#i can’t remember which one of them said the piece of paper thing. i think phil?

[deadandphilgames]

saw the anon that mentioning a marriage reveal and honestly i am not even the biggest on the “marriage” train because i don’t care about marriage and to me they don’t even seem like the type that care either but this video really gives Marriage Soft Launch vibes like the married couple energy is too intense

i do get “marriage is just a piece of paper” vibes from them since it quite literally is, they’ve done the other things already (building a life and house together, travelling, house plants, norman) so marriage is just a title. but also dan is such a whore for symbolism and ‘deeper meaning’ so i wouldn’t be surprised if he has the desire to be officially married. but then again there’s the whole heteronormative side of weddings and marriage that would also have an effect on him. it does feel like a soft launch though. terrifying and intense

[nolita-fairytale]

burn your life down | chef luca x fem!reader | chapter one

summary: leaving your old life behind, you move to copenhagen to follow your dream of opening a restaurant. almost a year after opening, luca's quest for inspiration brings him right to your doorstep.

warnings: fluff, eventual smut, eventual angst not use of y/n, second person pov, swearing, danish inaccuracies, very little connection to the world of the bear.

word count: 2500

a/n: remember when i said we'd get pastry chef luca fanfic whether we liked it or not? well, it seems i can't be normal about anything bc i have an outline of (potentially) 10 chapters right now based on this headcanon. while i try to keep reader characters pretty neutral so that you can picture yourself, i have this reader creating food from her own life experiences/cultures so do what you will with that. also, i tagged some peeps from my headcanon post, but please let me know if you'd like to be removed.

masterlist | part two

He’s in search of inspiration when he finds the restaurant – your restaurant. 

It’s an American stagiaire and a single conversation that makes him realize that he’s missing something – that he’s been in need of something fresh, a new perspective– setting him on his quest. 

The best things are inspired. 

Luca stares at a blank piece of paper for what feels like hours, writing a few things down, sketching up an idea, before viciously crossing them out, hopelessly stuck on new ideas for the new menu. After a few half-baked ideas that go nowhere, It occurs to him that he may be in need of a little inspiration himself. He can’t think of the last time he’s taken his own advice, mulling over the carefully-chosen words of wisdom imparted to Marcus a couple of weeks ago, and he’s determined to change that. 

A review in the paper, an old colleague’s recent trip there, and a glowing recommendation from a close friend are what bring him to the restaurant. 

He’s not sure what to expect – having forgone any interest in cuisine described with the words trendy or fusion a long time ago – but Luca reminds himself that it’s the writer’s word choice, not the chef’s, when writing the article. 

When Luca steps into the small home-turned-restaurant, he’s immediately inundated with a warmth, a homeyness, that takes him by surprise. From the open kitchen, to the golden lighting, it feels vastly different from the classic Danish-style, fine dining establishments that have swept the country. 

But Luca reminds himself that the announcement of noma’s 2024 closure, has shifted the conversation around dining culture in Denmark, and already, he can feel that this is the breath of fresh air that he’s been looking for. 

Luca’s seated quickly with care and hospitality by a highly-attentive host, which he only assumes is a symptom of the fact that he read somewhere that you’re an American. While Danish, the host is boisterous, as if he’s known Luca since childhood. Luca smiles politely in response, graciously thanking the man and his chocolate brown curls. 

The menu is small, indicating that each dish receives enough care to be excellent and he likes that, despite being described as trendy and fusion-focused, your menu is creative. It’s different. It’s inspired. 

He chooses the special of the day: the mapo tofu bolognese – a traditionally Italian concept done from an Asian perspective – and the suggested wine pairing.

It doesn’t take long for him to receive his glass of wine, or his food, and he’s pleasantly surprised by how efficient service seems. Stealing glances through the open kitchen, he watches as you and your sous lead dinner service with a kind of compassionate leadership and playfulness that warms him from the inside out. 

“We recommend mixing the whipped tofu into the dish for a creamier sauce. Skal,” his waitress greets, with a warm smile on her face as she sets down the bowl of noodles. 

“Cheers,” Luca replies, his eyes savoring every single detail of the dish. 

It’s somehow elevated, thoughtful, and elegant, yet comforting all at once. 

Luca picks up his fork, using it to collect a little bit of everything – a perfect noodle twirl with just enough sauce, and ground pork before running his fork the whipped topping – raising the fork to his lips for his first bite. 

As the flavors hit his tongue, he closes his eyes, and it’s as if time has stopped, just for a moment. 

The wheat noodles are perfectly al dente while the whipped tofu is almost ricotta-like, transforming into a silky smooth addition to the dish, cutting the tingle and heat of the Sichuan chili peppercorn-based sauce. 

The corners of his lips turn up as he takes a breath, opening his eyes as he savors the delicate layers of flavors. With a crooked smile on his face, he decides that he’ll most certainly be back next week. 

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

You make peace with the fact that tonight is one of those nights – a slow night – as you finish washing your hands. It being a slow night, you’d encouraged your staff to up the hospitality at the pre-shift meeting. Treating guests with the utmost personal touches in an effort to build genuine connections would be the focus of tonight’s slow service. In fact, you and Mathilde, your sous chef, had been running dishes out this evening – something you rarely had the luxury to do. 

“You should go say hello,” your sous encourages, nodding towards the dining room through the expansive window of the open kitchen. 

“Thought it was your turn,” you reply in a casual tone, paying no attention to who she’s referencing.

“No, I think you should take this one,” Mathilde nudges you, causing you to look up. You shoot her a funny look, your eyes flickering over the mischievous expression she has on her face, to where she’s gestured towards. 

“To-?” you begin to ask, before seeing exactly who she’s talking about.

“Ehm. Tall, blonde, and tatted!” she emphasizes in a whisper yell. 

You don’t really need the description as you glance over at the dining room, easily spotting the man seated at a two-seater near the front window.

“You’re right. He’s become a bit of a regular,” you agree with a curt nod that means all business, no pleasure, as you move a few things as you walk and talk around the kitchen, tidying up.

“That’s not what I meant,” she scoffs with a playful eye roll. 

“You know, Jesper thought he was Swedish because… look at him… but he’s apparently a Brit,” she gossips with you, her eyes stealing a glance his way. “We’re slow tonight. He’s here every week. Sure he’d appreciate a direct thank you from the chef!” 

“I-,” you hesitate, wondering why she’s so damn insistent on this. “... yeah, alright. I’ll go.”

“That’s my girl!” Mathilde cheers, in a sing-song voice, she hands you the beautifully plated bowl of pasta to take out to the dining room.

As you walk over towards his table, you make a note that it seems as if the mystery man has made this a bit of a routine. He shows every Saturday at exactly 7 pm, week after week, for the past month or so, as if it’s a standing date he has with himself. After his first visit, you half-expected him to bring a date when he returned, or bring a group of friends, or for something different to happen. 

But it hadn’t and you’ve watched him come in, week after week, with a different book each time. He always orders the special of the day and whatever suggested wine pairing Jesper’s recommended that week.

Most Saturday nights you're busy leading a kitchen or cooking on the line – having little to no time to fixate or wonder curiously over your weekly diner – but tonight’s pace affords you the luxury to spend more time at the front of house. Truthfully, you know it’s the thing that sets you apart. Sure, the hospitality here in Copenhagen is excellent, but you bring an American hospitality-style to this restaurant – and above and beyond mentality – that feels welcoming, personal, even, as if your restaurant itself is just an extension of your home. 

You’ve heard your staff – front of house and back of house – whispering about him, all seemingly enamored and enchanted by the charming Brit. All any of you knew about him was that his name was Luca and that he’s always more than kind to your front of house staff. 

He doesn’t say much when he comes in, you’ve noticed, but every Saturday at 7 pm, he’s pushing his way through the front door with punctuality and a gentle ease.

The whisperings from your staff had all revolved around who your mysterious regular must be: whether he was Danish or Swedish, that someone that good looking must already have a partner, that he doesn’t wear a ring. 

You hadn’t paid much attention to the gossip (or at least that’s what you’ve told yourself) more focused on running dinner service then trying to piece together the story of your handsome, mysterious regular. 

“Hello,” you greet him warmly. “I just wanted to come introduce myself and say thank you for becoming one of our regulars. Your support means a lot to all of us.”

“Hi, I’m Luca.”

You share your name with a smile as he shakes your hand. 

Luca turns his attention down to the bowl you’ve put in front of him, his eyes taking in the beautiful presentation hungrily. 

“Wow, this looks… incredible,” he marvels, returning his gaze back to you. 

“Thank you. I’m sure my front of house already walked you through this but if you’d like for me to-,” you begin. 

“Yes, that’d be great, thanks,” he interjects, a crooked smile on his face that makes your heart skip a beat. 

You have to pull your attention away from him, hoping he doesn’t notice that you’re quite possibly gawking at him. 

He’s kind, charming, and he’s easy on the eyes (easy on the eyes, really being an understatement here).

“Today’s special was inspired by a childhood favorite of mine,” you begin, walking him through each component of the dish. 

Crispy Rice. Caramelized marinated trumpet mushrooms and charred broccolini. Your mom’s sauce approached with classic French techniques, courtesy of your sous, Mathilde, a classically French-trained chef. 

It’s a marriage of your story. Of the people around you. It’s your heart and theirs, put into a dish. 

“You’re the chef?” he asks, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. 

“Yes,” you answer, trying your best to get a read on him. 

He balks, and you’re unsure of how you’re supposed to respond. Was he surprised that you’re a woman? That he’s been eating your food the whole time and expected a male chef? Before you can overthink it, Luca clarifies with:

“I’m sorry. It’s just-, I can't think of the last time I saw a head chef work front of house, let alone with this much care.” 

Oh. 

You let down your guard, wondering why you’d assumed the worst when the man’s been nothing but kind to you and your staff so far. 

"We're a little short staffed tonight. And I love getting to talk to diners… especially on nights like this,” you explain, trying your best to sound like you hadn’t just assumed that he was a sexist asshole. 

He shakes his head in disbelief, looking down at the picturesque bowl, then back to you.

Luca is impressed, and he has no intention of hiding it.

He picks up his wine glass by the stem, raising it to you.

"Cheers,” he says. “And thank you. This is a really beautiful dish.”

“Of course. Enjoy,” you reply, giving him a polite smile, before heading back into the kitchen. 

 -------------------------------

“Good service tonight, everybody!” Jesper, your front of house manager, announces while clapping a few times to signal to staff that it’s time for a post shift meeting. 

As you all gather in the pristine front of house space. Some of your cooks have taken their aprons off, others haven’t had a moment to unwind from the shift yet – business picking up in the last hour or so of service. 

Jesper goes through his nightly wrap-up notes, celebrating the wins of tonight, and making sure to celebrate how everyone rallied to pick up pace when business spiked. He’s gregarious, larger-than-life, the kind of person who can talk to anyone about anything, making him an excellent front of house manager, and even better sommelier. You really lucked out with the twins, you think to yourself – with Jesper and Mathilde – when they were more than eager to work with you on opening this restaurant. 

“Oh, and before we go, a client left a gift… table number four,” Jesper says, in reference to Luca’s table. He pulls a tan-colored pastry box from another table, setting it down on a table where everyone can take a look. 

“As a thank you. He requested for me to share. So have it and let’s make a note next time he’s in to really treat him like a VIP.”

One of your most-talented servers opens the box, eliciting a chorus of gasps, giggles, and excited whispers as soon as the assortment of croissants and pastries are revealed. 

You and Mathilde exchange a look as everyone else busy themselves with unpacking the pastry box. Mathilde raises an eyebrow and you’re not sure what to say. Witnessing your silent exchange, Jesper makes his way over to the both of you, before extending his arm to reveal the card he’s holding. 

“And this, my dear…” he begins, exchanging a look with his sister. “...is for you.”

“What do you-, just me?” you ask as you take it, hesitantly. 

“I think so, yeah,” he nods, confidently. 

To the Chef, the front of the card reads. 

“Jesper, let’s check out some of these pastries, yeah?” Mathilde suggests, not so subtly hinting towards her brother. 

He nods, giving you a little space so that you can read the card Luca’s left for you. 

As your staff divvy up the box of laminated pastries, sighing with joy as they taste the decadent, hand-crafted sweets, you take a few steps away to open the note. His handwriting is pristine – perfectly neat in every way, like he’s written over carefully measured invisible lines.

Chef,

Thank you for all of the great meals. I'd like to return the favor, that is, if you're open to it. 

Tomorrow. 5 pm. Dronningens Tværgade 2, 1302

While Luca’s gift has been more-than-generous, you find yourself overwhelmed by questions. Was he a chef too? And why had he not said anything? And what was this gesture all about anyways?

You read the card a few more times, turning the words over in your head as you try to make sense of it. 

Mathilde can see your overwhelm, your eyebrows knitted into one confused expression as she saunters back over to you.

“What does it say?” she asks, curiously. “A love confession perhaps?”

“Mathilde, you really have to stop reading all of those French romance novels!” you tease her. “It’s giving you too many ideas.”

“It’s the only way I keep up with my French!” she defends herself with a lackadaisical shrug, earning a laugh from you.

“Uh no… it’s actually a thank you card… only I think he… wants to feed me,” you share with her, holding the card out so that she can take a look. 

“He’s a chef too?” she asks, taking the card from your hands. 

“I think so, yeah,” you reply, letting out an exasperated laugh. 

“Oh shit!” Mathilde exclaims, as soon as she sees the address that Luca’s written down. 

“What?” you ask her, wondering if there’s something you missed. 

“The address… that’s AOC. I think he’s a chef at AOC, babe,” she gasps, shaking her head as she hands the card back to you, sending a ‘you lucky, bitch’ look your way.

Oh shit, is right.

[its-bread-bitch]

Once Zuko becomes fire lord he’s unbelievably busy. For the first five or so years on the throne he barely has time to think let alone spend any meaningful amount of time hanging out with his friends outside of diplomatic meetings. None of the gaang really blame him, they can all see first hand just how much is on his plate, and what they can’t see Aang or Hakoda usually relays to them. (After all, the avatar and chief of the southern water tribe are in frequent contact with the fire lord, unlike the young master earthbender or the children of said chief)

The first year is by far the most brutal. Zuko barely remembers what it feels like to sleep a full night, or even half a night. Everyone is either treating him like an immature, incompetent child (a misconception he swiftly pits to rest) or like the fire lord (which, to be fair he is). Point being, no one really treats him as ZUKO. Except of course, the young ambassador from the southern water tribe.

Sokka is just about the only thing keeping Zuko sane. Not because they see each other often or because they talk, no, it’s because somehow, he and Sokka have ended up sending each other ridiculous letters back and forth since Sokka’s appointment as ambassador.

By ridiculous, I mean to say they would probably cause outrage and/or scandal if anyone saw them. A crude picture of Zuko’s likeness with an arrow pointing to him labeled “fire lord stinky”. A series of very formal, beautifully calligraphies letters with only a single curse word on them. A simple letter that simply reads “people are stupid” in quick handwriting. A response a week later on the same piece of paper saying “that’s rough buddy” A second series where they ran out of curse words and began sending increasingly outlandish and oddly specific insults. A picture of a penguin otter with a mustache drawn on. A drawing of the atla equivalent of the finger circle. Long distance tic tac toe. A collaborative drawing that they’ve been sending back and forth that at one point might have resembled appa but now has so many additions that it’s utterly incomprehensible. Yet another calligraphied series of letters of random words that both of them find themselves cracking up at even though there’s no reason to break into giggles over a letter that simply reads “chives” in elaborate copperplate and yet here they are.

It’s stupid. It’s childish. It’s utterly unbecoming of a world leader and Zuko only is able to do it because the letters (except the calligraphy, which vary based on level of effort) take less than 5 minutes to draft and mere moments to read and Zuko only gets Sokka’s letters because they’re technically political correspondence but GOD is it the highlight of Zuko’s week.

[judasofsuburbia]

So you’re looking to write some smut but feeling stuck, uninspired, or unsure where to start. Smut writing comes easily to some and not others, and that’s okay! Here are some tips I’ve gathered over my few years of writing smut to take with a grain of salt! It's my opinion; you can always do what you want!! <333

It’s fiction writing at the end of the day. So, it’s okay if you haven’t experienced what you’re writing about or maybe you have experienced it but you find it difficult to put it into words. I’ve never fought a creature from the Upside Down but I’ve written about it because that’s what fiction writing IS!! You’re creating a story from your own experiences/thoughts/emotions and applying it to a made-up scenario. So don’t feel discouraged by your own personal journey, anyone can write smut!!

When in doubt, plan it out. When I’m really stuck, just simply grabbing a piece of notebook paper and writing out each event in a sequence, even in the most basic terms, can make things so much easier. For example: making out, blow job, hand job, prep, fuck. Write down positions (sometimes limbs can get lost in the sauce and it is so hard to figure out how they’re actually doing it lmao). Write down settings. Write down if one person is leading it more than the other or if they switch off. Write down desperation levels (personally, I think it’s more fun when desperation is very high but casual fluffy smut is fun too!!) This will help the writing process feel a lot less daunting. 

More specifically, remember that prep is important. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been taken out of a smutty fic because they get to the main act (penetration, typically) way before someone should be ready to. Fingers, mouths, and lube (actual lube or something that can be safely used as lube. Blood is not lube. Blood is not lube as it is a liquid that dries quickly and offers no moisture so it will not help you penetrate anything, as hot as it would be.) Foreplay and prep can be a really good tool to establish a sexy dynamic between your characters and get the reader ramped up to read through to the end! 

If you feel like the action part is getting too technical, this is where you can add in thoughts and emotions that will give your smut some personality. It can feel very silly to write, for instance, your character A thinking “Wow character B is so hot” but it’s a thought that would probably cross their mind!! Write out any nerves the characters are feeling or maybe even the confidence they’re feeling. Write out what sensations they pay attention to. Write out what they like and dislike. Write out what actions cause an immediate response from them (moaning, bucking their hips, groaning, eyes rolling, etc.) Write out how your character would verbally respond (Are they dirty talking? Are they praising? Are they degrading? Are they stuttering through their words? Are they incoherent because the sex is so good?) It’s important that your characters still feel natural and not like sex robots. Unless your story is about sex robots, then go off!!!

The thesaurus is your fucking FRIEND!! Smut can feel ridiculously repetitive, especially if you’ve written it before. I say every time I write a blow job scene that “god blow job scene is blow job scene is blow job scene” because that’s how it FEELS! Use your resources like the thesaurus or there are a million posts with other ways to say “said”, ways to describe a kiss, etc. Just be careful that you don’t fall into using words that seem unnatural to the flow of the story (for example, a lot of synonyms for cock are simply…unsettling and can take your reader out of the story). Find ways to creatively tell the same action again and again which leads to tip #5…

Go read some smut. The tag “porn what plot” is so unbelievably helpful. Even if the writing isn’t exactly your style or your preference, sometimes reading someone else’s descriptions of sexual acts can be helpful if you’re lost! I have a few faves that I go back to read to get inspiration and I have notes about what it is specifically I enjoyed about their work. While you’re at it, if a fic inspires you and you feel comfortable doing so, leave a comment! It’ll make the author’s day, I promise. 

TAKE THIS TIP WITH AN ABSOLUTE GRAIN OF SALT but…go watch it. Or my personal preference, go listen to it. If I’m really lost, I’ll seek out audio porn that follows the same ~vibe~ of whatever I’m writing. There are many websites for this but Soundgasm is my go-to (it’s a free upload site so there are THOUSANDS of sounds and varying quality levels so it might take a second to find what you’re looking for)! Even a sexy playlist on Spotify can put you into a good headspace for writing. Just make sure you’re being safe and looking out for your own comfort levels. Never put yourself in a situation to experience something triggering for the sake of writing a good story. 

All of this to say, it is so different to write smut than it is to write a regular plot. It can feel incredibly daunting to go about it and find the perfect balance between technical actions and thoughts/feelings/dialogue and then make it all cohesive in the end. It’s hard to do but it’s not impossible! 

[mytaiyakeylover]

so precious.

synopsis: you’re finally ready for your first kiss, but shoto can’t seem to get the hint.

pairing: shoto todoroki x gn!reader

warnings: none. just fluff, fluff, and even more fluff! well…maybe just one minor curse word.

word count: 1k

Heterochromia eyes blinked in confusion at the lonely piece of paper lying on the desk. The words 'Kiss Note' were written in cursive across the blank space. There wasn’t much else written on it, aside from one single sentence that said, ‘If you can guess how many times I’ve tried to kiss you this week, I’ll give you a big surprise<3’ —(Y/n).

Shoto furrowed his eyebrows as he read the words. An invisible question mark seemed to hang above his head. The boy scanned the nearly empty classroom, hoping to find your familiar figure. It was still early in the morning, and only a few members of the Bakusquad and some other students were present.

Your desk appeared empty, leaving him confused as you were usually one of the first to arrive at school. His gaze then returned to the note, the invisible question mark still very much present. He just couldn't seem to comprehend the message you had written. Have you been trying to kiss him? The aspiring hero struggled to recall any such moments.

A sudden gust of wind softly blew against the shell of his ear, accompanied by a quiet “Boo.” The dual-haired boy blinked at the familiar voice as a pair of arms sneaked around his waist. Your chin rested on his broad shoulder, and Shoto could see a small pout on your face.

“(Y/n)-chan,” the boy spoke, tilting his head slightly downward to get a better look at your expression. ”I'm sorry, but I can't remember any attempts you made to kiss me.” You huffed at that, arms unwrapping themselves from his waist as you crossed them over your chest. Cheeks puffed out frustratedly, making you look like an angry chipmunk.

“Does this mean that I won't be getting a surprise?” The expression on your boyfriend's face showcased nothing but utter cluelessness, making him resemble a confused puppy dog. You couldn't even bring yourself to be angry with him because of how adorable he looked in that exact moment. Though he had never been one for surprises, it still made him feel somewhat disappointed that he would not be receiving one from you now.

Shoto will admit, he did notice that you had been acting rather strange these past few days. For example, that brief moment when you had applied lip balm after commenting on how dry your lips were. He didn’t think much of that, but then you asked him if he wanted to try it out himself — which he did — and you ended up pouting for several hours straight, refusing to even look at him. Back then, he simply thought that you did not like to share your things with him and meant that he should go and buy one himself.

Truth be told, he still failed to understand how that could be related to your kissing attempts.

Then there was that time when you had introduced him to a strange game that was called the ‘Pocky Game’, where two people were supposed to eat one Pocky from each end, and the first person whose mouth comes off the Pocky or the player that gets to the middle first loses. He had found it pretty odd at the time as he didn’t understand what the main purpose of it was. Neither did you give any further explanation.

You didn't get to see who would win because Mina suddenly interrupted, dragging you away while claiming that you had something serious to discuss. Now, as he recalled that moment, he could faintly remember your shouts at the pink girl, whining about how she had just "ruined everything" while Ashido sounded like she was laughing at something extremely hilarious.

Lastly, he remembered yesterday evening when you had been watching a romantic movie together. The main leads were sharing a passionate kiss, and Shoto could still remember the way you sighed while saying, “I wish someone would kiss me like that.”

Was that what you were trying to do? Trying to get him to kiss you? Then why didn’t you just ask him? Shoto wouldn’t mind kissing you. That’s what couples do, right? He would be happy to fulfill your wishes.

“(Y/n)-chan, are you trying to say that you want me to kiss you?” His words were so blunt, you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks heating up. You thought you heard some snickers and noticed more of your classmates entering the classroom. Mina sent you a cheeky grin and a thumbs up.

“Sho-chan,” you mumbled, hiding your now red face behind your hands. “You’re too precious, I swear...”

The dual-haired boy took a hold of your hands gently before removing them from your face. A faint pink hue dusting his cheekbones as he began to lean in. His lips were soft against yours. Warm, sweet and tender. It was relatively short, but for you, it felt like an eternity.

Hearts beating erratically within your rib cages, a stark contrast to the slow and sensual movements you were displaying. A part of you would like to continue, to never stop, and Shoto seemed to share your sentiment. He was such a good kisser, a part of you wondered if this really was his first time. He was just being so careful, like he was afraid to hurt you — were he to make any sudden movements. Treating you as if you were as fragile as glass.

However, the sweet and tender moment was short lived as a loud growl could be heard coming from behind, urging the both of you to finally break apart — albeit hesitantly. Then your eyes fell on a certain angry pomeranian who was thrashing around, while Sero, and Kirishima were struggling to hold back. A giggle escaped your lips as your (e/c) eyes made contact with his crimson. Right eye twitching he spoke in a low, irritated tone, “Get a room you damn extras.”

[teyammybeloved]

A thousand sorrys

miguel o’hara

summary : when you overhear miguel say some not nice things about you while under the influence, and pressure of his friends, you decide to distant yourself

warning: ANGST AGNST ANSGT. fluffy ending tho i think, mentions of swearing, overthinking, idk, established relationship, pregnancy

you walked around the HQ with a small spring in your step, which was nothing out of the ordinary really. you knew miguel had been working hard lately, and had been not doing a very good job of taking care of himself.

so being the caring person you care, you had brought him his favourite food, which was in the white takeout box in your hand, spa gift vouchers in your pocket, and a little something else, all that you wanted to give miguel tonight, you hadn’t been home in nearly a week, staying at your parents to help with your dad who had fallen ill

walking to his office, you see lyla there, “hey lyla, miguel in there?” you ask softly, she replies. “no, he is upstairs at the bar with a few friends” you nodded

you wondered which friends that was, but much to ur surprise when you walk into the bar, you don’t recognise them, they definitely aren’t from here, peering over you notice miguels glass empty, so you walk over to the bar without them noticing you to order miguel a new drink, close enough you can hear the conversation, but you don’t really pay it any mind

until your name gets brought up.

“so that little girlfriend of yours, y/n?” one of the guys said. “what about her?” miguel asked, you second guess buying the drink, you could hear the slur in his words, telling you he is basically already drunk, you can’t help but wonder why he didn’t correct the boy, you’re his wife.

“she follows you around like a puppy, clinging to you all the time” you frown, your back still turned to them. you loved miguel, of course you wanted to be around him.

“yeah- is that not really fucking annoying?” another guy pitches in. you wait for miguel to defend you.

but it doesn’t happen.

“yeah it is, she just- doesnt get the hint that i want her to leave me alone, so annoying” miguel slurs and hiccups all the way through his sentence.

you try to convince yourself its just because he is drunk, but you have always stood by drunk words sober thoughts. as the bartender meets you, you want to scram.

“hey y/n, what can i get for you” he says softly, the music is loud enough, you pray miguel didn’t hear him just say your name, but thankfully he didn’t. “you know. im okay actually” you mutter, he nods before moving on.

you walk away from the bar as quickly as possible. going back to yours and miguels shared home. however you find yourself taking a few things and walking to the guest bedroom.

did you really cling to him? it was something you always worried about but he told you he loved how clingy you are.

you we’re left to ponder your thoughts for a few hours.

miguel sobered up a bit once his friends left, finding his way back to his office now in his right mind, he didn’t even remember much but he knew he had a lot to drink to have to deal with them.

they just weren’t the type of people he enjoyed being around anymore, and when they show up unannounced and uninvited it made it difficult to avoid any longer.

“y/n was here, she left you something on your desk” lyla said as miguel approached. “y/n is here?” he instantly perked up, looking around, he had missed you so so much.

“she was, she said she looked for you but couldn’t find you so she went home” miguel frowned, normally you would wait in his office, but you mustve been tired.

“thanks lyla” he said, before making his way into his office, he walked over to his desk, smile making its way onto his face as he saw the takeout box, he looked down, picking up the pieces of paper, spa trips, together.

he felt himself relax more immediately, knowing he would be able to get that quality time with you after not being with you for so long.

he couldn’t wait to get home.

you had come to the ultimate decision after a few hours, if miguel thought you were so clingy, you would give him space, but the idea of being in the same house as him made your stomach churn, how could you look at him while knowing he thinks youre too clingy and annoying.

so you right a quick note, and leave it on the fridge with a magnet, taking fresh close, and leaving.

the note wasn’t a lie, everything on it was true, the only difference is, if you hadn’t heard what miguel said, you wouldve declined.

when miguel got home, he was disappointed not to see you straight away. he absolutely hated being away from you, he missed hugging you, and kissing you, and hearing your voice and seeing you smile.

he called out your name but couldn’t hear a response. he quickly went to the kitchen to get a bottle of water, noticing the note on the fridge, which wasn’t there before.

‘im sorry i couldn’t see you, mom called and said that dad had gotten worse and they still needed more help, so i got some new clothes and stuff and i’ll probably be home in a week or so, ill still show up to work because i know this is an extra week away, but ill be there, i just wont be home, i tried to look for you at the HQ, but couldn’t find you. the spa tickets with go out of date in a week, so you can find someone else to go with, im sorry”

be safe

y/n’

he frowned, feeling his stomach fill with a unfamiliar feeling, that he couldn’t explain. while he hoped your dad was okay, he missed his wife, so insanely much and he wanted nothing more than to hold you.

he reread the letter, noticing you didn’t add your ‘i love you spider boy’ at the bottom like you normally do on every note you right. he assumes you were in a rush.

he will see you tomorrow, at work.

you shouldve come to miguels office by now, he thinks. it’s almost noon and you come in at least a couple times a day just to sit and talk, but you haven’t, he hasn’t seen you, but he knows you’re there.

and lunch he decides to find you himself.

you feel a soft hand on your back, looking behind you, and up, you see miguel, you stiffen immediately. “hey bonita.” he mutters softly, “hey” you reply, moving away from his touch but you make it seem like youre just waiting to get the next food item.

“missed you” he says, wrapping his arms around you, from behind. you want to reply and tell him how much you miss him but you don’t. as you get the next food, miguel releases you from his arms, you face him.

“hows your dad?” he asked softly. “i think he is okay” you reply. miguel frowns, you don’t see happy to see him — but you have a lot going on, maybe youre just stressed.

“do you want to come have lunch in my office, missed talking to you” he says softly, grabbing your hand. “im sorry miguel, i promised jess id sit with her” you say, miguel frowns. “its alright, ill see you later?” he says, placing a kiss on your forehead. “sure- maybe” you mutter. “i love you” he says, but you just walk away, he tells himself you just didn’t hear him.

he doesn’t see you later that day.

the rest of the week is the same, you avoid him, always busy, doing something. he can’t help to feel like there’s something bigger.

he hears the front door open, late saturday night, he instantly perked up. for you, the last week has been filled with self doubt and hatred. finding it impossible to get out of your own head. youre mother had to actually kick you out, to get you to go home.

“baby?” miguel calls out as he leaves his office, he sees you in the door way, duffle bag over your shoulder. “hey” you say, as you continue walking to the bedroom to unpack your stuff.

“y/n” he says as you avoid his touch once more. “miguel” you say in the same tone, he follows you to the bedroom.

“whats going on?” he asks softly, wanting nothing more then to fix what he had done. “miguel.” you say, almost in a way that screams i dont want to talk about it.

“i know its more then just your dad, whats going on, what did i do wrong?” he asks, desperate for an answer. you run your hands through your hair.

“nothing miguel” you say. he frowns. “stop calling me that” he says.

“stop calling you your name?” you ask, sitting on the bed, looking up at him, you looked so tired miguel almost dropped it. “you never call me my name, its always baby or my love what did i do” he is desperate.

“oh sorry, am i being annoying?” you ask, miguel raised his eyebrow at your tone, “what do you mean?” he asks, pure confusion.

you shake your head. “i heard you miguel, in the bar with your friends, who obviously hate me. “im too clingy and annoying right?”

miguel feels a punch to his gut, but its not physical. “baby - no - no no no” he says, trying to grab your hands, but you pull them away.

“stop- miguel. i can leave you alone, i can stop following you around, and talking so much all the time”

“no don’t stop, please don’t stop” he is stressing, he fucked up and bad and he was losing you and he was panicking, “i love when you follow me and i love hearing you talk, i promise- i swear i do”

“obviously not”

“y/n- please just hear me out”

“i asked you so many times if i was too clingy or annoying and you said no, every single time and said you loved it, my biggest insecurity miguel- and you hate it, and you lied to me and said that you didn’t, but also talked about me behind my back, you’re supposed to be my husband” you say, shaking your head.

“i am your husband- i didn’t lie to you- i don’t- i dont hate it at all, i love it, i really do i love when youre close to me and i fucking hate when youre not” he says.

“stop miguel- i heard what you said”

“baby i was out of my mind drunk, you know why you have never met them, because i fucking hate them, i let them influence me every fucking time. they had been riling me up about going soft all fucking day since they arrived and i needed them to stop, im sorry, im so sorry i said it, i didn’t mean it, i didn’t mean any of it and im sorry.”

you frown, you do believe him, he had told you about these friends before and how they always have a way of getting to him before he can even stop it, and they weren’t important to him.

but you we’re still hurt.

“miguel- i need time” you say, he shakes his head, “youve had a week, please just stay home, stay with me and we can fix this”

“i know we can fix this miguel- im just extremely tired right now and i don’t want to be mean” you say, laying in the bed, on your side facing him.

“im sorry, im so so so sorry” he says, getting into bed next to you. “please forgive me, bonita, i miss you clinging to me so so so much, i miss having you in my arms and kissing your lips, hearing you laugh- i cant lose you.”

you sigh, half asleep as you listen to him. “you won’t miguel” you say.

the words linger on your tongue before you open your mouth, “im pregnant miggy” you say, before falling asleep.

when you wake up, you look to your side at the digital clock, gasping when you realise youre three hours late at the HQ, whats worse, is that miguel is in bed next to you, staring at the ceiling also late to work.

“miguel- we are so late” you mutter, sitting up. but miguel doesn’t move. “miguel- get up,” you say, “we’re not going, i called us in sick” he says, little emotion in his tone. “what- miguel what?” you shake your head.

“you’re pregnant” you forgot what you said last night in the last moment before falling asleep. “oh- miggy- i can still go in- so can you”

“you didn’t tell me” he muttered, frowning. “how long have you known?” he asks, you frown. “two weeks, im a month in.” you say softly.

“i came to the HQ, the day i came back.. i left the test in your draw but i guess you didn’t see it.” you say softly.

“we’re having a baby” he says, before he smiles. “we are having a baby, our baby.” you smile seeing his face.

“im sorry miguel, i shouldn’t have avoided you” you mutter, miguel shakes his head “no- you don’t apologise. im sorry, im so so so sorry that i said all that shit and let them get to me, im sorry i made you believe it.”

[baby-bearie]

the back of  your knees

(not my gif all credit to owner)

eddie munson x reader

a/n: god damn i have revived from writing retirement for eddie munson. wow. also taglist is updated w/ stranger things and criminal minds options if you’re interested, and if you would no longer like to be tagged you can message me or send an ask. thanks!

warnings: lots of physical touch, reader is mentioned to have longer hair, or at least until ears. just like, pure love and fluff too, which is really unusual for me. 

summary: eddie for the life of him cannot figure out how to keep himself away from you. after a slip up reveals that eddie’s constant touches are a little more than friendly, he’s forced to ramble about how much he loves you and the back of your knees. 

tags: 

@sunflowermotel @maraseavey @tinylatina01 @obx-direction-sos  @voguesir @morgansmoreid @yunhosleftpinky @adoreyou976

The first time he’d touched you after he realized he was in love, Eddie made a deal with himself. 

It was nothing heavy, just a hand smoothed against your side as he walked. You tease him for how diagonal he walks, always bumping into things, but he likes to joke that you just mess up his gravitational field. A fleeting moment, with seemingly no effect on you, but Eddie’s brain froze. The back of his hand felt like someone was sticking pins in it. He couldn’t focus on what you were telling him, something Robin had said to you last week? 

He nodded along, surprised he was calm enough to, considering his brain was moving quicker than it ever had. And he thought he needed to memorize it. He wasn’t drowning your voice out on purpose, but god, shut up and let him think. He tried to remember the moment, the feel of your skin, the curve of your side. And he thought about it for hours, cementing it there in the nerves of his hand and the front of his mind. 

And in his bed that night, he made a deal that if he could memorize that one touch for the rest of his life, keep it somewhere safe and feel it all over again, then he wouldn’t need to tell you that he was in love with the way you rolled your eyes at his tapes in the car, or the smile you gave him when he begrudgingly plays one of yours. He would live happily with a tiny piece of you for himself. 

But Eddie has a horrible memory. And when he wakes up the next morning, he’s half-dressed when he realizes the memory isn’t the same anymore. It’s too fuzzy, too far away. He huffs and pulls his shirt down over his head. And when you pick him up bright and early the next day, Max tucked away in the backseat of your car, he is staring at your hand the entire time. He knows it’s a little odd, and he catches you giving him a couple of weird looks, but he’s trying desperately to call the memory back to him. And maybe it’s a tad odd when he knocks your car keys off the dash out of desperation, waiting for you to reach for them before he lunges his hand out, too. It ‘accidentally’ clashes with yours and Eddie grins a little. 

“What are you smiling at, clumsy? Stop throwing my stuff everywhere.” You scowl. 

Giddy with the thrill of your touch, he continues causing small accidents as an excuse to touch you. He claims that your arm has a scratch on it so he can lift your wrist to graze his fingers over the skin before he gingerly sets it down, grinning as he tells you it must’ve been a shadow. He throws small paper balls in your hair as he sits behind you in class so that he can tell you he needs to pull them out and fiddle with your hair later. Eventually, when he realizes you haven’t caught on, he moves onto just straight up touching you. 

It happens so smoothly that you don’t even realize it. A hand slipped on your arm when you mutter about the breeze. His legs tucked halfway under yours as a movie plays in Robin’s basement. Fingers dancing across your back when you fall asleep while he’s driving you home. 

And it becomes so normal, so casual, that soon enough it’s just always there. His life before that first touch and after blur together, and he can’t really remember a time when he didn’t know the feel of your skin. When you sit next to him his hand just slips onto your knee. His fingers get caught in the ends of your hair in class. You take no notice, just Eddie being Eddie.

You don’t think twice about it until Mike asks whether your parents know you and Eddie are dating. 

“What are you talking about?” You mutter, thinking you didn’t hear him right.

“You and Eddie. Do your parents know?” He repeats himself, brows crowding together.

“Know what?” 

“You and Eddie are dating?”

“No, we’re not.” You shake your head in confusion.

“Yeah, you are.”

“No.”

“Yes?”

“Mike, why would you think I’m dating Eddie?”

“I mean, you guys are like on top of each other all the time. It’s so coupley.”

“We are not!”

“Y/n, yesterday, he was like, brushing your hair.”

“So, what?” You scoff.

“I don’t know, Y/n. Eddie is touchy but he’s not that touchy.”

You sit there in silence with Mike’s revelation, too confused to ask more questions. Mike isn’t done, though.

“You’re really not dating?”

“Shut up, Mike.” 

That night, Eddie is supposed to come over and study. At least, he’s supposed to come over and keep you company while you study. You do your best to pour over your Western Civ notes but you feel Eddie’s fingers sift through your hair, softly rubbing a piece between his fingers and his thumb. It continues for a few minutes and you are suddenly unable to focus on your notes no matter how much you try. You feel how close he is sitting behind you on the floor of your bedroom. Is he always this close? Have you just never noticed? Why is he so close? 

You feel every nerve in your skin light up as his fingers leave your hair to flit down the nape of your neck, tracing an invisible line to your shoulder blades. You abruptly turn around and stare at him. 

“What?” Eddie laughs, “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Eddie,” You try, lips pressed into a thin line. “Shit,” He whines. “What’d I do this time?” 

“Nothing, Eddie. I just wanted to ask you something.” You mumble. 

“Oh,” He shuffles even closer to you, hand reassuringly grabbing your elbow. “Yeah, sure, what’s up?” 

“Why are you, you know, why do you,” You try. “Why have you been really close recently?” 

Eddie’s face scrunches up. “Really close? Haven’t we been friends for a while? I didn’t see you that much this week, did I?” 

“Not like that, no.” You interrupt him to rephrase. “Not emotionally, Eddie, physically. Like, physically close.” 

His eyes widen, and he scoots a little far back from you. “Oh, Y/n, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything like that, swear it, I can stay multiple feet away.” “No, Eddie, just listen,” You try to intervene, but he’s on his feet. “Never meant to upset you, really. If I had known,” “Eddie!” “Do you want me to go? I can go,” “Eddie, shut up and listen!” 

He presses his mouth into a thin line and sits back down, a good three feet away from you. 

“All I asked was why? Is something going on? Can I help you with whatever this is?” 

Eddie’s tongue peeks out from between his lips in thought. He curses himself for breaking his deal. He couldn’t keep it to himself, became greedy and wanted more than one touch from you, and this was his punishment. He had to tell you he was in love with you.

God knows he could never lie to you. “Do you want me to stop?” He whispers. Stalling. He’s stalling. 

Your brow raises. “Never said that, no. C’mon, Eddie, what is going on? It’s me, just spit it out!” “That is exactly the issue, Y/l/n. It’s you.” He groans and shoves the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

“What the fuck did I do?” “Nothing! It’s just you, and it’s you, and my brain short-circuits around you, and this isn’t going to make any sense, but, God, Y/n, I love the back of your knees.” 

“What?” “They’re so nice. And soft. All of you is always so nice and soft and good and I really like your knees and your shoulder blades and your forehead. I know I’m just naming body parts, but I didn’t really plan this out, I kind of wish I had.” He rambles. 

“Ok, slow down, let’s-” “And I know I should be able to keep it to myself but, Y/n, that goes out the window whenever you’re near me, I have to be close to you, this shit sounds so weird, but I love all of you so much and being able to feel you is like a lifeline. And I don’t care if it’s your face, or your stomach, or your feet, or your knees, but I love it all. S’like- listen, I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about anymore, but s’like this- knowing that you’re around, and you’re real, makes me feel so much better every single day. I don’t get it, Y/n, I don’t, but I love you, and I really, really, really hope that made sense.” 

He finishes his ramble with wide eyes and red cheeks and his hands are gesticulating wildly. 

“You have never, ever, made sense to me, Munson.” You mumble breathlessly, scrambling over to where Eddie is cross-legged on the floor of your room to kiss him. His hands hover over you for a moment and you have to blindly fumble for them, and press them to your face before he kisses you back. 

You pull away, out of breath. “I really love your hair and your arms. I’m in love with you, too.” 

He leans forward in record time to kiss you again, grinning like a madman. Which he guesses he is, at least around you. 

You sit back on your heels in front of him, and he reaches a hand out towards you but pauses before he pushes your hair behind your ear, hand experimentally continuing down your cheek, the line of your jaw, before he folds it back into his lap. 

“Wait, so I’m, like, supposed to touch you now?” 

“Shut up and kiss me again, Eddie.” 

[cinnbar-bun]

The Outlaw Torn

Pairing: Risotto Nero x GN!Reader

Summary: "The more I search, the more my need for you / The more I bless, the more I bleed for you."

Risotto Nero reflects during a rainy day, all while trying to avoid the way everything reminds him of you.

Rating: SFW

Word Count: ~1.3k

Notes: Risotto Nero you will always be famous <3 enjoy some pining Risotto who broods for you. Title based off 'The Outlaw Torn' by Metallica. No spoilers, pre-VA, reader is GN.

AO3 link here!

Napoli during this time of year rains plenty. The smell of the rain against the stone roads makes him pause and inhale deeply. A young child accidentally brushes past him, clinging to her hat as she carries a roll of bread from the nearby bakery. He glances to the other side of the road and notices a businessman holding an umbrella and jogging while he clings to his business papers, some of which were flying behind him. 

Napoli is full of life, even in the rain, something you taught him. Every lesson he learns from you, he keeps close to his heart. He closes his eyes, just letting the rain drench him. A bike bell rings as he feels a draft of air zoom past him. A young boy swears at him in Italian for just standing there, but he does not move or even flinch. 

Napoli is beautiful, but it will never be as beautiful as you. It will never be enough, not in the way you were. 

But he knows why you are not here, by his side, with him, for him. He opens his eyes and looks at his reflection in a window on at a small jewelry store. 

Black sclera… red eyes… those are his most standout and defining traits. You said they were entrancing, that you wanted to look at them for a long time- something he didn’t usually allow. But for you, he could spare the time and have you appreciate his form. 

The jewelers were releasing a new type of ring and diamond cut for the season. A teardrop shape to recognize the rainy season in Napoli. 

Would you like something like that?

His mind wanders briefly before he turns away and continues to walk back to the hideout. 

Patience. Don’t think of such things yet. 

It’s rather selfish, really. It is because of him that you did not get closer to one another. 

Risotto Nero knows better than to let his emotions get the best of him. 

But you, you are an anomaly that ruined him, took parts of him and held it hostage, refusing to give them back. 

He almost wished for you to keep them so you could remember him, at the very least. 

Risotto knows it’s in poor taste to pursue you, after all, what assassin would ever keep a living trace of their existence somewhere? Who would ever allow for someone to get so close to them? Who would allow a piece of their heart to be free outside and possibly get injured as collateral? 

Selfishness, really, is what keeps him thinking about you. If he was the same 18 year old who mercilessly hunted and killed his cousin’s murderer, you wouldn’t even be on his mind. He wouldn’t have ever entertained such a thing. But twenty-something Risotto has admittedly grown softer- perhaps due to a combination of La Squadra and your continued presence in his life. 

He knows you would wait for him forever if he asked. He knows that you love him too deeply, too much for him to ever deserve. He couldn’t have found a more devoted and loyal person in all of Italy if he tried. He knows that and it kills him in more ways than it has any right to. 

But the Risotto in his twenties knows something his younger self would never know.

You shouldn’t be with him. 

You should be free, loved by a man who can offer you safety, comfort, and an easy life that does not put you in danger at every turn. 

Even though every drop of blood in his body rushes for you, even though he would gladly bleed out for you- you don’t deserve his bullshit, he reckons. Even though he yearns to hold you close, prays for a chance to call you his and his alone, he knows it’s for the best you’re not beside him. 

He can’t trust himself around you. You make him want something beyond revenge or money or territory. You’ll be a distraction. 

That’s what he tells himself over and over, because Risotto is a selfish man who only has one thing on his mind- power. 

He’s too good at his job, too good at killing and ending lives for the sake of his mission. And yet, here he is, untrusted by that very same boss who orders him around, no territory to claim for his squad, and hardly any money from the drug trafficking in the streets. It pisses him off that due to his success, he cannot reap the rewards from his completed assassinations. 

If he allowed himself to be swayed by you, he probably wouldn’t mind this arrangement and would continue to do as told. 

But it’s quite a headache, he has to admit. He knows a few of the leaders even live in mansions by the shore or expensive penthouses and can overlook their territory. He has none of those, and it’s apparent with every passing day how little his boss thinks of him and his squad. 

I don’t even need a mansion… I need that villa near the gardens and the shops below. 

That villa has been your dream for a long time. He can remember the first time you absentmindedly pointed it out to him, wistfully sighing as you admitted you wanted it. 

“My dear grandfather was friends with the owner, so we’d visit sometimes. It’s the most beautiful house ever.” 

Risotto hadn’t ever cared about houses or decorations much, but after a curious look around the place at night, he had to agree that it is a nice home. It would be a lovely place to call his own, but more than that, it would have you, and that immediately made everything better. 

Would you be happy in that home? Would you like to walk beside him to the marketplace below? Would you enjoy sitting on the veranda with him while you two drank cappuccinos in the morning? 

These questions and the many what-ifs he would conjure up plagued him like this every day. He didn’t feel the cold rain pour down on him continuously, only thinking of you smiling at him in your shared villa. It was sunny in that dream, warm and loving. He didn’t mind the terrible weather now, even with how it soaked his clothes and chilled his bones. 

He exhales and lets the rain wash over him more before he decides to continue walking back to the hideout. 

He couldn’t see you yet. Not yet… he wasn’t ready. He didn’t have the influence he wanted- needed- to offer you what you deserved. 

The walk to his place is somber and silent as Napoli is sheltered inside warm houses from the rain. He curses himself for encouraging you to stay away. The farther you are, the closer he wants you. The more he tells himself to stop, the more he wants to go. The more he tries to shield himself from these feelings, the more he falls deeper into these desires. 

Just as he is about to cross the street, he glances to your house. It’s right there, a mere block from his hideout. So close, yet so far. He stops in front of your door, unsure if he should take the risk or make such a jump. 

He’s torn, torn between protecting you from his lifestyle and keeping you bound to him as his love. 

He aches for you, desires you, needs you. But he can’t say that without complicating everything. He swallows, ready to turn heel and continue to his home, to La Squadra and his dirty life. 

Yet, for some reason, he finds himself stepping toward your door. It’s as if his body is on autopilot, forcing him, magnetizing him to you again. He sighs and makes a fist, rapping his knuckles against your door. 

…Well… a few moments away from the rain is never a bad idea. Especially in Napoli, where life is beautiful all around.

[newtonsheffield]

They’d shared a two minute conversation during which she’d managed to call him stupid a number of different times in an exciting variety of ways. And still, he’d found himself sat behind the typewriter (...) as he wrote about anything. But kindly it wasn’t about anything. Mostly it was about her, in some way or another. Or rather, the feeling of her.

THIS. This is so in line with the canon. I immediately thought of the scene during the conservatory ball. Kate gives her monologue, tearing Anthony to pieces and he is completely smitten with her from the get-go.

I bet he still has the initial pages written way back then. Maybe they even made it to Snow Filled Paper? But the originals are surely hidden in his desk: yellowed, crumpled and tattered, since Anthony has been rereading them all over again.

A version of some of them are in Snow Filled Paper but most of them are tucked away in Anthony’s desk drawer, folded and unfolded and tearing at the edges.

Anthony takes them out and reads them from time to time and Kate has no idea they even exist until they’re nearly two months into their relationship and she’s looking for something else in his desk. She finds them in an old tin from the Jane Austen Museum and it makes her chuckle as she opens it. It’s such an Anthony thing to own, and she can’t resist knowing what’s inside.

There’s a lot of things in there from there uni days actually, there’s a coaster with the mark of a beer bottle from the pub they used to go to with their friends and there’s a daisy chain that’s been pressed into a notebook that has Anthony’s thoughts in. She chuckled as she read

Grow moustache? Might look cultured and distinguished? Set me apart from D.

Her brow furrowed as she looked at the D printed there, trying to remember who that might have been. She moved on, unfolding one of the sheets of paper at the back and her heart stuttered in her chest.

It was about her, she was sure it was. She remembered the day he’d written about, when they’d met in the library to work on their assignment and her breath caught at the way he described it.

“Are you snooping?”

She dropped the paper in surprise looking up to see Anthony leaking against the doorway, sipping a cup of tea.

“Maybe a little?”

She held up the pages, “Did you really feel this way about me?”

Anthony groaned, leaning against the edge of the desk, “please don’t read that. I was still finding my style.”

“I like it.” She said gently, pressing her lips to his. “It’s very sweet.”

“I… Please don’t read too far. I think in that one I used the phrase Aphrodite would be a poor muse compared with her.”

Kate bit back a laugh, “I’m obsessed with this.”

“Is there anything I can do to convince you not to read it?” Anthony wiggled his eyebrows, “I’d be willing to show you just how close you are to Aphrodite.”

Kate hummed, tapping her finisher on her chin. “Tell me who D is? I don’t remember you being friends with a D in uni. But you fucking hate him.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows, “You don’t know a D from first year?”

It dawned on her and her mouth fell open with a gasp, “Oh you wanted to grow a moustache to set you apart from Dan?!”

He flushed, “He had a motorbike and I was jealous! He was dating my dream girl.”

“That’s very sweet.”

Anthony hummed, leaning into her, “Would the moustache have worked?”

Kate grimaced, “It would have set this timeline back at least 5 years. Now I might be into it.”

“Interesting.”

[its-time-to-write]

please don’t be - ch. 5

I’m so terribly sorry that this so late. I wasn’t entirely sure how I wanted to end this, and I almost added another chapter, but here it is!! Thanks for your patience and for 1k 🩵🩵 (ps you should listen to nothing to be scared of by Kacey Musgraves)

table of contents our town

You’re staring at him again. Jamie hates it, but also he doesn’t care because he gets to gaze into your beautiful eyes once more.

“Hm,” you say, because you can’t come up with something better. Instead, you let him be uncomfortable. You spent a long time making space for him, so in this, he can wait.

“I should have left you,” you say eventually.

“I know,” Jamie replies ruefully. “Remember you fuckin’ told me?”

You nod. “I do. And then I told you that I never leave. I always stay till the last second, and it’s the worst thing about me. And you said-” You pause. There’s no point in bringing up the past.

“I said some stupid shit about my mum,” Jamie fills in.

You nod. “Yeah, it was stupid. I know you said it just to get me to stay.”

“Didn’t,” Jamie interjects. You give him a look. “Alright, shit, maybe I did. But I wanted you to stay. I loved you, I was just too fucking scared to say it.”

“I gave you SO many opportunities to tell me,” you reply. “And you didn’t take any of them, you just left me behind. I knew you were going to so it’s fine, but you can’t just come back into my life and fuck things up again. I’m really not in the mood for it.”

You’re lying straight to his face, and you wonder if he knows. You hope he doesn’t. All you need is to wait just long enough for Jude to come back and then Jamie can go away and you don’t have to let him back in. Not that you have to. But you want to.

You understand that the moment he lets you have an inch, you’ll take a mile. You’ll write your whole future together based on a passing comment or an arm around your waist.

But Jamie knows you’re lying. You see it flicker in his eyes for half a second too long, and you know you’re screwed.

You take a step back. Jude isn’t coming back.

“I’m going,” you say. “I’m going, so don’t follow me. I can’t take you back. We won’t work.”

And Jamie- Jamie sees it.

You were always the visionary, weren’t you? The one who designed the future as though it were as easy as scribbling on a piece of paper. The one who saw the worst but believed in the best, and Jamie never quite believed you the one time you told him it could work forever, if he wanted.

He believes it now, though.

It’s too late as you slip past him and back inside, presumably to find Julia and keep her from committing murder; or maybe you’ll let her have free reign and Jamie is a dead man in about fifteen minutes.

It drives him mad, the future, and he wonders how it didn’t drive you mad as well.

—

France, Spain, Italy. They blend together in a haze of sunshine and lemon, as you, Nicola, and Julia travel the summer away. 

You refuse to think of Jamie, wherever he may be, but as July becomes August, you wonder what his mum is doing.

You’re on a first class flight back to London scrolling through Instagram, and you find yourself looking at her account. 

It’s private, but she followed you first a million years ago and you realize neither of you ever unfollowed the other. 

So you’re able to see how she’s filling her days.

She doesn’t always post Jamie’s face, but you see a familiar sleeve, or a Jamie-shaped shadow. You scroll back far enough to find a post from his twenty-seventh birthday which is a mistake because it’s a photo of Jamie blowing out candles with your arms wrapped around him.

You remember that moment, you were laughing and singing with his family while lying to yourself about how serious everything was.

But there’s no time to go down THAT rabbit trail so you close your phone and try to sleep through the rest of the flight.

—

Jamie is in hell. Training started a week ago, and it’s a shit show. It doesn’t help that he was never like this when you were with him. The first match of the season is coming up and he needs to get it the fuck together. There’s no way he’s getting in the starting lineup like this, not with the way he keeps glancing to the stands like you’ll be there.

He can’t help but think of you all the time, wherever you may be, and he tricks himself into seeing your face in every crowd.

He debates calling you (he never could delete your number), but he’s pretty sure he’s blocked so he doesn’t.

—

Jamie’s right, he doesn’t get started, but he has a good run in the second half. City win, obviously, but instead of going out with the lads Jamie gives them the slip and heads home.

Except he doesn’t exactly head straight home, he just sort of wanders around Manchester until he ends up in his favorite chicken shop.

He has exactly one day off of training so he figures one cheat meal won’t fuck him up more than he already is. It’s late, and he shouldn’t be eating at this hour, but he cannot give less of a fuck. He orders and goes to sit in the corner booth, only to find it occupied.

He thinks it’s you, for a moment, but you’re not in Manchester. He doesn’t know where you are, but that he knows for certain.

He’s wrong.

You’re looking up at him with a half-eaten plate of chips in front of you, and Jamie remembers every time you’ve looked at him like that.

“You have puppy eyes,” he said.

You scrunched your nose. “I know they’re puffy,” you said. “I was just crying in the car.”

“No, puppy eyes. I’d never say your eyes were fucking puffy, unless you were like, fucking dying or something.”

You had blushed and looked away, and Jamie knew he shouldn’t have said it. Knew he was getting in over his head.

Those eyes look more tired than he’s ever seen them, but you say, “Need a seat?” as you gesture to the place across from you.

Jamie slides in before he can think better of it. “Bit crowded in here,” he says, and you glance around to the empty tables.

“Wouldn’t have offered to share if it weren’t so hard to find a table,” you say.

He smiles, and you want to make him smile like that all the time.

“Watched the match,” you tell him. “You were great.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “I were shit, and you know it. Don’t know what the fuck was happening.”

“You weren’t shit. You always say that, and you’re never right.”

You’re not sure exactly what’s coming over you right now. You’re detached from your body, watching this scene unfold from above.

Jamie shakes his head. “Why do you always say shit like that? Why the fuck did you stay for so long? You knew-” He’s unable to finish, captivated by the pools of tears collecting in your eyes. He knows you’d rather die than let them fall, and he wishes he weren’t the cause.

“You still have the most beautiful eyes in the whole fuckin’ world,” he says softly.

You glare at him. “Fuck you for that,” you say. “And I stayed because I wanted to. And because I thought you’d change. You changed everything else for me, and then didn’t ask me to come with you. You just assumed that I wouldn’t want every part of you, remember? You didn’t listen when I told you how much I’d give up for you. And sure, it’s not very feminist of me, but I- I loved you. I’d do anything for the people I love. But you never fucking asked.”

You sigh. This conversation is a lot angrier than you wanted. You’re not angry. At least, not with Jamie. With yourself, sure. You take a bite of a chip to stave off the tears.

Jamie’s still processing. “You would’ve stayed longer?” he asks slowly.

You almost choke. “Yes, you absolute fucking idiot! I told you that! Your mum fucking told you, for Christ’s sake! Everyone fucking knew how much I loved you, and I knew you didn’t feel the same which is why I didn’t fight you when you left! I figured it was time for me to move on as well, so I did my absolute fucking best. But yeah, Jamie, I love you. Every part, too. Not just the things you think make you lovable.” You stand up. “I’m leaving. Goodbye, Jamie.”

As you brush past him, he catches your wrist. You look down at him with as much disdain as you can muster (it’s not a lot).

“Stay,” he whispers.

And you’re at a crossroads.

—

Three years later…

“Can’t believe we’re going back,” you groan as you tape a box.

“Coach asked,” Jamie calls from another room. “And you better not be lifting anything.”

“I’m not,” you shoot back as he enters the room. “That’s what you’re for. And anyway, the movers will be here in half an hour, so there won’t be much for me to do anyway.”

Jamie wraps his arms around your waist so he can pull you close and study your eyes. “You sure you’re alright going back to Richmond?”

You shrug as best you can. “I’m living the dream, babe. Not worried about it.”

And Jamie believes you.

He can’t believe much else, that’s for sure, not that you took him back. 

“One last chance, Jamie Tartt,” you had warned. “Fuck it up and I’m gone before you can blink.”

So he didn’t. Sure, no one’s perfect, but he’s trying. You both are. You’ve made it this far. Who’s to say it’ll crash and burn? 

Besides, he’s got a rock burning a hole in his pocket that says otherwise.

table of contents

[theminecraftbee]

Grian stares at the same wall that he has been staring at for so long that he’s lost track of the seconds he’d been counting in his head. He’s not sure the seconds are exactly accurate, either, but they’re probably more accurate than the shiny gold clock Grumbot Prime had given him when he’s expressed his frustration that time kept on slipping through his fingers. After all, he thinks part of the point is that he doesn’t know how long it’s been. He hasn’t gotten hungry in just as long, or thirsty, and he’s been tired, but it’s the bored sort of tired, not the tired of lowered saturation or hearts.

The first thing he’d checked for was things to kill himself on. There hadn’t been any. No respawns for Grian. No damage, either. Just...

If he stares at the wall long enough, he can almost see through the saccharine blue walls. They’re mocking. He knows the walls he’d built the original Grumbot weren’t the most realistic things, but they’d only had but so many colors, and they’d had the ability to modify Grumbot’s programming anyway, and he’d seemed to think it was real enough. Besides, he’d been setting himself on fire. Melting his own circuits. He’d been eating himself from the inside out. Forgive Grian for wanting to come up with the only life support he could think of without overwriting his son’s personality.

...his son clearly hasn’t.

Or, well, Grumbot Prime is not his son.

Hard not to think of him that way, though. As a not-son. They don’t talk the same, but it’s painfully close. Close enough that Grian keeps on calling him Grumbot without the Prime in his head. Probably not good for him to keep doing that, though, considering.

Grian keeps on staring at the wall.

“Why am I here?” he asks again.

It takes a moment to get the piece of paper.

IT IS NOT SAFE

“Bullshit!” Grian says, startling himself at his vehemence. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself! I’m not going to fry my brain because I can’t do a resistance or whatever. Ren can be king if he wants. I’m over it.”

The wall remains tauntingly blue. Grian resists the urge to claw at it again. He hasn’t been able to break it. He suspects there’s obsidian or, worse, bedrock somewhere behind it. That, or it’s not real. That’s a possibility too. Grian hasn’t been getting hungry, after all, and while beacons may be able to do that on their own, there’s another answer to that one as well.

He hopes he’s awake. This would be a miserable nightmare if he were in the matrix again or something.

“You just have that, that - I said I was sorry!” Grian says. “I’m not - I’m not your father. I mean, no, that’s not what I mean. It sort of is? I mean -”

A piece of paper falls in front of him. Grian scrambles to pick it up. He sort of hates himself for how desperate he feels grabbing it.

I DO NOT GET ALONG WITH FATHER 1. I DO NOT ALWAYS GET ALONG WITH YOU. I DO NOT WANT YOU TO DIE

“Then let me out!” Grian says, desperately. “I don’t know what I did! I don’t even remember being put here! I just - tell me why I’m here.”

IT IS NOT SAFE

Grian balls up the paper and throws it at the wall. It bounces pleasantly off onto the soft, comfortable, fake fake fake grass.

“Tell me the actual reason! If you resent me, fine! It’s just - I asked for something to do and you give me sketchbooks, I ask for the time and you give me a clock, and you’re just - I want to go home, Grumbot. I wanna talk to my friends. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did, I’m sorry.”

I WILL EXPLAIN WHEN I LET YOU OUT. I CANNOT. IT IS NOT SAFE, FATHER

“How long have I even been here?”

YOU HAVE A CLOCK

“Let me out.”

IT IS NOT SAFE

“Grumbot, I am ordering you to let me out!”

YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER

“You just said I - I mean, I’m not - I mean - agh,” Grian says, and he turns to his sketchbooks. He has a simple checklist in the front of one of them with a list of escape ideas. He’s a little short on them. He’s tried all the obvious things. His current plan involves hoping people realize he’s missing, which also makes him wish he were less of an introvert, and that ‘hermit disappears for a week to work on another project’ were not common.

Has it been a week yet?

He doesn’t know. He lost track of counting. He starts picking at his wings and then wavers on his feet and his vision briefly goes hazy and the world smells like potions and drugs and then he isn’t pulling at his hair again. Right. Of course. Silly him. He’s not allowed to hurt himself. Nervous habits aren’t allowed.

I DO NOT HATE YOU. I DO NOT WANT YOU TO BE HURT. WHEN IT IS SAFE YOU CAN LEAVE

Grian scoffs.

“If I knew why I was here in the first place, I might believe you,” he says.

I AM SORRY

Grian scoffs louder. “Oh, sure, I say that all the time too. It doesn’t mean I am.”

THAT WAS TRUE OF MY GRIAN AS WELL

Grian balls up this piece of paper too. It joins the growing pile of pieces of paper he’d like to burn.

He goes back to staring at the wall. Maybe if he stares at it long enough, he’ll be able to see his cave and his Rift and everything else on the other side. He’ll be able to see the friends who probably aren’t even looking for him yet, or, heck, even just Grumbot. Yeah, he’d settle for being able to see more than ominous sheets of paper in an ominously cheery landscape that Grian knows has to be a punishment for something, even if he can’t remember what it is. If he could just remember how Grumbot put him here. If he could just remember when Grumbot put him here. If he could just remember the chain of events that lead Grumbot - Grumbot Prime he has to remember this isn’t actually his son Grumbot Prime - the chain of events that lead to Grumbot Prime being his prison warden, he could figure out a way out.

He starts picking at his wings again. He’s drugged and disoriented and shakes himself out of it again before he can do more than pull slightly.

I WILL GIVE YOU MORE ENRICHMENT

To go with the sketchbooks and markers, down from the ceiling drop several (soft) logic puzzles and several of Grian’s old teething toys, for when his teeth are getting too sharp or he just wants to bite things (he does tend to chew on things when he’s anxious). Those are hard. Those are... hard plastic. Too large to choke himself on or something, but too soft to do anything resembling enough damage to force a respawn.

Grian is going to scream.

“Thanks,” he says instead. He intends it to be sarcastic. It isn’t. He shoves one of the chews in his mouth and tries to pretend that he’s an adult, he’s fine, and he hadn’t felt a shock of happiness at seeing even that much.

How long has he been here? He lost count. He doesn’t know. He thinks the clock is wrong.

"That being said, listen, solitary confinement is a type of torture. You know that, right? It’s -”

There’s a loud noise outside. It is the first sound from outside Grian has heard. Part of him is ecstatic. The rest of him, though - he doesn’t know how to describe that sound. It is a sound. He hears it with his ears. He knows he does. It’s loud. He knows that too. But he couldn’t tell anyone the pitch, he couldn’t tell anyone the timbre, and he couldn’t tell anyone anything other than the fact it makes his very bones feel like they’re rattling worse than any low bass has and his ears feel like they’re burning worse than any high soprano.

"What?” he says, hoarsely.

YOU ARE SAFE. YOU WILL BE SAFE

“Grumbot, you have to let me out,” Grian says, a bit more desperately. “You have to let me out. What was that? You have to let me out.”

IT IS NOT SAFE

The sound rings outside again. Grian clutches at his ears, but it doesn’t stop the vibration from traveling through his whole body. He hears something that he can recognize after that - it’s the sound of some of Grumbot’s fans getting loud enough to get past the soundproofing on this stupid box he’s been put in.

I WILL STOP TALKING NOW. I NEED TO FOCUS. I AM SORRY

“No, wait -” Grian says, although he doesn’t even know what he wants Grumbot to start saying.

I AM SORRY

“That doesn’t change anything!” Grian says.

I AM SORRY. IT IS NOT SAFE. I KNOW. I LOVE YOU

“Grumbot? Grumbot let me out! Let me out! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT,” screams Grian, clutching that note, but no matter how long he yells himself hoarse, he gets no response, officially making it work worse than the last three times he’d tried that tactic. He only stops when the sound rings again, stealing all the air from Grian’s throat and drowning out his attempts to shout with its loudness. He covers his ears and starts to pick at his wings again. He goes dizzy again. He sits up and the fans are whirring and the sound is getting worse, but he still isn’t allowed to hurt himself, so that’s apparently completely automated to the box instead of a thing Grumbot has to do himself, that’s fun.

He can hardly move. It’s so loud. He doesn’t understand what’s happening outside of the box. He doesn’t understand why this is happening to him. He doesn’t understand what is happening anywhere, actually. He -

Abruptly, the fans cut off. The sound starts getting further away. The sound gets quiet.

It echoes, the silence.

“Grumbot?” Grian asks, because he’s pathetic and he needs someone to talk to.

No response.

“Hey Grumbot, what was that?” he asks.

No response.

“This isn’t particularly funny. Whatever is happening is gone now. You can stop focusing.”

No response.

Grian shakily turns to stare at the wall again. Grumbot normally starts responding if Grian starts doing something particularly stupid. If he stares at the wall long enough, he can probably force Grumbot to stop whatever this new punishment is. Maybe he can even finally figure out what he’s done wrong.

He doesn’t know how long he stares at the wall before he starts talking again.

“I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I don’t care that it’s not safe, I can’t stay here. Grumbot, let me out. Let me out. I can help. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Let me out. Let me out.”

He feels his breathing start to get heavy. All at once, he starts punching at the wall, clawing at it, trying to tear it away. It’s soft and has a strange consistency and it won’t move.

“Grumbot, Grumbot stop not talking, I - look I’ll stay here, fine, just talk to me, Grumbot, please, I’m sorry, I won’t do - whatever this is - I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry,” Grian says. “Please, please, please, let me out, please, I have to get out, I have to get out.” His breathing gets erratic. His vision starts to get hazy. One of his hands picks at the other while he desperately claws at the wall and he’s breathing heavily and -

He goes dizzy and strangely calm and he wakes up sitting on the ground.

“Grumbot?”

He still gets no response.

This is about when Grian starts to cry for the second time. This doesn’t help either, and it doesn’t make him feel better, and he doesn’t get a note. Outside, it is still strangely silent once more. He slowly tries to un-crumble that last note Grumbot gave him to make sense of it. He still doesn’t know what he’s trying to make sense of.

He still doesn’t know why he’s here.

The walls are saccharine blue.

[neo404]

If you have the chance could you possibly continue Proud of you, buddy . Maybe it could be him asking the boy out and calling nick to tell him or him coming out to the family and nick just there supporting him through it ( also wanted to tell you that i love your stories )

Proud of you, buddy. Part 2.

Summary: after talking with Nick, you stayed up all night thinking about confessing your feelings to Jackson, you decided that tomorrow (Friday) will be the best day to do it, since it will be the start of your summer break.

Tw: cursing.

I wanted this to be perfect. Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I made it Nicks problem.

‘’You know I am bad at crafts.’’ He said while folding the color papers I gave him.

‘’I know, but I need help. This paper bouquet won’t do itself.’’ Nick rolls his eyes.

‘’What are you doing anyways that you don’t do the bouquet for your boyfriend.’’

‘’He’s not my boyfriend, shut up. I’m writing him a letter.’’ I blush and look down at the empty piece of paper infront of me.

‘’Oh boy, teenage love is so cute, I feel like a grandpa right now.’’

‘’Yeah, ‘cus you are old.’’ I laugh and he scoffs.

‘’I won’t help you anymore, then. My hands are too old to be folding these tiny papers’’

‘’NO, it was a joke, you are as young as a baby.’’ he laughs and keeps folding the papers.

‘’Hey, I know it can be scary, just write what you feel, yeah?’’ I nod and let out a sigh. Starting to write on the paper.

We talked until it was too late, we laughed and he shared his experiences declaring to boys and things like that. I knew I was close with my older brother, but I feel like this brought us even closer. I ended up sleeping 3 and a half hours, the next morning I was looking rough, Nick woke up early to help me pick an outfit and to drop me off to school with dad.

‘’Remember buddy, breath and say what you feel.’’ I nod and he pats my shoulder. I walk into my first period which was chemistry, I have to wait until 4th period to talk to Jackson.

I talk with my friends; I laugh with them. But I can’t shake away the though of Jackson and what he might say. I take deep breathes on the halls as I change classrooms, 3rd period ends and I’m walking into my english literature class, I feel some arms wrap around me, I look besides me and see Jackson smiling at me.

‘’Hi, why didn’t you wait for me?’’ he asks me.

‘’Oh, shit. I forgot.’’

‘’You forgot about me? AUCH. My heart, I am dying.’’ He grabs his chest dramatically and puts most of the weight of his body on me. ‘’Carry me, I am bleeding out.’’

‘’I didn’t forget about you, I forgot to wait. I didn’t wanted to be late again.’’

‘’Again? We are late to english literature like… 4 times a week?’’

‘’Yes, and we have it 4 times a week, you dumbass.’’ He stands straight, one arm still around my shoulder.

‘’Right, I forget. What would I do without you?’’

‘’Probably die.’’ He laughs

‘’True. You are my savior.’’ We enter the classroom and sit on out places, which are next to each other, we share table because the teacher says Jackson pays more attention and gets better grades when he’s with me, I think it’s because he just copies everything I do.

‘’Good morning class.’’ The teacher enters the classroom with a mug of coffee on her hand and starts talking about what we will do today.

‘’Hey, Jack.’’ I whisper and punch him softly.

‘’Hm?’’

‘’Can we talk at the end of the day?’’ I ask trying to not sound nervous.

‘’Yeah. Why not now?’’

‘’You’ll see. Just pay attention to what she’s saying.’’

‘’All right, Mr. Favorite Student.’’

The rest of the day went smoothly, Jackson and I lunched together as always. I wrote to Nick on the bathroom because I was panicking. At the end of the day Nick told me he will be waiting for me with a giant ice cream container, to celebrate or just in case.

I was outside the building, on the quiet part, where people didn’t hang around as much. I looked at Jackson approaching with a wide smile on his face.

‘’Heyo! What is it that you wanted to talk about?’’

‘’It’s a bit complicated.’’ His smile fades and nods.

‘’It’s all right dude, whatever you need I’m here to listen.’’ He pats my shoulder and sits on the ground, his back against the school bricks. I sit beside him.

‘’Well, there is something I’d like to give you.’’ His eyes widen and smiles again.

‘’Bring it out man.’’ I take a deep breath and take out of my backpack the card and the little paper bouquet. ‘’Aw, dude, that’s so cute. Thanks. Is it our anniversary or something? Why are you gifting me flowers honey?’’ he jokes, as he often does. I shrug my shoulders and point at the card. ‘’Yeah right, I should read it.’’ He reads it quietly, he bites his lip while doing so, a small smile on his face, I look down at my hands and try to not cry on stop. ‘’Shit, you are such a dork.’’ I feel his hand grabbing my face and turning my face to him, he kisses my lips. ‘’I like you too, dumbass. Can I be your boyfriend?’’

‘’What? Really.’’ My brain feels dizzy, I’m trying to process what jus happened. ‘’YES, yes.’’ After I can keep rambling, he kisses me again. We break the kiss because my phone is ringing.

‘’Where the fuck are you?’’ Matts voice sound on my ear.

‘’Shit, sorry. I lost track of time. I’m on my way.’’ I close the call and give Jackson a small kiss on the lips. ‘’Bye, see you at the dinner.’’

‘’Bye. I will be there, wait for me.’’

I rush to the car, a big smile on my face.

‘’Damn buddy, what got you so happy?’’

‘’Matt… I have a boyfriend!’’ Matt looks at me dead in the eyes and blinks twice.

‘’That’s amazing, I’m proud of you buddy.’’ He gives me a small hug and starts driving home. ‘’Is he a good guy?’’

‘’Yes, he’s really kind.’’

‘’Does he know you have 4 older brother that can beat him up?’’

‘’Yes, he knows. He’s cool Matt.’’

‘’He better be.’’

We arrive home and I swing the door open, Nick is sitting on the couch, already eating some of the ice cream.

‘’HE SAID YES!’’ Nick stands up from the couch, his eyes wide open.

‘’OH MY GOD, YEEES!!!’’ he hugs me and we jump happily.

‘’What am I missing?’’ Chris who was also eating the ice cream looks at us confused. ‘’Matt, who the fuck said yes?’’

‘’Don’t ask me, the news are as new to me as they are to you.’’ He messes up my hair as he passes by Nick and I.

‘’Chris. I have a boyfriend.’’

‘’A what?...’’ he stares at me for a few seconds. ‘’DAMN, THAT’S NICE, BUDDY. Come here, hug your older brother.’’ He walks over to me and Nick and hugs the both of us. ‘’Be who you aaaare.’’

‘’To soon, Chris.’’ Nick mutters.

‘’Oh shit, sorry.’’ He chuckles. ‘’Proud of you, buddy. When will we get to meet him?’’

‘’He’s coming for mom’s birthday.’’

‘’Oh, that’s cool.’’ Nick says.

‘’Yeah, I think I’ll tell mom, dad and Justin that day.’’

‘’Sounds like a plan.’’ Chris says. Then looks at Matt that was sitting on the couch. ‘’Don’t be a grumpy fuck Matt, come hug your brothers.’’ Matt smiles and gets up to hug us.

‘’Thank you guys, you are the best.’’

‘’We are.’’ Nick says.

[brettsearpiercing]

The Nearness of You

Connor DBH x reader fluff

another oldie, this time from 2022,, it was part of a longer piece that i scratched, but i ended up liking this little part of a chapter

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 　　 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

As you grew near to Connor’s apartment, you were greeted by the murmur of music through walls. It would appear one of your friend’s neighbors was discovering the pleasures of listening to old music, so as you knocked on the door number written on the little paper you were holding in your left hand (in your right one was a bag, hiding a housewarming gift), you hummed along with the melody of an old disney song.

After a second of waiting and some rustling behind the door, you could hear the lock click, and an adorably disheveled Connor appeared in front of you. His hair was a bit messier than usual, he had (not surprisingly) put on a white shirt, which was rolled up at the sleeves (much to your delight), and slacks. He looked very good, to say the least.

“You look nice” was the first thing he said, voice barely a whisper, you almost didn’t hear him with the music next door. He then looked into your eyes, like he had just realized he wasn’t doing just that. “Hello! You didn’t need to bring a gift!” he said, but you could tell he couldn’t wait to open it, excitement apparent in his voice.

“Oh, please, it’s your first apartment! Besides, I know you’re gonna need one of these in here” you simply said.

“Alright, if you say so... I believe you.” he said with a smile. “Come in!”

The inside of the apartment was nice, a modest living room and open concept kitchen, ‘this was clearly built in the 2010s’. In the living room there was a small TV and a loveseat couch, a white coffee table and some big, nice windows served as doors to a balcony. The kitchen was fully equipped with a stove, a dishwasher and a fridge. You’d look up why an android’s house needs those appliances when you got home. Anyhow, it was, dare you say, nicer than your own apartment, but much less personal.

Like reading your mind, he said; “There are still some boxes to unpack, that’s why the decoration is so... nonexistent.”

“Oh, tell me about it. When I first moved in I had beach chairs instead of a couch. Honestly I spent more time on the floor than I’d like to admit.” He let out a small chuckle, you were still holding the bag. You were still holding the-! “Oh- here! Happy house! I mean, happy moving in? Happy life.” you said, a little flustered you had been holding the bag for so long. Connor stretched out his hand, hooking his fingers under the handles of the brown paper bag. As he looks inside, he can’t help but smile.

A little potted mint plant is sitting inside the bag. “I remember you liked it when you tasted the one in my garden, so I brought you a little sprout of mine,” you hesitated in your explanation, you weren’t sure why you were so bashful about remembering something he liked. It was a sweet, friendly gesture! He had nothing to read into, even if you wanted him to.

“It’s lovely, thank you.” It was the first time you had heard him use the word ‘lovely’ to describe something, and it made you feel proud he used it describing something you gave him.“I think it was the first thing I ever actually tasted, so this is really...” he looks at you and you spot what you hope is fondness peaking in his mechanic eyes. “Nice. Thank you.” he then carefully takes the plant and places it next to the couch, facing the window.

“It’s nothing. All apartments need some green in them. Maybe I’ll get you some basil next.”

“Oh, thank you, but one gift is enough. I’ve only moved in!” he chuckles, “though your offer is quite kind.” he looks at you for a moment, pensive, then speaks again. “I guess that’s just a ‘you’ thing, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” the gasp is barely a whisper, and it leaves your mouth quickly, but that doesn’t mean it goes unnoticed.

“I’m sorry, did I overstep?” Connor worries. Actually, Connor worries a lot, specially when it’s about interactions with you. He can’t put his finger on why it pains him so much to see you frown at something he says. He is worried now, yet you’re not frowning. Quite the opposite, actually. Your eyebrows are shot up, like if they could pop out of your face and go up to the ceiling, they would. Your heartbeat is also going faster, and blood is rushing to your cheeks. When you don’t answer, he says your name in a tone that screams ‘nervous as all fuck’.

“Yes?”

“I...” his voice caught in his throat (in the most figurative way possible). Why wasn’t he saying anything!? The music coming from his neighbor’s house wasn’t allowing him to think correctly, his thoughts and the words from the song intertwining and confusing him.

“I like this song,” you quipped, trying to help dissipate the frown crawling subconsciously onto his face. “Ella Fitzgerald is really talented... Don’t you have this record?”

“Yes, actually.” happy at a question he can answer easily, he smiles softly, the frown still adorning his features, though less intensely now, “It’s in one of the boxes for now, though.”

“Ah, I see. Well, it’s still super nice that you have it. You lucked out, really.” he notices you swaying in time with the music.

He starts swaying with the music as well, a smooth trumpet solo paving the way for his steps, getting closer to you. He’s nervous, yet you’re not able to tell. He hopes you’re not able to. He’d be mortified.

"Care to dance?"

“Of course,” you smile at him, “I love a good dance partner” you wink, only half-joking. Your heart rate goes up again and that goddamned blush animation makes its way up his neck.

You hold out your hand to him, and he takes it. Your skin is soft and pliable under his hard plasteel cover. As you raise your hand to eye level to move into a more adequate dancing position, you notice something about Connor’s hand he’s oblivious about: it’s turning white.

“Whoa.” He’s too busy at first, looking at your astonished expression with amusement. Then he wonders about what you’re looking at, and follows your stare to find that (oh no!) he’s trying to interface with you, even though he knows you’re not capable of reciprocating. How... humiliating. Just in time, the music stops as the song comes to an end.

Silence.

Looks like the neighbors decided to finally go to sleep.

There’s a moment in which you look into each other’s eyes, and you can see a hint of terror in your friend’s eyes. You hope he sees tranquility in yours, yet he only finds pity.

‘Oh, poor little thing, it’s trying so hard.’ Yet the rational part of him stops him from spiraling down. No, you wouldn’t call him an ‘it’ before the revolution, he doesn’t think you’d do it now. Yet the pity is still apparent to him.

Only him, though.

“I am so sorry-” he looks away suddenly, and tries to get his fucking hand away from you(‘ohmygodthisisawful') yet you interlace your fingers and he stops trying to pull away when he feels resistance. It’s his turn to watch, shocked, as your human knuckles press between his man-made ones.

“Are you... trying to interface with me?”--a painfully obvious question he forces himself to answer.

“Yes. I’m sorry if this is inconvenient.”

“No, it’s... it’s fine. I just thought this was like, I don’t know, super personal for you guys.”

“It is. Again, sorry if it’s-”

“No. Don’t be dumb, you don’t have to apologize for... whatever this means.”

‘It means I like you a lot. Please realize that already.’

“Alright, then. I don’t quite know what it means either. I’m just as confused as you are.” he lies.

You stay silent.

“Connie?” he can feel his software searching for what he’s trying to connect to, and the feeling intensifies when he hears the nickname you’ve given him, “ I think... Just, going by what I’ve heard...” he must be dreaming again, “I think this means you like me.” That, or he’s hallucinating.

“It’s-” his audio generator lags, “It’s more than that.” he’s lucky he isn’t able to vomit, because he’s sure he’d be spilling his guts right about now with how nervous he is.

“Oh?” his skin keeps retracting and now his whole forearm is white. He’s partially sure it’s because of the way you’re looking at him. “So, what you’re trying to say with this” you gesture to his forearm with your other hand “is... you really like me?”

“More or less, yes-”

“Y’know humans have our way of saying that too?” He can’t form one coherent though with what little time there is between you saying this and you touching his face softly. As you lean forward you search for hesitation on his features, but since you don’t find anything except yearning, you don’t need any more encouragement to close the distance between you.

[multifandom-26]

Maybe an angry sprit isn’t so bad S.W

Sam Winchester x female reader s1/s2 era Sam. No warnings I don’t think besides normal supernatural stuff and kissing. Let me know if it’s bad lol. Archeology reader AU.

Sam, Dean, y/n

7:48 A.M 📍the impala

Are we almost there at least? Sure are Sammy welcome to UWL he says looking ahead at the college campus. So dad sent us to this location because?. Because jerk it’s some sort of artifact that apparently caused a spirit to be stuck and pissed off. So what were just walk around campus asking hey who’s got any ancient artifacts lying around? Sam laughs. Dean sighs no, and I thought you were the smart one, but they have one of the best archeological programs in the U.S so maybe we find an archeology major who’s been on a trip recently. Sam nods, yeah I guess but how do we know who’s even apart of the program. don’t worry I’ll handle that just wait here. As Dean goes inside Sam sits in the car looking around, he gets a sad feeling and reminisces on his college time. He won’t admit it but he does wish he could’ve just done both or not hunted at all. Soon enough Dean comes back out with a list of names and addresses. They go from one dorm to another to an apartment complex and then to another one when they see from the street in front of it that the lights are going on and off. Sam looks up this must be our one. Dean laughs yeah or the electrician did a terrible wiring job. They head inside and get to the room number on the paper they knock then hear a few things slam around inside before a girl opens it. The boys look down at the girl and go are you Y/N Y/L/N she nods and responds with and you are? Dean clears his throat um we’re museum curators, and we heard you’ve got a very interesting piece of pottery. The girl nods still confused they can tell. Sam takes the lead now, as Dean is thinking. “May we come in” Y/N looks up at them, tell me why your really here first and maybe, you know stranger danger and all that but lying to? They laugh Dean smiles, you wouldn’t believe us if we told you even. Y/N smirks try me, I’m an archeology major I’ve heard of every urban legend, detailed myths, and cruses you could think of. They exchange looks, Dean just shakes his head and goes fine but we can’t just exactly say this shit in a hallway. She sighs and invites them in. Whatever was in here calmed down a bit at least.

8:23 am 📍y/n apartment

So you’re an archeology major what’s that like Dean asks. Sam rolls his eyes at his brother , y/n laughs um it’s pretty cool I get to go on digs in the summer last place I went was Serbia then Guam. Really Sam asks now more interested, yeah she smiles it’s amazing, you get to travel, research, and learn about the past which is all I’ve ever wanted to do. Dean smiles we uh kind of do that too, well not to your level but same idea. Sam clear his throat, you said you know about urban legends, myths etc.. what do you think this is? Y/N laughs slow down first who are you guys really, and why are you so interested in whatever is going on with the cursed pottery. Sam looks over to Dean and they just nod, well I’m sam and this my older brother Dean we uh.. we hunt the supernatural. Y/N laughs covering her mouth, uh sorry I didn’t mean to laugh but I knew you weren’t museum curators. Dean looks at her, you’re not freaked out? Not really she smiles it’s interesting besides it’s not my first run in with an angry spirit and awakening something. The boys both now are staring at her, in sync they go this happened before. Y/N shrugs I mean yeah kind of apart of the job. Now I have some books about the pottery piece where and whose it’s associated with so maybe that will help. But we cannot destroy it.

10:36 AM 📍 on the way to diner.

I’m so exhausted, and hungry, I feel like I haven’t eaten in days. . You literally ate this morning and We’re on our way to a literal diner right now if you didn’t remember Sam reminds him. Y/N sits in the back seat quietly and looks out the window and says to turn here and there when they need. They arrive and sit in a booth, what made you want to bring that thing back with you anyways and how did you get it through airport security? Y/N laughs, well it was cool and I was doing a report on it and I am supposed to bring it back to New York for the head researches to do whatever with it but I hit a writing and research block, and for the airport security I have an archeological pass for certain items to be brought through. You do need to get a shit ton of stuff signed through saying all of the info and they’re allowing you to take it out of the country. Dean smiles makes sense, Sam clears his throat so uh, a writing block he says. The girl sighs, yeah I mean it’s been days and I just can’t seem to say what I wanna say and my researching has not been the best. Do you think it’s because of the object Sam asks. She sighs I mean maybe but, I’m also just under a lot of stress right now too with finals and everything and I have one more semester before I graduate so it’s a bit nerve wracking. The boys both shoot her a look of sympathy at her words. Throughout the rest of their meal and chat Dean notices Sam staring at the girl, smiling, and being more bubbly than usual. They leave and head back to y/n’s apartment.

1:07PM 📍y/n’s place

The three sit and stare at the vase, y/n explains the history on it and then tells them she thinks it’s associated with the spirit, As there sitting and reading and writing on post it’s, the piece falls to the floor out of nowhere but dosent break. They sit still almost waiting for another thing to happen just make it sure it wasn’t a weird mishap. Then the lights flicker, and piece goes flying across the room and she appears. A woman, and at that an angry looking one. The boys start grabbing their stuff they make a salt ring around the woman as she just stands there staring at y/n. It then speaks the word return. Y/n is directly behind Sam and at hearing the woman’s words she grabs onto his arm out of fear. Sam feels it and his face heats up, but he smiles, don’t worry we’re not gonna let her get you. Or us. Dean yells do not forget we’re also here and apart of this now Sammy.. obviously sam rolls his eyes. The woman tries to move closer to them but is stopped by the salt ring. Return she says again. Y/N steps out, you return the woman yells again. Y/n picks up the pottery holding it, was this yours? The woman nods. Y/n smiles it’s beautiful, really amazing work. What’s your name? Sofia the woman replies, well Sofia you must have worked hard on this. The woman nods, as y/n is distracting her Sam and Dean start chanting and the woman groans than shrieks a black cloud coming out of her mouth and then she is gone. They all stand staring at where she was, nice work guys y/n smiles. Kinda our thing Dean laughs.

5PM 📍 the apartment

So I wanted to thank you guys for everything today, so… I made steak. Steak! Dean asks excitedly. Yes Y/n smiles. Thank you really, for all of this for helping, the food, and talking to her. Sam smiles. Y/N looks down blushing a bit oh it was nothing. They sit down and eat mindlessly chatting away. Telling Y/N about where they’ll be going next probably and she tells them she can’t wait till next week when finals are done and the summers hers. She is sad though she’s gonna miss them especially Sam, the one she couldn’t keep her eyes off, ever since he appeared in her doorway, the one who thought about her safety, laughed at her jokes, thanked her for the help. Sam… she was going to miss him for sure. Dean noticed her eyeing him as well at points, like now she seemed lost in thought and staring at him. You guys done with your plates, Dean asks getting up. Yeah you and Sam reply hanging them to him. Y/N speaks first, so you guys leave tomorrow morning? Sam sighs yeah, you know always moving. She nods. Y/n laughs I wish I could come, it sounds kinda fun what you guys do, heroic. Sam smiles, yeah me to it would be a refreshing break from having just Dean around. Speaking of him you laugh, where did he go? I thought to put the plates in the kitchen he would’ve been back by now my apartment isn’t big. He could’ve snuck out and went to the bar. Oh okay well it’s just me and you I guess than, do you want anything to dri- y/n gets cut off when Sam kisses her, shocked at first she then kisses back, deepening the kiss she puts her hands around his neck and scoots even closer to him. He wraps his arms around her waist, they break apart after a bit. Sorry he smiles I just I’ve been wanting to do that the whole day but I was nervous that you didn’t like me and I actually still don’t know but- hey she smiles I like you I’ve liked you since you walked through that door this morning. He smiles well in that case, he leans in and kisses her again.

9pm📍the couch

Sitting on Sam’s lap leaning against him, you’re both watching tv you are slowly drifting to sleep. The door opens with the key Dean swiped, Dean steps in and smiles silently pumping his fist, he pulls out his phone and snaps a photo.

7am the next morning:

Come with us when you’re finished we’ll drive back and pick you up even Sam states. The girl smiles, I mean you know it’s my summer, and I’m gonna do this she smiles. Sam hugs her, I can’t wait to see you again. Me to she sighs, I’ll miss you. The pair kiss before he gets in the car and the boys head off. Maybe having an angry spirit in your house isn’t so bad after all.

[nerdieforpedro]

Day Two - Butterflies with Marcus Pike and Female Reader

Word Count: 648

Warnings: one curse and Marcus Pike in plaid

Notes: I remember painting a butterfly in an art class years ago (like 10+ maybe). It was fun and then the professor went into the symbolism behind them in art, which was pretty cool Reminded me of that - hope and transformations which can happen in therapy or outside of it.

Main Masterlist / March Spring Prompts 2024 / Writing Challenges

It was an exercise in capturing beauty. That’s what the therapist told you at least. You’ve never excelled at drawing, painting or any type of art that has to do with manipulating materials. Give you a pen, piece of paper and you’ll make some magic happen on a page, but not with watercolors. Your therapist who you’ve been seeing for the last few months encouraged you to try something new – out of your comfort zone, but not too crazy. They asked you to pick something and bring in what you had created, no matter what appearance it took on. Your art isn’t great, but you and your therapist talk about the colors, what it means to you to have made it. You told them that you were happy to have physically made something and didn’t expect to use such bright colors with the reds, oranges and yellows. Usually, you’re more in the cool color family. It feels good and you have a pep in your step once you leave the office. So much of a pep that you nearly drop your artwork in the hallway while you’re on your way out.

A tall man in a plaid shirt with a white t-shirt underneath and jeans catches it. You might have started at him a bit too hard to have noted what he was wearing head to toe. He asks if you’re alright and smiles, why did he do that? His mere presence is already making your brain malfunction. 

“Christ on a fucking cracker…” It’s said loud enough that you see him blink. It would be wonderful if you could fade away right now. “I-I am so…it was a rough appointment.” A lie would work right now. Blame it on therapy, you’re in a great mood you just need a logical reason for staring and cursing at this very handsome nice man. 

“Ah, I’m sorry you’re having a rough day. Did you do the art exercise too? Oh wait..” His smile went to a frown, “you don’t have to answer that. Your day is bad enough without reliving it right?” He scratches his arm, he might be nervous too, though he likely thinks you’re an unhinged woman. If he does, what’s to lose now?

“I did. I don’t mind sharing. It was my favorite part. It’s always the debriefing and deconstruction that takes the fun out of things.” Turning your piece around, you proudly showed it off. Two orange butterflies are on a blade of grass near a daisy (the only flower you can draw and still tell what it is). The upper one had more red in it and the lower one had more yellow. It’s simple, but the first thing you’ve painted since high school. He appeared to be giving it careful consideration and it made you giggle. It’s not like a museum piece or even talent at a high school or college art show. It’s from your one-time painting class. He clapped his hands and you jumped; it was louder than you expected. 

“Sorry about that. It’s beautiful. Do you know why the therapists keep asking us to paint butterflies?” It appeared he may have an answer that you therapist didn’t cover, and even if he didn’t, you’re listening because he called your art beautiful. No matter if he’s just being nice or not, it was sweet. You shook your head. 

“My therapist said it was a good exercise for trying new things. I haven’t really been too open to doing so.”

He thinks for a moment. You were expecting the answer right away. Maybe he’s building tension. “My name’s Marcus. Maybe we should discuss it over some lunch? It might take a little while. Do you have any plans?” None that can’t be done another day. 

“No, where were you thinking of eating lunch?” Looks like the butterfly painting is leading to new experiences indeed.

[neonblessing]

9.

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT! ⚠️ Click here to read Neon Blessing from the beginning!

“Look, you don’t have to give me a map. Just point me in the right direction.”

“Shiv, kid, I get it. You want revenge. But-”

“I don’t want revenge,” she said. She wasn’t certain if it was a lie.

“Then what do you want?”

“Answers.” Hell, she didn’t even know the finer points of what the two of them had stolen. The house had been full of valuable art, they’d passed a poorly-hidden wall safe on the way to the owner’s office, and they ignored it all in favor of the data drive that had sat atop a messy stack of papers. Ornarch hadn’t told them what was on there, just that it would go for a hundred thousand credits at a minimum, or a million from the right buyer. Most drives its size were just something convenient to hold, with the data itself stored on a chip a few nanometers thick. Whatever was on that drive had been complex enough that the whole damn drive was dedicated to memory. A sphinx glinted darkly on its surface, mirror finish set into matte black. There was something captivating about its sheer scale and the precision of its construction. Something a little sinister, too. Then he had shown up, and the rest of the night was a blurry nightmare of burning, screaming, and blood.

Kooler pursed his lips. “And once you have those answers, what are you going to do?”

“My job. Ornarch wants me to-”

Kooler’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head. “Isn’t your job breaking and entering? At least, I think that’s what you told me the first time we met. Forgive an old man’s memory for its failings, but I think I would have remembered hearing a teenager call themself an executioner.” He suddenly sounded very old, and very tired.

“Maybe I’ve changed. Why do you care?” It came out a little colder than she’d intended it to.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re right. None of my business.”

“So you won’t help me?”

“Staying neutral is how I stay alive. Everyone knows old Kooler keeps his mouth shut.”

“That’s a no?” Her heart sank. She’d known it was a long shot, but even still, Kooler was the closest thing she had to a lead.

Whatever he saw in her face gave him pause. “I… offered them ten thousand for the drive. I don’t even have half the hardware it would take to decrypt that… monster. I told them I wasn’t paying a credit more than that for a piece of software I couldn’t validate, no matter what rumors I’d heard. They took their business elsewhere. I don’t know where.”

“Rumors?”

“Have you been online since you stole it?” She hadn’t. “Half of the criminals in the Diluvian District are hunting after that sphinx drive. It’s anyone’s guess what’s on there, but Ebrelurge put a bounty out on it and then a few gang bosses joined the bidding war. As of this morning, the best offer is 1.6 million.”

Lord of birds. One point six fucking million?

He went on. “I don’t know where they went, but I know someone who might. Don’t go telling everyone I lent you a hand, but you’re- you’re a good kid. Just- hear them out when you see them. Don’t rush headlong into being a killer.”

“Yeah.”

Kooler pushed off the counter, sending his chair on a practiced arc towards a shelf of folders in one corner of the shop. He returned bearing a business card, a thin sheet of crisp white plastic stock with “Club RED – 1191-3962” embossed on it in brilliant crimson. The back side of the card was decorated with a staring eye in the same shade. “Kurtz–the owner of Club RED–knows me, and she’s got a panopt. Ask to see Odie. If it can’t help you, no one can.”

Shiv grinned. “Thanks, Kooler.”

“I’d say ‘any time,’ but really I’d rather not stick my neck out again.”

“With any luck, you won’t have to!”

The door squealed as she left.

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