#It's gonna be a fic a day for two weeks!

[percabeth4life]

So, I'm writing the fics for the SeaFam event starting October 1. It's gonna be so fun :P Here's a list of the titles!

Shatter Me (Blood Stained Glass)

Little Prince, Little Love

A Soul's Fate

Oil Spill, Entrails Spill (An Iridescent Tide)

What is Fate to a Sister's Love? (Fated)

Good God, Oh God, Our God

Little Brother (Most Valued Treasure)

Your Father's Eyes (but which father is the question)

One-Tail, Two-Tail (red fish, blue fish)

You're Me but I'm Me (Oops, Mistaken Identity)

Find Your Home (On Ocean Foam)

Give Me All Your Gold Or You'll Never Get Your Sea Prince Back Alive!

Rain, Rain, Go Away (Pegasus says you cannot stay)

The Ocean's Rage (The Tide's Hug)

:P The event is technically only 7 prompts but I'm doing the bonus prompts too! I'm very exited for them all.

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed [ pt 2 ]

{☆} characters furina, neuvillette {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.9k {☆} previous [ 1 ]

This had to be a punishment of some sort – some kind of divine punishment.

She was bored out of her mind just watching the sleeping body – she hadn't blinked once in the past five hours, her eyes were really starting to hurt. Yet they still hadn't moved so much as an inch since she sequestered them away to the only place she had known to be safe.

But it'd been almost a week since then.

The only solace she found was that Teyvat had seemed much less hellbent on collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

That counted for something.

Not much, but something!

..Even if their position was no better then it was a week ago.

There was, after all, still the issue of what to do about the false Creator – the actual imposter – and the Archons following them like blind lambs. The other Archons wouldn't listen if she tried to reason with them, and it would only risk the life of Divine One if she spoke of their location to anyone else.

She also was pretty fond of having her head still attached to her shoulders.

So she avoided them all together. Partially because she wasn't sure she wouldn't have a breakdown at the sight of them..she'd never been a fighter, and fighting an Archon? Easy pass.

Instead she was forced to babysit the sleeping Divine until they woke up while Neuvillette handled taking care of the nation and dealing with the other Archons – and by extension the false Creator.

Really though, she would almost think them dead if not for the subtle rise and fall of their chest.

Though..this also left her with a lot of time to herself. A lot of time to think.

She really didn't like it.

There wasn't a lot to occupy her mind and what little there was only distracted her for a scant few moments before her eyes drifted back to the Divine like she was locked in their orbit, unable to escape.

She closed the same book for the twelfth time – she kept count – and returned it to it's meticulously designed place within her bookcase. A low, barely audible huff of frustration escaped her lips before she could bite it down, her stare boring a hole into the body of the Divine One with a sharp intensity she rarely showed.

She was tired, bored and constantly on edge, fearing that at any moment someone would find out about their presence here.

That, at the drop of a hat, she would be powerless to stop the greatest tragedy of her time play out before her eyes.

Neuvillette would have scolded her for being so petulant, especially around the Divine One, if he were here.

But he wasn't.

He was out running her nation, instead.

And what was she doing? Nothing!

She grit her teeth, nails digging harshly into the palm of her hands as she took a deep breath – now was not the time to think about that. She had..much more pressing matters. Sulking and letting her thoughts spiral helped no one, least of all herself.

Yet her attention was caught by a harsh inhale, the rustle of fabric – were they finally waking up? She was exhausted, but it all vanished at the sudden drop of life within the otherwise deathly still body of the Divine.

Her eyes followed the subtle twitch of their fingers, watching as their brow furrowed and their features twisted in something almost like..pain.

..She wasn't ready.

What was she supposed to say?

Should she even say anything? Would that be considered impolite? Does she wait for them to speak first? Should she kneel? Bow?

She doesn't get much time to find her own answer before their lashes flutter, chest heaving with every strangled breath. Every single thought vanishes from her mind the moment she meets their eyes.

For a long, silent moment she thinks that her heart must have stopped.

Their eyes glow like the cresting of the sun over the horizon, painting the world in hues of gold – yet it also reminded her of the dipping of the moon below the waves, casting the briefest, most gentle of lights upon the world engulfed in darkness. In the depths of their eyes was the birth and death of stars in the infinite cosmos – glittering stars in a sea of empty, blank space that left her feeling lightheaded and breathless.

Beneath the splendor is a spark of recognition in their eyes so vibrant it was like a shooting star piercing through the dark night sky, leaving nothing but the wonder in the eyes of the observer as the only proof it ever existed – brilliant in it's beauty, however brief.

It is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.

"Focalors?"

The lilt of their voice nearly made her knees buckle beneath her – euphoria so consuming it left her feeling she was starving swallowed her whole, her mind blanking in a moment of utter bliss. It was..an indescribable feeling that she doubted she could ever hope to put into words – not in a way that could properly express it, try as she might.

She swallowed the words that threatened to spill from her lips – she couldn't make a fool of herself. Not in front of them of all people. She'd never forgive herself.

"Divine One," She rasps, clearing her throat and covering her mouth with a hand to mask both her nervousness and the small smile that creeps across her face. She quickly regains her composure, hand resting on her hip as she puffs out her chest with every bit of pride she can manage. "I am sure you must be confused, but worry not– your most loyal acolyte has seen the truth!"

The silence is deafening.

She opens one eye, peaking at the bewildered and almost distraught expression of the Divine.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

That..she was not prepared for. Surely they knew who they were! Surely they knew. They had to– she's been praying to them for as long as she's breathed, she's dedicated every hour of her life to living up to their ideals, they can't just–!

"Lady Furina?"

Neuvillette, thankfully, spares her the embarrassment of having a meltdown in front of the Divine, the gentle rap of his knuckles against the door making her and the Divine pause, the soft lull of his voice soothing her nerves and yet setting her on edge at the same time.

"Neuvillette." She clears her throat again, her steps hurried as she marches to the door and pries it open none too gently, a forced smile pulling at her lips. She wastes no time tugging the man into the room, shutting the door behind him with a short huff. The silence is, somehow, even worse then before as the three of them stare at each other in absolute exasperation.

Neuvillette, for his part, manages to get his act together with a sharp clearing of his throat, bowing so low even she looks unnerved. She steals a brief glance at the Divine, and she's taken aback by the uncomfortability twisting their features into a grimace.

Their expression is schooled back into one of empty apathy when he stands back to his full height, but she saw it – she knows she did! Did they not like their worship? Were they not respectful enough? For a moment, she feared the Divine would smite Neuvillette down on the spot..but they just stared at him like he was a ghost.

"Why aren't you killing me?"

The defeated, resigned tone combined with the way their voice cracks makes her heart ache in her chest – it feels as though her entire world is crumbling down at her feet, and she cannot explain why she feels such emotions so strongly, but it is suffocating. It is almost as if Teyvat itself is weeping, bearing down upon her shoulders like a heavy weight.

She feels the urge to weep herself, but she powers through, gritting her teeth long enough for Neuvillette to take his place at the side of her – though it feels more like their – bed, kneeling like he was going to pray.

"Divine One," He offers a hand with a quiet rumble of his voice, the words slipping off his tongue like honey. It's like trying to soothe a stray cat..though she'd never voice such comparisons of the most Divine out loud. "I..we mean you no harm. I swear on my authority as the Iudex of Fontaine and Chief Justice that you are safe with us."

The skepticism she expected, but the reverence in which Neuvillette must convince them – or perhaps they are simply so tired that they simply did not care any longer if it was all some ploy to drive a knife between their ribs. She didn't expect them to actually place their hand in Neuvillette's.

He didn't either, judging by the way he visibly brightened – not that they'd notice, but she did.

..Not that she could really blame him, her heels clicking against the floorboards as she shifted her weight to the other foot with a nervous energy that was practically bursting at the seams, more then a little jealous of the attention he was receiving. She was the one who found them, she was the one who stayed with them the entire time..but he gets all the attention?

How unfair.

"O-of course! We would never lay a hand on our creator," She adds, her voice a little higher pitched then she would have liked as she placed her hands on her hips, puffing out her chest and brushing off the sting of jealousy. "Least of all I– your most loyal, most devout acolyte!"

She felt baffled when she heard the sound of their laughter, her shoulders hunching and her cheeks flushing on mere instinct – she was expecting mockery, but the look in their eyes, still dulled by a pain she cannot even begin to imagine, made her hesitate.

..It was, perhaps, the most genuine thing she'd heard from them ever since before the hunt began.

She wasn't sure why her heart hurt at such an idea, but it was enthralling to see the beginnings of a half hearted smile on their lips.

For a moment, her mask of theatrics was forgotten as she stared at them in a mixture of awe and adoration– and though she didn't look at Neuvillette, she could imagine he must've shared such an expression.

Had she any doubts that they were her Creator, that they alone were the most Divine..they would wiped clean now. There was no mistaking the way the world itself seemed to grow clearer as they glanced up at her like she was worth something.

For a moment, she realized how cold the false Creators gaze had been now that she has felt warmth so gentle it almost made her knees buckle beneath her. It felt like a pale imitation, now.

Nothing could compare to the warmth that spread through her body at the mere semblance of a smile upon their lips. She didn't even mind if it was her they were laughing at anymore, she just wanted to hear them laugh again.

She'd make a fool of herself, if she had to.

She'd never felt so..ravenous for such a thing, but just the briefest glimpse was addictive.

She simply couldn't help herself from striding across the room and clasping their free hand in her own, her smile wide enough to unnerve as she leaned her weight onto the bed. For a moment, she considered pulling away at the way they startled, but her mind was made up by then – there was no going back.

"Again."

[todayisafridaynight]

[imhereformysciencefriends]

Thinking about how in the myth, Narcissus was the cause of Echo's strife and inevitable death. Thinking about how Ringmaster is absolutely 100% a narcissist with a cult-like belief in his own superiority and genius.

Thinking about how, given her actions, we can reasonably assume that Ringmaster is the one who sewed Echo's mouth shut. Thinking about how Echo was damned by the gods to only ever repeat the last thing anyone said due to her devotion to Narcissus. Thinking about how Echo was damned by Ringmaster to never speak, only copy the actions and routines of those around her--thinking Echo might have let the Ringmaster mutilate her, in her devotion to him.

Thinking about how Echo had a natural talent that was honed into a skill that was used by a man who never loved her and would never love anyone but himself.

Thinking about how Echo wasted away next to the lake and died from her starvation. Thinking about how Echo's first words were asking for something to eat that wasn't liquid.

Thinking about how all the clowns have bright, shapey, distinctive makeup. Thinking about how Echo is a blank mask onto which the Ringmaster can (and does) project any emotion or thought that suits his own desires, carelessly and callously ignoring anything that might be Echo's actual wants.

Thinking about how Narcissus died due to his own egoism and pride. Thinking about how Ringmaster got his jaw ripped off due to his own egoism and pride. Thinking about how Echo, the nymph, died with her Narcissus, and how Echo, the girl, did the killing. Thinking about Clown Corps I am thinking about Clown Corps.

[meownotgood]

50,000 words. 50k words of aki sex. five zero zero zero zero. aki sex.

[missmako-chan]

Day 5: Change of Clothes! Jeramie tries on a certain other spider character's dress. Gira approves.

[ravidrws]

[wip] 🎃🍬

[enbyhyena]

hi i have brainrot for a fic on ao3 called For the Forgotten Ones by Im_Sorry_Buddy!! so i decided to draw ink, with a few of my own little creative liberties thrown in. :] author, if you see this fanart i want you to know that this is hands down in my top 5 undertale fics i've ever read, and i've read THOUSANDS over the last 7 years i've been in this fandom. i cannot even begin to express how amazing your story is, and i wish that it could be published as its own book. it deserves it!!! thank you so much for gifting the fandom with it <3 also if you notice that i forgot the snakes on the sleeves no i didn't

[undignifiedaquarium]

loving you out loud

for @locklyle-week day 1: firsts

a/n: First “I love you.” Here’s a little something I wrote because as much as I crave reading desparate confessions drawn out in the middle of dangerous situations, they also deserve something softer. Set in the future. I am v new to this fandom and writing these characters so please, be kind.

They’ve never been much for words. Or at least he hasn’t, not in the way that matters, Lockwood thinks as he peers over the top of his magazine at Lucy curled up on the other end of the couch. She’s got her nose buried in a book, completely oblivious to him. Her eyebrows are adorably scrunched together and her eyes feverishly tear across the pages in front of her.

It’s been years since she walked into his life and it still always feels like there are so many things he hasn’t told her, or doesn’t say enough. They are much more practiced at revealing things through unspoken communication. So much can be said through a glance across the kitchen table in the morning, smiles exchanged over tea, or touches and gifts and rescues that they have done a million times over by now. Sometimes it feels like they don’t ever need to articulate what’s left unsaid because they both know the score. But still, Lockwood thinks to himself, she deserves more than that.

It’s not like Lucy has ever been one to mince words. She’s called him out on his own bullshit time and time again, challenging him and reminding him that there are people who care about whether or not he makes it home alive. Her honesty was one of the first things that impressed him in that fated interview. She says what she thinks, and doesn’t back down. Truth be told it has saved them all in so many ways since then, even if it may drive him and George mad from time to time.

Looking at her now, Lockwood is once again captivated by her. In her pajamas, curled up with a quilt nestled around her and a steaming cup of tea in her hand she looks so comfortable, so relaxed. She looks radiant. It makes his heart pang with adoration. He wants to capture this moment and keep reliving it for the rest of time.

Because for every moment like this that they get, there are three more where his heart is hammering in his chest with worry or panic that something bad is going to happen to the beautiful, brave, incredible girl cozied up across from him. Too many of their firsts have happened in or been born from those moments when their lives are on the line and he aches a bit to give them both some softer memories.

Lucy chuckles lightly to herself at the other end of the couch, clearly having read something of note in that book of hers. She then takes a massive bite of the biscuit in her hand and finally looks up, meeting his eyes.

“What?” Lucy asks, “I got crumbs on my jumper or something?”

Lockwood laughs, “No, nothing like that. I just…I love you, that’s all.”

“Oh is that all?” She sits up and puts her book down next to her, a grin splitting across her face but also a hint of exasperation in her voice.

He feels himself blushing slightly, and looks down at his hands before glancing back up at her.

“Yes, well I know that sometimes I’m not the best at…articulating what I’m feeling. But I wanted to get it on the record and all that.”

“Lockwood I — “ she starts, scooting close and reaching out to take his hands in hers.

But he’s already on a roll. “I just realized I had never actually said it out loud and, well, we’ve put off a lot of other things until we’re in the thick of it and I wanted to make sure I told you now and not when we’re, you know, fighting for our lives. Point being, I don’t want that to be one more thing I’ve left unsaid.”

He’s really started rambling now, because her eyes have gone wide with something bordering on disbelief. Lucy is giving him a look that tells him she had absolutely no idea he’s been head over heels for her for…shit he doesn’t even know how long. Long enough that loving her feels as natural as breathing.

“Oh come off it Luce, you know I’ve been in love with you for a damn long time now.”

Her response comes out as a half laugh, half shout, and she smacks him with a throw pillow, “I did not, you idiot!”

Lockwood suddenly turns deadly serious, desperately needing her to understand how much he means this. How he is truly deeply, irrevocably in love. “Lucy, you make me feel seen and cared for in a way that for a long time, I didn’t think would ever be possible again. Even when everything is hard and frankly terrifying, I am still so glad you stormed into my life. I love you.”

At this, Lucy moves one hand to his face, rubbing her thumb softly along his cheekbone and looking at him with such longing and tenderness that he feels like he might just fall in love with her all over again. Lockwood slowly closes the distance between the two of them and kisses her like he’s drowning and she’s a breath of fresh air.

“I love you too, you know.” She breaks away and looks up at him with a soft and teasing smile, “to put it on the record and all that.”

[hideyseek]

THE FIC IS FINISHABLE 🎉🎉🎉

turns out i am someone who benefits from taking a day off, and also from walking in circles around the neighborhood while thinking through a plot issue.

idk this fic (mini heist!au) is the HARDEST thing ive written recently, i don't know why (its because it didnt come with themes, and also is complicated enough that its 8k, and also i folded the story in half and started telling it from the middle so there is a lot of flashbacks juggling which i find technically challenging, and also the climax scene involves violence which i have limited irl experience with and therefore ... also find technically challenging).

anyway. turns out once i know the character arcs .... its doable!!

i am sooo intrigued by how this fic compares with how we move from a to b, which was a fic of comparable length that i wrote in a similar span of time (3ish months) and drafts (3-4 i think) ... but this one is MUCH MORE COMPLICATED and is also a love story but without any space for romantic tension ... etc. anyway. head empty. bedtime.

[ghostwise]

ironbark, opal, and gold

words: 1.6k tags: zevran arainai, mahariel, zevran/m!warden, wedding rings, antiva, original characters, fluff

The jeweler’s shop is smaller than expected. Every surface is cluttered with tools, and there is a layer of grime along the wall but not the floor, indicating the type of person who only bothers to clean when the mess is actively interfering with their work. Nor does the jeweler have a proper storefront; just his counter, from which he greets Zevran with a nod before remembering he ought to speak to the customers.

This all means one of two things: either the jeweler is a hack, or a genius. But does it matter?

“Buenas, compadre,” the man tells him. He produces from behind the counter a small case of necklaces and bracelets. “Bonifacio, at your service. What can I help you find today?”

Zevran greets him. He glances over the jewelry, noting the traditional hammered Antivan style, the little swirls of silver, all requiring a steady hand.

“Tell me,” he says, “do you make all these yourself?”

“But of course! Finest silver and gold in Antiva, and anything not to your liking, I can alter.”

“Wonderful!” Zevran says, not really looking at any of the items in the case. “How much could I pay you to make use of your workshop for the day?”

The jeweler sets the case down and scowls.

Zevran smiles at him. He’s already been turned away at two other shops and has a few more to go. This time, he tries a bit of coaxing.

“I am getting married,” he confides, and it’s thrilling to share the news, even with a stranger.

“Ah,” Bonifacio says with a sigh. Holding up a finger he walks away from the counter. Moments later he returns with another case, this one full of sparkling rings.

“I see what you are getting at, young man,” he says, “but for something so important, why leave it to chance? Look at this. White gold and diamonds. Amethysts, rubies. Tell me about this girl. What does she like?”

“He is not so gaudy,” Zevran laughs. “My man is not one for gems. What else do you have?”

“Of course, of course! I have such a variety. Let me bring out the men’s rings. Of course.”

He hasn’t been thrown out yet, and that is encouraging. Instead, case after case of rings is brought out for his perusal. Zevran looks at them all, declining every one, and when the last case has been rejected, Bonifacio sighs again.

“Ten andris for the use of the shop,” he says finally. “Plus materials.”

“Thief,” Zevran scoffs. “I come here with my heart bared and you say ten andris?”

“Nine, then.”

“Has anyone even come in before me today? I very much doubt it. Look at the state of this place—you need to mop your baseboards and clean your windows—”

“Alright you bastard, how’s eight andris and you do the cleaning yourself?”

“Deal,” Zevran quickly agrees and thrusts out his hand. It is midday, and he needs this to work.

Haggling concluded, Bonifacio shakes his hand firmly, like a merchant or a noble.

“Now if you could show me to the work room—”

“Not yet,” Bonifacio says. “Tidy up first. Then you pay, then you use the workshop out back.”

“A fair agreement,” Zevran says, unable to keep the grin off his face.

He gets started right away. Organizing as he goes, he cleans efficiently, the way he grew up knowing one speck of dust could mean retaliation. All the while Bonifacio tinkers at the counter, peering through a lens at the broken links in an old necklace. Nobody comes into the shop. But Bonifacio interrogates him, leaving lengthy gaps between each question.

“So when are you getting married?” he asks.

“Ah,” Zevran says, wringing out a washcloth by the window. “Soon.”

“You don’t have a date?”

“We are traveling, and we need to first find a Chantry willing to marry us,” Zevran says.

“Willing?” Bonifacio asks.

“My fiancé,” Zevran says, and the word glimmers like a big ruby, “is Dalish.”

Bonifacio lets out a low whistle. Few Chantries will bless unions with non-Andrastians.

He’s quiet for a while before speaking again.

“Congratulations. And good luck with, uh, all that.”

Zevran pauses, looking up at the man. “Thank you,” he says, not sure what he means exactly.

Bonifacio grunts. A quarter of an hour passes before he speaks up again.

“My wife was Dalish,” he says, unbidden.

Zevran glances over.

“Lovely woman, but not for the city. Always felt like I was keeping a bird caged. We were happy enough. She called me Bon-Bon,” Bonifacio says with a smile. “It’s just different. That’s all I mean. Parents had their opinion, half the town did. It is what it is. Worth it, though. Right?”

It comes out in a rush, as if he’s been dying to talk about it. Zevran watches him, this middle-aged man with fine tools in his hands, still tinkering on the broken necklace. He thinks about the state of the shop, and the lack of clientele.

“What happened to her?” he asks.

“She passed,” Bonifacio says gruffly. “Last year.”

“My condolences,” Zevran offers. “She must have meant a lot to you.”

“Mmh. Yes.”

The jeweler holds up the necklace, now mended. Every broken link has been repaired. Zevran returns to his sweeping, but Bonifacio pushes himself up off the counter.

“Finish up,” he tells him. “Let’s get started on that ring of yours.”

-

Zevran leaves the city with his pockets twenty andris lighter, and a velvet pouch clutched in his hands. He’s worked through the day, and the sun has set when he reaches the campsite far past the outskirts of town.

Hamal is there, stoking the fire, singing to it as he does every night. Zevran pauses just out of sight, listening.

He’s thinking, also, of the old jeweler, and his advice.

By Dalish and Chantry law alike, only Death can undo the vow you’re about to take. Cherish the time you have, my friend.

Zevran wastes no time. He walks directly into the light.

“Ma vhenan,” Hamal says, “there you are.”

Zevran drops to one knee before him and kisses him. Hamal hooks a finger into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer. It’s good that they tend to agree on these things. Zevran is the one to finally pull away, only because he can’t rightly give him the ring while attached to his face, can he?

“Hamal,” he says. He holds out the pouch, takes his hand.

“Wait,” Hamal exclaims, and scrambles to his feet.

Zevran blinks, watching him dash off into the tent. He emerges with a rucksack, tearing through it, tugging out pouches and bowstrings and a hat—

“I am not familiar with these customs—I thought we did this at the Chantry, not before—where is it? Oh!”

Whatever he was searching for, he rushes back to Zevran’s side, a wide grin on his face, hair unbraided and eyes dancing.

“Whatever are you doing, love?” Zevran asks. He starts a laugh, and before he knows it he’s overcome by it, enamorado, muy risueño. And Hamal laughs too.

“I thought—well, aren’t we exchanging rings now?”

“You have a ring?”

Hamal nods eagerly, holding it up in the light. It is a little thing of carved ironbark and gold, mottled in brassy colors only a Dalish craftsman could create. Zevran feels like he’s wanted this precise ring his whole life, and only realized it just now.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

“I traded Master Varathorn for it,” Hamal says, and Zevran stares.

“Varathorn. That was months ago,” he tells him.

“Yes.” Hamal smiles. “The moment I saw it, I knew I wanted it for you. I just wasn’t sure… the Archdemon…” He pauses, unsure how to say this. “I planned to leave it to you. After… In case…”

He can’t say it and Zevran doesn’t want him to.

Zevran quickly takes the ring he’d crafted out of its velvet pouch. “I made this for you,” he says.

It is a simple band of gold inlaid with opal. Zevran turns it and points to the inside of the band, where the words vhenan and corazon are carved, a tiny opal set between them.

Hamal takes a long look at it.

“Here,” Zevran says, taking his hand. “Listen, because I am not sure that I will get it right in the Chantry, and it is more for you, anyway. You are my home. All my life, I never had one or even thought I could find one; yet I have never felt an orphan since meeting you. So there is no alternative for me, you understand? There is nowhere else for me to go, other than wherever you are. I mean that, amor… more than allegiance to any country or creed. Let me declare myself, then, a citizen of You, municipality of a country called Us, of which we two are the sole happy inhabitants.”

Hamal watches him place the ring onto his finger with what can only be described as sincere adoration, the words filling his thoughts like honey.

“I didn’t have a speech prepared,” he says softly. He gives Zevran his ring and kisses it, which suits Zevran just fine.

“Creators! But I cannot fucking wait to marry you, Zevran! Can we do it right now? Quick! Where is the nearest clergy?”

It is lovely to be understood so thoroughly. Zevran could laugh, or kiss him again, or ravish him right then and there. In the absence of a revered mother, and thus forced to wait, he opts for all three.

[cuz-reasons]

Summary: Just because Emmet is sick, doesn't mean he can't bother Ingo.

Day 1: Siblings Antics!

I've never done a prompt list but boy howdy am I gonna try this month

[jutsuuu]

girl help I’m experiencing

[decaflondonfog]

geometric equilibrium

kandreil / 10k / rated M

[getting together, established andreil, idiots in love, mutual pining]

Kevin graduates and Neil thinks he's pretty. Andrew graduates and Kevin pines. Neil graduates and Andrew is way more than 100% done with all this triangle-shaped bullshit and can't believe he has to be the one to fix it.

Or: the Flawed Court get together, in three graduations acts.

read here on ao3

[fridayyy-13th]

Last line WIP game

thank you for the tag, @three-magpies-in-a-trenchcoat!! :D

rules: make a new post and post your latest/most recent line from your WIP and tag as many people as there are words.

i'm fully assuming line means paragraph, not sentence, so i already know i'm not gonna be able to tag enough people. but i'll tag as many as i can :)

from yet another qpr!jonsasha oneshot that i'm hoping to post sometime soon:

(She'd thought it was hilarious, the fact they were fake. She'd figured it out before he even admitted it to her, and since then it had morphed into a sort of inside joke between the two of them. And it was nice, the glasses going from a facade he'd made up in a panic to something that they could both laugh at.)

yes i'm keeping the "jon's glasses are fake" thing consistent across my AUs. i think it's fun <3

tags (no pressure!!): @redminders @radical-dadical-rafael @dramaticdads @rainbowstargazerlilies

[myriadof-fandoms]

harringrove week - day 2 - our place

prompt: pumpkin pie (and hot apple cider a little)

or: patrick and billy friendship fic bc yes

ao3

@ihni ages ago i mentioned this in some tags and you said you wanted to know when it's done. finally, it is done

Steve has kind of gotten used to people randomly showing up at his place. There's a bunch of teenagers around who know his parents are rarely home. They have a tendency to just use his pool without asking.

So do Eddie and Robin.

Billy just crawls through his window all the time.

The thing is, nobody ever really knocks.

So a knock at the front door at 8pm on a Wednesday night is kind of weird. 

Steve only hears it by chance, while the noises of the upstairs shower are muted enough, up until a second ago the ventilation of the stove had drowned out every other noise.

There's an itch in his hands to grab the nail bat when he walks down the hall, a fear so internalized that not even the irrationality of imagining a demogorgon knocking can quite stop it.

When he opens the door, holding his breath against better judgement, he's greeted with the sight of a guy his age. No demogorgon ready to attack as far as the eye can see. 

"Eh, hi?" Steve realizes he knows the kid. Can't quite remember his name though.

"Hi," the boy's voice is shaking. Just a little, just enough for observant ears. "Sorry, Billy said-" 

He breaks off and rakes a trembling hand over his head. The movement makes the light above the front door catch on his cheek, illuminating the blood.

"Christ, what happened to your face?" Steve doesn't wait for an answer, stepping to the side to let the other in. "Billy's upstairs. He'll be down in a moment if you want to talk to him."

He's hesitant when he steps over the doorstep but the moment he does, fully letting Steve see his face, two things occur to Steve. First, the guy's name is Patrick. He's part of the basketball team but only properly joined once Steve wasn't anymore. Secondly, someone very clearly beat this kid to a pulp. One side of his face is swollen and bloody. When he walks he winces, and he's curling to one side, arm protectively wrapped around his torso. A broken rib maybe? Or maybe the arm itself is hurt?

There are no wounds on his hands that Steve can see.

"C'mon, we'll wait in the kitchen." Steve knows his voice has gone soft. He's moving slowly too, passing Patrick by where he's kicking off his shoes carefully. Steve makes sure he stays in front of him. Follows all the little steps that he has memorized for when Billy has that haunted look on his face.

He fills up a glass of water and gestures for Patrick to sit before putting it in front of him. Steve notices the wince when Patrick sits down and has to suppress a flinch in response. 

"I'll go get Billy and some stuff to fix up your face, be right back." 

Patrick just nods. Staring straight ahead onto the table.

Steve rushes up the stairs once he's out of sight. He only slows down when he reaches the bathroom, to not startle Billy into a panic attack.

The shower is still running, but it's not surprising. Billy will take any chance to prolong a shower that he knows he won’t get screamed at for. Steve makes a point of opening the door noisily before stepping in and quietly saying Billy's name.

"Mh what, Harrington? You already wanna go again? Thought we were having dinner first," Billy's laughing. Steve wants to stay in this moment, he doesn't want to break up Billy's good mood, not when it's such a rare occurrence. He just wants to hide him away. 

Billy's pulling back the shower curtain before Steve can. His smile falls immediately when he sees Steve's face.

"What's wrong?"

"Ehm, Patrick is downstairs? He wants to see you."

"Fuck."

Billy's out of the shower and putting on clothes in seconds. Pulling on Steve's heartstrings when he hastily puts on Steve's slightly too long sweatpants and one of his old Hawkins High Swimteam hoodies. He's out the door before Steve has grabbed the first aid kit.

Steve follows him down slowly, giving him more time alone with Patrick. When he makes it to the bottom of the stairs he can hear their murmured voices, quiet and hushed despite the empty house.

When he enters the kitchen he's once again hit with the realization of how pretty Billy is. The fact tends to hit him a couple times a day. Times like these are special though, when Billy looks domestic, with his wet curls falling in his face and his hands in sweater paws, while his feet are bare. There’s something about being allowed to see him like this that makes Steve lose his breath.  

"Here you go," he puts down the kit on the table and looks at Billy questioningly, "I can leave you guys alone if you want."

"Up to you,” Billy says to Patrick. “Harrington's better than me at the whole stitching up thing, and he won't talk about any of this, but I'll fix you up too, whatever you want."

Patrick looks lost. If Steve's had to guess, from what Billy's told him about his own way of thinking, he's probably afraid to say the wrong thing. Steve tries his best to look reassuring. 

"Eh," now that Steve remembers him better, it's startling how quiet Patrick is right now. He's barely audible, "You can stay. Don't want Hargrove to fuck up my face."

"Yeah, screw you too," Billy laughs.

“Good decision. I’ve seen how he fixed Max’ knee once, it wasn’t pretty.”

Patrick laughs a little too at that but almost immediately his face contorts in pain and he’s hissing through his teeth. It decides Steve’s course of action at least.

He gets some painkillers first and then carefully cleans the cuts on Patrick’s face with a towel, he tries to mind his hands and avoids getting too close for too long as to not make the other uncomfortable. 

When he grabs the disinfectant, he kicks Billy’s chair, “Hey hotshot, tell us a story or something.” 

Billy looks at him like he’s lost his mind before he sees the bottle in Steve’s hand. They’ve been in this situation often enough thanks to Neil fucking Hargrove and Billy himself deals better with the pain from the disinfectant if Steve talks while he applies it. 

Distraction is key. 

Billy launches into a dissection of their last basketball training, perfectly mundane and still investing enough that Patrick doesn’t flinch as much as he probably should from the sting. Steve only listens vaguely to what Billy’s actually saying, too focused on the task in front of him, but the way Billy’s voice moves is soothing to him as well. 

He knows at some point Billy switches the topic to his current favorite thing to discuss: how awful the newest Friday the 13th movie was. He’s got a very passionate agenda against the film. Patrick only hums in response sometimes, he’s being a perfect patient, never moving much under Steve’s touch.

Steve carefully applies some small bandaids over the cuts that need it but thankfully there aren’t too many of those. 

“All done here, do you need any other wounds looked after?” Steve can’t forget the way Patrick walked earlier. 

“Nah, just fell badly, everything else is fine.” His eyes are cast down now. 

Not that Steve would have believed that but Billy’s very quick to throw in and confirm, “Bullshit. What did he use as an excuse this time?”

Patrick’s eyes move around quickly, drawing shapes over the tabletop and floor but never moving up to meet their eyes. 

“Bad grade,” he mumbles after a moment.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve runs his hands through his hair and moves towards the kitchen island quickly. He should be used to it by now, the casual cruelty that some parents use on their kids, Neil Hargrove could be their prime example, but Steve can’t. He still can’t help the way his own fingers start to itch and shake when he sees someone as cast down as Patrick is right now. He’s learned it’s an easy thing to interpret as anger though, the hard way when Billy had opened up to him for only the second or third time and then hastily apologized and flinched away from Steve when he saw his barely contained rage. Because in its roots it is just that: rage. Just not directed at Billy or Patrick, but at the people who could cause that without remorse.

Behind him he hears Billy sooth Patrick with the same sort of phrases Steve has used on him countless times.

‘ It’s not your fault ’s and ‘ It’s okay ’s take over as background noise when Steve puts the simple soup he’d made for Billy and himself earlier in bowls and cuts up some bread. 

Patrick looks surprised when Steve puts down a bowl in front of him but once he’s been reassured that it’s no problem he finishes it in record time. It brings up the uncomfortable thought in Steve that that too is awfully similar behavior to Billy’s when Neil has been keeping food from him. 

So Patrick gets second helpings. 

And two pieces of pumpkin pie, which he does finish at the same speed as his first serving to Steve’s delight. Billy had refused to eat any more of it and Steve makes sure to complain to Patrick about that too.

“We’ve had fucking pumpkin every day this week, Stevie.” Billy’s rolling his eyes too gently though, and with the way he’s curled up on his chair, both legs pulled up from the floor, he couldn’t look very annoyed even if he was actually trying. 

“It’s fall! It’s almost Halloween! We have to.”

“It’s September, Halloween is next month,” Billy says before he turns back to their guest. “Be careful, if you don’t watch it he’ll put you in a costume.”

“Being excited for Halloween isn’t a crime, Billy.”

“Sure, princess.” Billy snorts and leans towards Patrick, “If he could he’d buy every single pumpkin flavored thing in all of Hawkins.”

It’s not incorrect. Steve has a thing for it now, he tries not to blame the fact that Halloween is their anniversary but he knows deep down that that’s the only reason he’s started to obsess. 

When he thinks of their first kiss he happens to think of the apple cider someone had brought to Tina’s party and the pumpkin pie that he’d eaten from her fridge in a panic after he stumbled back out from the bathroom in which Billy Hargrove had just sucked his dick. 

It makes him nostalgic. 

Steve gets so lost in the memory of those first few weeks that he misses a bit of their conversation but he startles out of it when Patrick coughs and says, “I should go.” 

“You can stay here if you want. We’ve got a guest bedroom,” Steve answers without even thinking about it. There’s no way in hell he’s kicking the kid out. 

Once again Patrick’s eyes don’t meet theirs.

“C’mon, I’ll drive us to school tomorrow morning. You won’t miss anything,” Billy says. “Also pretty boy’s loaded and the beds in this house are extremely comfortable, you can’t miss out on that.”

One quick flash of dark brown eyes meet Steve’s when Patrick mutters, “If you’re sure?”

“‘course, I’ll show you where you can stay,” Billy answers instead of Steve and then he’s already leading him away.

Steve cleans up after them before he follows. When he gets upstairs the lights are on in his room and the guest bedroom but both doors are closed already. 

He quickly brushes his teeth and changes before making his way towards his bedroom. Billy is already in bed, hugging his pillow with the sheets pooled around his waist exposing his chest to the cold air. 

Steve turns off the main light so only the bedside lamp that he never turns off anymore illuminates the room and draws shadows over Billy’s skin.

When he slides back the covers from his side Billy turns and they rearrange themselves so they’re pressed together tightly. There’s no real routine to that part, they sleep curled up together in every which way they can find. 

Steve can feel it when Billy pushes his face against his skin and inhales deeply before properly settling down in his arms. 

It’s a whisper almost when Billy speaks up, “Sorry, I just told him he could come here. I should’ve told you.” 

“That’s okay.”

“He knows about us.”

“I figured, he didn’t seem surprised that we share a room.”

“You okay with that?”

“You think he’s gonna tell?”

Billy moves his head a little so he can look at Steve’s face before gently moving his hand to his cheek. He starts running his thumb over his cheekbone and Steve hums in satisfaction.

“He’s got a crush on Jason Carver. I don’t think so.”

Steve actually cringes at that, “God, not that douchebag.”

“I know. Gotta work on his taste still.”

“One thing at a time.” 

Billy breathes out and leans up to kiss Steve slowly, “Yeah. Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for, sunshine.” Billy smiles against Steve’s lips like he always does when Steve calls him that.

Steve lets a moment pass, thinks about the evening and just enjoys the proximity to Billy before he breaks the comfortable silence, “Wanna know something funny?”

“Mh?” Billy hums, not moving much but putting enough emphasis in the little noise to make sure Steve knows he’s really listening.

“I fucking hate pumpkin pie.”

Billy honest to god giggles and Steve feels so fulfilled.

"You're the worst. Do you know how much pumpkin spice I've bought for you?" 

“I like the soup!” Steve laughs against Billy’s cheek, “But the pie is just not good.”

“I hate you.” Billy’s still giggling.

“I love you too.” Steve never wants him to stop. 

“God, you sap,” he playfully punches Steve’s shoulder before his arm sneaks around Steve’s neck, the other settling on his waist and then he moves so Steve is almost entirely covering him. Their faces are mushed together a little, and it will get too hot to sleep like this, but for the moment it works. 

Billy sighs, “Fine. I love you.”

He’s told Steve a lot. After some initial difficulty to say it at all it has slowly become something Billy likes to say. Steve still can’t get enough. 

“I can hear you thinking, Stevie,” Billy starts running his hand through Steve’s hair. “Go to sleep.”

Steve is pretty gone for Billy Hargrove. He does as he’s told.