, but he welcomes your insight on the society you live in now and strives to build and enhance by giving yourself to this role. A part of him also worries when he sees you haunched over your table instead of resting in your quarters. Not once did you wake up with a blanket drawn up over you or a refreshing drink sat in front of you

-Sunday doesn’t quite believe it once your relationship develops into one of romance. It was most unexpected and it leaves him with more questions than answers. But now, he finally feels at ease to fire them at you

“But why?” One of his wings sags lower than the other, as if burdened by the piercings they hold. “Would that not be counterproductive or unjust, rather?” He is looking down in thought, his brows drawn closer together, although his voice carries no frustration or denial to the wisdom you were sharing. “The ones who set this law down have inspected the longest duration a pregnancy can last, even taking into account any abnormalities that can happen during the same. If the duration for this lawsuit was unlimited, it would risk the position of the man that was suspected to be the father”. A moment passes in silence, but then he nods, his wings raised back up with newfound strength and another question already filtering in through those soft grey feathers

-Conversations with him are mellow, although Sunday spends more time listening than talking himself. He lets you rave on about anything that may be making you happy or frustrated at the moment, and he is at his happiest when you return to him with another successful case under your belt.

-After a little while you may also notice Sunday becoming even more aware of his actions - suddenly he is nitpicking his wording or the actions he takes - what if someone decides to sue him for this small thing? You have to reassure him a few times that the law is not that strict, giggling while you’re at him when you see his almost fearful and alert face, wings puffy and in a cramp

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[avocadorablepirate]

hello! i enjoyed reading zoro's portion of your tiny but lethal fic. you captured his character well, and i like how you characterized reader too!

may i request prompts 1 and 28 with zoro? i’m thinking a hurt/comfort/fluff situation where reader gets injured or has a few “off” days, and zoro worries.

or, maybe the roles are reversed - zoro gets injured or his insecurities creep in, and reader comforts him. either way, i look forward to reading more of your stories!

hope you have a nice day :)

Hiii! I’m so glad you liked that headcanon! :) Zoro’s was one of my favourites when writing, so I’m so happy you think I captured his character well! I’ve kinda gone with your second suggestion, so I hope you like what I’ve done with these prompts. Hope you have a nice day as well! ☺️

××××

“Why do you keep pretending you’re okay, when you’re clearly falling apart?” + “You’re hurt.” - “So are you.” - “I’m not worried about me.”

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x gn!reader

Word Count: 983

Warnings: hurt/comfort, mentions of injuries and blood (nothing else that I can think of, but let me know)

Hmm…I have mixed feelings about this one y’all 🤔 like I like the direction, but I’m not too happy with the execution/result (why do I sound like some team leader??).

The ache in your chest felt like déjà vu. It was almost as if it had yanked you from the present and thrusted you back to that fateful day on Thriller Bark - a day you had tried so hard to forget, but somehow always found a way to come back to haunt you.

The memory came in merciless flashes: All the pain the Warlord had extracted from Luffy sat trapped in a translucent bubble. Zoro, face set with resolve stood before it. You had crouched behind a pillar, feet rooted to the ground, breath caught in your throat. Then, without warning, Zoro plunged his hands into the sphere, and you watched in horror as his body jerked violently. You couldn’t hear him scream, you weren’t even sure if he did; but what stayed with you was how the pain twisted his features into something unrecognisable.

When it was done he remained standing - barely - eyes bloodshot, bruises spattered across his body. You managed one hesitant step towards him, but then Sanji had burst in, wide-eyed as he stared at the swordsman.

“What happened!?” Sanji asked, concerned as he eyed Zoro.

“Not-nothing happened.”

That was all he said, and you didn’t say anything. You could’ve told Sanji. Could’ve stepped out and told them all. But you didn’t. Because that was what he wanted — to shoulder that burden alone, and you - mortified, grateful, aching - let him.

But tonight, years later, as the Sunny rocked lazily after a skirmish with the Marines, you watched Zoro stagger across the deck, clutching at a wound he pretended wasn’t there. And that familiar ache came flooding back like it never left.

You didn’t speak right away. Just watched, as he braced himself against the mast, his breath shallow and slightly uneven. You could see blood seep through his ripped shirt, fresh, vivid and ignored. Always ignored.

This time you didn’t hesitate. Boots silent, you followed the crimson trail of blood he left in his wake. Zoro neither saw or heard you approach - the pain flaring in his side had dulled his senses. It was only when you spoke that he realised he wasn’t alone.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, voice firmer than you expected it to be.

Zoro stiffened but he didn’t look at you.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, almost the same words as last time, the same lie. And just like last time it cracked something open in you.

You swallowed hard, your eyes scanning his ribs that had been hastily wrapped with a bandage that was already turning red. You let out a breath and took measured steps towards him.

“Why do you keep pretending you’re okay, when you’re clearly falling apart?” you asked quietly.

That stopped him cold. As if your words struck a chord in him - leaving him frozen, unable to respond.

You stepped closer, the first-aid kit you had pilfered from the med bay already in hand. Peeling away the gauze, you uncovered a gash, seven inches long and at least a centimetre deep. Warm scarlet slicked your hands.

“You did this at Thriller Bark too,” you muttered, voice steadier than your hands. Zoro flinched, whether from the burn of the alcohol you pressed against his wounds or the weight of your words, you couldn’t tell.

“What are you talking about?” he grunted, shoulders tensing.

You exhaled a frustrated sigh, before answering. “I saw everything. Kuma, the sphere, you soaked in blood telling Sanji nothing happened.”

Zoro turned just enough for you to catch the way his eyes flickered, part annoyance, part resignation. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“But I did,” you snapped, not out of anger - out of heartbreak. “And now every time you stagger off half-dead pretending it’s nothing, I wonder when we’ll wake up and you won’t.”

“It’s my choice,” Zoro growled, not meeting your gaze. “And I will always choose to fight for the rest of you.”

You shook your head, fighting the urge to yell, but the frustration boiled over. “I know! But that doesn’t mean you don’t let us share the burden that comes with it!”

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. It was only when you tied the final knot that he looked at you. He seemed irritated, both with himself and with the fact that you’d been bearing this weight all along. He hated it. He hated seeing you worry about him. That was the last thing he wanted.

Zoro opened his mouth to say something — possibly to argue once more. But his eyes flicked to your trembling hands, and then a glint of regret crossed his face.

“You’re hurt,” he said softly. Not about your injuries, not even about tonight. It was about something older, something you had been carrying for years.

“So are you,” you answered, anger melting into raw desperation.

His expression was unreadable in the darkness, but his voice was low and gentle. “I’m not worried about me.”

With a wince, he slid further down the mast, tugging you along with him until you both sat on the cool wooden planks. The timber groaned, and the waves lapped lazily against the hull - the two of you savouring the rare quiet moment.

“Knowing you’re all right - that’s enough,” he murmured.

“I won’t stay alright if you keep doing this to yourself.”

A tired but playful smirk curved his lips. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep an eye on me.”

You nudged his shoulder, unable to stop the soft smile tugging at your own lips. “Oh I definitely will be. You’re going to be begging to get away from me.”

Zoro said nothing, instead after a moment he shifted his arm slowly, hesitantly, until his fingers brushed against yours.

You looked down, watching as his calloused, blood-stained hand finally closed around your own. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Just a soft, gentle squeeze.

Permission.

Acknowledgement.

Small, but it was there. And that was enough.

How are we feeling about this one? 🤔

[tinytalkingtina]

Tales of Eddierotica Chapter 1: Argh Me Matey

Eddie writes the world's worst erotica about characters who are just poorly disguised versions of himself and Steve. One day, Steve finds out exactly what's been going on inside the mind of his roommate all these years.

Rated E | 4.3k words | Ao3 link [Chapter 1] | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 Overall tags: crack treated seriously/porn with a plot, modern/no-UD AU, friends to lovers, bisexual Eddie AND Steve, steddie as roommates, switch Eddie/Steve, vers Steve/Eddie, Eddie has a crush on Steve (and is horny about it), writer Eddie, the prose is so purple it has passed out from a lack of oxygen, friend fiction/erotica, so many bad puns and word play Chapter-specific tags: pirate AU, pirate Eddie, sailor Steve, pegging, rope bondage, non-con bondage, sexual frustration, orgasm denial, edging, and penis sword fighting (mind the tags but the erotica is at all times silly)

Written for the @switcheddieweek event, fulfilling the "art" prompt!

Find the full chapter on Ao3 to read it in all of its comic sans glory, but enjoy a snippet below the cut (as well as tags). Pink is Eddie's writing below.

“Theodore!” Stevenson growled manfully, as a man might. “You’ve gone too far this tiiiiiiimmmoohhhhh, too far this time! I demand you release me at once. Let us settle our differences as men of honor might.” The raven-haired roguish rascal grinned. “Why Commander, are you asking little old me for a duel? Your weapon is certainly impressive, but I promise, my own morning wood is far more dexterous in the afternoon!” Stevenson craned his neck. From where he was bound, he could just make out the captain’s trouser sword, the red tip shining merrily in the half past two o’clock sun. True to the captain’s word, it bobbed and waved in the breeze with quite agile ease. Still, what choice did Stevenson have? This unceasing torment would surely be his undoing. Even if he managed to reach his peak, la petite mort would be far too great for his tired body and overcum soul. “Yes, I do challenge you to a duel, you dastardly fieeeeend!” Anything to ease the ache in his pale twinned coconuts. The more Steve read, the less convinced he was that this was revenge. It was way too silly. Definitely weird and fucked up. But ‘pale twinned coconuts’ was something guys would say in like, a comedy porno. And now that he thought about it, Eddie had left the notebook where Steve could find it by accident. Maybe this was why the two of them got along so well, his roommate would turn his annoyance at whatever Steve had done into stupid porn to laugh at. Which was in fact very Midwestern of him after all. Mercifully the pirate captain holding him captive decided he’d had his fill of watching the commander writhe and groan. His loyal crew mates pulled Stevenson back onto the deck, giving him a much needed reprieve from the peg he’d been impaled upon. Though blood flowed back into Stevenson’s limbs, his body still spared some to hold his mighty spear aloft. For Stevenson’s johnson was truly a weapon to behold and envy. Even under clothes, its size and girth served as a source of distraction for those who shared the room with it. Steve glanced down at his pants and the super obvious outline of his dick. Okay so maybe these sweats were a little too tight to wear in public, but in his defense, Eddie had walked into a wall or tripped over his own feet every day since the two of them had met. How was he supposed to know some of those accidents were dick-related? Once the commander recovered his strength, he stood to his full height. Standing but one inch over his opponent only due to his stupidly attractive voluminous hairTowering over his opponent, he grasped his Not So Lil’ Stevie[son] and prepared to fight.

Read the rest on Ao3!

Tagging folks who have been scarred by wip weekend snippets:

@hbyrde36 @pearynice @eriquin @queenie-ofthe-void @yesdangerpls

@fkinkindagauche @helpimstuckposting @augustjustice @apomaro-mellow

@onirislanding @sidekick-hero @shares-a-vest @dreamwatch @stellarspecter

@zombiethingy @wynnyfryd @griefabyss69 @stevesjockstrap @runninriot

@sourw0lfs @dame-zoom-a-latte @pentapoctopus @soaringornithopter

[kelltonic]

Defences ★彡

Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x Reader

Description: While at the hard deck with the other daggers, Mickey - your boyfriend - get’s heavily flirted on by a stranger when you’re not around, and he is never more committed to shut someone down.

Warnings: Alcohol/Drunkenness, very light sexual harassment (fem on man). Canon-typical asshole Hangman. I love Reuben. Fanboy is a sweetheart. Other than that it’s just an established relationship and fluff. No use of y/n.

WC: 1,500

A/N: Guys if you want more Mickey (or any top gun) PLEASE request - I have been struggling for ideas lol - even if it’s just another version of an already made fanfiction with a different character, or a headcanons prompt!! - ALSO for anyone who read my prev a/n on my other fanboy ff, I GOT 100% ON MY ENGLISH EXAM!!! I actually started tweaking out (it was creative writing). We don't talk about my other exams though.

“Oh come on!” Mickey groaned while throwing his arms in the air, physically complaining over the miss he just hit in pool. “The tables gotta be uneven or something.” He said, mostly jokingly.

"Don't be bitter that I'm just better." Reuben shrugged, flashing a cocky smile to tease his best friend with.

After a long day of flying, most of the squadron retired to the most familiar place on base, the Hard Deck. A comforting yet bustling bar that welcomed naval aviators with open arms.

"Now that's funny-" Fanboy was about to start, but was quickly cut off by that oh so familiar southern drawl.

"Boys, boys, let me show you how a real man shoots." Hangman mocked, condescendingly snatching the pool cue out of Fanboy's hands while simultaneously shooting a wink to one of the many attractive women scattered around the bar. Payback's face formed a frustrated expression as he leaned back to watch what Hangman would do. Hangman did this more than anyone would like. Preferably, he'd never interrupt the games for some silly flirting exercise, but something about Jake couldn't live without the thrill of the tease.

Fanboy was about the opposite, despite what his callsign may allude. Sure, before he met you, he would throw around a few pick up lines and enjoy the spotlight whenever a pretty girl noticed him. But now? He is duller than a rock if someone tries to get a piece of him. You're his favourite person in the entire world, and he makes sure you know it - as long as you promise not to tell Reuben. He can't have another passive-aggressive flight because Reuben decided to teach him how significant of a role he plays in Mickey's life. He would rather jump out of his plane mid flight than let you think you meant anything less to him.

So when the girl Hangman had been flirting with had finally approached him with her friends who had been giggling like hyenas at the squadron the entire night, he just went to get another round.

He looked back from the bar to see the girls clinging to various daggers while waiting for the drinks, chuckling at the sight of Reuben getting surrounded. He didn't think anything of it until one of them separated and began approaching him.

But he didn't want to assume anything, she may just be coming to do the same thing as him.

"Hey handsome." She giggled, leaning against the bar next to Fanboy. Welp, there goes the lack of assumption.

"Hi." He responded bluntly, giving a brief polite yet not hinting smile. All that warranted was a giggly and flirtatious response.

"Come here often?" She said, clearly a little tipsy if not anything further. She scooted closer to him, practically brushing him. As much as he wanted to make space between him, the bar was particularly crowded and he honestly didn't want to bother the aviator directly behind him.

"Yeah a bit, most of us frequent this bar the most." He said with a dry sigh, averting eye contact. He couldn't help but wish Penny sped up with the drinks, but he would never in any lifetime say that to her and face her (and Maverick's) wrath.

"Come on pretty boy, loosen up." She giggled while gripping his arm, trying to push their bodies flush together.

"Okay no thank you." He quickly spoke, lightly pushing her away. He was uncomfortable, and couldn't help but feel guilty despite the fact he had done nothing wrong. "I have a girlfriend." He stated, easily plying her hand off his arm.

"Is she here?" She said while staring into his eyes playfully, unbothered by the physical signs he was presenting.

"No?" He said, puzzled by her persistence.

"Then she doesn't have to know." She responded while trying to close the distance again.

"Here ya go." Penny interrupted with a small smile, placing a tray of various alcoholic beverages in front of them before dashing off to another patron. all Mickey could think was 'oh thank goodness' as Penny saved him from this uncomfortable and awkward encounter.

He grabbed the drink tray and flashed the girl a small, awkward smile as he sped walk to the full group again.

"Ayy!!" Reuben and various others bellowed, grateful to see another wave of drinks. "Our saviour." He joked, taking a beer.

"On land and sky." Mickey responded, placing the tray down while grabbing himself a beer. It only took a few awkward shuffles from Mickey for Reuben to detect something was off, despite his current state.

"You good?" He asked with a smile, tilting his head as he carefully watched Mickey's reaction.

"Yeah, yeah, I just feel... dirty." Mickey murmured, the guilt of another woman's attraction to him weighing on him like an elephant.

"Dirty? Or like.. dirty." Reuben repeated, shifting from a playful to serious tone.

"Dirty." Mickey echoed, reaching for his phone in his back pocket. "...One of the girls was flirting with me. Hard." He elaborated.

"Since when was that a bad thing?" Reuben scoffed, before a wave of realisation hit him. "Ohhh... right, okay." A neutral tone flowing through his voice. It only took a second for a puzzled expression to take over his face. Mickey had to admit one thing, Reuben was one of the most expressive people he's ever met.

"So... why do you feel bad?" He mocked, a slight laugh leaving his mouth. "You didn't flirt back.. right?" Reuben questioned. He knew how utterly enamoured Mickey was with you, he had to get his callsign from somewhere. But he couldn't help but seek clarification.

"No!" Mickey swiftly reacted after taking a gulp of his beer, a frankly offended expression covering his face.

"...." Reuben just stared, a little dumbfounded at Mickey's loyalty policies. Despite a hint of respect also developing, he couldn't help but laugh at Mickey's commitment to you. And his standards for what counts as something he should feel guilty for or not. However, Reuben was also observant. Even if he wasn't, it would still be easy to tell how sad the thought of someone else flirting with Mickey made him. Someone other than you. But his trance was interrupted by an exaggerated sigh.

"Okay, look. I'm only ever going to say this once, so listen up." Reuben began, placing his beer down as he forced eye contact with Mickey. Landing a hand on his shoulder, he groaned as he realised what he was about to say and the possibility of Mickey never letting him live it down. "You're attractive. Really damn hot, man. Both physically and personality wise. You have good energy and people are naturally drawn to your confidence and kindness. So you're gonna have to get used to the idea of people, women included, approaching you and flirting." Reuben stated, more teaching than hyping.

Mickey was conflicted between smiling and teasing Reuben. "Come on man, that's the nicest thing you've said to me." He said with a chuckle as his shoulders dropped and his gave Reuben a quick hug before he potentially got bitch slapped by him.

"Okay off." Reuben scolded, pushing Mickey off of him with a forced groan.

"...I'm still gonna call her though." Mickey quickly ushered while typing in your contact on his phone, which just elicited a 'why do I even try' motion from Reuben as he walked away.

Your phone rang a couple times before you got the chance to pick it up, busy with an email.

"Hello?" you spoke seriously, forgetting to check the caller ID.

"Babe!!" Mickey spoke, excited to hear your voice. He always sounded ecstatic whenever you two spoke.

"Hey baby, what's up?" You spoke warmly, a complete shift from your initial greeting.

"I just wanted to tell you I love you more than anything in the entire world. Even flying." Mickey spoke quickly, not for a lack of authenticity.

"I love you too... why are you calling to tell me this?" You said with a small chuckle, it wasn't uncommon for Mickey to randomly declare his love, especially over the phone due to distance. It was however rare for him to do it at this late hour.

"Some girl was flirting with me. BUT! I didn't at all entertain it for a second." Mickey emphasised, he was only slightly tipsy but the honesty made you giggle. You would never in a million years have to worry about his loyalty, and this is one of the reasons.

"Well I appreciate that." You responded softly, the yearning for his presence briefly satiated by his voice. All you could hear on the other end of the line was a low giggle, as far as you could tell he could very well be twirling his (non-existent) hair and kicking his feet.

"I miss you sweetie." You whispered with a gentle desire from the heart.

"I do too, but you'll never guess what Reuben said to me." Mickey said with a chuckle, you could practically hear his smile, and his longing.

A/N: Bit of a corny ending but I didn't know what else to do lmao.

Started: 12:00am Sunday 22nd of June Ended: 8:00pm Thursday 26th of June

[burntheedges]

🎶Summer Tunes🎶 Writing Challenge

Let’s make a mix tape!

It’s time for another writing challenge! This one has been building in the back of my mind since @secretelephanttattoo started the music ask game a few months ago. Thanks for the idea, El! 🧡

Two Ways to Play

👨🏼‍🎤- send me an ask with one of the Pedro Pascal characters below the cut and a number, 1-3, and get a song as a prompt

I’ve assigned 3 songs to each Pedro character, but you won’t find out the songs until you send the ask! 😏surprise! You can pick any number, but once it’s taken, it’s taken.

🎶- send me an ask with a character of your choice (any fandom!) and I’ll assign you a song as a prompt from a playlist of some of my favorite songs. *limited to 6 spots*

I know some of you are writing for new fandoms these days and I wanted to make some summer fun for everyone. 🥰

DEADLINE: August 30

TAG: #SummerTunesChallenge

Also I’m posting this on my break so if it takes a while to get back to you, dont worry. lol

Characters & Songs

(in alphabetical order)

I’m marking the spots as they’re claimed and I’ll answer all of your asks later today! 🧡

Clint (Freaky Tales) 1. @ak-vintage 2. @justagalwhowrites 3. @beefrobeefcal

Dave York 1. @jeewrites 2. @inept-the-magnificent 3.

Dieter Bravo 1. @oliveksmoked 2. @nonbinairyboi 3.

Din Djarin 1. @the-mandawhor1an 2. @thischarmingmandalorian 3. @din-cognito

Frankie Morales 1. @sunshinehaze1 2. @bergamote-catsandbooks 3. @syd-djarin

Harry Castillo (Materialists) 1. @katareyoudrilling 2. @pedroscurls 3. @madpanda75

Jack Daniels 1. 2. @julesonrecord 3.

Javi Gutierrez 1. 2. 3. @maggiemayhemnj

Javier Peña 1. @milla-frenchy 2. @iknowisoundcrazy 3. @savedyounine

Joel Miller 1. @aurorawritestoescape 2. @daryltwdixon 3. @schnarfer

Lucien de Leon (The Uninvited) 1. 2. 3. @tinytinymenace

Marcus Moreno 1. 2. 3.

Marcus Pike 1. 2. 3. @secretelephanttattoo

Oberyn Martell 1. @the-blind-assassin-12 2. @mandaloriankait 3.

Reed Richards 1. 2. 3. @iamasaddie

Tim Rockford 1. @sawymredfox 2. 3.

Any fandom (6 spots) 1. @murder-wife 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

[camficdiner]

1.2

2.10

3.1

4.3

i think you’re gonna cook with this one 🙏🏼

☕️Cam’s Fic Diner – Order 025

Thank you for your sweetness and patience — this one’s been a journey, a fully on fluff journey, with regrets and tears,

Enjoy your meal love, its served with honey glaze

-your favorite server

⸻

💬“She Had Your Eyes”

✨ Description & Prompts

• Character: Quinn Hughes

• Prompt: Drunk marriage in Vegas, accidental pregnancy, emotional confrontation

• Word Count: ~2.1k

• Type: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family

🛼✨🧁🍒

Las Vegas was supposed to be a quick getaway. A fun escape from your routines, a wild weekend with friends, some bad decisions and blurry photos. You never expected to wake up in a luxury suite at The Cosmopolitan, your mouth dry, your head pounding, and Quinn Hughes sleeping next to you — shirtless, tangled in the hotel sheets.

And definitely wearing a wedding band.

You sat up too fast, blinking at the ring on your own finger. Your heart thudded, first with confusion, then with a growing pit in your stomach. The echo of last night’s chaos slowly filtered in — the shots, the dance floor, the neon lights, Quinn’s laughter, his arm around your waist. You remembered a chapel. Pink. Elvis impersonator. The words “I do.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no.”

A low groan came from the other side of the bed. Quinn.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt: messy curls sticking up in every direction, red-rimmed eyes, shirtless. And when he sat up, he mirrored your horror as you both stared at your left hands.

“We didn’t—” he started.

“We did,” you said grimly.

You both lunged for your phones. Sure enough, your camera rolls confirmed it: a chapel, a very happy officiant, and you and Quinn grinning like idiots with glitter in your hair and rings on your fingers.

Quinn Hughes, your very complicated friend-with-benefits, your maybe-something-more-but-never-defined, had married you. In Vegas. While drunk.

You remembered the sex too. Vaguely. It had been good—scratch that, amazing. But also messy and unexpected and clearly not thought through.

Quinn freaked out.

He stood, muttering about mistakes and how this couldn’t be real, how he had to leave. You tried to talk to him, to get him to calm down, but he was already pulling on his jeans, grabbing his phone.

“I can’t do this,” he mumbled.

“Quinn—”

He was gone before you could stop him.

⸻

Three days later, you stared at the two pink lines on a pregnancy test.

The silence of your bathroom was deafening.

You weren’t sure how you got there. How from a half-joking night in Vegas, a half-relationship with Quinn Hughes, you ended up alone, with a baby on the way. You hadn’t heard a word from him. Not a text. Not a call.

And that’s when you saw it. A story. A post. A girl — tall, blonde, draped over him like she belonged there. And the caption: “My whole heart.”

Your throat closed. He hadn’t ghosted you because he panicked. He hadn’t vanished because he was scared. He was with someone else.

You were just the detour. The accident.

So you did what you had to: you called your brother.

He showed up twenty minutes later, no questions asked, and held you while you sobbed. Then, slowly, piece by piece, you began to rebuild.

The months passed. The bump grew. Your brother went to every appointment with you, holding your hand while you heard the heartbeat for the first time, while you picked names, while you decorated a nursery in your new apartment.

And you tried—really tried—not to look at Quinn’s Instagram.

But you saw it anyway.

The James Norris Trophy. A clean suit, his proud smile. “Couldn’t have done it without the team.”

Then, a month later, an Instagram story from Porsche Centre Vancouver: “Thrilled to welcome Quinn Hughes as our newest brand ambassador.”

Each announcement was a dagger. Because he was out there, living his best life, achieving everything he’d ever dreamed of—and you were in the quiet of your small apartment, folding newborn onesies and wondering if he ever thought about you. About that night. About what you were now carrying.

You didn’t want him back. Not after he ran. But part of you, some deep, aching part, wished he would at least ask.

Because even if your heart was fractured, your body swollen and tired and aching, you were growing something beautiful.

And he didn’t even know.

—

The hospital lights were harsh, too white, too real for the blur of pain and panic you were in. Your fingers clenched around the side of the bed as another contraction hit, tearing through your spine. You were alone, but not lonely — not anymore. Because you weren’t doing this just for yourself.

You were about to meet the only constant that had stayed with you since that night in Vegas. And she was coming fast.

You screamed, you pushed — and suddenly, everything fell away.

The nurse’s voice filtered in through the haze. “It’s a girl.”

Your chest heaved. Your hands trembled as they placed her on your chest, slick and warm and alive. The world narrowed to a heartbeat and the softest cry.

And then you saw them.

Her eyes.

Deep blue a touch lighter than yours, with some green in it. Familiar. Exactly the same shade as his.

Quinn.

You’d spent the past nine months trying not to think of him. Trying to erase the weight of the Instagram post that shattered your heart — his smile beside her, captioned “Heart”

But now, here she was. With his eyes. The proof that Vegas wasn’t just a mistake. It had left you with someone permanent.

You named her Olympia.

⸻

Three Years Later

Vancouver in early spring was always wet and green. You’d found peace in its stillness, a small rented flat near the sea, and a part-time job at a bookstore that let you be home by three.

Olympia ran ahead on chubby legs, clutching her red balloon and squealing as the ducks in the park scrambled. Her hair curled in soft brown waves. Her laugh was infectious. She was everything.

And yet —

You still looked him up sometimes.

You knew Jack had moved closer. That his family still spoke well of you.

But you never reached out.

And then you saw them.

Two figures coming down the paved path, side by side. Quinn and Jack. Laughing about something. You froze mid-step, your heart doing a strange, sharp twist.

You hadn’t seen him in person since that morning in Vegas.

Quinn stopped first.

His eyes scanned you, then softened in surprise. His lips parted slightly, like a question was sitting on his tongue but hadn’t formed yet.

Jack said something, but you didn’t hear it.

“Hey…” Quinn’s voice was quiet, unsure. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded, tensing your jaw. You were about to reply when you heard her.

“Mama!”

Olly’s voice rang out, bright and high, and she came toddling over, arms outstretched.

You bent to scoop her up, hugging her to your hip like muscle memory. You didn’t look at him yet. Not yet.

But when you did—

Quinn’s face had changed.

His eyes locked on Olympia.

Then flicked to you.

Then back.

His expression folded inward, shock overtaking confusion. Because there, in your arms, was a little girl with his exact same eyes. The same curl in her hair. The same shape to her mouth.

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “She’s yours?”

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t say anything.

You saw it in his eyes before you heard it in his voice — the slow-burning panic blooming behind his irises, the sharp, silent question written in the twitch of his jaw: She looks like me. How is that possible?

Quinn stared at your daughter like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t dared to ask himself in three years. You adjusted her on your hip, her tiny hand curled around your necklace as she blinked up at the stranger. Stranger to her, anyway.

“She yours?” he asked, voice raw, cautious.

“She’s mine,” you answered carefully, but your voice cracked under the weight of truth, and you saw it land.

That hurt that bloomed over his face—it was real.

“But is she…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

You nodded once. “Yes. She’s yours, Quinn.”

His breath caught. It wasn’t relief—it was devastation, thick and swallowing. He stepped back a little, like the truth physically hit him. Jack said something behind him, but it was muffled, distant. This was Quinn’s storm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.

You looked down at your daughter, then back up at him. “Because you left me. You ran out of that hotel room like I was a mistake, and a few days later, you were posting pictures with your girlfriend on Instagram. I found out I was pregnant the same week.”

Quinn was silent.

“You didn’t even check if I was okay,” you continued, words trembling now. “You never texted. Never called. I thought you didn’t care. And I wasn’t going to beg someone to be a father who didn’t want to be there.”

Quinn’s hands were shaking. “I didn’t know how to deal with it. I panicked. I was scared—”

“You were selfish, Quinn,” you snapped, more pain than anger. “I was terrified. I went through pregnancy alone. I gave birth alone. I’ve raised her—every scraped knee, every nightmare, every milestone. Alone.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes.

“I never wanted you to be alone,” he whispered. “I was a coward. I thought if I ignored it, it would disappear. But it didn’t. You didn’t. And now she’s here and she looks at me like she knows me and I—”

He stopped himself, choking on the weight of it all.

“I want to know her,” he said finally. “Please. Let me try.”

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no.

—

It started small. A text asking how she was doing. A message asking what kind of books she liked. A FaceTime where she shyly showed him her dinosaur pajamas. And slowly—like thawing ice—he melted into her life.

He came to the playground and pushed her on the swing. She reached for his hand without hesitation.

He showed up at your door with her favorite muffins and left with marker drawings all over his forearms.

The first time she called him “Dad,” he cried. Quietly. You saw it, though. And your heart cracked open.

Then came the big things.

Introducing her to Ellen and Jim. Watching Jack fall in love with her in five minutes flat. Quinn holding her on the bench of a Canucks pre-game warmup, helmet on her head three sizes too big.

And one day, he stood in front of you, nerves in his fingers, and said, “I left her. A while ago. The girlfriend. I should’ve told you sooner, but I didn’t want to show up like a white knight.”

“You’re not a white knight,” you replied. “But you’re trying. That means something.”

He took your hand. Carefully. “Can we try too?”

You blinked. “Try what?”

He smiled, small and real. “Us.”

Your daughter ran between you both just then, laughing with her pigtails bouncing, and without thinking, you reached out together—one hand each, steadying her between you.

You looked at her. Then at him.

And for the first time in three years, you let yourself believe that maybe… just maybe… things weren’t broken.

Just unfinished.

——

It started with a question, whispered one quiet evening in your daughter’s room.

Quinn had come to tuck her in like he did now every night he was in Vancouver. She’d taken to calling him “Q” at first, unsure of what else to call him. Now it was “Daddy.” Sometimes “Daddy Q,” when she was being silly.

That night, as he settled the stuffed unicorn into her arms and brushed her dark hair behind her ear, she blinked up at him with those same eyes. His eyes.

“Daddy?” she asked, voice small. “Are you and mommy married?”

Quinn blinked. He glanced over his shoulder at you. You smiled softly, already knowing this day would come.

“Kind of,” he said, trying to be gentle. “A long time ago. But not… not properly.”

She frowned. “I want it to be properly.”

It stayed in his head all night.

And three days later, as the two of you stood on your balcony, wine glasses in hand, watching the Vancouver skyline glow like it was holding your secret, he turned to you.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to be my almost-wife. I want you to be my real wife.”

You turned to him, stunned.

He didn’t go down on one knee. He just took your hand, kissed the ring that never left it — the one from Vegas you never dared to take off — and added softly, “Let’s do it right this time.”

⸻

The wedding was small. Intimate.

Held in Vancouver, at a garden you’d always loved as a child. Your daughter wore a white dress with tulle wings sewn onto the back. She walked down the aisle holding a little velvet box, cheeks flushed with excitement, while Jack — proudly grinning — waited at Quinn’s side as best man.

Your dress wasn’t flashy. It was soft, elegant. Your bouquet was wildflowers. And as you reached the end of the aisle, your daughter took your hand and placed it into Quinn’s, the whole garden holding its breath.

Quinn looked at you like it was the first time. Even after everything — the mistake, the heartbreak, the rediscovery — he still looked at you like you were the beginning and end of his world.

“I do,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

You couldn’t stop the tears as you said it back.

⸻

The reception was simple — a long table under strings of lights, family and friends all gathered. Jack toasted to “the only couple I’ve ever known who got married in reverse order.” Your daughter climbed into Quinn’s lap halfway through the cake. He fed her the icing off his finger, kissing her temple like he’d never lost a single day.

Later, you danced to no music under the stars, her asleep in her flower girl dress in your mother’s arms.

“I always meant it,” he whispered in your ear. “Even back then. Even when I was scared. I’ve loved you every damn second.”

You pressed your cheek to his.

“Then here’s to forever.”

And in the warm hush of the garden, his lips met yours.

What happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas.

It just…

Came home in time.

⸻