#The prompts are so long because I remember in half way of writing it supposed to be comfort so whumpee has to be COMFORTED

[whumpberry-cookie]

could we please have some emeto prompts where caretaker comforts whumpee? its the hot trendy prompt, everyone is doing it!! jump on the trend pal! -🎤🎩 Dapper Mic Anon

Ohhh, like the emetophobia!

For a moment I was wondering "...who on Earth is Emeto?"

Emeto comfort prompts!

But kinda ANGST at the same time. I'm sorry, apparently every comfort prompt I try to write turns out to be angsty. But I tried my best.

(Cw: Sickfic around vomiting. So bodily fluids. Also attemted murder, poison, internal injuires, revenge, forced medicine, morally gray caretaker)

----------------------

Whumpee suddenly vomits, and doesn't even have time to grab any bag, so they stain the sheets. And is soo... soo ashamed that Caretaker sees them like that. But instead of disgust or irritation, Caretaker is so relieved and happy. Because that means Whumpee's body is fighting with the sickness and they will get better soon.

Caretaker treats sick Whumpee. (kind of field medicine doctor?) As soon as they enter the room they decide it needs to be aired, because the smell of puke must be unbereable for the patient. But there's deadly cold outside and all patient beds are already occupied. So Caretaker gently picks Whumpee up and carries them in their arms. Maybe Whumpee vomits with blood and stains Caretaker's apron red. Caretaker lies Whumpee down in Caretaker's own room. (W:) "I'm sorry..." (C:) "It happens. That's what the apron is for after all"

A beggar Whumpee is endlessly grateful for getting a whole loaf of bread from some generous stranger. Until their stomach starts horribly hurting. While they vomit, their gullet burns like fire. And then they see there's blood and pieces of sharp glass in the fluid. Other starnger find them like that, takes them inside their house and treats the internal wounds as well as they can. "How did the first stranger look like? Describe them to me," asks stranger Caretaker. Whumpee does. Caretaker silently leaves the house and comes back some hours later. When asked where they were, Caretaker replies with a mysterious smile, "I just fed someone with their own recipe"

Whumpee got poisoned, so Caretake has to force the vomiting-provoking medicine into them. It's heartbreaking to see Whumpee so pale, wet from the tears, saliva and sweat. So exhausted. They can't even sleep. They vomit the whole night. Caretaker just sits there and holds the bucket for them, sometimes pushes Whumpee's hair from their forehead. (W:) "Please, make it stop already" (C:) "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Whumpee, but I can't until you clean your stomach" Whumpee cries in helplessness. Caretaker hugs them tight. "It will be over soon. I promise"

(C:) "Whumpee. I work as a tanatopraktor for almost five years. Do you really think the pukes are the worst thing I had all over me?" (W:) "....Will you tell me what was the worst?" (C:) "Will you puke again if I tell you?" (W:) "...Probably" (C:) "Then I'll leave it to your imagination"

_________________________

Thank you so much for the ask, Dapper Mic Anon!

I had no idea that's the trend now! Thank you for letting me know! Maybe I should make research in community more often...?

[ellemj]

Letters to Santa, Part 1: 12 Days of Smut #11

Bucky Barnes x Reader 2-Part Fic

Request/prompt courtesy of @stuckysbike:

Warnings: profanity, mentions of orgasms, allusions to smut, dirty letter writing, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: I wasn't planning to do any sort of multi-part stuff for this 12 Days of Smut thing, I wanted to churn out a bunch of smutty one-shots so you guys could have a lil Christmas meal every day. But when I started writing this today I kinda fell in love with the last couple of paragraphs and it felt so RIGHT leaving it the way I did. So, it looks like you guys will be getting part 2 of this tomorrow which will be s m u t t y and also a separate smut #12 tomorrow. Thanks to @stuckysbike for this amazing prompt that I’ve been thinking about for DAYS now.

Dear Santa,

All I want for Christmas is any one of the following, you can pick for me because I’m a little indecisive:

someone to unwrap me like a Christmas present

someone to give me a Christmas miracle (three orgasms in one night, if that’s not too much to ask)

someone to cum down my chimney

With love,

Y/n

            “Oh my god, this is perfect!” Natasha laughs out the words as she waves your letter around in the air. “We have to mail this. I need someone to find the address for the North Pole.”

            “Come on, Nat. Santa’s already put me on his naughty list. I’m not getting anything this year.” You say with a pout, pushing your bottom lip out.

            “It’s true, I saw her submit a half-finished mission report last week.” Wanda points out. You roll your eyes before leaning back on the couch and raising your nearly empty beer bottle to your lips. You take a long sip as Nat, Wanda, and Sharon continue reading each other’s dirty letters to Santa and teasing each other. You’re enjoying sitting through the fun of girls night like you do every Friday night, until you hear the elevator ding across the room. Just as you turn your head to see who it’s carried upstairs, the doors slide open to reveal Sam and Bucky. Sam opens his arms wide upon seeing the four of you piled together on the couch, clearly loving that he’s just stumbled into his first girls night.

            “Is this what I think it is?” He asks excitedly, quickly making his way over to the couch and seating himself on the end of the sectional.

            “A bunch of girls writing dirty letters to Santa? Yes.” Sharon reveals all. You shoot her a faux-angry glare.

            “Sharon, he’s a guy. You’re not supposed to tell him anything about girl’s night.” Wanda reprimands her jokingly. Sharon lifts her hands in surrender.

            “Hey, this is the first one I’ve been invited to, no one told me the rules. I’m also a little drunk, it’s not my fault.”

            Your eyes snap back over to Sam just in time to see him peering over Nat’s shoulder, trying to get a look at your very own dirty letter to Santa. You’re quick to scramble to your feet and snatch the piece of paper from Nat’s hand, narrowing your eyes at Sam.

            “If you don’t have a sled and…eight…no, nine reindeer, then this isn’t for you.” You say coldly, carefully folding the letter and setting it on the coffee table that’s littered with pens, beer bottles, and various snacks.

            “I could have a sled.” Sam offers, eyeing where your letter now sits.

            “You have wings, it’s not the same.” Sharon quips. As everyone continues to joke and tease each other around the coffee table, you’re sitting back and enjoying the nice buzz you feel from the alcohol you’ve consumed so far tonight. After another minute of listening to your friends have the time of their lives, you can’t help but feel like you’re being watched. You let your eyes float around from Wanda to Nat, then to Sam at the end of the couch, and then to Sharon. No one’s looking at you. That’s when you remember the silent sixth person in the room. You turn your head and look over your shoulder, finding Bucky standing in the kitchen, sipping from his own bottle of beer as he stares right at you. Any other person caught staring would look away. That’s the normal thing to do, right? But Bucky has never looked away, of all of the times you’ve caught him staring. Maybe it’s an alpha male type of behavior you could learn about on Animal planet, hell if you know, but whatever it is Bucky has it bad. Sam jokingly refers to him as the bionic staring machine and you’ve never heard anything more accurate. However, you’ve noticed lately that Bucky stares at you a hell of a lot more than he stares at anyone else. Is it wishful thinking? Maybe. You have no problem admitting that the man is annoyingly attractive, and the fact that he tends to be so quiet and elusive only adds to the attraction. Like they say, a crush is just a lack of information. If Bucky talked more, you’d easily lose your attraction to him. You’re sure of that.

            You’re lightly engaging in the conversation with Sam and the girls again, but you can still feel Bucky’s gaze burning a hole in the back of your head as you speak. When he finally silently slips out of the kitchen and disappears down the hallway that leads to everyone’s rooms, you’re relieved. You don’t know why you always find it so hard to relax around him. He puts you on edge for a reason you’ll never understand.

            “Okay, I think it’s time for everyone to get to bed. We have a full day tomorrow with baking Christmas cookies, the gingerbread house contest, and the Christmas dinner.” Wanda reminds everyone. She’s the first one to rise from the couch, gathering up the pens and blank pieces of paper to put them away. You’re quick to start collecting the empty beer bottles from the coffee table, trying to do your part. You’re so preoccupied with straightening up the small mess you all left in the kitchen that you don’t even notice Natasha tucking your dirty letter to Santa into the waistband of her pants. In fact, the dirty letter doesn’t even cross your mind as you finish up in the kitchen and head to your room for the night.

            Natasha thinks of herself as a matchmaker of sorts, or at least someone who’s good at reading chemistry between people. She might not know enough to say that two people are destined to marry and have a bunch of kids together, but she knows when two people would have a good physical relationship. That particular skill of hers is what leads her not only to steal your dirty letter to Santa, but to slide it under Bucky’s door as she passes his room to get to her own a little while later. What a devious Black Widow your best friend is.

---

            Someone to unwrap me like a Christmas present. Someone to give me a Christmas miracle of three orgasms in one night. Someone to cum down my chimney.

            Bucky has read the letter a total of four times, each time making his dick a little harder and his chest rise and fall a little faster. He stares at the bottom of the page where you so neatly signed your name. It’s the dirty letter you wrote just earlier during girls night. Bucky isn’t even questioning the fact that this is how the four of you chose to spend your evening. His only question is how and why your letter ended up sitting on the floor right inside of his door after he finished showering. Did you slide it under there yourself? Did someone else do it? Are you expecting him to give you one of these gifts?

            He sits on the side of his bed still staring down at the piece of paper in his hand, but he’s not reading it anymore. He’s thinking back to every single interaction he’s ever had with you, from the most minor to the most memorable. Hell, they’ve all been memorable. Every lingering look, every seemingly accidental touch of your thigh against his when you’re in the quinjet or in the conference room for a briefing, every damn word you’ve ever said to him. There’s always been some kind of a spark between the two of you, a clear sexual tension that was begging to be broken, but neither of you ever did a thing about it. So, why now is Bucky thinking about doing something about it? If you slipped the letter under his door, then it’s obviously something you want him to do. You gave him a fucking menu of choices. But if you didn’t slip it under the door, then who else has noticed the sexual tension between you two and decided that it was their job to remedy it?

            Someone to unwrap me like a Christmas present. Someone to give me a Christmas miracle of three orgasms in one night. Someone to cum down my chimney.

            Bucky folds the piece of paper into a small rectangle before placing it in the top drawer of his nightstand and taking a deep breath in.

All of the above. That’s what he chooses for you.

TAG LIST:

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[vixensbrainrotts]

Committed to you - Manjiro >Mikey< Sano

(part two)

Idea/ prompt: Mikey from the last timeline who wants to propose to us but has no idea how to ask so he ask advices from draken and emma

Vixen's two cents: Hi. I know ive been gone for like 2 weeks, I dont know why but it's been hard writing lately. anyway, thanks a million to @anahryal for giving me this idea whilst I was in the pits of my writers block!!! thanks girl, I can't tell you how much this helped. anyway, REQUESTS ARE OPEN and I advise you to use them! now please enjoy my revival piece!

Mikey has thought every possible thought he could have. He had run through every possible situation, every possible outcome, every possible setting, but damnit why was this so hard? He couldn’t do it. Not for the life of him.

He had browsed millions of travel blogs, pondering about every possible spot on earth to take you for the occasion. He had woken in and out of more jewelry stores in the past month than he had ever in his entire life. He had specifically stood in corner stores, reading the wedding catalogues in the magazine section trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do.

None of it helped.

Manjiro wanted it so bad. So so very bad. Every white dress he walked by, he envisioned you in it. Every bakery shop he passed, his eyes flitted up and down the fancy display cakes, pondering whether or not it would be good enough. Any time he woke up next to you, every time he joined you in the shower, every time he watched you cook, the urge to sink to one knee overtook him.

He knew he couldn’t make it that simple though. It was too domestic for him, so little of a gesture. He wanted you to know that he loved you, that he would bring you the moon if you wanted it. He needed you to see just how much he appreciates you for sticking with him through everything, and for that he needs a grand gesture.

However it seemed that nothing he could think of was quite big enough, quite meaningful enough, quite heartfelt enough. He was at the end of his wits. For one and a half months- seven weeks he had been fighting this battle alone.

He had made some progress in that time, having picked the ring because when he picked it up he just felt that this was the one. It was a niche store, and he was initially appalled by the average price of the rings, but decided, ah what the fuck? and entered the store for mostly shits and giggles. He was greeted by an expensive looking elderly gentleman who donned a monocle and silk gloves, clearly the clerk, and clearly an expert. He had the longest, most engaging talk with the man, explaining his situation and his frustrations, to which the man nodded understandingly and told of his own story and experience with marigge.

Seven long weeks he had kept it a secret from everyone, and now he couldn’t take it anymore.

He was just about to throw the towel on this whole thing and say fuck it and give up on this whole marriage thing and just accept that he would never make it, when he remembered that he didnt have to be alone in this. Not at all matter of fact. His best friend married his sister after all. If Ken could do it with the pressure of Shinichiro, Izana AND Mikey breathing down his neck, then surely he could do it too, right?

You were out on a girls night with Hinata, Senju and Yuzuha. Emma would have tagged along normally too, but with the addition of a new-born baby, she decided that it would be best to sit out this time. Either way you were out of the house for the night, and Mikey was left to his own devices. You had left him with a kiss and a home-cooked meal (which he felt bad about leaving behind so he completely stuffed himself before coming here) before he gave Ken a quick heads up over the phone that he was coming over with a VERY important problem.

Thats how he found himself here. Standing in the Kitchen of Emma and Ken‘s flat, hands perched on the counter, looking down at the surface, face in a deep frown. „What’s goin on? What’s the problem?“ Ken asks roughly, leaned on the refrigerator as he eyed his friend. Mikey didnt really respond though.

„What problem?“ Emma‘s voice was hushed as she entered through the kitchen door, pulling the door shut behind her, probably for the sake of the baby. „I dont know.“ Ken responded, rubbing his eyebrows „Ask your brother.“ he sighed as he gestured to Mikey who was still staring down the counter.

“Mikey?!” Emma sounded confused and a little concerned as she turned to look at him, eyes flitting between her brother and her husband. “Did you know he was coming over?”

Ken nodded wordlessly. “Said he needs our help about something.” Emma’s head tilted in question but accepted the fact. “What’s up Mikey?” She asked, approaching him and joining Draken at the other side of the counter.

Mikey didn’t say anything though, instead reaching into his pocket and producing a small, black, silk-encased box. He dropped it onto the table and looked up at the couple in desperation. “How do I do it?”

Ken gasped and felt his lips tug into a smile, happy that finally, finally Mikey was wiping you up (he had told him to do so since they were teens).

Emma slapped her hands over her mouth to muffle a silent scream, beginning to voice up and down on excitement as she realized- her brother was marrying you! She thanked the gods that Mikey fell in love with you because there was no better in-law than her Soulsister.

“Ahhhhh! Oh my goodness Mikey! I’m so happy for you! Can I see? Wow! Oh my god Ken are you seeing this!? He’s proposing! Ah I’m so glad!” Mikey nodded in response and let Emma pick up the box and crack it open, revealing the beautiful white-gold wedding band, encrusted with more diamonds than she could count. Notably, one large diamond sat in the middle of the ring, flanked by two smaller diamonds on each side.

“Oh.” Emma breathed. “Ken why didn’t you ask Manjiro for help when picking my ring?” Emma sounded slightly offended as she spoke, glaring down at the ring.

“Nah nah, don’t get it twisted girl. You told me what ring you wanted, I didn’t have much picking liberty other than the price.” Ken waved his hands in dismissal, brushing off her accusations with a grin still wide on his face. He made his way over to Mikey and clapped a hand on his shoulder, congratulating him for the occasion.

“Good on you man! Finally givin it the push, hah?” Ken was smiling as he searched for Mikey’s eyes, but he didn’t look up. “What’s up with the long face? You’re about to propose dude, you should be over the moon!”

Mikey sighed and shook his head. “I’ve been trying to propose to her for months. Months Ken. I can’t do it. It’s never right.”

The couple halted their celebrations and turned to look at Mikey again, Emma putting down the dainty box as her looks turns to one of concern. “What do you mean?” She fingered at the box as she leaned across the counter.

“It’s… i don’t know. Ken made it look so easy when he proposed to you, and Pah-chin was even more mindless about it! I really want to. I really do, but every time I get close, I chicken out because I get scared or because something isn’t right, and I’m starting to think that it’s better if I just… don’t.” Mikey sighed and cradled his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the counter.

Emma and Ken shared a look, a wordless exchange of worry and empathy. "What kind of proposal were you thinking of? Big? Small? Public? Private?" Emma started, hand rubbing soothingly across her brother's back.

"Big." Mikey mumbled into his hands, remaining hunched over the counter. "Big and public. I wanna make sure that everyone knows, everyone sees, I want them all to know. want them to know how much I love her."

Emma's eyes softened and she suppressed a smile, because all in all, it was cute. She had always known her brother to be big and strong, undefeatable, and most of all unwaverable. Mikey always put up the strong front when really, he was hurt. Vulnerability wasn't something that she was used to seeing from him, which made this moment all the more special.

"Do you want to go somewhere with her?" Ken steps in and asks, an idea arising. Mikey only grunts, a noise of agreement sounding through the room. "Do you know what kind of places she likes?" Ken continues.

Mikey's head slowly raises from the position on the table and he stares forward at the refrigerator. "Europe."

Emma and Ken looked at one another again, sensing that they were getting somewhere. "Then take her on Vacation. You both have that long shared break coming up, don't you? Travel through Europe and when it feels right, ask!" Ken said.

"How do I know when it feels right, though? What if it's not the moment?" Mikey asks, still not entirely convinced. "You'll know. I promise you, you'll know. I knew too and I didn't think I had the stuff to ever get married." Ken reassures again, and this time the two share eye contact, and it takes Draken a lot not to tear up.

Draken took a moment in his mind to look at Mikey. He had stuck by his side since they were kids, through thick and thin it's always been the two if them against the world. And now as he looked at Manjiro he no longer saw the unmatchable delinquent he saw ten years ago, but rather a distinguished person with complex thoughts and emotions. He saw a man that felt, a man that cared and a man that loved in front of him, and he couldn't be prouder.

Ken nodded at Mikey, and Mikey nodded back at him. "Yeah. She'll love it! Thanks, I'll do that! Gosh I don't know what id do without you two.."

"Oh, please propose to her in front of the Eifel Tower! Or the Coliseum! Or on some romantic Bridge in Venice!" Emma swooned and held her hands over her chest, hearts in her eyes.

Mikey smiled at her and nodded again. "I'll try and film it if I can."

-

The rest of the evening was spent with the three of them checking about a thousand booking sites, mapping travel routes and destinations, and the occasional cacophony of laughter which led to a grumpy Ryuguji-baby. Manjiro couldn't wait to go with you, he thought as he sat on one of the armchairs, gently running a thumb over the silk box that sat pretty in his hand.

[lxm-memories]

Hi hello ~ ! 🌱

Hope u are doing fine :]

Can i request how luxiem react to their S/O to suddenly slap their ass when they for example walk past them ?

I think this would be a funny lil request ! :3

Don't forget to hydrate ♡

slapping their ass w/ luxiem

✧ luxiem x gn!reader [separately]

✧ rule of thumb: please read my works as fiction related to the streamers, they are in no way real or connected to what the actual streamer is as a person - i write for the personas of luxiem, not for the person behind them.

✧ a/n: "slap their ass gonna slap so hard" i have not gotten this sentence out of my mind because of a friend. but hi tama, long time no see. been busy again and really demotivated to write but that happens every now and then. sorry for the long wait, but hope ya'll like it !

✧ You know those very confused and loud noises he makes whenever he's surprised? Yeah, that's the sound you get when you suddenly slap his ass when he walks past you.

✧ He will then slowly turn around to stare at you in confusion. A silent request for you to tell him why you slapped his butt. An answer you don't have at the moment, what were you supposed to say?

✧ "Uh, I just felt like... Slapping your butt," you end up muttering, the room eerily quiet at your confession, with Shu only blinking at you, a worried smile grazing his lips. "I- uh, thank you?" That reply wasn't any better.

✧ ".... I'm sorry-" you blurt out, hiding your face in your hands, which prompts Shu to laugh out loud, bending down to peck you on the temple, lips traveling to your ear to whisper, "No worries, babe. I could always do worse things to yours so." the innuendo behind it making your face going beet red from embarassment as Shu walks away with a melodic laugh.

✧ Squeals out in surprise. Covering his butt before turning around with an accusing glare and a pout. "What was that for?!" he hisses, but the only answer he gets is your laugh at his outburst.

✧ "I don't know! It's just those sudden urges you know?" you try to explain through your wheezing, but Ike only stares at you like you grew another head, "Most of those urges would be to eat a whole box of ice cream at 2 AM, not slap someone's butt out of the blue!"

✧ "Sorry, sorry!" apologizing through your laughs seems to only make the novelist angrier, so you only open your arms to beckon him in a hug, tilting your head to the side with a smile. "I said I was sorry, Ikey. Hug it out like we always do whenever I do something stupid?"

✧ And Ike is very weak to your hugs and how safe they make him feel. So he grumbles while wrapping his arms arund your shoulders as your own wrap around his waist. And it's all peaceful before you go: "Pat. Pat," while patting his butt once again, the novelist pinching whatever skin he could get into as a payback. "I should've never trusted you."

✧ Flinches and stops in his tracks when he hears the resounding smack across the living room. But soon turns around to face you with an easy-going grin and a: "What's up? You alright?"

✧ Which prompts you to get confused. "I am, why?" Luca only blinks before he laughs, apparently having just realized that you don't know what he's referring to. "Well because the few times you decide to touch any part of my body while not kissing me is because you're usually stressed."

✧ "No I don't..." you were about to deny, but then you remember that you indeed do have the habit of burying your face into Luca's chest and hugging him like a koala whenever you're stressed or in a sour mood, the mafia boss usually just threading his fingers through your hair whenever you do.

✧ It's scary how Luca can read you like an open book. "... Damn can't someone just slap their lovers ass without being analyzed like this."

✧ Used to it. Only lets out an exaggerated low moan whenever you do slap his butt.

✧ He's expecting it half the time with how he doesn't walk around with pants around the house. It's literally an open invitation to just slap them, because the boy barely flinches whenever you do.

✧ So used to it to the point it's sorta calming just having your hand on his butt, you don't even need to do anything, he just likes having it there, but if you do slap it whenever you're both cuddling he will and can moan each time.

✧ "Oh slap my ass." "Gladly." "... No wait-"

✧ This can go two ways. Either he will look back with a suggestive grin or fake cry. No in between.

✧ You've seen him go through the 5 stages of grief with his flat ass everywhere, he's not having a great time at all, so the fact that you slap his ass can only go two ways.

✧ 1. You don't care that his ass is flat because everything else about him is wonderful or 2. he can see it as you mocking the fact he doesn't have any ass at all.

✧ If option 1 happens, you get a wonderful night in bed, yay to you! If option 2 happens you suddenly have to console an overgrown demon child who insists he isn't flat, "Vox... Even you yourself admitted that you were flat on stream, it's literally been clipped everywhere." you remind, the demon only "crying" louder at your reminder.

[mantis-dea]

Father Giorno x Daughter! Reader - Faux Disappointment

Synopsis- Don Giovanna's daughter has been attempting to deal with assassination attempts all by herself. However, after a near death experience, Giorno exchanges a few words with his daughter.

I think this one I will come back to if I remember. I need to stop writing when I am drinking. Feedback will really be appreciated on this one because I forgot about half the things I wrote in here.

Passione, the largest and most powerful mafia in all of Italy, has faced numerous attempts to overthrow the Don, all of which have failed. Recently, rival factions realized that directly targeting Don Giovanna is futile. Instead, they chose to focus on his biggest weakness – his children.

And that’s what leads to your situation. You’ve chosen not to disclose the threats that have been coming after you to your father. Whenever you recognize someone is trailing you, you would steer them to discreet locations where no other Passione member could eavesdrop on. You’ve taken it upon yourself to handle and learn from these assassinations and kidnapping attempts, believing that it is your duty to be strong enough to neutralize them. After all, you are the supposed next-in line Don of Passione.

However, the last attempt nearly cost you your life. If it wasn’t for your family sensing something was amiss that night and rushing to your aid, you would not be here today.

For the first time in a while, you hazily witnessed your normally level-headed family in a state of hysteria. Your younger brother sobbed uncontrollably as he gazed upon you, sprawled on the ground, barely conscious, with bones protruding from your skin. Your crying mother gently stroked your hair and gave words of reassurance, while your father, cool and collected, worked to repair you using his Stand.

After your father successfully mended your injuries, you remained unconscious for the night. When you awoke, your mother was by your side, holding your hand, sobbing once more. You informed your family that you were fully recovered and felt just fine, prompting your father, as stoic as always, to request a meeting in his office.

So here you sat. In your father’s office. Head resting in the palm of your hand, a frown on your face.

After a brief wait, he finally opens the door to his office. He enters, locking the door behind him. He walks to his chair without making eye contact with you.

He takes his seat behind his desk, fingers interlaced. His eyes are closed, presumably deep in thought about how to address last night’s events. You swallow hard as the atmosphere in the room increasingly becomes unbearable.

“Y/n.”

“Padre.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, “For how long this has been happening?”

You respond with a shrug, a response that he did not like. His frustration boils over, and he slams his fist onto the desk.

“You know I hate repeating myself,” he states sternly.

You scoff and retort, “There’s no need to worry. I would’ve been fine without you there anyways. It always ends like this, and I always live to tell the tale.”

“Would have been fine? Always live?” Your father repeats, disliking your whole hostile and nonchalant attitude about this.

As you hear your father ramble on about the situation, his voice uncharacteristically trembling with emotion, you notice the tears falling down his face. The Don of Passione, the most feared man in Italy, is crying. Uncomfortable by the unexpected display of emotion, you sit there, nervously fiddling with your thumbs.

“Why?” He implores, voice crackling. “I love you. I can’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to you. So why endanger yourself like this? Why have you distanced yourself from me? Why treat me like this? We used to be so close. You would always ask to join me on my travels. Share everything that’s been going on in your day. I’m struggling to comprehend where it went wrong. Is it me? Am I falling short in some way?”

Tears cascade down your face. Ashamed, your head droops down, and your eyes fixate on your fiddling thumbs.

“No, papa,” you begin, voice mirroring his as you attempt to communicate amongst the weeping. “I guess, no, I know it’s because I’m ashamed of letting you down these past few months. I know I embarrassed you at the last few meetings I’ve attended, and I understand why you’ve been taking GioGio place instead. He’s so much more advanced in his studies, despite being three years younger than me. He’s already at my grade level and continues to excel. And my Stand. I acquired one several months back, but it’s not strong… Unlike the rest of the family.”

You hear your father rising from his seat, and you brace yourself for what might come next. To your surprise, you feel his arms wrapping around you, pulling you into a tight, warm hug.

“You are not a disappointment, and you will never disappoint me,” he states firmly. “The last few conferences that I’ve taken you too were difficult, even for me. You exceeded my expectations, keeping a remarkable composure. I took GioGio to the other three meetings because… the Dons have sons your age.

You sniff, “What?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, resting his head on your shoulder as he explains, “The Dons have sons your age, and I didn’t want you to meet them in person because they’ve been eagerly anticipating your introduction.”

“You don’t want me to date them.”

Your father hesitates for a moment before admitting, “…Yes.”

Your whimpering quickly turns into laughter after hearing your father’s confession. You encase your father with your own hug, squeezing tightly. “Papa,” you say in between giggles, “I am not interested in dating at the moment.”

The tension in the room lax as you continue laughing. You feel your father’s gentle pout on your shoulder before giving you a chaste kiss. He quickly changes the subject to avoid your teasing.

“I am also aware of your Stand. Though, there are Stands that truly are not meant for combat, I believe yours can be. It’s all in the matter of how you use it.” He says with a reassuring tone, emphasizing the potential and versatility of your Stand.

“That’s why I haven’t been telling you about the fights I got into. I’ve been using the fights to discover my Stand’s combat potential.” You explain, your words trailing off as you process what your father has just revealed. “Wait, you knew I had a Stand? When did you find out?”

He chuckles, “It’s hard to miss the irritated look on your face when you could finally hear Sex Pistols.” He gives you a chaste kiss on the forehead, “If you would like, I can assist you with discovering your Stand’s potential.”

“That would be great.” You say, pulling him back so you can look him in the eye. "I'm truly sorry for keeping you in the dark about the dangers I've faced lately. I’ll tell you all about my ventures if you don’t ground me.”

[sgiandubh]

The stigma

I do not have time to elaborate, but I think all the people in this fandom should have a real look at this. Me included:

It is a thing of wonder to constantly stigmatize a whole group of people using this umbrella term: the loons.

The person who does this several times a day, in print, personally knew some of the people she is talking about in these terms: that is no state secret, she tells us herself. People who laughed with her, shared personal details with her, supported her when she was feeling down, encouraged her. People she probably also met IRL.

In a nutshell: former friends.

Anyone can fall out of a friendship. I will not discuss her reasons, because I am in nobody's head and it is none of my business to give lessons to anyone.

I can only talk about me. I lost some friends here and there. Sometimes because I moved to another country and the relationship diluted to oblivion. Sometimes over a silly miscommunication - great friendships are always lost for idiotic reasons, in my opinion. Sometimes because I grew up and out of a particular context and it happened organically. And sometimes yes, because I was betrayed and felt disappointed with the breech of trust.

When it happens, you have exactly two choices, after you move on: a) get bitter and nasty about it and spew your venom to whoever happens to pass by or b) understand people share your path for a reason and for that same reason they might stick around for a very long time or call it quits at the next relay.

If you go with point b, you'll remember all the good things and carry on with great memories and at peace.

There is a wonderful Zen story. You can find it here, but I will quote it for the people who use Google Translate (https://isha.sadhguru.org/global/en/wisdom/article/helping-lady-across-river-zen-story):

" One day while Zen monk Tanzan and a young monk were traveling, they came to a river with a strong current. As they were preparing to cross the river, they saw a young lady in distress also attempting to cross.

Tanzan offered, “Here, let me carry you across,” and placed her down gently on the other side. 

The lady said, “Thank you very much. Goodbye.” The two continued on their journey for more than half a day. 

Finally, the younger monk could not contain himself any longer, and blurted out, “I thought we monks were supposed to avoid women. Why did you just do that?"

“Oh, you mean the woman way back there? I put her down long ago. Are you still carrying her?” 

So why are you still carrying your former friends on your back, woman? And why are you calling loons people you have no idea about and who did nothing to you, spare answering when provoked by you?

For the newbies? Oh, give me a break. This is ridiculous and I hope you know it. People will ultimately believe whatever they want, despite your best efforts. Luring them with pronunciamientos is not exactly the way to achieve success.

I also might have prompted you to take your pills. I am very sorry for that burst of anger. It is none of my business if you need to do that. But if you do, really do it. It is about self-care.

I am also done with you, too. Write whatever you want. Spit how far and wide you want. Send how many anons you want. Call me Puffy if it suits you until the end of time. I do not care anymore and I promise your Anons will all go straight to the bin. What you need is a secondary stage and it is not going to happen in here.

[ladycatofwinterfell]

Idk if you’re taking prompts but I just thought about this and 👀

Early in their marriage Ned is already hopelessly in love with Catelyn but he doesn’t think she feels the same and fears she still years for his brother. So when she tells him she’s pregnant again (Sansa) and that she hopes it’s a boy for them to name after Brandon, Ned gets sick with jealously and insecurity and even more sick that he feels like this way, because he knows Catelyn wasn’t supposed to be his wife anyways ✨

I didn’t think of an particular ending so if you want to write this prompt at any point you can get creative. I just LOVE jealous!Ned

I’m always taking prompts! I can’t always fulfil them very quickly and sometimes I never get to them, but it’s always worth throwing me an ask if you have an idea <3

Here is Ned being jealous and insecure with a sweet ending because I just had to. Enjoy!

The first time Ned had ever laid eyes upon his wife was on their wedding day, though he had learned of her long before that. He had never met her gaze before they swore themselves to one another, though he had heard of how blue her eyes were. He had never touched her hair before they took to bed on their wedding night, though he had been told of how soft it was.

He had been fostered in the Vale for years when the betrothal between Brandon and Catelyn was decided upon. He had received the news of it not much later in a letter from his father. Then, not long thereafter, he had been sent a letter from Brandon. By then Brandon had met his future wife and wrote of how she wasn’t a woman grown yet, though that she would be lovely once she was. Blue eyes one could drown in, auburn hair, a face that would be beautiful once she grew into it. Sweet and well mannered with a good head on her shoulder.

When he read the letter Ned had imagined what the girl, Catelyn Tully, looked like. What she was like. He had not paid it much more mind, it had not mattered to him. Why would it? He had not himself been a man grown yet, he had had other concerns. So small and feeble he could not even remember what they were, though they had seemed great to him then.

Over the years that lead up to the wedding Ned had heard of Catelyn Tully many times. Through letters and from Brandon when he visited home. He had listened with half an ear as his brother bragged about the woman he would marry, it had not been important. Until suddenly it was so very important.

Brandon had died and Ned had taken his place. In the end Ned had been the one to wed Catelyn Tully. It had been difficult to truly see her on the day of their wedding, his mind had been flooded with so many other things. So much death and destruction.

The pain remained once the dust had settled and they were both in Winterfell. Though life was calmer, it was easier to see. See for himself all that Brandon had told him of.

Brandon had not exaggerated when he spoke of Catelyn. She was beautiful, she was sweet and kind, she was clever and had her wits with her. His people took to her quickly and she was a good mother to their son.

His brother had never mentioned if Catelyn thought as highly of him as he did of her. Still she must have. Brandon had been handsome and charming. All girls had wanted Brandon, everyone had wanted Brandon. So had always been the way of things. Of course Catelyn had wanted to wed him, of course she had loved him. No one could fault her for it, he had been her betrothed and for years she had known she would be his wife.

With a sigh Ned fell back on his bed, looking up at the canopy above him. The thought of Catelyn was eating at his mind, leaving him with a weight on his chest. One moment he looked at her and felt his heart flutter, the next he found himself full of dread.

A few days earlier they had been in quarrel over Jon again. She had once again asked him to send the boy away, Ned had once again refused. As it had been for almost three years and would continue to be. Before he had been left more angered than anything else, that time he had felt something else. He had been angry with her, though it had been tinged with something else. Some regret. Not over bringing Jon home, but over speaking so harshly to her. It had not been necessary, he could have remained calm even when faced with her persistence in wanting Jon gone. What she said did not matter, he knew Jon would remain in Winterfell.

Catelyn had been cold to him since, only spoke to him when necessary. He had returned that. The thought of apologising had crossed his mind, still he had not done so. Apologising to her was difficult. Everything that had to do with her was difficult.

Ned shot up into a sitting position when there was a knock on his door. He considered sending whoever it was away. He was tired. So tired. He wanted the day to be through, wanted no one else to speak to him.

“It’s Catelyn, my lord” a voice said before he had made his decision. “May I enter?”

What business did she have with him at that hour? Was it something that had to do with Robb? He could not refuse her.

“Come!” he called as he pushed himself off the bed.

He was glad for that he had not had time to undress.

Even as he had called for her to enter he had to wait before she did so. Enough time for his heart to start beating faster. Enough for him to regret not having told her they could speak on the morrow.

Catelyn was not smiling when she opened the door, though a smile appeared on her face when she looked at him. He was surprised by that smile, by how joyful she seemed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, my lady?” he asked.

“I have something I wish to tell you” Catelyn said, her eyes gleaming. ”May I sit?”

The way her joy made him feel somewhat suspicious sickened him. Why was he not happy that she was happy?

”Of course.”

He gestured towards the two chairs by the bedchamber’s hearth and Catelyn immediately moved to sit. She sat on the very edge of the seat, folding her hands in her lap.

Something in him wished to resist when he followed her lead and sat in the other chair.

”What did you wish to tell me, my lady?”

”I have been wanting to tell you all day” she began. ”Though I waited for a good moment to do so and that moment never presented itself. Forgive me for disturbing you so late in the day, my lord, I simply could not wait any longer.”

”You need not apologise” he assured her.

She was free to visit his bedchamber whenever she wished. If she wished to do so, that was.

Catelyn took a deep breath and then paused. While Ned waited for her to speak she left her chair and moved it closer to his before sitting again. That time she did not keep her hands in her lap, she instead took one of his hands into the both of hers.

For a second Ned forgot how to breathe, not made easier by what Catelyn said.

”I’m with child.”

His wife was with child, he would be a father again. Then the happiness washed over him, took him under entirely.

Last time she had been with child he had learned of it from a letter he had read in the middle of a war camp. It had brought him joy, though it had also brought a terrible worry. Then the times had been uncertain, it was no longer like that. The war was over, both of them were safe in Winterfell. They would have another child together, a brother or sister for Robb and Jon. Everything was well.

”That’s wonderful, my lady” he smiled, squeezing her hand.

”It’s still early, the maester advised me not to become too hopeful” Catelyn told him. ”Though I cannot help myself.”

“We shall pray to the gods, both old and new, for that everything goes well.”

If the gods saw fit they would have a healthy child.

The thought of holding their newborn child made him warm. He had not been there to hold Robb, it would be different that time.

On a whim he raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed the back of it, making her smile even wider.

His wife, his Lady Catelyn, the mother of his children. They had made another child together, another life that would see the light of day. He wondered what it would look like, what its laughter would sound like, if it would be a boy or a girl.

“To believe you waited all day to tell me” he said.

How was he to sleep? He did not feel at all tired, he felt alive. Happy, so happy.

“I was not allowed to sit with you and tell you last time I was with child” Catelyn said softly. “I wanted it to feel right.”

It felt right, few things had ever felt so right.

“I am overjoyed.”

Never before had that word been so true.

“I hope it’s a boy” Catelyn continued. “If so I wish to name him Brandon for your brother.”

His heart dropped in his chest and it took only a moment for him to despise himself for it.

He had also thought of that, how he wished to name another son of theirs Brandon. Almost every generation of Starks had a Brandon, and he did wish to honour his late brother. The brother that had died because of his attempt to get their sister back. Still something turned in him when Catelyn put forward the suggestion.

There was nothing he could fault her for. She had loved his brother, a part of her most likely still did. Her loyalty to his memory was admirable and Ned had no right to her.

“Brandon is a fine name” he told her.

A good name for their boy. If it was a boy.

“A fine name for what will be a fine boy.”

Ned’s boy, Ned’s child. It should have been Brandon’s. All that belonged to him should have belonged to his brother. Some of it did still belong to his brother, Catelyn’s heart belonged to his brother. Did she wish it had been Brandon’s child? Ned did not truly want an answer.

Though Catelyn was not looking at Brandon, she was looking at him. She looked at him with soft eyes, and there was something he could almost recognise as loving. It made his heart ache.

~*~

Sansa was her name and she was the sweetest girl in the entire world. Small and frail and the most beautiful being Ned had ever seen.

It had been late in the evening when she began her journey into the world and not long after dawn Catelyn had brought her forth. A healthy girl, the maester had fairly quickly established, and the whole castle had breathed a sigh of relief. Ned most of all.

Hours later both mother and daughter were fast asleep. Catelyn in her bed and Sansa in Ned’s arms. Ned himself was rather tired, he had been awake for a day and half, though he did not wish to sleep. He wished to sit in a chair in his wife’s room and hold his newborn daughter so that Catelyn could sleep in peace.

It was a dream to finally be able to hold his child, the wait had been so very long. Since that evening when Catelyn came to tell him of the babe each day had passed slower than the next. Though the birth had come and it was a Sansa, not a Brandon. Ned was not disappointed in the least.

Outside the windows large snowflakes fell from a grey sky. It was not one of the wild and violent snowfalls, it was soft. The kind of snowfall that would have made the world still and silent had it not been for the bells. Bells ringing for the birth of a daughter of Winterfell.

“Do you hear that, little one?” he mumbled. “They ring for you. We have waited for you.”

His perfect daughter. Their perfect daughter. A daughter he and Catelyn had made together.

Sansa moved a little, though stayed asleep. She was so small, smaller than Jon had been. So little she weighed nothing at all, though strong all the same. She would thrive.

Carefully Ned left his seat and walked over to one of the windows, looking out at the castle. The snow wrapped Winterfell in a white blanket, brought a peace to the castle. It was a beautiful sight.

“A day like this the snow is good to you” he said in a low voice. “You will learn it is not always like that. Though I will keep you safe until you also learn how to survive.”

Nothing would harm his little girl.

“Not a day old and you’re warning her of winter.”

He turned and looked at Catelyn.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, forgive me.”

She smiled at him from under heavy eyelids. Her hair, matted with sweat, laid in a braid over her shoulder. She was pale and had dark circles under her eyes. Tired and torn from the night, still she had never been more beautiful.

“It wasn’t due to any fault of yours” she sighed. “It’s difficult to rest easy now.”

The same could not be said of Sansa, she remained asleep.

Ned went to sit on the side of her bed so that Catelyn could also look at the sleeping babe.

“What a beautiful daughter we have” she said softly.

She reached out and let a finger run down Sansa’s red cheek.

“She takes after her mother in that” Ned told her.

Catelyn huffed at that, though he saw that it brought some colour to her face.

“Thank you” Ned said before he could stop himself.

He had looked at Catelyn and their child and been overcome by a wave of gratefulness. Catelyn was his wife and Sansa was his daughter, and it had not been meant to be that way but it was.

“For what?”

“For her.”

He loved Sansa so that his heart ached. It was a good ache. One he wanted more of.

[barnesafterglow]

eyes filled with stars

summary: nick needs to remind you that you're his

pairing: nick fowler x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: jealous nick, unprotected sex (duh), dirty talk, porn with feelings (are we surprised), low key sweet nick, steve rogers cameo

a/n: here's another kinktober prompt!! i'm fairly certain this is the first time i've written for nick so please be kind. also thank you @itistimeforusalltodecidewhoweare for picking this out for me to write bc i was having a time and a half trying to decide. please remember to reblog and comment so i know you enjoyed it!!

you can join my kinktober taglist or follow @theafterglowlibrary to stay updated when i post 🤍

kinktober masterlist ─ main masterlist

You knew from the moment he touched your arm that Nick would be furious. Nevermind the fact that he suggested you flirt with Senator Rogers to get your foot in the door.

It was supposed to be simple: you talked him up, let him know you would be open to “special favors” if he let you into his intern program, and over the next few weeks you could get the files you needed before he never saw you again.

But that was hard considering Nick was shooting daggers at Rogers, and he had definitely noticed. Instead of being nervous, he kept inching closer until he was gently grazing the bare skin of your back, exposed from the dress you were wearing.

As soon as Nick started pushing his way through the crowd, you knew your chances were blown. You’d later wonder what the last straw was - the way you placed your hand on his chest to laugh at his joke or the way he leaned down to ask if you wanted to go up to his hotel room.

It was all part of Nick’s plan.

You felt his presence before his physical touch - gripping your bicep and pulling you just out of Rogers’ orbit.

“Sorry, I’m going to have to steal her for a moment,” he said, and you could see the tick in his jaw as he clenched it.

“Goodnight, Mr. -” Your words were cut off as Nick gripped your arm tighter and led you to the elevator. You knew you would have bruises in the morning.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, he was crowding you, backing you up until you hit the mirrored wall behind you. The coolness of it dissipated to heat still lingering from the Senator’s touch, and it was like Nick knew.

“Bet you had fun with it, having his attention. Having his hands all over you.” His hands gripped your waist and he was so close you could feel his warm breath fan across your face. “Didn’t you?”

“C’mon, Nick,” you hissed. “I was just doing what you asked me to.”

“Then I was a fucking idiot.” That’s how you knew he was truly upset. He never admitted he was wrong unless he was really wrong. “Couldn’t stand to see his hands on you like that. Couldn’t stand to see his hands on what’s mine.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. No matter how many times you heard it, it never ceased to amaze you that you were his and he was yours.

It took you two long enough, dancing around feelings and playing the most meticulous games, until a night similar to this one, when Nick pinned you down in your hotel bed that night and fucked bruises into you to show you that you were his and his alone. When the bruises faded, he replaced the memory with a ring. A promise. One you were missing right then.

His lips attacked your neck as the elevator shot up, nipping and leaving marks you knew would last long enough to satisfy him. When the doors opened, he gripped your thighs and picked you up, carrying you down the hall to your hotel suite. You took a moment to thank the gods for new age technology because Nick had the door open in seconds, marching you straight to the king size bed and laying you down.

You wondered what the night would bring - hard and rough, making sure you never forgot who you belonged to. Or sweet and passionate, marking in his favorite ways.

By the time he sat you up to peel your dress from your body, he had already stripped down to nothing but grey boxer briefs, and the small stain of precome had your mouth watering. Once your dress pooled on the floor, you made a move to drop to your knees, but Nick gripped your arms, stopping you.

“I’m not waiting to make that pretty pussy mine,” he whispered low and hot in your ear. “Now get on the damn bed.”

Instinctively, you obeyed him, laying back in the fluff of pillows surrounding you, pushing them away until you were propped enough to have a clear view of your lover. He settled on his knees between your thighs, cock standing free and proud against his stomach.

He spread your legs wide, wrapping them around his waist as he bent down to capture lips in a heated kiss. You felt the tip of him slide between your slick folds, and he reached between your bodies to take hold of himself, teasing at your entrance.

“Nick, please,” you pleaded.

“Tell me who you belong to.”

“You, baby, I belong to -” Without warning, he buried himself in you to the hilt, giving you no time to adjust as he fucked into you hard and deep. His thrusts were wild and savage - they were done with the intent of making you feel as good as possible. He always took care of you.

“Gonna make you mine forever,” he whispered into your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“Already gave me the -,” you moaned as he hit you sweet spot, “gave me the ring.”

“I need more than that, love. Need more of you. Want more than just us.”

“What are you saying, Nick?”

“I’m saying I wanna fuck a baby into this pussy of mine. Have something that’s us. Made by us. That okay with you?”

You couldn’t contain the moans and filth coming from your mouth. Agreeances and “I love you”s and everything in between, clenching tightly around him as he whispered filthy promises of keeping you full, how pretty you would look pregnant, how he wanted a big family with you.

“You like the thought of that, don’t you honey?” he teased. “Like the thought of me keeping you stuffed full until it takes? Wanna be round with my baby, another part of me that’s always with you?”

Nodding frantically, you dug your fingers into his back, pulling him as close to you as possible, leaving angry red marks in the process.

With sweaty bodies pressed together, he came in you, fucking it into you as your own orgasm washed over you.

When your hips stopped grinding and your hands stopped shaking, he slipped out of you, laying beside you on his side. His hand slid back between your thighs, pushing the come that had slipped out of you back in, then stuck his fingers in your mouth and you cleaned the rest off of them.

“You were serious, huh?” you joked once he had pulled his fingers away.

“Look at me,” he said, and gently gripped your chin to turn your head toward him. “Of course I was serious, I want to be with you forever. I want a family with you. I would give this up if you asked me to.”

Your heart melted. You knew Nick loved you, he always made sure to show you, in his own way. But it was unlike him, talking about a future like that. You always figured you would go on as you had, get married one day and keep to the same path. But this was a new side of him he had never shown you until then.

“I can’t wait to have a little Nicky running around here.” A bright smile split across his face and his blue eyes sparkled in the low light of the room.

“Then we better keep trying.”

Without warning, his hands were on your hips, flipping you over on your stomach and lifting your ass up before he settled behind you.

He leaned down to whisper more filth in your ear. “I’m gonna keep you stuffed full all the time, baby. Have to make sure you’re getting every drop.”

His thrust into you had you seeing stars. And all night he showed you a galaxy.

kinktober taglist *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

@treatbuckywkisses @sgt-barnesveins @bucky-barmes @opheliastark @sweetascanbee @writing-for-marvel @christywantspizza @hi-sarahh @highlyintelligentblonde @jjbunny14 @buckysfavoritereader (@navybrat817 i thought you might like this one) 

[hertzwritings]

The horror and the wild

A/N: We’re BACK BABY! I’m sorry for the lackluster posting, but life happens, you know? Anyway, we’re back with prompts and I cannot say how much I’ve looked forward to this. THERE’S STILL PROMPTS LEFT ON THE LIST, SO GO CRAZY, MY LOVES! Prompt: “You’re bleeding.” “Just a little.” “It’s a femoral artery, asshole.”

You can buy me a coffee here, and I’ll write you a personalized something – the sky is the limit, and it would really help me out with my bills this month.

Remember, feedback feeds the soul (mine, in particular), and my requests and askbox are always open – there’s no limits because I am me and I have none.

 MASTERLIST

GERALT OF RIVIA MASTERLIST

PROMPT-LIST

ASK ME ANYTHING/REQUESTS

 Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x female reader

Contains: language, mentions of fighting, mentions of blood, mentions of medical stuff, light fluff, a little angst, sexual tension, smut (MDNI), fingering, p in v, a little Feral!Geralt, crempie, unprotected sex, MASSIVE AGE GAP (because Geralt is truly an old dude), a little elder speech

W.C.: 3.861

 The horror and the wild

 You heard them before you saw them. The dull thuds of blades hitting soft bodies, the screeching of the nekkers and the grunts from a familiar voice; Geralt was out again.

It had been several months since you’d last seen him at Kaer Morhen, when you came to aid with the plants needed through winter. He had been gruff – as per usual – and pointed – also on par for him – and he had left in the dead of the night, despite not really talking to you. He was an arse, most of the time, but you understood him well enough to know it didn’t have anything to do with you, not really.

He was just like that. Jaskier had laughed loudly, when he finally figured out who you were, and had the time of his life seeing you verbally stepping on Geralt. Both of them liked it, you supposed. It had been for the almsot ten years, you had known Geralt. 

You sighed and grabbed your own blade, crafted from Hattori after you helped him escape his death in Novigrad. It was a nice gesture, and the two-handed sword was one of beauty; the blade itself was slightly curved, carved with intricate symbols of protection, while the handle was wrapped in soft, black leather, the top of silver glinting in the sun. You loved it. You rushed outside, trying to pinpoint where on earth the sounds were coming from, and to your horror, you realized that it wasn’t just male grunts and Nekkers screeching; no, the familiar clicks of endregas echoing around the woods. Damn it. He might be accomplished with swords, but if he was alone with both endregas and nekkers, he was going to die. You ran through the thicket, leaves and branches cracking under your weight, as you ran to the fight.

You had been right in coming – Geralt was breathing heavily, sweat pouring over his brows, his sword a flurry of silver. “Fuck!” He grunted when a Nekker jumped his back and he shook it off, but you saw how tired he was. You jumped into action when you saw him falter for a moment, your blade slashing through bodies of nekkers, trying to reach him. “Kind of you to… Umpfh… Join the fight.” He said through gritted teeth. You flashed him a smile, before swinging your sword behind him, catching an endrega on the soft spot between its plates. It tumbled to the ground, the acidic blood pooling under it.

 It had been hard, long and far too dangerous, but the two of you had managed to get out nearly unscathed. You were bleeding from the head (thanks to the sharp talons of a nekker) and Geralt was hoppling behind you, dragging his left foot behind him, trying his best to keep up.    

“Geralt?” You turned to look at him and noticed how pale he had gotten. You could see your hut from where you stood, but that didn’t matter to you right now. All that mattered was the way his hand came away from his thigh, covered in dark blood. You gasped and rushed to his side, hitching your arm around his waist – you were about a head and a half short than him, and you were sure that in any other situation, you both would have laughed at the absurdity of you trying to support him like this, but right now, all that mattered was him.

“Fuck.” You almost rolled your eyes at him and ordered him to keep pressure on the wound, dragging him to the hut. When you crashed inside, his skin had grown almost as grey as his hair, and he was breathing raggedly. You laid him in your bed and realized the situation was much worse than you had feared – red pooled under him too quickly for your liking, and the black pants had somehow covered just how much he was bleeding. “You’re bleeding.” You said quickly, scrambling to find your medicines and the kit, you used to stich up wounds. It might not be the smoothest work, but it would do. “Just a little.” You ripped his pants from his legs and groaned, feeling sick to your stomach at the sight of the open wound on his thigh, green and blue veins of venom spreading around it. “It’s a femoral artery, asshole.” You replied dryly, before wetting cloth and proceeded to wipe it down. He clenched his jaw, when you began stitching quickly, adding bunches of your herbs and concoctions to the wound, that already had started slowly healing. Thank the Gods for mutant-genes. “What the hell were you doing out there alone, Geralt?” You muttered under your breath, fingers stained red with his blood. It had stilled a lot since you stitched him up, and he was gaining some pallor back. He grunted and gratefully took the cup of water, you handed him. “I didn’t get to tell you goodbye.” You scoffed. “And a goodbye is worth your life, is it?” “Maybe. In my defense, I didn’t expect to be attacked.” “We’re in Velen, you oaf, there’s always a chance to be attacked here.” You said with a huff, wiping your hands on your pants and tying the bandage around his thigh firmly, before standing up. His fingers shot out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back to your seated position. “I…” You found his eyes, and the familiar warmth you always felt when you were around him, returned. You saw the apology in his eyes, and shook your head.  “It was fine, Geralt. You had to find Yennefer, remember?” You said slowly, trying to keep the lump in the back of your throat, back. It had shattered your heart that he apparently had been so enamored with the sorceress, but you wouldn’t stand in his way. He deserved some good in life. Ciri was one, but if he wanted Yennefer… He should have her. “I found her.” He said slowly. “And we broke the curse from the djinn.” You swallowed. “I didn’t know there was a djinn to take into account.” He smiled softly, one of the rare smiles, that could melt ice – it was like years had been removed from him, when he smiled like that. “There was. Now, there isn’t.” “Oh.” You didn’t know what else to say. “You should relax for a moment, Gwynnbleid, or I’ll have your head.” He nodded and reluctantly let your wrist go. It felt oddly cold. “Don’t leave.” He mumbled under his breath. “I would never.” Your cheeks heated under his gaze. “I’ll draw you a bath.”

 It took longer than normally to draw the bath. You kept adding things, simply to avoid looking at him again, but when you finally finished and gestured to it, it became clear that he couldn’t get in on his own. Fuck. “Hold me, I’ll support you.” You mumbled and gently tried to help him off the bed – he followed pliantly, leaning on you for support, since his left leg didn’t work at all at the moment, and when you reached the tub, another issue became clear. His clothes.

His pants were ripped already, since you had ripped them to gain access to his wound, so they would be quick work, but also leave him almost naked. You sat him down on the wobbly stool next to him and undid the strings on the side of his armor-plates with shaking hands, staring intently at them. The armor fell loose around him, and you gingerly removed the plates from his chest and abdomen, trying desperately not to think about how warm he was under your fingers. As soon as the armor had fallen away, you began unbuttoning the buttons on his undershirt, eyes trained on them as if they were the single most interesting thing in the world. “You’re blushing.” It was an observation. “Well, you’re getting naked.” You said, unbuttoning the last button and lifted the shirt from his waist, letting it slide past his chest – noting the scars and chiseled abs and chest, which didn’t dampen the heat in your cheeks – and his head, before flinging it in the wooden bucket you had filled with soapy water to wash the grime away from his clothes. “Thank you, me feainn.” He mumbled. You swallowed thickly. “Always.” You began undoing the straps of his pants and kept your mind at ease; it was very damn difficult to keep focus on anything but him, and you nearly moaned when you saw he was naked under the pants. You were certain his heightened sense of everything made it very clear how you felt at the moment, but if he noticed, he didn’t let on. “Stand.” You asked gently, turning your head away from his groin. He grabbed the windowsill and stood on shaky legs, as you tugged the legs (well, leg) down and finally removed the leather pants fully from his body. “I…” You cleared your throat. You were a professional. “Hold my shoulder, I’ll help you into the bath.” When had it gotten so hot in here? His skin was burning against your shoulder, and his scent permeated your senses completely, leaving you shaking just as bad as he was. He sat down with a soft sigh, that went straight to your core, and you drew a deep breath, before handing him a bar of soap. “I’ll wash your clothes and see if I can mend your pants.” You needed to get out of the room.  

 ------------------

 It took almost a week for him to gain enough strength to walk again. The venom – which you both deduced had been from an endrega – hadn’t spread too much, but it had been enough in combination with the wound to render him, in his words, utterly useless. You didn’t mind his presence in your little hut. It felt warm and tight, but in a way, that just seemed right. When he did begin to walk again, you had joked that you needed to raise the roof of your hut, since the top of his head constantly hit the supporting beams, and he had a permanent bruise (which was a feat, since the Witcher healed in no time) just over his brow, because he kept bumping into the doorframe. It was almost endearing.

“You seem to be better.” You stated as you watched him walk around the hut, piling wood into the hearth. “I am.” He said, lighting the fire. You sat on your bed, crossing your legs. “I suppose this means that you’re leaving soon.” You smiled sadly. “I cleaned your swords, by the way.” He frowned at you. “Why would I leave?” You shrugged. “You always do. The road calls you more than the whisper of the forest calls me.” He knelt down in front of you, and despite being on his knees, and you being raised above the ground on your bed, his face was still level with yours. Tall, handsome man. “I am not leaving. At least, not until we have talked.” “Talked? Geralt, you don’t talk.” He cocked an eyebrow at you. “First time for everything.” You licked your lips, trying to breathe through your mouth to evade the scent of him, because it would settle in your bones and never leave you again – it would simply make you yearn for him, and you couldn’t handle that. “I…” “Y/N.” for the first time since you found him the woods, he spoke your real name. Normally, he’d call you minne, me blath, or me feainn – you tried not to let those get to your head. Your eyes snapped to his amber ones, and you made the mistake of inhaling through your nose. The scent, that was inherently Geralt was intoxicating, but in combination with the lemon soap, you normally used, it was sinful. “I am not about to leave you. We should…” He licked his lips, and you felt your heart skip out of your chest. “Geralt.” You interrupted. “You should go find Yennefer. Ciri, too. They must be missing you.” “Ciri knows I came to find you. Yennefer…” He sighed. “Yennefer is currently pissy with me. Understandable, though not justified.” “How so?” You asked, curiosity getting the better of you. His fingers rested right next to your knee, and they twitched, almost as if he wanted to put his hand on your knee but restrained himself. “The djinn. It created a bond between us.” You nodded. You knew the story well, having had it told countless of times – Jaskier hated it, you disliked it, but Geralt seemed content with it. “I asked the djinn to undo it.” You nearly choked on your own spit. “I’m sorry?” “That’s why Yen is angry with me. Hurt, I guess.” He said slowly, his amber eyes searching yours. “I… Didn’t feel anything when it was lifted. I thought…” He sighed. “Yennefer thought it was more than a curse from a djinn. It was for her. I have love for her, but not the love she expected nor wanted.” Your mind was reeling. He wasn’t… In love? “Which means…?” “You know I’m not good with words, me minne.” He grunted. “Try. I need… I need to know, please, Gwynnbleid.” You echoed his elder speech. “I didn’t have the love to give her, because I had already, unwillingly, and very unknowingly until a few weeks ago, given my heart and all it possessed to someone else.” “Unwillingly?” you stammered. “Yes. I have always been content with being alone. I have never been lonesome, and since Jaskier came along and then Ciri, I hardly think I’ll ever be lonesome, even if I tried.” You laughed a little. That much was true. “But… The last visit to Kaer Morhen…” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I saw you, finally. For the longest time, you’ve been in the back of my mind, which was irksome at best, distracting at worst.” He smiled. “And you just stood there, talking to Lambert and Eskel, while Vesemir laughed along, and something just…” He gestured to his chest. “And I had seen you before, several times over the years, but I finally saw you. You were under the window, and the sun shone down on you, lighting you up. And I knew I couldn’t stay. Not at Kaer Morhen, nor could I stay with Yennefer.” You blinked three times. This was the most you had heard Geralt speak in the ten years you had known him. “And we have always been friendly. You’ve helped me more times than I can count. But… I never truly saw you.” “Geralt, I don’t…” “Just… Let me get this off my chest, I beg you.” He pleaded. You nodded, and out of instinct, you lifted his hand to your knee, let it rest there and intertwined your fingers with his. A jolt of warmth ran through your fingers to your heart. He glanced at your hands and smiled before he looked back at you. “I don’t expect you to return any affection stemming from a 100-year-old man, but I wanted… I don’t know. To tell you. I would stay if you asked. I’d be content with making concoctions and weed your garden for the rest of my life, me feainn.”

Your mind was reeling. “I…” You swallowed thickly. “Didn’t know you were a hundred years old.” “105, if we’re being pedantic about it.” You grinned. “That’s quite the dexterity you have for a 105-year-old, Geralt.” He chuckled, but didn’t answer, simply waiting for you. “You know…” You looked at your intertwined fingers. “I’ve always thought myself as somewhat of a lone soul. At least, until I met Jaskier because that dolt won’t leave anyone alone.” Geralt hummed in response. “I just… I met you when I was shy of 18, and you seemed to have been whatever my world revolved around. I never wanted to tell you, because you had too much on your own, Child Surprise, Yennefer, Jaskier, the life you live. I didn’t want to interfere.” “You wouldn’t. You would be the sun, I would orbit.” He said softly. “As you are for me.” It was all you could say. There wasn’t much more to say, at any rate. He knew. “Y/N…” his voice was pained. “What would you have me do?” you looked at him. His eyes had darkened slightly, and you dislodged your hand from his to cup his cheek. His stubble scratched your palm slightly, and it made you shudder. “I wish for you to do what you want, Geralt. I’m not in a position to ask or tell you what to do or what to want, because your life, your choices are yours and yours alone. If you want to stay, you can. If you want to go back on the road, you can. If you want me to come with you, I will.” You whispered.

He didn’t answer but took the beat of a heart to lunge at you, his lips descending hungrily on yours. You whimpered and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him as closely, you could.  It was addictive, the way he kissed. It was almost animalistic, teeth and tongue, like he wanted to devour you – you didn’t mind it one bit, and moaned when his teeth tugged on your lips, earning you a small growl in the back of his throat. You didn’t know when or how, but you were on your back, your legs wrapped around his hips, trying to snap your hips up to meet him, and he smiled against the kiss, his fingers quickly undoing the skirt, you had been wearing. If you had any say in it, none of you would be wearing clothes ever again.

You were nude under him in less than a blink of the eye, your nipples pebbled; he grunted and removed his now-mended pants, pushing them to his thighs. You felt his fingers first, dipping between your folds, and you surrendered yourself completely to the feeling of his calloused pads toying with you; you were moaning and writhing under him, as his fingers dipped inside of you, curling upwards with a soft moan that echoed your own. Your back arched, and your fingers pulled his face back to meet yours, kissing him deeply as he drew pleasure from you with every stroke of his long, thick fingers.

The fingers, that normally dealt pain and death to the monsters of the world, brought you pleasure beyond anything you had experienced before. It was like fire was licking your very soul, your entire being captivated by the slight movements of his fingers, as he pumped them in and out of you. You kissed him desperately, feeling an overwhelming sense of belonging intertwined with the fire, that licked gently against you. “Geralt, I…” You moaned against his lips. Your hips rolled to meet his fingers. “I’ve got you, me feainn.” He whispered, speeding up slightly and you came undone. It was like a collision of planets went off in you, spreading their warmth from the tips of his fingers through your entire body. Your cells were screaming in pleasure, and you had no control over yourself, legs shaking as he fucked you through your orgasm.

He slowly withdrew his fingers from you, and kissed you again, lining his cock up with your wet entrance. You were begging for him in whispers, letting them wash over him in the same way he had washed over you. “Y/N…” He moaned your name as he entered you, groaning when he sank completely into you, and you understood now, why the women of the taverns spoke in such reverie about him. You could cum just from this, his stillness, because he filled you so much, it was near impossible to think he’d have room to move. “Fuck, Y/N…” He groaned and slowly drew back and snapped his hips, allowing himself to pump in and out of you. You whimpered at his thick cock dragging against your walls when he found a pace, his cock sliding against you, your little hut filled with the wet sounds of your bodies meeting. “Please, Geralt…” You moaned his name. “More.” His eyes snapped to yours, molten gold meeting you, and he growled. You clenched around him at the sound. “Don’t jest.” “I don’t. Please.” You whimpered again and rolled your hips.

He lost control of himself, it would seem; he growled again and buried his head in the crook of your neck, his teeth finding the sensitive spot along your neck, biting down and marking you, his hips speeding up wildly and his fingers gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises. You mewled and tried to keep up with him, but he refused to let you do anything but take it, and at this moment, you were more than willing. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good…” He mumbled against your skin, leaving wet trails from his lips. You couldn’t think, speak or even fully comprehend anything but the feeling of his thick cock sliding in and out of you.

Your orgasm hit you at the same time as he buried himself deeply, his head nudging your cervix and a growled mine fell from his lips. You tensed like a bowstring, your back arching, pushing your chest flush with his. He stuttered when your wet pussy clenched around him, drawing him deeper, and let himself go. With a string of curses and your name in elder speech, he filled you with his spend, fucking into you hard enough to make it spill from the sides. You were moaning through a coarse throat, having screamed yourself nearly mute.

“I… Sorry.” He mumbled, kissing your neck, jaw and finally, your lips softly. “What on earth are you apologizing for?” You said with a small laugh. “It was too fast.” You grabbed a chunk of his hair and pulled him up – he whined, and you stored that information for later – to make him look at you. “It was perfect.” “Next time, I’ll make sure you get your pleasure at least three more times.” You chuckled and kissed him as he slowly pulled out. He fell to your side, still panting slightly. “I don’t think I’d be able to go three more times.” You mumbled, wrapping your arm around his waist and pulled yourself flush against him. “Ha, that wasn’t a question. It was a promise, me minne.” Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head.

“On one condition.” You answered. “Hm?” You smiled against his chest. “We leave this place. Take me with you on your adventures.” “Death sentences, you mean.” “Death, adventure… I’m sure Jaskier would call it all the same.” He chuckled, and the sound warmed you more than a crackling hearth ever could. “Speaking of Jaskier… I left him at Cunny of the Goose.” You grinned. “He’s fine, he’ll get to woo the ladies and the men with his songs of woe.” You frowned. “Actually, why did you come here? I haven’t seen a call for a Witcher for a while.” He kissed the top of your head. “Is it not obvious?” He lifted your head with two fingers under your chin, his eyes boring into yours.

“For you.”

  ** Minne: Love Me Blath: my flower me feainn: my sun  

  ------------

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[ghosttotheparty]

hi for the writing prompt ask? could you do steddie + 3 or 97 you pick!

(love your writing sm 💕)

thank you sm!!! <3 i did both bc i have no self control

dialogue asks

3. “What the hell is that and why are you wearing it?” 97. “I definitely wasn’t hanging around here hoping to bump into you or anything...” (i changed this one a bit to fit the dialogue more)

Eddie heard a rumour.

Steve Harrington works at Starcourt.

Everybody thought he’d be off to college, Stanford or some other college too expensive for Eddie to even consider applying to. (Not that any of them could possibly accept him in the first place.)

It’s summertime. Gareth is in San Antonio visiting his grandparents, and Jeff is in Chicago visiting his dad, and Paul is in Michigan for some reason. (Eddie can’t remember.) And Eddie is beginning to go a little crazy stuck in his room with nothing to do (he supposes he could study his schoolwork from last year, but… Ew.), and the air conditioner in the trailer isn’t very good, and he thinks he might melt.

So he goes to Starcourt.

With no ulterior motives, obviously. It’s just hot. And Starcourt is nice and cool inside, and he doesn’t get bored at all, wandering and browsing, and definitely not scanning every store he passes looking for pretty brown hair.

He hasn’t seen Steve anywhere. Not that it matters, because he’s not there for him. Obviously. He’s there to look in the music store, at records that he can’t afford right now and posters he’s like to put on his ceiling. He’s there to sit by the fountain and listen to the water and people watch, and ignore the people that are eyeing him like he stole something. (Which he didn’t. Not today, at least.)

He lets his eyes wander as he sits by the fountain. The sound of it drowns out the noise of the people talking and laughing and shouting, the noise of rubber shoe soles squeaking on the brand new tile floor and the humming of the escalators and the buzzing of the lights. Some girls are finding their places sitting around the fountain, near him. They’re all licking ice cream cones.

“Hey,” Eddie says, leaning toward the girl sitting at the top. She seems to be the group leader.

“What?” she says bluntly, looking him up and down very obviously. He tries not to laugh.

“How much was that?” he asks, nodding toward her ice cream.

“A dollar twenty-five.”

“Oh.”

“But,” she adds, and her friends giggle. “Scoops company policy says you can have as many tastes as you want, so basically that’s unlimited ice cream.” She holds up a finger to make her point. “Loophole.”

He stares at her blankly for a moment before he snorts.

“You’re clever.”

“Yes, I am,” she says, a dismissal, and he turned away with a nod. He reaches into his pocket to find his change, counting the coins and thinking hard.

Fuck it.

“Watch my bag?” he asks the girl, and shrugs in a Sure, whatever gesture.

He hops up and heads toward Scoops, pausing to let some kids pass him before he freezes in the entrance of it.

Because holy fucking shit.

There he is.

Steve fucking Harrington, in all his glory, wearing a cute little sailor costume with a cap on his head. He’s talking to a red-headed girl, looking bored and fed up, and he has to know her, because there’s no way he can talk to a regular customer like that. She’s laughing when she walks away, running to catch up with her friends, and Steve’s eyes follow her, half-smiling and shaking his head fondly before his eyes meet Eddie’s.

His face turns pink, and Eddie grins as he crosses the shop, approaching him.

“Munson,” Steve greets. Eddie looks him up and down, peering over the counter to see his long legs, and the horrific shorts he’s wearing. Eddie loves it.

“What the hell is that,” he says slowly, looking back into his eyes, “why are you wearing it?”

“Work uniform,” Steve says uncomfortably, and Robin Buckley appears in the window behind him, wearing an identical cap on her head.

“Edward,” she says dryly.

“Unfair that Robin isn’t short for anything, Buckley.”

“Hah.” She looks at Steve, who’s moved so they can see each other, looking back and forth between them. “What, you’re not gonna do your spiel?”

“What spiel?” Eddie questions, his interest piqued as Steve’s cheeks flush with colour again.

“Nothing,” Steve says, looking sharply at Robin. “There’s no spiel.”

“There’s a spiel,” Robin tells Eddie.

“What’s the spiel?”

“The spiel is—”

“Stop saying spiel,” Steve says loudly, and Robin and Eddie burst into giggles.

“Do it,” Robin encourages. Steve glares at her then looks at Eddie, who raises his eyebrows expectantly, and he sighs heavily, giving in.

“Ahoy, Eddie!” he says loudly and flatly, imitating enthusiasm. Eddie’s eyes widen. “Didn’t see you there. Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavour with me? I’ll be your captain.”

There’s a short moment of silence before Eddie bursts into laughter, doubling over, and Steve sighs again.

“Incredible,” Eddie says when he can speak again, still giggling. “Amazing.”

“Alright. Are you here for ice cream or are you just gonna keep making fun of me?”

“This,” Eddie says, gesturing to Steve’s whole body (meaning the uniform, obviously), “is better than any ice cream.”

“Are you sure, ‘cause the USS Butterscotch is pretty fuckin’ good.”

“Oh, positive,” Eddie says, nods. “For sure. Better than any kind of chocolate fudge whatever.”

“Butterscotch isn’t chocolate.”

“I know what butterscotch is,” Eddie says defensively.

“I’m not sure you do.”

Eddie makes an indignant noise, but Robin interrupts.

“Alright, now you guys are just flirting.”

Steve whips around to look at her, and Eddie’s face flushes with heat as he glares at her, mouthing Shut the fuck up. She just grins.

“What do you want?” Steve asks when he turns back toward Eddie, his cheeks pink again.

“Uh. Guess I’ll try the butterscotch.”

“Good choice.”

Eddie watches him shamelessly just because he can, his eyes following him as he flips the ice cream scooper in his hand in way that’s unfairly cool, especially considering it’s an ice cream scooper, as he reaches into the tub of ice cream and scrapes at it. His sleeves are short enough that Eddie can watch his muscles flex and shift under his skin, and Eddie wishes the A/C was stronger in here.

“Dollar twenty-five,” Steve says, setting the cone on the counter, and Eddie holds out the coins, dropping them in Steve's hand. (He ignores the way his fingertips brush his palms.) Steve’s brows furrow as he counts them, and he pauses, counting again. “You’re a dime short, I think.”

“What?” Eddie leans over the counter to look at the change in his hand. “I thought I had a dollar twenty-five.”

Steve makes a face, shrugging and holding the coins out. Eddie’s missing a dime.

“Damn,” he says.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Steve says, closing his hand around the coins and sorting them in the cash register.

“Huh?”

“‘S fine,” Steve says lightly, smiling, and he reaches for the tip jar, looking in it and rummaging through it until he produces a dime.

“Hey,” Robin says loudly behind him. “Those are my tips too, dingus.”

“I’m the only one working right now,” Steve says, dropping the coin noisily into the cash register.

“We have one single customer, you ass.”

Eddie questions her emphasis on single, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

“Thanks for coming,” he says brightly, smiling in a way that looks like it’s covering up a different smile, and Eddie takes his ice cream.

“Thanks, Harrington.”

He starts walking backwards out, watching as Steve pushes the cash register shut, his smile softening.

“We get off at five!” Robin calls loudly, and Steve turns around to her, hissing, “Shut the fuck up.”

Eddie winks at her.

“Aren’t they weird?” the girl asks when Eddie goes back to the fountain with his ice cream, and he cackles.

He sits and eats his ice cream as he people watches again, until he gets bored and pulls his book out of his bag.

“Oh, you’re a nerd,” the girl says, and he looks up at her.

“What’s wrong with nerds?” he asks, setting the book in his lap and eating the last of the styrofoam-y cone.

“They’re weird,” she says. Her friends giggle. “I know nerds. My brother’s a nerd.”

“Mhmm. Would I like him?”

“Probably. You know Dungeons and Dragons?”

Eddie grins at her.

“I’m a Dungeon Master.”

She looks him up and down again.

“Yeah, you’d like him.”

“Alright, well, nerd or not, The Princess Bride is a good book.”

“You’re reading about a princess?” one of the girls asks, and they all giggle as he puts on an offended expression.

“What, I don’t look like I read about princesses?”

They just giggle again.

They’re curious about the book, and why someone like him, as the leader so politely puts it, likes it so much, so he scoots closer and flips the book to the front page.

He puts on voices as he reads to them, acting the way he does during campaigns, theatrical and silly to make them giggle.

After a while the leader jumps up when a man calls Erica! loudly, and she waved him over. Eddie pauses, looking up.

“I told you girls to be at the entrance,” the man says, scolding them lightly.

“Sorry, Mr Sinclair,” one of the girls says. “We lost track of time.”

Mr Sinclair looks at Eddie sceptically.

“I’m showing them nerdy things aren’t all bad,” Eddie says, holding the book up, and Mr Sinclair just kind of scoffs.

“Alright, I like that you’re kind of reading,” he says to the girls, beckoning for them to get up, “but I need to get you all home, come on now.”

Eddie stands to help them up as a gentleman.

“Ladies,” he says lightly, waving goodbye as they leave, and they all wave back.

He keeps reading until the mall falls quieter, until he hears the sounds of metal being pulled down to block shop entrances, and he looks up when he hears Robin’s voice.

“—just saying I could have added a tally to the You Rule side, but you whiffed it— Oh, hey, Eddie!”

“Hey.”

“And I’m out of here,” she says brightly, moving to walk backwards toward the exit. “Night, fellas.”

“You don’t need a ride?” Steve asks.

“I biked here.”

“But—“

“It’s still light out, Steve, I got it,” she says, exasperated like it’s a daily conversation. “Don’t worry.”

“No detours,” he calls as she gets farther away.

“Do I like a detours kinda gal?”

“Yes,” Steve and Eddie says simultaneously, and she sticks her tongue out at them.

“So,” Steve says when she’s gone, turning to look at Eddie, who quickly averts his eyes from the hem of his shorts. “What’re you still doing here?”

“Uh.” Eddie hesitates. Steve seems to know exactly why he’s still here, based on his grin. “Definitely not… waiting around hoping you’d show up. Or anything like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So what’s the You Rule thing?” Eddie questions, ignoring the way his cheeks are flushed with heat.

“Uh. Kind of a long story,” Steve says, hesitating. “I can tell you over dinner.”

Eddie’s chest feels like it might explode.

“I would,” he says. “But I only had a dollar fifteen.”

Steve shrugs.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he says lightly. “‘S on me.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Well, I’m gonna,” Steve says sassily, eyebrows raised. “You can’t stop me.”

“I could just… not go with you.”

“But you wanna come with me,” Steve says, grinning almost smugly. “Don’t you.”

It’s not a question, because he already knows. Eddie wonders if he’s see-through. If Steve can look at him and see right through his skin to the way his heart is beating faster just because Steve’s pretty eyes are on him.

“Dammit,” Eddie mutters, standing and snatching his bag. “Yeah.

Steve laughs, turning away.

“Come on.”

[iznsfw]

People say that everyone is connected by a red string of fate. The people we are destined to be with could be close by while some cases the string stretches out.

You have the ability to see other people's red string as well as your own, but in your case you haven't found the person at the end of the string. Time passes and you see that the color red started to fade away, which you didn't mind.

One day while you're working the late night shift at the convenience store when a girl suddenly entered the convenience store. When she reaches the counter she places two bottles of soju and a couple cans of beer. You catch a glimpse of her face, even in that small period of time you saw how beautiful she is. She then hands you her card, and right then and there the two ends of the string meet.

"Sorry, but can I ask what's your name?"

"Kwon Eunbi."

Now, how would you tell Eunbi that both of you are bound to fall in love at the cost of one of your lives?

i'm looking right at the other half of me

[ IZ*ONE's Eunbi x Male Reader Fluff & Angst ]

4540 words

masterlist

This took so long... and finally it's out! Thank you @brokennightmares01 for such a great idea, and I'm sorry I took so long to reply </3 This was difficult emotionally to write. I guess I'm just too attached to Eunbi lmfao

"The fuck are you looking at, cunt?"

Ah, welcome to South Korea, one of the many places in this miserable world where you can just be an adult fresh out of teen years trying to make a living, yet still be bothered by people like this one. You never should have agreed to this ridiculous night shift. There were less of these freaks in the daylight.

You look away from the musty man and give no response. It's how you deal with ninety-eight percent of these situations. It's the safest way to go around it, but also the most dangerous. You never know when you looked or said nothing the wrong way.

11 PM on the clock. Just five more hours to go and you're good, you reassure yourself. Remember, the pay will be much bigger if you go through this shift.

"That'll be a total of 17000 won, sir," you inform the man, looking nowhere but down. Down as you collect the change and the receipt. Down as you pass the money to his hands blackened from dirt and grease.

When he leaves, you feel the relief come back to you. Oh, you're thankful just to live another night. You may hate this world and all the miserable little fuckers in it, but it's no good lying and saying you thought death was the best escape route. No, death would do nothing at best. You have no family, you have little friends. Being dead changes absolutely nothing. Because of that, you just have to hang on the best you can.

It can be pretty hard sometimes.

You hope that there won't be any more customers. You don't have the mood to deal with more rude individuals who don't see you as an individual. You're just a servant to them. Although that's kind of your job, it hurts to see how differently people look at you if you had a different job, looked a little differently.

The bells to the 7-11 ring. A woman enters.

Strange how you knew it was her from the moment she entered. From the moment you caught an eyeful of her pretty face, her pretty smile, you know now that you've finally met her.

It's ruining you. She's ruining you. It should have been a moment of evangelization, finally meeting the supposed love of your life. But what good is there in having one when you know just by looking at the red string, that you could die at the climax of your meeting? That she could die? It's like an indie film with a poor plot twist.

When you ask her her name, she's blunt. Straight to the point; no poorly composed giggle or attempt at conversation. She looks tired—her eyes are swollen with red, from what you guess isn't sourced from just lack of sleep. What was she doing, you wonder, during all the time she hasn't found you? How was she doing?

"Well?" she prompts, rather impatiently.

You realize you've been staring at the red thinning thread between the two of you for too long. The more you gaze at it, the more fear you feel for the two of you. But there comes the love, too; she's like living deja vu. You've seen her before, you're sure. You just can't place where. But she reminds you of a good memory nested in a photo album, a sweet puppy love crush in middle school years. Eunbi is nostalgia, sweetness, affectionateness—all rolled into one pretty girl you meet by chance, who also happens to be your lover.

(Not yet, anyway, but soon.

Soon? You can't love her! If you fall in love with her, she could die. You could die. If you went ahead with this, one of you could just drop dead during a normal date. One of you would be left alone, heartbroken for life. This is a world where there would be no other one for you. No, the crush you had in middle school for whom you tried desperately to match your string with isn't your destiny. Neither was that one-night stand. There's only one for you, molded by whatever came before the world, and she just told you her name. You can't just move on to a rebound.

But you can't just... stop this from happening, can you? It's fate; there's no easy way around it. You're made to fall in love no matter what happens, no matter how short the time you have left is.

So, what should you do?)

"It's on the house," you tell her.

"Don't test me, please," she says tiredly. She's supporting herself by one arm perched on the counter, gazing at you with unamused pupils. "I've had a long night. I just need the beer and you can go your merry little way out of this underpaying convenience store."

Ouch. "Are you usually this straightforward, Kwon Eunbi?"

"Are you usually this desperate for a good fuck?" she counters smartly.

"Y-you're pretty and all," you admit. You have to admit you were not exactly just admiring her gorgeous face, but also her gorgeous body. But you have your morals, and she has hers. You have no intention that strays from wanting to settle this out. "But I don't want to fuck you. I promise."

"Huh." Eunbi smiles, crossing her arms on top of her green sweatshirt. "That's a first."

You push back her credit card, sliding it above the smooth cashier counter-table. "Do guys not, like, do stuff for you without wanting a 'favor' in return?" you ask.

Eunbi shrugs. "I guess. They just think I'm a pretty face with a pair of tits. Nothing more." She slides back her card. Her forced, sarcastic smile warns you to not play this losing game with her—you're tired, she's tired, you both want an easy way out.

"Well then let me be the first."

"And why would you do that for me," Eunbi leans over the counter, looking up at you with a sweetly challenging smile, "mister Nice Guy?"

She's right. What proper answer can you give her without sounding like a creep? What were you supposed to do, anyway? Tell her you're the love of your life who needs to spend all hours of the day with you now before it's too late?

"I guess we'll have to find out," you say steadily.

It's definitely not an answer she expected, but hey, she's smiling. It must mean something.

-

"You left your shift just like that?" Eunbi asks, looking back at the 7-11. It's a dark, pitch-black night, and the forest surrounding the area doesn't look too safe. You've ventured in scarier places before, though, so they can give as good as they can, and you'd be unbothered. Working in retail gives you that immunity.

You answer, "Yeah." Unscrew the cork from the soju while Eunbi pops open a can of sizzling beer. The smell mixes in with the natural scent of leaves and ground. Your 7-11 is set in a rather rural part of the city, as ironic and contradicting as it sounds, so the smell of gasoline and smoke is much more distant than one would think.

"Wish I could say that for myself," Eunbi says, shaking her head with a smile. God, she's pretty. She has the cutest, most mischievous-looking smile in the world. And yes, you're pushing through Korea and setting that record for her. Her smile is contained and small, not as wide as your friend Jiwoo's or as timid as Hyewon's, but her eyes slant upwards, adding to the cuteness factor. "Should have ditched that exam the second I saw Professor Bae was in the class."

"You're still in school?"

You can't remember the last time you stepped foot into a college. There's a reason you've been working at 7-11 ever since the first semester: you couldn't pay for it. You saved every penny and dime you could find, yet never got to the needed amount. This girl's lucky to even be attending classes.

Beer drapes Eunbi's plump lower lip as she takes it all in, bottoms up. You can tell she's been drinking for most of her life—she barely struggles for air while she downs the intoxicating liquid.

The can goes down, and her head remains tilted downwards from the back as well. Her eyes are a different story, though. They're hidden far back her eyelids. " Fuck, that always feels so good," sighs Eunbi.

"Careful," you add helpfully.

"Fuck you. Why do you care?"

Because I already love you. Okay, let's settle for "like," just in case you want to take things slow. But I know I love you because I've been searching for you my whole life. Because that's how it's supposed to happen. Because you're so pretty but so fucking lonely that it makes me want to protect you. Because I don't want to leave you when we both need each other, when you probably need more help than I do. Because—

"I don't know," you say. Shrug. "It feels right. Don't you think?"

Eunbi giggles a little. "Yeah, you're right. It sure does."

Suppose since Eunbi's drinking straight from the can, you can drink straight from the bottle. It's been a minute or more since you had soju. And it's... good. Weird, but still good. Drinks like these are on your neither-good-or-bad side. They're just something to fill your stomach when food becomes scarce, or when strength is so scarce you can't eat food around the house.

You would offer some to Eunbi so she can finish it instead of you, but she doesn't look like the type of girl to be able to stomach down a mix of liquids, no matter how "similar" they are. So you hold yourself back.

The forest has streetlights, so you safely go through there. It's not a typical wilderness kind of forest, but one you just like to call as one for the mass of trees. There aren't any animals—just you, Eunbi, and the pregnant moon.

Minutes pass filled with nothing but silence (except for twigs snapping), and finally Eunbi speaks up. "Yeah, I'm in school," she answers. It's probably just to fill the awkward silence, but it's already a step.

"Uni?"

"How'd you know?"

Lucky guess? Lover's instinct? You-or-me-can-die-at-any-given-second-if-we-fall-in-love instinct?

You force a grin. "Just do. Is the drinking because of the exam thing?"

Eunbi's shoulders slump. "Yeah," she says. "But I've been drinking even before that, so don't you worry. I'm an experienced alcoholic."

"Gotcha. I wasn't planning to, though."

Wrong words. Wrong delivery. You picture the frown that would darken her features, but once you look into the bigger picture, all you can see on her face is an entertained smile.

She bumps you, driving you sideways of the road. Shocked, you do the same. But she's stronger than you thought. If she put all her might into it, she can knock you down and send you rolling down the hill. And she almost, almost does, if it weren't for your grab at her arm. From there, you maneuver the force she exerts into nothing but air, pulling her to you. It ends up with her back against your front and her small face right below your chin.

And now, you're staring each other down. Great. Way to go for the first meeting. You got drunk and bumped into each other on purpose then you wrestled her to stay calm. To finish it off, there's this staring contest.

Her long dark hair rounds her face, which displays a challenge: keep your front strong. But it's not easy to when you literally have the prettiest girl you've ever seen pinned to your chest, with her back and bum pressed firmly to your front, and her pretty face looking arrogant and smug in the moonlight.

Stare her down. She looks deeply into your eyes.

One. Two. Three? Four. Then, five—

Eunbi's blink signals defeat. Still looking up at you, with her head tilted backwards, she smiles. "I like you, mister Nice Guy," she says.

"You're not so bad yourself, Kwon Eunbi."

"Hm," she chuckles. She pulls away. "What's next?"

"Mall?" you offer.

To your surprise, she laughs. "The mall? At this hour?" she asks you, just to make sure you aren't kidding or anything.

"Why not? We're both depressed kids trying to survive. Can't we call this a cheat day?"

Eunbi considers this. "As long as I ride shotgun."

"Wait," you say, holding up your hands, "how'd you know I drive a—"

Cold metal meets your palm. Eunbi's holding your ring of keys in place with your hand. Your fingers are curled around each other. Your breath feels nonexistent.

Eunbi bumps the signal button with the heel of her wrist and looks deep into the woods expectantly. Your car then beeps to life, sending a red signal to the darkness and blaring its lights. Your mouth is sore from it being wide open the entire time.

"Lucky guess" is all Eunbi is able to offer as an answer.

-

Okay, so the love of your life pickpocketed your car keys and you didn't know until she chose to tell you herself. Wifey material? Probably.

You're on the road, veering through a clear path on the way to your local mall. It's known for having a twenty-four-hour open time, so it's sure to have a majority of its stores open, even at this hour. You can probably spend a lot of time there doing fun stuff.

Eunbi's beside you in the passenger seat. The wind whips her black hair back. She's smiling; that gives you a bit of fulfilment. But then she says:

"You're a terrible driver."

"Oh yeah? I bet you can't drive for shit either!" You have to yell over the gusts of wind entering your rolled-down windows.

Grasslands and trees say hello and goodbye to your side point of view. When you were younger, you tried to say hi to them and goodbye as quickly as you could, knowing the speed of the car your father drove would make it impossible for you to have a proper time with the view. Your dad drank and drove like a maniac, hence your driving.

But you aim not to become the person your father once was.

"Okay, dad!"

Great timing. "I'm not your daddy, Eunbi!" you shoot back. "I'm just saying—"

"Nobody said you were! I said you were my dad! "

"What?"

"Nothing!" Eunbi tosses the empty can outside the window. The world is already polluted as it is. There won't be any harm in littering. "I said you were a shit driver!"

"No, I heard you!" Take a left. The soju bottles almost crash. " Dad and daddy are completely different things, Eunbi!"

"For your porn-addicted self, maybe!"

"I'm... I'm not addicted to porn!" you say indignantly. You've watched some before, but it never grew to an addiction. It's just an occasional source of dopamine on lonely nights. "Just... watch your wording, is all!"

Eunbi scoffs, smirking in disbelief. "Daddy issues?"

The car slows down, but you aren't even near the mall yet. Your shoulders tense. The mention of your father, or anything related to that, makes you feel ill.

Every day that passes, you try to convince yourself that your father only wanted the best for you. That was why he was like that. But you can't come up with a fitting justification, which probably should have made clear to you your father's heart wasn't pure at all.

What's left of it lies in a small urn back at your apartment. You didn't know why you bothered taking home an urn containing the memories of the man who hurt you, who did not look at you as if you were his own flesh and blood.

"Yeah, I think so," you mutter. You start up the car's pace again. No use trying to cover it up; the red is already fading.

Eunbi smiles tightly. "Same here. More on mommy issues, but dad... he was something else."

Laugh a little. "Tell me about it, huh?"

In a fucked up way, you and Eunbi are meant to be. Both of you are tired, both of you have (or had) horrible parents. They say that opposites attract, but love and fate can easily shoot that misconception down, because when you look at Eunbi, you can see your reflection, your self, looking back at you. The swollen eyes, tired face... they all scream you. You wonder if she knows that the two of you are bound to be together. And if she has no idea, how would you tell her?

You get off the car at the local mall. It's a lonely Friday night. Nobody is out here except the store owners and the like. Nothing and no one else.

You walk in, still in your 7-11 uniform: a white polo shirt and a green vest, complete with your name on a golden tag, and Eunbi in her green 1987 sweatshirt.

"Baskin Robbins?" you offer, spotting an ice cream stand just as you enter the building.

"I'd rather get some Sprite," says Eunbi. "But go ahead."

You purchase a birthday cake ice cream in a cup, pay the owner, and sit with Eunbi at one of the tables in front of it. She had bought her Sprite already. She's downing it like water, just like she did to the beer. The owner looks on with obvious concern.

"Are you a sodaholic or what?" you chuckle. You've never seen someone buy so many soda cans.

"It's better than continuing being a miserable drunkard," Eunbi explains. There's a cut on her lip from the sharp metal rim of the can, but if it bothers her, she doesn't show it.

Eunbi leans forward and licks her lower lip. "So."

That can't be a good sign. She looks suspicious. But you pretend that you're not anxious yourself about what would follow this conversation.

"What?"

"What's your deal?" she asks.

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't just buy me drinks on the house without a motive. What's going on here?"

She's smart, you'll give her that. But you have no doubt about her intelligence, although you've only met her an hour ago. There's the folks' tale going around that you know how and who your soulmate is, even if you've never met them before. Maybe the grandmas and grandpas were right.

But the death of the soulmate if they haven't met earlier was not just a mere myth. You've read cases about it. Lost a friend's friend's sister's friend to it. The string isn't exactly strong enough to hold for eternity.

But how can you tell her that? She might not even notice; her end of the string looks strong still, but the rest that connects you to her is already fatally weak. If you're apart for more time, it wouldn't be able to handle it.

"Because you look like you needed it," you say. That's the half of it anyway. "Everyone needs a helping hand sometimes."

Eunbi quirks a brow. "Nothing else?"

Bite your tongue and shake your head.

Eunbi juts out a bottom lip thoughtfully. "Huh." It hasn't occurred to her that it's possible for men to be like that with her. They go feral for her in the classrooms. It's nice to have someone who didn't want to do a nice gesture for her without her body playing a role in that for a change.

"You wanna know something, mister Nice Guy?" asks Eunbi.

"Enlighten me."

"That's the first time I ever felt safe with a guy at night. And yeah, I know about all that BS: 'not all men are the same.' But it's..." She squints emphatically. "Relieving, you know? You don't look like a pervert, you don't look like a fed. You don't look like you'd stuff my body down an acid pond. I feel safe with you."

"That's really flattering, Kwon Eunbi. Thank you."

"No problem," she says kindly. Her smile is a genuine bright lamp that fills the nighttime mall. She gestures to your cup of birthday cake ice cream. "Can I have some?"

And that's where it all began: a 7-11, a broken-down car, and a talk over ice cream and soda. That's how you made Kwon Eunbi yours.

-

Fast forward to a two years and five months. You're still working at a 7-11, a thing you wished would have changed. You still meet up with Eunbi, but this time, it's about something more.

The door bells jingle. She comes leaping in with dance in her skips. "Hey, hotshot," Eunbi greets you in the most unorthodox boyfriend-girlfriend manner.

Chuckle. The strings meet again. But this time, you don't worry about it. You have been with Eunbi for this long. Nothing can take her away from you. The string may be thinning by the day, but the two of you and wake up in the same bed everyday, and it seems like you've beaten all the odds. You're okay. She's fine. All is well.

Eunbi's kiss makes your cheek flush, as if the red on her lips infected the area. "Hi there yourself, Eun," you say. Yep, you're on a nickname-basis with each other. It grew after months and months of playful loving.

"I was thinking we go to the Han River tonight?" asks Eunbi hopefully. Her hands push down on the hard counter while she raises a lower leg to the back cutely. "Just you and me?"

"Why not?" You brush a kiss on her forehead. "After I finish this hour, we can go."

Eunbi smiles. "You know I love you, right?"

"Of course. I love you, too."

Looking back, you should have said that more. You really should have if you knew how the world loved to toy with you. It has to at least be expected, but you trust that everything would go well. It's been a long time since the string of red bothered you; why would you stress over it now?

-

Because of this:

One day, you'll die. You'll die alone. Whether from the fate of the string or natural cause, the only sure thing that will happen to you is death. One day, you'll have to leave her alone. If it's not you, then she will have to leave you.

But you forgot all about that. Right now, you've brought your mic and laptop to the side of the river, and you're both singing your hearts out.

Well, she is. Eunbi is an amazing singer. You found out about that when she volunteered to sing at the bar. She sang a self-composed song she sold to Woollim Entertainment, one of the leading mid-sized companies in Korea: Amigo.

"You seriously don't know how this song goes?" asks an offended Eunbi, glaring at you when you blank out halfway through the tune. "I thought you loved me!"

"Shut up and do the rap part!"

"I'm not Babysoul, you little shit!" Eunbi says, panickedly looking at the upcoming lyrics of the rap break. Rapping is not her forte.

"But you are my baby," you point out. "Now go do it, baby. Rap for me."

Eunbi cringes. However, she's laughing. "You're so ridiculo—"

Her words never find their way out.

Eunbi starts to choke. You immediately go over to her, trying to keep her steady. But she's already fallen to the ground, unable to get up. Her eyes look straight to the empty, dark blue sky, but never at your face floating above hers.

"B-baby—" she chokes out. Coughs and gags squeeze their way out from her chest. "I can't, I can't, I can't—"

"Did you swallow something, hon?" You're stuck. You don't know what to do. "Look at me, look at me, Eunbi. Please."

You hold her face in your hands and lift it up. But then you see the string that once connected the red thread from you to her. Your lifeline. It's snapped; blunt yarn-like strands disconnect your thread from hers. It can never be tied up again.

No.

Eunbi hasn't choked on anything. She's simply dying, just like how the fate of the string has foretold. It's her time to leave. You were let go, while she's taken in your place.

Somehow, she knows that, too. "I want to live," Eunbi confesses. Her eyes are two dark oceans of sadness. "Please, baby, I can't die yet. I want you here with me. Please."

You shake your head. "You're not going to die, Eunbi," you lie through your teeth. You lift up her black hair to your thigh so she can breathe properly. "I'll call the doctors, you want that? Just hold on for me, please."

"No, don't go!" sobs Eunbi, grabbing your thigh. She's crying loudly. She climbs onto your lap and hugs you with her shaking frame. She suddenly feels worryingly thin and light. "Don't leave me, don't leave me, please don't leave me."

"You're going to make me cry, pretty girl," you sob. "I can't call for help if you don't let me go."

"Please, please stay with me. I don't want to die. But everything..." Eunbi blinks twice. "Everything is so dark. I'm so alone."

That strikes a chord in you. Eunbi has talked and joked about death plenty of times, but now that she's on the brink of it, she doesn't want to give in. She can't give in.

You pull her closer and hug her hard. You begin to rock her like a doll as she grows more limp in your arms. "You're not alone. You have me, remember? I'm here. I'm going to take care of you. Remember when we first met, baby? You do? We went to that mall, right, and ate ice cream? You want to do that again?"

"Oh... oh yes, please," whispers Eunbi, nodding. But she's still not looking at you. Aside from that, her voice is incredibly weak. Her shoulders indicate the effort it takes for her to speak.

"Then you have to fight for me, Eunbi. You have to stay strong. You have to let me go so I can call someone who can help and we can do that."

She starts whimpering. "Why is this happening?" she sobs. "I just want to be okay. Why is it... why is it..."

Why is it like this?

Why does it have to be like this?

You don't tell her. Not at her last moment. On her last seconds left, you cradle and kiss her. You tell her of all the things she does and is that make you smile, of the funny moments the two of you shared in this lifetime. You tell her that if there is a next life, you'll be there with her. It wouldn't matter if you were a worm and she was the bird; you'll find a way to make it work. And oh, Eunbi, I love you so, you tell her, from the moment I first saw you. From the moment you sassed and insulted me, I knew we were meant to be. You're forever mine.

But you're wrong. The breath leaves her lips. Her soul has left. She's in another world now, where she's no longer yours.

It's over.

[star-going-supernova]

You wrote a few times about the old animatronics and Vanessa would you mind writing about them and Gregory?

Maybe the new animatronics are jealous over how much time Gregory is spending with them. Or just how the old animatronics admire Gregory for sticking up to good ol SpringB***h and how brave and kind he is.

Gregory deserves an army of animatronics that would kill for him and adore him.

That just reminded me of the meme “I only had __ for a day and a half and if anything happens to him I would kill everyone in this room then myself” lol

We’ve got tumblr generated prompt number 16 here! I got waaaay too into the setup for this, lol, so it’s a bit long. Who am I kidding, a bunch of the ficlets for this round have been longer than usual. And I don’t know why, but when I write the OG bots in SB’s setting, I have a preference for leaving them silent. 

Speedrunning a Family

On that first night, so full of panic and running around and grabbing only what he needed before he could be cornered, Gregory barely spared a second glance at the dusty animatronics packed into a room in the basement. The only real thought he had about them was the hope that they wouldn’t join the hunt as yet more potential threats to his life. And then he forgot about them, and they never did make an appearance, and that was that. 

After, though, after murderers were caught and viruses were removed and injuries healed up, Gregory remembered the four worn-down animatronics. And he got curious. 

He spent a lot of his days and nights in the pizzaplex now that no one was trying to kill him, and his new robot friends were pretty busy during the day, leaving Gregory to entertain himself. 

What could be more entertaining than investigating the animatronics who, he was told, were the very first iterations of the band? 

It was easy as anything, sneaking around places he definitely wasn’t supposed to be. No one, not guest or employee or robot, noticed the boy slipping through supposedly secure doors and down hallways that were off limits to the public. It was barely a challenge at all, even, compared to the absolute STAFF-bot-infested hell the pizzaplex had been on That Night. 

They were right where Gregory remembered they were, a bear, bunny, fox, and chicken tucked away in the shadows, forgotten. 

Almost forgotten. 

He sneezed a few times as he poked around them, and that was hardly stealthy. Being furry instead of smooth plastic and metal made it harder to clean them up, but Gregory was highly motivated and refused to get caught because of a dust bunny. 

They didn’t look so bad once all the dust and grime was wiped away. Clearly well-used, yeah, and with their fair share of dents and tears, but the suits were still fluffy and soft no matter how discolored they were. 

It took more time and effort to find a way to recharge their dead batteries than it did to clean them, but again—highly motivated. Gregory simply refused to back down from a challenge, especially when the reward was so promising. To his luck, all the stuff related to these particular animatronics had been shoved into the same storage room. Once he found the charging cables—much easier to deal with than stations—it was merely a matter of fixing up some exposed wiring and dealing with a bit of rust, but it was only a few days after Gregory initially set out on his quest that he got them all recharging. 

He sat back with a book, stayed close to the door just in case, and waited.

• • •

It seemed fitting, in a way, that Freddy was the first to power up. His head lifted from its slouch forward surprisingly smoothly, his blue eyes flickering a bit before firmly staying on. Gregory watched with bated breath as he looked around. 

In silence, Freddy examined Chica, Bonnie, and Foxy—Gregory had done his research—where they were still limp and shut down. And then he noticed Gregory, sitting on the floor a few feet away. He blinked at Gregory; the snap of his eyelids coming down was audible in the quiet room. 

Unafraid, Gregory waved. He had considered whether he should be on his guard and prepare to shoot up and sprint from the room at the first sign of trouble but ultimately deemed it unnecessary. Even if only because these bots were bulkier than the Glamrocks, and he doubted Freddy would be able to stand quickly. 

After a brief pause, Freddy reached up and tipped his little top hat in greeting. 

Gregory beamed and scooted closer. “I’m Gregory. Do you know where you are?” This was the moment of truth. Were these old animatronics aware the way the Glamrocks were? Or were they no more advanced than the stupid STAFF bots? He crossed his fingers. 

Freddy examined the room at large for a moment, then shook his head. Undeterred by the silence, Gregory inched closer still. 

“It’s storage,” he explained, and Freddy watched him attentively. “We’re in the basement of another pizzeria. Yours is gone—sorry—so I guess you could consider this your retirement.” 

And though Freddy’s mouth didn’t move, deep, echoing laughter came from within him, and he shifted back against the wall in a way that read as getting comfy. 

Oh, they were going to get along just fine.

• • •

The Glamrock animatronics never seemed quite sure what to do with the four old ones. Freddy—Gregory’s Freddy, or maybe, his first Freddy—had said they didn’t talk ever, not even over their internal communications system. Other than some programmed sound bites, like Freddy’s laughter, they relied solely on gestures and body language to communicate. 

And Gregory, as it turned out, found it an easy language to learn. 

He loved all the bots—though not necessarily equally, heh—and that most certainly included the old models. Partly as a joke, given their age, and partly because he couldn’t reasonably go around calling both Freddys by name, he started calling the older one Grandpa Freddy. Then it shortened to just Grandpa, then Pops, and, well, there were two Chicas too, and even with Glamrock Bonnie gone, it would have been confusing, and then Foxy got huffy about it, and at that point, Gregory would have felt bad about leaving him out. 

So that was how he ended up with a father figure in Freddy, assorted aunts and uncles (and grunkle for Foxy because such a crinkly looking word fit best for him, and Foxy liked having a title all of his own) across both generations, and Nana for Chica and Pops. 

Gregory was living the dream: he had literally gone from zero to nearly a dozen family members, and he’d bite anyone who said they couldn’t be his family on account of them being robots. 

It occurred to him at some point that maybe the buried pizzeria had been theirs, so one night, he brought them down. And as they explored the ruins of the building with nostalgic familiarity, Gregory told them about the monster even further below them, the one that had tried very hard to kill him. 

He told them of how he had killed the monster instead. 

Pops fell still as Gregory finished describing the final showdown. He turned slowly from where he stood in front of the broken stage, and his eyes were dim. 

That could mean any number of things. “Pops?” Gregory asked, swinging his feet beneath the wobbly table he’d taken a seat on. “You okay?” 

The others all stayed where they were, watching in silence. He was used to their quiet, but even this felt different. Pops walked up to him, his feet scuffing against the debris littering the floor. 

With a burst of static, a crackly recording played from Pops’s speakers. It wasn’t a sound bite, wasn’t anything Gregory’d ever heard before. It was a proper recording, a memory brought to life. 

It wasn’t much, just a man laughing. But it wasn’t really a happy sort of laugh. 

After a moment, Gregory recognized it. The monster had laughed too, when it seemed that he would succeed in taking over Freddy. 

“Oh,” he said. 

Pops’s body heaved a little, like a great sigh, and then he was reaching out to scoop Gregory up. He was maybe a little below average height-wise for his age—malnutrition did him no favors—but he never felt smaller or lighter than he did when any of the animatronics effortlessly picked him up and cuddled him close to their chest. 

He wondered, as he latched on to Pops’s soft fur, if this was a hug to comfort him or Pops. No good could come from knowing the monster, and if what he’d almost done to Freddy and the others was any indication, Gregory doubted any animatronic who crossed the monster’s path came away better for it. Whatever the four original robots had witnessed or were unwillingly part of, he didn’t know. He didn’t have to know. 

Gregory pressed his forehead to the curve of Pops’s jaw. “I’m here,” he reassured him. “And you’re here, and he’s not. He’s gone.” 

As ever, Pops didn’t respond with words. His hand pressed a little more firmly into Gregory’s back, holding him tight. It felt a bit like agreement and relief and maybe a touch of protective anger that the monster had been a threat to Gregory at all. 

“C’mon,” he muttered. “Let’s get out of here.” 

A hum that was more vibration than sound answered him, and Pops turned to leave the pizzeria without releasing Gregory. He huffed in amusement and rolled his eyes over Pops’s shoulder at the others as if to say can you believe this guy? 

They left the buried building behind, and Gregory got the feeling that they wouldn’t be returning any time soon. 

[msmargaretmurry]

Do you have thoughts on Quinn Hughes/Matthew Tkachuk ?

oh, friend, do i!!! i feel like something not everyone knows about me On Here is that i'm a voracious multi-shipper, so obviously even though i love matthew/leon and brady/quinn a lot, i have a whole bunch of other ships for all of them that i love to rotate in my mind.

matthew/quinn is high on the list because: a) i love both of their mama's boy eldest siblingness a lot and think that would make it fun to mash them together, b) i'm such. SUCH. a sucker for a "crush on my best friend's older brother" scenario, and c) ooooh the brady of it all. feeling like they have to sneak around because it feels weirdly like they're betraying brady by hooking up but feeling equally weird about keeping it a secret from brady? oh yes. telling themselves it's fine to keep the secret because it's ~nothing serious~ and then whoops at some point it got serious? brady finding out about the secret relationship at the worst moment possible? the possibilities for family drama and friendship drama in addition to romantic drama are RICH. or, something where it starts out with quinn having some unrequited brady feelings but matthew is the one available? i have told a few people that i've always felt there was an alternate timeline version of head above water where leon doesn't come to toronto to train but matthew winds up going to boots with the hugheses anyway, and he and quinn hook up there and wind up on their own long dramatic journey to falling in love. it would have been a completely different story from HAW but i HAVE pondered it.

that all being said, i do feel a little feral about this pairing whenever i see these pictures or think about jack referring to matthew and brady collectively as "quinn's boys." i don't have a link, but that interview where quinn says that between matthew and brady he likes playing against brady better, because he loves getting to see brady and matthew is SO annoying to play against? also fuels me.

a while back i wrote this little snippet for someone on twitter — i can't remember what the prompt was, it was one of those 'give me a pairing and one word and i'll write a tiny fic' things. anyway i think it's the only matthew/quinn i have actually written, but i'm quite fond of it, so please enjoy:

"So," Quinn says, leaning against the bar next to Matthew. "Is it weird to see your little brother get married before you?"

The bartender is making Matthew yet another of the 'his' option from the themed his'n'hers cocktails, even though Brady’s drink of choice is a little too sweet and it’s starting to make Matthew’s teeth hurt. Matthew waits until he's finished, thanks him for the drink, then joins Quinn in facing outward toward the reception. It's in full swing, joyous and messy. Brady, of course, is in the center of it all, sweaty and beaming, his tie nowhere to be found.

"Nah, " he says. "We always knew he'd get hitched first. You know him, he's a fuckin' romantic."

"He’s a sap," Quinn agrees. Quinn is drinking a beer, and he’s only a little sweaty. His tie is loosened but where it’s supposed to be, his groomsman's tuxedo (sans jacket) still in good shape. Better shape than Matthew’s. Matthew does know where his tie is, it’s just not on his person. His shirt is half-unbuttoned; his waistcoat is fully unbuttoned. He is almost as drunk as he looks. Judging on the same criteria, Quinn is not nearly drunk enough.

"You look like you need to party harder," Matthew says, bumping his shoulder to Quinn's.

"Working on it." Quinn holds his beer up.

"These are stronger." Matthew counters with his cocktail.

"Those are gonna give you the worst headache tomorrow," Quinn says, but he takes the glass out of Matthew’s hand and drains half of it anyway.

Matthew grins. "Atta boy."

"Ugh."

"Yeah."

"Why are you even drinking that?"

Matthew shrugs. "I’m being supportive."

"There are better ways to show Brady you love him," Quinn says, but he says it with a laugh, so Matthew is pleased with himself. Quinn’s not an easy guy to make laugh, unless you’re Brady or one of Quinn's brothers. He offers Quinn the rest of the drink, but Quinn waves him off to go back to his beer, and they’re quiet for a moment, watching the crowd on the dance floor bounce along with an Imagine Dragons remix.

"I think it's gonna feel pretty weird," Quinn says. "When Jack and Luke get married before me."

"You’re so sure they will?" Matthew asks. Quinn gives him a look like he’s a little bit stupid.

"I’m not dealing with that while I’m still playing," he says.

"Right," Matthew says, indeed feeling a little bit stupid, because, you know, same hat. "Yeah. Yeah, I know, but I’m also like, it’s not like I have someone waiting in the wings to meet me at the altar or whatever. I’m not even close."

"Yeah, that too." Quinn finishes his beer, then looks back out at the dancing mob, his expression pinching. "I kinda wanna get out of here for a little bit. Don’t tell Brady I said that."

Outside, by moonlight and lamplight, it's easier to see the pink flush of Quinn's cheeks, the sweat staining his collar. The summer air is sticky, but it’s somehow refreshing anyway. The wedding venue is surrounded by gardens and vistas that are beautiful in the daytime but unnotable at night. They walk in silence until the thump of bass from inside fades, and Quinn clears his throat.

"I won’t," Matthew says, then, his mouth running ahead of his brain, "Yeah, come on, let's go." At Quinn’s dubious look, he sets his glass down and gestures grandly toward the door.

"I didn’t mean, like," he says, his face scrunching as he puts the innuendo into the next words. "Let’s get out of here. You know?"

"Yeah, I know," Matthew says quickly. "Me neither."

"Okay," Quinn says, and the acknowledgement somehow makes it easy not to know, a minute later, in the dark spot between lamp posts, who kisses who first. Makes it easy to recognize that the way Quinn kisses like he’s starving has nothing to do with Matthew himself, and easy for Matthew to just let himself fucking have something for ten whole minutes before they slip back onto the dance floor like they never left at all.

[heliads]

Lisa, I'm so sorry for a lot of requests but I'm honestly just really excited to read what you write! So I'm here again with another request for peter pan because I live for when you write for him. <3 So can I ask for prompts 21 & 28, fluff please 🙏

Ps. You don't have to write this if you've got a ton of requests already, please know that I never want to force you to write something under pressure! ❤️

-AU Anon

never apologize for requests peter is a king

masterlist

It is late in the afternoon when you realize that you love him.

It was not supposed to happen like this, if it was ever supposed to happen at all. The sands of time were meant to keep falling, to repeat these days over and over again in your blissful stretch of immortality until you had no idea when one century ended and the other began. That’s what Peter Pan promised to you when you first arrived at the island, after all:  endless excitement, endless joy.

Endless being the key principle of the thing. Part of the delight of Neverland is that it goes on forever. There is no real event to break up the repetition, for no good thing dies here, not really. Your days are spent like your nights, long and leaving you weary, full of adventures few could even dream of, let alone have for real.

You have it all here, it’s what he promised you, and Peter has never let you down in all this time. It’s a shame, then, that you have to be the one to ruin things. Once you realize that you love Peter, you could never go back from it. Your thoughts have been contaminated now, a once crystal clear spring running red with blood.

The realization comes upon you by chance, a total accident yet one that you cannot take back. You and Peter are walking through the forest on the way to some last minute archery practice before dinner, talking idly and making things up to pass the time. He’s got his bow in hand, you watch as he casually nocks an arrow and lets it go. The arrowhead whooshes right past you, and when you look up, you know.

Across the clearing, the arrow thuds into the trunk of a tree, the echo beating in time with the drop of your heart into your stomach. Peter’s still saying something, but you’re not sure that you’ve heard the last few sentences of it. All you know for certain is that you have stopped thinking of him like he was a friend, more that he was someone you wanted to keep and never let go.

Peter does not do well with such things, such cages. He was born to leave it all behind, to fly above the treetops or plunge into the forest with such reckless abandon that he would outpace even his closest compatriots. Being a Lost Boy means that you get to try and keep up with him for as long as you can, the effort makes it exciting, but it will never last. Peter Pan has magic, you do not. Peter Pan will have you here as long as he can, but your love could never tie him down forever.

With a great degree of effort, some of it seemingly beyond your control but necessitated by the sheer knowledge that Peter Pan will find you out eventually if you start acting differently around him, you force yourself to return to the conversation. He’s been talking about strategies for the Lost Boys for the last five minutes or so, lost in that sort of manic glee he gets when bloodlust comes to the table. Someday, you’d love to think that he would talk about you with that same all encompassing delight, but not all dreams are meant to last in Neverland.

Despite your renewed efforts at appearing otherwise fine, Peter finds you out soon enough. He pauses for a moment in his reckless scramble through the forest, fixing you with a shrewd look.

“You haven’t been paying attention, have you?” He demands.

You flash him a chagrined smile. “Not as much as I could have, maybe, but I do remember some bit about pirates.”

Peter groans. “You’re distracted again, aren’t you? I swear, you spend half your time in fairyland.”

You laugh. “We live in fairyland, Peter. I think I’m more than allowed to let my thoughts rest in my own home.”

Peter swats you on the shoulder. “You know what I mean. Next time I decide to launch a surprise attack on the pirates, I might hand you over to them instead. Spend a good few years swabbing decks and you’ll miss my rambling, I can promise you that.”

You snort. “Maybe I’d have such an excellent time on board a pirate ship that I would never think twice about you or your ramblings. I’d launch a mutiny and take out the captain within a week. Next time you see me, I’d lead a fierce and deeply loyal crew. I’d be the envy of the high seas, Neverland included.”

Peter’s face darkens. “I should hope not, I can’t stand pirates. They’re terrible creatures. If I had my say, I’d let the mermaids drag their ships down beneath the surface the second they so much as show a single patched eye near our shores. Their waterlogged hats and peg legs would make fine kindling when the winter comes.”

You stare at him, a faint smile playing on your face. “I like that you’ve clearly put some thought into this before. You fascinate me.”

Peter cuts a quick glance your way. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

You lift a shoulder. “I haven’t entirely decided yet. Maybe I will once you stop merely obsessing over pirates and actually commit to drowning them all. Your mad plans are nothing without decisive action, you know.”

“I would have thought you’d be telling me not to murder a bunch of pirates,” Peter comments.

“You clearly don’t know me very well, then,” you say simply, and leave it at that.

The two of you have arrived at the archery training grounds by now, and you walk away from Peter to rejoin the other Lost Boys. When you risk a glance over your shoulder, you notice that Peter is looking at you with this strange expression on his face, as if he can’t decide what to make of you. Or himself, for that matter.

You’re clearly not the only one who’s noticed Peter’s perturbance, however. A shadow falls on the ground near your feet, and seconds later a quiet voice sounds from behind you.

“Should I ask what you and Pan were talking about to make him have that look on his face, or would it be smarter to just stay away from the whole thing?”

You laugh and turn to face one of your best friends on the island. You and Felix are Peter’s left and right hands on Neverland, but instead of trying to do something unnecessary like compete for the titles, you’ve just grown to like Felix far better than the rest of the Lost Boys. He’s dangerous in a more silent way than Peter, the knife behind a back instead of out in the open.

He’s also rather funny when you give him credit for it. “Usually, I’d warn you away from our general mischief, but nothing’s happening,” you tell him. “I think Peter always has that expression whenever he talks to people instead of simply trying to kill them.”

Felix arches a disbelieving brow. “Not a chance. Pan only gets that sort of dumbfounded expression when he spends time with you.”

You cast him an incredulous look. “Now you really are joking with me. Nothing out of the ordinary is happening.”

“Not for you,” Felix contradicts, “but if any other Lost Boy had a conversation that long and that intense with Pan, they’d walk away from it thinking they were about to die. I’ve never seen Pan like that with anybody else. Believe me or don’t believe me, but it’s true.”

You look at Felix sharply, but Peter is striding briskly over to the archery targets and addressing the Lost Boys at large, so all conversation must be forgotten from the time being. Even after the two of you step away to your respective places in the shooting line, however, you can’t stop thinking about what Felix had said. 

Surely he can’t be right. You’ve seen Peter talking with plenty of other Lost Boys on occasion, even Felix himself for that matter. Peter might not always be as verbose with some of the newer boys, but that’s just because strangers are so deathly afraid of him that they don’t dare say anything more than a couple of syllables.

You suppose your own fear wore off quite a long time ago, if it ever existed at all. Come to think of it, has there ever been a time in which you didn’t see Peter as a friend, a compatriot, someone to love and lose all in one? He has never been anything but close to you.

Maybe Felix was right, then. Maybe Peter does truly look at you differently, because of everyone here, he didn’t have to fight for your heart. It has always been his, even if you didn’t realize it until now. Peter is used to his conquests, his bloody victories. No wonder he’s confused with you– you never put up a fight.

This is the tune of your thoughts throughout archery practice, and you use your confusion and conflict to send your arrows thudding into the center of the target time and time again. There is no greater motivation than that wielded by a broken heart that’s been patched and mended, saved and stolen until no trace of it outside of grief and hope could ever possibly exist.

It must show on your face, this war going on inside your chest, because Peter seeks you out again once the training session is over. You’re removing the last of your arrows from your target when he walks over, casual as can be.

He leans up against the side of your target, head tilted towards the sky above. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to guess?”

You arch a brow and continue pulling out the arrows. “Why would something be wrong?”

Peter exhales harshly and tilts his head over to look at you. “Because I can tell when something’s wrong, obviously. I’ve always been able to read you like an open book and you know it.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “Yeah, you definitely have.”

The sarcasm bleeds through the words, and Peter picks up on it in a flash. “What does that mean? You have to tell me.”

You roll your eyes at his tone. “So demanding, Peter. It’s not very nice of you.”

He bears his teeth in a wolf’s grin. “I’m not very nice and you know that. I take pride in it. Now, what could you possibly mean?”

You take an obvious glance around at the groups of Lost Boys still milling about the place. Peter takes the hint and starts to walk away towards a less populated area of the island. You consider the possibility of just staying here and ignoring the conversation altogether, but you know Peter enough to guess that he’d just track you down later. Peter is a bloodhound when it comes to secrets. In all honesty, it comes as a surprise that you’ve been able to hide your own at all.

At last, you gather up the last of your courage and hope as your sword and shield, and follow your heart into battle. Peter is waiting for you on the outskirts of the clearing, and the two of you stroll in silence before Peter decides that you’re sufficiently out of hearing range of the others and stops again.

“So,” he says, “what could you possibly be hiding from me? I have known you better than anyone else since the day you arrived on my island, Y/N. No secret could possibly be hidden from me.”

He’s looking at you with that familiar grin, a hint of a challenge burning behind his eyes. In truth, you think Peter’s excited by the chance that you might not be all he ever pictured. Peter Pan delights in the chase, the hunt. Here at last is a suitable opponent.

You fold your arms across your chest. “Maybe I keep my secrets for good reason. Why should I tell you?”

Peter’s brows raise. “Because I run this island and I could kick you off of it if I suspected you of dishonesty?”

You scoff. “Shallow threat. I’d like to see you get rid of me.”

Peter doesn’t exactly deny this, a point in your favor. He switches to the attack soon enough to make up for it. “Then it’s important, this secret. Does it concern me?”

You do your best to seem unconcerned, but something in your face must give it away, because Peter’s eyes flash with victory.

“It does!” He crows.

You roll your eyes. “It’s your island, Peter. Don’t you love reminding us of that? Many secrets on Neverland would have to do with you in some small way.”

“It’s not that,” he muses, “I can tell. Alright, it has to do with me, something you don’t want me to know, something important that you wouldn’t tell me under pain of death.”

“If I wouldn’t tell you under pain of death,” you comment wryly, “why do you think you’ll be able to get it out of me now?”

Peter ignores this. “Actually, I think I have an idea of it.”

You don’t particularly like the knowing look in his eyes. “And? What’s my secret, Peter? What am I trying so hard to hide?”

“I’m not going to tell you immediately,” he retorts, “I want to check if I’m right first.”

You cock your head to the side, curious, but before you have much time to question it Peter abruptly closes the distance between the two of you, sealing the mystery with a kiss. There’s one quiet moment when you think your heart might explode out of your chest, and then he’s breaking away and you have been found out once and for all.

“Looks like I was right,” he breathes, although he doesn’t seem half so unaffected as normal. Instead, the delight in his eyes is genuine, not that of a tormenter but someone who has been waiting for a moment like this for an eternity. For the first time, you wonder if you might have been wrong to doubt Peter ever loving you.

“Alright, then,” you say, barely managing to pull yourself together long enough to form the syllables, “you know my secret. What do you have to say for yourself now?”

The corners of Peter’s lips twitch up into a smile, the first honest one you’ve seen on his face in quite some time. “Only that I have a secret of my own.”

He whispers something in your ear, then walks past you back out of the forest. You only catch a brief snippet of syllables, and then he’s gone, disappeared back into the waving thickets of green:

“I love you too.”

ouat tag list: @lovesanimals0000, @amortensie, @lost-ender

[hournites]

for the best friends to lovers prompt- "did that kiss mean anything to you"

hope you are doing well!! i love your writing 🫶🏻

Soundless Spin

“You start.” 

Doja Cat blasted through Cindy’s speakers, fancy chandeliers overhead shaking from the noise as Rick eyed the offensive Bud Light in front of him. It pained him that Blue Valley, Nebraska couldn’t shake the 20th century out of its roots–Somehow, even amidst 2020 billboard charts, Jackbox games, and Tiktok trends, the only activity collectively agreed upon tonight was spin the bottle. 

“Do I have to?” 

“Yes,” said Cindy, already bored at how long he was taking. Why was she facilitating this nonsense–she hates half of the school. That said, Rick also didn’t understand how they scored invites to her party. Or why the girls wanted to go. They might have not been at each other’s throats anymore with the ISA discontinued, but it wasn’t exactly like they were close friends. Since the JSA recovered the true Sylvester’s pickle brain, Rick stopped applying logic in his life when he didn’t need to. Crowded between drunk teens sat in a seance approved circle, everyone waited on Rick to start the game he had assumed was a joke. 

“No, you don’t have to,” said Beth reassuringly from across the room, though Rick suspected the second it was her time she’ll nope out. She looked around the group of classmates, sober as a judge. “Please remember that kissing should always be consensual!” 

Cindy rolled her eyes. “It's not that serious, Dr. Chapel Jr.” She shrugged in that nonchalant way before she stirred the pot. “Rick might land on Cameron, for all we know.”

Yolanda facepalmed. “We’re supposed to be encouraging Rick, not giving him the ick.” 

Cameron shot Yolanda an icy look. She raised a brow in retaliation.  “I said what I said.”

Courtney, nestled beside him, placed an ineffective hand on his knee. To Rick, she chanted, “C’mon! Spin, spin, spin, spin!” 

Everyone joined in. 

“Spin! Spin! Spin!” 

“Fine. Fine!” he shouted loud enough to be heard, blowing hot air out of his mouth. “I get it!” He raised both hands in the air to get some of Cindy’s cheerleading friends to stop hollering, their enthusiasm giving him minor concern. “I’m doing it. I’m doing it.” 

The empty beer bottle spun tightly around their sitting circle–Rick anticipated disaster, regretting his cave to peer pressure the second his hand lifted away. Anyone but Mahkent. Anyone but Mahkent, he nearly prayed in mounting desperation. It whirled around Yolanda on his right, Becky Sharpe, Cindy and the cheerleaders, tipped past Jenny Williams, slowed by Courtney, and crawled past Cameron until it hesitantly landed on Beth. 

Rick jerked his eyes up, meeting her gaze. His heart stopped for, like, a minute. He’d been so caught up in who would be the worst option, he hadn’t had enough time to think what would happen if the bottle landed on one of his friends.

What the hell should I do?  

Courtney covered her mouth to hide her giggles. “Wow! Must be fate.” 

“Girlie,” Yolanda whisper-mimed, shaking her head and zipping her lips. “Shut up.” 

It didn’t matter–Rick easily ignored Courtney cajoling them six ways to Sunday because he couldn’t hear her. The music distorted around them as he tried to pick up on Beth’s cues. 

He almost asked her, should I spin again? 

Then her lips lifted into a small cheeky smile. Of course, Beth wouldn’t have let herself play if she minded getting a few kisses from this game considering she was the one reminding everyone about consent. And, he came to realize, this would be his first kiss sober. It scratched an itch in his brain to think it would be with Beth. They could laugh it off later. 

“Well?” some dude huffed, impatient. “Are you kissing or not?”

Rick cleared his throat. “Beth, are you sure…?” 

But she was already making her way towards him, answering his question. 

Okay. Welp. We’re doing this. 

Instead of shuffling into the middle of the circle like a circus act, Rick let her come to him. Once she was in arm’s reach, he reached forward, hauling Beth into his lap to move her away from a sticky beer spill. It was easier, more comfortable—Less of a spectacle, this way. 

“Oof.” She laughed breathlessly as he rearranged their limbs. “Hi there. This is close.” 

“Sorry,” he said, embarrassed, ready to shove her off him if she didn’t like it. 

Beth touched his hand. “Don’t apologize.” She was right, this was so close. He could count every curly eyelash of hers behind those dark frames.  “Did you know this only had a 7% probability of happening?” 

Rick inwardly rolled his eyes at her math brain guzzling out computations at a time like this. Why wasn’t she nervous? “I did not. It’ll just be a peck, okay?”

Her brown eyes brightened in the dim party room and she nodded. “Sure!”

Rick cupped her jaw, cautious to be gentle, then tipped her chin up so he could lean down and kiss her.

She was ready for it. She closed her eyes and looped her arms around his neck, meeting his quick peck with another kiss before he could end it. It caught him off guard when Beth let out a tiny sigh. 

It felt good. Right. Rick couldn’t pull himself away. 

She pushed herself up in his lap and then there was more. Rick’s thumb pressed against her cheek. He hadn’t had anything to drink since they first walked in, but his mind went warm and fuzzy, like that first sip of alcohol down his throat. Everything slowed around them. He didn’t know what they were doing or cared where they were, he just wanted the soft way Beth’s body pretzeled against his, her hand now moving, exploring down his neck to rest over his chest. It wasn’t rushed, or unsure, Beth was taking and he was giving or maybe it was the other way around. She let out another hum, and then there was another long lazy kiss, hypnotic enough for Rick to nearly believe that he had a soul she could’ve kissed out. 

“Woah, okay! Ew? Too much.” Jenny W clapped her hands. “Time’s up! Spin again!” 

He blinked out of the trance. “What?” 

She gave him a shy smile. “That was nice.”  Beth slid herself out of his lap seemingly unaffected nor aware of how she had just turned his life upside down.

 Nice? That was—Okay. Apparently the most intimate moment in his 18 years was just “nice.” Rick was fucked. 

“Yeah,” he croaked out, scared that if he spoke further his voice would crack, the tension between them was still palpable. Say something. You have to say something.

He focused on forming a coherent sentence out of his mouth. They should leave. To do what? He had no idea (yes, he did–her lips, that touch, the perfume on her neck, he needed it memorized). He also needed to process what the hell just happened, and, not surprisingly, Beth was very good at analyzing weird shit that happens to them–but not usually to both of them at the same time. 

“You heard me, right? It’s your turn now.” Jenny W thrust the bottle into Beth’s hand, not giving Rick the option to get a word in. 

“Oh,” Beth said. “Sorry!” 

He watched in stunned silence as she returned to her spot and wordlessly spun again. It landed on a guy from Ms. Woods’ calculus support group and jealousy took a hold of him with an iron fist. 

He got up and left, announcing he needed a piss, though the terrible excuse was luckily drowned out by the latest remix. Unable to stomach Beth kissing someone else, the rest of the night blurred like watercolors on a canvas. 

Nothing except the bleeding dark pinks of her lips dripped into every corner of his mind, the browns of her soft eyed stare, haunting his sleep. He suffered through the blue phantom-pain of Beth in his lap. The way she moved in it and how boldly he pulled her to him without second-guessing what he was doing. 

What was he doing? 

~.~ 

“Assuming the calculations from the goggles are correct, we would have six hours in the pocket dimension.” Beth wrote notes to follow her thinking on the Pit Stop whiteboard with a green marker, her goggles projecting a diagram. “That’s one hour in our dimension, meaning hypothetically your hourglass won’t time out.

“Got it,” Rick agreed without understanding, miserably distracted by the fact this was his first moment alone with Beth since Spin the Bottle. Thick tension returned with a vengeance. He could taste how bad he wanted her to like him. Every time she caught his eye Rick was certain he’d need a fire extinguisher to douse his hot heart within him. He sat on the table, his fingers tapping anxiously against the wood surface, really wanting to kiss her again. 

She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head like she didn’t quite believe him. Rightly so. He didn’t believe him, and that posed a risk for the JSA tomorrow. “Any questions, then?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

Beth folded her arms. “Really?” 

“Fine. Yeah. One.” 

She looked relieved. “Let’s hear it.” She turned around and wrote QUESTIONS on the board and set out to underline it.  

“Did that kiss mean anything to you?” 

Beth’s impeccable marker line careened to a crooked left. Slowly, she turned around. “That has nothing to do with our pocket dimension trip.” 

“You asked if I had any questions.” 

“Yes, you did. Fair enough.” She sighed in a way Rick couldn’t tell was wistful or annoyed. “Our kiss, you mean?” 

“Yes, our kiss.” Even calling it a kiss, as he had in his brain the last few days, was very modest. There was not just one kiss. There were several kisses. It was an experience. 

“Of course it meant something to me,” she said primly. The marker cap pressed into her inner-palm. “That was my first kiss.”

“That’s it?” 

She glanced away, fixating on the antiquated mugshots of Per Degatron’s goonies, finally starting to look as nervous as Rick felt. “What more do you want me to say? It was nice.”

He almost winced—There she went again. It was nice. For a girl with her vocabulary, that wasn’t promising. 

“It was a nice kiss,” she continued in his stretched silence, “and I’m glad I had it with you. I didn’t think the bottle would ever land on me, or that I would want to play until they made you go first. I’m pretty sure I went into it wanting to watch.” 

He furrowed his brows, trying to read between the lines. If she didn’t want to play unless he went first, then why did she continue with her turn afterwards? She must’ve used him to boost her confidence and practice kissing, not realizing he’d read into it so much. Now Rick felt stupid. 

“You’re hurt,” she said. He was about to argue, but there really wasn’t any point. Not when his voice would probably crack as he denied it. He cursed the accuracy of the mood reader still embedded in her goggles. Sensing his lingering wariness at the object above her hair, she took the goggles off and laid them aside. An offering that she wouldn’t leverage her emotional advantages in this conversation. She used the stool to step up onto the table, taking a seat next to him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you how you feel.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“It doesn’t have to be okay. Wasn’t it just a game?”

His hand inched closer to hers until their fingers brushed. She leaned against his side. He felt a strange catch in his breath as the warmth of her closeness untied some of the knots in his stomach. Beth was beautiful and sweet, and always bursting with compassion. How could he pretend he wasn’t falling for that? “It was supposed to be.” 

She looked up at him. 

“But..it wasn’t.” He met her stare and swallowed hard. “It wasn’t for me.” He dragged a hand over his forehead in disbelief he managed to say it out loud. He summoned the strength to keep going. “It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t just nice, it was…I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want it to stop. I felt like we clicked in that moment and I woke up from sleepwalking through feelings I have for you.”

Beth didn’t say anything, like his confession knocked the wind out of her. “You like me?”

He groaned softly. “It’s embarrassing, I know.” 

“No! No, no it’s not,” she objected, squeezing the hand nearest to hers, but Rick didn’t think he could handle her breaking his heart so softly. 

“Can you just tell me if I need to get over you?” 

“I’m not doing that.” Beth sat up straight. “I called the kiss nice because I didn’t know how else to explain how I felt. I was inexperienced and surprised at myself. I won’t lie, the thought of kissing you excited me, but I thought that was because I trust you, so it would’ve been an easy way to get my first kiss out of the way.” 

Rick started to smile, thinking back on what she said. “You calculated that 7% chance.” 

 “I did, and then that happened. I didn’t know if that’s how kissing always felt like or if it was because it was you. So I kept playing and I had a few more turns after you left, okay, but none of those kisses were like ours. But I knew you hated the game, left right after kissing me, and intended to only give me a peck,” she repeated the last fact with fake quotation marks. “I was the one that got carried away. I was the one that was embarrassed. It was easier if I pretended it didn’t happen so I wouldn’t make things weird.” 

It was such a relief to hear her say that they were on the same page. “So what do we do now?” 

“Well, first, we need to go over the pocket dimension because I know you were not paying attention, which I thought was because you were feeling uncomfortable but now I think it is because you were staring at my skirt.” 

“Holy shit.” Rick scratched behind his neck as heat crawled up his face. This was perilous and exhilarating new ground. He liked Beth and she knew it. He was attracted to her and she could feel it. “Uh, I plead the fifth?” 

Beth laughed and flashed him that same flirty grin from the party. “But as for right now?” Rick knew he was either in for trouble or a really, really good time. “I can think of a few ideas.”

She unearthed the green marker from her pocket and gave it a spin.

[kkaisarion]

who could call my name

there was one of those tumblr prompt lists going around, and one of the prompts was "nicknames turning into pet names"—and @papaslittlesunshine and i decided to write a dual POV swissdew fic for it.

because when swiss first gets summoned, of course he immediately annoys dew by calling him a silly nickname. but when dew finally gets him to stop, it turns out that dew...misses it?

dew's POV by sunny and swiss' POV by me

read on AO3 (with nicer formatting) or in the thread below

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chapter 1: dew

When ghouls are summoned, there’s usually a settling in period. They arrive from the pit and are confused and orienting themselves to their earthly vessels, learning to glamour themselves and adjust to the ways of things topside. They’ve all been through it, some easier than others.

Aether, Mountain and Dew arrived in various states of chaos. Aether in a swirl of the cosmos, all stars and purple mist, rather lovely, actually. His large form clawing from the edge. Mountain followed, a giant of a ghoul, trembling on legs as he stood, rising to his full height, towering above the rest. Shaky but intimidating nonetheless. Dew arrived with a splash, the water following him up to the surface and soaking everyone in a close radius of the summoning circle. He took the longest to get used to legs and breathing. He was always cold. And small, compared to the others - he was half their size. It was impossible not to notice.

He was always sensitive about it. Compensated in the usual ways, big bark, bigger bite. Oh, and he did actually bite. Hard. The others had learned not to underestimate him. They respected his speed and his agility, his wit and his beautiful looks. Dewdrop was gorgeous, high cheekbones, sharp jawline, long flowing silver hair, big blue eyes, pearly white horns, and a long, lean body that drew everyone in like the siren he was.

When Swiss was summoned, Dew had changed, he was now made of fire, and his silver hair now blonde. His skin warm and golden, the heat running in his veins making him appear to radiate a warm glow. He was still small, but now he had teeth and fire. And wasn’t afraid to use either.

Swiss broke all the expectation right out of the pit. He was a rare multi-ghoul and wasn’t even supposed to be here. He had crawled his way up when the air ghoulettes were summoned, fought his way to the surface and charmed everyone immediately, with his big toothy grin and smooth approach.

Everyone but Dew. As he went around the room making introductions, when Swiss’s eyes landed on Dew, he nodded downward and greeted him with a brash “What's up, shorty?”

The sound as the air left the room, sucked in by the collective gasp from the other ghouls, was deafening. They all braced for impact, or incineration of the new multi ghoul. Dew’s eyes flashed flames, as he snapped his teeth at Swiss, “The name is Dewdrop. You’d do well to remember that.” He snarled before turning on his heel and slamming out of the summoning chamber.

Swiss’s bravado doesn’t fade, but he switches up the method with Dew, and lands on a new nickname that has Dew seething. His teeth grit and a growl at the ready every time Swiss uses it. Which is pretty much every time he sees Dew. 

“What’s up, Foxfire?” Swiss grins as he enters the common room.

“Why do you insist on calling me that??” Dew snaps.

“Because you’re fire… and foxy…get it?” Swiss winks at Dew as he groans.

“That’s stupid. Quit calling me that.” He snarls back.

Swiss shrugs; but the sparkle in his eye softens and he simply says “as you wish.”

-------------------------

Over the next few days, weeks, Dew notices that Swiss has special names for everyone. Rain is “Water Lily”, Aether is “Cosmos”, and so on, but he never calls Dew anything but Dew.

And damn if it doesn’t bother him. They’d gotten much closer, but Swiss has a pet name for everyone but him, because he told him to quit. 

And he did. 

Now Dew feels left out, misses that connection, misses having that special connection to him, misses being his Foxfire. 

One night, while Dew and Swiss were tangled in Swiss’s bed, limbs intertwined, coming down from their exertion, Swiss presses a kiss to Dew’s horn and whispers, “I’ve got you, Foxfire.”

The pleased trill that escapes has him clapping a hand over his mouth so fast, like maybe Swiss didn’t hear it. But Swiss’s arms just tighten around him… holding him close, pressed to his chest. 

“Would you like me to call you Foxfire again?” Swiss asks softly.

Dew whines, low, afraid to answer.

“Well, how about I call you Foxfire when we’re alone? So it’s just for me. For us.?”

And darn if that doesn’t make Dew feel hot all over, like Swiss can’t see his blush, can’t feel him heat up and his heart race a little. 

“Ok. Just for us.” Dew whispers, a soft purr  kicking in as Swiss grins.

“Anything for you, Foxfire” he says, kissing Dew deeply as he holds him close.