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confessedlyfannish · 2 months

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Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff #but I also just want to post it and get it out there #fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them #im bad at multiple drafts #my writing #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #batman #i live to make everybody dramatic #but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic #lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade #and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so #he doesn't need to change for nobody #nor feels inclined to #also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable #jazz: let's unpack that #clockwork: we never do #jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING #wish i could #that is cash money right there #shoutout to 11thsense

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ellemj · 6 months

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We Don't Have to Stop: 12 Days of Smut #10

Bucky Barnes x Reader One-Shot

Warnings: profanity, mutual pining of sorts, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink but not really, truly cheesy fluffy shit, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: I do not like writing cheesy fluffy stuff, it is not me at all but I felt like this prompt really called for it so I tried my best. I love all of @mashedpotatooooos prompts, this was another really creative one!

It’s just a waltz, the simplest dance you could’ve been told to learn. Yet, with Bucky, it feels complicated. You don’t think the dance is complicated in itself, but the way Bucky has been teaching it to you for the past two weeks is complicated. Is complicated even the right word? It’s confusing. There you go, that’s the right word. He always came across as this elusive recluse. You rarely see him during the day but he’s up late every single night without fail. He doesn’t go out of his way to interact with anyone except for Sam. Or at least that was true until he offered to teach you to dance. Now, you’re all his every night at 8 pm.

From 8 to 10 pm, Bucky gets to remember what it’s like to have a girl swooning in his arms. Swooning? Maybe he was being a bit too bold by thinking that, but it sure felt like you were swooning when you looked up into his eyes just as he pulled you close against his chest last night. The way you’ve been looking at him the last few days makes him dread the day the mission is set for, because he knows that as soon as it’s over, your little late-night rendezvous in the gym will end. You’ll dance one final time while undercover at the gala, and then he’ll only have the memory of you being so close to him.

Bucky sits on the floor of the gym with his back leaning against the wall and his knees bent in front of him. He’s replaying the last two weeks with you in his head as he traces the golden lines of his vibranium arm with his flesh index finger.

“Hey, sorry I’m a few minutes late. I had a dinner thing.” Your sweet, melodious voice rings out like a song as soon as you come bustling into the gym. Even if you hadn’t mentioned having dinner plans, Bucky would’ve been able to tell from the full face of makeup and the loose curls you’re sporting. You look so put together, even though you’ve changed into more gym-appropriate clothes since dinner. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a baggy SHIELD sweatshirt. Normally, you’d have worn a t-shirt, but you were in such a rush you put on whatever you grabbed first. That was your first mistake. Your second mistake was leaving your hair down.

You’re only fifteen minutes into your little dance lesson when you decide that you’re getting a little too warm to keep the sweatshirt on, so when Bucky breaks away from you to pick a new song, you pull your sweatshirt off and toss it on the floor next to your water bottle.

Fuck. He’s staring, and he’s fully aware that he shouldn’t be, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you. You’re standing before him in a black sports bra and matching leggings with sweat glistening across your cleavage and neck. Though your eyes are down on your water bottle as you work to screw the cap back on it, you can feel Bucky’s gaze burning as it coasts over your skin. You always know when he’s looking at you, it’s like a sixth sense.

“Play that song you almost played yesterday, the one with the trumpets, the one you skipped. I liked that one.” You say softly, when you finally look up and meet Bucky’s gaze. He swallows hard before nodding his head and setting the song to play. As soon as you hear the lead trumpet, you feel like you’re being transported back in time to whenever Bucky and Steve were probably the talk of Brooklyn.

As you and Bucky get into position to practice your waltz, Bucky hesitates for a moment. His hand comes to rest on your middle back, as it has every other time that you’ve practiced, but his touch feels unsure.

“This is a great song, but it’s not exactly a song for a waltz.” Bucky points out.

“Then show me how you’d dance to this one.”

This is what led to Bucky having his first moment in the 21st century that made him feel like he was truly at home. The two of you danced to It’s Been a Long, Long Time by Harry James in a way that Steve would’ve been proud of. Bucky pulled you in close, so close that your bodies were nearly flush against each other. You’d never danced like this with anyone before, but with Bucky it felt like second nature. He held one of your hands in his, slightly above the height of your elbow, and his other hand wrapped snugly around your lower back, keeping you pressed against him. As you swayed back and forth, the eye contact between you both was intense, lighting your soul on fire. When the burning inside of your chest became too much to bear, you did the only thing you could think to do. You leaned in and rested your chin on his shoulder. Truthfully, it was a beautiful moment. Bucky closed his eyes and imagined this exact moment happening back before his life became what it is today, when Steve was still the little guy he had to stick up for and everything costed a few cents rather than a few dollars.

The only thing that maybe wasn’t so beautiful was the hard-on that Bucky was sporting. Luckily, you didn’t notice it. His hips were just far enough away from yours that you never once brushed against the front of his pants. Though, you were every bit as turned on as he was. You thought maybe dancing like that explains why women had so many kids back in the day. Who knew it would’ve been such a rush?

When you finished your practice session an hour and a half later, you were quick to take your leave and rush upstairs to your room. At first, you were kicking yourself over the way you were practically swooning over the quiet, brooding man. But then, as you started to get into a warm shower, you began to wonder what was so bad about simply fantasizing about him. So, you threw on some music and spent the entire shower imagining him standing behind you, helping you lather the soap over your smooth skin. You may have even imagined him licking the drops of water off of your skin before you toweled yourself dry. Little did you know, Bucky was across the hall in his own shower, imagining the same damn thing.

---

The mission went off without a hitch. You waltzed the evening away, got all of the intel that you were after, and then made it home by ten pm. The two of you went your separate ways for the night, with you curling up in your room to begin typing out your mission report and Bucky heading off to do whatever it is he does late at night. When you finally shut your laptop an hour and a half later, you felt a twinge of sadness. No more late-night dance lessons, no more necessary closeness with the man across the hall, no more knowing what it’s like to be pressed against Bucky’s chest. You decide to trek out into the kitchen for a near-midnight snack. A snack is exactly what you need to lift your spirits.

Bucky hears your door open and close down the hall. He listens closely as you patter down the hallway and across the living area, your footsteps slowing as you near the kitchen. Your eyes land on his bare shoulders first, and then your gaze coasts down the muscles of his back. Shit, he should go shirtless more often. You join him in the kitchen without saying a word. He turns to look at you as you rummage through the pantry, but looking at you only makes him feel worse. He wants something that he didn’t know he wanted, and it’s all because of that damn dance two nights ago. The dance where you rested your chin on his shoulder and let him hold you close enough to feel your heartbeat pounding against his own.

You settle on a box of cereal, pulling it out and shutting the pantry door. When you turn to look for a bowl, you notice Bucky’s stare. He doesn’t look away, instead you end up looking into each other’s eyes. His gaze is full of longing, and maybe a little bit of lust.

“You’re up late.” His voice sounds so tired, it makes you want to drag him back to his room and tuck him right into bed.

“I’m getting used to these late hours, dancing with you every night messed up my Circadian rhythm.” Bucky laughs lightly, but your words keep playing in his mind.

“Sorry, we probably should’ve been practicing earlier in the day.” He admits.

“No, it’s fine. I liked having the gym to ourselves. I’ll miss it, honestly.”

“Having the gym to yourself?” Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow. He watches as you carefully pour a bit of cereal into a small ceramic bowl.

“No.” The word leaves your mouth too quickly to take it back.

“What will you miss then?” He wants to hear what you’re thinking, he wants to know that you’ll miss it as much as he will.

“It was nice…the dancing.” You say quietly, your eyes flitting over to where Bucky stands confidently now, his arms crossed over his bare chest and a smile playing on his lips.

“It was.” He agrees. That’s all he has to say? God, you need to calm your damn racing heart if that’s all he has to say. Bucky continues watching as you pour milk over your cereal and then take a small bite. He can just barely make out the slight blush painting your cheeks. As his eyes coast down your frame, he notices the way you’re clenching your thighs together ever so slightly. Fuck. It isn’t even lust he’s feeling. He wants to slow dance with you to 40s music and then lay you down in his bed and kiss you all over. He wants to go back in time and introduce you to his mom before sitting down and having a family meal with you by his side. He wants all of the old-fashioned things with you.

The one and only time Bucky that has lost control since being freed from the hold that the Winter Soldier had on his mind, happens right there in the kitchen. As you raise your spoon to take the second bite of your cereal, Bucky rushes forward, practically knocking the spoon out of your hand as his hands come to cup either side of your face. His lips are on yours before you even have a moment to realize what’s happening, but your body responds like kissing Bucky is a natural instinct. Your cereal is forgotten as he walks you backward two steps, his lips slotting over yours with an urgency and passion you’d never dreamt would come from him. When your back collides with the cool metal of the fridge, your lips part to breathe in a gasp of air and Bucky takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between them. It’s a kiss that could make you forget your own damn name.

“I liked dancing with you.” Bucky whispers against your lips, letting you have a moment to catch your breath. You look up into his eyes, silently begging him to say more. “We don’t have to stop, just because the mission is over.”

“Stop dancing?” You question. Your innocent little expression makes his cock a little too hard, and he starts to step away from you, worried you’ll figure him out. You’re quick to place your hands on his sides and keep him in place.

“Stop dancing, stop being this close to each other, we don’t have to stop anything.” Bucky answers. He presses a much softer kiss against your lips before pulling back again.

“Don’t stop then.”

---

“Don’t stop, Bucky, please.” You moan out the words as quietly as you can, which isn’t very quietly given Bucky’s entire cock is pumping in and out of you so quickly that you can’t even catch your breath. He wanted to be old-fashioned with you. Bucky fucking loved the idea of taking you out on a date, taking you dancing, taking things slow. But as soon as you told him not to stop in the kitchen, he was done for. It had only been fifteen minutes from then until now. Now he’s fucking you like you’re his newlywed wife.

“I’m not, baby. I’m not stopping for anything.” He grunts, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as he continues to thrust into you. You’re taking his cock so well that he can’t keep himself from imagining giving it to you every day for the rest of his life. You’re taking his cock so well that he hopes you end up pregnant with his child, so he can live out the perfect 40s fantasy that lives in the back of his mind. He wants you all to himself, sleeping in his bed, having his kids, growing old with him. His thrusts grow a little slower and sloppier as he edges himself unintentionally.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask. You can tell he’s lost in thought as he continues sliding in and out of your wet cunt. You run your hands up his back and then rake your nails down it lightly.

“The 40s.” He answers semi-honestly. Bucky lifts his head and looks in your eyes and gives you an unexpectedly hard thrust with his hips, driving his cock in so deep that you feel the tip brush against your cervix. After your sultry moan echoes throughout his room, you try to gather yourself and continue the conversation.

“Would you have fucked me like this in the 40s?” You have to ask.

“You think I’m fucking you?” Is he not? Bucky looks down at you quizzically, patiently waiting for an answer as he continues his painfully slow movements. You nod your head, unsure of how to really answer his question. Bucky kisses you just like he did in the kitchen earlier. It’s a mixture of lips and tongue, with a heaping portion of passion. He sucks on your bottom lip before biting down on it and then picking up the pace with his hips. He thrusts into you harder and harder until the pleasure you’re feeling is so overwhelming that your nails dig into his back a little too hard and you’re sure you’ve left marks that’ll last at least a couple of days. When Bucky feels the walls of your pussy fluttering around his cock, he knows you’re close and he takes a leap. He lets himself cum inside you without saying a damn word. You watch as his head tilts back above you and a long, low groan escapes his lips and enters the space between you. He’s cumming inside of you, and he looks so fucking perfect doing it. Simply seeing him come undone like that sends you right over the edge after him, and he fucks you through the strongest orgasm you’ve ever experienced.

A few seconds go by and Bucky remains buried deep inside of you, refusing to make any move other than peppering kisses across your nose and cheeks as you come down from your high.

“I didn’t fuck you.” He says between kisses. You giggle and shake your head, clearly not understanding.

“Are you sure?” You ask, your eyes floating down to where your bodies are still connected. Bucky’s gaze softens as he leans down and presses one last soft kiss to your lips.

“I made love to you.”

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#bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #marvel #the winter soldier #winter soldier #12 days of smut

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maxinemaxmayfield · 9 months

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For the STWG daily drabble prompt: summer camp

“You were a summer camp kid?” Eddie asks, looking at the photo stuck up beside Steve’s desk.

He’s probably about 8, missing a front tooth, hair messy and a carefree smile across his face.

“Yeah, that a surprise?”

“Just figured you were more of a horse-back-riding-and-sailing kind of kid.”

Steve snorts. “It’s Indiana, Eddie. You want your kid to disappear for a couple months, you send them to camp.”

Eddie hums, looking closer at the shirt Steve’s wearing. It’s a grainy photo, old and faded, but he recognises that design.

“Wait… is that Camp Tippecanoe?”

“You know it?”

“Uh, yeah, I went there.”

Steve looks at him curiously. “You didn’t even live in Hawkins back then.”

“No, but Wayne applied for me to go. They had a program for ‘underprivileged’ kids, probably a tax break thing or something. But I got in, and he offered to drive me, so my folks couldn’t say no.”

Steve drops down next to his bed, reaching underneath and pulling out a battered shoebox. He doesn’t say a word, just removes the lid and starts rifling through the contents.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks him, kneeling on the other side of the box.

“What year were you there?”

“Uh, I was… I think around 10, maybe? So probably 1976.”

Steve doesn’t answer, just keeps flipping through the photos like he’s looking for something he knows is in there.

He stops at a photo of two boys side-by-side. “I went every summer until I was 12, Ed. Every single summer.”

And then Eddie is looking at a photo of his younger self, hair buzzed and a skinny arm thrown around the boy next to him, a boy who looks an awful lot like -

“You were little Stevie?” Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, eyes dropping from Steve’s at a sudden memory that crashes over him like a rogue wave.

“How much do you remember about that summer?” Steve asks, quietly.

Eddie keeps his eyes on the carpet between them, suddenly very interested in memorising the exact shade.

“Everything,” he finally admits.

“Me too.”

And when he looks back up, he sees the same soft, kind eyes he saw behind the mess hall right before he leaned in for his first kiss. A kiss with a boy he never thought he’d see again after that summer. A kiss he never forgot.

#stranger things #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #daily drabble #demogorgon daily fics #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #my fic

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blue-avis · 1 year

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Dc X DP prompt/story idea

So Danny has teamed up with different Captain Marvels over the years (either via clockwork shenanigans, or the Dp universe is simply older then DC) and Billy has memorys of this badass Ghost coming to help his predecessors out of tight spots.

Billy brings him up offhandedly in a JL meeting and jokingly calls Danny his dad. (Oh that reminds me of when Phantom went all dad mode and stopped this powerful mage from killing me a few hundred years ago)

The JL finds some ancient pots or writings describing Phantom as a benevolent god. They connect the dots.

A demigod calling a being described as a god their father? Checks out.

The league really needs help with something or someone world ending (probably darkseid) and they are out of all options so they tell Marvel to call his dad. Even Bruce and Constantine are onboard because a being described as benevolent that is apparently one of the most powerful leaders dad is certainly the safest option then whatever else they have at the moment.

Billy internally freaks out and tells them he needs to go to the Rock of Eternity to call him because he lives in a another dimension/universe and it’s just safer contact him there. Billy books it to the rock sifting through memorys, spell books, and desperately asking Shazam for help because none of his predecessors ever contacted Danny he just showed up.

Billy eventually finds something to summon Danny and does so, not before getting some food as offering of course. Danny shows up either and a adult or a Elterich being because it’s just easier to have adults respect you when you look like that rather then a 14 year old.

When Danny sees Billy he’s instantly like ‘is that a 12 year old!?’ Because his powers as the ghost king and or being considered an ancient let’s him see through the magic that is Caption Marvels form. Billy tells Danny about the situation and Danny is concerned.

Depending on how the writer wants the fic to go Danny’s reaction would probably be either ‘I must help him at all costs because he’s like I was after the accident’ or ‘he’s way to young to be fighting such powerful beings, who do I give a piece of my mind to!’

It could easily be either Danny adopting Billy, or Danny and Billy becoming close friends that pretend to be father and son to mess with the JL and JLD

#dp x dc #dc x dp #danny phantom #captain marvel #Danny just goes with it #they are both chaos gremlins #Danny Fenton is immortal and has nothing better to do #fanfic #dp x dc prompt #fanfic promt #how do i tag help #ghost king danny #maybe #if you want

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augustofwhump · 2 months

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AUGUSTOFWHUMP ’24

A new whump event/challenge set in August, run by @painonthebrain!

Write-up of prompts & rules under the cut!

AUGUSTOFWHUMP PROMPTS:

Day 1: food / risk / overexertion

Day 2: iv / shock / cry for help

Day 3: poison / shady business / freezing

Day 4: filth / screams / open wounds

Day 5: stranded / power tools / ache

Day 6: confusion / spark / veins

Day 7: time loop / rot / promise

Day 8: rejected apology / trap / attack

Day 9: role reversal / caged / body modification

Day 10: secret / exhaustion / publicity

Day 11: freedom / scars / insecurity

Day 12: deal / monstrous / anger

Day 13: witness / resigned obedience / bootlicking

Day 14: dehumanization / darkness / alone

Day 15: salt in wounds / phobia / revenge

Day 16: hunt / disaster / dread

Day 17: experimental serum / cramps / stress position

Day 18: came back wrong / unavoidable / muzzle

Day 19: salvation / midnight / mistake

Day 20: contaminated / escape / test

Day 21: set up to fail / bitter / creep

Day 22: stitches / robbery / insects

Day 23: feral / possession / fate

Day 24: humiliation / gilded cage / jewelry

Day 25: barbed wire / insults / tear stains

Day 26: sensory deprivation / heartbeat / tape

Day 27: proof / memory / machine

Day 28: bloody nose / medic / abandoned

Day 29: control / touchstarved / broken glass

Day 30: blindfolded / obsession / gift

EDIT: I forgot day 31 so that’s “fuck it we ball” day. Make whatever you want. LMAO

ALT PROMPTS:

Drowning

Broken trust

Claustrophobia

Guilt

Human shield

Locked outside

Whipping

Collapse

The only survivor

Scraps

Outcast

GUIDELINES:

Prompts should ideally be responded to in the form of whump

Creators can make any type of media they want (Yes, this includes any kind of media, no matter how niche. As long as it’s creative, it’s allowed)

You can do as few or as many prompts as you like

You can complete these prompts in tandem with any other event or other prompts (such as in combination with Bad Things Happen Bingo, @randowhump’s Birthday Whump Event, AU-gust, etc.)

DO NOT use ai. I can’t be entirely sure what is or isn’t, but I trust you to at least put some type of effort in your creations. These events are no fun otherwise!

Tag & trigger warn your content accordingly

NSFW is allowed, however because I’m currently a minor, I will not look at or reblog it (Again, tag and label it!)

Tag your works as #augustofwhump and #augustofwhump2024. In addition to that, you can also tag this account — @augustofwhump. (Do not @ me in NSFW works.) I’ll try to reblog whatever I can!

EDIT: The August of Whump 2024 ao3 collection is here! It will be open for submissions on August 1.

I’m really excited (and nervous) to do this and I know it’s a bit early to post these prompts but whatever — it just means more time for people to work on prompts if they choose to do this event, right?

#whump #whumplr #whump community #whump challenge #whump event #whump prompts #augustofwhump #augustofwhump2024

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ma1dita · 4 months

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trouble's coming for you

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 3.7k

summary: (established relationship) suggestive banter lol The one where Percy meets his two favorite counselors at Camp Half-Blood. Also known as the three times Percy is completely oblivious about you two, plus the time he learns what L-O-V-E looks like for two teen demigods. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader)

a/n: PERCY POV!!! maybe the real enemy was the blue balls Luke got from a clueless 12-year-old. you’re gonna tell me you wouldn’t overthrow the gods too? scream at me in the comments and feel free to reblog :)

(posted 2/29/24, edited!!! i think!!! four hours of sleep later and a big kiss to @hotchfiles miss lari as always for inspo mwah)

—

What’s in a name?

One of the last defining memories Percy Jackson had with his mother before arriving at Camp Half-Blood was her reminder that names have power. He’s held fast to that belief, treading carefully with his words in this unfamiliar place that he’s supposed to call home so soon after losing his own.

Being the new kid for the hundredth time in his life means that he’s accustomed to change, much less introducing himself as Percy Jackson, whatever that means at this point—but then becoming known simply as the kid who causes trouble. What then, is he supposed to do, when his first friend at camp introduces him to a girl who embodies the name trouble?

To Luke, through Percy’s actions, it seems as if he’s trying to reclaim a crown that currently belongs to the beloved head counselor of Camp Half-Blood.

—

The dining pavilion is filled with mouth-watering scents and the sound of chattering campers to the point that it’s a bit overstimulating if he thinks too hard about it. Mr. Brunn—er, Chiron told him to take it easy after the events from yesterday, but he feels a bit tough on luck after making Luke run circles around camp trying to find what he’s good at.

“Is there a Greek god of disappointment? Maybe someone should ask if he’s missing a kid,” Percy says glumly, pushing the mac and cheese around on his plate. Luke sighs, letting the boy to his right speak.

“Oizys,” Chris mumbles through full cheeks before he cocks his head at the 12-year-old, “but she’s a goddess, and her whole thing isn’t really disappointment, it’s more like failure.”

Luke looks to Chris with a half smile before looking back at the kid and saying, “We’re gonna find the thing you’re good at. I know it.” He looks like he’s going to say something else before something, or someone catches his attention and it’s almost like the older boy is transfixed, eyes shining with mischief or something deeper that Percy’s young brain couldn’t comprehend just yet.

“And here comes trouble…” Luke says with a smirk, eyes following your figure until your feet take you to their table. The sandy-haired boy twists around, expecting to see a goddess of some sort until he sees you, violet eyes and a lilt of something sinister—giving off the energy of someone who holds power but also likes to fuck with it. You cross your arms over your chest, gaze floating over the three boys and at the tip of your chin, Luke takes his plate off the table, prompting you to hop up and slide onto the smooth surface in front of him.

“You look like someone kicked your puppy, so you must be the new kid. Peter, right?”

A snort of laughter comes from behind your slouched form, Luke partially concealed but body obviously shaking with amusement as he looks at you.

“He might just turn out to be a puppy kicker one day,” the son of Hermes jokes, “Meet Percy Jackson.”

“That’s not…”

You sigh at Luke’s idea of a joke, face incredulous as you lean over and conjure strawberries onto Percy’s plate. He’d never seen anything like that before, someone so casual about their abilities, but he didn’t have much of a reference past yesterday. This camp keeps surprising him in ways he’s never imagined possible.

“Heard D gave you a hard time earlier, sorry about him—I’d blame it on withdrawals but he’s just an asshole,” you offer with a smile and a handshake as you introduce yourself, watching the boy’s eyes widen with wonder.

“It’s not your fault…I’m used to being the new kid.”

Eyebrows furrowing at his tone, you lean in closer, voice turning serious. You’re a lot like Mr. D in the sense that it’s easy for you to poke at the kids who come through here for a reaction to make sure they’re okay mentally. When they don’t react is usually the call for help.

“Well, new kid, if anyone gives you a problem here at camp, you let me know. Even if it’s these two hooligans, or if it’s my dad.”

“You’re talking to our lovely head counselor, Percy. She calls the shots around here,” Chris chimes in jest. But only one part of your sentence sticks in his mind as he whips his head up from munching on a berry.

“He’s your dad?”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” you giggle, “and though you’re sweet and I would love to have you as a sibling, he kind of has a rule on having too many kids at once, unlike other gods.”

“A rule he’s already broken,” Luke drones, hand fidgeting with the black bandana tied around your thigh, “but who knows? If Percy ends up to be one of you, well…may the gods have mercy on us all.”

A deadpan stare is directed at the scarred boy, and you swipe at his curls like a feral cat, making him wince and laugh all the same as he bats you away.

“Tough shit, 11. Do you know how many hellions inhibit your cabin? Your dad inflicts agony on me personally every time another one of your siblings walks past the boundaries.”

The petty squabble is interrupted by the chime of the bell over your heads, but you two are still in a world of your own. It reminds Percy of the time he watched two subway rats fight over a pizza slice on the 6—he didn’t really know who to root for then either. Chris sighs and gets up, nudging Luke to follow, which he does begrudgingly as he claps his large hand on your leg. You hiss.

“Our turn!” Luke says with a hint of sarcasm.

“Our turn for what?”

“Burnt offerings,” you explain as you chomp on a strawberry, “the gods like the smell, so it gets their attention before you say a prayer.” You notice Percy stay in his seat, which makes a smile pull at your lips, “Think you’re off the hook for today though, bud. Or you can be just like me.”

“Don’t give him any ideas, trouble. I’ll throw in a few for Hestia.” Luke chews at his lip as he leans over you to grab a few berries off of Percy’s plate to toss into the fire for you.

“You don’t pray?”

“I’m not really the religious type. I’ve got what I need,” you concede, leaning back on your palms as you watch the son of Hermes stand for a few extra seconds at the hearth. “Besides, my godrent is right over there, and Luke worries enough for me. It’s more his thing,” you say with a lazy smile. The campers filing out of the dining hall wave at you and you enthusiastically greet everyone with dancing fingers. He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone that…happy to be on the job, but things work differently around here, so he doesn’t think much of your upbeat attitude.

“Eat up. Some of that strength has to go to you. Gonna need it.” You say ruffling Percy’s hair, and when Luke comes back, he tugs at the shoelaces of your boots until you kick his hands away. You both share a smile like people do a secret, even here in the open air.

“Do they like the smell of burnt mac and cheese?” Percy says curiously, eating another spoonful of the meal. His head hurts at another thing to consider in this brand-new world he’s walked into.

“They like the smell of begging,” Luke grins, and you laugh like a firework going off, making Percy’s lips pull up into a smile.

“I’m not much of a beggar though, if you ask me.”

The son of Hermes hums at you like he wants to say otherwise, and you slap his chest as you suck air through your teeth. Beneath the wood top of the table and with Percy being none the wiser, your fingers intertwine with Luke’s like it’s second nature.

“You burn what you’ll miss the most. Then they know you really mean what you’re about to say, so they listen.”

Luke takes a breath after explaining how things work for the nth time to the kid, knowing Percy’s quite persistent about making his dad notice him. He remembers being jaded too—striving to be the best for a lick of his dad’s attention and all of his efforts were done in vain. Even though the kid’s arrival at camp was a bit unexpected, Luke doesn’t mind showing him around.

Hopefully, less work on your end means that he can spend more time with you once this is over with— but by the looks of how the day is going so far, he’s not so sure. He hopes his offerings reach the gods and they grant him extra patience for his good deeds. Watching you laugh at something Percy says as you all walk out of the dining pavilion, Luke wonders if you know that every offering he burns for the goddess of the hearth and home is so that she’ll protect you.

—-

“Lights out in 10 minutes, cabin 11! Everyone ready for bed?”

The sound of your voice jolts Percy awake from his post-dinner nap and he blinks slowly until he sees you walking towards him with extra blankets and pillows in your grasp. The other campers were kind of stand-offish, and after praying to his mom he was overwhelmed with the feeling of missing her, so much so that it drained the rest of his energy.

“Long day, huh bud?”

Drowsy with sleep, for a moment, Percy forgets where he is—the unfamiliar walls of the cabin making him shift with unease as he rubs at his eyes. The blurry version of you makes his chest go warm and for a second, it’s like—

“Mom?”

He blinks again, his pale face turning red when he realizes his slip-up. Percy’s shoulders drop when he hears giggles from somewhere in the big cabin and you reach out to smooth his hair away from his face with a gentle smile.

“Don’t worry about it. Everyone who first comes to 11 gets nightmares. For some of them, they don’t leave,” you mutter. Percy notices your eyes flicker over to Luke’s bed, where he’s zipping up his hoodie and chatting with one of his half-siblings. Cabin 11 is finally quieting down for the night—children scrambling into their bunks, doing nighttime routines, and having quiet conversations. It’s all so weird, this being everyone’s normal.

“You’re not alone though. Saw you earlier, outside. I still pray to my mom sometimes. She's quite the listener,” you say with a sad twinkle in your eye. The kid sniffs as you hand him the pillows and blankets, finally meeting your gaze.

“Did your mom…” Die too? The words feel like lead in his throat, feeling heavy as he swallows it down. He doesn’t want to cry in front of the pretty counselor, much less speak the truth, because if he says it out loud, it means his mom dying must have been real. Also since you’ve seen him sit in the dark of the forest burning blue jelly beans like a freak. What he didn’t know is that you pride yourself on being one. It takes one to know one, after all.

“Yeah. Makes for one hell of an origin story, but I found my place here, and people who care. I know you will too, when you’re rea—” Your words trail off when you see Luke walk past the both of you with a cool expression before he nods towards the door, and you squeeze Percy’s shoulder before getting up.

“Night guys! It’s getting late so we’ll have to do a story next time, okay?” You walk down the aisle patting heads and tucking in smaller campers, and he hears you whack the younger Stoll brother when he teasingly says, “It’s not fair that Luke gets a bedtime story and we don’t…”

“Connor, enough. I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve woken up and called me mom, so save it for tomorrow.” He must have been the one laughing earlier.

“Everyone say goodnight trouble!” Luke calls out with a coy expression, making you roll your eyes as you flick the light off to a symphony of jeers. It’s finally quiet as Percy is propped up against some pillows that smell like raspberries and soft cotton before he realizes he has to pee.

But Chris said harpies hunt kids after curfew… he thinks.

In a moment of sheer panic, Percy looks around in the darkness of the cabin before the sound of your cackling pierces through the dim light from the outside. He hops up from the makeshift cot and tugs his shoes back on, slowly creeping past the long row of bunks to not disturb other campers before he gets to the door. Your head turns quickly to the intrusion as you spring away from Luke, stubbing a cigarette underneath the wood panel out of sight when Percy steps through the doorway.

“Sorry, I need to use the bathroom,” he says sheepishly as Luke nods, scratching his neck and leaning a far distance away from you. Under the low burning lamps, Percy notices Luke’s cheeks redden and he wonders if he is interrupting something, but the urge to go increases as he steps between you two.

“Right. I’ll walk you to yours?” Luke blurts in one breath. With a wordless smile on your lips, you nod before Percy purposely interrupts this time.

“I can walk her, it’s on the way to the bathrooms, right?”

If only this poor kid knew he was being the cockblock of the century.

“Yeah, Percy’s got me. The harpies won’t like you missing curfew, Castellan,” you tease, stepping around him with a shit-eating grin. Your hair almost floats in the gentle breeze, and Luke rolls his eyes.

“Stay out of trouble. I mean it,’ he sighs, before shoving you off the porch, and you laugh at the irony of his words. Looking back at Luke, Percy noticed his eyes were on you like he wanted to live in your skin, which was equal parts disgusting and confusing to the 12-year-old. His steps double in pace as you both walk down the path and a brief side glance at your stifled smile quickly makes the kid wonder if you’d let him. Pushing the sleeves of Luke’s hoodie past your elbows, you wave at Percy’s rushing figure as he almost bolts to the bathroom and you lean against the doorway of your empty cabin. You turn the light on and look across the way to see your boyfriend still leaning against his door, so you flip him off. Of course, he takes that as his cue to saunter over.

But then the loud clanging sound of pipes bursting reaches both of your ears and toilet water floods the dirt near the back end of your cabin.

So close.

“I’m gonna go check on Annie to see if she’s still on duty. Tough luck, babe,” you giggle, pressing a kiss to his cheek before walking in the direction that Percy went, sending the son of Hermes to drag his feet towards your cabin, alone (he didn’t expect to fall asleep propped over your covers waiting up for you, but a lot happened in that damn bathroom).

—

“Hey, today feel like a winning kind of day to you?” Annabeth smirks at the son of Hermes. Next to them, Percy feels a hand clap him on the shoulder and all three of them turn to see you donning red.

“Didn’t you three hear the conch? Wouldn’t want you to fall behind,” you say with a grin as Luke steps up to you and whistles lowly.

“Didn’t know you were playing today. It’s a shame you look that good in red.”

Annabeth fake gags as she crosses her arms to say, “You’re also currently on enemy territory if you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, you wound me. I’m not a threat. Percy, I obviously don’t have the flag, right?”

He nods a bit dumbly, still worried about the mechanics of the game and the part he has to play for the blue team, but no one else seems to share his concerns.

“Anyways, sorry I’m not on your team, Perce. The Ares kids snatched me up as soon as my name was on the roster, so I came to wish you all luck.”

“This better not be a diversion tactic, trouble,” Luke simpers, playfully tugging at your staff, which you use for leverage to step up onto a rock to meet him at eye level.

“Nah. You know I like the competition, angelface,” you whisper, almost daring him to do something.

“Bite me, trouble.”

There’s a fire in his eyes you’d love to stoke, but now’s not the time or place. You can’t help but indulge though—the both of you enjoy the reactions you can pull from each other.

“You’d like it too much.”

“Alright now,” Annabeth groans, calling your name, rolling her eyes as she pulls at Luke’s arm, “Gotta remember he’s your enemy!”

“I’M TRYING!” You laugh, shaking your head and walking back towards your team as you shoot them a fake salute. It all happens too quickly as Percy’s unable to catch the spitfire words between the two of you, thinking further about how he might get maimed during this game (which in the grand scheme of things, he almost does. Thanks Clarisse).

“Those two are hopeless! Walk faster, sunshine—we lost too much time watching whatever that was.” Percy stumbles along the forest path as he follows Annabeth, the both of them leaving Luke smirking to himself as he follows the rest of their team.

Hours later, at Clarisse’s muddy feet and holding her broken spear, Percy hears cheering in the distance as he watches the blue team led by Luke waving the red flag in one hand and your legs supported by his other. You’re in a fireman’s hold across his shoulders and everyone watches as the son of Hermes spins you around like a Tilt-a-Whirl until the sound of your shrieks is audible from the shoreline. He sets you down gently, dominant hand still around your waist as he snickers, “Got my win and my girl. Must be time to celebrate.” You laugh at his absurdity, pulling his helmet off and wiping the sweat off his forehead with your bandana.

“You’re always going to be a loser in my eyes.”

Slapping the plush of your hip, the sound echoes in the air—suddenly quiet as you gasp. But you’re not looking at Luke anymore, but rather the gleaming trident above Percy’s head as it’s revealed he’s a forbidden child. His jaw tightens at the sight, and there are a lot of emotions running through him, remembering Thalia and knowing that his plans will have to be altered once more because of Percy Jackson. You squeeze his hand before walking away from him to follow your dad and Chiron to the Big House, shooting him a nervous glance.

Damn.

—

The boys have been sparring for hours, and just as you think Percy’s getting the hang of it, Luke thrusts forward with an energy no one should have towards a 12-year-old. Although a bit concerning, he does have a lot to catch up on how to fight like a demigod before his quest in a few days.

“Take a break or else you’ll be crawling away from camp by the end of the week,” you joke, handing Percy and Luke bottles of cold water. Your boyfriend takes big gulps before pouring the rest over his head, leaving you gaping and a little hot under his stare as he nudges your chin and winks.

“You’re doing that on purpose!”

Luke shrugs slyly, and the both of you watch Percy catch his breath. He leans over your shoulder, the tone of his voice sultry as it tickles your ear, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other word would smell as sweet.”

You bite your lip, before bursting with laughter—which isn’t exactly the reaction he thought you’d have. Maybe he should’ve finished reading the sonnet before falling asleep, but you always take too long with your nighttime skincare routine.

“That doesn’t mean what you think it means, but you’re cute for trying,” you coo, leaning closer so that your cheek touches his. Luke’s whole face is warm from exertion and now embarrassment, but he smiles nonetheless at the proximity. He can’t believe he still misses you, even when you’re skin-to-skin like this.

“That stanza…Isn’t it about names being meaningless?” Percy says between gasps of air before he pours the rest of the water bottle over his head like Luke did. He’s looking up at the both of you as he leans against a tree, instantly feeling more rejuvenated.

You jerk up from your seated position on the large rocks, excited to talk about Shakespeare, and Luke almost pouts at the loss of your attention.

“Yeah! Good job, bud. I forget you went to a hoity-toity charter school,” you say tongue-in-cheek, before turning back to your boy.

“So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and, for thy name, which is no part of thee, take all myself. You’re gonna have to interpret that one yourself, angelface.”

“Trust I have no fucking clue but you sound really hot when you talk dirty to me,” Luke says with a shrug. Percy laughs at that, before finally bringing up the question that’s been on his mind since Luke introduced you to him.

“Why do you call her trouble? She seems okay to me.”

“Thanks,” you say dryly, but the older boy leans on his arm with a lovestruck expression as he gazes at you. Oh…Percy thinks, brain feeling freshly washed. How did he miss that?

“She used to get in trouble a lot,” he says, before you elbow him hard, “I mean, we used to get in trouble, she’d always drag me into it.”

“You always offered! Don’t twist the fucking story,” you shriek, and the boys laugh at your exasperation.

“Yeah anyways, she’d always find me. Still does, my partner in crime. Trouble always comes for me,” Luke murmurs, waggling his eyebrows and intertwining your fingers together. Your jaw drops and cheeks flush and Percy thinks he understands better now, but gets confused again with what you do next.

You almost slap the goddamn scar off that boy’s face.

—

It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world. -Sylvia Plath

ask to be put on luke/general taglists!

luke taglist (some won't let me tag, turn on my post notifs?): @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303 @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings @silver007 @sunny747 @huang-the-geek

#luke castellan x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader #luke castellan fluff #trouble!verse #made by ma1dita ♥︎#luke castellan x dionysus!reader #percy series #thank you for reading my love ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

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gyeomsweetgyeom · 7 days

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[12:07 pm]

(cw: f!reader, a child)

a/n: I’m officially out of ideas in my drafts for dad!nct prompts :(((

Who knew that feeding a baby mashed up food could be so difficult? Dad!Jaehyun certainly didn't. Not when he sat down to feed his daughter with a little tub of 'vegetable beef,' but he figured he got the idea when she spit that out all over the high chair, down her bib, and on her dad's face.

She laughed as his face went from one of shock to a deadpan, unamused look. He quickly wiped his face and changed her bib. "So we're not a fan of this one, huh? Let's try peas," he said, more to himself than the baby girl in the chair who was learning to process one syllable words.

"Here comes the airplane," Jaehyun smiled animatedly, feeling quite proud when his daughter opened her mouth excitedly. Very quickly though her face fell into a sad frown, almost like a look of betrayal flashed through her eyes and Jaehyun knew what was coming next. He set the tub of baby food down and used his hands to protect his face from the green, mashed up peas spat toward him.

He sighed when he felt the wetness on his hands and looked up, as if asking why this was happening. You never had these problems when you fed your daughter. She would happily eat whatever you were feeding her with a smile. It didn't matter if it was blended up baby food in a spoon, in the pouch, the puffs, or even teething crackers. What did his baby girl have against him?

He tried again, the airplane sounds leaving his mouth only to be met with the sight of her turning away from him with her mouth clenched shut. He groaned, setting the food and the spoon down on the tray, "stay here, I'm getting your mom."

His little girl sent him a look of confusion before he quickly went to your bedroom where you were finishing up folding a load of laundry. "Well, well, well, it sounds to me like you've come to give up," you smiled smugly.

"She doesn't eat! She spit peas in my face and I can feel it in my hair! Please, just go feed her!" Jaehyun whined.

You smiled victoriously, beginning you walk down the hall, "I told you. It's a very delicate process to feed your princess. You have to- oh my god!"

Jaehyun's jaw dropped at the mess in front of him. Green was everywhere. It covered the high chair, reached the dinner table and the cabinets, and worst of all it covered your daughter from head to toe. The closer he got he could see she had rubbed it into her hair, which you had already struggled to do, and was caked all over her last clean onesie.

"How did this happen?" You wondered aloud, tiptoeing over the mess on the floor to get a sponge and roll of paper towels.

Jaehyun took a second to think and then a vivid memory of him leaving the food on the tray, within his daughter's reach flashed into his mind, "I uh, I think that was my fault. In my defense, I didn't think I'd even be gone long enough for her to make a mess!"

"And look where your thinking got you," you huffed, wiping up the mess on the floor.

Jaehyun's eyes left you and focused on his baby girl seated in her seat. She was watching you intensely and- she was eating the peas of her hands! This was a major win for Jaehyun-but he wouldn't tell you that.

#kpop imagines #kpop au #kpop scenarios #kpop reactions #nct #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct timestamps #nct x reader #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun drabbles #jaehyun timestamps #dad!nct

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whumpuary · 7 months

Text

Welcome to Whumpuary 2024!

Whumpuary is a whump themed mixed-media creation event/challenge taking place in January.

This year the prompts came together through a community submission form and then a poll, where I picked the 53 most voted prompts! There are 15 numbers with 3 prompts each, plus 8 alt prompts. The dates are just meant to be a general guideline for those who want/need some structure in a challenge (e.g post every other day), but you don't actually have to create/post on those dates. You can combine prompts any way you want or just pick one of each number, do every single one or even all of them combined into one big creation (or just use one single prompt. That's already an achievement!) If you don't like any prompts of a number you can also replace or combine them with an alt prompt. The main or alt prompts don't have to be done in order.

Go here for more information, rules and the tagging system Go here for FAQs

The inbox is open for any questions!

Text version of all the prompts is under the cut

Whumpuary 2024 Main Prompts 1. (Jan 01-02) Captivity / Snow / Secret Revealed 2. (Jan 03-04) "Get away from me" / Collapse / Choking 3. (Jan 05-06) Used as bait / Stumbling / "This is gonna hurt" 4. (Jan 07-08) "Help me" / Lightheaded / Kneeling 5. (Jan 09-10) Can't move / "Stay. Please" / Kidnapped 6. (Jan 11-12) Exhaustion / Blindfolded / Old Injuries 7. (Jan 13-14) "I didn't know where else to go" / Bruises / Drugged 8. (Jan 15-16) Muffled Screams / Hostage / "You look awful" 9. (Jan 17-18) "Make it stop" / Restraints / Hair Grabbing 10. (Jan 19-20) Desperation / Gunpoint / Can't stay awake 11. (Jan 21-22) Blood / "Just get is over with" / Memories 12. (Jan 23-24) "You're awake" / Rescue / Unfair Fight 13. (Jan 25-26) Left to die / Barely Conscious / "I'm Fine" 14. (Jan 27-28) Flinching / Breakdown / Sleep Deprivation 15. (Jan 29-31) You're safe / Aftermath / Touch starved

Alt Prompts 1. Stabbed 2. "Let me see" 3. Recapture 4. Forced to watch 5. Headache 6. Gagged 7. "Do you trust me?" 8. Blood Loss

#whumpuary #whumpuary2024 #whumpuary prompts #prompts #whump #whump community #whumplr #whumpuary2024 prompts

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steddieas-shegoes · 6 months

Text

hate to remember you like this

for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt 'angst with a happy ending' rated m wc: 1000 cw: mention of car accident, medical emergency, temporary amnesia tags: post-break up, assumed unrequited feelings, getting back together

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

"Eddie, it's Steve."

Robin's words echoed in his head as he boarded the plane.

He left Steve three years ago because Steve told him to go, told him that if his dreams were so big that he couldn't stay then he had to leave and not come back.

Steve refused to talk to him since, refused to visit when all the kids came to his shows, refused to show up to Christmas at Wayne's.

So he shouldn't be on this flight to see Steve.

But Robin had insisted that Steve asked for him, and Eddie couldn't ignore the immediate need to be there for him.

Despite time, distance, and the constant feelings of regret mixed with heartbreak and anger, he still only wanted Steve.

He didn't know what happened, just that Steve had been in a medically induced coma for over 24 hours and the moment he woke up, he was begging for someone to get Eddie.

Robin had mentioned that he didn't seem to have all of his memories, but didn't tell him any details on which memories he may be missing.

He sat in his seat and hoped that whatever he was walking into would be closure for his heart.

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

The kids were all sitting in the waiting room when he arrived at the hospital.

The moment Will saw him, hell broke loose.

"Who called you?" he asked.

"Robin. Are they letting people back?" Eddie asked.

"You shouldn't be here," Will said.

Eddie looked at his stance and couldn't help but smile. Will had grown incredibly protective of Steve after Eddie left, much to everyone's surprise.

"He asked for me. I promised I'd come if he ever needed me."

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

"Room 186. He was awake a little while ago, but they're only letting two people in at a time and Robin and Joyce have been with him for the last hour."

"Thanks."

Room 186 wasn't far down the hall. He could hear Joyce's motherly tone fussing while Robin sounded like she was rambling to herself.

When he walked into the room, his breath caught in his throat.

Steve was bruised, and half of his head was wrapped in bandages that looked like they needed to be changed.

But he gave Eddie a soft smile.

A smile he didn't deserve.

"Baby, tell Joyce to stop worrying herself to death over me. I'm fine."

Baby.

Robin and Joyce glanced over at Eddie, waiting for his reaction.

"I got it from here, Joyce," Eddie smiled at her and Robin, understanding coming over him swiftly.

"Alright, Eddie's got ya for a bit, but I'll be in the waiting room if you need me," Robin said, patting Steve's hand.

She gave Eddie a death glare on her way out of the room, silently suggesting that he would need a room at the hospital if he dared to hurt Steve in any way.

He sat down next to Steve, taking in his injuries.

"What took you so long?" Steve asked him, pouting slightly.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Got caught up with the band."

"But it's Wednesday. You don't have practice on Wednesdays."

Eddie sighed.

"Stevie, what year is it?" Had no one checked him for a concussion at any point in the last 12 hours?

"1988."

"It's 1991. You remember my band made it?" Eddie was going to get murdered by Robin for ruining whatever fantasy Steve's mind had settled on.

"What? But-" Steve's brows drew together as he tried to work through his own thoughts and memories. "You guys made it?"

"Yeah, we did."

They sat in silence while Steve processed.

Eddie felt the moment his memory started to come back, the room suddenly going cold.

"You left."

"Steve-"

"You left me," his voice broke, much like it had the night he screamed at Eddie as he walked out the door.

"I did."

"Why'd you come?"

"You asked me to. I'll always come when you ask."

Steve looked at him, his eyes heavy from whatever cocktail of drugs were flowing through his system, glassy with unshed tears.

"Then why did you leave?"

"You asked me to."

"I wanted you to stay. I always wanted you to stay."

"I wanted you to come with me."

They were both tense, Eddie's hands curled into fists against his thighs and Steve's body curling in on itself, preparing for a fight Eddie wasn't going to give him.

"I couldn't."

"I know."

"So, you'll leave again and I'll stay?" Steve asked, choking back a wet sound that Eddie recognized as a sob.

"I'll be here as long as you need me."

Steve searched his face.

"Why now?"

"Because you asked. Because I know what it's like to leave you and I know it's not worth missing you." Eddie gulped. "Because I love you too much to walk away from you again. Not unless it's what you want."

"I never want that."

"Then I'll be right here," Eddie reached for his hand, holding it gently in his own.

"You can't, though. You made it, Eds."

"I'll figure it out. We'll figure it out. Okay?"

Steve stayed silent for a while, but didn't pull his hand away.

"You'll stay while we figure it out?" he finally asked.

"Yeah. As long as it takes."

"Seal it with a kiss?" Steve asked, the way he did when he asked for Eddie to promise that he'd take out the trash, or stop at the store, or love him always.

Eddie leaned in and pressed his lips to Steve's.

Steve smiled as he pulled away.

"First thing to figure out: a new car."

"You totaled it?"

"She was good to me for so long. Unfortunately, she took things worse than I did."

Hard to believe looking at how swollen and bruised most of Steve was.

But they sat and talked through his plans for another car, something he could take on longer road trips to visit all the kids at school, see a few of Eddie's shows.

They'd figure it out.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddieholidaydrabbles #angst with a happy ending

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copperbadge · 8 months

Text

In the ongoing discussion of aphantasia (see "an aphantasia fantasia" tag for more) an article popped up recently which has some details to share, including a history of how aphantasia was discovered in the scientific sense. I don't have "spatial thoughts" the way the author does, but it's also a pretty good discussion of how people who don't form mental images (or can't access sound, smell, etc in their minds) still interact normally with the world.

Here's some fucked up shit I didn't expect, however:

In a 2015 paper, a group of researchers [...] identified a new syndrome they called “Severely Deficient Autobiographical Memory,” or SDAM for short. People with SDAM lack the ability to relive past experiences in their minds. While this condition is rare among the general population, a preliminary survey hints at a link with aphantasia, with as many as 51 percent of a sample of 2,000 SDAM individuals also having aphantasia. My own experience is similar. Past episodes of my life—when I can recall them at all—feel distant and non-sensory. [...] I would describe my recollections as summaries of key facts rather than first-person “mind movies.” When asked, out of the blue, about an experience I’ve surely had—say, any childhood birthday party—my mind first responds by drawing a blank. It feels as if my episodic memories were filed into a “mental cabinet” without an index. Many memories are in there, somewhere, but retrieving them is a daunting task unless I’m provided with very specific prompts. With some groping work of deduction (where did I live at the time? Who did I hang out with?) I can gather enough hints to bring out some locations and non-visual facts: I had a big party in our countryside garden when I was 11 or 12; there was cake; a lot of kids running around and … that’s about it.

This is one hundred percent how I access memory and how I assumed everyone did -- I am well aware I don't remember chunks of my past (or only remember them if prompted by something) but I do the same thing he does. I ask myself where I was living, or what other things were happening at the time, or I snag on a rare memory of a piece of clothing or a feeling, and I extrapolate from there. I don't relive memories in the way that the article implies regular people do, and while I will recognize say, the smell of a specific library, a deeply ingrained scent for me, I don't remember the smell if I'm not standing there smelling it. And this explains my dedication to making an annual photobook documenting the past year, each December -- the photobooks are powerful memory triggers and have more than once reminded me where I was or what year it was when I did XYZ thing.

Also, turns out that one of the key methods for emotional regulation in most people is calling up a happy memory to counteract sad ones, which is why depression is so pervasive, because depressed people have literal biological impairments to remembering or reliving positive memories.

And SDAM, associated with aphantasia, is an impairment to reliving any memory at all, so...

Big ol' neurological yikes, guys.

#sam has adhd #an aphantasia fantasia #aphantasia

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leighsartworks216 · 9 months

Note

Hii I saw ur reblog about the kiss prompts!

I choose - "if you win, i'll kiss you"

With nervous kiss and height difference! 😳🙏

I actually had a hard time trying to fit these prompts together but I think I did pretty well!

Warnings: knife throwing, height difference

Word Count: 1,327

Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

“What’s that make it now? 12 to…?”

“You’re such an ass.”

“Come now, dear, you’re being too harsh - my memory isn’t what it used to be, you know. How many wins do you have?”

Your glare could have burned a hole right through him, all the while Astarion looked every bit the smarmy bastard he was. He just loved teasing you. It satisfied him to no end to peer down at you as you fumed. Steam could come pouring out your ears and he’d still have that smug smirk on his stupid face.

You huffed through your nose, fighting the growing urge to throw the dagger right at his head - you’d miss anyway. This whole game started when you’d tried throwing a knife at a goblin as a last ditch effort. You missed horribly, and Astarion just couldn’t let it go. “Zero.”

He gasped dramatically and laid a hand on his chest. “Not a single one?! Well, this won’t do!” He leaned in, teeth showing as he grinned wickedly. “How about we make a little bet? Make things a bit more interesting.”

You scoffed. “So you can sweeten the deal in your favor and wipe the floor with me, again?”

“Hmm, I tell you what: in the interest of keeping things interesting, I’ll give you two throws. If you hit, you win.”

“Let me guess - you get three.”

He rolled his eyes. “Please, darling, I have some tact. I’ll get one throw. If I can hit the dummy square in the head, I win.” He accentuated the point by flipping his dagger in the air, easily catching it by the hilt by pure muscle memory alone.

You frowned, studying his face for any sign of deceit. You were getting really close to hitting… Gods, this is a terrible idea. You sigh. “Fine. What do you propose?”

A spark of mischief flickered in his eye, so quick it could have just been a trick of the light, but you knew him better than that. “If I win, you’re responsible for sewing up everyone’s clothes for a week.”

“And if I win?”

He smirked and lowered his face to be right next to yours, cold breaths tickling your ear as he whispered. “If you win, I’ll kiss you.”

Your heart raced as your face flushed. You could tell he noticed, too, when he pulled away with that self-satisfied look on his face. You cleared your throat, urging it not to shake as you grumbled, “It sounds like you’re making more out of this either way.”

“Yes, but one is certainly more desirable for you, no? Besides, what are the odds of you winning? You should have nothing to fear.”

You frowned, but he had a point. Resigned to your fate, your shoulders slump. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

“Excellent.”

You both lined up about 10 feet away from the straw dummy. It had numerous marks in its head and body, all landed by the vampire spawn beside you. But you felt good about this time. You felt you could actually hit it.

You didn’t hate the idea of kissing him, especially if it meant saving your hand the cramping of patching up your companions’ clothes, but, well… You’d never been kissed before. There was no reason why, you’d just never been close enough with someone to warrant it.

Your heart raced thinking about it. Your face was as warm as Karlach by now. But you swallowed down the feelings and focused. If you just aimed very carefully, you might be able to get it.

“You first, love.”

Gods, now was not the time for endearing pet names.

“Hush, fangs.”

He chuckled softly, but stayed quiet otherwise. You held the handle of the dagger, just as he showed you, and aimed. You took a breath, lifted it up, and with a quick swing it was flying through the air… Right over the dummy’s shoulder. You growled in frustration.

Cool hands smoothed over your shoulders, urging them to relax. “Take it easy, dear. Keep your wrist locked and keep your elbow tucked in when you lift the dagger to throw.” He slid his hand down your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake as he showed you how to keep your wrist straight and your elbow close to your ear. Then, he backed away and watched.

Shaking off the phantom feeling of him standing so close, you readied yourself again. You aimed, pulled your arm back so your elbow stayed tucked in, and steadied your wrist. With a deep breath, you threw the knife.

Time seemed to slow down as it flipped through the air. All sound faded away. You weren’t sure you were breathing. All you could focus on, all that mattered, was this stupid dagger.

In barely a second, the knife found its mark in the straw ribcage of the dummy.

A tidal wave of excitement and joy shot through your system. You cheered and pumped your fists in the air and gave a victorious yell that put Karlach’s to shame. And then, in the next instant, another knife flew by and lodged itself right next to yours. Your breath caught in your throat. Your eyes were wide when you turned to Astarion.

He smiled, part genuine and part impish. “Congratulations, darling. It seems you’ve won.” His smile only grew more flushed you became. He crowded into your space, peering down at you like a fox staring down a rabbit. “Don’t tell me you’re going to back out of our deal now.”

You swallowed. “I…” You glanced around camp, but no one seemed to be paying attention. They were all too busy preparing for the next day. You met his eye again and lowered your voice to a whisper, meant for his ears only. “I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

His eyes widened, brows raising minutely. He never thought the brave, compassionate leader before him would be so… inexperienced, to put it kindly. You’d always seemed to carry this sort of confidence, he just assumed…

“We don’t have to,” he back-peddled. He’d never have suggested it if he’d known. Well… Okay he would, but that look on your face - puppy-dog eyed and uncertain. It twisted his insides. He started to step away, out of your space, but you caught his arm.

“No, I…” You took a breath to steady your shaky nerves. “I want this.”

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, but he could still feel the anxious way you fiddled with the fabric of his shirt. It was cute. And terrifying. You wanted him to be your first. It was only fair - you were his first after all.

Moving slowly to give you a chance to back out, he raised his hands to cup your jaw, fingers brushing over your pulse and tilting your head up. You were shorter than him, enough that he had to hunch a bit to meet your eyes like this. You held onto his arms, too unsure to hold him anywhere else. He leaned down, noses almost touching. He could see your eyes flickering from his eyes to his mouth; feel your heart beneath his fingers as it skipped with his proximity. In a final act of courage, you stood on your toes and met him halfway.

It was clumsy at first. You had no idea what you were doing, all you knew was his lips were soft and he tasted like wine. He gently tilted your head, smoothing out the initial uncoordinated start. His lips meshed with yours as he showed you exactly what to do. When you experimentally nipped at his lip, he almost groaned. It wasn’t perfect, but he was sick and tired of perfect. It was wonderful. He was almost reluctant to pull away. But you still needed to breathe, living thing that you were.

He chuckled as he pressed his forehead to yours, watching with rapture as you caught your breath, lips swollen so beautifully. “You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

---

Tag List:

@satelliteapotheosis @hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @lynnlovesloki @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @mheerdraws @kindadolly @httyd-chocolate @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red

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