#promptfic

[sleptwithinthesun]

hi!! not sure if you're taking marvel requests for the fall prompts (so feel free to ignore this if you aren't) but how about 🍂 for bucky?

oh, it's been a hot minute since i wrote a marvel fic. this might be bad since i haven't written anything for b/ucky since like. may, i think? sorry for the wait. hope you enjoy it anyway :D

(fill for 🍂 on the fall snz prompts list... written for b/ucky barnes & s/am w/ilson. queerplatonic s/ambucky, i think? it's really just open for interpretation. 0.4K words.)

"hh'tSHuu!"

"It's startling earlier this year, isn't it?" Sam asks, frown audible even with his back towards Bucky. The supersolider blinks up at him from his seat at the table, eyes half-lidded with sleep and still-bent arm hovering lazily in front of his face. "You usually don't get this bad until late October."

Bucky gives a half-shrug, making a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat before clearing it. His voice, when he speaks, is rough, unhewn by his allergies. "I guess."

"You guess? Buck, don't act like we don't—"

"heh'SH'uh! ESHH!"

"—share a house. I can hear you at night. Bless," Sam says, the final response automatic. Bucky's been sneezing enough that he doesn't even have to think about it any more; he's practically been Pavlov'd into blessing him.

Bucky sniffles, letting out a low groan. "Fuck..." he breathes, eyes darting towards the window on their route to Sam's face. Despite the muttered expletive mere second earlier, he still insists, "It's really not a big deal, Sam. This happens every year. Hell, it's been happening since I was a kid, roughly a century ago. Stop worrying."

Sam glances over at him, and upon seeing the other's expression, sighs in defeat. "If you're sure, Buck. Just don't die on me, alright?"

"Wh— I'm not going to— it's not even that kind of allergy," Bucky splutters, standing and walking over to the stove, where he turns off the burner under the kettle. It hasn't started whistling yet, but they can both hear the water inside boiling. Sam slides him a mug, a bag of Earl Gray already inside, and Bucky murmurs his thanks before pouring the water into it and glancing at the clock for the time.

"Is it going to kill you to just, I don't know, eye it for once?" Sam teases, pulling the kettle away from Bucky when his expression twists slightly. "Bless."

"Hhhate when you do that... ht'SHH! eh'TSH!" Bucky shakes his head slightly, holding up a finger to Sam. "h'ESHH! eh'TSH'uh!"

Sam blinks at him, expression softening. "You take Benadryl?"

"Yeah, double dose." He sniffles, rubbing a knuckle underneath his nose. "Don't think it's working."

"Only double?" Sam says with a smile, brow wrinkling when Bucky just sneezes again. "Alright, man, get in the shower. I'll take your teabag out in—" a glance at the clock "—two minutes, and keep it warm for you. Just wash off whatever's triggering this."

Bucky nods, muffling yet another sneeze into his wrist. "heh'TSH!"

"Slow fit?"

"I think so," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Just going to, you know, take a shower. Like you said." Bucky starts back towards the stairs, then pauses. "Sam?"

He looks up at him. "Yeah?"

"Thank you. For caring." The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly in a half-smile, one that Sam returns wholeheartedly.

"Always."

[rcreveal]

A Tattoo Temptation

Beelzebub and Gabriel are hiding out in the Pacific Northwest living the van life. Learning to be an 'us' has some funny and angsty developments in this short one-shot. But the fly will save the day! Prompt: tattoos for the Jan 2024 Prompt a week challenge in Sendarya's Discord Discussion Group

Work Text:

Beelzebub sat down at the bar while Gabriel looked around appreciatively, taking in the filagreed wooden ceiling tiles, comfortable sofas, and most importantly, the keg dispensers in the back under hand-carved and painted signs of the entertainingly-named drinks.  Why did humans lavish such creativity and artwork on their intoxicating beverages?

“I thought I’d invite you to a little tasting this time,” smiles Beelzebub, resting their head on their fist and exposing a finely detailed tattoo of a fly.

Gabriel smiles back, exclaiming, “Is that new? Did you make that?” gently taking Beelzebub’s arm and rubbing a thumb over the soft skin of their inner wrist tracing the iridescent eyes of the fly.

Shivering pleasantly, Beelzebub shook their head, “Nah! That would take all the fun out of it, silly angel.”

“Fun?” replies Gabriel, looking more closely.

“Thousands of needle pokes into my skin.  Fun,” replied Beelzebub.

“Oh, awhhh, ewwww” Gabriel tries not to show that he’s throwing up a little in his mouth, “Right. Fun.”

Beelzebub grins, knowing how much they’ve unsettled him, “I’ll invite you to watch my next one.”

“No, no.  Some ‘fun’ is better on our own,” says Gabriel, looking a little more anxiously at the kegs now. “So, what’s the surprise?”

“I wanted to introduce you to kombucha!” says Beelzebub waving at the tasting room.

Gabriel turns his head and raises an eyebrow at the demon.

Who sighs and leans forward, “You know, the rotten tea the fly suggested we try.”

“Oh, right!  Rotten tea,” replies Gabriel, perking up considerably.  He’d quite liked sampling the soggy rotten bread ‘beer’ at the ‘brewery’.

“I got tired of having to stop and expel alcohol from my system.  You know, I can alter my consciousness all by myself, thanks.  But the rotted taste is interesting.  So, the fly brought me here.”

“Kombucha isn’t intoxicating?” Gabriel asks, slightly disappointed.  A little intoxication wasn’t so bad.

“Nah, not as such,” Beelzebub turned to the human behind the counter sporting loose hempen trousers, the ones that looked like a full skirt had been sewn together at the bottom with just foot holes left and a sleeveless hooded puffed vest.  The ensemble showed off the human’s full sleeve tattoos of intricate intertwined flowers, bones, ferns, insects, and mushrooms and they’d topped it off with rose quartz ear gauges peeking out from a slouchy knit hat and a small gold nasal piercing.  With the colorful humans in the Pacific Northwest, Gabriel and Beelzebub had found that they could hide out without attracting much notice.  The non-humans were even more colorful.

“What would you like to taste?” the kombucha human asked.

“Let’s try the Ginger Zen, Peach Rose, Raspberry Reishi, Blackberry Herbalism, and Skullcap Hibiscus,” Beelzebub ordered for them, Gabriel loved it when they did that. 

Gabriel gratefully looked on as familiar quarter pint glasses were filled from the kegs on the back wall and brought to the bar.  Sniffing them, Gabriel certainly thought they smelled intoxicating, but more floral and fruity with a bit of vinegar.  He tried each in turn while Beelzebub asked for a refill of the Skullcap Hibiscus and exclaimed on the intricacy and extent of the human’s tattoos, asking after the skin poking artist’s establishment.

With a half pint glass almost to their lips, Beelzebub looks over side-eyed at Gabriel, and smiles a small, wicked smile.  Knocking back the last of the kombucha and setting the glass decisively on the wooden bar, they say, “Alright, you asked for it.  I'll tempt you to it.  Let's go,” now lavishing a full smile on Gabriel.

Looking perplexed and pointing all the fingers of one hand at himself, Gabriel shifts his shoulders, “Asked for what?”

Leaning intimately close to him, wispy hair brushing his cheek, Beelzebub whispers in his ear, “Your first tattoo.  Done the human way.  I can feel you wanting it.” The demon sits back, chin tucked in, a little smug shrug, looking at him coyly from under those never ending lashes.

Mouth opening and closing while his eyebrows look like the wooly bear caterpillars they've seen crossing the footpaths, Gabriel finally closes his mouth and looks to the side before whispering loudly back, “How did you know before I did?”

Laughing lightly, “Silly angel! It's my job,” and they chucked him gently under the chin and grabbed his hand.

Calling to the kombucha human, Beelzebub says, “I'll come back for a keg of the Skullcap Hibiscus tomorrow, Riley.  Gotta take this angel for his first tattoo!”

“Oh! Congratulations!!  You’ll be fine!  Just keep breathing.” the kombucha human gushed as Beelzebub tugged Gabriel out the door. 

Together they climbed into a tall, oversized van, the kind that would make most ‘Van-life’ Instagrammers salivate with the solar panels and the inverter battery, the japandi-styled interior, ultralight birch paneling, tiny full kitchen, and wet bath.  As they pulled out of the parking lot, the vanity plates spelled ‘HELVEN’ while the fly rode on the bobble-head sasquatch on the dash.

“Uh, so how does this work?” Gabriel asks while Beelzebub drives.

Smirking at him, Beelzebub counters, “The temptation or the tattoo?”

Sucking his cheeks in and looking from side to side, perplexed, Gabriel tries to choose, “Both things.  At the same time, maybe?”

“Dealer’s choice, huh?  That’s a dangerous thing to give a demon, angel,” and laughs at his look of unease.  “Temptation first then, on the way to the tattoo part.”

Beelzebub turns back into town, “I felt you wanting something and trying to hide it from yourself, talking yourself out of wanting it, putting it away from yourself.  That sort of thing sings out to demons like me.”

“But why would tattoos be bad? So many humans love their tattoos!  They’re proud of them,” points out Gabriel.

Beelzebub snorts, “I didn’t say tattoos were bad!  A temptation isn’t just about bad stuff.  Humans hide good, bad, and indifferent things from themselves all the time!  The temptation is that I’m making you really look at all the enticing bits about whatever you try to hide from yourself.  I felt you being really fascinated by my tattoo, the human’s tattoos, the idea of tattoos, and trying to hide that from yourself.  So.  Perfect thing to tempt you with.”

“Oh. Okay.  So how do human tattoos work?”  asks Gabriel.

Beelzebub pulls into a parking space outside a building covered with a huge, colorful mandala mural, ‘Mystik Ink’ worked into the art over the storefront.  “Let’s go inside, and I’ll show you,” Beelzebub suggests.

Walking into Mystik Ink, Gabrielle smells a mix of incense, while there’s ‘music’ noise coming from speakers and a strange high pitch buzzing breaking through the other noise. There are many upholstered chairs with humans laying down or reclining while another holds a contraption attached to some hoses.  Oh!  The buzzing contraption is how the ink gets in the human’s skin!  Weird.

“How come the humans don’t just manifest the tattoo they want?” Gabriel asks.

“They don’t have that kind of control over their corporations, so they do it this way,” explains Beelzebub. 

“Oh. Okay.  What are those?” Gabriel points at posters over much of the wallspace that are covered with all sorts of designs of various sizes.

“Those are some stock tattoo designs you can choose from.  They’ve got the artist’s name up top, so you can see their style a bit.  That collection of squares inside a square at the bottom let’s humans use a phone to look at more custom pieces,” explains Beelzebub, continuing to lead Gabriel to the front desk.  “Do you see any that catch your fancy?”

“Nah.  But that poster is the first of the group starting from the left.  That represents the first word in a sentence, so that must be the best artist!” declares Gabriel.

Beelzebub looks at a poster that has collected roly poly depictions of the most sickeningly cute cartoon characters ever drawn.  ‘I might be a demon,’ they think, ‘but even I have limits and I cannot look at one of those on his corporation for eternity!’

“No!  I mean, no, the tattoo artists aren’t ranked.”

“Oh. Okay. I don’t pick the best tattoo artist and tell them to give me the best tattoo?  I’m really confused.  How did you choose a design?” asks Gabriel.  The human behind the front desk has wisely decided that now is a great time to take their break.  This couple has some things to talk about.

Beelzebub looks a little perplexed by the question, “I wanted a fly, because ‘Lord of the Flies,’ I like flies , Gabriel!  What do you like?”  Beelzebub was getting exasperated.  This was an unexpectedly difficult temptation.  Most temptees had more of a clue about what was tempting them.

“Oh. Okay.  I pick something I ‘like’ and they,” he points at the tattoo artists, “put it on my skin with those buzzing needle things!”

“Yes!” Beelzebub says through gritted teeth, “Now what do you like, angel!”

“I like you,” he says immediately.

“Obviously, but I do not authorize my likeness on your corporation,” counters Beelzebub decisively.

“I liked my legion in the big battle you and I fought in together!” says Gabriel, “Ah, those were good times!  Smiting! We really…oh,” Gabriel stopped talking.  He had never been good at reading a room, but even he could detect the arctic blasts coming off Beelzebub.  Their whole corporation seemed to have frozen, except for their glaring eyes.

“Smiting demons, like me?” Beelzebub looked at the ceiling, their eyes were unexpectedly watery.  “You know what? You passed! Temptation averted! I’m just going to go.   On a walk.  I’ll be back…” but Beelzebub didn’t say when they’d be back, just turned on their heel and stalked out the door, into the light rain, past their van, and down the street into the small downtown.  

Gabriel looked at the receding figure and felt strangely…bad.  Feeling bad about things he said or did was a new experience for him, but one that he’d been experiencing distressingly frequently with Beelzebub.  This being an ‘us’ was much harder than he’d expected.  The tattoo human came back from their break and looked at Gabriel and the space where Beelzebub had been and over at the closest tattoo artist who had seen the whole thing and gave a little head shake that communicated, ‘No, dude, you don’t want to ask.’

“Sooo, welcome to Mystic Ink! Did you want to get a tattoo today?” the tattoo human asked Gabriel.

Gabriel stood, deep in thought for a moment, “Yes.  But I need to consult with a friend first.”

Several hours later, Beelzebub walked back to Mystic Ink.  The large windows displayed the inside of the shop like a jewel box, still with several clients inside, but no Gabriel.  Beelzebub knew the angel was in their van.  Beelzebub let their head fall to their chest while standing in front of the door to ‘Hellven’.  The two of them had named the van after this little piece of Hell/Heaven that they were making together.  Some days, like today, it just felt like they were making a mess of things.  Why did entering the haven they’d made for themselves feel more intimidating than leading the Dark Council on a bad day?  Beelzebub raised their head and put on a neutrally bored look and entered the van.

Gabriel, who was sitting at the tiny two person table reading the van owner’s manual, looked up with an unusually grave expression on his face.  Standing quickly, he said, “I’m sorry! I said the wrong thing.  Again. I hurt your feelings.”

Beelzebub hovered in the stairwell, looking even further up than usual at Gabriel, kinda reminding them of looking up at Gabriel leading the legions against them.  Not good.  Beelzebub stepped up into the space and Gabriel sat down, looking up at them.

“You did,”  said Beelzebub, sighed, “But, not on purpose,”  Gabriel opened his mouth, but Beelzebub held up a hand, “Can we just call truce? Please? I’m not ready to talk just now.”

“Oh. Okay.” Gabriel said quietly while Beelzebub folded themselves into the little seat across from him at the tiny table. He studied their face while the demon looked down and away.

Breathing in deeply, Beelzebub looked up into Gabriel’s eyes with an effort, turning their head and smiling that little smile they had, “So.  Did you get your tattoo?”

“Yes!  I got my first tattoo!” announced Gabriel.

“Really!  You went through with it!?” Beelzebub was genuinely surprised, and now a little worried about what he’d picked out.  “May I see?”

“Sure,” Gabriel pulled up the right sleeve of the hooded sweatshirt he was wearing.  A shiny plastic bandage covered the inside of his forearm, protecting, but not obscuring the new tattoo along the middle:

🪰***EVERYDAY***💕

Towards his elbow by the ‘Y’ were simple entwined hearts and towards his wrist and the ‘E’, a small fly

“I got this to remember the first gift I ever received,” he points at the fly.

Gabriel then points at the word, “The first gift I ever gave someone, the song, ‘Everyday.’” 

“And what that means to me,” he points at the entwined hearts and looks back into Beelzebub’s face.

“This tattoo reminds me that I am learning to be an ‘us’ with you everyday.  So, I’ll make mistakes, which hurt.  Kinda like the tattoo hurt!  But I really, really  want to get it right so I’ll stick it out and not try to run out of the shop after the first letter, even though I really, really wanted to,” he looks back up at Beelzebub.

Tracing the tattoo with one finger, Beelzebub asks, “That was truly, sickeningly, sweet and expressive.  Did you come up with all that?” 

Raising his chin as if to nod, then shaking his head Gabriel says, “I… did not!” Beelzebub smiles with their head to the side, “Except for the part about wanting to run out of the shop after the first letter, that was all me,”  he held out a finger and the fly landed on it.  Gabriel says to it,  “Luckily, I had a friend to talk me through the tough parts.  Thanks, buddy.” 

Beelzebub held out their finger and the fly jumped over to it.  Raising the fly to their eye level, Beelzebub says, “Yes, thank you, little friend.”

Looking back over at Gabriel, Beelzebub challenges, “Do you know what I’m tempted to do now?”

Gabriel studies Beelzebub thoughtfully, “You’re tempted to go to a music noise gathering?  But, why would that be a temptation?  We’ve been to those before.”

“This one’s music and dancing.  It’s called a ballet,” shrugs Beelzebub.

“What about it are you not thinking about but secretly interested in?” asks Gabriel, curiously.

“We have to get dressed up.  It’s supposed to be a refined, cultural experience,” replies Beelzebub.

“Oh. Okay. Can I tempt you to a ballet?” Gabriel asks.  With a small miracle, he puts on a tailored suit.

“Sure,” says Beelzebub, miracling their own suit.

Gabriel smiles to himself, “Huh, that wasn’t so hard.”

Beelzebub blesses him with a true, genuine smile.

Sometimes being an ‘us’ is hard and sometimes it’s easier, but still takes some work, thinks Gabriel.

“Are you worried that anyone will notice our frivolous clothing miracles?” asks Beelzebub driving to the performance center.

“Nah.  Not with Aziraphale as Supreme Archangel, he’s a sweetheart,” Gabriel replies.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Heaven…

[incurable-peppermint]

Fandom: OK K.O.! Let's Be Heroes Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Elodie/Enid (OK K.O.! Let's Be Heroes)

Elodie doesn't think the apparent threat at Lakewood Plaza is really worth going to assist with, until she sees just how much of the place is on fire. When the gravity of the situation sets in she ignores her chances to show off and sparkle to hunt down Enid and make sure she's safe.

[anamazingangie]

bright lights | Daemon x Rhaenyra Targaryen

Rated E | 2.1k | Written by AmazingAngie

Tags : modern AU, mentions of past drug use, emotional manipulation, consent issues, caretaking, canon character death, bittersweet ending

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Summary:

Rhaenyra knew what it was to shine. She had been toddling along in tights and ballet flats before she could even fully walk. Herded into the life of a dancer before learning another path even existed. 

She was going to be a star. The people around her would make sure of it.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Rhaenyra knew what it was to shine. 

She had been toddling along in tights and ballet flats before she could even fully walk. Herded into the life of a dancer before learning another path even existed. 

.

“She’s a gem, exceptional, truly—seven years old, and already at this level?” 

.

The rhinestones on her leotard sparkled. The lights did too, when she looked out at the audience. Blinding spots of  white that would burn behind her lids long after the show ended. 

.

Her mom was a dancer too. Or had been, before she got married to a musician more than a decade her senior. Viserys swept her off her feet, and off the stage of the Royal Ballet in the process. A whirlwind romance, the magazines said, when they announced their engagement mere weeks later.  

Rhaenyra followed within the year. 

Rhaenyra had always wanted to be just like her. 

.

Aemma was a good mom. So when she wasn’t there to pick her up after her show, she knew something was wrong. 

It wasn’t surprising that Rhaenyra found herself leaning back in the plastic chair, staring at the flickering light bulbs in the hospital waiting room. She’d been here before, with her moms other pregnancies. The ones that had ended with wails and cries, but from her mother’s lips and not an infants.

They hadn’t expected her mother to go into labor so early, the assistant swiped from her fathers staff to drive her said when they dropped her off at the hospital. Their tone wasn’t unkind, it was just tired, they’d done their job and they wanted to leave,  but at least they made a call for her first. 

An hour later she was still staring at the flickering light, but at least her uncle Daemon was there holding her hand.

.

Daemon held her hand at the funeral, too. 

.

Rhaenyra didn’t want to be like Aemma anymore. 

But, she still wanted to be a dancer.  

.

The next time Rhaenyra saw her dad, he was seated at the breakfast table with a brunette woman by his side. Her name was Alicent, he said. She was going to be her new stepmother, Viserys informed her. 

.

 The singing lessons started the next week. 

.

She hadn’t thought about the lights of a stage for a long time—not since her mother died. Not since her lessons were in front of a piano instead of performances in front of an audience.

But the headlights of the truck were bright enough to remind her of a spotlight. It seemed as targeted as those rays were, too, as it careened towards them—crashing into the front of their vehicle. The sound of metal being shredded and scrunched enveloped her, but when she squeezed her eyes shut there were no spots of light behind them—just darkness. 

.

She was lucky, they said. 

Just a concussion. And a broken ankle—a complicated break that would require months of therapy before she could dance again, but lucky nonetheless. Given that her father had…

.

Daemon was there, for a while, before Alicent and Otto made him leave. 

“She’s my niece!” Daemon had said. 

“Legally, she’s my daughter!” Alicent had sniped back. 

.

No one was there to hold her hand at Viserys’ funeral. 

.

The tinge in her ankle was a constant thorn while the ache in her head had already healed, but Alicent told her there wouldn't be time for therapy, not with her needing to focus on singing.

“It’s what your father would have wanted.” She insisted. 

.

No one cared about what Rhaenyra wanted.

What did she want?

.

“Has she lost her sparkle?” The headline said, photos of her teenage years on stage spanning below it. Best selling album covers were among paparazzi photos that had lined the pages of magazines for the better part of a decade. The beautiful girl with the beautiful voice, singing songs despite her life's tragedy. 

She didn’t seek out these articles—but they were hard to avoid, when Alicent put them in front of her. 

“We need to do something about this.” She said, firmly. 

“Maybe more sequins?” Rhaenyra offered, holding back a grin as the woman fumed. 

.

When she turned eighteen, the only present she was given was a contract. “You want things to stay as they are, don’t you?” Alicent asked, and Rhaenyra laughed until she was crying at the absurdity.

.

Daemon had drawn her a bath. He called a lawyer. He braided her hair, and held her hand while she slept on his couch. 

.

Daemon was mad. Not at her, but at the circumstances—the contract, and the Hightower’s. He said it was criminal but she begged him to just stop. She wanted to cut ties with them, she didn’t care. She didn’t need her music or her money or her houses. 

“Do you need them?” She’d asked, desperate. 

His face had softened. And he swore he only needed her. 

.

Some days, she didn’t even talk. She certainly didn’t sing, not for weeks. She was a ghost in Daemon’s apartment, wearing his shirts and sitting on the floor of his shower until the water ran cold. She watched cartoons and ate ice cream at all hours, and clung to him whenever he was home. 

He didn’t seem to care that she was a mess, kissing her tears and holding her close until her sobs stopped and sleep took her. 

He promised to take care of her that first time, before he slipped two fingers into her—-cunt stretching around digits while the rest of her was too frozen to react. But Daemon told her to relax. So she did. When she came, it was with a wet cry against his neck. Iit felt good, and she hadn’t felt anything resembling that in so long. 

It was a few days later, when she woke up to his hands feeling her. She was warm, and safe in the cocoon of his blankets. It felt right, as he pressed closer to her, pushing up the worn sweater that covered her folds. He was big inside her, enough to hurt, but he was careful as he fucked her. He thanked her after, thumbing at her slippery cunt until she found enough stimulation to come too. 

That became something they would do, too. Sleep. Crying. Sex. He made her feel good when a storm of emotions were bad. 

.

She put the emotions into music. It was all she knew how to do. 

.

A friend—a real friend, a girl that had been on stage from a young age too, and worked beside her years ago in a crappy kids show reached out. 

“How are things?” Laena asked, the girl busy working on her third album. 

“They are better. My uncle has a management company who is handling things for me, the tour starts next month.” She had said, cheerful at the prospect of her future for the first time in…a long time. 

“He’s good to you? Not manipulative, like Alicent?” Laena asked, concern heavy in her sweet voice. 

“He’s good to me.” Rhaenyra said before pausing—“I’ve got to go.” 

Daemon was nothing like Alicent. 

.

She had days off between shows. She had full meals. She had time to meet fans and relax and play with her cats—a ginger pair who were fond of each other, Syrax and Caraxes.

It was good. 

.

“It’s good.” She told him, when he asked if he was hurting her—thrusts too deep, enough she could feel them in her gut and wanted to flinch away. But it was worth it, worth lying about it—because after, he’d say the words she loved most. 

That she was good for him. 

He almost smiled, when she winced. Like he knew she was lying, and liked that too. 

He probably did. 

She knew the honesty lyrics could hold. New the lines he’d sung alongside her father—

get a girl that loves you, one that loves you enough to lie to you. 

.

She looked in the mirror—wiping a stray piece of glitter that had fallen onto her cheek. Her eyes were rimmed with the stuff, lashes layered with heavy coats of mascara until she looked more seductive than her cherubic features could usually manage. 

She wasn’t nervous, not in a bad way at least. She liked the bubbling in her gut that had previously been subdued by the xanax her assistant passed off to her. She was calm, too, in a way she hadn’t been on the adderall that Alicent insisted she needed for extra pop . 

Daemon said he didn’t want her on drugs. 

Because he just wanted her. 

And she didn’t want to be on them either—she just wanted to be herself. 

.

After the show, and an encore, she was giggling—feeling high off the adrenaline of the crowd. She was sweating, from the lights and heat of the outdoor venue. Layers of damp fabric fell to the floor as she stripped lazily, all whilst dancing to an invisible tune. She was giddy, distracted, and she didn’t realize her uncle was there until his hands fell to her waist, pulling her close

“Good show?” He asked. And she nodded. Embarrassed to be caught off guard, but not by her state of undress. 

They kissed lazily, with the familiarity of two people who had been together for months. Almost years, even. Daemon had his own career once, on stage and singing in bands and with his brother before his voice gave out. He knew all the tricks of the trade, finding the snaps and velcro that freed her from her performance wear in record time. 

He was reverent, in how he touched her—hands lightly following the line of her breast and generous crest of her hip. Her curves had grown in his care, though not in a bad way. “I’ve grown like a flower.” She had teased once, but he was not to be outdone. “I have fertilized you.” He said with a smirk. 

“You’ve certainly tried.” She agreed with a laugh, but feeling secretly grateful for the packet of pills in her purse. The one medication she never went without. 

“I love you, you know.” He said. His voice was serious, bringing her to the present and she blinked in surprise. “I love you too.” She swore. 

He kissed her again, pushing her back against the counter of the vanity. There wasn’t much preparation before he pushed in, making her hiss at the stretch. He apologized, but didn’t stop, pressing deeper, moving faster. 

He flipped her, at one point, so her hands were dragging down the mirror, her breasts pressed against it as he slammed into her again and again. It was unrelenting in a way that didn’t feel good but pushed too many buttons to prevent arousal. She knew her body was contributing to the easy slide between them, and it was her own vocal cords—raw from a three hour performance that were now contributing to the symphony between them. 

She knew she came, collapsing against the mirror and shaking in aftershocks as he refused to stop—not that she had asked him to, not that she….well, she wasn’t sure what she wanted. She couldn’t figure it out, not before he ground against her, his hands falling to her clit and pressing against it until the keening she made sounded nearly inhuman. 

She was spent when he pulled out, too exhausted to even recoil at the sensation of spend slipping from her folds. 

He supported her in the shower, dragging soap across her every limb and combing conditioner through her hair. Afterward, his palms cupped her face—thumbs brushing beneath her eyes. “Can’t seem to get rid of this” he said, a little frustrated—when she turned to the mirror she realized it was the glitter, it had made tracks down her cheeks before setting stubbornly in place. 

“It’s because I was made to shine," she teased. He didn’t disagree, kissing her before wrapping her in a towel and pushing her towards bed. 

This was what she wanted.

Right?

.

.

.

You often credit your Uncle, Daemon Targaryen for your career, why? 

R: “I’m very grateful to him, my Uncle. I think…perhaps I was something dull after everything that happened. And he polished me up with hugs and kisses until I was sparkly enough to be presented back into the world. He’s a rock star turned rock tumblr, I guess, and I was a star disguised as a stone.” 

.

What is your biggest fear? 

R: “I’ll stay in the tumblr until there is nothing left at all. Polished to a point of no longer existing."

"Um, sorry, can you strike that from the record?” 

I: “Of course.” 

.

What is your biggest fear? 

R: “Spiders.” Rhaenyra said, with a charming grin. 

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

this was written for my prompt summer snippet event!

this was written for sparkle.

learn more about the event here!

[astaldis]

Witcher Trick or Treat Prompt: Portal

Chapters: 3/13  Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Fringilla Vigo, Anna Henrietta | Anarietta/Jaskier | Dandelion, Angoulême & Anna Henrietta, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Jaskier | Dandelion, Maria Barring | Milva & Fringilla Vigo, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Maria Barring | Milva, Jaskier | Dandelion, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Angoulême (The Witcher), Anna Henrietta | Anarietta, Fringilla Vigo Additional Tags: Witcher Trick or Treat Halloween Event, Trick Or Treat Prompts Challenge, sfw, Humour, Some Swearing, Too much alcohol, Non-Explicit Sex, breakfast in Beauclair, Hangover, Friendship, light spoilers for The Witcher book series, Geralt/Regis (implied), Jaskier/Cahir (implied), Milva/Fringilla (implied), Witcher trick or treat 2022 

Summary: While Geralt's Hanza is staying in Beauclair, the famous fall event is coming up. An event the Witcher cannot refuse to take part in, even if he has to dress up for it. However, not everything goes as planned and the members of the Hanza are in for some surprises. Blame it on the grape punch. Or is it the bard's fault after all?

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

It is no use moaning. As there is no way around it. They will have to use a portal. Even though Geralt loathes portals from the bottom of his heart - and his stomach. However, there is simply not enough time to acquire the rare but vital ingredient for the potion that she has promised her relative, the Duchess Anarietta, without using one. The leontopodium nivale that she needs only grows high up in the mountains surrounding the duchy of Toussaint. And even if there was enough time, hiking up all the way is out of the question. She is not a mountain goat, no. Fringilla could go alone, of course, or ask somebody else to accompany her, Cahir or Regis maybe, the former being a knight and maybe still kind of a friend, and the latter probably quite interested in the fantastically diverse flora of the mountain range. But with those two the excursion would only be about the flower picking while with Geralt she can imagine quite a few other things to do up there. Things that would make the foray into botany so much more rewarding.

Well, her portals are absolutely safe, and it is just a short distance. The Witcher will live. And be rewarded. Besides, it is for the greater good, as, with the potion, everybody will have more fun at the masquerade. Much, much more fun ...

Read the complete chapter on archiveofourown.org

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41477553/chapters/104681256

[itsagiftyoukeepthose]

I wrote a ficlet 😊

inspired by a Bob Wess prompt

.....................not a happy one.

The bunker had always been an eerie place.

But it had been something they could skip over, when they were together, and it was a home.

Sam couldn’t bring himself to be there right now.

It felt like a tomb. To empty, and too full, of everything gone.

Instead he fled, hit the road. Drove in remembrance, some kind of homage. Dean was with him anyway, riding in his own personal hearse, scooped up into an old tea box.

Dean died on a Wednesday.

and he found it hard to remember much more, with any level of coherency. He had said goodbye to his brother, and everything after had felt wrong. Like some thick blanket had settled upon him, separating him from reality.

Logically he knew what must of happened, but pulling his brother's limp body off a 10-inch piece of rebar was not a memory he scrutinized the loss of too closely.

It was the other memories that had begun to worry him.

He remembered reading that the first thing you forget about a person is their voice.

The idea was overwhelming. How was he supposed to accept that, how long did he have or was it already too late? Were his memories already lying to him?

How long was it going to take, before every memory of Dean was corrupted by his own mind.

Sam had found the book after Jess, he found recognition in the words. They had helped him, to feel some small level of composure. Pain shared, even with something as simple as a dusty old book lends a sense of comradery. Misery shared, especially with words, a comfort.

They say that the people we love live forever in our memory.

That’s bullshit. The people we love are slowly killed by our memory, replaced by our own mind.

Sam had seen it firsthand, among the living.

Hunters he had known his whole life, time on the road, in close quarters. Comrades, close friends, you think you know a person. Think you are remembering their mannerisms and general disposition quite well, and then you meet them again and suddenly it all comes back to you.

and they have not changed. But it becomes swiftly apparent, memories taken as fact are in need of some revision.

Because how do you remember a smile wrong? Flung towards you with a blast of gunpowder and smelling of salvation. To forget someone without even noticing, and live without recognition of the loss, it’s abhorrent.

He can’t do it.

He thinks he knows what Dean would say, what he might do. But how can he ever be certain again? That slowly his own impressions and opinions won’t settle over Dean, and obscure him. Until he no longer exists, just a shallow imagining projected from Sam’s own mind.

The photos don’t seem to help either. None of them quite capture the obnoxious charm, steadfast loyalty and love wrapped around an imperfect man, a brother who taught Sam everything that had ever mattered. He can’t picture Dean’s face clearly, his seen too many versions of it to settle on just one. The memories crowd around each other.

His not quite sure what his looking for.

Dean had found Cas a meadow. Sam wanted to find Dean a spot. Because he couldn’t just burn him in those woods alone, leaving him amongst the enemy.

He had to find the right place, and if that meant driving further and further away from the bunker, so be it.

He had briefly considered spreading him in Lebanon. Maybe even plant him, with some prissy flowers. Just because he would have hated it, and Sam hated him for leaving.

But he couldn’t do it, let some patch of sad flowers in a forgotten field become his brother.

He thinks instead he might take Dean all the way to the Sea. Let him become endless.

Prompt:

Sam read somewhere that the first thing you forget about a person is their voice. He wasn't sure if it was true but it stuck. He wondered how long it took. Was the voice he remembered as Dean's already corrupted? Was even the Dean in his memories a lie?

[onelocket]

you'll never get rid of me, oh i'm like a fucking disease

fyodor d. x reader

prompting guide -- It's like seeing your lover, but at the same time, it wasn't him. With the way he is, with the way he rocks you back and forth to despair, with the way he separates Fyodor to himself as he spoke, ultimately from the way he treated you. The real Fyodor would never do this to you.

requested by -- a kind anon<3 (click here for more context)

involves -- self-harm, reader seeing and hearing things, fear of abandonment, heavy obsession, light mind breaking?, headcanons of ability crime & punishment - where shibusawa's fog in dead apple is not needed for ability manifestations.

Before you knew it, time became your own enemy instead.

Time? To be somebody's opponent? Such person can only be so foolish.

Had you just been discarding all your other emotions that you’re now dying to at least feel something even when you once tried to throw it all away?

Discomfort, confusion, denial and anger, they all wanted to wash on you repeatedly. Like you were some form of washing machine to these emotions you were so fed up experiencing so often.

But like a normal washing machine… too much of a heavy load can eventually cause it to break.

And finally, it’s as if the grand scheme of terror slowly strikes through you.

Your knees heedlessly press themselves deeper to the soft creamy mattress below your body. Your nails could attack if it wanted to — holding onto the white window sill while you watch the heavy rain suddenly wash down like the world has sinned again.

The rain seemed to be a frequent occurrence nowadays, always greeting you by the window while leaving droplets for you to distract yourself with. Push comes to shove, you could quite say the rain was your only acquaintance left in this small room.

Fyodor had become busier for weeks unnumbered, and the rain didn’t help you understand grasps of how he’d be doing right now.

You couldn’t keep count with how long you’ve been stuck in this home. If it could even be called a home at this point.

Sure did you walk outside from day to day, but somehow each occurrence makes your body shiver — like somebody... no, rather something was watching you every step and turn you took. Regardless of its motives, you ended up isolating yourself with no lover to see.

Yet eventually did you grow tired of it. You just wanted to bash the windows into shattered glass and escape, to find your beloved who you knew didn’t find fond of the wet weather.

But you couldn’t.

If you even dared to think about it, words come to spiral your mind and soul, displeasing words that come from him and only him.

The him who doesn’t like it when you ask or force to escape. The him who hated it when you disobeyed unspoken edicts. While you knew that, could you really just let him continue this nonsense?

"But on the contrary, shouldn't you content at home - away from troubling Fyodor?"

You could still hear his damned voice as if he was right behind you.

“Jeez, just shut up—!” You yelled in a trance, hands slapping the bed sheets as you hastily turn around, hoping to God he wasn’t within centimeters away from you right now.

But he wasn’t even there. Just the closed doors and pretty decorations you’ve memorized it’s locations at this point.

“…For the love of-” You cursed out quietly, pausing as your eyes narrow down at your wrist helplessly pressing themselves on the mattress, your fingers curling your hands into a fist that could quite literally rip the silk if you tried hard enough.

All you needed to know was given… Fyodor's voice was but a sound in your head. And that question had been asked earlier, not right now.

Why were you suddenly hearing his voice in your head today? And he had said so much too. It was annoying at first, but gradually did it make you panic more.

Such a situation has never happened before, in fact you were more focused to being all excited and prepping yourself to look your best both mentally and physically when he comes back. And its not that Fyodor never comes back from time to time just to check up on you, because he really does, ensuring you were safe and well.

Maybe the voice in your head was right - shouldn't you at least feel grateful that he still finds a cut through his day to return and see you? Yet why, why can't I get a grip of myself?

You couldn’t deny you kept thinking and thinking about your beloved — after all, it’s only natural. But recently, his voice really got grasp of your mind. Your attention. Your whole being, in a way you would even dare wish for him to leave you if it meant to stop this madness ringing in your head constantly, night by night.

What's worse was that this voice of his had its own manifestation who'd come out to taunt you — earlier, in these struggling minutes would you see your lover in a darker, almost sinister shade of purple, like an crystalline illusion who looked just like the man you kiss and devote your heart to. A part of you was glad him himself had faded away from both your sight and head, though you also theorized that perhaps is so because of how exhausted you've gotten listening to it.

It's like seeing your lover, but at the same time, it wasn't him. With the way he is, with the way he rocks you back and forth to despair, with the way he separates Fyodor to himself as he spoke, ultimately from the way he treated you.

The real Fyodor would never do this to you.

It hurt that he looked like Fyodor. You couldn't even get angry at it. You couldn't even tell the real Fyodor about it — for he wasn't visiting yet. And you bet he wouldn't be anyway.

"He wouldn’t be so happy to know that his impatient lover started act like this."

"That’s not you missing him anymore, that’s obsession."

"Who would ever want to see such an obsessive, fragile person like you? It's amazing how he still keeps you in his arms and returns to you even if he has zero reason to, milaya."

"Be grateful for him. You wouldn’t want him to come home with an angry face, do you?"

You blench at your minds taunt. If it wasn't him, then it'd be your head next. How amusing.

Those words played through as if it has ever said them to you, as if a flashback. But you knew well it never said such thing earlier. Sure had he said similar things, but these ones felt unheard of. At least to your memory. So why…

"Why… why can’t I get myself together?"

I’m so scared.

What… what happens to me now? Will this voice continue to haunt me?

Fyodor, just please come back.

Your mind couldn’t function — such contradict to what you always least expected when rain said hello. Always, you felt blank and free from worry - but now you felt as if the rain was also hitting your chest, filling you up till you drown even in such a suffocating room. Or could it just be…

Knock knock.

Your breath hitched right the second - eyes widening to the faint noise.

For a moment, you just sat there, eyes glued to the blank walls that you swore was turning darker in your eyes.

"N-No, no! He can’t…" You stuttered out in fear, your knees acting on its own as it recklessly gets off the bed for you to follow without a choice, feeling your heart beat in an abnormal pace.

He can’t be back now, no.

Rather than be so excited and running to see him, you felt as if you don’t even want to see a second of his face plastered with an expression when he sees you so pathetic and 'suddenly' afraid.

You didn’t want even a fleeting moment of seeing anything his appearance possessed — not even if it meant you’d be saved by God. God must be more merciful than that, right? Why can't He let you just get through this problem yourself? You didn't want to look so pitiful to your lover. You didn't want to see the look on his face, what words he could spew out, what-

"Ouch.." Without even waiting for you to do anything about it, you find yourself already on the floor with your knees painfully pressed against that harsh wood. Had you fallen on your knees? But it should've hurt way earlier on, shouldn’t it?

Still, all you found yourself replying to a sudden fall was your fingers lightly clawing on the wooden texture before you feel the whole room go redder and redder.

Feel… as if you could even feel color.

You had to quite literally deny any other thought that was conscious in your mind before you finally, slowly stood up from the floor. Not only were you struggling to speak, your hands were shaking so badly it could quite possibly tear off your own wrists.

God, imagining that was making it worse.

As quick as you try to restrain — the sounds of grains void your mind, making your chest heave at an end corrupted while you just stood there, desperate to scratch any logic in your distressed head.

You can’t fail yourself right now, no, that just wasn’t a choice… you had to do something. Say something, maybe? The rain was even louder than you were right now, and you didn’t like that.

You didn’t like that something you couldn’t control could overpower you.

So back and forth, your eyes went. You looked all around the dull bedroom whilst shakily standing on the singular spot of the wooden floor, a hand needed to press itself on your chest as you couldn’t control even a thought in your mind at its rate.

You couldn't see, hear nor even feel the illusion that crept your head to scream, so what was scaring you? Was it because of that knocking noise just now? Be as that sound may, the only door to this bedroom hadn't clicked an inch, nor was somebody stepping in. Maybe that was also in my head? Ahaha- fuck, I'm making fools out myself.

"Okay— ouch, okay.. c-calm down, it’s fine." You tried reassuring yourself, your body sitting right back on the cushion behind you with your hands clamp desperately on your knees, trying to at least keep your breathing at note.

You lied to yourself. It wasn’t fine at all — none of this was fine, yet if you wanted to get through this some way or another… the last thing you’d want is your heart jumping right out of your throat from all of your fear.

Breathing heavily, your eyes stopped its chase for nothing in hopes to keep you focused and hopefully, somehow find comfort in knowing you were still breathing and in a ‘safe room’, despite a voice in you still leaving a traumatic print to fail the assurance feel genuine.

If anything — perhaps the outside to your window was the safest, but could you really escape when the darkness of tonight threatened you to stay? Not to mention, what could Fyodor do if he finds you suddenly gone? Or worse- he could find me running around like some sick manic.

So you just let your eyes glance back and forth helplessly to keep your head frozen. In this situation, maybe to keep being distracted was for the better of yourself. So back and forth it went until eventually — they reach down to your knees.

"…Blood?" You barely voiced out, "..W-When did…"

Small freckles of blood was staining your exposed knees, which was probably formed from your earlier fall. While your knees weren’t completely bruised, they definitely left some damage. And you didn’t like it. The sight of blood.

Letting a heavy exhale, your hands shift up to touch more of your new little problem, a small whimper escaping you when you feel how bad it stung even if you just pressed a finger on it. It hurt a lot..

But maybe, this could help out. Right?

Too in a trance to even think otherwise, thunder flashes white in your view before your nails began to paw and claw your mild bruises into something nastier and nastier.

Itch by itch, scratch by scratch, you went and kept going — ignoring your hisses of pain as the blood just kept leaking out, dirtying your nails while you just begged for a distraction to keep your head in place.

A part of you tried to snap, saying this wasn’t right.

But was anything right at this point? You didn't want to see your only source of comfort because of a mirror of hallucination taunting you with him, where there was right?

You just needed to forget everything, every noise, every pair of eye that you felt that was watching you, everything. Even if the cost was this.

You fail to listen to yourself, only letting the fear in you fool you into thinking this was fine as you choked up a cry, "G-God… God, fuck, God.." cursing his name like something will come out of it. Despite every cut and scent of something sickeningly rusty metallic that you registered, your head was the only thing that kept hurting you.

What if the voice was right?

What if I'm really not deserving to have Fyodor?

But I've given my everything! From my love, to my patience, my devotion... m-my own soul-

"T-this is all your fault!" You end up yelling out loud, one of your hands punching your knee as the other grabbed onto anything it could — in this case being the bed frame. With how sudden it was however, both hands ultimately end up hurting you; that same hands fingernails grazing onto the wood way too harshly it results in you shrieking in discomfort, like your nail had been sliced off.

"God- damn... it," You gasp out, your hands shakily moving up to your hands as they tremble, one knee bruised starker than the other. But really, both hurt too much. "If only you d-didn't decide to do this to me, maybe t-then I- maybe then I wouldn't be so...!" You kept sobbing out, voice all a strain and struggling as you stand up from the bed, only to fall on the floor — knees first.

Oh, but you had to realize that at some point in this relationship, didn't you?

To know you never were worth Fyodor. Even one bit. Be as you may love him, do you think that'll be enough to exchange his? You love him, so what? You're nothing but a normal person in this world — no abilities, no worth, no purpose. While you knew he was out there changing the world, something you could never do even if you wanted to.

Perhaps Fyodor truly likes to play mock to return the romance you felt to him. Or maybe he found it pitiful — you pitiful, that you decide to hook on love rather than realize your lack of merit.

You couldn't stop your mind regardless of what you seemed to do, head down as you find yourself slowly bending over, resting your head against your arms as you laid there, sobbing your heart out.

Maybe I do need you right now, Fyodor. Please.

.

A silent night came with a quiet click that confirms your lovers return, him taking a short glance at the door whilst his hand kept hold of the doorknob. In his mind had he expected to already see you even by the window, however you were not present. Regardless, it didn't bother him much. Maybe you were in another room, resting.

He turns away from the shut door, continuous with his actions after that brief pause as his hands move to his long black cloak, in plans to take them off. Yet before he would even slide his fingers to pull the soft fabric away, his ears would catch a faint sound in the distance.

Was it you? Fyodor couldn't grasp the noise properly but who else could it be? It was only you two who lived here, after all.

He sighed, dragging the cloak off of his shoulders before deftly hooking it on the standing coat rack, his ushanka hat soon being placed there as well. Right after followed his boots, placing them below the rack; movements graceful, yet somehow in a hurry.

It wasn't exactly ideal — Fyodor preferring to have his belongings inside your shared bedroom, or at least in a closet, but he can do that later.

He wants to see you first. Yet at the same time, what was with this deadly, suffocating silence? If Fyodor was any less, he'd be shaken by the cold and dreary atmosphere. Had you gotten yourself in trouble?

Such questions were almost humbly answered however when another sound catches Fyodor's ears, this time one of a shaky whimper like it overpowered a heavy exhale. Even it dressed as a negative emotion did he easily code down the voice — knowing who it was. Assuredly confirming you were somewhere in this house, his eyes narrowed a little, head now focused on another thing.

So he began to walk, his footsteps hushed yet progressive as he, almost as if without guessing, stopped by the bedroom door. It's quite late at night, so he figured you'd be inside here among the other rooms.

Each step felt like he was creating dents on the floor, Fyodor having to pause as he hears your muffled, discomforted noises against the thick door. He kept his silence, however for the first time did he feel like yours and this homes could overpower his.

Eventually did his hand meet the doorknob, the other giving a firm knock on the door. "(Name)?" He whispered, fingers making the smallest twist to the doorknob. "May I come in?"

Not a single reply takes the honor.

He felt his chest rise, a familiar curl threatening to curve his heart as time felt a little slower now. Barely did you leave your lover unanswered, especially when there's no secret to where you were now.

Fyodor took a deep breath before opening the door, keeping his expression blank. Yours however, was not.

"F-Fyodor..?" You gasp out, eyes widening as you just sit there, shaking fingers pressed on your wet and puffy face. "Fyo-Fyodor... oh.. oh my God.."

He pressed his lips together, simply standing there as he looks at you. Knees bleeding and bruised, hair messy and fingernails dirty. A sight opposite to the warmth he feels with you. Your legs were plopped into a froggy position, back leaning against the bedframe as your chest kept heaving out the pain that wasn't at all released even from the sight of your red and tired eyes — as if you've failed to sleep for days.

And as twisted as it was, it managed to make Fyodor smile. It wasn't sadistic... rather, pleased.

He knew you wouldn't be able to see it amidst your blurry vision after all.

"My milaya, what's wrong?" He cooed, dropping the smile immediately as he walked closer to you. You failed to give him even a grim smile as you stifle, the tears warning to return with an even meaner extent. You try to stutter something, but he denies, "Shh. Come here." crouching down to see your crying face.

You gave no chance to say no to the offer, a hurt whimper escaping your quivering lips as you pretty much pounce on your lover, wrapping your hands around his neck with your fingers too shaky to even try to touch his hair.

Normally would he reply in the second by wrapping his arms around you too, but found himself swiftly catching his palms to coop on your kneecaps, refusing such bruised skin to get even more hurt against the floor which would've definitely grazed on if he didn't do so. He'll admit it hurt, knuckles probably stained with scratches, but that'll bother later.

"Fyodor... Fy-Fyodor, n-nmm.. please," You beg in between hiccups and sobs, head resting against his shoulders as he carefully brings his hands off your knees, watching your legs adjust to bring the wounds to a safer level before he places his hands on your back.

"Let it out." Fyodor simply whispered out to you, one hand lightly caressing your hair. "I-I'm so sorry...!" You squeak out, your cries uncomfortably rising themselves louder as you were a hundred percent sure it had already stained his white clothing, but oh did nothing feel important when his hands kept hold of you.

You were able to feel his position shift as he sat down on the floor, bringing you to lean on him. You took his silence as a reply to keep going, but either way would've you done so even if he spoke again. So you rant out, "P-please, Fyodor I- I beg of you, p-please keep loving me... I-I'll do anything, oh- oh my God I'd do anything.. just please," and albeit you didn't see — your words had successfully made Fyodor's eyes widen.

Such broken voice... it paired up with your damaged state like a small dish served on a small plate, it's consumer being your own lover.

Oh how he loved to see it so much, your body and soul aching to be with him even to the point it derives to cuts like these. But perhaps it is what made him love you more.

"I'm here now." He voices out, rubbing your back comfortably as he presses soft, continuous kisses on the top of your head. "It's okay, milaya. Don't apologize." He hushes, words short but able to aid you solace.

Had he not foreseen your situation then maybe would he say more, but alas... such so are all what he says as only your cries respond to his actions, and he returns it with a loving, quiet embrace.

..

Once he had felt your body weight depend on him, Fyodor tilts his head a little — seeing your pretty eyes away from his view with your eyelids fluttered shut. Your stifling had downed and so did your heavy breathing, your heartbeat catchable pressed against Fyodor's own chest. Perhaps now would be right to patch you up and tend you to bed, but he couldn't bring his body to do so right now.

Keeping you close, his attention eventually turned away as his eyes met the open window right in front of you two, only bordered by the shared bed. Who sat there? Well.. a sight in purple, dressed exactly like who held you in his arms.

Who, unknown to you, is none other than his ability; a manifestation of what the world feared of Fyodor.

He was as if crystal — transparent... yet somehow physical as he tilts his head to Fyodor, ushanka hat slightly shifting.

"Enlighten me." He whispered, voice as if an echo with the way it delivers. "Why am I helping you when they're clearly missing you?"

Your lover started with a small smile, one of which was a more expressive version of his previous one as he places a hand behind your head, gently pulling you closer to him. "Have you forgotten? Crime and punishment are close acquaintances. Once crime is chosen, punishment is acted upon regardless if one deserved it."

The other party kept quiet, eyes narrowing as he took stare of you and your lover; or rather, crime. It wasn't like he didn't know what to say, rather he expected more words out of Fyodor's mouth. And Fyodor saw that in his expression.

So your lover continued after a second of glancing at your hair, "My love might hint them more value in my eyes, but they still lie on my side of the chess board. They may be the queen or the king — the strongest or the most important one as they wish to see themselves, however it is I who still has them to own.. and I will make sure they don't forget. It's as simple as so."

"My, you cannot fool all with your lacy, twisted words." His ability replied, a comparative smile apparent in his face as one hand moves down to the window sill, a finger tapping on the smooth wood.

"You are incapable of true happiness no matter who you are with, no matter what assurance or promise they tell you. Once important to you, your possession and obsession will seek, covering your desires as something for the better. Better for whom? Themselves, or for your own affirmation?"

Fyodor's ability both sounded serious and amused. It was impossible to read the truth that seeped in his voice. Well, if you heard it, at least. To Fyodor however would he hum to softly, sharp eyes watching the sat down manifestation as predicted as much with its words.

The manifestation was right after all. To hear and see you so pathetic wasn't Fyodor's favorite thing in the world, but if it was for him, acquainted with your voice begging him to keep loving you for you would devotedly give yours? Well, one things for sure, he had planned this out.

Possessively would Fyodor keep his hand behind the back of your head, his other hand now travelling to meet your waist as he hugged you, sharp eyes up at the copy of which categorized as his ability with a small, perhaps sarcastic smile whilst he pressed a fleeting kiss on your hair with a quiet chuckle, confirming your slumber despite the shared exchange of words about you.

"Hm, is this your way of reprimanding your own user? I don’t see anyone moved by it — especially with them sleeping in my arms, neglecting the fact that it is the main crime holding them like the object they committed for."

Besides, everyone needs a little assurance in their life. Even in ways most wouldn't do, all just to see if the other meant it.

And to see you meant it only gave him the more reason to be obsessed. Or in your words, to love you.

⚘

[bellshazes]

clover au spoilers. if anyone even cares. originally the entirety of the au was this:

“One last job,” says Scar. Scar’s cat is winding its way between his legs, and it’s the  Real cat, false leg.

the lack of ending to that 2nd sentence is real and still unfinished. i wanted scar as the underground synthetic-real-cat dealer guy and everything devolved from there. and below are some wild postulations on who could do what (it's now pretty mixed on who's got what role, most people do multiple besides bdubs, who is just... ora. he's ora. it's obvious)

[electricbluebutterflies]

Hellcheer + ''i don't want to force you into something you're not ready for.''

Look y'all I FINALLY did prompt-fic for these little bbys / hopefully this is the first of many (but that requires people to send me stuff AHEM). PG-ish and also on ao3.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing.

If anyone else found out, that would be a nightmare. Chrissy Cunningham, cheerleader and all-around good-girl sweetheart, internally admitting imperfection. Even after the Incident… oh, if anything spending a couple weeks in the hospital has made everyone think she’s more fragile and cute and all the things she’s starting to question, and-

Not much has changed. Everything has changed. If she’s lucky, she’ll make it work.

She’s spent more of this summer than almost anyone knows out here, in some undeveloped greenspace near the trailer park. Someone familiar with recent events might question her judgement, but… that’s exactly what she’s hiding from, hiding in the place she’s least likely to be found, hiding and-

Fine. There are a few other motivating factors here. More secrets to keep her warm.

Chrissy is currently on her back in overgrown grass, and Eddie Munson is currently tracing little patterns on a strip of skin where her shirt doesn’t quite cover her waist in this position. Ever since What Happened – always as many delicate euphemisms as possible, they are not discussing the fact that something attempted to possess her in his living room and then dropped her from the ceiling when it decided she wasn’t satisfying enough and that reaction was also a new experience for her – he’s been tactile whenever they’ve been in the same space, which is more and more often lately, and-

They’re both being so damn careful, and she’d hate it if it wasn’t so sweet.

She knows, in the silence, that they won’t do more than this if she doesn’t start it. She doesn’t quite understand the fairytale rules his brain operates on, but she knows in that world she’s some princess in a tower and-

“You could move your hand higher,” she says because she can, because it’s either speak up or wait forever.

“You sure about that?”

She turns her head for better eye contact, to glare at him a little. “Think I’d suggest it if I wasn’t?”

For this she gets… not pity, one thing she could fall in love with is he does not underestimate her even as he puts her on a pedestal, but some kind of concern all the same. “I… I don’t want to force you into something you’re not ready for.”

Chrissy laughs, and she knows that’s probably not the right reaction but too late now, and-

“I’m asking you to put your hand up my shirt, not marry me!”

She’s done more, she wants to say, checked off most of her firsts in the back of a car with a boy who wasn’t even really thinking about her, and-

“Good,” Eddie says, awkwardness put aside and she does like how adaptable he is. “If you were going to propose, I’d hope it’d be a little more romantic. You don’t exactly seem like-”

“I would like to be proposed to, someday.”

Not anytime soon, she doesn’t quite say. Lucky her, got broken up with while she was still technically in a coma, avoided the big church wedding she thinks her mom might’ve put money on in the fall and-

“I’ll keep that in mind. Someday.”

Eddie’s fingertips slip just under the hem of her shirt, still inches from anywhere possibly inappropriate, like she’s fragile but not like everyone else thinks she’s fragile, like she’s some goddess or-

He’s got good hands, she thinks. Musician’s calluses. New to her, on this patch of skin getting closer and closer to her bra, and at the same time familiar and-

“Never thought you’d be patient.”

“No idea what I’m doing,” he replies, almost a laugh, always so playful with her. “No real-world experience to back it up.”

“Really? I would’ve thought-“

“A few kisses is not the same as-“

Chrissy leans in and changes that too, and something about getting her mouth on his feels right like very little in her life ever has, like maybe she’s been thinking about this far too long but-

“That one count for something?” she asks.

He looks at her like he’s just been struck by lightning. “Yeah. It does. We do.”

[sunriseverse]

every time i open my inbox i'm swarmed by the ghosts of prompts past.

[sleptwithinthesun]

I NEED Steve reacting to Eddie’s kitten sneezes.

lmao don't we all. please enjoy a humble 1.8K fic, written straight from my goddamn soul because im insane about these two :)

It's beyond late when Steve pulls up to the Munson trailer, almost breathless with worry, shaking with the amount of pure anxiety and adrenaline in his system right now. He hates this, so much more than words will ever be able to express. The Upside Down has a special way of fucking with his psyche, pulling everything he's worked so hard to push down up to the surface and letting it breathe for the first time in years, life regained even though it was buried long ago. But for them, buried never really seems to mean dead, does it?

He pulls his Members Only jacket tighter around himself, the normally-calming night breeze biting into him. April in Hawkins is no joke, with the temperatures tending to be pleasantly cool during the day and plummeting back down during the night. As he approaches the trailer, he notices that most of the lights are still on, meaning that Eddie might still be awake. At least Steve won't be waking him up.

Three knocks on the door are all it takes for him to hear movement from inside the trailer, and he breathes out a sigh of relief as Eddie's footsteps move closer to the door. "Uncle Wayne? I thought you weren't going to be back until Thur—" He cuts himself off as soon as he sees Steve standing there, obviously taken aback. To his credit, though, his recovery is swift, even as tension bleeds into his limbs. "Oh, uh, hi. What're you... what are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry," Steve starts, drinking in the sight of Eddie. It's a relief to see him like this, messy-haired and in baggy pajamas and breathing, "for barging in on you. I just... I needed to make sure you were okay."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes how stupid they sound. He could have just picked up the phone and called him, there was no need to drive all the way over here, not really, but Steve needed to see. To confirm Eddie's safety with his own eyes.

Eddie stares at him for a moment, before nodding, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I get that. Do you want to come in? It's a bit of a mess since I was cleaning, but the couch is fine." He lets Steve lead the way before following, closing the door behind the two of them and locking it, like he doesn't expect Steve to leave for a while. "Are you alright?"

Steve laughs humorlessly, sitting on the couch and looking down at his clasped hands. "No, not really."

To his surprise, Eddie wastes no time taking a seat next to him. "Do you, I don't know, maybe want to talk about it? I've been told I'm a good listener."

"And who told you that?"

"Most of the people who actually talk to me," Eddie says, shrugging. "My uncle, for one. Gareth. Dustin. And, uh, that's kind of it."

Steve leans back, turning his head so that he's looking at the other man. Eddie's not quite looking at him, in a similar position to Steve's just moments previous, his blank gaze transfixed on a bottle of cleaning spray that he must have left on the coffee table. "That's still not a lot."

"Not a lot of people wanted to talk to me even before I was a fugitive, Harrington."

"Fair point," Steve concedes. "Are you sure? I don't want to, like, crash your night or whatever."

Eddie scoffs, finally glancing over at Steve, even if it just lasts for a second. "Don't worry, you're not crashing anything. So far, it's just been a party between me and the dust bunnies." At Steve's tired expression, he sobers slightly. "It can wait until tomorrow, seriously. Besides, I wasn't going to be sleeping anyway."

He brings his legs up to sit in lotus style, and weirdly enough seems comfortable in it, relaxing against the back of the couch. His slumped posture causes his T-shirt to practically swallow him. It depicts the Metallica logo, because really, what else would Eddie sleep in? His sweatpants even have tiny bolts of lightning printed all over them. "What's bugging you?"

"The Upside Down," Steve tells him, averting his gaze again, absently cracking his knuckles, one by one, as he speaks. "I don't know if you've felt it, too, but it, like... it plays with your mind, man. Makes you remember things you don't want to, things you didn't even think you could remember anymore. And I don't know, I guess I've just been a bit paranoid about it all."

"I know what that's like." He glances over, sees Eddie with that far-off look again, and looks away. "Hell, I haven't slept in almost six days because of the nightmares." His nose twitches, and he inhales sharply, breaths stuttering with what Steve assumes to be emotion. "It's all just on repeat, right? Childhood memories combined with everything that happened, warping until they're the same fucking thing and—"

"—there's no escape," Steve finishes. "Yeah. It's exactly like that."

Silence stretches between the two of them, oddly comfortable, until Eddie breaks it with a sudden gasp. "hh'hg'nxt! gKT! hih'hh'kXsht!"

"Bless you," Steve tells him, taken aback by the suddenness of the triple. In the past week, he's gotten used to Eddie's common sneezes. Sort of. He's no longer surprised by the amount of them, at least.

"Ugh, sorry," Eddie mumbles, wiping at his nose with ringless fingers. "It's all this goddamn dust from cleaning. I'm listening if you still want to talk, I promise. Might just interrupt you a couple times."

"That's alright. I didn't really have much more to say, anyway, just needed someone to talk to." He shifts his weight, leaning forward and preparing to stand. "Sorry, again, for barging in on you."

Eddie looks up from where he's rubbing at his nose, which is already turning pink near his nostrils. "Wait, are you trying to leave?"

"Um, yes?"

"Dumbass," Eddie says, shaking his head affectionately. "Stay here. It's pitch-fucking-black outside, you really think I can let you drive in good conscience? I've got a couch and a bedroom, so take your pick. Or don't, I can always choose for you." With that, he turns away and crushes another set of sneezes into his shoulder. Steve's impressed. Only six since he's been here, which has to be some kind of all-time low. Eddie was a mess in the warehouse with all the dirt and dust. "h'kTt! ktsh! nGxt!"

Steve glances around, hoping there's a tissue box in the room, and comes up empty. "Bless you."

"Thanks." He stands up, pressing his bandana against his nose, and holds out his free hand to Steve. "I'm putting you in an actual bed, okay? No arguing."

"But—"

"That's an argument. You just sealed your fate," Eddie says, grabbing his hand when Steve doesn't go for his and dragging him down the hall. "My room."

Steve huffs out a breath, allowing Eddie to guide him for a few moments before an actual argument pops into his head. "You're just going to get worse if you stay in the living room, though. I mean, you said it yourself, it's all the dust."

Eddie actually pauses at that, contemplating, then keeps moving forward. "Well, then, I suppose we'll just have to share."

Oh.

See, the thing about Eddie Munson is that while he may be lacking in actual confidence in himself, once there's an idea in his mind, there's nothing anyone can do to talk him out of it. Meaning, Steve's about to spend the rest of the night in his bed. With him.

Jesus Christ.

"Fine," he manages, shrugging his jacket off the moment Eddie lets go of his wrist, intent on getting this over with as soon as possible. While a part of him is secretly thrilled at the prospect, the majority of him is anxious as hell. Steve's pretty sure he hasn't had a good night's sleep ever since he heard Chrissy was murdered.

Steve's still in pajamas, at least, so he doesn't have to borrow any of Eddie's clothes. He drapes his jacket over the back of the chair in the room, then glances over at his apparent bedmate for the night. "Are you coming?"

"Y-yeah, just gohhtta..." He breathes slowly for a couple seconds, knuckle pressed against his nose, but still loses the fight. "Shit, fuck, oh my GohhdT'sh! gxt'uh! mpt'shh!"

"Stop stifling. For the love of God, how many times do I have to tell you this? You're just going to make it worse," Steve says, walking over to the bed and lifting the covers. Maybe this won't be so bad.

Eddie stares at him for a second, nose still twitchy. "You know what, you're bossy. Has anyone ever told you that before?"

"Sure," he says, with a private roll of his eyes before his tone softens. "Get in. You need to sleep too, Eddie."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Eddie grumbles as he crosses over to the bed, grabbing a tissue on the way and quietly blowing his nose. There's a whole box of them on the floor, Steve realizes, carefully placed so that they're within easy reach, with a small wire trash can right next to them. "I'm glad you're staying."

He exhales slowly as Eddie turns off the lights. "I am, too," he admits to the ceiling.

"I'm glad that you're glad," Eddie says, sliding into bed next to him.

"Don't get all sappy on me now, Munson."

"Me? Sappy? Unheard of."

Steve laughs quietly, the last sound before they both start settling down. Now that he's in bed with the lights off, all the exhaustion he's been carrying around finally sinks into him, and he wants nothing more than to sleep. He's almost there, too, when Eddie suddenly crumples with an actual fit of uncovered sneezes.

"h'iTshh'uh! ik'tsCh! hih'kshh! kSHh! Fuck, sorry— h'isHh! ishH'uh!" He's panting by the end of it, sniffling back sudden congestion and barely even noticing what he's just revealed.

"Are you kidding me?" Steve asks, pushing himself up on his elbow. "You've been stifling all this time for that?"

He can only imagine the quizzical look Eddie's sending him. "Fuck, Eddie, that's adorable. You sound like a kitten. I mean, that's barely even different from when you stifle, Christ, why do you even bother?"

"Shut up," Eddie whines, rolling over so that he's facing Steve and poking him on the face, landing just to the side of the incredulous smile that's gracing his face. "Go to sleep."

Miracles upon miracles, he does end up sleeping through the night. And when he wakes up in the morning, Eddie is curled into his side, sinuses swollen and exhaling wheezily before Steve pulls him out of the dust-ridden trailer and into the fresh April air so that he can actually breathe.

[rcreveal]

Run! They think we're their Valentine!

Summary:

For Sendarya's Discord Writer's Group Prompt a week 2024 Prompts:1)Valentine's day, 2)oysters, 3)"Should I say 'thank you?'" Need a palate cleanser before your next course of creating and reading Aziraphale and Crowley romantic fluff? This one is rated Teen for innuendo and states of undress. Readers have called this fic 'hilarious' with an unusual premise. This is set shortly before the Antichrist arrives on Earth in S1 when they are still more "working acquaintances". Something odd happens on Valentine's Day, and they do not care for it! How can they escape from... .

Work Text:

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” Crowley hurried down the Soho streets trying to take advantage of every bit of cover.  They saw him anyway.  His only hope was to keep moving until he could make it to Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Not surprisingly, the door was closed and locked.  Very surprisingly, it wouldn’t budge when he tried the doorknob.  He rattled and cursed, growling, “Aziraphale, don’t do this to me,” and pulled out his mobile to call the shop.  He heard the phone give his special ring through the windows, but there was no tread on the stairs, no one shifting up from a comfy chair.  In desperation, Crowley tried both blessing and cursing the door into opening.  Nothing.

“They’re coming,” he moaned, looking around with a hunted expression and dashing into the alley.

Trying to find the deepest, darkest shadows in the alley, cursing so angrily that he’s literally spitting sparks of fire, he hears a voice issuing from the fetid archway he’d been wanting to hide in.  Figures.

“Crowley, is that you?  Please tell me it’s you!” Aziraphale sounds desperate, and well he might, outside on this of all nights.

“Angel!  Why aren’t you in your shop!?  Why did you bloody well lock me out!” Crowley rages, as quietly as he can.

“ I didn’t lock you out! I’m locked out!  What are you doing out tonight!  I was going to try and make it to your place and beg for shelter!” whispers Aziraphale.

“Can’t get in there, either.  I’m locked out of my flat, too!  And before you ask about the Bentley, it’s locked in the underground garage. Which I also can’t get into,” Crowley snarls in frustration.

“Oh God, they’re coming, Crowley, what do we do?” Aziraphale looks to the mouth of the alley in something like terror.

“Let me think, let me think!” hisses Crowley.

Two unlikely groups rounded the corner at the same time. Suddenly, their dark refuge felt illuminated…because a building light that had been broken for thirty years miraculously restored itself over their heads.

‘ Oh damn, here it comes,’ thinks Crowley.

“Hey Ginger, give us a try!  We’ll show you a good time!  Nobody wants to be alone tonight!” catcalls a man detaching himself from a group of leather clad bikers, sauntering down the alley towards Crowley.

At almost the same moment, “Hey Angel! Be mine tonight. I’m pure…mostly,” a woman with a fake halo and wings in a skimpy white dress and 4 inch stilettos starts stalking down the alley towards Aziraphale advancing out of a group wearing similar attire, some with little toy bows and arrows.

The humans, locked onto their selected target, only seem to see one of them.

“I cannot live through another 1969, Crowley, I just cannot ,” begs Aziraphale.

“We said we’d never speak of it!” Crowley shudders.  “Is there a back way out of the alley or up to the roof?” but he already knows they’re trapped.

“We have to do the thing!” urges Crowley.

“It won’t work!” moans Aziraphale.

“At least try, Aziraphale!  Anything is better than a repeat of 1969!” Crowley implores.

Just before the humans reach them, Crowley and Aziraphale grab each other and yell, “He’s my Valentine!”

With an almost audible pop, the biker and the woman in the angel costume stop, bemused, taking in the two men clutching each other.  The woman pouts a little but seems to notice the biker for the first time, looks at him from the poured on leather pants up to the tight undershirt.  This must be the fellow she was so intent on.

“Hey, you fancy taking an angel for a ride, love?” she propositions.

“Thought you’d never ask, pet,” he holds out an arm and helps her back to the two groups, who have suddenly become one group.

“Come on!” Crowley says, head up and smiling brightly as he feigns an easy saunter up the alley.  He whispers to Aziraphale, “While they’re confused we can get out of here.  But whatever you do, DON’T LET GO OF ME!”  Crowley leads the way through the humans at the mouth of the alley, keeping his arm draped around Aziraphale’s shoulders while Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crowley’s waist. 

Out of the mob of humans, Aziraphale can still feel the tension Crowley is trying not to show while he saunters through the neighborhood.  Aziraphale isn't doing as well hiding his nerves, scanning every face, feeling every glance as they clutch one another for protection.

Crowley spares a vengeful thought for whatever happened around forty or fifty years ago.  Humans, whose gaze usually slid off them, could suddenly see them for the demon and angel they were on Valentine’s day.  But instead of running in terror and awe, plugged them into their own personal fantasies and pursued them relentlessly!  Even worse, if the besotted humans caught him or Aziraphale, the humans could sometimes roll them under the Valentine’s influence like some horrible fey glamor to act out those fantasies!  Even their miracles were blocked unless they followed a Valentine's script.  In short, being on the street on Valentine’s evening created an almost 100% chance of ending up somewhere… unexpected. 

Walking arm in arm, fewer people are taking an interest now that they seem to be together, but a few start to tail them anyway with that dreaded look in their eyes.

“Quickly, buy me flowers!” suggests Aziraphale, glancing over his shoulder.

Passing a corner shop with a wall of fresh blooms, Crowley selects a dozen red roses, and miracles a 50 pound note, to pay the shop keeper. 

“Happy Valentine's, keep the change,” he says to the pleased shop keeper as they keep moving.

To Aziraphale he says loudly, “For my Valentine! A token of my affection!”

“How lovely they are, dear Valentine!” Aziraphale hams it up.

Looking like he’s coming in to peck Aziraphale on the cheek, Crowley presses his lips next to the angel’s ear, “We have to get off the streets!  Can you get us a table somewhere suitably couplish?”

Aziraphale announces, “We don’t want to miss our reservation for our intimate Valentine’s dinner, my dear!” and tries to hustle them down the street, but not before two befuddled humans start to cross in their direction.

“Swingers at 9 o’clock! Put your hand in my pant’s pocket,” Crowley orders, then jumps nearly a foot in the air, “My back pocket, you idiot, my back pocket!” while putting on a fake lecherous smile, “Not here, Valentine!  You get to have me all to yourself later tonight!” which sends off the hopeful couple.

Aziraphale steers them down a side street, “We’re almost to the restaurant!” They walk up to a brightly painted little cafe and duck into a dim interior lit by candles on every table.  The waiter seats them at an odd little corner booth, which forces their feet into a tangle, but at least they don’t have to manufacture a way to keep touching.  After pouring cold, flat water into their glasses, the waiter inclines his head and says, “The first course and pairing will be out shortly, gentlemen, please enjoy this perfume and pheromone mixture to set the mood,” spritzing them both full in the face before they can duck or refuse.

Blinking and wrinkling his nose, Aziraphale turns over a hand inscribed card at the table.

“A lover’s banquet!

Seven courses and wine pairings to enliven the senses and invigorate the evening!”

Shaking his head, as he reads over the angel’s shoulder, Crowley intones, “This is bad, angel, this is so, so bad.”

“We can do this, Crowley!  Just don’t lose your nerve on me!” Aziraphale whispers, hand gripping Crowley's arm, forcing a smile.

“But all the wine!  And I won’t be able to sober up quickly until tomorrow! You know that,” on Valentine’s, Crowley can neither hold his liquor nor say no when anyone offers it.  A state that leaves him open to…influences.  His eyes are swiveling in panic behind his glasses.  Feeling Aziraphale’s hand on his knee, he freezes, locking his eyes back on the angel.

“That couple was thinking of asking us over,” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, “Just keep your eyes on me, Crowley.  You’ve watched me eat for years.”

Mouth suddenly dry, Crowley grabs a sip of water, before the first course descends onto the table.  ‘ Oysters.  Of course, the first course is oysters, ’ well, might as well try and do it properly, he picks up an oyster, taking care to brush the angel’s fingers with his own and keeping desperate eye contact through his sunglasses.

After the second wine pairing, the rest of the dinner was hazy for Crowley, with the waiter, damn him, topping up the wine glasses with every course.  Other patrons are enjoying Aziraphale being even more obvious in his sensuous appreciation of every delicacy than usual (he can’t help it, it’s Valentine’s, thinks Crowley muzzily).  Despite their attempts to act completely enamored with one another, other couples start to send them things: extra oysters, couples massage vouchers, keys both personal and to hotel rooms.  With distant, tipsy horror, Crowley watches Aziraphale’s hand descend into the pile of offerings at the end of the meal and extract a hotel room key and the massage vouchers, bestowing a radiant smile on the group before scooping Crowley into the hollow of his arm and steering his stumbling feet outside.  “Hold on a little longer, we should be able to hail a cab now!” Aziraphale whispers kindly, throwing out his hand only to overbalance slightly since he’s partially supporting Crowley and none too clear-headed himself.  Thankfully a cabbie pulls over immediately.  “Please take us to this hotel,” Aziraphale shows him the room key, and the cabbie remarks, “Nice place for lovebirds such as yourselves.”  Aziraphale, smiles in relief, he’d been worried that the cabbie wouldn’t be able to read the hotel name until they’d been to the massage parlor.  Holding the massage vouchers up to his uncertain vision, he sees that the vouchers are from the same hotel.  

No one looks at them askance for arriving arm in arm without any luggage, though the bellhop discreetly takes the 100 pound note from the fair haired fellow with instructions that they not be disturbed with the promise of 200 more pounds if he can accomplish that feat all night, with the exception of the couples massage which should arrive “with alacrity”.  The bellhop opens the door of the suite displaying an enormous bed on which lays a white faux fur coverlet strewn with red rose petals.  He also demonstrates the workings of the advanced sound and television system, the jacuzzi, and the location of the champagne in a large ice bucket.  Pointing out the heavy turkish cotton ankle-length robes, he promises the two masseuses will be up in the next 20 minutes.

“Quick, Crowley, take off your clothes and put this on!” tries Aziraphale, less tipsy than the more slender demon.

“Uh-uh, angel,” Crowley weaves towards him, shaking his finger, “ I have to take off yours and you have to take off mine! ‘S the Valentine’s thingie…rules,” he pats the angel’s chest and takes off Aziraphale's long coat, “But we don’t have to be uncivilized about it. Whereza wooden butler thing?” finding one behind him when he looks for it. Trying to untie Aziraphale’s bowtie, Crowley finds his fingers too clumsy for knots.  Improvising, Valentine’s style, Crowley finds the end of the bowtie with his teeth, and tugs, slowly undoing the knot, “But not too civilized!” he winks at Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath.  Aziraphale recalls that the drink and the Valentine's compulsions are making Crowley erratic now.  Tomorrow morning, he’s likely to be embarrassed and resentful.  Quickly, Aziraphale starts undoing the buttons of his own vest one handed while fumbling with Crowley’s belt, to stave off whatever Valentine induced methods he might try next.   

The belt distraction works, just like when he’d grabbed Crowley’s knee in the restaurant, Aziraphale sees him shake his head in confusion, frowning slightly, trying not to fall over.  Crowley puts one hand to his head and the other on Aziraphale’s shoulder as Aziraphale quickly eases Crowley’s tight pants to the floor. Their shoes already came off at the door.  Coming up swiftly, Aziraphale slips the shirt and jacket over the demon’s head, catching Crowley around the waist as he overbalances away from the quick move.

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asks quietly while he takes off the angel’s unbuttoned vest and tugs the shirt over Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale, gives him a sympathetic smile, then says more loudly, “For that? Wait until you see what else I’ve got planned for you, Valentine!”  Crowley mouths, ‘ oh, right ’ manages the slacks reasonably well, after nudging the angel onto the loveseat, then is surprised into exclaiming,  “Savile Row Victorian unmentionables! Oh you are so lucky to be in here with me!  There are some quarters where you wouldn’t be able to keep the humans off with a sharp stick!” 

“They’re comfortable!” Aziraphale explains, “We can take our own underthings off,” he cautions, holding up a hand.

“Only if we show off the goods while we do, angel!” Crowley demonstrates, taking off his black undershirt and underwear only to pose dramatically with his back to the angel like some classical Greek statue, albeit one that is prone to tipping over.

“Lovely, dear boy, and you’d still be much admired at the Roman baths,” says Aziraphale, glancing at him, while slipping out of his undergarments.

“You and me both, angel.  I have to cover you up, tho’.  Masseuses coming and all that,” Crowley wraps the plush robe around the angel.

Aziraphale flourishes the other robe over Crowley’s shoulders and looks up at a knock on the door.

Tying the belt, Crowley says, “It’s just the masseuses,” and saunters unsteadily over to the door to let them in.

Two massive gentlemen, looking rather like WWF wrestlers but in khakis and matching polo shirts, wait in the hall carrying massage tables.

Aziraphale says brightly from behind a frozen Crowley, in whom imminent threat is causing instant sobriety, “Hello, gentlemen! Would you be able to do a brisk Turkish massage?” the dark heat in their eyes fades and the taller fellow, he must be 6’8”, replies, “My great grandpa used to talk about the massage you could get at the Turkish baths.  The nearest thing Jasper and I can do is a sports massage with interfascial release.  Would that suit you gents?”

Crowley finds that he and Aziraphale have drifted together and Aziraphale is whispering urgently into Crowley’s ear, “I have no idea what he’s talking about, do you?”

“Yes, that would do us a treat,” Crowley says with only a frisson of trepidation.

From where they’ve been helped into the loveseat after the massage, independent movement being more of a theory at the moment, Justin brings them both large vitamin waters, “You really shouldn’t drink any alcohol after a massage like that, gents.  Just stick with the vitamin waters and don’t operate any heavy equipment for several hours.” 

“Oh, and the jacuzzi is probably not your friend at this time,” Jasper rumbles from where he’s wiping down and folding up the massage tables.

Crowley miracles another couple of 100 pound notes from his robe pocket and passes them over while taking Justin and Jasper’s cards.

“Excellent work, gentlemen!  Your great grandpa would think it was 1871.  No fear, message received!  Stay out of the jacuzzi and no more alcohol tonight!” as the door closes behind the two men he lets his head fall back on the loveseat.  “That was a stroke of luck!  Massages, jacuzzi, and bubbly sorted.”

“How many more hours?” Aziraphale asks plaintively with his head propped in the corner of the loveseat and one arm calculatingly draped towards Crowley as he sips his vitamin water.

“It’s early yet.  Nine or ten hours?” Crowley holds his bottle to his forehead before taking a large gulp while Aziraphale turns on the TV.  It really is an enchanted evening if the angel can work a remote, thinks Crowley darkly.

“A romantic movie? What’s ‘Notting Hill’ like?” asks Aziraphale.

Scrambling for the remote, Crowley says, “YES! Quick, pick that one before something else presents itself,” blessedly the light romcom actually starts playing instead of so many other movies that could have come on.

Tilting his head, Aziraphale says, “Those people from 219 are coming back, persistent, aren’t they?” as the movie gets going.

Crowley replies, “Little blighters are watching for the bellhop to move on.  Uh, try light-hearted banter about the movie, like: ‘Did you ever consider Notting Hill for your premises?’”

“Nooo, too far away from the City,” Aziraphale replies.  “Soho just has that certain something.”

With a wicked grin, Crowley banters back, “Color, a lot more color.” Carrying on like this throughout the remainder of the movie, they feel other besotted humans diverted away from their room.

“There’s nothing for it, Crowley.  We have to go to bed,” Aziraphale announces, turning off the telly before another show queues up.  They both look over the back of the loveseat at the king-sized monstrosity still strewn with rose petals as though it’s some sort of trap.  A discrete and thoughtful basket of ‘items’ sits on both nightstands.  

Crowley rubs his eyes, having taken off his sunglasses during the movie.  He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat before putting his head in his hands, “You know we have to do something vigorously on the bed,” then he sits up straight and looks wildly at Aziraphale, “How’s your Shakespeare?”

“Reasonable. Why do you ask?” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley takes his hand and draws him over to the bed, stepping up onto the broad surface like a stage, passionately intoning, “Romeo, Romeo wherefore art thou Romeo?”

“Oh, good thought,” Aziraphale shakes out his sleeves, and warms up his voice.

“It is the east and Juliet is the sun!” proclaims Aziraphale.

Then sotto voce to Crowley, “Less projection and more intimate intensity.  The iambic pentameter is calling in the Royal Shakespeare patrons!”

Crowley, sotto voce back, stares at him, appalled, “How many humans are after us in this hotel, angel!?” Seeing Aziraphale’s pained expression Crowley starts to jump lightly on the bed, shaking himself out for the performance, and, incidentally, producing a suggestively rhythmic creaking from the bedframe. “Ok, ok, we’ve got this.”

Holding nothing back from the performance of the star crossed lovers, their words are inaudible outside the room, but their sighs, exclamations, gasps, and set changes when they move on and off the bed and loveseat apparently pass muster. The physical contact required by the play doesn’t hurt, either.  Finally, panting in an artfully entangled heap, rose petals streaming from them like the lovers’ heart’s blood, they wait for their pulses and breathing to slow down again before cracking an eyelid.

Looking up at Aziraphale from where his cheek rests on the angel’s chest, Crowley asks, “Do you think it’s safe to go to sleep now?  I’m knackered.”

“I think so,” Aziraphale senses around, “But best sleep nude, just to be on the safe side.  Are you going to shower first?” he asks, even while moving towards the bathroom. 

“You go ahead.  I’ll get this mess sorted first,” Crowley downs some more vitamin water and starts to return the ravaged bed to something with bed clothes that can cover them properly and pillows that are only at the head of the bed.

Aziraphale finds Crowley already asleep when he comes out of the bathroom swathed in huge towels and steaming.  Considering how well things have gone thus far, it would be a shame to have someone sneak in on them now.  Rummaging in the bedside table for reading material, he’s encouraged to be able to produce something suitable from his own shop.  As he settles down to read love poetry and “watch his Valentine sleeping” Aziraphale smiles to himself as the couple in 219 finally give up and go to their own bed.

The next morning, Crowley wakes but keeps carefully still with his eyes closed on finding himself nude in a strange bed the morning after Valentine’s, again.  Then he hears the page of a book turning and opens his eyes to see Aziraphale reading a small, antique volume, "The Collected Love Sonnets of William Shakespeare” while drinking tea from a room service cart.  Crowley sits up and looks hopefully at a French press and a couple of covered plates.

“You’ve got pajamas on!” he points out, enviously.

“Hotel pajamas are allowed the next morning while our clothes are being cleaned and pressed.  Your pajamas are hanging up in the bathroom,” Crowley’s robe is laying across the foot of the bed.

Crowley rolls out of bed to get up, Aziraphale glances over to see the demon’s back dotted with rose petals. “Um Crowley, you’ve got rose petals on your…”

“If rose petals are the only thing that I've got stuck to me the morning after Valentine’s, I’m ahead of the game,” he says over his shoulder while putting on his robe and padding towards the bathroom, firmly closing the door behind himself.  Aziraphale, returning to reading Shakespearan sonnets, raises his eyebrows and intones, “ Strewth, ” considering some of the post-Valentine’s mornings they’ve had.

Sauntering back to the vicinity of the room service in a set of his own black silk pajamas, apparently miracled out of his flat, Crowley stretches himself into the love seat and gratefully sips on some excellent coffee.

“I haven’t been locked out of my place in years, you?” says Crowley.

“Last year I let it be known that I was out of the country that week and hid in the basement for the night of.  The pressure must have built up,” remarks Aziraphale.

Waving a croissant with a bite out of it at the angel, Crowley says, “Yeah, but, all things considered, we got out of quite a tight spot last night, by being…you know.”

“Each other’s Valentine?  Yes, it could probably use some refinement next year.  And maybe if we set it up earlier the humans wouldn’t be so hard to deflect!” Aziraphale is getting that, ‘up to something’ look.

“Are you thinking, what I think you’re thinking? Crowley asks the angel, dubiously.

“Would you be my Valentine again next year?” asks Aziraphale, brightly.

Crowley, considers for a moment, “Yeah, sure, but do me a favor.  No oysters, okay?” he begs, extending a hand.

Aziraphale tries to nod solemnly, as they shake on it, then claps a hand over his giggles  and chuckles until tears stream out of his eyes and Crowley starts to laugh along with him.

[causeitsagame]

UNTITLED ANGST PROMPTFIC THE THIRD (out of four, I am guessing)?

Sequel to this and this, and will make zero sense without them.

-----

"So as I have said, all this time," Peko quietly finished, "Fuyuhiko has not given up our location."

Hajime's heartbeat thudded irregularly in his chest. It was exactly two months later, and he'd demanded the long-promised explanation even before anyone could eat.

Since they'd left the islands, he'd settled on one awful outcome as the most likely path. Fuyuhiko had promised to distract their would-be captors; he'd do anything to protect the knowledge he held; he'd said a rescue would be pointless after two months. One week after fleeing, a horrifying potential explanation for all of that had erupted into Hajime, unbidden: a suicide pill.

He spent the next weeks trying to think of absolutely anything besides that worst-case scenario. Over and over, he'd failed. When the day finally arrived, he'd grabbed Peko early as possible, wanting to collapse that quantum state of "dead" and "alive" into some known truth, whatever it was.

Never had he considered something even darker than Fuyuhiko offering himself up to die.

Hajime's jaw hung open at Peko's explanation, useless. No words came. It felt like his throat was swelling shut.

"And you did not stop him?" Sonia demanded, teary-eyed.

"Stop him?" Peko's eyes were just as glossy. "It was his idea. His choice to make. His decision that saved all of us."

Kazuichi looked lost, like some young child. "You both lied to me. I wouldn't… I wouldn't have sent the plane."

Peko's gaze drifted slowly downward. "It was the only way. He knew that, and so did I. If any of you pretend otherwise, you're diminishing his choice and his sacrifice. I won't allow you to dishonor him like that."

"Fuck that," Hajime spat. His blood surged hot as nightmarish memories crowded his mind. He remembered exactly what it had been like to be slowly sanded away to fit inside someone else. "And fuck you."

Peko looked back up and met his gaze with bloodshot, hollow eyes.

Hajime regretted the words as soon as they clawed out of him, but he swallowed hard and said nothing.

For a while, there was silence. A measured voice eventually broke it. "Ultimately, this was Fuyuhiko's decision. Peko is not his keeper. This has been a heavy burden for her to bear, I'm sure." The Imposter's face was solemn and determined. "But now, the rest of us can help. Hajime, it's fortunate that you negotiated that two month timeline. We'll put it to good use, now."

Sonia nodded slowly and lifted a shaking hand to her chest. "I'll start listening for any directions we might pursue. Kazuichi, can you please work on enhancing the ship's surveillance?"

He nodded, still bewildered and heartbroken over how he'd been used months earlier.

Inhaling, Sonia turned. "Ibuki, when I begin listening to those streams, will you help me work through the static?"

Ibuki looked up from where she gnawed on her thumbnail and nodded.

With clearly feigned confidence, Sonia forced a smile onto her face. "Then everyone, let us all do our very best with all of the tasks before us. Teruteru, I know you will have a wonderful meal for us to start our day. Let us do that first, and then get to work."

In silent unison, nearly everyone filtered out of the meeting room on the ship they'd adopted as their new home. The remaining duo took a while to say anything.

"I'm sorry," Hajime eventually mumbled.

"Perhaps I should have spoken up earlier." Peko gripped her wrist. "I am supposed to be making my own decisions, after all." After a heavy pause, she looked toward him. "You can't go."

Hajime's jaw set. "I have to."

"You were the main factor behind his decision. If we all only faced death, he might not have left. Simple death probably isn't worth these extreme measures."

It felt like the room's shadows abruptly deepened. For an instant, Hajime was back across the Pacific, feeling himself be stripped away. "So, if not for me, Fuyuhiko wouldn't have…"

"No. I really don't think so." Peko's gaze softened with understanding. "I know you want to help. But it's like he said, months ago: if you get captured, everything he's gone through will have been for nothing."

"But… I won't, they won't get me. But I'll get him."

"What do you think he'd do if you said that to him?"

Hajime tried imagining that, and could only picture soul-deep betrayal if he even made the attempt. "I just…" Biting his lip, he looked toward a porthole. Through it, he could see the cliff face that their ship was anchored along, helping to hide it in this small, tucked-away bay. "It's my fault. Something worse than death, and it's my fault."

"We'll get him back."

Hajime felt the ship tilt under his feet. They'd gotten used to living on the waves, but he was suddenly dizzy as it moved. He again remembered the unspeakable claustrophobia of feeling like his entire existence was closing in, followed by endless, useless freedom after that existence shattered. Will we?

It took another sixteen days until the question was answered. C O L L E C T E D, came each letter with agonizing slowness. The obscure data route was undetectable, but the speed meant that they hadn't been able to update everyone else on their progress.

Hajime's heart leapt as he saw Peko's transmission. Finding Fuyuhiko meant he'd been alive to find. And even better, she wouldn't have sent that until she, the Imposter, and their target were safely back on the helicopter they'd acquired. (From an abandoned Canadian base along the coast, and modified to remove absolutely all tracking elements.) "Mikan, get the infirmary ready."

The rest of the group was waiting behind him, unable to see the small communications screen. "For everyone?" Mikan risked asking in a tiny, tremulous voice. "Or did the mission… did things not go…?"

Hajime turned, grinning like he'd almost forgotten how to do. "For everyone."

Relief ran through them in a messy, joyous surge. They allowed themselves a few rounds of hugs before Mikan demanded to be let through, with the sort of confidence that only came to her for a patient's sake. Hajime's own relief practically felt like it had hollowed him out, and his hands shook as he moved to follow her there.

As the two of them worked on preparing the small infirmary, Hajime's mind skittered away from considering what state Fuyuhiko would be in when he arrived. His mind didn't allow him to view today as anything but amazing, and so every darker thought that piped up was quickly squelched. "He might hate how cold it is, up here," Hajime cheerfully said as he took inventory of their medical supplies. "Of course, he complained about how hot the islands could be."

"He might like it more here," Mikan agreed with a bright nod. The infirmary was on the other side of the ship, and its portholes looked out over water and onto the evergreen forest beyond. It might be Canada out there, or might be Alaska, but there were no still-living towns for a hundred miles in either direction. Unless someone knew exactly where to look, the Remnants were undetectable. There was food out there, too: berries and fish and meat and various other things that only Teruteru and Hajime could name.

It didn't feel like a home, but it had been okay. Maybe it would feel like home when all of them were together, again.

The two of them needn't have rushed. The helicopter had a long path to fly, and needed a stopover at an abandoned base in the Aleutians to refuel. Slow letters appeared again as the next dawn touched the trees: A L M O S T T H E R E.

"Stay in the infirmary!" Hajime ordered Mikan as he ran for the landing pad at the back of the boat. "I'll bring him in!"

The message had taken long enough to arrive that he could see the approaching helicopter when he ran outside. Hajime threw an arm halfway over his eyes to block the whipping gusts from its blades, but unlike the rest of their group, he kept walking forward against the wind. He could see the Imposter at the controls; Peko must be at the back of the craft with Fuyuhiko.

He's here, Hajime thought, and felt his eyes swim with sudden tears. We got him.

When he could finally slam the helicopter's door open and see inside, Hajime's heart twisted with mingled joy and fear. Yes, Peko was in the back of the aircraft, tenderly holding a slender figure wrapped in a blanket, but that figure was absolutely still. It took Hajime a moment to process that Peko's expression would look very different if she were holding a corpse, and he forced himself foward.

His heart twisted again; this time, only with agony.

Fuyuhiko's exposed skin was a mass of overlapping bruises and cuts, new and old and poorly healed. The scar over his bad eye had been further mutilated; there was probably no going without an eyepatch, now. And beneath everything, his skin was sallow and dry, with cavernous hollows under his eye sockets and cheekbones. One arm extended out of the blanket, and its wrist was awkwardly, painfully prominent. Fuyuhiko had never had weight to lose, but they'd stolen it from him, anyway.

Hajime looked at all that, and at the ragged red tips to all of Fuyuhiko's fingers, and felt a crimson wash pass over his vision. Focus on him, he thought, and balled his fists until they hurt. Think about them later. "I'll get him to the infirmary."

"Careful," Peko whispered. Her cheeks were marked with tear streaks, some fresh.

Hajime's arms shook as he slowly picked up Fuyuhiko. Despite his care, Fuyuhiko hissed as soon as his torso twisted even a bit. Probably broken ribs, Hajime thought, and began cataloguing the injuries as he walked forward. Limited movement prescribed for that. Significant dehydration; IV fluids. And…

The group split as he approached. Gasps and soft cries welcomed Fuyuhiko back to them, but everyone had more sense than to make any noise louder than a whisper. If he hadn't needed to limit the jostling that Fuyuhiko's ribs received, Hajime's arms would have shook by the time he stepped back into the ship's interior.

As he walked into the infirmary, Hajime whispered, "We got him."

Mikan's eyes filled with tears, and she moved for her supplies.

Fuyuhiko still hadn't come to, but faint groans and uncharacteristic whimpers suggested that consciousness was just below the surface. At one of those soft, vulnerable sounds, Hajime's heart seized anew. He couldn't help but kneel next to Fuyuhiko's shoulder, so their faces were close. "Hey. It's okay. You're safe."

That seemed to work, at least a little, so Hajime tried again. "It's okay. You're back with us. I'm right here and I'm going to help you. It's okay."

Fuyuhiko's good eye slit open. His gaze roamed slowly around the infirmary and eventually settled on Hajime, though he seemed to have trouble focusing. "Where's Peko?" The question came out as a cracked, tired sigh.

"We'll get her," Hajime promised, and nodded to Mikan. She nodded back and darted out of the infirmary. If Peko had been the one to actually carry Fuyuhiko to safety, he could only imagine what a relief she must be to see. They should have thought of that and insisted that she come along right away, despite the infirmary's tight quarters.

Fuyuhiko tried to run his gaze around the infirmary, again, but even that appeared to exhaust him. "Who're you?"

Hajime's heart skipped a beat. The optimism he'd used to brick off Peko's explanation of Fuyuhiko's horrifying plan began to develop thick cracks. "It's Hajime. Remember me?"

Fuyuhiko stared back at him, still unable to focus his vision. "You…"

Hajime barely kept himself from grabbing Fuyuhiko's hand to try to encourage him. Mikan hadn't bandaged the many, many wounds there, yet. "Yeah. Me."

"You must be all sorts of fucked-up," Fuyuhiko managed. "Looking at you feels like a whole burnt-out library."

Hajime's arms felt to weigh a ton apiece, suddenly. They hung heavy.

For the first time, Fuyuhiko's eye managed to focus, but he wasn't looking at Hajime. The relief and trust he'd hoped to see directed at him were finally there, but aimed only for the woman walking through the infirmary door. "So. What's the situation?"

"You're safe, young master," Peko whispered.

Hajime shook his head. Young master? He'd gotten her to stop saying that soon after waking up.

Fuyuhiko studied Hajime as critically as his barely-there energy stores would allow. "You mind?"

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be as bad as Peko had described. It couldn't be that bad, not really. Not when he was back and alive. "Mind?" Hajime dumbly echoed.

"Private conversation."

"I. Sure. Okay." Numb, Hajime stood and stepped past Peko. She brushed down his arm with quick sympathy, but then stepped in to take the spot he'd vacated at Fuyuhiko's bedside.

Perhaps Peko didn't realize that he could still hear from there, or perhaps she didn't care. Maybe she even wanted him to hear. "Young master, these are the people I mentioned. You can trust them all."

"…You sure about that?"

"Yes. I am."

"'Cause I must've burned them out for a reason."

"You did. You were protecting them all, because you care very much. You even went back to memories of meeting them, it appears. Doing so much was very." Peko's calm wobbled momentarily, as did her voice. "Very brave."

"I get that. But." Fuyuhiko took a long pause. "I didn't burn out a chunk of stuff that was just about me. That way, I'd still know what year it was, and shit like that."

"That makes sense."

Fuyuhiko took a longer pause. "So I remember what I did."

Peko was silent for a while, in return. "Things are different, now. Very different."

"If these people know me… did they do that kind of shit, too?"

More silence. "Things are different, now."

"What about the guy who just left?"

Holding his breath, Hajime flattened himself more against the wall, like they'd somehow notice him eavesdropping.

"Hajime? What do you mean?"

"I look at you, and I know I burned out a lot of big memories starting in high school. I looked at that fat guy, and I burned out anything big, too. But that guy just now… everything. I burned out every goddamn thing I know about him. Why?"

Hajime's knees weakened, and he barely kept himself from collapsing where he stood. It took him a second to realize that Mikan, unable to hear the quiet conversation inside the room, was asking if he was all right. He ignored her.

"He was who you were most concerned about. You found it absolutely unacceptable for him to be at any risk of capture."

"He's who got me all fucked up, then? That guy?"

"Young master, that's not… the situation is very complicated. It is not Hajime's fault."

"Sounds like it is. Heh." The soft noise earned a hiss of pain.

That, Mikan was able to hear. With an apologetic look toward Hajime, she murmured something about needing to interrupt them and walked into the infirmary.

After a moment, Hajime walked away with slow, heavy steps, again feeling like his existence had been shattered.

His mind spiraled, veering between Fuyuhiko's horrific injuries, those dismissive words, and his own memories of existence burning away. With each such cycle, he spiraled tighter and lower, and everything began to overlap into a screaming, endless chorus. Soon, the doctors who'd stolen his own memories were the faces torturing Fuyuhiko, and they thanked Hajime for showing them the way.

Hajime started running. He barely made it back outside and to the ship's railing before he doubled over and coughed up a stream of bile. A large, strong hand gripped one shoulder while a metal one gripped the other, and both men asked if Hajime was all right.

"No," Hajime said dully, staring into the distance. He wasn't.

Because Fuyuhiko was right. And he'd been right, when he said it to Peko.

This was his fault.

[ladytauria]

wip ask game

tagged by @anawrites3 <3333 thank you!!

Rules: Reveal the titles of the documents in your wip folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

i will not be tagging as many people as i have wip documents <3 i simply shan't

also i'm including what ship each of these fics are for because if i were to include the full title it would look something like: [batfic | ship] wip name. so xD

(edit: OOPS i missed some)

(gen) needing and wanting

(gen) pack

(gen) red hood's robin

(gen) rr vampire au

(brucatherine) i just want your hands on me (prompt fic)

(dicktim) lap kisses (prompt fic)

(jay-centric) jason sexploration

(jaycest) untitled

(jaydick) a small kiss (prompt fic)

(jayroman) pre-aftermath

(jaysteph) a kiss that tastes of the food/dessert they were eating (promptfic)

(jaysteph) meet-cute (prompt fic)

(jaysteph) untitled smutfic

(jaytalia) untitled oxa fic

(jaytalia) public sex + trans jason

(jaytimsteph) falling in love with your best friend's partner (prompt fic)

(jaytim) 5+1

(jaytim) aftermath

(jaytim) another night, alt

(jaytim) arms

(jaytim) as you are

(jaytim) baby bird

(jaytim) bratty alphas

(jaytim) discoveries

(jaytim) empty promises p. 2

(jaytim) do you love me? (prompt fic)

(jaytim / gen) double mer

(jaytim) drake industries mer rescue program

(jaytim) ghost hunters

(jaytim) got your back

(jaytim) hope one day i'll be enough for you to stay

(jaytim) icy hands, icy hearts)

(jaytim) if you keep looking at me like that (prompt fic)

(jaytim) jtw2024 wingfic

(jaytim) leave the world behind

(jaytim) neither a bang nor a whimper

(jaytim) slip of the tongue

(jaytim) surprise, surprise

(jaytim) teenage fantasies side a

(jaytim) teenage fantasies side b

(jaytim) the color of hope (canary yellow)

(jaytim) the sweetness of honey, chapter 9

(jaytim) the tenderest of touches (break the hardest of hearts)

(jaytim) to be yours

(jaytim) used to being lonely

(jaytim) you try so loud to love me (i cannot seem to hear)

(sladejay) post-fight (promptfic)

looking at this list and crying TuT

no pressure tagging... @lollilollipop99 ; @paprikadotmp4 ; @n1ightw1ng ; @this-was-a-terrible-idea ; @bi-bats ; @jpeg-dot-jpeg ; @generatorcat ; @glaciya &... anyone else who looks at this list and wants to do it <3

[malinaa]

2023 WRITING REVIEW

tagged: no one i just wanted to do this and i forgot about it soz </3 tagging : board of directors i'd tag u here but this is mostly fic-based so sorree... anyway if u have already done this my b.... i wld like to see ur post tho @evcndiaz | @brimay | @usignedupforthis | @seek--rest | @posallys | @dustorangeheartssnowman | @adhd-merlin | @queerofthedagger

number of stories posted to ao3: 34 ±1 bc i updated a fic from a while back <3

word counted posted for last year: 90k... a feat (i wrote more but it was ofic so add like maybe 10k to that)

fandoms i wrote for: alex stern series, merlin, house md, pjo, spidey, hunger games, doctor who, & the grisha trilogy

pairings: merthur / arwen / mergwenthur / mergana, darlingstern, hilson, percabeth, petermj, everlark, tenrose, malina

stories with the most KUDOS: jealousy, jealousy (house md) with 522 <3 BOOKMARKS: except my life (merlin) with 137 <3 COMMENT THREADS: rip current (pjo) with 38 <3 *technically the answer to all of these is tested with torment but that's a fic i updated so i don't reallyyyyyy count it

work i'm most proud of (and why): thread of gold (arwen, bbc merlin) because i don't exactly post 2nd person fic and tbh most people HATEEEEE 2nd person fic AND i got people to enjoy it. HA!

work i'm least proud of (and why): coffee drinker (gen fic, bbc merlin) because it was just a promptfic and i didn't even really feel like posting it but i wrote it so i might as well yk?

share or describe a favorite review you received: any review that quotes a line but this one from judas kiss (arwen, bbc merlin)...

THIS. IS. WONDERFUL ❤️❤️❤️ *creates bookmark with gusto* I LOVE that you dug into what it might have been like for Gwen while she was under that enchantment! It was so creative to have her past memories blurring with glimpses of the present during the enchantment. I *felt* her disorientation, and it *hurt*. I felt so bad for Gwen all over again! 😭😭😭 That aspect of this story could have been a fantastic standalone one-shot in its own right, but noooo, you raised the bar and KEPT GOING and made it even better!!! I love that you showed Gwen and Merlin staying friends after Gwen becomes queen, and I love how she confides in him and how he immediately drops everything to go look for the offending piece of jewelry. The bit about Arthur’s incredulity at Merlin’s method of testing the enchantment was a great dash of humor, and I love that you fleshed out the concept of the enchantment to be something the others could experience so that they could truly *know* that Gwen had been innocent. And don’t even get me started on how much I love Arthur’s “Forgive me.” I love how he doesn’t think twice about humbling himself in front of everyone because his focus is solely on Gwen, consumed by the urgency of doing the right, honorable, and loving thing in that moment. You write Arthur and Gwen’s relationship so beautifully. 💕 Well done; I hate you (/affectionate) for all these feels. 🥰🫂👏

a time when writing was really, really hard: august through october... idek why i was literally in agony not writing

a scene or character you wrote that surprised you: writing jj in spider-man: homewrecker because i've NEVER written him before (in my memory) and i was like. Hello .

a favorite excerpt of your writing: cannae lie i have a few favs so... killing is a love language (mergana, bbc merlin) Heartbreak snakes up his throat, constricting him at the sight of her. Morgana’s beauty is incontestable even like this, but her hatred wore her down to her bones. Gone were the full cheeks and rosy lips, the perfectly combed hair, the wardrobe that would put princesses to shame. Now, her face is sunken in, her hair a curled storm, her dress is merely black rags at this point. thread of gold (arwen, bbc merlin) Your father’s presence is larger than life. Larger than love. It looms. It casts shadows long enough to hide every hope and dream you’ve ever had for yourself. the boy and the girl (malina, the grisha trilogy) Memory fractures into shards. Real or not real? There’s Mal in the meadow. Mal buried beneath the hanging tree. Mal cold in her palms. There’s a sky darker than night. Her hands bloodied. A knife lodged in his heart. Her knife. His blood. Her fault. She killed him. She loves him. Her fault. Rest her head on his still chest. Her fault. No heartbeat. Her fault. No warmth. Cold light spilling from her palms. She killed him. The Saint’s only true worshipper martyred.

how did you grow as a writer last year: my hopes from last year was that i finally finish a multichap fic.... 😭 does a short 3-shot count. besides that i wrote more consistently and i'm finally Used to my writing style. i think.

how do you hope to grow this year: hell if i know if i could write something longer than 20k that'd be great 😭😭😭😭

who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer, beta, cheerleader, etc.): the board.... @rosesau / @bipercabeth / @stellwood fnh...... i'd tag katie but she absconded from tumblr smh. anyway hi freaks n geeks

anything from your real life show up in your writing last year: oh i don't even know. nothing ig

any new wisdom you can share with other writers: bro idek the more i write the more writing becomes fundamentally so hard to talk about ... sorreeee

any projects you're looking to starting (or finishing) this year: IF I DON'T FUCKING MAKE PROGRESS ON MY PLAY I WILL BASH MY HEAD INTO A WALL. THIS CAN'T KEEP HAPPENING. ATLAS AND VIVIAN YOU WILL BE WRITTEN ON THE PAGE INSHALLAH

[scary-senpai]

santa is a god-level threat.

Fandom: One-Punch Man

Genre: Comedy, Christmas / promptfic

Summary: Some are born with Christmas spirit, some achieve Christmas spirit, and some have Christmas Spirit thrust upon them. Amai Mask falls into the latter category.

For Wanpanmas 2023. Prompt: Starry Night

“You’ve reached the Santa Hero Hotline. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” When Genos answered the phone with his usual overbearing exuberance, Amai Mask couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “In regards to your question about toy production,” Genos continued, “I think you will find the answer lies in both cutting-edge nanotechnology and an abundance of Christmas magic. Allow me to expound…” Every day, the Hero Association receives hundreds of calls from children concerned about the safety and wellbeing of themselves—but on Christmas Eve, however, the Hero Association receives thousands of phone calls from children concerned about the safety and well-being of Santa Claus. To deal with this sudden influx of phone calls, HA executives had rolled out a special holiday initiative: “Santa's Annual Navigation Tracking and Heroic Elf Response Operation” (also known as the “Santa Hero Hotline,” for short).

....Amai Mask hated everything about it.

[[read the whole thing on ao3]]