#I wrote a snippet where they met for the first time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

confessioncassette · 4 months ago

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𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐌𝐞 - 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝟏𝟖+. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

Part 1

“you and me alone in the dark, forever i stay, with you”

summary : after having a drug fueled revelation on his life, Thanos decided to create a private account. For weeks, this account was his sanctuary where he could “unplug” from the normalities of his life of partying. With no one to watch him, no one to make fun of what his interests were, he posted snippets of his daily life and created an algorithm that suited his secret interests. And one day, he had stumbled upon you.

tw : taking drugs, pinning, not proof read, reader knows little Korean

words : 5.7k

notes : this is a longer version of my drabble. In this specific AU (without the games), I wrote Thanos as someone who longs for a bond and needs someone to understand him on a deeper level. This maybe out of character juuuust a tad from him in the games, but this is what I feel like he would be as Choi Subong rather than Thanos.

“I tried this shit a while back and it’s wild, bro.”

Nam-Gyu sits cross legged on the floor before his friend, an outstretched hand pedestals two little colorful tablets in his palm. Thanos eyes widen, lips curling downward as he shifts over his tailbone.

“Don’t give me that shit,” the black haired man pushed the other playfully, “trust me, I wouldn’t give you this if I didn’t already know what it felt like. It was eye-opening, bro.”

Thanos shakes his head, “I don't know bro, I’ve never taken something like that before.”

Nam-Gyu clicks his tongue, “just trust me. I’m taking it with you.” His eyes shift to look at the ceiling, trying to find the right words. “It's similar to shrooms,” he muses, “Plus, I’m a good trip guide. I won’t let you do any crazy shit.”

Thanos stares at the colorful tablets laid before him, contemplating if this was a good idea. It’s not like he hasn’t tried this stuff before, or worse, but this was newer on the market and Nam-Gyu’s past of harder drugs doesn’t set his mind at ease.

“For real, you won’t end up in the street naked or anything. When I tried this a few months back, it literally saved me, bro. It was like, like uh, like I saw all the beauty in the world…” He paused sheepishly before adding, “or some shit.”

Nam-Gyu smiles, “look, I don’t do hard shit anymore, you know this.”

Which was true, Thanos thought. They’ve tried almost everything under the sun when it came to experimenting when they first met, with the exception of needles when it came to Thanos. When it came to trying newer drugs, Su-bong was extra cautious about them being laced. But, his friend is trying it with him, and he’s done it before… what could go wrong?

”This was the same batch you tried before?”

”Yeah, I saved these last two for just us.”

”I take just one?”

”Just one.”

The purple haired man takes a tablet with confidence and pops it in his mouth.

“Now let it dissolve over your tongue,” Nam-Gyu follows his friend by taking the tablet, which eases the other.

“How long will it take?” Thanos lets out a breath, sinking his back to the floor. His friend follows suit, flopping his body to the floor beside him to stare at the ceiling in Thanos’s high rise apartment.

“Won’t be long, bro. Just enjoy the ride.”

The lights in the apartment were already dim. The faint glow of purple LED lights and the twinkle of the night sky of Seoul made a soft atmosphere. The high was gradual but overwhelmingly apparent. Thanos’s body flooded with an initial rush of adrenaline, causing his body to buzz. Time felt all-being, fast as light but slow as molasses, and his body was just an anomaly between it all.

The emotions inside his mind bursted at the seams, exploding with undescribable love and admiration for life. The fleeting thought deep within his mind made him realize that he’s never truly felt appreciative of life before, but he chose to ignore it. How could he ignore the overwhelming excitement for living? This is beautiful. His friend was beautiful, his apartment was beautiful, these lights were mesmerizing.

He stared at Seoul’s skyline for what felt like hours, completely entranced in the way they sparkled. Neon lights flashing on billboards, the barely-there stars peeking through the city’s light pollution. Maybe one day he’ll see the night sky for real and count every star up there. How come he had never realized how beautiful the city was? The people in the street enjoying food, groups sticking together on a night out, a couple hugging each other in an intimate moment and forgetting the world around them.

He wanted to find love like this. Could this feeling be love? Is this what it felt like to appreciate everything he had been through? He had never felt this love with another human being before, but he can remember the last time he had felt love.

When he was a child, he loved to create. This mostly came through rapping and making music, but he also adored creating through drawing and painting. He loved to dance, he loved to express himself in any way possible through a form of art.

Maybe he had lacked this as he got older. With tough times and life experiences, he began to revert inside himself. In school, he got in with the wrong crowd, tried drugs and got hooked at a young age. He became rebellious, ultimately becoming the leader of the pack. He still created music, though, but it was the only mask he had. Rapping got him exclusive invitations to more popular crowds. He had spiraled and partied regularly before it became a lifestyle.

A new girl every night and waking up with regret, on a vicious cycle of drugs and alcohol, partying way past sunrise and waking up just when the sun began to set.

Was he proud of it? He’s lived this life for too long to remember, so he couldn’t tell.

Did he even have his own conscious? Did his lifestyle dull his senses to what really matters? He can’t tell.

All he could feel was right now, this moment in the lick of time. And time was fleeting.

Choi Su-bong woke up the next night alone on his couch. He blinked, once, twice before reaching for his phone on the floor beside him. Cringing at the bright screen and scrolling through notifications, Nam-Gyu had left a text a few hours ago.

남규 🙈 (4:14 pm) : I left earlier to make an appointment. I checked on u before i left to make sure ur alive lol i also locked the door. Txt me when you wake

Sighing and rolling on his back, Su-bong sent a response to notify that he was okay before switching apps.

Instagram was his first choice, per usual, and he was immediately flooded with his fellow idols and influencer ‘friends’' posts. Flashy cars, luxurious dinners, lavish outfits that cost hundreds of dollars… it was always the same. He swallowed, noticing his mouth withered before discarding his phone once again over the fur carpet.

It was Friday night, the start to a weekend, where he would usually get up to shower and head out to the high scale clubs to meet with friends. But tonight he only hopped in the shower to cleanse himself and threw on a hoodie and sweats, because he cringed at the thought of doing anything else.

Sitting alone on his plush couch, tv faintly glowing in the back, he racked his brain on his experience from yesterday. It’s actually surprising that he didn’t feel the effects still. It must have been a short term high.

Though short term, it had lasting effects on his system. His thought process tonight was completely different from normal. No doom scrolling, waking up craving immediate numbness or even hungover. Maybe it was time for a wake up call, and this was what he needed. And to think that he was hesitant at first to take them.

He was tired of the surface level relationships and everything that came with that. His entire adult life had been a blur, a ticking time bomb with fleeting memories. Sure, times were fun, but waking up each day feeling like his body got pummeled by a train wasn’t…fun.

He missed art. He missed making music that came from his heart. He missed creating. Not this senselessness that made him fit in.

Pulling out his phone, Su-bong’s slender fingers tapped along the screen.

Create a new account

The blue letters stared back at him, and he was eager to press. Pursing his lips, he contemplates a new name. And why was thinking of anything original so hard right now? It felt like a ghostly pressure, but this was his first choice he’s consciously made in years. Was it really that hard?

He lets out an airy laugh, “shibal.”

Pattering his colorful fingernails along the screen, he came up with Mystic_Legend.

Was it original to his persona? No. But he liked it that way. It was a little ode to himself, but honoring his attachment.

He kept the profile blank for now, not opting to add a profile picture.

This was a clean slate. The explore page filled with vacation pictures of palm trees next to private pools, someone cooking a healthy meal for their family, a few memes - but what caught his attention was a beautiful art piece hung along a blank wall.

What he could perceive as a skinless torso without the flesh, unmasked and slimy twisting up like a tornado. Brilliant hues of blue and dusty grey explode through the top like a cloud exploding and expanding. Thanos was mesmerized by the painting. He’d never seen anything like this before.

His whole body stalled as his eyes scan every detail of the picture for a while. His mind races with thoughts of what could this be? What was the artist interpreting?

But maybe it wasn’t up for interpretation, maybe it was to feel.

What he felt was a tainted soul blossoming into something new.

This was a deep connection, a coincidence to a new path of life.

A beginning.

Su-bong spent less time on social media in the following weeks. From what used to be entertaining fans through comments, responding to DM’s, collaborating with other big artists and liking videos of his appearances and shows to spending most of his time on his burner account.

He had grown an algorithm catered to interests long forgotten and had followed things that genuinely interested him. From thousands of followers to zero, from following a few hundred to 13. It was refreshing, to Su-bong. Something he had needed.

No followers didn’t stop him from posting his daily routine. It was rather fun, actually. Posting things that he was doing without having thousands of people watching his every move. It felt more invigorating to post things that were out of his online persona.

An americano from the cafe down the street, his weights at the gym, his record collection, his at-home studio setup, a new pair of shoes he just bought, a colorful sunset from his apartment, a video of him filming the Han River as he went on a run.

He found a new love in posting things that caught his eye, a new love for things he didn’t really see before.

Nam-Gyu was always around, too. Like usual, he’d stop by the apartment to share a drink or smoke a blunt. The two would watch movies and order take out every few days, leaving Nam-Gyu to pass out on the couch for the night. The bond they shared was always special in regards to the fakeness of the crowd Thanos hung around, so it was natural and comfortable keeping him close.

Though, he’d never share the burner account. That was solely his.

Thanos would still keep a presence online through his main account, but not as much. Fans would ask if things were okay on his posts, but he never responded to those. He did his tasks led by management and kept his social life relatively strong to cause any other suspicion.

However, he did loosen the reins on making appearances. In a span of 2 weeks, he didn’t show up to any night clubs or perform at any shows, much to his managers' dislike. However, he continued to make music, music like he’s never created before.

His new routine would be spending hours in his guest bedroom/home studio making music from his soul. Raps about love and heartbreak, about a life he feels like he’d never lived. Raps about living vicariously through movies, how he longs for companionship but can’t seem to allow himself. Raw emotions would flow, allowing himself to set in a new territory of his mind and heart.

It was like therapy. Years of burden lifted off his shoulder poured into his music. Sometimes angry and intense, spitting painful memories and emotions through the mic - and others loving and soft, thoughtful for genuine affection.

Choi Su-bong felt at ease for the first time since he was a child.

Nestled in his king bed, damp hair draping over his brow, he scrolled through his explore page.

A beautiful face he had scrolled past.

Scrolling back up, he tapped on your picture with lightning speed.

A simple photo, but unremarkable. You posed in a simple dress that accentuated your body modestly, holding the phone up to take a selfie in a park.

Officially 1 month in Seoul!

Seoul? You’re here?

Swiping to your profile, he noticed that you didn’t have much. With only following barely over a hundred people and less than 40 followers, you were an anomaly.

You didn’t even have a caption, just a simple text heart emoji under your name.

Your profile had only 12 photos and 2 of which were you. The rest had been photos of your adventures. A photo of a record store, good food you had tried here in Korea, and pictures of landscapes.

Thanos eagerly tapped on the second photo of you.

You were in bed, phone angled high to capture your beauty with flash, holding a plush animal.

I rewarded myself with a friend today

Su-bong swelled, grinning to himself. The plushie you had looked soft, tuffs of its fur touching your cheek as you smiled sweetly back at him. Scrolling down, he found your first post of an airplane illuminated under airport lights.

Today, I start fresh. I’m nervous. #movingtokorea

Checking the date, you had posted this 2 months ago. You must have moved here recently and are living in the same city as him.

Running slender fingers through his hair, Su-Bong considered interacting with you or not. He had scrolled up to see your face at least a dozen times, practically stalking your entire page. Unable to control his emotions, Thanos buzzed with adrenaline.

He’s made the first move countless of times, but not in a… specific way like this. He never had a problem getting the girl he desired for the night, and he never had to try hard at that. This was a completely different situation.

He didn’t want that type of relationship with you. He felt it reverberating deep within his bones. He wanted more than that. Looking through the screen into your eyes marked him in a way he could never describe in words. It was a pulling, a chain that linked and locked with a click deep in his soul.

One message couldn’t hurt? Right? You didn’t even know who he was, or what society had written about him. You didn’t know his past, his current or even his name.

Would it be weird sending you a message? He doesn’t think he could even cope with being left on read by you.

This was fate, this was more than limerence - it was affinity.

You sigh, plopping yourself over your couch and covering yourself with a blanket.

Your apartment was small and barren. It was nothing to look at, but it was home. Little trinkets line your bookshelf in the corner of your living room glow under the tv’s light. Scrolling through your apps, you select a comfort show from your childhood and unwind.

Starting a new life in Seoul wasn’t on your bingo card a year ago, but you had made the rash decision for a job with decent pay. You had never left home, so why not take an adventure to see if you could do it? The best part of all of this was that you always had the decision to move back, or move somewhere else completely.

It was beginning to feel like home, though. It was the perfect amount of space you needed and the environment was a perfect mix of introverted activities and extroverted. You had the freedom to become a hermit, but also had the option to go out if you so please. You lived in a part of the city where you could walk to work, dine and drink down the street. You also lived in an area close to bars if you ever felt the need to socialize.

It was beginning to feel like home after 2 months. Your job was easy to follow, despite you not being an expert in Korean. The people were nice, though they were curious and stared. You stuck out like a sore thumb with your demeanor, but you were becoming accustomed quickly, better than you thought you would.

You should be going out tonight, but you don’t feel ready yet. You should be getting dolled up to enjoy a night of fun, but… this was fun for now. Cuddled up in your cozy apartment after a long week at work.

The tv muffled in the background as you stared out your window, appreciating the skyline.

Your phone buzzes against your tight, drawing you from your thoughts.

Mystic_Legend wants to send you a message

Your brow furrows at the notification, but you’re anxious to see the message. You had little to no lies from your home country, and no one knew you here in Korea. Must be a bot.

Mystic_Legend (9:56 pm) : 나는 당신의 사진을 좋아합니다

You blink, staring at the message in curiosity. Pulling up google on your phone you translate the sentence.

I like your photo

“Weird,” you mumble.

Another instagram notification pops up on your screen and you tap it.

Mystic_Legend (9:57 pm) : 최근에 한국에 도착 했나요? 당신은 그것을 좋아합니까?

Have you arrived in Korea recently? Do you like it?

Uneasiness bubbles within your gut. Wasn’t your profile private? You tap around your screen to double check - and it wasn’t. Curiosity got the best of you and you tap the users profile.

20 posts, 13 following and… zero followers.

An anomaly.

Scrolling through the users posts, you find random things. A pair of new shoes, a video of a hooded figure with his back turned to the camera playing on a soundboard, a picture of the person’s outfit, hat covered with a beanie and phone conveniently covering his face in the mirror. Filtering through more posts, you find the Seoul skyline at night, a deck of cards littering a coffee table, gym equipment and landscape photos.

“What the,” you sigh under your breath before another notification pops over the top of your screen.

Mystic_Legend (10:01 pm) : I’m sorry. I should have written in English.

Mystic_Legend (10:01 pm) : I like your photos. Did you recently move to Korea?

Your fingers hesitate before swiping across the screen to accept the messages.

You (10:02 pm) : Do I know you?

A typing bubble appears before disappearing for a few moments.

Mystic_Legend (10:03 pm) : No, I found you on explore page

Ahh, it clicked. But you won’t tell a stranger sensitive information, the whole situation is weird in the first place. You were hesitant to even respond, leaving the message on read while you stared at the screen.

Mystic_Legend (10:04 pm) : I’m Su-bong. Not a creep, I promise.

You (10:04 pm) : Nice to meet you. Thank you for liking my pictures.

Keeping it short and sweet, you lock your phone, hoping to leave the conversation at that, but your phone vibrates not once, but twice.

Mystic_Legend has followed you

Mystic_Legend (10:06 pm) : I could help you speak Korean, if you don’t know

You contemplate the message, looking at it on your Home Screen. You could use the help with your job and navigating the city. It wouldn’t hurt, right? You could have a native speaker help and just keep it at that. Just for the knowledge, of course. Keep it surface level.

You (10:07 pm) : That helps me, actually.

Mystic_Legend (10:07 pm) : Cool. 😎

Mystic_Legend (10:07 pm) : Maybe we could call?

You (10:08 pm) : Not tonight, it’s pretty late.

Mystic_Legend (10:09 pm) : That is okay, get your rest. We can speak tomorrow?

You (10:10 pm) : Sure.

Seen 10:10pm

You left it at that, and the stranger does too. You get ready for bed shortly after that, confused as to how anyone would even find you on the explore page. You weren’t a big account at all and hardly interacted with content on the app, so what had led to the discovery of your profile?

You did have similar interests, but that couldn’t be the only reason for him to message you.

Before closing your eyes, you tap the instagram application and go to the strangers profile and press follow.

It caused Su-bong physical pain to let you go to bed. He wanted to message you more, all night if he could. But you had agreed to a call tomorrow, and he was reeling with adrenaline.

Scanning over your photos in his darkened room overlooking the city lights, he couldn’t keep his gaze off the picture of you in the park. Turning over to lay on his side, a strangeness swells within his chest. It must have been stupid, only a virgin could react so strongly just by pictures and dry messages.

But something had told him this was everything he had been missing. Not ever had he looked at a girl with such a sweetness. He’d hooked up with models, influencers and everything in between, although not remembering most of the nights. He’d share hot kisses with wet tongues in night clubs, inviting high class women to his place to experiment something new, had intense sex fueled by molly, and even bent women over in grimy bathrooms.

This was not new to him, picking up women and getting what he wanted.

But the purity was.

Something swam in your eyes, mesmerizing him in a daze. Something fueled him to keep pushing, to dig deeper as to where this stems from.

You are beautiful, elegant and ethereal actually.

He’d hate himself forever if he didn’t try.

The buzz of a notification almost sends his heart leaping out of his chest to find that you had followed him back.

You didn’t hear from the stranger, or Su-bong overnight. To your conflicting disappointment, he wasn’t in the pile of notifications when you woke.

Something pulled you in. Men now-a-days have a large following, or a large number of who they follow. You didn’t mull this over to its extent last night, but when you checked his following, it was all art, photography and music accounts… all 13 of them. He didn’t have a profile picture, but the same silhouette showed continuously through his posts.

He didn’t have any followers, and this led you to think this was a secret account. Maybe he had a girlfriend to hide… but honestly that wouldn’t make sense, because if he were to hide an account, wouldn’t he be following girls? At least one? But the only one was you.

And you were now his only follower.

It seemed like a simple account, purely made for enjoyment. Social media is used for that sort of thing anyways, right? You shake your head, reminding yourself that not every man is out to get you. Not every stranger is here to hurt you.

It’s not that big of a deal, and you shouldn’t even be bothering yourself with it.

So you opt to forget about it and carry on with your day.

Saturday - a day to catch up after the work week and do whatever you want to do. So, you do. You work out, shower and make your way to the little cafe down the street to catch a light breakfast and coffee.

Sitting down at an empty table near the window to people watch, your phone buzzes over the table.

Mystic_Legend (10:01 am) : Good morning

Bzzzzt

Mystic_Legend sent a photo

You practically leap from your seat to snatch your phone, a rush of adrenaline courses through your veins. You pray to god that this doesn’t go south, please for the love of god do not be an unsolicited dick pic.

Preparing yourself with a breath, you go to his message embarrassingly fast and tap on the photo.

You squint before opening, as if to allow yourself to be a victim of a terrible sight, but to your delight, the picture opened to a pair of pristine white sneakers next to some weights.

Mystic_Legend (10:03 am) : I am hitting the gym this morning. I hope you slept well.

You (10:04 am) : I beat you to it, I already worked out today. I am getting breakfast.

Sending a picture back can’t do any harm, right? Angling your phone over your food and coffee, you snap a picture and send it.

Mystic_Legend (10:06 am) : Looks good

Mystic_Legend (10:06 am) : What are your plans today?

Mystic_Legend (10:07 am) : I am excited to call, let me know when you are ready.

You purse your lips, blushing at the thought of having a phone call with a stranger. This was unhinged right? No one in their right mind would be doing this… right? Why did your heart flutter with every message he sent?

It’s literally a blank profile.

You tap on his account and scroll down to the photo of him in a mirror. The purple beanie covers his hair and the phone covers most of his face. The hoodie he wears is black with neon coloring and you can’t see past his waist. The one eye you do see, gives a glimpse, a sliver, that who you are talking to is a real person.

You (10:10 am) : I have to run errands today, but I will text you when I am home

The chat bubble lifts above the keyboard, then disappears. You await his response in silence.

Mystic_Legend (10:11 am) : I will wait for you.

An… odd message, you blink. Maybe even sweet… but you don’t know the customs and courtesies of Korean culture enough to have a real judgement. All you need to worry about is finishing your errands and chores before a phone call with a stranger.

Flicking the light to your apartment on and dumping your grocery bags on the counter, you stretch.

A day out was just what you needed, and the weather was perfect to walk around in, but damn do your feet ache. Slipping off your shoes by the door, you begin doing your final task of the day.

You barely put the egg carton in your fridge before you hear your phone buzz from the counter. Padding your feet over to your phone, sits another photo message from mystic_legend.

Tilting your head, you open the photo.

An outstretched hand gingerly caresses a wine glass halfway filled with a deep red in front of a kitchen counter.

Mystic_Legend (8:00 pm) : I hope you had a good day.

You (8:00 pm) : Sorry it is so late, I met up with a coworker for dinner.

You cringe at your apology, it’s not like he deserved one. But it was true. Your coworker saw you shopping at a local store and asked if you’d be down to have drinks and food. You couldn’t say no, especially since you have no friends. And this coworker is also a foreigner, so it works out in terms of no language barriers. But you did have plans to call with him, so maybe you felt the need to mention that?

You (8:01 pm) : Is that red wine?

Mystic_Legend (8:01 pm) : Yes. I like this one.

Mystic_Legend sent a photo

You open the photo to see an exquisite bottle of red with the label in French.

You (8:03 pm) : Looks expensive, are you rich?

Mystic_Legend (8:04 pm) : It was a gift.

You (8:05 pm) : I will call soon, I need to finish cleaning up and shower

Mystic_Legend hearted your message but said nothing else.

You freshen up after a long day, letting the hot water cascade down your back. Rubbing your shoulders to ease the tension, your mind wanders.

Was this a trick? Was he a creep? How could you be so naive in trusting a complete stranger? It was weird, what you were doing.

But in reality, you are lonely. Making this move was huge for you and your confidence. You’ve never ventured out like this before. You are a big girl, you don’t need to explain your reasons for making friends. You are completely on your own, working in a completely new country, and doing good at it.

You’re not tied down by anything but yourself, so why was it hard to accept the fact that this was a little unconventional?

You’ve tried dating apps in the past- you physically cringe forcing yourself to stop your thought process. Shrugging your shoulders against the water in a visceral reaction, you shake off the thought. This guy is not an interest, why were you thinking it was? Instagram is not an app to date.

Even so, he had never asked anything other than to talk to you. You’ve had guys in the past ask for nudes almost immediately. You’ve had guys thirsting over you in such an icky way that it completely turned you off.

But…

You lean your head back into the waterfall and puff your cheeks.

He hasn’t done that.

You couldn’t help by think of all the reason why. Why he had messaged. Was it a cover? He could be a complete fuck-boy underneath it all and he’s just grabbing your attention.

What if he isn’t even real. What if he’s some mama’s boy living in a dingy basement?

You groan, anticipation swelling deep in your belly. You feel like you might be sick at the thought of a measly voice call.

You can’t help that it excites you.

Silk pajamas caress your skin and the plush comforter of your bed warms your senses as you whip out your phone and settle yourself in a comfortable position.

Your finger lingers over the phone symbol next to the strangers name… and you can’t do it.

You (11:01 pm) : I’m ready

WIthin seconds, like he really was awaiting your message, your phone screen illuminates with a voice call.

Your body tenses at the mere sight and you suck in a breath, hitting accept.

“Hello?”

“Annyeonghaseyo,” he calls, his voice low and smooth like honey. You melt at the slow infliction of his tone.

“Oh- annyeong-“ You stutter, but he doesn’t react. “How are you?” You try to hold it together to keep your voice from shaking, praying that he doesn’t notice. Your poor Korean could be embarrassing to him.

“That was good,” he comments before proceeding, “I am good now. I told you I would wait for you.”

The more he spoke, the more you caught on to his thick accent. It wasn’t perfect. But you didn’t care, you understood him just fine.

You give an airy laugh, “you did.”

”What did you do today?”

You hum. “I worked out, went to lunch… I went shopping and met up with a coworker of mine for dinner. It was nice. What did you do today?”

He hums in response.

“One second-“ he says, followed by quick tapping on his screen. After a moment, he begins to speak again.

“I worked out too. I had chest day. Then I made music.”

“Music?”

“Yes,” he pauses, “I like to make music.”

”Is that why you post pictures of you in a studio?”

“Yes,” the tapping on his phone is rapid now, “I have my own studio in my house.”

”That’s so cool! I’d like to hear your music…”

The stranger was silent on the other line.

”Maybe.”

“Okay, well no pressure. I don’t like to show anyone my personal stuff either.” You opt to keep the conversation light.

He hums in agreement.

“Why did you come to Korea?”

You shift under your covers, thinking of a response.

“I… just needed a new start. I wanted to see what I could accomplish.” Is what you ended up with.

He hums again, slow and low, taking a moment to respond.

“I understand. I have lived here my entire life. I always wanted to travel, that is good that you did.”

You laugh, “it was scary at first, moving to a new country and all…”

”I could tell you all the best spots around here.”

”I’d like that, I’m still getting used to it.” You turn your head to look at the moon outside your window.

”Do you remember my name?” He questions.

”Su-Bong.” You respond quietly.

”Yes, I’d like to know yours.”

You swallow, internally battling yourself with how to respond. You don’t want to give him your real name in the means of safety. But he did give you his.

“Is that actually your name?”

“Of course, why would I lie?” His accent was thick and questioning, low in bass. It rang so nicely through your ears. His infliction doesn’t waver, and it draws you in.

You slowly said your own name, giving him the benefit of the doubt. It was just a name after all, and he had already known what you looked like.

He repeated your name quietly, like he savored it on his tongue. His deep voice electrified your nerves in a way you’ve never experienced, triggering your body to grow hot in embarrassment.

“Beautiful name,” was all he said.

You sheepishly give thanks before yawning.

“Are you tired?”

Your eyelids grow heavy to the sound of his voice. “I am.”

”I will let you go to sleep, can we talk tomorrow?”

You wait a moment to respond as your heart flutters in response to him.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

”Okay,” he whispers, “an nyeong hi ju mu se yo.”

”Goodnight, Su-Bong.”

Thanos hung up the phone almost too quickly, but not because he wanted to leave the conversation, but because he needed to let out a breath he had been holding.

Your voice was sweet and calming. It had lulled his system like waves of the ocean.

Running his fingers through his hair his eyes dart around the room and curses under his breath.

You’d definitely be the death of him.

#thanos x reader #Choi su bong x reader #Choi su bong #squid game x reader #squid game x you #thanos squid game #thanos x reader smut #thanos #player 230 #squid game smut

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five-and-dimes · 6 months ago

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🥶🥶 for the ask thing :)

The end of this snippet is definitely something I've shared before, but because of you I finally wrote the part that connects it to the last scene! Progress! 🙌

“I would not want to intrude…” he says slowly. Hob waves him off, “Nonsense, it looks like the end of days out there, what kind of mate would I be if I let you out in that? You’d probably blow away.” Dream huffed, a little offended, but he couldn’t deny Hob had a point, “Well… thank you,” he muttered awkwardly. “No problem!” Hob began stacking their books and putting their notes into orderly piles. Dream assisted, putting his own supplies back into his backpack and handing Hob the highlighters that were just out of his reach. “I can loan you some sweats. And I know the bed is small, but I got one of those mattress toppers so it’s super comfy at least-” “Wait-” Dream interrupted, blinking in confusion, “I will simply sleep on the floor. I do not mind.” Hob shrugged, “I don’t mind sharing if you don’t.” For a moment, Dream opened and closed his mouth, no words coming out. Finally, he explains softly, “I do not wish to disturb your rest. I have been told I am. Unpleasant to share a bed with.” Hob looks up from where he was rifling through his dresser, appalled, “Someone said that to you?” “Many have.” Many have said much worse. Few people bother softening their words to Dream. On one memorable occasion a hookup had laughed in his ear and said he felt like he was fucking a corpse. After he finished, he’d practically shoved Dream out the door, cheerfully letting him know “this ain’t a morgue, sweetheart” with a wink before slamming the door in his face. When he got home, he sat in the shower for hours, wondering why no one had a problem with his body when they were fucking him, but they did when he wanted anything else. But. Hob does not need these details. Strangely, he looks upset with the little Dream has revealed. “God, people can be such assholes.” Dream tilted his head, “You often talk about how much you value truthfulness. I would think you’d appreciate their brutal honesty.” “I hate brutal honesty.” The vehemence in his voice catches Dream by surprise. Turning to give Dream his full attention, Hob continues, “The whole ‘brutal honesty’ thing is an excuse people use to get away with being cruel. I value compassionate honesty. Much different.” Not for the first time, Dream thinks that Hob Gadling is the strangest man he’s ever met. “Very well,” he responds slowly, “In that case. Out of compassion, I will tell you that I am a poor bedmate. You are being very kind to let me stay the night, you need not sacrifice your comfort as well.” Hob hums in consideration, crossing his arms as he looks at Dream in consideration, “Would it make you uncomfortable?” The question catches him by surprise, and for a moment Dream just blinks at him. “Pardon?” “Well, you keep going on about my comfort,” Hob points out, “If you’re uncomfortable sharing, and this is like, your roundabout way of getting out of it, that’s totally fine, I’ll drop it,” He raises an eyebrow like a challenge, “But be honest.”

#the sandman #dreamling #the bed has to be big enough to hold Hob Dream AND Dream's trauma

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thatpadfooted-boy · 5 months ago

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apparently some of you really like my writing, so here's a Milo angst snippet I wrote with @n0r :)

(this is aggro scampering btw)

Milo lies on the couch, Aggro perched on his stomach like an anchor, and the TV murmuring in the background of the quiet ambiance. One deft hand clutches the remote, and the other absent-mindedly holds Aggro’s flicking tail. Milo’s eyes dart to the clock after it ticks to 11 at night. His Sweetheart is late—hours late.

“Work”, he tells himself. It’s work.

After all, they did say they had an important case on their hands. But Milo’s old, unwelcome thoughts creep in despite his efforts, sticky and insidious.

His chest tightens. The air feels too thick to breathe.

He tells himself “I’m being irrational, they would never.” Sweetheart is nothing like him, but the echoes of his father’s betrayals dig their claws into his psyche, unshakable dread. Milo ponders– Colm, who spent nights drowning in liquor and debts, always promising he’d be back before disappearing into some grimy bar or poker game. The worry isn’t just worry—it’s a sharp, bitter storm and entirely out of his control.

—

By the time Sweetheart finally opens that door, Milo is hunched over in the chair he first met his love, his head cradled in his hands. “It’s midnight…” His chest is heaving, empty breaths both shallow and useless as if his lungs forgot their purpose. The sound of the keys jingling and the door swinging open jolts Milo upright, and he stumbles to his feet, his heart pounding like a war drum. Honey-brown irises surrounded by red and swollen lids in the dim lighting of the kitchen, Milo’s face is now streaked with tears, his nose raw from rubbing. The frown etched into his face feels foreign, like it’s been stitched on by someone else’s hands.

He rarely frowns, but now? He can’t seem to stop.

“Where were you, Sweetheart?” His voice cracks as he speaks, trembling and uneven, his words like shards of glass to their genuine, tender-loving heart.

His hands shake violently at his sides, the veins stark against his skin tone.

“Milo, baby-” They coax him into a tight embrace, tucking his head under theirs. “I was working… Come here.” Spoken with a sugary-sweet tone in contrast to his rather brittle vocals. He wants to scream, to demand answers to their late arrival, but guilt is already clawing at him, telling him he’s wrong to feel this way. That, “It’s not their fault.” But his fear sprouted from the roots deep inside his chest, tangled up and growing thicker in memories of Colm, and no amount of logic could stop those nasty ropes from choking him breathless.

He feels small, raw, and utterly broken, standing in front of the person he trusts most in the world, barely able to hold himself together.

psst... tags down here <3

@thesolaireslawyer

@moronkyne

@achios

@aurorialwolf

@sams-darlin

@deezbignutz

@marlowlvsu

@milogreersleftdresssock

@idontdomathlol

@stellarren

@aimedis

@urfrenfishy

@puffin-smoke

@darlin-collins

@ashertickler

@swaggerpear

@samfucker

@cozy-collins

@breezysuffers

@soap-is-an-artist

@int3rtwiningh3artstrings

#lmk what y'all think #redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted asmr #redacted fandom #redactedasmr #redacted shaw pack #redacted verse #redacted audios #redactedaudio #redacted milo #redacted headcanons #redacted #redacted sweetheart #also did you see I found a spacer :D #I lubb it

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broidobe · 5 months ago

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𝔭𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔥𝔩𝔦𝔫 𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔭𝔞𝔩

requested by 🕷️!

⁎⁺˳✧༚black metal masterlist

you and pelle first became penpals in the late 80s, a connection that started through an unexpected twist of fate. you had accidentally sent him of photo, meant for your friend. it was a photo of you at a cousin’s birthday party, wearing a shirt that your friend had bought you. it had a little piece of paper attached saying “see, i told you i’d wear it”. little did you know that your mishap would lead to something so much more. when pelle received the letter, he couldn’t help but notice how wonderful you wrote. he spent hours going over the words, mesmerized by how someone could write so…delicately..?

your handwriting wasn’t anything extraordinary, but it had a flow to it that caught his attention. the way your letters unfolded, as if each word had its own rhythm, was something he hadn’t encountered before. pelle wasn't used to such charm in a letter. most people would write, in his eyes, as if they were forced to, but you, you seemed to write with purpose, with meaning. he couldn’t shake the curiosity that had taken root in him. who were you? how had your photo ended up in his hands?

at first, he felt a little embarrassed about reaching out, not knowing how you'd react to receiving a letter from a stranger. but his intrigue got the best of him. he wrote back, not only acknowledging the mix-up but commenting on how much he admired the way you expressed yourself in the photo, with your words, and with your handwriting. he apologized for the strange accident and, just for good measure, added a few small questions about your life. what was it like where you lived? what kinds of things did you enjoy? he was careful not to sound too forward, but the way he wrote still carried a warmth, something genuine that made it clear he wanted to know you beyond the photo and the mix-up.

you couldn’t believe it when the letter arrived. at first, you thought it was just some mistake—maybe an envelope sent to the wrong address. but as you read through it, you realized it was from the person you’d sent the photo to by accident. his words were kind and thoughtful, full of curiosity. he didn’t just talk about the photo or the mistake, but seemed genuinely interested in you—someone he’d never met. it felt strange, but also strangely comforting.

it wasn’t long before you found yourself responding. you mentioned the mix-up in your reply, but you also told him a little bit about yourself. you shared how you had always been a bit shy around new people, how you loved writing and drawing, and how life in your small town felt quiet yet comforting. his letter had made you feel seen in a way that you hadn’t expected. there was something in his words that felt familiar, like a safe space.

the exchange continued over the following months, with letters becoming a regular part of your routine. each one was a little window into each other's worlds. he shared snippets of his life, his thoughts, his dreams, and his struggles. at first, you weren’t sure what to make of it. who was he? he hadn’t mentioned much about himself, except that he loved music and was part of a band. but somehow, it didn’t matter. his letters had a kind of depth to them—like he was peeling back layers and inviting you to do the same.

as time went on, the letters became more personal. you both shared more than just the surface-level details of your lives. there were moments of vulnerability, of raw emotion, where you both talked about things you might not have with anyone else. there was something about the anonymity of it all—no expectations, no judgment—that allowed you to be open in a way you had never been before.

and in one of his letters, he admitted something that made your heart flutter with a mix of surprise and warmth: he was starting to look forward to your letters more than anything else. he had started thinking about you even when there was no letter in hand. you couldn’t deny that you’d started looking forward to his letters too. there was something in his words that you couldn’t quite explain, something that made you want to keep writing, to keep sharing, to keep getting to know him.

eventually, you did something that surprised even yourself—you told him the truth. you wrote about how much his letters had come to mean to you, how much you had come to care about him. you didn’t know if he would feel the same, but you couldn’t ignore the connection that had been growing between you both. and as you sent the letter, you felt a mix of hope and uncertainty. would he understand?

a few days later, his reply arrived. he confessed that he had been feeling the same way—that he had been looking forward to your letters more than he could explain. there was something about the way you both communicated that made him feel a sense of comfort he hadn’t realized he was missing. the idea that something so genuine had developed from a simple mistake—a letter mix-up—felt almost too surreal.

and just like that, you both knew: there was something real here. something that wasn’t just about the letters anymore. what had started as a mistake, a simple accident, had turned into a connection neither of you had expected, but one you both cherished deeply.

from that moment on, your correspondence took on a new energy. no longer just exchanging stories and thoughts, you both felt the weight of what was between you. the letters continued, yes, but now there was something deeper, something unspoken, lingering in each word, each sentence. it was a feeling of closeness that felt almost impossible, but somehow, you both knew it was real.

and though neither of you knew what would come of it, one thing was clear: your connection, born out of a mix-up and nurtured through your letters, was only just beginning.

#broidobe #pelle ohlin x reader #pelle mayhem #pelle ohlin #per ohlin #per yngve ohlin #mayhem band #dead mayhem #mayhem #black metal #morbid band

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landinrris · 9 months ago

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do you have any carlando fic recs?

Do I have carlando fic recs? always. There's a somewhat recency bias to the individual recs, so if you're wanting a more comprehensive look, I would definitely utilize the resources above this "read more." But also the individual fics are 🥰

First off, I'm gonna humbly present my catalog 😅

I also have some authors (in no particular order) that I would recommend anything Carlando-related they've written: -Phebes (@phebess) -Pitmewithyourbeststop -Magnificentbirb (@magnificentbirb) -Charleslelurk (@charleslelurk) -Madlyiephasetwo -Tiredtiredsharl (@wolfiemcwolferson)

My general fic rec tag is a great place when I come across tumblr links/snippets (also contains other rec lists: x, xx)

My public bookmarks on Ao3 is also a good indication of my fave fics (because some things are between me and god)

I'll shove some individual fics (in no particular order) below the read more so I don't clog people's dashes

Someone Who Can Stand in Your Storm by The_in_between_honey (@the-in-between-honey) (Rating: M)

Like most drivers, Lando has always worn scent blockers - like, always. He’s not ashamed of being an omega, it's just not anyone else's business. Besides, who wants to get into the politics of alphas vs omegas vs betas in F1? He doesn't buy into any of that, just like he doesn't buy into the idea of a "soulmate." No one asks, and he doesn’t tell anyone. Not even Carlos.

I never knew I was looking for all of my tomorrows by Anonymous (Rating: E)

They’d joked about it sometimes, what it would be like if one of them were a girl, if they would cross that line they already tiptoed around. “Would you break up with your girlfriend for me?” Lando teased once, pushing it ever closer to the edge they teetered on. “Lando,” Carlos had said in that warning voice of his, but he hadn’t said no, and now there’s no girlfriend either…

Across The Never by ShankySpork (Rating: M *Rated with MCD but not permanent)

Benny Goodman once wrote a song, ‘Where Or When’. It goes as follows; “It seems we stood and talked like this, before//We looked at each other in the same way then, But I can’t remember where, or when//The cloths you are wearing, are the cloths you wore//The smile you are smiling, you were smiling then//But I can’t remember where, Or when//Some things that happened for the first time//Seem to be happening again//And so it seems//That we’ve met before//And laughed before//And loved before//But who knows//Where or When” And truly, nothing could summarize this story better.

you lit a fire (and left no mark) by slapshot (Rating: E)

Lando doesn’t really drink or do drugs. So when he collects his things and dresses himself and leaves the room, fighting back tears and muffling his sobs behind his hands, Lando remembers everything. ~*~ the carlando accompaniment to salad days.

Count-Back by nottonyharrison (Rating: E)

Lando’s career progression up to the age of nineteen can be summarised by one word: Hustle. Lando learned the fine art early on in her racing career. It’s not always been successful, sometimes it’s blown up in her face, and sometimes her smart mouth gets her in trouble. But, on balance, things have worked out pretty damn well. The one fly in the ointment now though, is her teammate. Carlos Sainz is a whole lot of things Lando’s not. He’s confident in an old-money, sophisticated sort of way. He’s intelligent and well spoken. He’s goddamn gorgeous. Most annoyingly, he’s better than she is.

i’ll race you for pinks by cazio (@chubbydino) (Rating: M)

Heist!AU. Carlos Sainz Jr. is heading a heist operation based out of New York, following his father’s footsteps as a criminal mastermind. Max Verstappen, the most feared mercenary in the business, is his second in command. Daniel Ricciardo is the deadly charmer that gets them whatever they need, from whoever they need it from. Lando Norris is the mystery. Carlos has never met him in person, but he knows Lando will be perfect for the job. But Lando is not exactly what Carlos envisioned a computer nerd to be. In fact, he is very, very hot.

fall and fixture by heroics (@restacks) (Rating: E)

Lando’s already had a very poor time of it this morning. First there was no real milk in the break room refrigerator, so he had to put almond milk in his tea, disgusting. Then he caused a panic in the explosives lab by knocking over someone’s project. Now he’s faced with Carlos Sainz Jr., Foreign Operative #055.

If the Love is Pure by loveleclerc (@holacarlando) (Rating: E)

After being attacked in the middle of the night by an unknown Alpha, Lando flees to Spain for protection from the Sainz Pack while his fathers search for a way to keep him safe in England. He never asked to be a male Omega, a designation rare beyond belief and sought after by Alphas around the world, but fleeing into the care of Carlos Sainz Jr. may just be the solution to all of his fears… and dreams.

and all of my wildest dreams (they just end up with you and me) by choripan (@7msc) (Rating: E)

“What time did you go to sleep last night, cabrón?” The 7AM light hitting Carlos made his Disney Prince dark hair look like a halo, his features softer in the morning. He was frowning a little bit, but in a way that made him look worried instead of angry. “Uhhhhhhhh…” “Landooooooo…” OR: the one where Lando is slowly girlrotting away and Carlos just wants to help.

i love you forever, not maybe (you’re my one true love) by mtchmrnr (Rated: E)

Lando is starting to suspect that off-camera, he’s quite the soft and gentle guy. What did he say once in an interview? He protects love? I’d love to be protected, Lando thinks. or: the one where Lando is a student, Carlos is a F1 driver, and they go through a lot before they get their happy ending

#there are so many good fics out there. this is around the first 2 pages of my bookmarks though #so i would definitely recommend fully going through those if you want more good good and slightly older ones (read: 2022 and back)#carlando #fic rec #ask

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neonovember · 8 months ago

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i watching civil war earlier and idk why but i had a random thought, imagine you and steve are dating or have a situationship but during civil war you choose tonys side instead of his, and he gets mad and you both end up arguing and don’t see each other til infinity war, where you guys both apologize and forgive each other🤭

warnings; reader and steve are both teetering on morally grey, mentions of violence, the goddamn accords, swearing, mentions of death, regret

authors notes; this has been sitting in my inbox for so long and I finally just wrote a little snippet of how i would want to write this request. If you guys enjoy it I'd love to expand! I'm thinking each part is at different times (fight on the tarmac and then post civil war).

divider by @firefly-graphics

You had met Steve right before the Avengers had been scrapped together with uneasy fingers.

There was a level of trepidation about the plan Fury had to gather a bunch of people who had enough power and strength to take down countries then. And despise how different you and the blonde soldier were, him being Captain Fucking America, the golden boy of the world and you being the recently cleared weapon the blossoms of fellowship sprung forth like a dandelion bursting through cracks of concrete.

There was an understanding between you both that came with navigating a new world for the first time. The loss and loneliness Steve had felt those few months following his waking, was something akin to how you felt, living a life now of normalcy. You didn’t know how to stand in line for coffee after so many years living in yellow ceilinged motels and abandoned houses off of highways. Steve could never sleep on the King sized bed Stark had fitted, the uneasy feeling sinking so different to the sharp jagged surfaces he was used to. It bonded you both, hell it bonded you with Bucky even.

Friendship had been just that for years, until it had morphed into stolen glances and feather touches. Until you both could finally admit to the longing that stretched between the space and waiting silence that lived between you both. You wanted to say that nothing had changed, but oh had it.

You loved him with the entirety of your being, you felt it jitter in its iridescent reverie beneath your fingers each time you grazed them against his skin. It wasn't easy though, you both were so fierce, so mighty, there were times where you hated him just as much, where his steel unrelenting gaze made you want to wring his neck.

Tony leans back, steeping his fingers as his eyes cut to the rest of the Avengers sitting on the office chairs. There is a silence, the team waiting for someone to speak up and Steve's disgruntled face twists into disapproval

“You’re insane if you think this could work, Tony”

“Steve, listen, I understand what you're saying but what are we going to do?” Tony quickly remarks, almost as if he has been waiting for the inevitable argument to seize

“I got a couple of ideas, but it all ends with throwing this” Steve cuts his eyes to the stack of papers centred in front of him, disgust fleeting through his features, as if he could cause the offending manila folder to combust with his blues. “Back into their goddamn faces”.

“Really?

“Yes, what are you thinking Tony? This is goddamn hearsay”

Sam and Bucky nod their agreement, and there is a slow ripple of sides that form, the team is split, and it's not long before a back and forth surges between steve and tony, both eager to assert their point of view, both feeling it is their righteous duty to promote or throw the accords out the window.

The incessant remarks that have begun to cause the office room to quickly turn heated leaves you shaking your head, falling into the palm of your hand as you sit back against the chair. All of these stupid arguments, it was simple in your head.

You didn't like the feeling of being put on a leash by the government but the accords were not exactly as blasphemous as Steve was saying it was, and your silent agreement following Tony’s speech causes you to speak up without thinking.

“I mean, it’s not bad” The sound of your voice is even, devoid of indignation or anger the way steve and tony’s is, and a silence settles over the office as the avengers look towards you in shock. You didn't speak much, opting to sit and let the rest of them have their say, but with each inquisitive look you feel a new sense of purpose. This was right, this was good, this could help you.

Steve looks towards you quickly, cocking his head to the side as he regards you with new eyes.

Your name sounds foreign as it passes through his lips

“Steve”

The rest of the avengers watch on as you both stare at each other

“You don’t seriously think this is smart?” Steve breaks first, always. Relents.

“It’s good. It’s great actually. Tony’s is right. We don’t get to run off and jump into every goddamn crisis like kids on a playground.”

“Cmon, this will kill people!”

“WE'VE KILLED PEOPLE! I have. Me, Steve. Call me selfish, this is my retribution-”

“You know that wasn’t on you, how could you have known-“

“Enough. I’ve let it eat me away already alright? It’s the fucking goddamn truth Steve. And you know it.

Betrayal bleeds through Steve's features, it humanes him. softens out the jagged edges that came from this life and he looks decades younger. He looks at you like the sickly asthmatic child he once was, and you tear your eyes away from him.

Blink, and it was gone, his regality and cutting calculating air of pristine dominance overtaking every last bit of him, bleeding back into his cheekbones and the depth of his ocean blues.

“You're not stupid, you're the smartest person I know and you can’t see the liability we’d find ourselves in? What happens when they deport us into a goddamn war zone? Use us to fight their battles huh?”

“We destroyed a country Steve. Sokovia, New York, goddamn Wakanda! We’ve left our mark, we’ve saved a lot of people, but we’ve also displaced thousands, people have lost their entire lives, just wiped out with a fling of your shield, while we come back to this-“ You shift your gaze along the Tower walls

“This fucking concrete sanctuary, showering away blood and fucking alien guts-“

“Hey, I quite like this building, it’s got its charm-“ Tony chimes

And you tilt your face to meet his.

“Shut up Tony”

“What we do, we do because we know it’s right, I’m not saying we leave the fight without a care about the aftermath, but collateral is a given when you do the things we do”

“Right now, the power is in our hands, we all have the interest of the people in mind, these governments? They don’t care. They are going to make us fight their own battles, use us like goddamn military weapons for their own agendas. I don’t have to remind you of all people? What's it like to be used as the government's pawn?” Steve replied bluntly, the harsh words stinging you as you look up at him with furrowed brows.

That was low, especially for him. The claws of his passion escaping into jabs at your past.

A newfound anger blossoms within you, and you try and steer it with a clench of your fists that wean the plush leather of your armchair.

“You wanna talk about being used as a test tube by the government? You wanna talk about a fight that gets the other side exactly what they want? Do you forget about what you left for Hydra?” You spit without thinking, wincing as Bucky turns to you in quickness, his eyes shifting as they look towards you.

“Fuck..this is getting out of hand” Murmurs Sam, Tony beginning to switch from being entertained to looking grim.

“You do this Y/N, and you sign a death-”

“You do this Steve? You fight this? I’ll put you in the goddamn raft myself"

You cut him off with a blanch, the rest of the avengers stutter a breath, Tony looking towards you with raised eyes and you appraise them all with a disgruntled huff.

Steve looks taken back, the cool demeanour cracking as he remains dumbfounded. Did you truly mean it? Of course not, despite everything you had a level of trust bonding you to Steve in a way that just wasn’t with the other team.

“I didn't-”

“I know” Steve blinks, but you can still see the way he stares distantly

“This is surprising” Tony replies, leaning against the kitchen counter, the silence cut by his sarcastic remark.

You cut your eye to him, narrowing them as he puts his hand up in meek surrender

“No no it’s good, I’ve got two ex assassins on board, if you don’t agree they could probably just tie you all up and force you too” Tony chuckles, and you shake your head with a murmur.

“Don’t do this Steve, I get it, you don’t trust the government that was infiltrated by fucking Nazis, but- can’t you see there is truth to it? Between the fucking corporate lines and bullet points?

“You aren’t stupid, alright? This- this isn’t stupid. It’s the smartest thing I think we've done in years” Is your parting remark before skidding off of the too comfortable seat and walking out the office doors.

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rowyndodendron · 1 month ago

Text

(Un)spoken Echoes - An OdyDio Iliad Fic

First OdyDio and The Iliad fic of mine. Woo! All kinda splurge-written in one stream-of-consciousness go, not at all one of the 10+ planned OdyDio fics I've been rotating like rotisserie chickens in my brain. They possessed me, I wrote this, here we are.

Please read, enjoy, reblog, comment - all that good stuff.

Name: (Un)spoken Echoes

Pairings/Characters: Odysseus/Diomedes, Diomedes POV

Snippet: At that, he found himself on the receiving end of that black, thundercloud scowl that Odysseus had treated Agamemnon to several times tonight. He just smiled politely through it, weathering the storm until it broke, which it inevitably did.

Tutting impatiently, Odysseus began to pace restlessly like a caged wolf, “was it not you who once told me that the merit of a man’s words should be in what he says, not the flowery way he says it?” he shot at him.

Diomedes smiled at the fact the other man had retained this little nugget for so long. Likely stored away for use against him at a later time, but even so. It was the fact he had the thought at all that counted, he felt.

“And was it not you who told me in turn that the roses we offer up around the thorns of our words to sweeten their sting are often essential in ensuring that the gift of our advice, however sharp, is actually acknowledged and accepted?”

Summary: Odysseus has a Wild Time between books 13 and 14. This picks up immediately after the war council where Agamemnon suggests leaving (again) and Odysseus loses patience and roasts the ever-loving-fuck out of him. Diomedes thinks they may need to have a small talk about that.

Link in title or read below the cut!

The members of the war council flowed from the room with the rapidity of a river’s waters released suddenly from the dam holding them back. All save Odysseus. He alone remained, hands planted like two immovable oaks anchoring him to the table that he loomed above, surveying the map like a god might survey the world spread out before him.

Diomedes waited until the room had cleared entirely before he spoke, words quieted yet pointed, “that was rather harsh.”

Odysseus’ sharp eyes snapped up and bit into him more fiercely than any arrow. They did not waver nor give him any respite from their bite as he said, voice soft but utterly undeniable in the silence of the room, “was I wrong?”

With a sigh, Diomedes admitted, “No, but,” he added swiftly, heading Odysseus off before he could exalt his victory and shift the target of his focus to another topic before they’d finished with this one, “you did not make your point in such a way that left Agamemnon a way to do anything but reject it.”

At that, he found himself on the receiving end of that black, thundercloud scowl that Odysseus had treated Agamemnon to several times tonight. He just smiled politely through it, weathering the storm until it broke, which it inevitably did.

This brought the other king up short in his angry prowling. Apparently the surprise of Diomedes having remembered his exact words in turn was startling enough to briefly halt him.

Then he huffed a soft laugh and shook his head, muttering, “I should not have forgotten the lesson I learned long ago about not underestimating the sharpness of the blade your mind is,” he met his eyes, twinkling like twin stars, even in the low candlelight of the room, as he added, “no matter the brutish scabbard it’s hidden in.”

Diomedes, recognising it for the affection it was, if Odysseus’ strange brand of it, smiled in turn.

Though he started and reached briefly for his sword as Odysseus then whirled back to face him with the rapidity of a suddenly diving hawk, pointing a finger at him and glaring again, “which is not to say that I relent or admit defeat in the matter of Agamemnon’s idiocy.”

Diomedes sighed softly again as Odysseus resumed his pacing or, more accurately, irate stomping up and down, muttering, “what was he thinking to suggest that we flee now?”

“That he does not want to watch any more of his people die for him,” Diomedes returned softly, then, taking advantage of Odysseus’ lack of an immediate, whip-crack response as he seemed not to have realised he’d spoken aloud and invited one from him, he added, “or, equally, not wanting to watch the moment he fears, when those same people start refusing to die for him and abandon him alone.”

A contemptuous snort greeted that, with the brutal assertion that, “he would deserve it.” Shaking his head like a majestic stallion irritated by flies the same as a common sheep, he went on, growling, “Agamemnon, lord of men, shepherd of the people’” he mocked, “titles he seems to crave, given how he preens in their presence, but he does not think, nor speak, nor act like the king of kings he is meant to be. ‘I am not telling any man to drag their ships to the water against their will’,” he snarled, repeating Agamemnon’s rebuke to him in evident mockery.

“Is that so wrong?” Diomedes put in quietly, “to not wish to whip men like cattle and force them to obey?”

He was fully aware that he was a poker prodding at the hissing, crackling embers of a fire, and was only going to succeed in rousing it to full flame. But he had often served as the tool of Athena, and found that he did not mind serving as the tool of Odysseus, either, when it was needed. And this, he knew, was needed. His partner needed this chance to blaze and let the fire of his rage erupt. Diomedes knew that he could weather it, and that he could prevent Odysseus burning himself too badly in the process.

As predicted, he turned on him, puffing like a baited boar. “He is supposed to be their king! Our king, the gods grant us the strength to endure it,” he added in a slightly despairing mutter, “it is his right, and his burden, to command, just as it is our duty and burden to obey.” Looking up he met Diomedes’ eyes again and repeated words he had spoken before to him, “‘our victory his glory, our defeat his sorrow’.”

Diomedes bowed his head, acknowledging that, but giving no word in answer. Which left Odysseus the space of silence into which he could huff his frustration, teeth gnashing together with the force of two armies meeting on the battlefield.

“If he lacks such confidence in his plan that he would not give it as an order and demand it be obeyed, then he should not have let the feeble thing out past his lips to watch it stumble and die like a fawn born too early to survive,” Odysseus grumbled somehow effortlessly, and seemingly unconsciously, blending the cruel beauty of life’s struggle to merely exist in contention with all the world, and an idea Agamemon had spoken aloud before it was properly refined in his mind.

“He wants to avoid angering and driving away the others as he did Achilles,” Diomedes noted, reasonably, he felt.

In turn, Odysseus stared at him with a dark expression that very clearly suggested he had taken shits whose wants he cared about more than Agamemnon’s in this moment.

“What he wants is to be wanted,” he spat contemptuously, “he wishes to be loved, and adored and fawned over by all, to never risk making another man wroth with him, and so now he will never risk anything at all.”

“Is that such an evil thing?” Diomedes prompted, fairly, fully expecting that fairness to be swiftly put down like a lame horse as a mercy.

“No,” Odysseus admitted, surprising Diomedes with the apparent evenness of the response, which was not typically what was heard from him when he was in this mood. Then Odysseus restored his faith in him, and by extension the world outwith the tent, confirming both were continuing to act in the manner expected of them when he added, “but if incessant love and fawning was what he wanted, he ought have been a whore, not a king.”

That made Diomedes choke, partially on hastily swallowed laughter, and partially on his own spit. Amused as he was, he dragged a sweeping glance around the tent to make quite sure they were alone, though he knew they must be. He forgave Odysseus’ sometimes frighteningly brutal sense of humour, but others may call it something closer to treason. What they would do to him for that was a risk it was worth looking a paranoid fool to protect him from.

“You were more the king of kings than he,” Odysseus said unexpectedly, and Diomedes felt he knew what it must be like if Helios chose to direct the full power of his blinding light directly upon you, as the intensity of that legendary focus and mind were suddenly upon him. “You stood up and told them what you felt needed to happen clearly and directly, making it evident that it was what had to happen. And you were obeyed, unanimously, at once, as Agamemnon should be.”

Blushing like a boy given his first kiss, Diomedes cleared his throat excessively loudly and turned away from the intensity of that stare, the pride and respect and trust and something deeper they had never dared name blazing from it like an all-consuming forest fire.

When he turned back, he smiled almost playfully, unable to meet that sincere emotion with anything more serious, taking the role in this game they played where one laid their raw, world-changing set of cards upon the table and the other snatched it up like a trickster with an easy flick of the wrist and a laugh lest it ever become too much.

“Are you suggesting that we overthrow our lord of all men Agememnon and put me in his place?” he asked, making his eyebrows dance in an utterly ridiculous manner, which Sthenelus had previously described, deadpan of course, as being like two blind caterpillars attempting to fuck.

Indeed, Odysseus laughed, though from the wince of pain it seemed to cause him as he ghosted a hand over his chest, this was apparently regretted. Not enough to stop him from grinning, however, as he shot back, “do not tempt me.”

The smile they shared was a balm to the sharpness of the day, a necessary moment of levity, lightening their limbs so that they could still go on. As well as acknowledgement from both that this was not a thing either of them would ever truly contemplate. Not unless things became far, far worse than they were now.

Heaving a deep sigh, Odysseus circled back to the table at the room’s centre, looking down at the map spread across it. Diomedes joined him, and mirrored his gaze. His eyes, as they so often were, caught on the delicate little wooden figures scattered across it. Each had been carved, with unnecessary beauty given their purpose, into the likeness of different creatures to represent the different kings, camps, and companions brought with him. Each had been carved by the man now standing at his side. Such skill on display before him. He’d been so casual about it, too, as if this were some idle thing he did without thought or meaning, merely habit, like sharpening a sword.

Not for the first time Diomedes looked at the brilliant, talented, crafty man he’d come to rely on more than almost any other here, and wondered who and what he might have been had he managed to resist the irresistible hand of the gods dragging him into this war. He never wondered these things about himself. His place, and his purpose, was clear, and always had been. He had been born of blood and bronze and carved by immortal hands for one thing and one thing only. Were he not here at Troy he would be in some other war, he had no doubt. The world never seemed to lack for them. But Odysseus… Odysseus…

Abruptly, he realised the man that had been consuming his thoughts was speaking to him again, and forced his mind to this moment and to that voice, “...and perhaps I am being too harsh on him. I know Agamemnon does his best” he was saying softly, the shift in tone surprising, until he noticed the shake to his body, the slowly clenching fist, and the near wild rawness of his eyes. “But, I must confess, I have sometimes felt he has been playing at this war like a man at dice. But the stakes are men’s lives!” he cried, slamming the table with his fist in anger, sending his beautiful little wooden pieces scattering, collapsing like felled trees, helpless before the might of man’s axe. “My men’s lives!” he said, pounding the table again as though he wished it were the world and it would bend as easily to the strength of his emotion. “Men who’s faces I know well as that of my wife! Men who’s faces I will never see again, and will be haunted by forever from my last look at them, too young, too pained, as we covered them over with unfeeling dirt and left them to rot. My friends,” he whispered, voice fading to an anguished rasp.

“My friends,” he repeated, face contorted in a feral, furious snarl of pure pain and grief. Smashing his hand against the table once more, as if he needed the pain and the shock of it to have given him the strength that was in his voice again.

“Friends that I loved. Friends that I watched grow alongside me in Ithaca, climbing in the orchards together. Friends I can never bring home to those orchards. Gone. All of them! And the others, out there, each of them just waiting their turn to follow them down to the House of Hades. Waiting to die and be yet another stain of grief upon my soul that I will never be free of!”

A stain he would never truly want to be free of, either, Diomedes was sure. This was the curse Odysseus had carried with him over the sea. Most of the men he’d brought in his twelve ships were men he knew personally. Knew their names, their father’s names, their mother’s voices, their grandparents’ trades, their secret dreams and hidden hopes. Diomedes commanded too many to know each man by sight and name. He’d always been saddened by that fact, envious of the commanders with fewer numbers who knew their fighters, when knowing a man, friend or foe, was so often the difference between a battle one and a battle lost. Now he saw the sharpened edge of that blade as it stabbed into the heart of his Odysseus.

His Odysseus who raged still, and brought that fury to bear upon the table, crumpling the map, and bloodying his hand, like a storm battering against the walls of a man who unwisely trifled with the father Zeus. Diomedes let him, and made no move to intervene, knowing that he needed this.

Though when his strength finally gave out and his legs buckled beneath him, he was there. He had been expecting this since his fellow king had insisted on leaving his sickbed to join them, so he was ready for it. He caught him, as gently as he could, mindful of his wound, and cushioned the impact that would otherwise have come as he lowered him gently to the ground, cradled safely against him, ignoring the screaming of his own wound as he absorbed the weight of Odysseus’ fall and grief.

“I know,” he whispered quietly, though he knew he did not, “I know.”

Trailing his fingers through the thick curls of Odysseus’ hair, in a mirror of the way he did after their lovemaking, a word he had always inwardly scorned, before he’d met this man, he tried his best to soothe him and be a balm to his pain.

“Easy, easy, I’ve got you,” he murmured gently, wishing the gods had added even a little heart to the blood and bronze they’d created him from, so that he might be better at this.

For his part, Odysseus actually snorted, half-amused and half-indignant, apparently. Looking up at him, eyes red and raw, but still bright, still alive despite it all, he huffed reproachfully, “do not treat me as if I am some skittish horse, breaker of stallions.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Diomedes replied, with utmost solemnity and sincerity.

But he did not stop stroking Odysseus’ hair. Nor did Odysseus ask him to stop.

After a long while, or possibly a very short time indeed, he couldn’t tell, Diomedes braced himself to say the thing he’d sworn to himself he would say, even though he knew Odysseus would hate it. But he had come to the conclusion that morning that he would rather that, for then at least he could hate Odysseus as well as himself if the worst came to pass, knowing it was because he hadn’t listened, not that Diomedes had not tried. If he could ever bring himself to hate Odysseus at all.

“Do not go into battle again,” he whispered down into the dense brown curls tucked beneath his chin. “There will be no shame in it, all the men know you are wounded. You should return to the healers’ tents and rest.”

“No.”

He had expected the response, spoken as softly as it could be, while still being utterly unyielding, far more gently than he’d deserved it, in truth, knowing what his own reaction would be if he’d been asked to do the same. Yet it hit him harder than any blow he’d ever taken on the battlefield. And, even his very worst, he knew he would endure a hundred times over just to change that response to one that would have pleased his heart so much the Trojans all the way in their sacred city would have heard it sing in joy.

“Odysseus–” he began, but the other interrupted him.

“I cannot, Diomedes. You know I cannot. I cannot leave my men to face this alone. I cannot.”

My friends, he had said, my friends, he’d continued to cry in Diomedes’ arms, trembling and wracked with unbearable agony from his wound at every sob, yet he’d let them come all the same. He knew what he was asking him, and hated himself for it, even a little, as Odysseus must surely hate him for it now, but he pressed the attack all the same. It was the only thing he knew how to do, the only way he knew how to defend those he cared for.

“They would not have to be alone,” Diomedes told him, forcing himself through the arguments, determined to exhaust every weapon that he had armed himself with, to refuse to accept defeat until his corpse was dropped in the dust, incapable of fighting anymore. “I will take them under my command, join your men with mine. They know each other well, from the training and battles we’ve fought together, as they know and trust me. I will care for them on your behalf as if they were my own,” he swore, and meant it, he meant every damned breath of it. For all that it mattered.

Gripping the edge of the table, Odysseus pulled himself up, and out of Diomedes’ arms, with a stifled grunt of pain.

Without looking at Diomedes, even as he rose to his feet alongside him, suppressing a grimace, Odysseus said quietly, again, “no.”

“Odysseus for once in your damned life would you consider being reasonable? You are wounded!” Diomedes snapped, jabbing a finger at his chest, at the injury that, but for the grace of Athena, would have killed him mere hours before, leaving nothing but dust swirling in the air where his lover now stood.

“We are all wounded,” Odysseus replied in that steady, even voice.

That awful voice he used when he was carefully sculpting any evidence of emotion from himself. That voice he used with strangers and friends alike when he felt need to hide. That voice Diomedes had not heard directed at him in so long that he'd begun to delude himself into believing he never would again.

“But ‘let us go back to fighting, wounded as we are’,” he said, and his own words spoken back to him like this felt like a blow to the head from a god, “we have to,” he added, because he would never not twist the knife a final time.

Another thing Diomedes had once said to him. That last twist was the cheap price of cruelty for the priceless certainty that the job was done.

“Is that not what you said?” Odysseus threw at him, and gods, how quickly it could turn, like a beloved hound gone rabid, a thing he so loved about a man could so easily become a thing he loathed, as he did in this moment.

“This is an entirely different context to the one in which I spoke those words,” Diomedes growled, and he did not have the blank, empty voice that Odysseus could muster, free of the frustration and anguish he felt now. He wished that he did. Just so he could feel what it was like to have to listen to that from a man he–

“A point,” Odysseus allowed, inclining his head in acknowledgement, as if they were at a casual debating contest and he was conceding a fair point lost. “I do value your counsel, of course, Son of Tydeus,” he paused a moment, just to watch that strike precisely where it had been aimed, right at the heart of him. “If you have reconsidered our earlier discussion, I will of course return to the healers’ tents with you, where we who are wounded should rest.”

Damn him. Damn him by all the gods he knew and all those who had long been forgotten. Because he held Diomedes’ stare with a steady, unflinching calm. The calm of a man who does not look at the dice he throws, does not need to, for he has loaded them to guarantee his outcome, and knows what they will be. A calm that could drive a good, sane man to berserk, bloody insanity for how badly he wanted to rip it from him.

“I cannot–” Diomedes growled, knowing he was stepping directly into Odysseus’ trap, feeling its jaws spring up and snap around him, trapping him in place, but he couldn’t help it.

The response came immediately, mercilessly, before he'd even had a chance to draw breath, let alone brace himself for its impact.

“Yet you ask me to do this thing you cannot bring yourself to do?”

“It is not the same!” Diomedes barked furiously, “an arrow in the foot is not equal to that of a spear to the chest and you know it, Odysseus.”

There was a moment, the briefest beat of time, where Odysseus actually faltered a step in his relentless bludgeoning of Diomedes’ argument. Then he took a breath, raising his hands in a gesture of peace, meeting his eye and nodding slightly. And in that moment there was just enough time for Diomedes to believe that he might, perhaps, if the gods had ever favoured him, be considering being reasonable.

“You must admit, the spear and the arrow do share similar qualities,” he had the infuriating audacity to ponder, eyes twinkling, “both long, straight sticks with sharp ends, capable of piercing flesh, both–”

“Don’t,” Diomedes breathed, the words as near silent as a whisper carried upon a mountain breeze, more like to lose its way than ever find an open ear.

Yet Odysseus heard, he knew, and Odysseus felt. He watched the realisation strike him, the realisation that, for the first time, Diomedes could not bring himself to indulge in their typical game of deflection and levity. He had not, could not take the bait that would have allowed him to be pulled from the ever-darkening depths they were sinking to in the reality and rawness of this emotion that threatened to drown them both.

“Do not ask me to laugh in the face of the thing that almost took you from me, Odysseus. Do not.”

They teetered on the razor’s edge of that fleeting, fracturing moment, lingering for a fraction of a heartbeat, longer than they ever had before, in this feeling that had stirred between them years ago, yet had never borne a name, their tongues too heavy, their lips too fragile, to bear the weight and birth it. He felt it now, rising between them, daring Odysseus, all but impossible for him to resist.

Yet he did.

He turned to anger, eyes narrowed, sliced by the razor’s bite and enraged by it as he slipped from its edge, but chose to seize it like a man at a cliff edge, even though it cut into his flesh to do so.

“Do not ask you to laugh in the face of death?” he repeated softly, then his voice darkened like a calm day twisting suddenly to storm, rough and cold, and almost cruel as he hissed, “do not ask again, don’t you mean, Diomedes?”

Those eyes, those damned eyes, pinned him in place and held him there as sure as chains as Odysseus continued.

"We have done this dance before. You asked me to do it just the other day - after you wounded two gods. You bade me laugh for you, then. And I did.” That last word bit into his very bones like the sharpest winter cold. “Why can you not do me the same courtesy now?" he murmured, voice becoming so suddenly soft, where it had been harsh and hard, it was nearly breathtaking.

"You know why," he whispered, shocked at how faint his voice sounded, even to his own ears.

"What I know,” Odysseus returned, and Diomedes could have hated him, were he capable of that, for how controlled and unaffected he sounded when he spoke, “what we both know, is that I will not abandon my companions on the field of battle for any wound that is even a fraction less than one which would claim my life. The same as you, my friend,” he added with a slight smirk that, had he not caught the way it trembled in spite of all of Odysseus' composure, he might have punched from his face along with several teeth. “But,” he said, and though his tone had brightened to an attempt at nonchalance, Diomedes knew that it was an attempt, a pretty lie from the pretty liar he should have cut all strings from before he learned how to make him dance with them. “as I stand here in this planning chamber addressing you, Diomedes; not before grim Hades in his dread House, I shall see you in battle.”

He had nothing, in either heart or mind to say to that, but, needing to be sure, Odysseus added with the finality of a spear through the throat, “there is nothing more to be said."

Then he left. With a thousand lost epics of things yet to be said lingering in the chasm he carved between them, stretching on after him as he walked away. And did not look back.

#the iliad #odysseus #diomedes #odysseus x diomedes #odydio #homer #homeric epics #text post tag #fics #mine #my fics #my iliad fic #my odydio fics

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officialnostradamus · 2 months ago

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“There is no “correct” way to interpret art, my dear,” he insisted and, for the first time, his hand closed over Rook’s, finding his enduring warmth to offer comfort of his own. Rook reverberated with the fade like few Emmrich had ever known, an intense oceanic force contained within his diminutive frame and he could feel how it thrummed where their skin met. “You’ve more of a head for it than you realise. Perhaps it simply feels buried beneath your numerous other impressive qualities.” Rook’s blush was utterly charming, pink dusting the fine tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose, highlighting the delicate constellation of his freckles. “Aw, thanks,” Rook acquiesced, a hint of nerves in the becoming way he squirmed. While daring wasn’t in his nature, he was nothing if not swayed by passion. The succulent swell of emotion, the magnetic draw of being close, the incautious desire to leap beyond what is known. He bowed shallowly over their joined hands, a courtly gesture, steeped in decades of romantic history. “Thank you, Rook, for indulging a flight of fancy.” The sentiment itself was sincere, though he couldn’t help that it seemed an excuse to indulge just a might further. Emmrich brushed his lips over Rook’s knuckles and it was achingly sweet satisfaction to watch the blush darken his fair skin and feel his pulse quicken just beneath the surface.

**Eventually, I'm going to accidentally have posted the entire story as snippets. It's just fun. I've only wrote this chapter from Emmrich's perspective so far, but I do just kick my feet about his flamboyant inner monologue ✨

Falling Fearless | EmmRook, M/M, Eventual E

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #emmrich volkarin #emmrook #emmrich x rook #fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #rook #dragon age emmrich #veilguard rook

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diazsdimples · 1 year ago

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It’s the first sleepover weekend of Pride Month, so let’s make it Gay, fellas. Give me your favorite Tommy headcanons 🌈

Hell yeah, some HCs about my favourite canonically gay man!

Tommy doesn't talk to his father, but he was really close to his mother before she passed away. He's got a handful of half-siblings on his dad's side that he doesn't talk to but he's met one of his nephews before and was alarmed at how similar the kid was to him.

Tommy is at LEAST 10 years older than Buck. Somewhere between 10-15

Tommy's got this ancient, borderline mummified cat that he loves to absolute pieces and the only other person she tolerates other than him is Buck (I wrote a snippet about this)

Tommy was in the military because his father was too and it was his final effort to please his dad, before he realised that his dad was actually a piece of shit and he didn't care. He was only in it for a couple of years before joining the 118.

Captain Gerrard was actually really nice to Tommy initially and took him under his wing when he joined the 118. Combine with him and Sal, and Tommy being in a dark space mentally with the trouble with his dad, he latched on to the two of them without properly thinking about it and by the time he realised how awful they were (sometime after Chimney's arrival), it was too late and Gerrard would continually remind Tommy about how easily he could terminate Tommy's contract if he didn't play ball, making Tommy beholden to him.

Sometimes Tommy has to travel for work (deployment) and when he does, he likes to find a small something he knows Buck will like on the day that he leaves, even if it means cutting in to the minimal rest time he gets.

Tommy is an excellent artist. This is because when he was younger, he had an art teacher recognise the signs of a Troubled Youth™️ in him and she taught him to channel his frustrations and feelings through his art, and she made a very positive impact on his life. He now has an art corner in his apartment for his painting, although he hides the portrait of Buck that he's working on in his storage lockup where Buck won't see it.

Tommy hates coffee and has a comprehensive tea selection. They're organised by type (green, black, rooibos), flavour, and brand, but also by use (peppermint and ginger for tummy aches, chamomile for sleep, nettle and rose for skin/hair).

Sleepover Weekend Asks!

#james answers things #tommy kinard #tommy kinard headcanons #bucktommy #evan buckley #bucktommy headcanons #911 abc #911 #911verse #911 headcanons #firepilot #tevan #kinley #tommy x buck

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itsallmouthwashing · 4 months ago

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Masterlist of Writings and Alternate Universes

Welcome to the MASTERLIST for my works on this blog! Below I have linked relevant writings to each AU posted. This will mainly be for the Band AU as I'm most focused on that, but I will update this post to hold all of my work in this fandom :)

Makeup and Mouthwash- Band AU Playlists (Spotify) Tulpar (Band Au)- The songs that the band Tulpar have written Jimmy's Journal- The songs Jimmy wrote, starting from very young age. Basically, Jimmy's playlist for this AU Oh, Anya- The songs Anya writes, also from a younger age and her general playlist for this AU Vibes- Songs that apply to the AU but they do not apply to the main Tulpar playlist (aka, they don't write these ones)

// Characters P1 // Characters P2 //

Jimmy and Curly, having met freshman year of high school, form a fast and true bond. Propelled by the destruction of Curly's beloved (and very new) Epiphone guitar, their friendship brings them to a conclusion any two rebellious high-school boys would make: form a band.

Relationships (if any): JimCurly

Fic on Ao3

Dear Diary, Someone Smashed My Guitar Today

Through Hell, Jimmy's Personal

Clubs and Mouthwash- snippet

Salt and Mouthwash

Jimmy Come Home, The First Time (practice angst)

Ghost Adventures AU

Sole survivor! Curly teams up with a ghost investigation crew to revisit the crash site of the Tulpar, which has now been turned into a historic site and a point of tourism in that part of the solar system. Curly goes initially as part of his therapy and healing process, but years of work are thrown out the window when he begins to see the shadows of his co-workers

Relationships (if any): N/A

Initial thoughts post

Chapter 1, part 1

Chapter 1, part 2

One For The Money AU

AU where Pony Express is a front for a larger purpose: One that serves billionaires' sick need for control and power. The 'freighter corporation' has secured cameras to the Tulpar as a new safety initiative to prevent future unrest among the crew, but insiders use them to observe and influence the lives of the crew. The layoff notice? A 400 million credit investment on the premise that someone on the crew would cry. An 800 million credit return when Anya sheds tears later that night in the med-bay. One billion credits to send another notice notifying the crew that they will not be getting paid for this trip after all. A two million credit return when someone finds the gun before Anya does.

Relationships (if any): N/A

Ask post with first thoughts

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finn-m-corvex · 1 year ago

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Rain

Small snippet I wrote involving DR Jaya angst! Not canon compliant whatsoever, this is just indulgent for me personally. Needed to get back into the writing spirit even though life has sucked pretty bad recently. Hope you guys like reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it <3 <3

Words: 1.7k

TWs: none other than Jaya angst if that's not your thing!

The water splashed around his ankles as he slammed his feet into the stones, but Jay never slowed down, powering through despite the rain pouring onto his shoulders in buckets. He didn’t think that the Cloud Kingdom would’ve been able to experience any storms due to the altitude, but they were in the clouds, so he guessed it made some sort of backwards sense. Did anything ever really make sense after the Merge?

His pants were soaked. The jacket that he had stolen from that weird green guy was soaked too, but it said it was water resistant, and that was all he needed. He needed to get to her.

Her.

Pushing the sopping bangs out of his eyes, Jay kept running, with only the vague directions of the very startled monk keeping him going. All of the pristine white buildings looked the same, their round roofs all blending together in what would’ve been a shimmering sea of gold if the weather was permitting, and Jay would’ve stopped to admire the beauty if he wasn’t on a mission. Quite possibly the most important mission that he had ever been on in his life, or at least the parts of it that he could remember. The rest of his memories always felt like they were floating just out of reach, like he could grasp them if he tried hard enough to remember, but they never moved any closer. It always felt like he was running in place whenever he thought about it for too long, never able to move forward, but going back wasn’t an option either. Not anymore.

Did he really need to remember anything?

Finally, the Cloud Kingdom Library came into view, and Jay banished any thoughts that weren’t about her from his mind. His face was still throbbing from where the one who always wore red had punched him hard enough to bruise, and while the only thing that Jay had been concerned with at the time was the black and blue that would cover his cheekbone, he should’ve been concerned over the tears streaming down the other man’s face, contorted in a mask of fury that could’ve burned the entire Administration building down to the ground with a single glare.

“I don’t know who the fuck you are anymore, but you’re not my brother. You never were my brother. And if this is who he was always going to turn out to be, I-I never would’ve let Nya anywhere near you.”

It burned. It burned and hurt and made his chest scream with pain more than anything he had ever heard in his life. More than that time he was passed over for the promotion that would’ve freed him. More than the Administration doctor saying that he would never get his memories back. The statement almost seemed to grab the box where Jay shoved all of the things he didn’t want to see: the grief, the anger, the misery and the loneliness and the agony and the disappointment-

And shattered it. So it was just as broken as him.

Kai. That was his name. His name was Kai. His brother’s name was Kai.

Jay very nearly slipped right down the stairs when a sharp sting reverberated through his skull, the water still fresh on his shoes, and the ankle that had always given him trouble when he had to take the office stairs twinged in pain. Would one of them be able to explain that to him if he asked? Explain why he had the ‘x’ scarred into his chest, or the whip marks from the small of his back to the top of his shoulder? The light scratch overtop of his eye that always made his head hurt if he looked at it for too long? Would they even want to do that for him anymore?

She had told him when they first met that she held the answers, answers that he didn’t want at the time. All he wanted was to go back to isolating in his office, drowning himself in his work and games and anything else to make him feel alive.

But how could he have ever truly been alive if he wasn’t him?

“Nya!” Jay exclaimed when he reached the bottom, catching himself on the towering stone wall before he could faceplant. Wooden bookshelves, dizzingly tall, surrounded him like an army ready to march, and Jay never thought that he could be so intimidated by stationary supplies bound in leather when he was ensconced in both for as long as he could remember, but nevertheless there was something daunting about them. There was no telling what information was being held in here, maybe even the entire history of the universe. She could be anywhere in here, hiding behind one of these shelves and he wouldn’t even know it until she saw him and then what would he say and what would he do and oh First Master he wasn’t ready-

And then he looked again. She wasn’t behind a bookshelf, waiting to ambush him, but sitting at one of the desks on the far side of the room, hidden almost perfectly by a stack of books that was almost as tall as her.

Walking quickly but quietly with a poise that Jay only recently learned the origins of, he made his way to her, only a little prepared to spill his guts and beg for forgiveness, on his knees if he had to.

Until he heard soft snores coming from the beautiful woman, hisYang, and Jay was taken aback by how ethereal she looked bathed in the light of the candles surrounding her. Her gi was rumpled and dirty, and Jay could tell that she must’ve been laying here and sleeping for a while, perhaps reading in the library for even longer. The small beauty mark on her cheek was almost glowing, and Jay had to swallow back the sudden urge to run his thumb across it. The urge seemed to almost trigger a phantom longing from deep inside of him, to hold her and comfort her and love her, and Jay could tell that he was losing the battle against it.

Being more gentle than Jay could remember, he brushed her cheek, and his heart squeezed when Nya leaned into his touch with a soft sound. The water was streaming off of him in droves, forming puddles through all of the crevices in the floor, and yet the only thing Jay cared about was watching as the love of his past life relaxed as his thumb stroked her cheek. She—she still trusted him this much? Even after everything?

And yet, the thing that devastated him the most was seeing all of the titles on the books’ spines, the tops of the scrolls, everything that she was researching…all of it was about memories, and ways to cure even the most obscure illnesses, even some books about ancient myths that he knew she was hoping would work. Hoping for anything to work.

Jay’s chest tightened, and he pulled away as if his hand were on fire.

No. No, he didn’t deserve to comfort her, not anymore. There was nothing that he could do, that he would allow himself to do for her anymore. Because she was here, and doing all of this work, and he had the audacity to try and find her just so that he could wallow in his own self-misery and keep throwing himself pity party after pity party?

“I’m..I’m so sorry,” Jay stammered, wiping at his eyes as the tears trailed down his cheeks, falling and mixing with the water still dripping from his hair, and Jay was suddenly very aware that he was making a mess. A bigger mess than usual, at least. He desperately tried to wring out his clothes, being as quiet as he could so that he wouldn’t wake Nya. And yet, he still paused and watched anxiously as her eyebrows would furrow and she would move slightly, breathing a sigh of relief when she finally turned her head over.

A sob threatened to burst out of his chest. “I should’ve been here,” Jay said quietly, “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve..why did I stay there for so long? Why? Why do I…why do I always fuck it up, Nya? How do you still love me, after everything?”

Why did I choose to stay in hell, when I could’ve been in heaven with you?

Nya was shivering, some of the wind from the open stairwell blowing past them. Jay wished that he had brought a blanket, even if it would’ve been more like a fancy drenched towel at this point, then he remembered his suit jacket. It should be fairly dry from being protected by the green one’s jacket that he snatched, and it was better than nothing.

Jay started shedding the overcoat, letting it fall to the floor with a wet plop, and he did a double check of his suit jacket to make sure that he wasn’t about to infect Nya with a cold by leaving it with her. He very well might end up with a cold of his own after the sprint through the Cloud Kingdom. To his relief, it was relatively dry, and Jay was quick to tuck it around the water ninja’s shoulders…

…before finally giving into the urge to press a kiss to her head, as gentle as he could manage. Jay made sure that the jacket wouldn’t fall off of her before turning and walking back to the stairs, the green ninja’s stolen jacket over his shoulders, and watching as Nya’s shoulders rose and fell with steady breaths. He silently apologized to the monks that would have to clean up the mess, but he had work to do now. Jay Walker had a mission, and he was going to give it more attention than anything he had ever worked on for the Administration.

“I’m going to make this right,” he whispered. “Nya, I promise, I’m going to make this right. I’m going to make this okay. It’ll be okay.”

Didn’t the pink one mention something about a Djinn that granted wishes? Maybe Jay needed to pay him a visit.

#yeah this starts pretty awkwardly but it does what it's supposed to #ninjago #ninjago jay #ninjago nya #ninjago dragons rising #jaya #ninjago jaya #finn's writing

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quathxr · 6 months ago

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Idk if I’ve ever talked about writing on tumblr before… but surprise I’m a writer too! My good friend @splashheart8 and I have been working on a story of ours for years. I wrote a little snippet today, and I thought I’d share it!

cw: mentions of injuries, blood, stitches, and brief panic.

“Can I take a look at what happened?”

After a moment of hesitation, Lila nodded tersely. Moving as slowly as she could, Mara pulled back the layers of clothing around Lila’s abdomen to reveal her wound. Her clothes were soaked, caked with blood that had now coated Mara’s hands. With a grimace, she eyed the wound.

Clearly, the women had not taken it easy as Mara would have hoped. The stitches around her arrow wound had almost completely popped. She placed a gentle hand near the wound, pretending to ignore Lila flinching away from her touch. The surrounding area felt warm. “You probably got it infected. What were you doing?”

Lila stared at the floor behind Mara. “Not dying.”

Mara muttered a string of curses under her breath. “This is gonna take some work.” She looked over her shoulder to where the merchants and Nyx were hovering. “Some space would be nice?” The less people nearby, the easier it was to focus. Plus, she could only take so much Nyx in a day.

The trio obediently shuffled out of the treehouse, taking turns climbing down the tree. Benji gave her a tight smile as he closed the trapdoor behind him.

Turning back to her patient, Mara raised an eyebrow. “Did they really kidnap you?”

Lila tilted her head side to side. “Eh. Depends on your definition. I’m not exactly here willingly.”

Mara snorted. She opened up her bag and pulled out a clean rag. She dabbed at the wound with the fabric, sending Lila apologetic glances at every wince. Once she’d wiped away any excess blood, and stars above she was praying that wasn’t puss, she set the rag aside and carefully removed the torn stitches.

With a pause, Mara considered her Ka. She had only done some mild practice with Sarah earlier, she should be fine. Right? Mara let out a breath, hoping Lila didn’t notice the quiver in it. She closed her eyes, and let the colors flood her eyelids. Lila’s Ka was a vibrant off-white, bursting at the seams with life, similar to how Clover’s had been, but with a more rhythmic feeling. Mara focused on the weakest spot of her Ka, down by her wound. With a much steadier breath, she reached out with some of her own Ka. Even before Mara’s greenish Ka mingled with her patients, Lila’s Ka lashed back, as if rejecting the healing. Mara opened her senses back to reality, to hear what sounded like her patient hyperventilating. “Lila, I need you to breathe.” She was met with staggered attempts to calm down. “I promise I will not hurt you. But I cannot heal you if you’re this panicked. Breathe with me.” Mara breathed in loudly, and was pleasantly surprised by the sound of Lila matching her breathing. They sat like that for a few more breaths, before Mara focused back in on Lila’s Ka.

Extending her Ka, Mara hesitated before interacting with Lila’s Ka, letting it sit with the unfamiliar energy. The white Ka rippled away momentarily, before settling. With a breath out, Mara infused her Ka into the wound. She let as much of her Ka flow as she could, before she was abruptly cut off by the whitish light pushing her away again.

Mara opened her eyes. She reached out to feel around the wound. With a breath of relief, she said, “I think the infection is gone.” She looked up to meet Lila’s eyes. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, but your Ka is… Violent.”

Lila snorted. “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” she paused, “but thank you.”

if you have any questions about the world building or something, I’m always happy to share :3

#gots #guardians of the stars #Writeblr #writing snippet #writing #author #creative writing #fantast #magic #fantasy book #my writing #ocs #worldbuilding

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ollypopwrites · 4 months ago

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i got tagged by @the-bear-and-his-sunbird to post a snippet of a WIP and tbh I didn’t know what to post but I found something!

Tagging anyone who wants to play (please tag me I love to see what you are working on) and I am too distracted to think of all the lovely writers and their fics that I greedily want a sneak peak at.

This snippet was written at the beginning of a follow up to Aureate, a bit of a flashback moment. at this point I like what I wrote but am still unsure it has a place in that fic!! It is unedited and very much just like a spark of a thought i wrote out sooooo take it for what it is lol

Emmrich had known devastating loss, he met it very early and it had been somewhat of a companion for most of his life.

Suddenly and with striking finality he had become an orphan, with no other family willing or able to take him in. Home and parents, gone all in one fell swoop.

And he was a sensitive child, something that had never truly passed, not a phase or a fleeting reaction to tragedy. No, even forty odd years after the loss of his parents he was still quite easily moved to extreme emotion. The only thing that had changed was his ability to mask it, and even that was mediocre when the more pressing feelings washed over him in a tidal wave.

Loss was familiar but he never found it less harrowing. That initial detachment, the shock, had rendered him mute the first few days after his parents died. The first stage of grief was where one had to grapple with was the idea that someone was now forever absent. He had learned to trudge on through that, smaller losses had made it possible.

A first love, dashed and broken. Second, third and fourth loves in succession, deeply scarring in their start and end. The stark acceptance of dreams left behind. Indeed, lichdom had many appeals, one of which being that there would be no final grave next to his parents’. He had agonized over forewards of his books in editions published after his demise, mentioning a sparse trio of graves with no new names to add to the altar. The sharp edge of a lack of family in both directions; no parents, no lover, no children. It was only him and his work. The horrible ache of friendships thrown to the rocks. Johanna had been a slow but aching loss, one of the most memorable.

“So you didn’t get blown to bits! Aren’t you going to gloat? Volkarin the God Vanquisher! Pah!”

Even if she was still present in his life, and he had the slightest hope time would soften her to something less wretched (unlikely), the days where they could call each other friend were long gone. A new soreness bloomed, as he thought that the comfort of a friend who had been with him as long as she had would have been welcome.

Emmrich didn’t entertain a response to her jab. Nothing she said was going to soothe or even be remotely helpful. He’d be better off knocking on Taash’s door, who was actively melting everything in their room. Even now he could faintly hear a thud and a crash.

Poor, poor Taash. Their mother and now Lace.

Taash was not receptive to his approaches of comfort, but he was sure Rook would —

Ah. That’s right.

They had returned home from Tearstone Island three short. Lace Harding was undoubtedly dead, while Bellara was in all likelihood absorbed and dying a slow painful death by blight. Lovely ladies, very dear friends of his, the pair of them. Someone would need to water Harding’s plants, and he should organize Bellara’s scribbled notes to get them published for her. There were no remains to do anything with, and even if there were the others would have burnt them. Barbaric.

#emmrook #emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook

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fkinkindagauche · 10 months ago

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Hot Knife

Posting just a snippet here of a one-shot I wrote while work was super slow the past few days and I had this song stuck in my head non-stop (Hot Knife by Fiona Apple). It's omegaverse, which I know is not everyone's cup of tea, so you have been warned! Full tags on AO3.

Read the full fic on AO3

Rating: Explicit | Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, mentions of Chrissy Cunningham/Robin Buckley | Tags: AU No Upside Down, AU Omegaverse, AU College, AU Modern Setting, full tags on AO3

I'm a hot knife, I'm a hot knife

I'm a hot knife, he's a pat of butter

If I get a chance, I'm gonna show him that

He's never gonna need another, never need another

“Him,” Steve said confidently, nodding across the dining hall at a gangly man with a mess of long brown hair who looked like he'd just walked out of a Mötley Crüe show.

“ Eddie Munson ?” Robin asked, nearly spitting out the mouthful of soda she'd just taken.

“Is that his name?” Steve asked, watching as the man - Eddie - nearly tripped over his own feet walking to a table.

“He's not exactly your type, Steve,” Robin replied.

“I smelled him in the elevator. He's my type.”

“Okay, but he's, like, a huge fucking nerd. He's a music major. He plays Dungeons and Dragons. And he's in a heavy metal band.” She just kept listing things, like it was going to do anything to change Steve's mind.

He waved a hand at her dismissively. “Don't care,” he said, still watching. Eddie was talking to the other people at his table now, gesturing vigorously with his hands then throwing his head back and laughing loud enough that Steve could hear it across the dining hall.

“If you start something with Munson your swim team friends are finally gonna actually disown you,” Robin said. “You being friends with me was bad enough.”

“Yeah, I think I’m at the point where I’m okay with that. They’re boring.” He had spent his sophomore year becoming increasingly annoyed with his teammates, who seemed to want to stay mired in the same types of people and pastimes they’d experienced in high school. He had enjoyed it during his first year, it had been nice to have continuity and had made the transition to college less jarring, but now he found he was looking for something more , and they all wanted to stay the same.

He had met Robin in one of his classes, a geeky girl who had no interest in sports beyond what she observed from her section in the marching band, but she constantly made him laugh, and she was an omega, his first real omega friend. He had always been the only omega on the swim team, a bit of a freak of an omega given his large size and muscle mass. The other guys on the team had a tendency to completely forget about his designation, given the scent patches he wore all the time.

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” Steve announced, pushing his chair back.

Robin shrugged. “Your funeral,” she said, and Steve rolled his eyes. He knew he was a very attractive and charismatic man, Eddie would probably be excited to be approached by him.

Steve walked over to the table, Eddie still deep in conversation with his friends as he approached, not even looking up at Steve. A couple of his friends glanced up with confused looks on their faces, but Eddie just continued holding court.

Steve sat in an empty seat directly across from Eddie, who finally acknowledged his existence. “What do you want, jock boy?” Eddie asked, derision evident in his tone. “I don’t sell to athletes, that’s a surefire way to get expelled while you just get a slap on the wrist.”

Oh, he was a drug dealer. Robin had left that bit out of her list. “I’m not here to buy,” Steve said, holding out a hand. “I’m Steve Harrington.” He hit Eddie with his best bedroom eyes. He knew Eddie couldn’t smell him through the scent patch, but surely he’d heard of Steve Harrington, omega swim team superstar.

Eddie just stared at Steve’s hand, not extending his own. “Can I help you with something, Harrington?” He sounded annoyed. “Or are you just here to stare and interrupt our conversation?”

Okay, that was unexpected. This was not going the way Steve had expected. He typically had no trouble picking up alphas, in fact they tended to be the ones throwing themselves at Steve. He could deal with this, though. Just a little pushback. He’d try again when there weren’t so many people around, maybe Eddie was just shy.

“No, just wanted to introduce myself,” Steve said, smiling.

Eddie waited for a moment then waved his hand away from the table. “Well, introduction done. Run along, jock boy.”

Steve stood, walking back over to Robin who had dissolved into snorting laughter at the table.

“Oh my god, you just got shot down so hard,” she said between laughs. “How’s it feel, King Steve?”

“He must not get subtlety, I might need to be more explicit,” Steve said, refusing to let his confidence take a hit.

Robin wiped a few tears away from her eyes. “Sure, Steve. It definitely couldn’t just be that there’s one alpha out there in the world that won’t immediately whip their knot out for you at the first sign of interest.”

***********

Eddie wasn’t sure what Harrington had been doing talking to him, if not to buy drugs. Maybe he was still angling for that, just trying not to scare Eddie away. Eddie knew who he was; everyone knew who Harrington was. Not just the golden boy of the swim team, but an omega with a pussy made of gold, to hear some of the alphas talk.

He was also a cocky asshole too convinced of his own importance, and Eddie didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

“What did Harrington want?” Gareth asked, like he hadn’t been sitting there right next to Eddie through the whole conversation.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Eddie said, and looped the conversation back around to what they had been talking about before, the upcoming campaign for the D&D club. He didn’t want to waste any more breath on that man.

************

Steve really tried to give up on Eddie after that first flop, but he found he couldn't stop thinking about him. When he'd caught a whiff of him in the elevator it had triggered the strongest response he'd ever had to a scent. The most immediately noticeable notes of his scent were pretty typical alpha scents, something in the woody family with cloves mixed in, but underneath that Steve could catch hints of something sweeter, possibly jasmine, maybe even vanilla. Not typical alpha scents. Layered underneath all of that was just a hint of patchouli. A thoroughly sophisticated scent.

He'd tried to describe all of this to Robin to explain why he wouldn't give up yet, but she found his hyperfixation on scents in general annoying, and even though she was an omega she had never been able to pick apart a scent as well as he could. Robin's lack of interest notwithstanding, he was too intrigued to give up after just one miss.

As luck would have it, after swim practice the next day he found himself in the mailroom at the same time as Eddie, who was filling in the address on an envelope. It seemed like Eddie never wore scent patches; Steve was once again surrounded by his scent as soon as he walked into the mailroom. Eddie didn’t even look up as Steve walked in and grabbed his mail.

“Hello,” Steve said when it became clear Eddie wasn’t going to acknowledge him.

Eddie looked at him, frowning, and his scent went a little sour. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Just… saying hi,” Steve said awkwardly, not sure how this man kept robbing him of his typical charm.

“Alright, you’ve completed your task, run along,” Eddie said, waving a hand toward the door. The hostility was a bit shocking to Steve, who had always managed to skate through life liked by everyone around him.

“Did I do something to you at some point that I don’t remember?” Steve asked, perplexed.

Eddie sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, Harrington. I just have very little time for drug seeking rich boys who could get me expelled if I sell to them.”

“I’m not looking for drugs,” Steve protested. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“Sure, sure,” Eddie said, looking like he very much did not believe Steve. He finished writing on the envelope and threw it into the mail slot, brushing past Steve as he left the mail room, not even saying goodbye.

Steve was honestly a bit shocked. He didn’t think anyone had ever been that mean to him, especially not anyone he was showing interest in. He was really going to have to step up his game.

************

“Steve, you forgot your scent patch again,” Robin said as he sat next to her in the dining hall.

“I didn’t forget it,” he replied. “I intentionally didn’t put one on.”

Robin furrowed her brow. “I thought you stopped needing to do that to get laid a while ago.”

Steve sighed. “I thought so, too. But it appears there are still some people resistant to the powers of my scentless charm and reputation.” He looked over at the table where Eddie was sitting with his friends.

“What do you know about him?” he asked Robin, nodding toward Eddie.

Robin looked over her shoulder, following his gaze and sighing. “Really? You're still on this?”

“Yes, I’m still on this.”

“Is this just one of those things where you feel slighted by his rejection so now you need to relentlessly pursue him just to prove you can?”

“No, I told you. It’s his scent.”

Robin made a frustrated noise. “You are so weird about scents, Steve. I mean, I’m an omega, too. I have a nose. He just smells like an alpha. Maybe like an alpha who spent too long in a New Age bookstore, but not in a compelling way.”

“Well he wouldn’t smell that good to you . I think we’re scentmates,” he declared, but Robin only rolled her eyes.

“Okay, first, those don’t exist. Second, you claim you’ve found your scentmate at least once a semester, yet you never seem to want to keep them around after the novelty wears off. Doesn’t seem like a fated pair situation to me.”

“None of those were real! This time it is.” He was well aware of how ridiculous he sounded, but it was true. Sure, he’d really liked the way all those other people had smelled, but this was much more visceral. He felt drawn to Eddie in a way he had never experienced before.

“Okay, Steve,” Robin said with a long-suffering sigh.

The person sitting next to Eddie stood to leave, and Steve took his chance. He stood up and walked over, sitting down next to Eddie. “Hi Eddie,” he said, leaning in as close as he could without risking a punch to the face, so Eddie could get a good whiff.

Eddie turned to him and glared, but Steve could see his nostrils flare and his eyes widen incrementally before his face snapped back into neutrality. “This is getting old, Harrington. If you don’t want drugs then could you please tell me what you do want so I can never speak to you again?”

Not a promising response, but at least he’d gotten a little bit of a reaction. “Just wondering if you’re free this weekend,” Steve said. “There’s a party at the Sigma Chi house.”

Eddie laughed in his face, stopping when Steve frowned. “Christ, are you serious? Absolutely not, I wouldn’t be caught dead at a frat party.”

Okay, yeah, maybe Steve had miscalculated there, it was just the first thing he thought of. “Right. They’re not great. What do you usually do for fun on the weekends?”

“What is this conversation?” Eddie asked, looking more confused than pissed off at this point. “What is your aim here, Harrington? Is this like some sort of prank with your jock buddies?”

Steve made an exasperated noise. “I don’t even hang out with them anymore outside of practice and meets. Not sure if you’ve noticed but I pretty much just spend all my time with Buckley now,” he said, motioning towards Robin.

“I haven’t noticed, because I do not give two shits about you. I don’t even give one shit. No shits are given. Now go away and stop bothering me, you’re putting me off my food.” He pointedly turned his back on Steve, who got up and walked away, a little shell-shocked. He heard a few snickers from Eddie’s friends.

Plopping down next to Robin, Steve put his head on his arms. “That didn’t look like it went well,” Robin said, patting Steve on the back. “Was he not immediately entranced by your luscious scent?”

Steve half-heartedly threw an elbow at her. “I could tell he noticed it, but it didn’t help. I think he really doesn’t like me.”

Robin made a sympathetic noise. “This must be very new for you, to not be liked.”

“It is,” Steve whined, sounding pitiful even to his own ears.

“I mean, you have to admit. You probably have, like, nothing in common with him,” Robin said.

“How can I know that if he won’t even talk to me?”

“Okay, fair,” Robin admitted.

“What do you know about him?” Steve asked, picking up his head.

“I already told you everything I know - D&D, heavy metal, and music school. You are interested in none of those things.”

“I could be, though,” Steve said. “Does his band actually have gigs?”

Robin sighed. “I don’t know, Steve. Are you seriously going to keep pursuing this?”

“Yes, absolutely. I will not back down from a challenge.”

Read the full fic on AO3

#eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfiction #omegaverse #alpha beta omega #steddie smut #stranger things #my fics #gauche writes

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