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mireyaaaaaa · 2 months

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The Blue Umbrella

Her POV [Pt.1]

I have an unhealthy obsession with writing stuff revolving around blue stuff. Go check out my previous fic, ‘Blue Hoodie’ if you can guys! It would mean a lot if you like my fanfictions<3

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Warnings\ Not proofread, fem!reader, kinda slow paced sorry but I hope you like this!

“I really should’ve checked the forecast” I mumbled, stranded at the study café, looking at the formerly sunny sky now a dark shade of grey. One moment the Sun was shining brightly, the next moment the clouds started pouring heavily. All I could do was wait for the rain to stop so that I could go home. It wasn’t that I hated rain, it’s my favorite weather. I feel so carefree, all my worries about well… everything are washed away by the rain. Afterwards, the cool breeze and the scent of soil in the air, it’s the most calm and serene feeling I can feel in my life, constantly shadowed by my problems… But, today wasn’t the right day, my sister was finally coming back from her foreign studies and I can’t wait to meet my only friend. My sister was probably the only person I’m close to and can share everything with. My parents often fought, so growing up, my sister was the one responsible for me and always there for me.

I was sitting on one of the tables outside the café, thankfully covered, watching people pass by. Couples were having a stroll together, laughing and sharing an umbrella, I saw a family of four having the time of their life just chatting and enjoying each other’s company. I wish I had someone to share my time with. I wish my family was that happy. Now that my sister was back for a few weeks I would make sure I spent all my time with her. Only problem, I had no way of getting home. Sure, I could run as fast as I could but I would still reach home drenched and catch a cold.

I spotted a group of five friends not far from here. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help staring at them. There was this one guy in particular who really caught my eye. He looked like he was being left out and not being paid any attention too. He was cute, dark messy hair, and beautiful eyes. It was as if someone stole all the stars from the sky and put them in his eyes. He had a sad smile on his face as he looked down at water droplets falling onto a lone pink tulip at the side of the pavement. I couldn’t help but feel sad, not for him, for me. Well, for him too. I mean, it sucks being ignored by your own friend group or just being left lonely. I mean being alone isn’t that bad, but it isn’t always good either. I felt a tear roll down my cheek… no idea why, kind of did. I knew how that felt.

I felt a light tap on my shoulder; I didn’t realize I had zoned out. I quickly wiped away the few tears that tainted my cheeks. I turned around and… WHAT?! No, like, wasn’t he over there a second ago? The guy from the other side of the road, was here. Right. In front. Of. Me. “Take it.” ,were the only two words he said to me, handing me the umbrella before sprinting away, his bag held on top of his head.

I was left staring at the blue umbrella. He didn’t even know me? Why would he help me? Was he secretly my guardian angel? Did he know I was desperate to go home, or was that feeling masking my face right now, clearly evident to the whole world. Not that anyone would pay attention to me. But then, why did he? The next time I met him again, if I did, I would ask him if it hurt falling from heaven. Okay my thoughts are getting really cheesy for a random stranger with a blue umbrella. Thank you… whoever you are.

I shook my thoughts away and shrugged. I got an umbrella, isn’t that what I wanted? I made my way back home, walking through the silent streets.

“Mom, Dad, I’m home!” I announced as I took of my shoes and put them on the shoe rack to dry off. “Y/n! Where were you?” I heard a familiar voice call out as I heard footsteps rush towards me. I almost started crying at the sight of her. My sister was back! She rushed to hug me and engulfed me in bear hug. “Aww you’ve grown up y/n!” “I missed you so much! Sorry I’m late, I was stranded at the study café. Where are mom and dad?” I asked. I shouldn’t have. Melisa flashed me an awkward smile “Uhm in the kitchen but we can just go chill in my room. I set up a movie night for us!” “Are they… arguing again?” “Don’t worry about it y/n… you know how they are…” I frowned but I was used to it. Most of the time when I reached home I would only be welcomed by silence or the occasional noises from the kitchen or living room where my parents were arguing over just about whatever topic they can. I’m probably invisible and only appear when they need something to argue on or someone to scold if the other one is not at home. I missed Melisa so much, it’s a pity she’s 5 years older than me so she left home for foreign studies and well… found a job there and she’s probably going to settle there.

As we made our way over to the stairs I heard shouting from the kitchen. I heard my name.

“IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU MELISA WOULDN’T HAVE HAD TO RAISE Y/N!”

“ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY I WASN’T A GOOD MOTHER? HOW WERE YOU ANY BETTER?”

“I EARN THE MONEY WE PAY FOR HER SCHOOL. I EARN THE MONEY THIS HOUSE WORKS ON. WHAT DO YOU DO EXCEPT WORKING AS A WAITRESS AT THAT OLD RESTAURANT?”

“STOP QUESTIONING MY WORTH! I DO WHAT I CAN! YOUR LIFE WOULD BE CHAOS WITHOUT ME! YOU CAN’T EVEN COOK ONE MEAL IF YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT”

“I WISH I COULD LEAVE YOU BUT I NEED TO STAY FOR Y/N”

“LEAVE IF YOU WANT! YOU DON’T EVEN CARE FOR OUR DAUGHTER!”

“NOT LIKE YOU DO!!”

I looked at my sister with tears starting to form in my eyes. “M-Mel.. they’re going to separate? Where will I go…? Why is our family broken?”

“shh it’s okay y/n I’m here for you. I know this is tough, especially hearing them argue over you and say all that mean stuff. But you’ve stayed strong for so long… you’ll go to college soon and you’ll be able to have a better life, yeah? If I could I would take you with me but you know our parents would probably get really mad over that and stay that we’re being ungrateful and stuff like that.” She looked down. “I’m sorry y/n” I hugged her “Don’t be. None of this is our fault. W-what movie are we going to watch?” I asked, trying to switch to another topic and a better atmosphere. She wouldn’t stay for long, I had to make most of the time we had. “Your favorite~” “OMG ARE WE WATCHING (your favorite movie/show) AAA THANKYOU!” “Look at you being all excited. Why are you still holding onto that umbrella? Wait, where did you get that?” oh. Oh. OHH. “Oh uhm… so… as you know, it’s raining heavily! I was at the study café and it started raining cats and dogs. And it’s not like I could run all the way home without getting drenched and catching a cold so I just sat there doing people-watching and stuff and I saw a group of friends just chilling you know? And there was this boy, with sparkling, chocolate brown eyes and fluffy, dark hair. Is that the right adjective? He was kind of secluded and had a faint, sorrowful, smile on his face but it was pretty oh and-“

“Okay sis I get it. You’re in love with a stranger. Did you talk to him? What’s his name? Did he lend you this? Spill the tea!”

“No I’m not! I just found him cute and attractive and kind of noticeable because I could relate to that feeling. And no, I did not talk to him so I don’t know his name. And yes, he has lend this umbrella to me. He just appeared in front of me out of no where and told me to take the umbrella, handing it to me. Then, he ran away. What was that about?” I rolled my eyes. “An introduction wouldn’t have hurt!”

“Okay y/n don’t admit your crush. I won’t force you”

“I said it’s not a crush!”

“Oh but it is! My sister is in love~” Saying that she ran into her room and I chased after her. We both collapsed onto her bed in a fit of laughter. I missed her so much. How many times am I going to say that?

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A/n>>> Okay so I know Leo didn’t really make an appearance in this but as I mentioned, this will be kind of slow paced… mostly because I’m not getting ideas to fit in the middle of the few ideas I already have and my exams are going on. I had an exam today also (the day im posting this) and after this, two exams are left, and these subjects are as tough as maths so I’m probably not going to write any sequel parts this week.

Also, I was originally writing this for Percy, hence blue umbrella, but Leo has literally stolen my heart since the day I read the lost hero so there is no way I wouldn’t write a fic for him and this is the only idea I have right now

Im going to post a leo pov too by the way! And im writing a long luke castellan mafia ff thing I started a long time back so expect a lot of new posts in march! Or not. Most probably yes.

ALSO IM STARTING A TAG LIST IF ANYONE WANTS TO BE ADDED PLEASE TELL, THANKYOUU<3

#pjo #hoo #percy jackson #heroes of olympus #percy jackson x reader #heroes of olympus x reader #leo valdez x reader #leo valdez fluff #leo valdez x y/n #leo valdez x you #heroes of olympus fan fiction #pjo hoo toa #leo valdez #writblr #my writing #my fanfiction #pjo fanfiction #percy jackson fanfiction #leo valdez fanfic

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heavyhitterheaux · 5 months

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I'll Be Home For Christmas

First Lady of Private Garden Fic

Synopsis: It’s your first Christmas in Atlanta after moving back with Jack, and you become upset when Jack tells you that it'll be a white Christmas that'll be spent in Atlanta and not in Louisville

Pairing: Husband!Jack Harlow x Wife!Reader

Requested by: @hoodharlow 💖

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

I'll be home for Christmas, If only in my dreams

The clock had struck 9 at night as you had finished packing your suitcase, ultimately having to sit on it to get it to close as you started to make your way to the front door of the apartment that you shared with your husband and best friend.

This was your first holiday season in Atlanta, and you and Jack quickly decided that the both of you wanted to go home to Louisville to be with both of your families and decided to drive on the 22nd of December. Although you did still have family in Atlanta, you wanted to be with your parents and sister.

Urban had left two days earlier since Jack had a few things to finish up and instead of having to wait for the two of you, Jack just told him to go and that the two of you would meet him there.

You were halfway to the front door as Jack was watching the news and the weather segment was on and it looked to you that he was deep in thought. He turned around once he heard you and simply sighed.

“Um, babe?”

“Yes? Are you done packing? We have to stop for snacks too. I definitely need gummy bears.”

“Princess, I don't think we're going anywhere any time soon.”

This stopped you in your tracks as you looked up at him with confusion written across your face.

“Boo bear, what are you talking about?”

“It's supposed to be a bad snowstorm the time that we're supposed to leave and they said driving isn't a smart idea.” Jack quietly muttered and he could see your heart breaking in front of him.

“With how much snow they're calling for, there is no possible way that we're going to make it to Louisville.”

“But…”

“I know, babe. But I'd rather have us be safe.” Jack said as he noticed that your eyes started to water and immediately got up from the couch to pull you into a hug.

“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” You asked as you hugged him tighter before looking up at him.

“We're going to make the best of it and start our own Christmas traditions. Just because we aren't with our families, doesn't mean we're not a family. We're a family of two, aren't we?” Jack asked while looking at you and placing a kiss on your forehead as you nodded.

“I know you're upset, but we're going to make the best out of this. We have about an hour before it starts, so why don't we go to the store and get ingredients to make cookies? We can also make your mom's cheesecake and we can decide what we actually want to eat on Christmas.” You heard him suggest and you simply nodded.

You decided that you needed to change your attitude, because you were getting to spend Christmas with your favorite person in the world.

The two of you set out to the grocery store and got the ingredients for both the cookies and cheesecake and on the way there, the two of you were trying to decide what to actually make for Christmas dinner. You wanted to go the traditional route with what your mom would usually make, while Jack said that he would be satisfied with just having pizza which instantly made you roll your eyes.

The two of you compromised and decided to make homemade pizza on Christmas Eve along with the cookies while saving the more traditional dinner for Christmas day along with the cheesecake.

Later that night once you knew Jack was asleep, you sent a quick text to your mom as well as Maggie so that they would know not to expect either of you and also mentioned that as soon as you and Jack were able to do so, that you would make your way to Louisville, hopefully before the new year set in.

You were currently in front of the Christmas tree in the living room, wrapping presents for Jack and A Christmas Story was playing in the background when you heard his footsteps.

“Stop right there, Harlow.”

“What the? Baby, why are you up? It’s two in the morning.”

“I’m wrapping your gifts. I couldn’t do it while you were sitting next to me earlier, so I had to wait until you fell asleep.” You quickly answered while placing the last piece of tape on the wrapping paper that held a new pair of New Balance 550’s for him since you knew that those were his favorite.

“Princess….”

“Yes?”

“I thought I told you not to get me anything.”

“And did you honestly think that I was going to listen? It’s our first Christmas in Atlanta. I obviously had to do something. I don’t think that I went that overboard.” You said while looking at the ten plus gifts that you had already wrapped that were sitting under the tree with Jack’s name on it.

“I…. literally everything under the tree on the left has my name on it.”

“Hmm, okay so maybe I did but seeing the look on your face will be worth it.” You replied while getting up and tightly hugging him as he leaned down to place a kiss on top of your head.

“Well, if that’s the case, you need to go to sleep so that I can wrap your gifts.”

“Can I get a sneak peek? Or a hint?”

“No, you didn’t let me get one, so why should you?”

“You didn’t even ask. Closed mouths don’t get fed.”

“Well my answer is no, so to the bedroom you go.” You knew that he wasn’t going to budge so you simply just rolled your eyes and walked into the direction of your shared bedroom.

On Christmas Eve, the two of you were in the kitchen as you were pouring the brownie batter into the pan that you decided to make at the last minute while Jack was sitting at the island and licking the spoon.

“Hmm, this tastes almost as good as you do. Almost.”

“Will you behave for five minutes?” You asked while turning towards him and rolling your eyes while trying not to laugh.

“Behave? Me? I’m always on my best behavior.”

“Never mind. You are literally the most unserious person that I know.”

“I’m serious when I have you screaming when I’m knee deep in those guts.”

“JACKMAN!”

“What?!? Did I lie?”

“Help me make this pizza that you were practically begging for and cut the shit.”

“As long as I get to have you for dessert.”

All you did was stare at him before turning around and grabbing the ingredients from the fridge.

Once Christmas morning hit, it was around 5 AM and you were already bouncing off the walls. You looked out the window to see that it had snowed even more overnight and quickly decided that the two of you would definitely be making a snowman later in the day to add to the one that you had done the night before.

“Baby…” You said poking Jack’s cheek, but he quickly swatted your hand away.

“Five more minutes.”

“Uh no. I want for you to open your gifts and see what I got you. Move it Harlow.” You quickly responded as you pulled the comforter off of him which quickly had him open his eyes to roll them at you.

“And I thought you weren’t a morning person?” He asked as you made your way to stand in front of him.

“I’m not, but everyone is a morning person on Christmas, so come on.” You simply grabbed his hand as the two of you made your way to the living room and sat down in front of the tree and display of presents.

“Okay, open this one first.” You said while handing Jack a small box that he quickly held up to his ear and shook.

“Hmm, I already told you not to get me anything and this better not have been a lot of money.”

“Will you just stop being a grinch and open it?!”

Once Jack opened it, he was in awe at the sight before him.

It was a simple necklace that had KY hanging from it and he couldn’t help but to get the biggest smile on his face.

“That way, you have a little piece of home wherever you may go in the world.” You said as Jack then leaned over to kiss your cheek, making you smile.

“Thank you, baby. I already know that this is my favorite gift that you have given me.”

“But, you haven’t even opened half of them yet!”

“Doesn’t matter, I know that this one takes the cake. And I need you to open this one first, I definitely think that this one would be your favorite.”

Jack had handed you a decent sized box and you couldn’t for the life of you figure out what was in it, simply because you didn’t even ask him for anything that would require a box that was this big.

Once you started ripping off the wrapping paper, you simply gasped when you saw the words Birkin written in the middle of the box.

“Jackman Thomas Harlow, no you FUCKING didn’t…..”

“Y/N Y/M/N Harlow, yes I did.”

“But….”

“You have been obsessed with them since forever and I made it up in my mind at the beginning of the year that no matter what I had to do, my wife was going to see a Birkin under the tree this year. And there will be many more to come after this one.”

“This means a lot to me, so thank you.” You told him as you placed it back inside the box and moved it to the side to get to your other presents.

“Now, what’s next?”

It was around 11 PM when both of you were cuddling on the couch with It’s A Wonderful Life was playing on the screen in front of you as the two of you were sipping on eggnog and the different desserts that you had made over the last two days.

“How did we do for our first Christmas by ourselves?” Jack asked as he looked over at you and all you did was smile.

“I think we did good. We’re still married and the apartment is still in one piece.”

“Wait… were we not still supposed to be married?”

“Yes, Jackman. Relax. I just…. When you first told me that we weren’t going to be able to go home I was really upset, but I quickly changed my attitude because is there a better way to spend Christmas than with your favorite person in the entire world?”

“No, definitely not and I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. You’re the love of my life if you didn’t realize it by now and the only things that I want to do is love you unconditionally, provide for you, and keep you safe.”

“And I think that you’re doing an amazing job. No complaints on my end.” You said as you quickly reached over to kiss him.

“I figured you would say that since I got you a Birkin.”

“My answer would have been the same even without the Birkin!”

“I… I’ll let it go for now.” Jack responded as he grabbed another brownie and broke it in half giving you one.

Jack didn’t even finish eating his half as he quickly jumped up, leaving you confused.

“Babe?”

“Hold on, I forgot that I had one more gift for you.” He yelled as he made his way to your bedroom down the hall. Once he came back, he placed a blue jewelry box that you recognized being from Tiffany’s in your hand and you simply eyed him.

“You have gotten me more than enough.”

“And? Open it.”

You then came face to face with the most beautiful pair of diamond earrings that you had ever seen and quickly felt your eyes start to water.

“Baby….”

“I promised you when I got signed that I would buy you a pair of diamond earrings so I figured that it was about that time. Merry Christmas Mrs. Harlow.”

“Merry Christmas to the best husband that I could ever ask for.”

"And one more thing, babe."

"Hmm?"

You looked up to see Jack hanging a mistletoe over the two of you and you quickly tackled him while placing kisses all over his face.

"This is the best Christmas ever."

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#jack harlow #jack harlow fic #jack harlow fanfic #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow x black reader #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow fluff #jack harlow concepts #jack harlow blurb

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illylli · 2 years

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Good Times for a Change (Pt. 1) | Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

→ All it takes is a twenty-minute car ride for Eddie to start crushing on you.

→ 2.5k words: eddie’s POV, the overachiever x metalhead dynamic i always tend to write, eddie basically being max’s new (much healthier) older brother, reader being a sweetheart and eddie is just instantly awooga heart-eyes

→ a/n: sorry i’ve been away so long! work has been crazy and i haven’t had a spare moment to write :’( i will get back onto finishing up ‘bite my tongue’ and some other fics i have planned as soon as i can x

♫ mood: ‘please, please, please, let me get what i want’ by the smiths

part two

“Shit, shit! Piece of shit.”

Eddie’s knuckles were taut white as he shoved the key further than it would go, receiving nothing but a sputtering engine in response. He burst with a shout, slapping his hands down on the weathered steering wheel, his hair jerking as he raged in the driver’s seat.

This had to be a sign. An ill-omen that he was destined to be stuck in this hellish loop, repeating senior year for eternity. The first day back to good ole Hawkins High, and he was going to be late because his trusty gal decided to go frigid on him.

Despite being at it for a solid ten minutes, enough that he was panicking now, Eddie refused to give up, shoving the creaky door open and rounding on the hood. Did he have any idea what he was doing as he hoisted it up? Nope. But he was damn sure going to fiddle with everything at least once to see if it made any difference.

His eyes flitted between the front door of the trailer and the over-complicated metal innards of the van. He could wake Wayne up; he’d know for sure what to do. But as quickly as the thought entered his head, he shook it out. He wasn’t going to interrupt his uncle’s well-deserved rest for something he could figure out himself.

He always figured things out, in the end.

This time, though, it seemed he wouldn’t need to.

A cream Porsche 911 rolled forward, windows down, allowing a Smiths song to swirl in the air. Eddie scrunched his nose at the sound, turning around to bear witness to the way you, bright-eyed behind your round sunglasses, popped out and half-jogged up to the Mayfield family’s home, knocking thrice and bouncing on the heels of your shiny black boots as you waited.

Eddie only realised he had gone slack-jawed when the emerging Max gave him an annoyed glare as she exited. Her arm was immediately linked in yours as you turned back to your car, a flurry of words bubbling from your perfectly-poised lips. You couldn’t be more opposite to the redhead, who sulked all the way to the passenger side, waiting with crossed arms as you opened the door for her.

It was then, as you were shutting the door gently, that your eyes peered up over the lenses of your glasses and caught Eddie Munson leaning over his van engine, staring at you.

He felt his cheeks flush stupidly as he quickly brought his eyes back down, hoping you wouldn’t say anything, but knowing you would.

The preppy now-senior who was always voted ‘most likely to exceed’ in every yearbook didn’t belong in a dump like this. Though Eddie’s curiosity wouldn’t take him as far to ask you why.

“Gimme a sec,” You told Max with a tap to the roof of your car, before Eddie heard the gravel beneath your boots crunching as you made your way over to him.

Eddie got to looking busy, fidgeting with the cap on one of the compartments, his fingers staining with grease as he twirled it off.

“Need a hand?” You asked sweetly, and though Eddie didn’t mean to let it slip, he huffed in amusement at the thought of little miss perfect getting her hands dirty.

“No I’ve uh,” he gave a tight grin, pulling at another mystery part of the engine, “I’ve got it, sweetheart.”

You bristled at the term, unsure if it was used genuinely or with condescending intent. “Right,” you nodded, glancing down at his hands, “I’ve just never seen someone use a dipstick to measure engine coolant.” You bent over, tapping on the side of the semi-transparent container. “You can see the levels marked right here; in case you didn’t know.”

Eddie heard snickering, his gaze darting over to your car where Max was hanging out of the window, laughing at him. He hadn’t seen his neighbour smile, let alone hear her laugh before. He wasn’t sure if being the cause of her amusement should make his embarrassment grow or lessen.

“Leave the dipstick alone,” Max called, “He’s going to make us late.”

You rolled your eyes with your back turned to her, though you wore an endeared smile, and it eased Eddie. Your first shared joke, and he wasn’t even sure you knew his name.

You brought your manicured hands to your hips. “Edward Munson, right?” You asked, as if reading his thoughts.

He winced slightly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Eddie’s fine. Or dipstick, as lovingly dubbed by my nefarious neighbour.” He said that last part over your shoulder, and Max threw up a middle finger.

“Well, Eddie,” you tested his name, “Are you going to play mechanic all day, or do you want a lift to school?”

Eddie sighed, closing the van’s hood. That meant you remembered the fact that his name hadn’t been amongst those called out on graduation day last year. Shame crawled up his throat and he swallowed it down as usual.

He lingered for a second, letting The Smiths serenade his decision as he retrieved his backpack from the van before locking it up.

“I’m all yours.”

With a content nod you lead him to your car, and only then did he realise it only had 2 doors. Max eyed Eddie as you bent over, pulling the driver’s seat forward. He widened his eyes at her, a response to her silent dare, but also a tactic to stop his gaze from slipping to the bare back of your thighs and up higher, where your skirt hem danced just below your-

“Eddie!”

His eyes snapped back to Max’s bright blue then away to the treeline, coughing awkwardly as you straightened, motioning for him to climb into the backseat. When he didn’t immediately go for it, you frowned up at him, then back to Max.

“Everything okay?”

Max narrowed her eyes at the young man. “I’m fine.”

“Peachy,” Eddie muttered, smiling to himself as Max scoffed. He clambered, with effort, into the backseat, his knees almost coming up to his chest in the tiny car. Max made a point to push her seat back all the way, cramping him further as she gave herself a lot more leg room than she needed.

“Comfortable, Mayfield?” Eddie grumbled.

“Yup,” She bit back, putting her feet up on the dash, which you quickly swatted down.

“Seatbelt,” You instructed, pushing your seat back into position, mercifully giving Eddie extra room to stretch out behind you. He had to hunch over, otherwise his head would be against the low roof.

Morrissey was pleading, “Let me, let me, let me” as you put the car into drive, circling around, driving past Eddie’s van and along the dirt road to exit the trailer park.

You drove with the windows down, and as you picked up speed, turning onto the paved road, Max opened the glove compartment, riffling through your collection of cassettes.

Eddie wasn’t hopeful, but he popped his head between the front seats, scrutinising if you had anything good. The Cure, Bowie, Cocteau Twins; not exactly his taste, but at least you weren’t totally hopeless.

“Check my bag,” you told Max, pointing to the back. She rounded on Eddie, frowning at him with her hand outstretched. He looked left then right, muttering a curse as he realised the sage green bag had been squashed under his reeboks.

Max waited impatiently as he pulled it up, unzipping it before handing it to the girl. He’d gotten a glimpse into your life in that split second: lipstick, a couple dollars, and a whiff of maddening perfume surrounding a small package wrapped in butcher’s paper.

As soon as Max laid eyes on the contents her annoyance faded to curiosity. You nodded, encouraging her as she picked up the small box.

She tore into it, unwrapping a tape with a purple cover.

“Kate Bush?”

You smiled, eyes still on the road. Eddie watched the exchange through the rear-view mirror as he relaxed into the soft leather seat.

“She got me through my freshman year. She’ll get you through yours.” You reached over and tugged on her braid, and she shoved your hand away, but a small smile stayed on her lips.

Max switched out The Smiths for her gift, and though it definitely was not something he’d be caught dead listening to, Eddie couldn’t help but feel his soul warm every time he got to witness someone fall in love for the first time. Max sat back, her glassy eyes wide and reminiscing as she turned her head and watched the trees fly by, the music sinking into her.

Eddie wanted to ask how the hell a senior with an express ticket to an Ivy League college had come to befriend his sulky young neighbour, but he knew better than to interrupt the listening session, a comfortable silence falling as you appreciated the record.

He took the time to admire the way your delicate pearl bracelet swayed each time you shifted gears, your handling of the car so smooth he could barely feel it each time. The realisation finally struck him that he, Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson, was getting chauffeured by the most well-liked person of the school.

And no, popularity had nothing to do with it. You were far from ‘popular’; those who were envied and unapproachable. You were the people person: a rare mix of agreeable and adaptable that made absolutely everyone at the very least neutral to your presence. You could pick any table to sit at during lunch, strike up a conversation with anyone, be it teacher or student, and have them smiling the whole way through.

Hell, you’d managed to squeeze a few out of Mayfield, despite her usual stormy disposition.

As the previous song ended, Eddie spoke into the silence before the next began, his hands wrapping around the seat on either side of your head.

“You make this a habit?” He asked, “A shuttle for the wicked?”

You peered at him through the rear view, humour sparkling in your eyes. “This is a one-off for you, Munson. I only promised Max my wheels for the school year.”

“Why is that, I wonder?” He mused mischievously, turning his attention to the younger girl, “You got some juicy dirt on the future valedictorian?”

“Oh, of course,” Max turned in her seat, facing Eddie through the gap in the headrest, over-enthusiastic, “She sells drugs to kids and failed senior year twice.”

“Har har,” Eddie fell back into the leather, wearing a tight-lipped smile, “Great joke.”

“The greatest joke of all is in the backseat wearing his shirt inside out,” She muttered, turning back to the front.

“Hey,” you warned, but your tone was gentle. Max faced out the window again, and your eyes caught Eddie’s in the mirror. “She’s right, though.”

His heart sunk.

“Your shirt’s inside out.”

He looked down, uttered an “Oh,” just as you pulled into the car park.

“Wait,” you told Max, her hand on the door handle. “Did your mom pack you lunch?”

“No,” She replied, as if it were a fact of life.

You pulled your bag onto your lap, retrieving a lunchbox with a faded wonder woman adorning the front. “I didn’t know what you like, so I made one ham and one turkey. There’s also a fudge brownie in there. Just bring back whatever you don’t eat.”

Max frowned as you passed the box to her, caught off guard.

“Thanks,” she murmured before leaving without so much as a goodbye to Eddie.

“Have a good day!” You yelled out the window, “I’ll meet you back here at three.”

She nodded before sliding her headphones onto her ears.

“Is the big juicy secret that you’re actually her mom?”

Eddie’s voice made you jump, and you remembered he was still in the back.

He reached forward, leaving a teasing pinch to your arm. “Are you secretly like, forty-five, but super good at doing your makeup, or something?”

“Or something,” You retorted, pulling the passenger seat all the way forward to give him a way out.

Instead of leaving, he pulled his shirt over his head, flipping it the right way out. He glanced up, catching you looking at his chest, then looking away when you noticed.

Eddie chuckled as he shrugged the shirt back on. “Wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression, right?”

“More like third impression.”

“Hey, third time’s the charm, don’t they say?” He leaned forward to go, but paused, his guitar-pick necklace dangling in your face. “Mommy dearest didn’t pack my lunch, either, y’know.”

You laughed, shoving him. “I’m not a charity worker. You can eat from the cafeteria like all the other neglected kids.”

He felt it then. What everyone else must have, when in your presence. The distinct magnetism that came with this easy flow, like you’d been friends for years, when in reality you’d only officially become acquainted twenty minutes ago. He didn’t want to leave.

“I’m guessing I won’t see you there?”

You looked up at him, and he wondered if everyone felt their heart stop when you looked at them like that.

“You might.”

He chuckled, “How does this work? Do I chant your name three times into the boy’s bathroom mirror and you show up at my lunch table?”

“Or you could just save me a seat and I’ll come find you.”

He wasn’t sure what was happening in his chest, but the ricochet of his heart’s pounding made his breath quiver.

“Alright.”

You weren’t flirting with him. You were not flirting. You were just being nice. You were like this to everyone.

Eddie was trying to get it through his thick skull, but no matter how many times he told himself, he couldn’t believe it. Especially not when you hurried out to meet him at the passenger side to offer him your hand as he climbed out, your free one landing gently on his head to make sure he didn’t bump it on the way out.

“Your hair’s really soft,” you complimented.

“You too,” he stammered, “Uh, I mean, it looks-“ He reached out, pushing a stray lock behind your ear, then immediately regretting doing it without asking. “Mhmm. Yes. Confirmed.”

What was happening to him? His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. A betrayal of his own body that worsened when he realised he hadn’t let go of your hand.

“Shit. Sorry.”

As he let go, a group of jocks passed by, subtlety lost on them as they glared at him.

“Thanks for the ride,” Eddie said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, “Anyway. See you at lunch. Maybe.” He backed up, feeling the tension in his chest lighten slightly the further he got away, “If you’re not there by second bell I’ll start chanting.”

You tittered. “You’re really not doing anything to quell the satanist rumours, are you?”

“That’s what I’ve got you for, angel,” he winked.

→ message me to be added to the taglist for this character → comments & reblogs are super appreciated as it encourages me to post more → please do not repost any of the writing in this post, thank you!

tags: @andperset @1a-ma1a-su3rt3

#eddie munson #eddie x reader #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfiction #my work #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction

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rebelsandtherest · 1 year

Text

Home for Christmas

Words: 4,049

Summary: Matthew falls ill just before the family Christmas bash, and thinks he's missed the entire thing. However, once he hears that his baby brother is sick, Alfred concocts a bit of a holiday surprise. —— this fic is a little late, but Merry Christmas, everyone, and here's to many more!

Warnings: langauge, talk of family during holidays, nothing else that I can think of.

Author’s note: a belated gift to a dear friend, @draw-a-circle-thats-the-compass

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

For however many hundreds of winters Matthew Williams had endured in his home, be it in the warmth of an electric-heated home, or warding off frostbite in the untamed wilderness, he would never truly get used to the speed with which the solar night crept down from the pole. It was the dark especially that always sent spikes of dread into his bones, stealing away his warmth and setting pallor in his hands and feet, spreading chill upwards to his whole body.

This year, when he felt the frigid fingers of depression reaching through his chest with the 4:30 sunset, he mustered his willpower and on a spiteful whim bought tickets to Calgary. He had a seldom-used mountain cabin tucked away within the confines of Banff, and while he wasn’t sure the new park rangers still received the memo about him and his cabin during orientation, he was willing to invoke the Minister’s ire if it meant he could dust off his best skis and escape his mind on the slopes.

The cabin was just as he’d left it, and the radiators crackled their way to warm almost as soon as he turned them on. His wool blankets had a few new holes in them, but the quilts were warm and the fireplace clean, and he didn’t even have to replace any lightbulbs, not even in the groaning old icebox. His great snowy-white dog, Buddy, quickly found his favorite bear-fur rug and curled up by the fire, ready to dive into the snow alongside his human the next day.

It was only Matt’s luck that he woke up with a sore throat. He lived in denial for a whole day, basking in the perfect weather and flying down every slope he could get his skis on. But as the too-early sunset crept below the mountains, he began to realize he was swaying on his feet, and moreover, that he’d stopped sweating.

“Shit,” He huffed into his scarf. By the time he was back at his cabin, he could taste the fever on his breath.

Matt wasn’t sure what he’d managed to pick up on his journey westward, but whatever it was, be it cold or flu or covid or tuberculosis, within a few days it had him in a death grip and refused to let go. As he lie in bed, fever-dreaming his vacation away, the darkness grew and grew, and soon Matt felt himself falling into the well of despondency that refilled every winter.

Buddy kept him company, and he’d mustered the energy to call his Dutch beau, Jan, once or twice, but the fever had stolen his ability to tell time, and both times he’d spent about half of the call apologizing for waking him at two in the morning, and the other half repeating himself when Jan got lost in his feverish amalgamation of English and French. He had some anxiety-inducing number of unread text messages waiting for him in the corner of his phone, but reading was a doomed endeavor with his puffy, aching eyes. He watched whatever public tv stations still reached his ancient bunny-eared set, but ended up falling asleep nearly as soon as he sat down.

After some untold number of days, his fever broke, and while he was rationing the NyQuil he still had in his cupboards, he’d taken a full dose the first few nights after his fever and had been mostly comatose since. He’d been sound asleep on the couch one afternoon when his phone began to ring, buzzing loudly against the window sill just above him, until it vibrated its way fully off the sill and directly onto Matt’s head.

“Fucking putain,” he groaned and was shocked at how gravelly his voice came out. The offending device had fallen into his lap, buried somewhere in the folds of his blanket, still buzzing away. He fished it out and stabbed at the screen with squinted eyes, looking for the ‘ignore call’ button, but ended up hitting the ‘answer’ button instead. Only then did he see the caller’s name.

“...Mattie? You there?” asked Alfred from the other line. Matt sighed and sank back into bed, rubbing at the spot where his phone had hit, knowing it would be a lump by the end of the hour.

“Yeah?” he answered, trying to rein in his annoyance at being woken up.

“Holy shit bro, you sound terrible. Are you okay?”

“Sick,” Matt told him.

“Sick? I thought you were going skiing!” Matt closed his eyes, which made his head feel like he was spinning.

“I did. Skied. Got sick. Et voilà. ”

“Aww jeez Mattie. Do you think you’ll be good for our flight on Thursday?” Matt blinked.

“What flight?”

“...To London? Dad’s annual fussy Christmas bash, you know the drill.”

“That’s not until the 22nd.”

“...Matt, it’s December 20th.”

“What?” Matt’s voice cracked with his incredulity. “No, it’s… I got here on the 10th, it’s only been a couple of days, the 22nd isn’t until… I mean I don’t know when but it’s more than three days away.”

“Wait you think it’s only been—Mattie, how many days did you ski before you got sick?” Matt hesitated, embarrassed of the answer.

“One.”

“Oh my god,” Alfred sounded genuinely surprised, and it took him a moment to say, “ Matt, you’ve been sick for a week? And you still sound like this? You don’t still have a fever, do you?”

“No, it went away… I can’t remember.” Matt rubbed his face, and every inch ached. “Listen, it’s not December 19th, I swear, if you’re fucking with me–”

“Look at your phone.”

“What?”

“Look at the date on your phone.”

Matt did.

“Fuck,” he said, staring at the giant calendar date as though it would change if he stared long enough.

“Yeah,” Alfred’s voice was tinny away from his ear. Matt finally blinked and sank further under his blankets, and eventually brought the phone back to his face.

“You’re going to have to apologize to dad for me,” Matt said, “I thought it was… Jesus, I missed my flight back to Ottawa, shit.”

“Wait, you're still in Calgary?”

“Banff.”

“You didn’t leave the dog at home, did you?”

“No, he’s with me,” Matt could feel his voice getting more hoarse.

“Well that’s something. Man, you picked a helluva time to get sick, huh.”

“Apparently,” Matt wished he were comatose for all of this.

“Listen, slam some water—or gatorade, if you have it—and get some rest, okay? I know you’re feeding Buddy, but feed yourself too, alright?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Matt.”

“...I’ll try.”

“Good. Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Don’t die.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“Glad to hear it. Gotta go. Love you, kiddo, feel better.”

Matt began to respond, but before he could finish, Alfred hung up. Matt watched his brother’s smiling icon disappear from the screen, leaving only the giant, damning calendar. Matt stared at it and sighed, heart sinking down through his bed and the cabin itself and into the frozen ground below. There was no way he’d be in shape to fly to Ottawa in the next three days, to say nothing of flying to Ottawa and then across the Atlantic to London.

Buddy, though far too large to be a lapdog, leapt up onto the couch draped himself across Matt’s body, crawling on his belly until he was able to nose the man’s chin, giving it a lick.

“Yeah I know,” Matt sighed, petting the dog’s soft ears and wishing it could make him feel better. “I guess I should tell dad.” The thought made his heart sink even further. “Uncle Alisdair was going to bring his homemade whiskey and everything. Even Aunt Bridgid agreed to go this year. But I guess it’s just,” Matt craned his neck to look over into his small kitchen. There was an old, half-empty bottle of whiskey and a small bag of miniatures he’d picked up while waiting on his flight. “…that, you, me, and whatever the fuck is left in the fridge. Merry fucking Christmas, eh?” Buddy whined, and licked Matt’s face again. He sighed.

“Yeah, me neither.”

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

December 22nd came and went, and by the 23rd, Matthew was less sick than he had been, but still far from healthy. “I imagine Uncle Rhys has already played referee to five fights by now, what d’you think?” He asked his dog. Buddy sneezed. “You’re right, maybe only four.” Matt tried to imagine it; Alfred and Dad, probably, Brighid and dad, certainly. If they were drunk enough, Zee and Uncle Alistair would fight about who was the better skier. Jack wouldn’t hurt a fly so long as he had a beer or cider in hand, though Alfred was certain to seek out arguments for sport—Matt really wished he could get his brother to understand that most people didn’t view arguments as fun.

In past years, he’d spent weeks complaining to Jan about the chaos that accompanied his family’s holiday’s reunions. Now, left alone in a cabin with nothing but his dog, whiskey, and his own thoughts, he realized that he missed it dearly, in the strangest way.

“I’m going to sleep,” he told his dog, who was practically asleep himself. “Hopefully until the New Year.”

It was an ironic cruelty that it was more difficult to sleep while sick than while healthy. It was as if his body was in a civil war over whether it needed to be asleep and miserable or awake and miserable. So, when Matt finally fell into a deep sleep, the half of his body that preferred to be asleep and miserable fought tooth and nail to keep him that way. Unfortunately, someone was trying to break into his house.

It was actually Buddy who finally roused him. Though the banging on the door was difficult to ignore, Buddy’s frantic barking was even harder to ignore. Head pounding, Matt rolled himself bodily out of bed, taking half of the quilt with him. He dragged it behind him, half draped over him, as he trudged to the door. Behind the old white curtain hanging over the door’s window, there was an imposing, human-shaped shadow.

“Fucking park rangers,” Matt groused, and glared down at Buddy. “I thought I told you to remind me to turn the lights off last night.” Buddy barked at him, and Matt sighed. “Listen,” he unlocked the door and pulled on the handle, “I’m allowed to be here, call your superintendent, I’m sure they’ll—Alfred?!”

“Finally!” beamed his brother, clad in a designer parka and what looked like a home-made toque, “I was beginning to think you were dead, which you promised you wouldn’t be. Can I come in? Fucking freezing out here.”

Matt stared for a prolonged number of seconds before he blurted, voice cracking: “Shouldn’t you be in London?” Alfred looked affronted.

“While my baby brother is on his deathbed in the bumfuck nowhere, Alberta? No way!”

“Banff isn’t bumfuck nowhere, and I’m not dying.”

“Banff isn’t, but this cabin sure is, and I’m glad you’re not dying, now can I please come inside? I’m freezing my nuts off out here.” Matt stood aside, still processing the sight of his brother in the flesh. Buddy’s tail was wagging wildly as Alfred came inside, jumping at the chance to sniff the newcomer, dancing happily around the American in a way he did for no one else.

“You should be in London,” Matt said again, head aching.

“I wasn’t about to leave you here, you dumb fuck, jeez, it’s freezing in here, too.” Alfred cast a look down at Buddy. “You let him live like this?” a singular, insistent bark. “Ah, that tracks. Never was good at looking after himself.” He looked up back to Matt, shedding his mittens and shoving them into his coat pockets. “Alright, kiddo, let’s get you packed.”

“Packed?” Matt’s voice squeaked, and he realized even the small amount of talking he’d done with Alfred was killing his voice completely, “Alfred, I can’t go to London, we talked about this–”

“Who keeps talking about London? Not me—we’re going to my place. Idaho!”

“Idaho?” Matt’s brain took a while to buffer. “Wait, at your—”

“At my ranch? Yup!”

Ranch was not the word Matt would have used; Alfred was as rugged a rancher as any rancher alive or dead, but he also had what Matt could only refer to as a Kardashian sense of luxury, and enough money to blend the two lifestyles together. Matt realized all at once the expense Alfred must have spent to abandon the family Christmas, travel north, and prepare his Idaho mansion for his company. “Alfred, you don’t have to, really—”

“Dude, cut the apologies, I’ve broken like, at least four international laws to park my cessna out back, so get your shit and let’s go. No arguing!”

“You what?!”

“C’mon, we’re wastin’ daylight!”

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

If Alfred weren’t already breaking laws north of the border for skipping customs, the FAA south of the border surely would’ve surely had complaints about the alterations he’d made to the rear seat of his plane. Where once there had been two passenger seats with requisite seatbelts and safety features, there was now a cozy, cot-sized bed with enough pillows and blankets for two king-sized beds. By the time Alfred had convinced Matt to “just get in the goddamn plane”, Buddy had already found the fluffiest pillow of the bunch and fallen asleep.

“Here, take this.” While the engines warmed up, Alfred leaned back to hand Matt a handful of gummies from the pilot’s seat.

“What is it?” Matt squinted at the candy.

“Delta 8 and melatonin,” Alfred said, replacing his specs with aviators and pulling on his headset. “Now make like your dog and sleep , kay? You look like you need it.”

Matt scoffed. “Thanks,” he said, and chewed the candy together. It was the last thing he remembered doing before Alfred shook him awake and gently informed him that they’d arrived in Bumfuck Nowhere—and it was actually bumfuck nowhere—Idaho.

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

Matt had visited Alfred’s Idaho Ranch-Mansion plenty of times since it’d been finished sometime in the late 90s, and the mountain drive from the airport to the wide-windowed lodge was an unexpected source of nostalgia of birthdays, holidays, and drunken benders past. Matt hauled himself to the window once the familiar hand-hewn wooden fences appeared, squinting against the blinding snowy paddocks until the first blanketed horses came into view. Matt couldn’t help but smile, maybe the first smile he’d entertained since falling ill. Alfred’s horse herd was made up of innumerable bloodlines, nowadays, but at the center of their pedigree was the blood of some sturdy old Morgans Matt had gifted to him during his civil war. Alfred kept a book that traced their sires all the way back to their Canadian forefathers, and seeing the newest generations never failed to swell Matt’s heart. As if sensing what his brother was looking at, Alfred said,

“Bonfire foaled twins this year—really late, too, October. I can’t remember if I told you that.”

“Really?” “Yeah, both little stubborn shits too, probably why they both lived. I’ve got them up at the barn to keep warm.”

“What’d you name them?” Matt asked. Alfred grinned, uncharacteristically sheepish.

“Pumpkin and Sweet Potato.”

“Alfred, you have to stop naming them after food.”

“What?! It was October! They’re cute.”

As they pulled up the house, Alfred was still defending his food-inspired horse name choices when Matt spotted something strange in the driveway.

“Who’s car is that?” He asked, eyeing the plain white SUV parked to one side of the massive driveway.

“Oh, I forgot about that,” Alfred bent down to peer at the car. “They didn’t all fit in the Bronco, so I had to rent a car for ‘em.”

“For who?”

“I’ll explain later,” Alfred said, shifting the car into park. Matt didn’t miss the small smirk his brother tried to hide. Immediately, a knot of dread formed in his stomach. “Let’s just get you inside and situated, yeah?”

Alfred didn’t have to explain, because the moment he unlocked the front door, the familiar sounds of pointless arguments flooded his ears.

“-bloody fucking ridiculous,” said the very drunk, very Dad voice somewhere deeper into the house. On the doorstep, Matt froze halfway out of his shoes and shot a look at Alfred, who responded by smiling a bit wider, all-american dimples peaking through

“Well how about I conquer you for a century or ten and then I can tell you you’re ridiculous, you bloated fucken Gobshite! Oi, Jackie, back me up on this!”

“Is that aunt Brighid?” Matt asked, eyeing Alfred again. The American busied himself with physically helping Matt out of his boots.

“I have some slippers for you just inside—watch your step.”

“Oh shite, I think I hear someone at the door,” said a much closer, much more Australian voice, “I’ll be just a minute there, one second!”

“ Alfred how the fuck did you—” The door swung open in a rush.

“Save me,” begged a younger, freckled, brunette version of their father. The white puff at the end of his Santa Claus hat jumped when he did a double take at Matthew. His green eyes lit up like Christmas itself.

“Matt!” He greeted, smile spreading wide as the sun. “You look like shite, it’s so good to see you! Oi! You angry cunts!” he shouted over his shoulder, “Matt’s here!”

“What?”

“Oh, thank Christ. Matthew, come tell this woman—”

“You’ll not drag him into this! The bairn’s ill,”

“Are they,” Matt looked over at Alfred, who was still smiling like a smug bastard. “How did you—you’re—” He looked over at Jack, “I thought you were in London?”

“What?” Jack seemed honestly confused, glancing between Matt and Alfred. “Did the Yank seriously not tell you—” he gave Alfred a look, and upon seeing his smug expression, scoffed. “London was a wash this year,” he laughed, “Happy Christmas, mate, come on in.”

“How’d you get here?” Matt reiterated.

“Like I said,” Alfred piped up, pushing Matt towards the doorway. Looking down, Matt realized that, in his shock, Alfred had been the one to actually remove his shoes for him, “they didn’t all fit in the Bronco, so most of them got here by the last Grand Cherokee Avis had to offer. Go on, we’re letting the cold in.” Before Matt could step fully into the threshold, Buddy had bolted in between his legs, tail alert and wagging, eager to see the rest of the family.

“Buddy!” A feminine voice cried, “C’mere you big baby, say hello to auntie Zee,” a series of happy yelps followed, accompanied by drunken laughter.

“Well the dog is here,” Uncle Alisdair said in his loud brogue, “where’s the rest of the circus?”

“We’re here too,” Alfred said, walking behind Matt into the main living area.

“Och, there they are!” “Matthew, so good to see you,” Father looked genuinely happy to see him, soft smile creasing his eyes in the way that reminded Matt of the happiest parts of his childhood. “Come here, let me look at you.”

“Matt! Croeso ! What’s your poison? Mulled wine? Whiskey? Cider?”

“The bairn is sick, Rhys—”

“Alcohol never hurt anyone on Christmas,”

“Mary and all the saints, how have you lived this long—”

“Come over here and give us a hug, you muppets!” cried Zee, spreading her arms wide, a nearly-empty bottle of wine in one fist.

Matt was frozen in place, still coming off his melatonin and wondering if he was feverish again. He was dimly aware that his jaw was hanging open as he took in the gaggle of family packed into Alfred’s living room—dad, both uncles, Jack, Zee, even aunt Brighid. There were twinkling lights hung all around the vaulted ceilings and reflecting on the tall windows, a fresh-cut Christmas tree lit in the corner with a haphazard collection of presents and duty-free bags piled below, punch and whiskey and wine and beer stacked in disorganized bunches along the nearby bar counter.

“—sure he’s alright?” Zee was asking, when his ears decided to work again.

“He’s fine,” he heard Alfred say, and a warm hand rested on his shoulder. “He’s just a bit surprised.”

“You’re,” Matt said, looking around at them all, and everyone went quiet to listen to him. “You’re not. You’re meant to be in London,” Matt insisted.

“Nonsense!” Alisdair spoke up first. “We go to London every year, it was old enough a century ago, time for a change of pace.” He ignored it when Arthur glared at him. “‘Sides, you brother Money Bags over here promised he would take care of everything, else your dad wouldn’t have ever let TSA so much as look at his Christmas pudding—”

“ Alisdair,” Arthur hissed.

“You didn’t think we’d leave you alone, did you? On Christmas?” Jack was completely earnest when he said it. Seeing his baby brother’s face, and the faces of his ridiculous, loud, chaotic family, Matt suddenly found himself with watery eyes threatening to spill over.

“The kid’s on a few drugs right now, give him a little bit to recover,” laughed Alfred, arm around Matt’s shoulders. “He needs some rest. Come on, kiddo, let’s go get you set up in your—” Alfred paused and looked at their little brother.

“Jack, did you get your stuff—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack waved dismissively. “I moved rooms.”

“Awesome. Come on, kiddo, let’s get you in bed before you fall over.”

“We’ll be here when you wake up!” Rhys called.

“Unless we all have hangovers,” Zee amended, and she and Rhys laughed together. Alfred shook his head and led Matt to his usual room, the only bedroom in the house that had a heated bed.

“Upsy-daisy,” Alfred said, helping Matt up onto the cushioned mattress, pulling out the duvet before Matt sat on it and pulling it immediately over the younger man’s body up to his neck, cozy and warm.

“Hey, hey,” Matt hadn’t realized he’d let tears fall until Alfred was sitting on the bed beside him, brushing hair behind his ear and speaking to him softly in the way that had meant safe since he was a baby. “I wanted to surprise you, not incapacitate you, are you alright?”

Matt wiped his eyes, remembering his lonely cabin and the escape he’d been too sick to enjoy. Alfred’s house was warm and safe, and smelt of Christmas spices that harkened back to his earliest years. “Thank you,” Matt managed, gripping Alfred’s sleeve. “I don’t know how you—I didn’t think—” He sighed, feeling exactly how tired he was. “Thanks, Al.”

Al responded by wrapping him in a hug, warm and tight and safe and everything Matt needed to finally let himself rest. Over Alfred’s shoulder, he could see his dog sneak into the room, hopping up onto the foot of the bed.

“Get some good rest, okay? And don’t worry about anything,” Alfred said into his ear, bending down until Matt was lying back in bed. “We’ll all be here in the morning.”

“The fuck I did! It was your goddamned idea in the first place!” Alisdair’s bellow echoed down the hall and their brotherly moment broke so they could both whip their heads to the door to listen.

“My idea?!” countered their father, in the self-righteous tone that said he’d been at the rum punch a little too much that night, “The entire stupid thing was your doing, beginning to end!”

“You know,” came a third voice, “ I’m fairly sure that—” “Shut up, Rhys!” Shouted Alisdair and Father at once.

Alfred sighed. “Well, we’ll all probably be here in the morning. I’ll tell them to keep it down.”

“No,” Matt said, letting out a tired laugh. The bickering of his father and uncles blurred together in a familiar, lulling haze as sleep beckoned. “No, it’s okay. Merry Christmas, Alfred.” Matt was almost asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, mind’s eye filled with twinkling lights and familiar smiles, morphing into pleasant dreams of holidays past. He was still just awake enough to feel it when Alfred bent to kiss his forehead and brush a hand over his hair.

“Merry Christmas, Mattie. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

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epicspheal · 5 months

Note

Hi! Congrats on making it through your first year of med school, I know that's hard to do so make sure to take some time for yourself 💜

I wanted to know if you could write something for Gordie? I'll take anything, but please take your time before doing this.

Hi there anon! Thank you so much for the kind words. Medical school has been an interesting challenge to say the least I also have to apologize for the delay in getting to this ask! When I first got this I was like "Oh Great, I'm actually working on a Gordie fic right now and I'll let them see this" Only school and writer's block got in the way So I'm going to bend my own rules for this an actually just do a character analysis for Gordie instead. So here we go... GORDIE NEEDS MORE LOVE FROM THE FANDOM Admittedly, I didn't know much of Gordie because I first played Shield. But since I loved SwSh so much I decided to go back and get Sword and there I actually fell in love with his character. He breaks the mold in a number of ways. Let's start off with his name. In Japanese his name is Makuwa which is the name of fruit called muskmelon (or just melon) which is very similar to Melony's name which is also derived from melon. So that's an easy tie between the two's familial connection. But Melons have interesting symbolism of their own as they represent prosperity, good fortune, and abundance in many cultures. And despite the rift between him and his mom, Gordie has abundance, prosperity and good fortune.

He's a major gym leader in one of the strongest gym circuits to date (minor gym leader if we're talking Shield but that's still huge), he has plenty of adoring fans, and his league card talks about how he's highly suspected of becoming a champion one day. Which is something that I don't see talked about much even in SwSh circles that absolutely should be. One for any trainer to be strong enough to considered a future champion is huge as there's only a handful of trainers who can even attain that rank. Even moreso as a type specialist. As we can see in the list of established champions in the series, the vast majority are multitype trainers with only a handful specializing in one type. And of those who specialize in one type only two of them (Wallace and Peony) that solely use Pokemon of their specialty while the others have at least one Pokemon not of their actual type. Gordie is a rock type specialist where all of his Pokemon are at least partially rock. And let's not forget that of the type specialist champions all of them are either Water, Dragon or Steel (yes Alder could count as a Bug type specialist but he's currently listed as a multitype champion). Rock however is often the specialty of the first or second gym leader on a gym circuit with so far only one trainer (Olivia) being representative of the type in the Elite Four. So for Gordie to be a rock type trainer who is strong enough to be considered a future champion is a huge accomplishment that I think bears mentioning.

Now let's take a look at his team. You can see while he does specialize in Rock types, only one of his Pokemon is pure rock while the others are dual type. The typings not only on the Pokemon but the moves he has are quite diverse allowing him to hit multiple types super effectively and cover 3 out of the 5 rock weaknesses. His team and movesets show he prefers an offensive approach prioritizing speed with Shell Smash, Tar Shot, Sticky Web and Coalossal's Steam Engine. In fact one of his in-game quotes alludes to the fact he prefers quick battles "I'll be bringing my matches to an end in a heartbeat—you'll see. No one who sees them will ever forget me."

He also heavily prioritizes breaking through physical defenses with Body Press and Wonder Room, as well as weather and entry hazards like Stealth Rock, Sticky Web, G-max Volcalith and Tyranitar's Sand Stream. It's a very solid set up that shows why in Sword he's the 6th gym leader challengers face and it shows how this team is very well designed to defeat Melony's.

As I've played through Sword at this point more than Shield (as I've decided for the purposes of cactusverse the Sword line up are canon) as I've gone through his gym, I really appreciate how encouraging he is to the player as they try to avoid the pitfalls in his gym. It's a nice touch to have him do that shows despite the fact he is a strict trainer he does have a soft side.

We know he does get frustrated after losing and unfortunately some people take that to mean he's a sore loser but he's not. Yeah he sulks in his locker and openly talks about his pride being bruised but there have been far better examples of actual sore losers in the franchise and he's not one of them. His fans honestly find his sulking sessions endearing and he even apologizes whenever he loses his cool.

"Sorry to lose my cool... I'll be sure to challenge you again."

And let's talk about the fact that he canonically is very popular and has a large fanbase. As a chubby character that's huge because unfortunately fatphobia exists and chubby characters are rarely portrayed as being popular, desired and highly skilled like Gordie is. Oh and he does backflips too showing his size doesn't mean he is unathletic? There are just so many positive subversions here and it's wonderful to see.

And Gordie cares a lot about his fans. He's stated to take the time to do autographs and meet and greets. He's seen in Twilight Wings opening fan mail in his hotel room. And a lot of what he discusses in Pokemon Masters EX involved him talking about how to best please his fans. It's obvious he cares so much for those who support him and it's heartwarming to see.

Now to get to the main talking point about Gordie...his strained relationship with his mom. I've seen people say that Gordie hates his mom but that's simply just not true! He's frustrated with her for trying to push her training style and preferred typing onto him. He wants to show he can succeed without her methods. But that frustration doesn't mean he hates her and quite frankly it's tiring to see how fandom portrays frustration as hate with Gordie and others. You can be frustrated without hating and I wish people would learn to use that nuance when talking about characters with strained relationships because usually when a narrative wants to display feelings of hatred...it will be very obvious.

In fact when Gordie does talk about Melony it's actually very tame. He mentions wanting to surpass her and how on Pasio the cold nights remind him of her. But nothing that signifies hatred. Sure they aren't on speaking terms but families sometimes go through rough patches. I'm sure at some point they'll begin to mend the rift. But yes, Gordie's a wonderful character that shows how even little details can signify so much. And once again I must say...Gordie deserves more love from the fandom!

#ask epic spheal #gym leader gordie #gordie pokemon #pokemon sword and shield #pokemon masters ex #character analysis

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hyperfixatedfandomer · 1 year

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Hi fellow reader and writers ✨

You can call me Hyper and this is my long overdue introduction post! (My first one ever so bear with me lmao)

What fandoms I write for:

TMNT (2003, 2012 and bayverse. Maybe mayhem?)

DC (Superfam and Batfam in particular)

Avatar (the blue people movie franchise, not the bald weather boy one) ((Sullys, Tonowari fam and recoms specifically))

The Witcher(?)

What I’m ok with writing:

General assault and gore (characters are gonna beat the shit out of each other and get hurt in the process, both are very normal for fandoms I’m writing)

What I’m NOT okay with writing:

Characters taking their own life (I can write them thinking about it or planning it but I draw a line at describing it. It’s too heavy for me.)

Self-harm. (Pretty self-explanatory)

Extreme sexual harassment or assault (no. Just no. I MIGHT be able to write a comfort scenario for SA that happens off-screen but that’s as far as It’ll go. It’s too much of a serious topic and I’d like to spare characters I love of being traumatised like that🤮.)

X reader scenarios (love is nice and all but I’m not attracted to any of the characters enough to provide believable romance.) ((ESPECIALLY BRUCE AND QUARITCH these mf don’t deserve love💅))

X OC scenarios (I don’t wanna risk writing your character, well, out of character so 😅)

Incest (that one speaks for itself 😬😬😬)

Is my ask-box open for requests?

Yes! I’m very slow tho so lower your expectations to ✨zero✨

Some of my works to get you aquatinted or to check out if you follow me already:

“Hi, Spider! Welcome to the resistance!” (An atwow and fop crossover in which Spider ends up on the western frontier and joins the Sarentu in their battle against RDA.)

“So close, yet a million worlds apart” (an ongoing modern AU Spider-centric fic in which he gets stuck between his adopted and bio family, trying to figure out secrets and, as always, getting himself into trouble.)

“Rat’s nest” (Spider/Quaritch-centric comfort one-shot where Quaritch washes Spider’s hair. One of my first works so bear with the bad writing😅)

“What if Spider got caught by the RDA together with one of the Sullys?” (headcannons)

“That handsome boy from the sky” part 1, 2, 3 and 4 (A fluffy comedy series that is also Spider caught with Neteyam AU, Metkayina fawn over Spider.🤭)

Again, if you I got any requests — send them in!

Pro-shippers DNI!

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sfwregressionfanfictions · 2 years

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Storming in Hawkins (Steve Harrington X Little! Reader)

Request: hi!! i’d like to request a CG!Steve Harrington x gn!little!reader fic where there’s a big storm and the reader is scared of thunderstorms and steve comforts them. i hope you’re having a good day!!

Wc: 920

Warning: Storms, bigspace for a little, honestly not my best work. If you don't like, don't read.

The TV in Family Videos had been playing the news all day, it was rather boring if you asked anyone paying attention in the shop. Luckily, both Steve and Robin were fixated on fixing a cassette tape that was rather ratty and nested, however, the pair was going to fix it for the redhead that left it with them.

“You dingus! Stop pulling it!” Robin said as she was still untwisting the tape.

“No. I have to pull it through here! So you can untwist it!” Steve grumbled back.

“I need to fix this before you do that!” Steve was not paying attention to her this time, “Harrington, are you even paying attention?”

“Shut up for a second.” Steve dropped the cassette, moving towards the TV and the remote on the counter.

“Don’t tell me what-” The TV cut her off, volume turned up 50%.

“There is now a severe thunderstorm warning in Hawkin, and surrounding towns and counties. This storm is believed to begin in an hour or two, if you are outside, seek shelter! If you are at home, do not leave under any circumstances. Stay safe Hawkins.”

“Holy Shhhh-”

“Steve, we should lock up early…” Robin said, beginning to pace.

“Get your stuff, hit the lights. I’m gonna put your bike in my trunk, then we can lock up and leave. Keith can deal with it.” Steve said, moving to throw the cassette at Robin. She ran to the back, grabbing her bag and chucking the cassette into it. Steve grabbed a few movies and walked outside to his car.

Locking up was quick, driving to drop off Robin was fast, and the drive to the house he and (Y/N) shared took no time. The clouds moved quickly though covering the blue sky, making it grey and dreary. The weather in Hawkins was always weird, even after the gate to the upside-down was closed. Steve threw the door open to the home, “Baby I’m back early!”

“Stevie!!!”, They came barrelling towards steve in the entryway, body flung to hugging and clinging onto him, “Why are you here so early?”

“Closed early due to the coming storm, couldn’t leave my little baby here alone,” Steve mumbled against their hair, carrying them to the living room after closing and locking the door.

“There is a storm?” The stress filled (Y/N)’s voice, storms always caused stress after the mind flayer and the storms it caused.

“It’s all gonna be okay, I brought some movies to distract us. We can make a little fort, have some fries and nuggies, and maybe you can color. Everything will be all good.” Steve said, petting their head.

Once placed down, (Y/N) went running to get blankets, stuffies and pillows. Steve normally would yell for them to slow down, but he didn’t as they were obviously already stressed. Steve pulled out the sofa bed, and put a sheet on it. Then the oven was preheating and the food was placed in it.

“Veggies…” Steve muttered realizing they have nothing healthy with their meal. Luckily after looking over the fridge, he found a bag of baby carrots. He cut them into smaller pieces.

“D- Stevie, I need help setting up the fort…” (Y/N) was obviously on the edge of slipping, they were fidgety and staring at the pillows and blankets unsure what to do.

“How about I make it? While you look through those tapes and figure out what we should watch?” Steve smiled, as she ran to the small pile of films and plopped down on the floor.

Soon enough the fort was built, the film was built (it was the care bears movie), and it has begun lightly raining. (Y/N)’s stuffies sat comfortably in the fort. Soon, dinner was ready.

“Baby, eat your carrots first, okay?” Steve was only met with a hum. The rain was picking up and the wind was rather loud. Luckily the movie was able to block out some of the noise.

The night was going smoothly for the first hour of dinner and movie until the storm got truly terrible and the thunder started. The first crack of thunder caused a squeal of fear to rise from (Y/N), who kept shrinking into themself. When Steve looked at them from where he was switching tapes, he noticed the tears beginning to stream down his little baby’s face.

“Dadaaaaa!”

With that one word, (Y/N) was in his arms in an instance. Steve rocked them lightly back and forth, shushing their cries, “Baby, where is your paci?”

A mumble replied, it was unintelligible through their sobs. Steve rushed to the one in the kitchen that had just been washed. Steve held it up quickly to baby's mouth, and it was accepted without a fight.

“That’s it, baby, let me make it all better,” Steve said moving back towards the coach to lay down and cuddle the fear away. (Y/N) had not stopped shaking still, whimpering and whining. “Baby have I ever let you get hurt? Even by scary storms?”

“No dada” Barely a whimper.

“And I never will, you are so safe, baby. That storm better hope I don’t get my hands on it!” Steve said, jokingly starting to fight the sky above them.

“Luv dada,” Suddenly much calmer and also much more sleepy.

“I love you too, my little baby,” Steve kissed their forehead and cheeks and nose until they were a giggly mess. “Now sleep, I will keep you safe.”

#x little! reader #little space #littleone #agere little #age regression #age regression fic #little!reader #stranger things headcanons #eddie munson x little!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x little! reader #agere stranger things #sfw age regression #agere #sfw agere #agere community #sfw littlespace

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chasingpj · 1 year

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𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

“I know you’re scared. I am, too, but they’re growing and getting strong. It’s time.”

pairing: percy jackson x fem child of hecate!reader

words: 6,762

warnings: brief mentions of religious institutions, catholicism, human sacrifices, and tripping on mushrooms. if you're a ginger... i'm so sorry.

timeline: the lightning thief

a/n: so excited to finally get this posted. one thing i really wish i did when i initially started writing this fic was give a proper insight on the mc's and her brother's home life. i thought the addition of her grandmother and grandpa would be so fun and i'm excited to hear what you think. in the next chapter we will finally see the twins get to camp so stay tuned!

prologue chapter i chapter iii

The final bell of the school year rings, releasing a flood of excited children. Their shouts and quick footsteps move from the hallways to the echoing streets, bodies quickly funneling themselves through the double doors like inmates breaking out of prison.

You scrunch your nose, trailing behind the crowd along with Atticus. Though excited to go home, neither of you was ready for the awful weather outside. Today’s sweltering heat washes over your body, humid and suffocating, no doubt. Some say it’s a beautiful day, but to your standards, this was torture from mother nature herself.

Atticus grunts in annoyance as the rays of sunlight hit him hard. It was a slap in the face compared to the air-conditioning you’re begrudgingly leaving behind. Your brother trudges beside you, quick to unbutton and shove his tie into his pocket. You follow, exposing your skin to bake under the unforgiving sun.

“Glad that’s over,” you speak almost in a sigh, and Atticus nods.

“I didn’t think it would end,” Atticus’s eyes avert to the statue of Saints in front of your school’s chapel as you pass by. “I still think those things are alive.”

A snort leaves your lips, flashing your gaze at them one more time. After the principal forced you and Atticus to scrub the stone as punishment for wearing black nail polish, you couldn’t bear to look at them. That and your brother was right. Those angel statues have definitely whispered your name once. “I don’t want to hear or see anything else about Saints for the rest of the summer.”

“Don’t want to hear about Jesus either,” Atticus adds.

“Or how Eve ruined everything.”

“Or how God made his archnemesis.”

You pause for a moment in thought. “Satan’s pretty cool, though.” Atticus nods. “Agreed.”

Neither of you says anything else. The children's chatter around the streets does enough to fill the silence. There are thumps of basketballs in the passing park’s courtyard and the low hum of the sprinklers. The ice cream truck jingle plays in the distance, herding kids toward the sound, and cars whoosh by, honking through traffic on the busy road. As you and Atticus make your way to the residential streets, your silence feels more meaningful as it’s filled with soft croaks of cicadas and bird chirps.

Soon, your family's familiar baby blue Victorian home is in sight. Like a sore thumb, it sticks out from the traditional American homes on the block. On the outside, the white trim and the many flower bushes your grandmother tends to make the home look sweet and inviting. At first glance, it would look like any regular residence. Though different in style, there would be no reason for a double take if, of course, the white monument sign announcing “Cromwell Funeral Home” wasn’t there.

“Hey! Wednesday and Pugsley Addams!” A slow, agonizing sigh leaves your nostrils. Felix Bain, a fitting last name for the nuisance he is, runs out of his front door as you and Atticus pass by. His posse of boys is hot on his heels, their faces with the same arrogant smile as their dictator. They giggle and chatter, but yours and Atticus’s stride don’t falter.

“Ignore him,” Atticus mumbles.

“I can’t believe you guys don’t melt in the sun,” Felix shouts again. “I’m surprised you can even get into the chapel. You must have some weird pagan magic protecting you.”

You didn’t expect Atticus to betray his advice, halting sharply and turning in Felix’s direction. Your eyebrow raises.

“Felix, do you know what they say about gingers?” Atticus asks. The friendly tone in his voice is bitter under his deadpan expression.

Felix’s smile widens with arrogant challenge. “What?” “They say gingers have no soul and every freckle on their pale ghostly face is a soul they’ve taken to fill the emptiness.”

Felix’s lips falter, eyebrows slowly knitting in the center of his forehead.

“You have a lot of freckles,” you point out, your jaw clenching to hide your smile.

Felix’s mouth opens, but you cut him off quickly. “Gingers are also known to be unlucky. So unlucky that Ancient Egyptians used them as human sacrifices to release their bad luck.” Slowly, he begins to frown, shifting on his feet nervously. “Count yourself lucky you don’t live down the street from pagans….” Your eyes fix on your home a few houses from his. “Oh, wait. You do.”

“You guys are weird!” Felix yells, his face almost as red as his hair. Smiling wickedly, you and Atticus turn on your heels, ignoring Felix's sloppy insults in your direction.

“If I were you, I’d make sure to lock your windows at night,” Atticus shouts behind him.

Angrily, the redhead stomps inside his home and mutters about how freaky the two of you are. The moment his front door slams closed, you and Atticus burst into laughter.

“That was so mean!”

You scoff. “So what?! He deserved it, and you’re the one who started it.” “I did, but I wasn’t the one who made it seem like we were gonna sacrifice him!”

You shrug, opening the gate to your home. “Oh well.”

Atticus shakes his head in playful disapproval, “You’re on a roll today.”

Your eyebrow raises in confusion, stumbling to the side from Atticus’s nudge. “What do you mean?” “First, it was Avery and then Felix.”

Atticus laughs at how your eyes roll, hand coming up in a dismissive wave. “Oh, please.”

“It was kinda mean.”

“So what if I charged her double?” Quickly, you reach into the mailbox beside your door, collecting the envelopes for your grandparents, “First, you call my tarot cards stupid.” A loud clunk hits your ears as you harshly slam the box close. “Then suddenly, you want to be nice, so I can give you a reading about your stupid crush. You know what, I’m glad the cards told her he doesn’t like her.”

As he walks into the house, Atticus laughs and mutters something about you being cruel. You trail close behind, surprised to see the ground floor decorated and ready for service. On your left are a couple of loveseats and coat racks right across the rows of banquet chairs. Further inside, there’s a hallway with a lounge area usually set up with desserts and Hors D'oeuvre for the guest.

“My little rascals, how was school?” A familiar voice calls from inside the mourning area, putting a smile on your face.

Your grandmother stands on a small ladder, hands carefully arranging flowers where the casket will be placed. Bright reds, whites, and pinks decorate the walls, and Cordelia hopes the display will soothe the eyes of grieving families.

“It was fine,” Atticus answers, and you nod in agreement.

Being realistic, how well can school go? Almost every day, the nuns penalize you for something. Whether it’s a minor offense like having nail polish or a freak accident at the chapel altar, you and Atticus never seemed to stay out of trouble. As for today, it was just fine. It could have been worse. You only got outed once by your teacher for dozing off during mass, and knowing it was the last day of school soothed any of your usual dread.

“Just fine?”

“Mhm,” you shrug, leaning against the doorway as you admire the display.

“Very well,” Cordelia says with a slight smirk, aware of the chaos she’s about to unleash. As you and Atticus move to leave your grandmother to her task, she perks up. “Since you’re here….” You halt in your tracks. “Could one of you get me the hammer from the basement? It should be in the toolbox somewhere.”

Before you can react, your brother shoves you from behind. “Not it!”

A growl leaves your lips as the boy flees before you can recover. “Hey, get back here!”

“No!” Hot on his heels, you turn through the lounge area, watching Atticus struggle with the doorknob before he bursts into the back hallway.

“You’re lazy!” You shout, finger raised in the air. Atticus, already halfway up the stairs, flashes you a smile.

“And you’re slow.”

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

Theo goes down the checklist of his last-minute details. First, he soothes the flyaways from the hair, cleans the sides of the lips from any lipstick, and adjusts the flowers in her folded hands. Poor girl, he thinks. Her life was taken right at the cusp of some of the best years life has to offer. Her family wanted a closed casket, afraid her face was too mangled to do otherwise, but Theo never cowered from a challenge. Nothing’s ever too broken to fix, he always says, and his work showed for it.

Classical music played low from the record player in the background. As he checks the final product, it’s peaceful enough to keep his head clear until the twins make it home. Theo liked to call them Tom and Jerry. You being Tom and Atticus being Jerry and never was it the opposite. A small huff of laughter leaves him as he catches some of their argument.

“You’re lazy!” “And you're slow!”

He shakes his head. “Those kids are something else,” he mutters under his breath, middle finger pushing the round glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Expectantly, he stares at the long staircase on his right as the door flings open. You stomp down the stairs with an angry look and he couldn’t help but laugh at his usually cranky grandchild.

“Hi, Grandpa,” you greet a lot more cheerfully than you looked, and his heart warms.

“Hi, Pretty Girl,” he coos, his arms stretching wide for your embrace. His hearty laugh is muffled through his chest as you wrap your arms around his waist. “How was school today?”

“It was fine. Slow day,” you shrug. “Grandma needs a hammer. Where’s the toolbox?”

“In the big metal cabinet back there. Just shout if you can’t find it; I’m heading to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” You turn on your heels, twisting through the tables of equipment.

The storage room was filled with boxes of everything from old furniture, family photos, decorations, and a bunch of other things your grandmother insisted on keeping. Grandpa always urged her to clean it out, the room so congested that the door only opens just enough for you to slip in but she refused. Luckily, you didn’t need to tango your way through stacks of items, the cabinet straight ahead. You felt silly when your own reflection scared you, not expecting an old mirror to lean against the space beside you.

You search for a second, finding the hammer in plain sight. Grasping the head of it, you wiggle it out of the toolbox and shut the cabinet closed. About ready to turn on your heels, you almost missed it. You catch something in the corner of your eye, and it takes a second look to see what it is.

Not again.

A girl with ghastly gray skin and hair matted to her sunken cheeks stood a few feet behind you. Soft droplets of water dripped from her hunched-over frame, and her cold blue eyes burned a hole in the back of your skull.

Your pulse roars in your ears. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t look away. Her expression changed from a blank stare to pure bewilderment, and in her panic, she catches your gaze through the reflection. A shaky breath leaves you, watching in anticipation as her mouth opens wide. Slowly her chest fills with air, and your hands slap over your ears as a truck horn blares from her throat.

As if released from a trance, you whip your gaze in her direction to find her gone. Even the droplets on the floor didn’t darken the concrete as you had seen through the mirror. Your eyes flicker across your surroundings. Though nothing revealed what you saw was real, the eeriness left behind was enough to get you moving, and you ran straight to the stairs without looking back.

One would think you just ran a marathon. By the time you made it back to Cordelia, you were winded. Your heavy footsteps announced your arrival, and Cordelia turned around, her smile faltering when she caught sight of your puzzled eyes.

“Oh honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Cordelia jokes, grabbing the hammer from your grasp.

“I think I just did,” you mutter to yourself.

Shifting on your feet, you admire the intricate arrangement your grandmother had put together as a distraction. She’s always had an eye for that kind of stuff. You wander a little to your left, curious to see the memorial photo perched on the mahogany stand, and the sight of it makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand up straight. That’s her. Instead, she wasn’t gray and wet. The photo seemed to be a graduation picture, and she gleamed with life, her skin sunkissed.

You don’t know how long you were staring at the picture, but it was long enough for Cordelia to notice. “I saw her.”

Cordelia quirks her eyebrow. Her heels click on the floorboards as she arrives at your side. “Did you see her around town?”

“No.” You rip your gaze from the photo. “I saw her downstairs.” Cordelia opens her mouth, assuming you’d seen her in the casket, freshly put together for her service tonight, but you cut her off. “I saw her in the mirror downstairs, standing behind me.”

There’s a short pause between you and your grandmother, the two of you pondering in careful silence.

“You know…” she begins slowly, fiddling with a loose nail between her fingers. “Our family is from a long line of witches, honey.”

“I know.” She smiles warmly at you, reaching over to rub your back soothingly. “You said my mom is a witch too.” “I did. A very powerful one. You and Atticus, all your gifts are credited to her.”

The mystery of your mother was a topic that frequented your mind. Occasionally, your grandparents brought her up and often recounted the one time your father introduced her to them. You’ve heard the story plenty, but you yearned for more every time. What did her voice sound like? Where in your face did you look like her the most? How tall was she? Did she have freckles or a beauty mark? Did her green eyes have brown or yellow flecks? You wanted to know it all.

They always tried to give you as much as they remembered and often asked your father to help them verify some details. You knew it was their way of ensuring you and Atticus didn’t forget about her. However, they never considered how hard it was to hear about your mom and never fully knew who she was.

“Dad doesn’t like talking about her.”

“It was tough for him when she left,” Cordelia smiles sadly, her thumb stroking the back of your neck affectionately. “I don’t think he ever fully recovered.”

“Why did she leave?” You ask, testing the waters. This is usually when the conversation ends, but you figured you’d give it a shot. Time and time again, you’ve asked the same question, but your family has kept this piece of information strictly confidential.

Every time, your grandmother says the same thing as she’s saying right now. “You’ll know one day, but she had her reasons.”

The disappointment on your face was evident, and she tsks. “Don’t give me that face, honey,” she leans her cheek on top of your head. “One day, you’ll know with age. Just not right now.”

Not right now. You’ve heard it too many times before. What even was the hold-up? You would think that being 11, almost 12 in the fall, would be old enough to know this secret. If you think about it, you’ve been in the double digits for two years. You were practically a teenager at this point, and still, you were too young by their standards.

“As for who you saw downstairs, seeing the dead doesn’t always have to be scary.” Cordelia’s voice takes you out of your thoughts, going from one frustrating topic to a daunting one.

“I know. She just looked scary,” you frowned.

“Her soul is restless, perhaps, confused too. I’m sure she won’t linger for long.” A shiver runs up your spine, and your arms wrap around your frame. It felt as if the simple conversation about this girl was summoning her. A voice told you you were psyching yourself out, but as your grandmother's eyes flickered across the room, you realized you were wrong. “I think I will speak with her.”

More than happy to leave the creepy stuff to her, you nod and don’t dare look in the direction her eyes are fixed on. “Well, you have fun with that,” you giggle nervously, stepping back toward the back hall entrance.

Cordelia sends you an amused smile. Maybe one day, you’ll be as courageous as your grandma. Many times she’s told her creepy, unsettling accounts of the supernatural after you and Atticus would beg them out of her. They always made you feel better about the memories of your own strange occurrences that filled you with dread.

Weird things happened to you so often you had thought it was universal. However, after the kids in school called you crazy that one time in kindergarten, you quickly realized it wasn’t. Grandma’s stories reassured you that you weren’t losing your mind. However, it was quite an annoyance for your father. As much as you and your brother enjoyed a scary story, you always sought refuge in his room when the tales lingered in your minds well into nighttime.

“I will.”

You give her a thumbs-up before turning on your heels.

“Oh, and honey?”

“Yes?“

“Remember to light your candle for Lady Hecate. You forgot this morning.”

Your palm flies right to the middle of your temple. All day you had felt like you forgot about something, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

“Okay, I will,” you say shortly. Quickly, you reach the brown door in the back of the hallway that leads you to the mahogany stairs. For a second, your eyes grace the entrance to Grandpa Theo’s workspace, and a shiver goes up your spine. It was in your head, but you bolted up the stairs, feeling like you were being chased.

“How rude, not lighting your candle for Lady Hecate,” Atticus peers over the railing, and your eyes roll. “Even I remembered.” “Maybe if you had to rush out because someone decided to take forever in the shower, you would have forgotten too.”

“No, I wouldn't because I’m better than you.” A squeal leaves him when you reach over to push him, hands missing his body by a few inches.

“Whatever lets you sleep at night,” you mumble.

As always, Hecate’s altar is in your path the moment you reach the top of the stairs. You couldn’t remember a time when the table wasn’t settled tight in the corner of the living room, making it a staple of your childhood. The dark brown table with its offerings was an eerie sight for some people, but to you, it was comforting. Talking at the altar always brought you comfort; oddly enough, you felt heard too.

Right on the top ledge sits a bronze statue of Hecate. She stands tall with an extravagant crown on her head, her dress flowy and rustled under the cape over her shoulders. Her left hand holds twin torches, and her right has a dagger. At her feet are skulls and two dogs peeking from the back of her dress on each side. If the statue wasn’t daunting enough, the shelf right under held five candle holders lined up neatly. The sides are caked with long drops of black wax, except for the holder with the candle you forgot to light this morning. According to your friends, that made the whole setup creepy, not the offerings on the table.

Those offerings included a bouquet of dried lavender sitting in a vase you made years ago in art class, and beside it was a board of dried bread, fruits, chocolate, and garlic alongside a wine-filled chalice. There are also small trinkets that litter the table as presents to your deity. One of them is a small Yoda figurine Atticus insisted Hecate would love. Finally, settled in the corner is a diffuser, the steam dispersing the scent of citrus and flowers. That combination of smells is one that you equate with home. A whiff of that anywhere could take to the memories of this table.

“I apologize, Lady Hecate,” you say, pulling the box of matches from the drawer. “It’s Atticus’s fault that I forgot.” A smile emerges as you light the candle and throw the match in the little cauldron beside to snuff the flame.

“Not true,” Atticus chimes in, his footsteps growing heavy as he emerges beside you. “Hecate should punish you for forgetting.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

Atticus leans on the wall next to the table, arms crossed as you dig for a clean cloth in the middle drawer. You dab some coconut oil on it to polish Hecate’s statue. “Today was the last day of school,” you begin, carefully rubbing the base. “Atticus and I only got in trouble once.”

“It was probably because we were only there for three hours,” he concludes.

“For sure.” Moving the oil up Hecate’s dress, you hum softly. “I hope the summer goes by slowly. I don’t want to go back any time soon.” “Neither do I.”

“And I hope we go on vacation like last year.” You bring Hecate’s ear close to your lips as if you were telling her a secret. “Persuade our dad to take us to Disney World this year.” “And Universal,” Atticus adds. “And Universal, please,” you whisper again, and your brother perks up excitedly. “You think she will?” “I think so. She gave Felix nightmares when we asked,” you and your brother smile knowingly, excited for the trip as if it was already set in stone.

By the time you finished polishing Hecate, you and Atticus had already discussed all the plans for your trip. You would like to think her divine intervention was already at work, especially as you hear footsteps coming up the stairs before your father appears in the living room. “Hi, Dad,” you and Atticus say in unison, and the man smiles tiredly. He only had two lecture classes on Friday, but being up all night working on his latest academic project had taken all his energy. “Hey, kids,” he says sweetly, ruffling your and Atticus’s hair affectionately. Putting his computer bag on the couch and tossing his keys on the kitchen island, he doesn’t notice his twins staring at him. He must have felt the burning gaze, eventually looking in your direction. As he unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt, eyebrows raised at how your smiles stay frozen on your faces. “What are you guys so happy about?”

Stifled giggles release from your throats, and Vincent’s expression becomes increasingly suspicious. He’s not sure what those looks mean. “Unpredictable” already felt like an understatement for you two. “So, Atticus and I were thinking,” you pause for suspense, slightly enjoying the nervous anticipation from your father. “We were thinking that you could take us to Disney for vacation,” Atticus blurted out before you could.

Vincent immediately snorts at the suggestion. “I’ll think about it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?” “Eh,” Vincent shrugs with a playful smile that tells you not to get your hopes up. At the sight, you and Atticus slouch, ready to beg. “You guys suggest it like it’s cheap.”

“That’s why you’re paying for it,” Atticus says matter-of-factly, and Vincent couldn’t help but laugh. “Summer’s barely started, and you guys are already planning a vacation?” You and Atticus nod and his eyes switch between you, wondering how this idea came to be. “Let’s talk about this another day. For now, go upstairs and wash up for dinner. I’m gonna start cooking.”

Atticus sighs, and you mimic the boy beside you. It was a shot in the dark, but he’ll come around. You were sure of it.

“Lame,” you say, the word drawn out, and Vincent shakes his head, amused, as the two of you disappear upstairs to your rooms.

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

What is there to do? Sitting at the edge of your bed, you look around your room, searching for something to occupy your time. Usually, by this point of the night, you and Atticus were doing homework at the table and waiting for dinner. You could almost laugh at yourself. School is over for the year, and you’re sitting here wondering what to do besides a homework assignment that doesn't even exist.

Your usual hobby of reading felt too school-like, and it didn’t feel like the right activity to celebrate your first night of freedom. Through your jack and jill bathroom, you can hear the plastic buttons of Atticus’s controller and his frustration when he loses his game again. For a second, you considered joining him, but that didn’t feel right either.

You resort to plopping back into the bed, staring at the ceiling—small snippets of your day flash by, your mind skimming through them like pages in a book. Abruptly, the memories stop at your conversation with your grandmother.

“You’ll know one day, but she had her reasons.”

Your once-forgotten disappointment ventures right back. If you had a dollar for every time you tried to come up with possible reasons why she left, you’d be rich. Brainstorming every reason you could think of, you concluded the only one that made sense was that she didn’t want you and Atticus. Truly, what could be the reason for leaving you on a doorstep and never coming to see you again? Sometimes, it felt like your grandmother was bluffing when she claimed to know that your mother loves you very much and that one day, you will meet her. Those promises felt like things your grandmother said to convince herself or to uphold an ideal to refuse reality.

Your father’s feelings about it were the most complicated part. Every time she was brought up, it was like he couldn’t bear to listen or speak of it like swallowing something rotten. Grandma said he was heartbroken, which added to the huge question mark of this situation. How could your mother love you so much but then leave and hurt your father in the process? It was just bizarre.

If the day ever came when you got to meet her, you questioned what you would even say. You suppose you’d hear her reasons first, but sometimes when you thought of the scenario, you couldn’t imagine giving her the time. Though inconsiderate, you wanted to yell and tell her how it feels to be the only person in class without a mother. Sure, your grandmother was always there, and your father filled in the roles as much as he could. Still, it felt like there was something you were missing out on.

Putting on a movie or submitting to the prospect of reading felt like a good idea now more than ever. At least then, it would pull you out of these suffocating thoughts for a little while. The moment you sit in your bed, you’re surprised to see your brother standing in your bathroom doorway.

“Wha—”

Atticus moves so fast, you barely process the moment he slings a small golf ball right in your direction.

“Ow!” Rubbing the sting it left behind on your chest, you glare at him

“Give me the money,” he demands.

“Seriously? That’s what you did that for?” Atticus doesn’t cower under your growing anger, and he nods pridefully. “Yep.” “It’s not even your money,” you explain.

“We split what we make; we agreed on it,” Atticus says, and as you open your mouth, he flings a golf ball at you once again.

“Atticus, stop!” You screech. When you decided you needed a distraction, this wasn’t the one you were hoping for. Of course, right now is when he decides to torment you for a measly 10 dollars. Both of you had two clients today, and charging Avery double meant you made more money. It was yours to keep, but here Atticus is claiming his half.

His high-pitched laughter fuels your rage, “Give it to me!” “It’s not yours! I worked for it!” With a smile you wanted to wack off his face, he secures another ball into the leather tab of his slingshot. “Stop!”

You didn’t even have a chance, his eyes calculating the shot with ease, and he releases the ball. It flies right to the plastic cup on your nightstand, and there’s a clunk, juice running out in long droplets straight to the floor.

I’m gonna kill him, is the first thought that crosses your mind.

You hate mess. Your brother knew that better than anyone. Along with the pulse thumping hard in your ears is the echoing drips coating the wooden floor. The boards will get sticky, and so will your nightstand. The innocent bystander of the attack, your journal, is probably soaked, and who’s gonna clean it? You. Of course, you, and here he is, smiling at you like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “You’re dead!” You scream with a straight stride in his direction, and Atticus yelps, dodging your attempt to grab him. He manages to slip past you, his hand snatching the money off your desk on his way out. “Ugh!”

Harmonious thumping footsteps fill the hallway, wooden floorboards creaking with every heavy step. Downstairs, the chandelier over the dining table shakes, and Cordelia's cup of tea ripples into circles. “They’re fighting again.”

Right through the dining room archway, Vincent cleans some dishes. His hands pause their task, head tilting back and eyes close for a moment. The bickering never ends with you two.

Quickly, he wipes his hands with a dish towel nearby, his footsteps heavy as he makes his way to the bottom of the stairs.

“What’s going on?” Your father’s tired call is just loud enough for the both of you to hear, but neither you nor Atticus gives him the time.

Hot on his heels, you follow your twin into his bedroom. He makes a beeline into your shared bathroom and returns to your room.

“I made that money myself!” Your anger bubbles in your core as every attempt to grab his collar fails. A harsh grunt of frustration leaves your lip, and a door slamming follows. You don’t waste time checking the door that shuts by itself, lunging at Atticus one more time, but alas, he quickly escapes and heads down the hall. “We’re business partners! You’re supposed to give me half!” After several more attempts, Atticus squeals when you finally get ahold of his collar. He falls back on the floor from your hard tug, arms tucking into his chest to cage the money between his hands. “Since when? We agreed we keep what we make, and I made that money!” Atticus squirms in your hold, his fist waving frantically. “GIMME!”

“Guys! What’s going on?” Your father calls louder, and a loud crack comes from upstairs. It was so loud that you backed off from prying Atticus’s fingers, thinking he cracked a bone.

Atticus gasps at your father's call, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he laughs at your frustration. “You’re so ugly. You look like Grumpy from Snow White!”

His hands catch your arms before you can punt him, and the two of you are wrestling as if your life depended on it, and in Atticus’s case, it kind of did.

“Shut up!” You yell, then there’s a shatter.

A painting on your left falls straight off the wall. Atticus gasps and tilts his head aside just enough for the frame to miss his face as it falls flat. When you’re distracted, he shoves you off of him, rolling on his stomach and crawling away as fast as he can. He tries to get back on his feet, but you regain your balance quick, and right as he reaches the top of the stairs, you grab his foot and drag him back. “Help!” He chokes out, reaching to grab the banister of the stairs, but it is too late. A groan leaves his lips as you climb on top of him. Straddling his back, your hand grabs a fist full of his hair and pulls back. “AHH!”

“Gimme it!” “DAD!”

“Y/n! Let go of your brother right now!” In your blind rage, you just notice your father standing with a disapproving glare at the top of the stairs. “He took my money!” You lean over to retrieve the bill from him, but he continues to wave his fist.

“It’s OUR money!”

“No, it isn’t!”

“Is too!”

“IS NOT!” A strangled yell comes from Atticus as you tug on his hair a little harder, causing the skin around his eyes to pull up. He looked ridiculous, but you are too angry to find any humor. “Y/n! Enough!” Vincent stands his ground, and your eyes snap at your father. You looked wicked with your glowing green eyes and a swirling aura over your head. Anyone sane enough would cringe at the sight, but his glare remains assertive and steady. “Let. Go.”

The sternness of his tone brings you back to your senses, and there is relief in Vincent’s gaze at your dimming aura. You take your time, but eventually, you release your brother.

“Now, without violence, tell me what happened.” Your father demands, leaning against the staircase railing. His calm and relaxed nature brings your mood down, and you rise from your spot.

“Atticus took my money.” “It’s OUR money,” he says once again. The repeated phrase makes you so angry that you shove him back on the floor right as he’s about to stand up. “OW!” “Y/n, keep your hands to yourself,” Vincent scolds, and you huff. He sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “What money are we talking about?”

“The money we made from our business.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow at you. “Business?

“Yeah, our tarot reading business.” “Tarot reading business?” He furrowed his eyebrows at your nod as if it was the most nonchalant thing in the world. “You two ran a tarot reading business at your Catholic school?”

“Um, yeah?” You shrug, and so does Atticus beside you.

It wasn’t that big of a deal. The nuns never found out, so who cares? The two of you were careful, only doing readings in the bathrooms or behind the bookshelves in the library. Maybe, it was a little wrong to do readings between the church pews, but it was only once!

Okay, maybe twice.

Actually, it was three times.

Regardless, it’s not like the bible explicitly says, “you cannot use tarot cards.” The last time you checked the fine print, it wasn’t in the Ten Commandments.

Also, five dollars per reading was enough to get you guys all the candy and snacks you could need, so it was something you couldn’t give up. In that case, it could have been considered greed or gluttony even but those rules don't apply to you. After all, you weren’t even Catholic.

“Pretty sure you shouldn’t be doing Tarot readings at your Catholic school.” “And I’m pretty sure pagans shouldn’t go to Catholic school, but here we are.” You mimic the beaming squint of your father but you backed down.

Vincent sends you an expression telling you you weren’t being fair and your vision falters elsewhere. Catholic school was the only option after you and Atticus got expelled from the only public school in your area.

It’s a long story, but basically, Atticus picked mushrooms from the forest behind your house for an art project, and you made the mistake of mentioning them to your friends at lunch. Next thing you know, Jackson makes a bet to eat the mushroom despite you and Atticus saying it was a bad idea.

One thing leads to another, and Jackson ends up having a bad trip in the middle of math class. It could have been worse. Better psychedelic than poisonous, right? Your principal disagreed and expelled you and Atticus immediately.

Vincent sighs, “Give me the money.” “What?!” You ask, and Atticus clutches the bills into his chest. “Give it to me. Now. I will keep it until you two calm down.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “But—”

Your father's hand comes up, stopping your words. “Atticus, give me.” Your brother sighs, begrudgingly handing it over. “Go to your rooms.” You move quickly at the command, not because you are eager to obey, but because you’re so angry you don’t want to be around either of them. You slam your bedroom door closed and Atticus’s door follows right after, leaving your father alone in a deafening silence.

The soft sigh that leaves Cordelia makes Vincent’s eyes shut tight. He didn’t even notice she joined him upstairs during the chaos. His mother stares at him in his peripheral vision as he assesses the damage you left behind. The only window in the hall is shattered. Again. Two out of three paintings are discarded on the floor, frames broken at the ends.

“You’ve held it off long enough.” The floorboard creaks under Cordelia’s slippers. She tsks at the falling paintings. “I know you’re scared. I am, too, but they’re growing and getting strong. It’s time.”

It’s time. Fear strikes his chest. Those words felt miles away once but not anymore. Vincent envies his past self and the privilege of tucking away the dreaded scenario.

The tiny babies he used to rock to sleep, the ones that glowed in his arms from the sheer power of their tiny wails, the two that snuggled against him when they were scared at night, were ready to leave. It feels impossible.

Even now, after watching your legs and pride grow, he cannot wrap his head around how the two of you should go off to this camp, unlock your mother's powers, and learn to wield weapons.

WEAPONS? Oh gods.

The other day, Atticus stapled his hand, and you almost took a finger off trying to wash a kitchen knife. How will the two of you even manage with swords? Vincent senses an anxiety headache coming around just at the thought.

“Lady Hecate, give me strength.” The statement is drowsy but pleading. He needed all the divine intervention he could get.

His twin's youth was slipping through his fingers uncontrollably like the shifting nature of water. Through his grief, Vincent tried to think of the benefits of their departure.

They won’t have to deal with the eerie entities they attract for the first time. Finally, no weird nightmares or occurrences, at least for a time. They’d learn to get their powers under control, which would be a blessing to his wallet. It’s going to be his third time replacing that window. They’d also get all the answers about their mother, who they’ve been dying to know about.

Cordelia always pushed her boundaries, telling them bits and pieces of who she was and snippets of memories of when Vincent was utterly in love with her. He didn’t like it, but he was grateful for it.

It’s been over a decade since Hecate last graced him with her presence, and he still found it hard to talk about. He couldn’t help but grieve the idea of how different their lives would be if their godly parent were more involved. Still, he was glad they knew her as their patron. In a way, just like a mother, they did seek her out for solace.

Despite all the positives, Vincent had to acknowledge it was also one step closer to becoming the people they were supposed to be. Whoever they were supposed to be.

The mystery of that drove him insane. Even aware that the trajectory of their life was up to the fates, he still prayed and hoped they didn’t end up like the Greek tragedies he’s spent years of his life studying. It was foolish, but praying was the only thing that brought him a faux sense of control.

With a feeling heavy as stone in his throat, he nodded to no one. It’s time, he thinks, the voice in his head far more certain than he felt.

masterlist my lobby: ♡

#percy jackson fic #percy jackson fanfic #percy jackson masterlist #percy jackson fanfiction #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson and the olympians fanfic #percy jackson and the olympians fanfiction #my writing #yg by xeni #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians

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embyrinitalics · 1 year

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Forever stanning The Wolf King 👀

Guuuurl me too ✊😔

So. The Wolf King. I just checked the version history of the file and I started it back in April 2020. That's like right as pandemic started. SOME OF YOU HAVE KIDS YOUNGER THAN THIS DOC. 😂

I really want to finish An Inconvenience and To Whom it May Concern before I dive into this again (it'll be time consuming; there's lots wrong with it, and given how much of it I wrote 2+ years ago, I'll almost certainly be rewriting it anyway), but I still plan for it to be the next longfic I tackle (before the Last Airbender AU, Defiance, and whatever fics get spawned out of TotK in May 🥴).

Here's how it starts:

It was raining. That was the trouble with April weddings. It was all radiance and spring blossoms one day, and a sky glutted with dreary clouds the next, and there was no telling which one might get. Not that there had been much consideration for the weather when the offer came. It had been a Tuesday. And wasn't that a strange detail to latch onto? The proposal had been by letter, and quite terse. A whirlwind of papers and signatures were exchanged, and by the end of the week she was no longer the daughter Bosphoramus, and there was a band on her left hand. The ring was too big. It twirled on her finger with the slightest encouragement from either neighbor, or her thumb. She had taken to rolling it around whenever she was thinking. She was rolling it now, curse it all. Zelda was sitting at a bay window overlooking the front gardens. An onlooker might have assumed she was an eager bride, watching the hillside for signs of the carriage bearing her new husband to her. The truth was the front gardens were her favorite, and she didn't know when she might see them again. Knuckles rapped on the door. She didn't wonder who it was. She knew the sound like she knew her own heartbeat. It had served as a replacement for a lot of other things—bedtime stories, and goodnight kisses, and warm embraces when nightmares had stolen precious sleep. Her father just wasn't the sort of man to step easily into a role that was so obviously affectionate. She understood. After so many years, that gentle sound was comforting in its own way. “Come in.” The door unlatched, and then quietly clicked shut. She turned when he only crossed half the room, meeting raven eyes that were half draped in shadow. He was staring. Her lips twitched towards a curious smirk. “What is it?” “You look lovely.” There was too much makeup on her eyes and her mouth, and she was absolutely forbidden by her ladies, under pain of death, to touch her face for any reason until after it had served its purpose. She swallowed a few uncharitable remarks, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. “Let's hope he thinks so.” He moved finally, sitting across from her at the window. The gardens down below and the path beyond were quiet, bending and warping as raindrops snaked down the glass. “The day I married your mother, she pulled half the pins from her hair before I got to see her and weaved flowers into her braids,” he murmured, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “Most of the paint had probably come off. Her family was horrified. But I thought it suited her. It was wild, like she was.” She allowed herself a small smile, too, remembering. It was strange how much joy the memory of her could stir up in them both, even though her death had been unspeakably painful. Even though she was haunting them now in ways neither of them could have foreseen. “She hardly knew me. But she wasn't afraid to be herself, to make the most of it. She was selfless like that. She wanted very much for both of us to be happy. And we were. I credit her with that entirely.” “I wish I was more like Mother,” she admitted, quietly, like the walls might hear and throw it to the ravenous gossip mongers below. But his smile stayed in place. It's just another political maneuver, he’d told her once, frowning, as they stared out of that same window. It can never change who she was. I only wish it would not mean such hardship for you. “You have her spark,” he mused, taking her hands gently, finding her eyes. It made a breath lodge in her throat. “Give him a chance. He asked for you, in spite of everything. You may yet do for him what your mother did for me.”

And in that, at least, she was indebted to him—the so-called Wolf King of Akkala. When the world had cast her off as damaged and undesirable, his proposal had come like a beacon of hope. It was an opportunity, and in principle she was grateful. But once the initial rush of relief had passed, she felt riddled with holes. What could possibly have motivated him? She imagined a foreign house harboring her with thinly veiled disdain, or a brutish husband who dangled her disgrace over her head to ensure her subservience. The truth was she didn't know what to expect, and that was most frightening of all. “I'll try,” she promised. He nodded, as though that were enough. Maybe it was. They waited at the window, seconds draining into minutes, and then half an hour. Finally a carriage crested the ridge, rising up out of the horizon with the rainclouds: dark, sodden, driven, and her heart pounded in time with the horse’s hooves. Her father stood, breaking her out of something both painfully alive and catatonic at once, and offered her his arm and a grim smile. “My stomach’s in knots,” she whispered, rising to take both, latching onto them like boulders amidst rapids. “What if he’s awful? What if he has no sense of humor?” “Come home,” he suggested easily. “You can have your old room.” She smiled at him so hard her eyes crinkled, and then watered. He found a safe place to lay a kiss on her hair, and there was tenderness enough in it that it transmuted to courage in her breast.

#WIP tag game #The Wolf King #anonymous #snippet

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purpleturtle9000 · 1 year

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When Donnie gets his hands on the Arc Capacitor after the events of Out of the Shadows, he decides to repurpose the tech for his own use. Unfortunately the first test run doesn't go well, and he's accidentally transported to a different dimension. His first thought is to find the new reality's version of Donnie, so they can work together to find him a way back home, but while trying to find their lair, he finds a much different version of his brothers instead. At eight, nine, and ten years old, the young turtles are hopelessly lost in the sewers beneath the city, and their only chance at getting home is Donnie. Between finding a way to get four lost turtle kids back to their dad, and finding a way to get himself back to his own reality, he's got a lot to do.

AKA the Rise/Bayverse crossover that exactly nobody asked for but I'm writing all the same. Updating Fridays.

#look i feel like there were some warning signs for this with how i've posted about the bayverse turtles before on occasion #it's like when the ocean starts disappearing before a tsunami #or how you heard rexy's footsteps in jurassic park before you saw her #fic: this family can bear any weather #bayrise #rottmnt #bayverse tmnt #rottmnt fic #rottmnt fanfiction #bayverse donnie #my fic

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direwombat · 1 year

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oooh how about “5. that emotional moment that you can't find a plot for” for the short fic challenge with fragile creatures:3

god i'm so sorry for dropping this 3k beast for a prompt fill but...it ran away from me. M to E range for some light smut but please enjoy syb going reaching her braking point :)

When Sybille calls Jacob to meet her in the mountains, she has every intention of killing him.

It was a decision she had made a long time ago. All of the Seeds are dangerous in their own right. John was volatile. Joseph is cunning. Even Faith had a way of distorting reality to her whims. But she’d been confident she could find a non-violent solution to neutralize and bring those three to justice (although, her success in that matter could be debated). Jacob, on the other hand, based on what she knows about him — and she knows more than most — he’s not going to give her any other choice. He’ll die for the Project. For his family. And she gets the distinct feeling that the only way she can bring the others to justice is if he’s six feet under.

Without him, the Cult loses its strength. They’ll be weak. Vulnerable. It’ll only be a matter of time before they crumble and fall apart entirely.

It’s the smart, tactical move.

Killing Jacob means a swifter victory.

It also means killing the only person who’s ever seen her for who she truly is. Not the big sister or quasi-mother figure her brother sees. Not the Deputy or some sort of savior the rest of the county thinks she is.

Her. He sees her. A woman whose fear is only overpowered by her stubbornness and who desperately fights to protect the people of the county because if she can’t do that, then what fucking good is she? He sees how she shoulders the burden of Soldier and Commander. How she bears the familiar mantle and ignores the consuming dread that when this is all said and done, they’re just going to discard her the same way the military did when they deemed her unfit for further service.

Some people — people like Joseph — are born for greatness. But people like her, and people like Jacob? They’re born to die, because in the end, they're more useful as martyrs. Tools used to forge the path of victory. Never the victors themselves.

He understands this, and aside from herself, she thinks he’s the only person in the damn county who does. She just wishes he also saw the tragedy in it too.

Which only fucking makes this all the more fucking difficult. To say things are complicated between the two of them would be an understatement. The intense eye contact. The clandestine meetings. The way he fucks and gives her everything she didn’t know she needed — only you, only you, only you. She’ll never admit it because admitting it would make it real, but there’s a not insignificant part of her that thinks she might love him.

But this is war. Her feelings have no place here and she can’t let them cloud her judgment. She’s better — stronger — than that.

So, she called Jacob on their private channel under the usual pretense and told him to pick her up on the road towards their cabin.

She walks into the biting winds, her fists shoved so deep in her jacket pockets that she threatens to punch straight through them. The leather of her bomber jacket does well to keep her torso warm, but the denim of her jeans just make her legs go stiff as she trudges through the snow. Off in the distance is the roar of an engine, smoothly changing gears to accommodate the slope. All the Peggie trucks sound the same, and a small, selfish part of her is grateful he’ll be here soon, if only so she can get out of the weather.

A few moments later, she’s silhouetted by the vehicle’s headlights. Her shadow cuts a stark shape into the bright white snow on the ground. She turns around, shielding her eyes, and squints into the light. Scratched and dirty eggshell paint, a black cross painted on its hood; she may not be able to see the driver, but as it pulls to a halt a few meters from her and flashes its beams, she knows it’s him.

She stomps her way over to the passenger door and flings it open. The rattling heater working overtime to warm the cab is a welcome balm to her freezing face and legs. She climbs in, and after slamming the door shut, she rides through an embarrassing full body shiver. “Gotta wear more than a pair of jeans if you plan on hiking up here,” Jacob says in the exact same way he’s told her dozens of times before. She grunts in response, and he doesn’t wait for her to buckle her seat belt before he starts driving again.

She doesn’t quite settle into the hard leather seat. Too tense, too twitchy, and she knows Jacob notices because he notices everything. Her right hand unclenches in her pocket to instead grip the ice cold pistol tucked next to it. Her teeth peel off a flake of her dry and chapped lips, drawing blood, and she flicks the safety off with an Earth shattering click, but she doesn’t pull it from her pocket.

Jacob looks at her from the corner of his eye and sighs heavily. “Whatever you’re going to do, Jackrabbit, better do it now.”

It isn’t a threat. It isn’t even a warning. Infuriatingly, she’d call it an order. An acknowledgement of her own ‘now-or-never’ tendencies. If she doesn’t kill him now, she never will. The deep breath she takes doesn’t steel her nerves at all, but as she pulls out her gun and points it at him, her hand is steady. Her voice, however, wavers. “Drive,” is all she says.

He flares his fingers on the wheel, holding it in the space between his forefinger and thumb — it’s as close to a conceding gesture as he can make — before having to close his grip again to take a bend in the road. “I take it we’re not going to the cabin,” he says after a moment’s silence.

“Shut up,” she snaps. She shoves the gun towards him emphatically, her finger on the trigger.

There’s a peculiar set to his jaw. It isn’t anger, or even disappointment. It’s something much deeper than that. His shoulders are square and tense; it’s how he’s carried himself every other time they’ve come to blows. But something is different here.

He’s…proud.

She’s not fucking around and he knows it. Knows that his end very well might come with his brains splattered across the interior of his truck. For the first time since they’ve met, his life is in her hands. Not the other way around. And he’d rather die by no one else’s. He doesn’t push her — not even with a smarmy, “Yes, ma’am,” — not when the distance between her and the edge is minuscule.

He shuts his mouth and he doesn’t open it.

He doesn’t ask where they’re going; he knows it doesn’t matter. They pass the small dirt road that leads to their cabin and continue climbing the summit. The silence thickens as the air thins, the atmosphere in the cab heavy and oppressive. A storm cloud ready to burst.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” she finally says when they turn around to start descending the mountain. One reason. That’s all she’s asking for. It’s all she needs to not have to go through with this.

He smiles and gives her a glance from the crinkling corner of his eye. “You and I both know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” he answers softly. Of course she does. What reason could possibly alleviate the weight of his crimes and sins? What reason could make her shirk her duties as an officer of the law and let him live?

There’s only one, and it’s not something he can tell her. It’s one she has to admit to herself.

“Is this what you want?” he then asks, and were she standing, she might have actually staggered backwards.

“What I — What I want?” she stammers. “You know damn well this ain’t about what I want.” It never has been. All her life she’s done shit she never wanted to do. She never wanted to drop out of school when mama got sick, but she had to if they wanted to survive. She never wanted to become her brother’s legal guardian after her parents’ murder-suicide, but who would look after him if she didn’t? She never wanted to become the county’s Soldier of Fortune, but no one else had the skills needed to take down the Project at Eden’s Gate.

And look where that got her.

She never wanted any of this.

“Then why do it?”

She narrows her eyes. The family resemblance has never been more obvious. “You are in no place to be asking questions here,” and she presses the mouth of the barrel just under his jaw. Her breath comes out ragged as she fights against the burning sensation pricking at her eyes. “Ain’t this what you’re all about. Huh? Being stronger than your enemies and shit?”

“If that’s what I am to you.”

“Stop that!” she snaps. “Enough! Enough with the mind games! Stay out of my damn head!”

“I’m not playing any,” he says quietly, and he sounds so impossibly earnest that she doesn’t keep him from slowing the truck to a stop.

“Bullshit!” she cries. “How else can you be so calm about this?” Why is he just sitting there and letting her do this? Why isn’t he fighting back? What does he have up his sleeve?

“Because I know that whatever you’ve decided, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

That scream that’s been building in her lungs threatens to tear free. “You don’t get it, do you?”she hisses through gritted teeth. Tears escape against her best efforts. “You’re the only one who can stop me.” Only you. Only you can make this change in me. Her hand flexes around the gun’s grip, index finger trembling over the trigger. “So, stop me, Jacob,” she pleads. “Stop me.”

And he could toy with her. God knows she’s making it so easy for him. You surrenderin’, Deputy? You askin’ for me to take control? He could make her admit it, force her to verbalize her own fucking weakness. But he doesn’t. This isn’t the time for games. She’s already coming to him with her ribs cracked open and heart exposed. Hold it, rip it out — she doesn’t give a damn what he does with it. She just needs him to do something.

He stares at her with those fucking eyes of his, like he’s staring into the goddamn depths of her fucking soul. “Put the gun down,” he says, only rather than coming out harsh and commanding, the order is soft. Almost gentle. His hand covers her’s over its grip, warm and large. He eases her finger off the trigger and slips the safety in place. “Sybille,” he murmurs, “Put the gun down.”

Weak. She’s so fucking weak. Her eyes squeeze shut, fighting back the tears already spilingl over. In all this time, not once has she cried. Not when Dutch told her she was the only one to escape from the helicopter crash. Not when she stood helpless as John bled out in front of her. Not even when her brother had taken on the mantle of Faith. But here? At the end — because that’s what this is: the end of her fighting, the end of her resistance, the end of the rope she’s been wearing as a noose — here, she finally lets herself cry.

He carefully loosens the pistol from her grip, taking it from her and placing it on the dashboard.

After her pathetic display, he ought to put it against her forehead and cull her instead. She’s shown him the soft fleshy parts she keeps hidden behind her slowly fracturing psyche. The kindest thing he could do is just put her out of her fucking misery. But he doesn’t. Instead, he cradles her face and pulls her in until she feels the heat of his breath fanning against her skin.

“Sybille,” he says, and the rough pad of his thumb wipes a tear from her cheek. “Open your eyes.”

And like a good soldier, she does as she’s told. This is just the first of many orders she’s going to take from this man. He’ll tell her to jump and her only question is going to be “how high?” This is it. The tipping of the scales. The point of no return. He’s done it. He’s won. She can’t go back from this. He made her weak. He broke her. He’s going to put the pieces back together however he wants — make her whatever he wants — and she is going to let him.

She failed. Her mother, her brother, Hope County, herself, she failed them all.

But she never failed him. Not even when she actively tried.

There’s a question in his eyes, eyes she wants nothing more than to fall into and drown in. He doesn’t ask it out loud. She’s not sure if he can, but he needs to hear her answer. “Yes,” she breathes, her voice cracking. “Only you. Only you.” And then his lips are on hers in a soft and gentle press.

She shudders in his arms as he embraces her, dragging her over the gear shift between them and into his lap. A high pitched whimper escapes as she presses herself against him, her mouth opening invitingly and he eagerly welcomes himself inside. He kisses her until she can’t breathe and then he keeps going, greedily stealing the air from her lungs, her soul from her body. She grips his jacket so tight her knuckles go white, and when she can’t take it any more, when they finally break, the hand he has resting at her hip pushes her heated core against him.

With a low groan, her head falls back, exposing the pale column of her throat. “That’s it,” Jacob murmurs against her skin, dragging his teeth lightly over her jugular and sucking a bruise above her collar — finally marking her in a way that will tell everyone who she belongs to. “Give in, sweetheart. Surrender to me.”

And she does. God help her, she does.

He could do anything he liked to her in this moment, and she wouldn’t fight him.

She shifts against him, rolling her hips and arching her back as her fingers come twine through his hair, less to guide him and more to steady herself. Tethered to him like he’s a lifeline, she’s liable to drift away if she lets go. An anchor, he grounds her and holds her steady. She’s been adrift so long, battered by wave after wave of misery that it’s a miracle she was never pulled under. But here, with him, she’s finally found her port in the storm

He pulls off her coat, violently peeling it off her arms and exposing her skin to the chilled air inside the cab. She shivers, not because of the cold but out of anticipation, and she’s dipping down to kiss him again. They only break long enough for her to pull her t-shirt over her head and toss it onto the passenger seat. His hands, rough and blazingly hot, stroke her sides, trailing up to cup her tits and thumb at the stiffening peaks of her nipples.

With a growl, he rips her bra off and she gasps, goosebumps prickling and her hair raising to stand on end. She moans his name and helps him slide her jeans and panties down her hips before she tugs off his belt. Her fingers dance over the button and fly. She pulls him out and wastes no time lining herself up.

There’s a mutual exhalation of breath as she sinks down on him. The breath is pushed from her as he breaches her. He’s a lot to take even if she’s prepped, but she can’t wait for that. She needs him. All her focus goes to the stretching burn as he fills her, rocking her hips until she’s taken him fully. Her head swims at the litany of filthy praise that rolls off Jacob's tongue, and when she finally relaxes, fully adjusted and her legs giving out, his hands come to rest heavy at her hips. A strangled moan escapes her lips, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder as he starts moving.

They don’t fuck. It’s far too tender to be called that. Jacob has never been a gentle lover, and she can’t deny that during most of their encounters, her own actions were driven by that white-hot combination of rage and lust. But here, there’s none of that. He looks at her with adoration, and every touch is reverant. Here, all she feels is the overwhelming and almost painful intensity of her desire and affection for the man. She loves him.

She loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

And he loves her back.

They rock against each other like they have all the time in the world. Slow, leisurely movements with no worry of being caught or having to rush back to their respective people. It isn’t just some itch to be scratched. This means something. They read each other in ways no one else is capable of doing, letting the pleasure ebb and flow to prolong the end for as long as they can.

Inevitably though, the tightening coils knotting in their stomachs demand a break in tension. The rocking turns to rutting, and as it does, she lifts her head to press her brow heavily against his, staring him right in the eyes. Her hands run up the musculature of his torso, coming to cradle his face as his grip tightens on her hips and he guides them both towards their beautiful, ecstatic release.

Stars burst behind her eyelids and she shudders as he cums, warming her from the inside out. Panting heavily, she slumps, boneless against him and presses lazy, open mouthed kisses to his neck as they both catch their breath and the fog of lust lifts. She whimpers as Jacob maneuvers her, tucking her into his chest and her head underneath his chin. But he never pulls out. His cum leaks from her around his softening cock and she grips tightly at his jacket. His arms are wrapped around her, holding her close as he strokes her hair.

“What happens now?” she whispers. A dark nugget of fear forms in her gut as the afterglow fades and shadows creep back in. For the first time in decades, she’s at a loss for what to do next.

“Now, I take you home, back where you belong,” he says.

Home. The word causes something warm and fuzzy to bloom in her chest. He’s been telling her he would do so since this thing between them started. At first she thought it was a threat, and maybe then it was, but now? Now it’s a promise. “And then in the morning you and I are going to talk with Joseph.”

The mention of his brother makes her stomach knot and she instinctually curls in on herself. She stares up at him, weak and doe-eyed. “Don’t…don’t let him take me from you.”

“I won’t,” he says, drawing her in for another kiss. “Your place is with me, Jackrabbit. I’m not gonna let anyone take you.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. She takes a deep breath and for the first time since this all began, she says, “Take me home, Jacob.”

#r: define your meaning of war #jacob seed x female deputy #oc: deputy sybille la roux #not putting this on ao3 because it's 100% getting worked into the endgame for her fic #and will likely see revisions #but hhghghghg for now here it is #my fic #verse: watch and wait for redemption day

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radioactive-earthshine · 1 year

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Hi! I really love your fics :) I was wondering if you had any advice on writing bart? Hope you have a great day :)

Thank you for stopping by and I am glad you enjoy my writing.

When it comes to Bart my approach is tuning to Waid's version of Bart but imagining how he might have evolved without Geoff Johns writing him, while also keeping in mind how old he is. Because he can't be gripped with The Single Synapse Theory forever, and in his own comics that theme didn't stay for long anyway. In Sunshine. Falling. for example we start the fic when Bart has only been around for a few months so he is at his most feral and least adjusted; he's impulsive, quicker to anger, quicker to mouth off and certain phrases he takes literal just because he has not had EXPERIENCE dealing with life or people. However there is ALWAYS a reason for why he does things, even if they're not always formulated thoughts (like jumping Clark in mid-air, stealing Mark's Motherbox just because he thought it was another weather wand etc) Now in the fic, he is 17 (spoilers for chapter 10) and has dealt with a lot more and is 'calming down' but he still retains that playful edge.

Bart I feel should always have a side of playfulness and irreverence no matter HOW OLD he gets.

As for a more deep approach I breakdown Bart's personality into these reminders;

1.) Introverted, a lot more than people think. He doesn't TALK that much unless he's with close friends. A lot of people make the mistake of making him TALK A LOT. Don't. Reign back. He's actually pretty direct when he is talking. He doesn't like being in the center of attention, it just happens a lot and he deals. He's introverted but not unfriendly. He likes people, and he will interact, but it's more on his terms.

2.) Ironically funny. Autistic funny. Bart doesn't try to be funny it just happens. Have fun with it. He's the type of person that you just gravitate to and love.

3.) If he's paying attention, he will remember it. He can be hyper observant if only he is paying attention. This is just a detail people forget. I hate it when I am reading a Bart fic and the author writes "Bart forgot about the Math lesson immediately" or "it was in one ear and out the other" NO. This does not happen. A better approach would be;

"Bart struggled to focus on the droning voice of Mr. Keyes as he talked about their lesson. Bart knew he had to pay attention, but his new pants were too stiff and he couldn't stop noticing how stiff they were, and the girl next to him smelled like gummy bears, and the boy in front him kept snorting and it was impossible to pay attention. By the end of the class, the only point Bart remembered was that the formula they were learning could be used to calculate deer population... How that was helpful was lost to him."

4.) He does have a temper; depending on the situation that temper will be directed at either family who is frustrating him, or bad guys who have hurt those he loves. For family his anger usually manifests in explosive avoidance and bitter glares with harsh words, with bad guys it's fists.

5.) He is very creative. Keep in mind he spent years in VR playing puzzle games essentially, have fun with it. He's not Brainiac 5 when comes to solving problems but he is smart and he has his own way of doing things.

6.) He genuinely wants to help and make his friends happy, he doesn't like it when his friends are upset and he tries very hard to make them happy and to perk them up... sometimes in ironically funny and erroneous ways.

7.) He can be very serious when he needs to be, dial down the humor when it is appropriate. You can have the start of a conflict have some fun banter but when it starts to get serious the smiles stop. He's part of The Flash Mafia, after all.

Hope this helps a little? This is just sort of what I do. I have my own interpretation of Bart and it will likely be different from yours.

#writing things #hope this helps in some way #just don't get caught up in humor or anger or one thing #have a balance

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igratecheeseonbenedictcheekbones · 1 year

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WIP Wednesday

I’ve been working on this for a while and actually it’s the first time posting a fic in the untamed fandom or any fandom. Hope you like it! Lan Xichen and Wei Wuxian have a long overdue conversation.

____

“You don’t like me very much do you, Xichen-ge?” Wei Ying asked.

Surprise rippled across Lan Xichen’s body and he turned newly alert eyes on Wei Wuxian. It was the first real emotion Wei Wuxian had ever seen him express towards him/since he entered his seclusion.

“Why would you say that? You are a guest in my home, husband to my brother, I care for you a great deal.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, “A very diplomatic deflection, Xichen-ge.”

Lan Xichen gave no response and continued to stare at him intently.

“‘A guest in your home, a husband to your brother’,” Wei Wuxian repeated with a bitter smile, “those are all descriptions of obligations, Xichen-ge, delineators of behaviour. None of that tells me how you feel about me personally or my marriage to Lan Zhan.”

Lan Xichen was still for a long moment, gaze piercing through Wei Wuxian like he could see into the very core of him, then, almost as if it were never there, an imperceptible line of tension in his shoulders eased. “Truly your skills of perception are remarkable, Wei-gongzi. It’s been a very long time since someone has caught me in a lie, ” he said, placid expression still on his face as he brought the cup to his lips, “You’re right, I’m not very fond of you.”

It was soft as blows went. After all this was not news to Wei Wuxian. He knew, of course, he knew. He saw the way Lan Xichen’s eyes could never seem to settle on him too long, as though he couldn’t bear to look at him, the way his gaze grew colder, more distant whenever it did land on Wei Wuxian, the way the muscle along Lan Zhan’s jaw would tense whenever Lan Xichen addressed him. What had taken Wei Wuxian months to figure out, Lan Zhan had probably known from the beginning. It was because he knew that it had taken so much effort to muster enough courage to confront him like this and yet the confirmation still stung.

“Wanji and Sizhui love you very much and you bring both them great joy. Even the students are very fond of you it seems, your classes have become a crowd favourite or so I am told. So it is my responsibility to see to your comfort here, to ensure that your every need is met. Despite the stark differences between The Cloud Recesses and your Lotus Pier, it is my job to make sure that you can find peace and happiness here so that one day this could be a home to you.” He spoke so gently and earnestly that Wei Wuxian could almost forget what prompted this conversation in the first place. He could almost believe his brother in law held some kind regard for him.

“But personally I don't really care about your needs or your comfort. I care only in so much that they care/your well-being affects the happiness and comfort of those whom I do care about. Your presence here is dictated solely by and is entirely dependent on their love for you, else you would never have been able to step foot on this mountain much less allowed entry into The Cloud Recesses. As for my thoughts on your marriage,” he chuckled faintly, “you are not worthy of my brother nor will you ever be. Had it been my choice, you would never have been chosen for him. But as we both know, Wanji can be quite stubborn when he wants to be and when it comes to you his obstinacy has no limits. So no, Wei Wuxian, I do not like you. Yours is not a presence I am grateful for or rejoice in, your addition to this family is not one I welcome or celebrate, it is one I endure.”

He said all this neither cruelly nor scornfully, just with that same pleasant, inoffensive expression on his face as though they were discussing nothing more important than the weather outside or the taste of his new blend of tea. All the while Wei Wuxian had his fists clenched so tightly where they rested on his thighs, he was in danger of spilling blood on the fabric. He had to be careful, he was wearing his Gusu Lan robes today and if he dirtied them, the stain would never come out.

“Thank you, Xichen-ge, for answering me so honestly.” He was fine. It was not the first time he had been the subject of such disdain. He was used to being disliked by the people he loved and admired, from as early as he could remember. There had been a time when he had very much wanted to be loved by Madam Yu. Long years under her tutelage had taught him the futility of that desire. He was an acquired taste, tolerated and stomached rather than savored. No matter how hard he tried he was always too loud, too annoying, just too much. Nothing he did was ever good enough. Even now, Jiang Cheng…He felt a pain in his chest and his mind skittered away from the thought. It wasn’t a surprise that yet another person he respected and cared for, someone so known for their kind and just nature, someone who Lan Zhan loved so much, also disliked him. It was just a bit harder to withstand, was all.

#wip wednesday #mdzs #lan xichen #wei ying #the untamed #wip #fanfiction #fic #buckle in #we're gonna put wwx through the wringer

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unexpectedstormy · 2 years

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1, 14, 26, and 30 for the ask game?

-🐍

Thanks for the ask, Snake Anon! I kinda went a little crazy on this.

1. What fic of yours would you recommend to someone who had never read any of your work? (In other words, what do you think is the best introduction to your fics?)

I’d probably go with Kind of a Nightmare. It’s a fic about Della Duck from DuckTales on the first night she’s back on Earth. It’s very atmospheric and introspective, I think it’s probably my best fic.

4. What detail in [insert fic] are you really proud of?

I’m gonna go with Yukio, Turn On the Light, it is a Blue Exorcist fic, which is an anime shonen manga and Netflix show. It’s about these twin boys whose mother was a human and their dad was the demon king Satan and they were adopted by the exorcist who was sent to kill them as babies. My fic is about one of the twins, Yukio, a suicidal teenager who bears the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s unconscious in a dreamscape created from his own mind talking with his dead adoptive dad who’s trying to convince him to stay alive, accept help, and lean on his brother. Pretty straight forward? Nah.

Besides Yukio’s dad Shiro, there’s two other voices chiming into the conversation, the voices of Yukio’s long-passed mother (whose words are bleeding into the dreamscape from Shiro’s memories) and of his biological dad, Satan (whose words are bleeding into the dreamscape from the real world where Satan and Yukio’s twin, Rin, are duking it out while Yukio takes a nap). The words that Satan and Yukio’s mom are saying are their actual lines in the manga, Satan’s words to Rin and the words of their mother in her final hours. That is a detail that I’m really proud of and no one in the comments has ever mentioned noticing.

26. Would you rather write a fic that had no dialogue or one that was only dialogue?

This one’s easy. Dialogue! Dialogue is so much easier for me to write than anything else. Several of my fics are mostly only dialogue.

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

Everything I’ve written for fun is within my comfort zone. It might be a challenge, but it’s a challenge I’m comfortable with. The only things I’ve written outside of my comfort zone are things I’ve written for school. The only thing I can think of offhand is a time for a writing class I had to write about a family get together, so I wrote about how we do a special Christmas breakfast and dinner. It was pretty boring so I decided to add an extra layer and reconfigure the story to describe how my family of Vikings descendants have Christmas meals and it turned out much more interesting. Ever since then, I’ve kept the idea of having layers to stories, you have your basic plotline and then you add a theme that pervades the whole story, like Viking culture, or bad weather, or a system of magic or something. That layering tool is super helpful for enriching fics.

#an unexpected ask #snake anon my beloved

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userkhael · 3 years

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betrothed

Summary: The First Duke of Suffolk is a rake through and through so when he was betrothed to you, you felt anger. But when his lips are on yours, somehow that rage goes away.

Pairing: Charles Brandon x Reader

Warning: Period Drama setting, SMUT, arranged marriage, angsty, a bit of enemy to lovers vibe, fingering, irrumatio

Word Count: 1700+

A/N: Please forgive me for mistakes, this is my first Charles Brandon fic. This may veer away from the show. I haven’t watched The Tudors but always comes across Charles Brandon posts or GIFs and Henry is uh ✨ scrumptious ✨ in that character ( I mean every singe character) but this burst of inspiration came to mind while I’m in the middle of writing You, Always so I just had to write it down. Enjoy!

It was a lovely day outside. A cloudless one even. The horses from afar seem to be enjoying the weather like you do. The sun on your skin feels a lot better at days like this. You love the outdoors and you love exploring nature. You can definitely take that walk from where you set up your picnic to your home. Maybe you’ll meet that deer again on your way home.

Your father is due to come back any hour now. He’s out doing business in the capital with people in the same political bracket as him. Being a viscount’s daughter is never easy. It’s tiring and equally a burden. The societal pressure of being a woman is heavy enough, now that became heavier when you reached the ripe age of eighteen. Finally, your parents can marry you off to some stranger in a horse, bearing promises of gold and jewels.

It was intended by them to accept suitors but your father was adamant about it. He mentioned his confederate’s son is definitely worth my time. Although I decided against it, you wanted to please your Papa. He’s done everything he could for you and your siblings. But you can’t help but feel pity on yourself that you need marrying for people to deem you worthy.

You walked the same path home, just in time as your Papa arrived, looking gallant on top of his white horse.

“Y/N, darling. Have you gone through the woods again? Alone?” His green eyes reflected yours and you smiled at him, thankful he’s home safe. Ever since your mother is gone, he became one and equal with his roles of being a father.

“The day is too beautiful not to see, Papa. How was business?”

You talked about boring, political stuff. taking your father’s gloves and helping him off his coat. You hang it on the rack, following him on his study.

“Your betrothed is due to come today. I invited him to dinner. So, go fix yourself.”

“Will you ever tell me who he is, Papa?” Your fear of not liking the man overwhelmed you. The thought of spending the rest of your life with a man you loathe is something you are not prepared for.

“The only thing you should know is he has good intentions, comes from a respectable family, he has no marital attachments and he is a great businessman. He is a stunning young man. He will give you everything you want, darling. Everything.”

You sighed and thought you can never win an argument with your father. So you did what you did best. You focused on one thing that will come out good out of this union. Yourself.

❁❁❁

The help knocked on your dinner, indicating it’s dinner time. You heard your betrothed arrive but you did not dare look at him. You wanted a surprise. Of how astounding he is, as what your Papa had said. If this union might flounder, you are equally to blame if you did not even try.

You chose your emerald green dress and robe as it accentuates your eyes even more. You can’t help but feel a bit nervous about tonight. You’re not quite sure if you can at least be friends with your betrothed.

As you slowly walked the stairs, you can hear voices in the dining. One is of your Papa and the other, a deep voice you’re sure you heard from somewhere. The butler curtsied and opened the door leading to the dining and you are utterly in shock at what you see. Who you see, even.

He smiles at you like an innocent person and bile rises up to your throat. You remembered every gossip about him. It is quite alright if you haven’t experienced it yourself but the Duke of Suffolk has a reputation. And unfortunately, you are a victim. You can still hear his words, so flowery and so convincing. The next day he’s kissing someone else. You turned away as soon as you can but now, you’re trapped in a room with a rake.

You are marrying a rake. You cannot wrap your head around it. This is not really happening.

“Y/N, meet Charles Brandon, the First Duke of Suffolk. Your Grace, my daughter, Y/N.”

Charles curtsied and you did the same. His hair is looking a bit disheveled and his shirt a bit ruffled. God knows where he’s been. Maybe from a brothel.

“My lady...” he offered a smile and you put on a fake one. Just to please your father. Everything you do is for him.

Charles talked about everything your father wanted to hear. His endeavors, his encounters, his success and his failures. Your Papa loves a man of substance, just like himself. You kept your mouth shut all throughout the conversation and when dinner ended, your Papa said something that made your jaw drop.

“His Grace’s horse felt a bit sick as soon as he arrived. He will stay the night.”

You looked at Charles with so much suspicion. You need to look out for yourself and for all the women in this household. He looked at you so amused, finding this situation very hilarious. But you’re better than smacking him straight on the face.

You kissed your Papa good night and Charles, as much to your surprise, did not pester you.

Once in the room, you changed into your nightgown, hoping to find peace in your solidarity but a knock on the door startled you. Thinking it can be Gertrude, delivering your milk, you open it. Instead, you find Charles in front of your doorstep, his hairy chest showing.

You’re about to shut the door on his face but his large hand stopped it from closing. He shuts it slowly, making sure no one hears it. He whispers your name as he walks towards you slowly, hunting you, even.

You’re aware that he is your betrothed and you’d have to give him your womanhood but then you still have days to torture him before your actual wedding night.

“How dare you con my father!” You try so hard not to scream. You don’t want anyone in the house to know he’s in your room, or your wedding day may come sooner than usual.

“Sweetling...”

He said, his eyes with a different amusement behind them.

“You are a rake!”

“I know my reputation precedes me but I wanted to marry you because...”

“Because? Because you can. You want to ruin my life. I could’ve gone for a much better man than you are but here I am stuck with you, aren’t I?”

He did a few strides towards you, his face mere inches from yours. You can still smell whiskey from his breath and his scent. The mix of which is enthralling. You don’t want to feel it but your body’s betraying you. Responding to him in more ways than one.

He places his hand on top of your silk gown, your nipples are taut under his touch and you bow down your head to hide your red cheeks. You can’t admit to him that you are still under his spell. That one look from him turns you into a puddle of chaos.

“The indubitable reason why I asked to marry you is...”

His index finger is on your lips, trailing it with his roughness. Your breath hitched, cannot hide how you are stirred by him.

“This lips are the most delightful, the plushest my lips has ever touched. And I thought to myself...”

Two fingers dipped in your mouth, playing with your tongue as he looked down at you with so much smolder. You can feel his pulse quickening, right there on his wrist. And surely, you are the same. You did not know what to do but your lips wrapped around his fingers and that caused him to moan and bumped his forehead against yours.

“Why not spend my life kissing these lips when I can?”

You bite your bottom lip and find yourself get carried away into his dazed abyss. You find yourself clinging to his large arms while he carried you to the bed.

“Owning your body can wait until our wedding night but I can’t leave this room without making your feel mine...”

And with that he pushes your legs wide open, he slid your undergarment down and grazed your bud with the same fingers he put in your mouth. You moan against your palm while he looked up at you with hooded eyes. He took two fingers and put it inside his mouth, wet it and slowly sink it in you. You gasp at the sensation of his hand stretching you, you held onto his shoulder and you arch your back, trying to keep your moans in.

His hand moved while his thumb still softly graze on your clit, intensifying every thrust he’s making with his fingers. You look down and he’s bunching up your dress and kissing the inside of your thighs. You can barely breathe but every surface in your body feels like it’s on fire.

“Charles...”

“Hush now, sweetling. Let me show you a prelude of our marriage days.”

He continued to pump his fingers in you, your body rocked to his rhythm, your center craving that friction. He even grazed his experienced mouth over your mound and he kissed it, kissed it like it’s his treasure.

You feel the hot white bliss coming up your body, you know you’re close. And you know this will be earth shattering compared to the nights you did this by yourself. You prop yourself up, still looking at how he marvelously worship you and use his skillful hands to bring you to delirium.

“You’re tightening around my fingers, Y/N. You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod and he changed positions so he can kiss you. You moan into his mouth as you reached your high, your knee touching the firm bulge on his breeches. You’re about to reach for it but Charles stopped you.

“You need to wait until the wedding night.”

“But...” You looked into his eyes and you found contentment in there. You also feel sated as he helped you get your undergarments up and kissed your thigh one last time. Your future husband does have a heart after all.

“If I let your hands on me tonight, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. You will be sore and begging before our wedding day. So sleep tight, my darling. Tomorrow is another day, isn’t it?”

#charles brandon x reader #charles brandon x you #period drama fic #arranged marriage trope #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill smut #henrycavill**#henry cavill fanfiction #charles brandon the tudors #the tudors fic #smut #khaelwrites

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