#spotify wrapped fic prompts

[sesamestreep]

Matt/Foggy, 36

From this Spotify Wrapped Prompt Game: #36. Made You Look - Meghan Trainor (🫣 I am not immune to a viral tiktok audio earworm…)

“Are you capable of exercising any self-control at all?” Foggy asks, voice dripping with annoyance as it carries across the room.

“I—” Matt pauses, as he tries to figure out the right response to that question. “I’m literally just sitting here,” he finally offers, weakly, because it definitely sounds like he’s in trouble, he’s just not sure why.

“I know that,” Foggy says, coming back to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m talking about what happened last night.”

“I was under the impression that you enjoyed what happened last night.”

“Matt…”

“In fact, I distinctly remember asking if you were enjoying yourself and you said—”

“You don’t need to quote me,” Foggy says, evidently excited or embarrassed by the memory—or both. “I remember.”

“Well, then, I’m confused by your sudden change of heart.”

“Not a change of heart,” Foggy clarifies and Matt is very often thankful that Foggy can’t hear his heartbeat and now is one such moment, because the way it immediately calms down from relief is genuinely a little embarrassing and he’s glad no one else has to know about it. “Just confronting the very frustrating reality that I’m going to have to do the walk of shame in a shirt open to my navel because someone tore half the buttons off of it in his haste to get me undressed. Again.”

Matt shrugs, very deliberately casual now that he knows this isn’t a real argument. “It felt like an urgent matter at the time.”

“Matt, I don’t even know where any of the buttons ended up!”

“Thank God. It’d be really embarrassing if you’d had the presence of mind to keep track of that while I was…well, you know.”

“I don’t know why you can’t just unbutton my shirt patiently like a grownup,” Foggy complains, which is the exact opposite of what he was doing last night, but Matt doesn’t bring that up.

“I don’t know why you insist on wearing those fancy suits with like eighteen layers I have to go through,” Matt says, instead. “Getting you naked is like breaking into a Swiss bank.”

“They’re three piece suits, you infant,” Foggy retorts, laughing. “And I’ve been told by everyone on Earth except you that I look great in them.”

“I’m sure you do. But for my purposes, they’re a nuisance.”

“You’re a philistine, Matthew. And I’m going to tell Luke that you don’t appreciate well made clothing and get you on his bad side for all eternity.”

“Please don’t,” Matt says, grabbing Foggy’s wrist like he might go for his phone right away. The downside of meeting Luke through Foggy is that he always has this extremely viable threat in his back pocket. “You have no idea how hard it is to find a good tailor these days.”

“Oh, I’m intimately aware,” Foggy cries, and there’s a shuffling noise as he (Matt’s guessing) shakes his injured shirt at him. “And speaking of Luke, you can’t claim my clothes are a nuisance to get out of when you run around in your leather daddy body armor all the time. There’s just no comparison!”

Matt doesn’t point out that he rarely shows up to see Foggy in the suit because it usually ends in them arguing rather than fucking—or, at least, arguing for a while before they get around to fucking. That’s not going to win him any points at the moment, he imagines.

“Leather daddy?” he asks, incredulously, instead.

“God, shut up,” Foggy says, still embarrassed and excited about it.

Matt takes the shirt out of Foggy’s hands, gently, and then, not so gently, shucks it to the other side of the room. “Maybe I just like who you are under your clothes more,” he says, carefully. “Did you ever think of that?”

“You’re so full of shit,” Foggy says, and, Matt’s not really sure how, but his voice fully gives away that he’s blushing.

“You could borrow something of mine…”

Foggy snorts. “Yeah, I don’t think you have anything in my size here, sweetheart.”

Matt lets his hand trail up Foggy’s side. “Oh, well. Hot guy in a tight t-shirt. What a sad fate for all of us to endure.”

“That gimmick only works when it’s guys like you. On me, it’ll just look delusional.”

Matt frowns, not liking the sound of that one bit. He slips his hand around the back of Foggy’s neck and pulls him close until their foreheads are pressed together, relieved by how easily Foggy complies despite his purported annoyance.

“Then it looks like your only option is to stay here forever,” Matt says, solemnly. “Completely naked, of course.”

“Of course,” Foggy says, laughing softly. “It’s the only plan that makes sense.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement,” Matt replies, leaning in to kiss him. He conveniently doesn’t mention that he has one sweater, three sweatshirts, and no less than five t-shirts that he’s stolen from Foggy that he could just as easily return to him and solve his current predicament. He likes his solution better.

[bi-buckrights]

How about 47 for the spotify wrapped drabbles? :) Only if it sparks joy, of course!

Hi, thank you so much for the prompt 🥰 #47 is Blue Dahlia by the Gaslight Anthem

not another soul could love you (like my rotten bones do) | 1.3k

He peppers kisses along Eddie’s jaw, stopping to nibble lightly just under his ear before trailing wet kisses down his neck. Eddie tils his head to give him better access, letting out a pleased sigh which serves to spur Buck on. He presses his tongue into the dip of Eddie’s collar bone, appreciating the soft moan it elicits. He follows the slope of Eddie’s collar bone until he reaches his shoulder. He’s about to press another kiss into Eddie’s skin, but freezes. His heart skips a beat at the sight of a scar, thinking back to the taste of Eddie’s blood in his mouth, splattered across his face. But then he realizes this is the opposite shoulder, not the one that a bullet tore through in the middle of the day in the streets of Los Angeles. No, this scar is from another time. He brushes his fingers over the scar reverently, knowing it’s a mirror of Eddie’s other shoulder. It hits him, not for the first time, how many times he’s come close to losing Eddie. That there was a chance that Eddie could’ve been taken from him before they even met.

Read the rest on ao3

Send me a number 1-100 and I will try to write a short drabble based off whatever song that corresponds to in my spotify wrapped

[brigittttoo]

song prompt ficlets on ao3!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56159812/chapters/142662454

for archiving purposes I have put the three codywan spotify wrapped prompted ficlets from last december up on ao3! rated T, 1.6k total, these include:

Cody getting crunk at 79's (prompted by @cabezadeperro)

old man Cody meeting up with old man Obi-Wan on Tatooine (prompted by @smoosey)

an Everything Everywhere All At Once multi-AU bonanza! (prompted by @goddammitjim)

[firstelevens]

song 25 + sambucky if you're still taking spotify wrapped prompts ☺️

25. Accidentally In Love by Counting Crows

When Sam’s phone goes off, he’s half asleep on his couch, buried under a small mountain of blankets and too congested to even really hear it that well. He only notices because it’s face-up on the coffee table and the screen catches his eye when it lights up.

He extends a hand out from his blanket nest and picks up the phone, wincing at the bright light of the display. 

It takes a second of squinting at the screen, but he finally manages to see that the notification is a text from Foggy: ‘any tips on how to handle your honors lit class? no subs available this morning so Hill has me covering’

‘Try not to show any weakness. They smell fear,’ Sam texts back. Then he adds, ‘There’s a Princess Bride DVD in the cupboard, you can get a key from Bucky.’

Foggy’s reply is predictably annoying: ‘does loverboy still think that you and me are dating? do I need to worry about him sabotaging my teaching in a fit of jealousy?’

Sam glares at the screen of his phone but it doesn’t do much, given that Foggy can’t see him. ‘Just for that you I’m not telling you where I put the Luhrmann Romeo + Juliet. You’ll just have to teach the ninth graders about iambic meter yourself next period.’

Foggy doesn’t get back to him for a while, which isn’t all that surprising. The beginning of the school day is hectic enough for a guidance counselor without having to unexpectedly cover another teacher’s class.

He stumbles to the kitchen to make himself tea, a blanket around his shoulders and his phone in his hand, but Foggy doesn’t reply for another twenty minutes. Sam’s head hurts too much for him to remember how neat the supply cupboard was, but he’s hoping it’s not so bad that Foggy’s just elbows deep in useless stuff.

After giving it another few minutes while he takes his next dose of cold medicine, he sends a text to check whether Foggy found what he was looking for.

The reply is immediate: ‘didn’t end up needing the dvd! I asked Bucky for the key and when he heard you were sick he said he’d handle it.’

‘Doesn’t he teach first period journalism?’

‘You’re sick so I won’t make fun of you for memorizing his schedule,’ Foggy writes, magnanimous as ever. Then: ‘there’s like five journalism students so he said he’d just combine them. said he could take your kids for the rest of the day too.’

Sam feels his jaw drop. Covering just one class is more than enough, but the entire day? When Bucky has almost a full slate of classes to teach, too? His face is suddenly all warm, and he’s at least fifty percent sure it’s not the fever.

His head is getting heavy again, and the screen is starting to hurt his eyes, but he manages to get a text out thanking Bucky for covering for him and assuring him that he can just put on movies for every single class.

He doesn’t have to wait long at all for the reply. ‘You’re welcome, Wilson. Now get some rest and stop worrying about your classes; they’ll be fine.’

Yawning widely, Sam types out a quick reply and takes Bucky’s advice, pulling the covers over his head and quickly falling back asleep.

Not having to field questions for subs or keep an eye on his email for questions from concerned students means that Sam isn’t repeatedly getting up when he’s supposed to be resting, and when he emerges from his blanket cocoon that afternoon, he can stand without getting dizzy for the first time in two days.

He celebrates by dragging himself into the shower, where the steam and the decongestant make it so that he regains his sense of smell, however briefly, and he feels more like a person than he has since Friday.

There’s probably an argument to be made for going back to bed, but Sam has never been great at being still, so he throws in a load of laundry and cleans up a bit while he’s on his feet. He’s about to make dinner, too, but then Sarah gives him a talking-to and makes him promise to order food instead, and Sam understands that she will instinctively know if he crosses her.

Sam already has the app open, scrolling through his options when his doorbell rings. For a second, he thinks that Sarah figured she couldn’t trust him to follow through and just ordered the food herself. Normally, he wouldn’t put it past her, but she’s getting the boat ready for a charter tomorrow, so he can’t imagine that she had the time or the cell service.

A peek through the curtains answers the question, though: there’s a familiar sedan parked in Sam’s driveway, a peeling Rutgers decal on the rear windshield.

“If you’re bringing me work to grade, I’m going to sneeze on you,” he declares, as he opens his front door to find Bucky waiting outside.

“I’m not a monster,” says Bucky, looking mildly offended at the thought. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” says Sam. “I can probably be back in tomorrow.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Or you could take a second sick day and actually get better instead of running yourself down again.”

“We’re supposed to be working on that stupid archival project tomorrow,” says Sam. “If I get another sanctimonious email from John about prioritizing my tasks, I’m gonna have an operatic meltdown in the middle of his classroom.”

“Entertaining as that would be, there’s probably another way,” Bucky says. “I’ll handle Walker for now. You just worry about getting better.”

Sam could probably push back if he really wanted to, but he can’t bring himself to be mad about Bucky looking out for him. “Okay,” he says, and Bucky’s eyebrows go up in surprise.

“Really? It’s that easy?”

“I blame the cold medicine,” says Sam. “I’ll be a pain in the ass again on Wednesday, I promise.”

Bucky smiles. “I look forward to it.”

“Well,” says Sam, after they’ve both been silent for a moment. “Thanks for coming to check on me; I really–”

“Wait!” says Bucky, and Sam stops in his tracks, eyebrows raised in question. “I didn’t just come to ask how you were doing. I, um– I wanted to bring you this, too.”

He holds out what Sam now realizes is a bag from the Thai place near the school.

“I would’ve made you soup myself, but I had to stay late with the yearbook kids, and my Ma would kill me if I half-assed her chicken soup recipe, but I know you like this place, so…”

Sam looks from Bucky to the bag of food and back, his eyes wide. “Thank you,” he says, and he can feel how soft his voice has gone around the edges. He probably should make some kind of joke to restore the natural order of things, but he can’t bring himself to do it. “You didn’t have to, Bucky, seriously.”

“I know,” he says, with a little shrug. “I wanted to.”

“Oh,” is all that Sam can manage to get out. “Okay.”

“It’s cold,” says Bucky, once Sam takes the bag of food out of his hands. “I should let you get back inside.”

He starts down the steps and Sam only belatedly remembers to call out, “I’ll see you on Wednesday!”

“See you then,” says Bucky, turning to face Sam and taking the last few steps to his car backwards. “Oh, and thanks for calling me cute!”

Sam feels his eyebrows lift in surprise. He wracks his brain to go over the last five minutes of conversation, but he comes up empty. “Wait, what?”

But all that Bucky does is hold up his cell phone before opening the door to his car. “Night, Sam!”

Suddenly, Sam remembers sending a text earlier today, clouded by the haze of exhaustion and cold medicine. His eyes go wide.

He didn’t, did he?

It’s only Sam’s dignity that keeps him from sprinting for his phone, staying in the doorway until Bucky’s car pulls away.

The second his headlights disappear, Sam throws the door shut and hurries to where his phone is charging on the kitchen counter. It takes two tries for him to unlock it with his face, and then he’s swiping over to his texts, opening up his conversation with Bucky and reading back the last few messages.

His eyes go wide as he reads his own words back.

‘It’s so cute that you use semicolons in your texts,’ he’d said to Bucky. ‘You know I’m not grading these for punctuation right?’

‘Maybe I just want to impress you,’ Bucky had replied.

And then, because that wasn’t enough, apparently Sam had replied, ‘Maybe you already do.’

He’s pretty sure that he’s never recovering from this, but just to make sure he learns his lesson, he texts a screenshot to Foggy with the message, ‘COLD MEDICINE SAM CANNOT BE TRUSTED!!!’

Foggy just sends him back a bunch of cry laughing emojis in response.

[dreamwatch]

For the wrapped meme: 11 & Steddie, if you please!

Thank you for the prompt, I really needed this to get my brain working.

You know until your ask I didn't realise I hadn't even specified a fandom! Stranger Things, people! (in case anyone else wants to send me a prompt)

---

#11 - Refugee by Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers

Steve is vibrating with anger.

They’re sitting in Eddie’s van in the parking lot outside Bradley’s Big Buy. Eddie’s looking in the rear view mirror wiping someone else’s spit off the side of his face with some grubby napkin he found in the glove box. He’s acting like he’s wiping some girls lipstick off his cheek. 

“Stop staring at me.”

Steve turns away, looks out the passenger window to see the prick from the store packing his groceries. The temptation to run over there and kick the shit out of him is so intense he ends up staring at his hands instead. He’s not sure why he suddenly feels like the bad guy in all of this.

“I feel like a drive, how about you, Steve?” Eddie’s voice is clipped, his tone all pinched and stiff. Steve just nods, there’s no point saying anything right now, he’ll get shot down and it will start a fight and he’s not in the fucking mood.

They drive for close to an hour, Steve taking surreptitious glances at Eddie from time to time. Over the hour he watches as Eddie’s shoulders relax, the tension in his arms loosens. Watches the transformation from an angry alley cat back to Eddie.

It’s not fair, but he learned a while ago nothing in Hawkins is fair. But what annoys him, what really incenses him, is how Eddie reacts to these bastards. He doesn’t fight back. He just grins, throws up those stupid horns, sticks his tongue out. He pokes the bear, and he looks like he’s enjoying it too, unless you really know him. Then you see the flash of hurt in his eyes, the way he stiffens slightly. The way he hunkers down for hours afterwards while he works through whatever the fuck is going on in his head. Which Steve can’t help might be faster and easier if Eddie would just talk to him. Or anyone. Just fucking talk.

The van slows and pulls off the road, stopping at the edge of a cornfield. Eddie shuts off the engine, killing the music. Steve sneaks a glance, watches as Eddie tips his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. The engine tick tick ticks, the birds caw. An occasional car whooshes by. Eddie and Steve just sit.

A warm breeze flows through the windows, and Eddie pushes stray hairs off his face. He caught colour on his cheeks over the summer, the scar on his left one no longer looking so stark against his skin. Eddie took great delight in showing that off to the townsfolk of Hawkins. Sometimes Steve just wants to scream at him.

“I know you don’t get it,” Eddie says on a sigh, finally cutting through the last of the tension in the van.

“Yeah, I don’t. Sorry.”

“I don’t need you fighting my battles. I can do that myself.”

Steve shakes his head, “Didn’t see you putting up much of a fight.”

“That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?”

Eddie pats himself down, and Steve knows he’s looking for cigarettes. He also knows he doesn’t have any. He only has gas in the van because Steve gives him the money for it. No one will give him a job, Wayne gets less hours at the plant, and they all know why that is. So he gives Eddie gas money because he drives Steve around even though Steve has a perfectly nice car, and they both know what this really is. Just another thing they don’t talk about.

Steve lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag before passing it to Eddie. 

“I don’t know how you put up with it, that’s all.”

“And what else am I supposed to do, exactly?” Eddie takes a drag, and ashes the cigarette out the window. Doesn’t hand it back to Steve. He wasn’t expecting him to. “You can’t fight everyone, Steve.” And he draws his name out, in that way that makes Steve want to slap him. Like he’s being mocked. Like this is school, and he’s the mean boy. 

“Then— Then leave.” Don’t leave. 

Eddie rounds on him, eyes blazing. “Why should I fucking leave?”

“You always wanted to go, you said—”

“On my terms. My terms! Not because some hick cunt wants me gone. This is my fucking home, Wayne’s home. My family and friends are here. I nearly died for this place, Steve! I have more fucking right to be here than them.” He runs out of steam, stabs the cigarette into the ashtray likes its ablaze. “I’ll go when I’m good and ready.”

The sun creeps lower in the sky, and the light hits Eddie’s hair and it’s like a halo. He gets these moments, when he’s still, when he’s sleeping, when he thinks he’s not being watched, and his face relaxes and he looks like a boy. Just a kid. It’s not fair. 

Eddie scrubs his hands down his face, sucks in a lungful of sticky summer air, and then turns the key in the ignition. Music roars, and Steve jumps, it gets him every time. Eddie huffs, a ghost of a laugh, and reaches over to punch him lightly on the thigh. 

“Come on, let’s go home.”

The van turns in the road, heads back towards Hawkins, and despite the afternoon of worry and anger, all Steve feels right now is relief.

[landwriter]

8! ♥

my beloved Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede! It's gotta be - like no question, it's gotta be a romcom-energy Dream POV.

Hob cuddles Dream for the first time and Dream just falls in LOVE. It's totally platonic. He fell in a lake or something. And he's no longer near-hypothermic, he's ass over tea kettle in love. On the outside: stony and stoic. On the inside: writing poems about Hob. Jacking off about Hob. Looking at everything from a particularly friendly yellow tea towel to trees in a park and being reminded of Hob. (Hob said he liked forests, once.)

There's mutual pining and they both think it's unrequited, for an appropriately light-hearted and brief amount of time. Hob expresses his feelings by doing little flirting things that send Dream absolutely around the bend. Buys him potted plants. Gets him books. Bakes for him. Touches his arm. Dream presumes Hob is this friendly with everyone, because Hob is a Very Good Person, and Very Good With People, unlike him. Hob literally cannot help himself. His love shines out of him. Dream thinks Hob just looks that way all the time.

At some point, someone - anyone, literally anyone with eyes - mentions 'your boyfriend' to Dream, and Dream is like, "What boyfriend? Who?" and Hob, who is also there, in earshot, is like, "Yeah, who?", baffled because surely he'd have noticed Dream having a boyfriend, they spend so much time together these days, but also 100% ready to fight the man for his crime of existing.

And someone - Matthew, Lucienne, literally even the deli guy, just shakes their head and offers a silent prayer to the God Of Himbos that the two idiots figure it out within the next decade.

(They do.)

[lemony-snickers]

1 - Naruto / Kakashi Hatake

when the party's over - billie eilish.

Kakashi felt the hard wood of the the auditorium chair digging into his back and adjusted. It was dificult not to roll his eyes as families settled into their seats, turning to talk excitedly with one another about the show.

His eyes flitted to the decorations fixed to the front of the stage, the hand painted banner with "A Time to Remember" scrawled on the front.

Kakashi had never participated in a recital like this. Even in his youth, because of who his father was and what he did for a living, Kakashi's education in movement had been exceptional. Professional from the very start.

He had taken adult workshops instead of classes with children his own age, and he had featured in a few of his father's residency works before his death - had been taken under the wing of Sakumo's friends and contemporaries thereafter.

Kakashi was grateful he had never had to demean himself in such a way, wearing cheap costumes and trying to bend and break some artistic vision into a malformed box that suited A Time to Remember.

What did that even mean? What was it supposed to convey to the audience?

Kakashi huffed, rolled his neck from one side to the other to quell his irritation. An unfamiliar hand tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to look at the person attached, seated behind him, with only the thinnest veil of social politeness pulled over his natural expression of annoyance.

"Hi," a woman said, pointing toward the curtained stage with a hand-folded program printed on too-bright green paper, "who are you here to see?"

That was the questions, wasn't it? Becasue the person he was here for was not even performing, likely had done almost as few of these types of recitals as he had himself.

But Saya Tsunematsu was a peculiar thing, a person he still did not have a good read on, despite his proclivity for undrestanding people at a glance, in most cases.

The woman behind him, for example, leaning too close and hoping desperately he too was a single parent - something they could bond over before she inevitably asked him to help with some ridiculously small home repair project in a bid to finally seduce him.

"No one," he said flatly, turning to face the stage again. He heard the woman's half-shocked sound of confusion, felt the warmth of her hand as it crept toward his shoulder again before retreating. Kakashi closed his eyes, breathed through his nose. An hour and a half, one twenty minute intermission, and he could lay to rest whatever questions he had come here to answer.

Or, at least, if he didn't, he would forcibly bury them and move on. He had spent too much time already on trying to understand Saya; her determination to challenge him at every turn.

He had originally dismissed her when she auditioned for him with a piece of his father's choreography and she had snidely retorted that he was an egotistical fraud who could never live up to his father's legacy.

The remark had stung, the fear of inadequacy which Kakashi so easily pushed down most days writhing its way up his esophagus, curdling in his mouth.

Perhaps it had been a good thing - he'd never admit it - because it had forced Kakashi to truly think about the path he had set himself upon, the goals he wanted to achieve by reviving the White Fang Dance Company. To rewrite his childhood, to bring closure to a part of his past which had remained until recently an open, festering wound.

Saya had helped with that, had challenged him repeatedly as they reworked his father's choreography. He'd never met anyone who knew the movement as well as he did until Saya. It was strange, to find someone so devoted to Sakumo's work who had never known him.

The lights of the auditorium dimmed and Kakashi settled into the familiar darkness, the hush before the curtains pulled apart to reveal another hand-made (and similarly nonsensical) set piece - a backdrop painted with a mountain range in the distance, a field of flowers in the foreground; neither of which seemed to evoke a time to remember.

The first half of the recital was devoted mostly to the youngest children, few of whom knew their places or their steps, several of whom froze mid-stage, terrified of the lights and the sea of shadowed faces. One who cried, and three who tried to climb off the stage shouting, "Mama!" or "Papa!" with delight.

Kakashi had to forcibly unclench his jaw several times.

Intermission brought headache-inducing fluorescent lights and the opportunity to buy cookies and brownies and boxes of sugar water masquerading as juice in the hallway to support the dance studio's competitive endeavors. Kakashi purchased a single red carnation, unsure why except that it gave him something to do with his hands.

When he returned to his seat, the one behind him remained vacant and Kakashi wondered despite himself whether the woman had moved on his account or if her child was one of the young ones permitted to leave early so as not to miss their bedtime.

The second half of the recital was at least slightly more interesting. The children were older, more dedicated to their burgeoning craft. And while none of them danced to a professional level, several of them showed promise, and Kakashi found himself clapping a little louder, hoping it would encourage them to keep going.

And then, finally, the last piece of the night was all that remained. Kakashi straightened in his seat as a familiar person took the stage, standing in the center wearing a simple black dress and sensible heels.

"Good evening," Saya said, smiling, the long earring she wore catching the spotlight and reflecting it back in sharp refraction. "My name is Saya Tsunematsu and I'm a performer with the White Fang Dance Company."

Kakashi felt his pulse quicken a little at the mention, the acknowledgement that she was tied to him in some way. Professionally, of course.

"I am honored to have been invited to collaborate with some of the senior students on a piece for tonight's recital. When considering the theme A Time to Remember," Kakashi almost laughed but quickly converted it to a cough before anyone noticed, "I thought back to my own childhood, to the joy that dance brought every day, even when it hurt or when I didn't get the part I wanted and my parents listened to me cry the whole way home."

Several knowing chuckles erupted from the audience and Kakashi found himself, not for the first time, slightly jealous that Saya seemed so capable of connecting with the people around her, even if they could never attain her level of talent.

"I wanted this to be a truly collaborative effort and I'm so proud of the work these students have put forth to create this piece. I will admit, their choice of music was outside my usual realm, but that only made the challenge more fun for me, and - I hope - for them. Thank you and enjoy."

Applause followed Saya into the wings and the curtain pulled open again. A single performer stood on the darkened stage, wearing a loose sleeveless top and tightly fitted shorts, all a dull grey.

When the music began, it was a soft harmonic humming until a cracking voice joined.

Don't you know I'm no good for you?

The lights slowly came up, soft blue washing over the stage as the dancer at the center began a measured adaggio - as close to a hallmark of Saya's work as Kakashi had ever been able to pinpoint.

The girl's foot trailed from her ankle to her knee, and then higher - her thigh pulling tight to the side of her body as her foot extended overhead. Even Kakashi had to admire the control and flexibility the movement required. Her leg trembled only a little as she stared blankly forward, mouth parted slightly, hands soft at her sides.

I've learned to lose you can't afford to.

Her foot flexed but she remained otherwise still as two other dancers joined her, falling from the wings with a soft flourish, pulling at their shirts as if trying to escape their confines.

Tore my shirt to stop you bleeding.

More dancers, suddenly, running swiftly onto the stage as the dancer at the center released her leg extension and joined them in a cluster, disappearing as she melted back into the sea of grey; no longer alone, but no longer special, either.

The lights flashed from blue to red, the whole ensemble moving together as one entity - expanding and contracting, lifting up onto the toes of one foot, leaning preacriously to one side until they nearly toppled over.

But nothing ever stops you leaving.

They all tugged the shoulder of each other's shirts, appearing to try and stabalize one another before it became apparent they were trying to pull each other off balance.

Kakashi did not notice he was leaning forward, perched on the edge of the uncomfortable auditorium chair as he watched.

The cluster dispersed, dancers flying in every direction, some cascading to the floor while others leapt through the air, each face painted with an expression of anguish, remorse, fear.

They all stopped suddenly, swaying on their feet; turned away from each other, staring at the floor, solemn.

The lights cut out.

Quiet when I'm coming home and I'm on my own.

Bright yellow lights burst across the stage like the flashes of cameras, the music swelled.

One dancer fell to the floor, clambered forward from one knee to the other, rolling over each pointed foot, clutching their chest. Another fell on top, resting his head on their shoulder, wrapping his arms around them as if to cradle and reassure.

But the first dancer struggled against it, tried to pull themself free.

I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that.

Kakashi watched as the piece evolved, as moments of sadness and anger were punctuated by joy, by love. The lights wavered back to blue, ripened to orange and then rotten purple.

Slowly, those better moments overwhelmed the others, quelled the upset and the regret and replaced them with exultation. The dancers saw one another struggle, helped one another overcome. Rather than separate and isolated, they moved together again, one dancer propping another up as they fell.

The music crescendoed.

Let's just let it go, let me let you go.

The first dancer took her place at center stage again, but this time, instead of alone, the others joined her, all sweeping their leg up, up, up. Some weren't as steady, some not as flexible.

They all smiled.

I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that.

They flexed their feet as one as the music ended with a soft tinkling of piano keys.

The lights faded to nothing, darkness swallowed their beaming faces.

The audience erupted in applause, parents and friends and family all celebrating as the lights came back and the performers took their bows. Some in the crowd stood, many shouted. The dancers all laughed, giddy and pleased with themselves, as they beckoned Saya on stage to take one final bow with them.

Kakashi was the first to leave, the excitement of the crowd trailing behind him, falling quiet as the heavy door swung closed in his wake.

He smiled the entire way home, the carnation still clutched carefully between his fingers, and he finally understood why Saya did not find recitals or their preparation to be a waste of her time or talent.

[whentheburgersbob]

I haven't had anything finished for the past three prompts (+ was sick the past few days so haven't had much energy to work on them) but I wanted to share something so here's my roudise playlist. (Both spotify and YT link)

[eurydicees]

55!

55 for the spotify wrapped prompts!! apologies for the delay, please take my humble iwaoi offering. i DID in fact, out loud, to an empty kitchen, say, "fuck they're so cute" when i finished editing this. literally so fluffy it's sickening. enjoy!!

if i tell you i want you forever

summary: a car ride. a song. and a proposal, of sorts. prompt: spotify wrapped #55, paper rings by taylor swift pairings: hajime iwaizumi/tooru oikawa words: 1436 warnings: none 

They’re driving, Oikawa behind the wheel and Iwaizumi in the passenger seat. Iwaizumi is fussing with the music, tapping at Spotify playlists on Oikawa’s phone as if it were his own. He finally finds a song that he likes, and he lets it play; and the thing is that he doesn’t even like this song that much, it’s not really his taste in music, but Oikawa is singing along, tapping his hands on the wheel, and that’s enough for Iwaizumi. 

And the other thing is that Oikawa is not a good singer. He doesn’t know how to sing, is always just slightly off key, is always a beat behind the track, always fumbles with the words when the singer goes a little too fast for his tongue to keep up with. He’s not good at singing at all. 

Iwaizumi sits in the passenger seat, though, and he stares at Oikawa in the driver’s seat and he listens to him sing the words all wrong, and he thinks, I want to be here for the rest of my life. 

The thought that he wants to spend the rest of his life with Oikawa is not a groundbreaking epiphany. It’s something that he’s always kind of, sort of known—something that’s always lived on the periphery of his plans for the future. When he was a kid and imagining his future, Oikawa was always there: sometimes in the apartment or house next door, sometimes just in the same city meeting up for coffee every week. But always there.

So this revelation about wanting to spend the rest of his life in the passenger seat of Oikawa’s car, listening to him sing off key, is not a revelation that comes out of nowhere. He’s always known that he wants to forever keep Oikawa in his life whether it be in one form or another. 

But, at the same time, it’s different now. It’s different because they’ve been dating for three years and how soon is too soon to tell someone that you want to listen to their rendition of a bad pop song for the rest of your life? How soon is too soon to tell someone that having these moments—driving down the highway into the sunset, the windows rolled down and wind fussing with their hair, the music blasting and their voices louder—means everything to you? How soon is too soon to tell someone that they’re kind of everything, kind of it for you? 

Iwaizumi doesn’t know, but he’s also never successfully kept a secret from Oikawa and he thinks that probably this realization isn’t something he’s going to be able to keep to himself for very long. He doesn’t want to scare Oikawa off, but if Oikawa hasn’t been scared off by now, he might never be. That may be impossible to do. 

He stares at Oikawa: watching his mouth move around the wrong lyrics to the song; watching those long, slender fingers tapping out the beat on the steering wheel at the wrong tempo; watching the wind tangle its hands in his hair and mess with the styling he had spent an hour on earlier that day; watching his gaze, soft on the road, and those beautiful eyes; watching him smile a little as an instrumental break hits. 

He loves him. He loves him. 

This is something that has always been true and always will be true. He’s sure of it. He wants to spend the rest of his life watching this boy’s happiness openly written over his face. He wants to spend the rest of his life at this boy’s side. He’s watched Oikawa grow up, he’s grown up with Oikawa, together at every step of their lives, and he sees no reason that he shouldn’t be at every future step. 

“You’re staring at me,” Oikawa says. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by it, but there’s a pink flush at his cheeks and Iwaizumi isn’t sure if its the bleed of the sunset lingering on his skin or its the weight of Iwaizumi’s staring making him blush. “What’re you thinking in that head of yours?” 

The empty stretch of highway seems impossibly long. There’s much too long between here, at mile marker 328, and the motel they’re headed to for their anniversary celebration’s week away. There’s much too much time between now and then for Iwaizumi to keep this to himself. 

“I love you,” Iwaizumi blurts out. The words feel too big for his mouth, and he feels clumsy in his confession, like it’s his first time saying it all over again. 

The pink at Oikawa’s cheeks deepens, and Oikawa smiles a little. “I love you too.” 

Iwaizumi continues, blunt as ever, stumbling over the words a little, “I want to be with you for the rest of my life. We—can we get married?” 

Oikawa’s eyes go wide. He glances over at Iwaizumi, a sharp turn of his head, and then swears and turns back to the road. Iwaizumi’s heart drops into his stomach, fuck—he said it too soon, said what he shouldn’t have, he’s ruined everything, but he can’t stop talking. 

“You deserve a real proposal,” he manages to choke out, “with gold rings and diamonds and shit. But I—I want to be with you forever. I want this forever. And I want you to know that. I want you to know—” 

Oikawa puts his blinker on, signaling the move to the empty road, and swerves to the side of the road. He parks the car on the shoulder of the highway, his breathing heavy—Iwaizumi’s heart is in his throat now, pouring out a confession that Oikawa clearly isn’t ready to hear—and then Oikawa says, “Are you—are you serious?” 

He’s crying. There are tears gathering at his eyelashes and Iwaizumi is terrified. He knows Oikawa loves him, of course he does, they’ve been dating for three years and pining for years before that, but maybe marriage isn’t something that Oikawa wants, maybe Oikawa isn’t ready for that— 

But he says, anyway, “Yeah. I’m serious. It’s—we could. Right now. We’re in Las Vegas for the week. Plenty of people—” 

“Shit, Hajime,” Oikawa whispers. He’s looking at Iwaizumi with wonder in his eyes, like he’s a miracle or a prayer come true or something that’s both. “Yeah, fuck, yes, let’s do it—let’s, like, right now, let’s—Hajime.” 

“We don’t have rings,” Iwaizumi stutters out, “but we can stop somewhere and—” 

Oikawa shakes his head and the tears are falling now for real, slipping down his cheeks and past his chin. His hands scramble around the car seats until he finds what he’s looking for stuffed in the cupholder: the paper wrapper for the straw they had gotten with their milkshakes some miles back. 

“Here, here,” he says, laughing, bright and joyful and that stupid song is still playing and it’s suddenly so warm in the car and Iwaizumi thinks his heart is going to burst out of his body and grow wings. 

Yes—this is what he wants for the rest of his life. Drives to shitty motels in expensive cities for anniversaries and cheap milkshakes along the way and singing the wrong words to bad music and paper straw wrapper rings. 

Oikawa grabs for Iwaizumi’s hand and Iwaizumi splays out his fingers for Oikawa to wrap the paper straw wrapper around his left ring finger, once, twice, then tucking in the end to the loop. He’s crying and laughing and still holding Iwaizumi’s hand and Iwaizumi feels golden. 

“I’ll get you a real ring when we go into the city tomorrow,” Iwaizumi promises. 

“Three months' paycheck,” Oikawa says, laughing. 

Iwaizumi grins at him. “You fucking wish.” 

Oikawa lets go of Iwaizumi’s hand to cup his cheeks in both of his own hands and pull him into a kiss. It’s tender and sweet and Oikawa tastes like chocolate milkshake and Iwaizumi probably tastes like vanilla and Iwaizumi is struck, all over again, with wonder that they’re in love with each other. How lucky is he? 

“I’ll marry you with just a paper ring,” Oikawa promises, pressing their foreheads together. His eyes flutter shut and Iwaizumi takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’ll even elope with you in one of those cheap chapels run by Elvis impersonators.” 

Iwaizumi laughs. “I love you so fucking much.” 

“I love you too, Iwa.” Oikawa exhales and Iwaizumi can feel his hot breath on his own lips. He wants to drink Oikawa in, wants to hold him forever, wants to be with him forever. “Gonna spend the rest of my life with you.” 

“That’s a long time.” 

“Yeah,” Oikawa whispers. He’s grinning. “Aren’t I lucky?” 

[flowercrowngods]

Oooooh how about 27 for the Spotify drabble thingo?? 💖💖

Acting Normal | steddie, slight canon divergence

Steve is leaning against his Beemer in the parking lot, smoking one last cigarette before he can no longer avoid the inevitability of first period on a Monday morning. That shit never gets easier.

He looks up at the sky, watching as the sun breaks through the clouds, painting everything in golden and orange light. Last night's rain long beaten, though the humidity's still in the air, refreshing and smelling like childhood, somehow.

It's a beautiful day. Shame to waste it in school.

He takes another drag from his cig before dropping it and stubbing it out on the concrete. There are steps approaching and the smile is on Steve's face before he can fight it. He doesn't want to fight it, actually. Doesn't even try.

"Hey Stevie," Eddie Munson says, his forearms pressed to the hood of his car, almost leaning into Steve's space. Steve leans back as he blows out the last of the smoke, eyes still on the sky.

"Morning Eds."

They've become friends, somehow. It's odd, but it works. It works wonderfully. The same way a golden sky can make a Monday morning bearable, the same way memories of rain hanging in the air can smell like childhood. Some things just work. This thing between him and Eddie is one of those.

"I have a proposal," Eddie declares, and Steve huffs.

"Can I say no?"

"Well, you could, Steve-o, but then you'd be missing out and I'd be telling you all about it for the rest of my life, and this day would go into the history books as The Day Steve Missed Out On All The Fun. And do you seriously want to give all those historians another reason to question life in the late 20th century, Stevie? Do you?"

Steve leans further back onto the hood of his car, his forearms resting beside Eddie's now and they're close, so close, he feels dizzy with it for a moment. He bumps their shoulders together and huffs.

"You're ridiculous, Eddie."

"Astute observation, my liege," Eddie says and Steve can hear the grin on his face. It's one of the reason this thing works. Steve can hear Eddie's smiles and Eddie can hear Steve's frowns, and they listen.

Maybe that is why he decides to indulge. "So what are you proposing, good sir?"

"Skip school with me. It's a beautiful day, right? Shame to waste it in school."

Steve smiles, because yes, yes it is. He smiles and he doesn't say no, only leans there, beside Eddie, still watching the sun and her clouds, feeling a certain connection to them in this moment. Because Eddie is the sun sometimes, even though he'll disagree. And Steve is the air that smells like rain sometimes.

"What do you wanna do? Or, what would we do?" he asks, his voice quiet, more a musing than anything else, but Eddie is smiling again. Steve can hear it in the way he breathes and leans his head against Steve's shoulder for a second, leaving sparks in his wake.

"See what life is like outside of school on Monday morning," Eddie says, painting a picture in Steve's mind. "Get ice cream, go to the record store and listen to music, make music, watch people doing their jobs and feel both jealous and glad that we can't be in their shoes yet. Smoke." His voice shifts then, the smile changing. "Dream, Stevie. Dream about life and stop acting normal. That's what we'd be doing."

His heart is doing the skippy thing again. The thing it always does when Eddie tells him to dream in that voice, like he knows, like he can hear that, too.

He hopes that this time, dreaming can mean that Eddie will lean in and kiss him again. Hopes that Eddie will talk about his band again, about how he's gonna be a rockstar, about how he'll annoy Steve with extra shitty lyrics for the rest of their lives.

"Okay," he breathes, and turns his face to look at Eddie for the first time this morning. "Let's go then."

actually, this is a really fucking Eddie song, lyric-wise. he would make an exception from all the metal for this song, i'm sure. I am seriously surprised this song is only number 27. gah. I love it. thank you for the prompt!! also go give the blackstarkids some love, they deserve more recognition! 🫶

[lilyrizzy]

24 for the spotify game :)

Sister, I miss you now, The world feels so far out I'm stuck in my own cloud, I wish you were with me now

---

"I do not understand," Max says.

As soon as the words leave his lips, his gut coils tight at the whine he can hear there. Pathetic, but- He thought-

"Mama says I can't come Max," Victoria repeats again, "I'm sorry." Then quieter so she sounds even further away than usual, she adds, "she says she does not want me to around Dad."

Max's chest is flays open, raw and hot, at the same time his grip on the phone tightens. Of course his mum would do this, ruin this. Like always.

She is punishing Max. She asked Max to come with her and Max said no, because of course he wanted to stay and race. He could only do that if he stayed home, with dad.

But now, he will have nobody, because the two boys he asked from his new school said they couldn't come. He'd thought, that's okay, because I will have my sister just like always. And now-

"But Vicky, it's my birthday," he insists, and he hates her too suddenly, when all she does is sigh. Sounding so much like their mum.

[kindlystrawberry]

Spotify Wrapped game like always: send me a character or pairing + a number 1-100 and I’ll write a short drabble based on the corresponding song in my 2022 playlist.

[bi-buckrights]

69 😎😎 for the song prompt thingies pls and thank you, love u

Hey bestie, totally meant to respond to this forever ago lmao. But lucky for me, I already wrote something for this song 😌 not so lucky for you because you've already read it askdfjh

#69 is I Will Always Return by Bryan Adams, which is what I named the final chapter of Pick a Star on the Dark Horizon (Follow the Light) bc it served as a thesis to much of the story 😌

[dreamwatch]

Spotify Wrapped Writing Prompt

Look, I was pretty sure someone asked for this, but I can't find the ask and I've written it and I think I'm a little bit in love with it, so sharing anyway.

-----

#66 - Hard To Handle by The Black Crowes

Eddie hates waiting in line. Life is too short (a lesson he learned the hard way) for standing around waiting for things. With the exception of getting gig tickets or getting into those gigs. Both valid reasons to wait.

Maybe less so this gig.

It’s not really his scene, there’s more than a few poseurs in the line, but Kyle likes the band and, as so often is the case with them, Kyle gets what Kyle wants.

Eddie gets… a little less.

He’s at the stage in his life, at the grand old age of twenty four, where he craves companionship over sex. While his friends are still fucking around, literally in some case, Eddie needs to settle. Needs the peace and stability. And he’d never, ever, admit it to anyone, but he needs to be taken care of. The thing is, thats a hard sell in your early twenties. But Kyle got it. Got him. His need to be looked after. The fact that he had scars and trauma and health issues from ‘an accident’. He was okay with all that.

For a while, anyway. Things change though, right?

Eddie earns shitty money, so Kyle pays more of the rent, and he gets the sense more and more that one wrong move, one missed pay check, or fuck, if he lost his job, Kyle would throw him out on the street. What’s love got to do with it? as Tina would say. So he finds himself toeing the line more and more. Doesn’t argue about the stupid shit, let’s Kyle have his way more and more. Just little things.

Little things mount up to be big things, though.

So yeah, he comes to gigs he’s not really into and he sees bands he might not have bothered to, and he listens to music thats okay, but it’s not him, you know? Its like, him adjacent. 

And all of that is why he’s standing outside the Ritz Music Hall in Indianapolis, freezing his balls off, waiting to get in to see The Black Crowes.

Kyle got to talking to some people in the line, and Eddie just smiles and makes out like, yeah my god, great band, like he wouldn’t have been arguing a few years back about how Iron Maiden were clearly the superior artists. He doesn’t have the fight in him for those kind of arguments anymore. So he nods and smiled, hands shoved in the pockets of his shitty old leather jacket, scarf pulled tight around his face. Tight around that scar.

He zones out and he’s looking around, people watching, killing time. Eyes up and down the line as he keeps moving to keep warm. And he spots it, about thirty people ahead of him, that swoop of brown hair that he knows oh so well. 

No fucking way.

He tells Kyle he thinks he’s spotted a friend, won’t be a second, and all that, and then heads down the sidewalk.

“Steve?”

Chestnut Swoop spins to look at him, and he didn’t even need him to, he knew who it was. Knows that hair anywhere. Those shoulders, the way he carries himself, the way he moves. Eddie knows it all.

“Eddie? Holy shit!”

Eddie nearly gets knocked off his feet, Steve lunging toward him and practically pulling him off the ground into a bear hug. He’s kind of lost for a second, before he wraps his own arms around Steve and squeezes back. He smells good, and Eddie recognises his cologne. Eternity for Men. He picked it out for Kyle, and Kyle just scrunched his nose up and walked off. Steve’s wearing it. Something Eddie would have chosen.

Steve pulls back from him but hangs on to his arms, like he’s taking him all in. Eddie’s heart is thundering in his chest.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Actually, scratch that, where the fuck have you been?”

“Here, in Indy… mostly. It’s a long story.” Steve raises an eyebrow but Eddie plows on, doesn’t give him a chance for a follow up question. “What about you man, here to see... “ he points to the marquee up above. 

“Yeah,” answers Steve. “Yeah, there’s a few of us from work and, fuck! Robins here! She’s gone to pee,” Steve looks around, as if Robins pissing in the street, “uh, somewhere. Man she’s gonna lose her shit when she sees you.”

They talk, and Steve introduces his work friends and Eddie can’t help himself, he’s checking them out trying to work out which one is Steve’s girlfriend. Robin screeches “Eddie!” as she runs up the street, practically throws her self at him. He gets the overwhelming urge to cry. He’s feels like an idiot. 

“Eddie? Come on man, we’ll lose our place.”

Kyle comes up behind him, looking mildly pissed. He’s eyeing up Steve’s friends and then his eyes are all over Steve. There’s no way he doesn’t recognise him. Eddie has a photo album that he started putting together in 1986. Pictures of the kids, of Wayne, of Robin and Nancy and Steve. There’s one of the four of them sitting on the porch of Wayne’s new trailer, beers in hand, all cheering at the camera as Wayne took the photograph. Eddie and Steve practically in each others lap. That one is in a frame. Kyle clocked something there straight away. Eddie gave him nothing. Close friend, he said. Kyle huffed, sure. Subject closed.

It was the weirdest thing. And it wasn’t just trauma bonding, or whatever the fuck Robin called it. The trauma got them together, maybe, threw them altogether on a big spin cycle and spat them out, but Eddie and Steve clicked. They’d have clicked without it. So easy to say opposites attract, but they weren’t that different really. Not when you scratched the surface. 

And it wasn’t really anything but it wasn’t really nothing, either. There were late nights under blankets, and well you’re staying over and it’s cold so you may as well climb in the bed, dude, and I can’t sleep wanna go for a drive? and arms thrown around shoulders, and sitting side by side, knees touching. There were pinkies linked, hands over hands, lying in bed crying, foreheads touching. Nothing, but everything.

They had two good summers before Steve said he was moving away. Nothing for him in Hawkins, apparently. Eddie couldn’t hide the hurt, so he ended up burying it in the back of his van with his backpack and his guitar and left town first. Said goodbye to Wayne and just took off. He came back for holidays and birthdays, but if Steve or Robin did the same, Eddie never knew.

And now they’re outside the Ritzy Music Hall in Indianapolis and it’s November and its cold and Kyle is standing there like he wants to start swinging his dick. And Eddie? He just wants to grab Steve by the hand and run. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t run now. He follows.

“Um, I should get back,” he says.

Steve’s brows dip, like he’s confused. “Fuck no! Cut in with us. I’m not letting you out of my sight, dickhead.” Steve laughs but it’s stiff and his eyes don’t really leave Kyle. 

“We’re good, thanks.” Kyle throws his arm over Eddies shoulder, pisses on his territory for all to see and starts to drag him away, but Eddie pulls out from under him.

“Just a second,” says Eddie. Kyle cuts him a look, sharp and beady. Eddie reaches into his pocket, finds a scrap of paper. No pen. Shit.

“Ooh, yes, pen! I have one!” says Robin, and he loves her, and fuck he’s missed her so much. And her hair is different, and she looks so cool. It’s only been three years and he’s missed it all.

He jots his number down and hands the paper over, before snatching it back and adding another.

“Top is mine, or Kyles, I guess,” and he’s so embarrassed at that, “but the bottom one is Waynes. He’d love to hear from you.”

And so its goodbye, and call soon, and he’s back in line with Kyle and Kyle is in a shitty mood now. Declares how he just wanted to enjoy his night, and well apparently Eddie running into the best friends he ever had, the ones he ran away from so they couldn’t hurt him first, well that just fucked Kyle’s night right up. 

They’re in, eventually, and the band come on, and now Eddie at least has noise to drown out the thoughts ticking over in his head. He feels suddenly so empty, so cold. He has work in the morning, and he’s starting early and he could feign any number of ailments at this stage, but there’s this terrible little thought at the back of his mind that he could end up with all his shit thrown out in the street. 

The band play a slow song, one he knows is called Miserable and deep inside he’s laughing at himself. Kyle is swaying away, one step away from getting his lighter out by the look of him, so Eddie taps him on the shoulder and tells him he’s going for a piss.

There’s another line at the bathroom, everyone else jumping out during the slow song, but eventually he’s at the front, gets in an out in less than a minute. He doesn’t want to go back inside. He keeps looking around, hoping he’ll see the swoop, or Robin’s pink streak in her blonde hair, but the place is packed and it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. He fucks off to the bar instead. Another line. Why not?

The song changes, and he knows this one, intimately. It’s an Otis Redding number. He has a really intense memory of his dad singing it for his mom. His dad fucking loved Otis Redding. It punches something inside him and he feels breathless. He gets to the front, orders his Jack and coke, he’s in a go big or go home kind of mood now, and its not until he opens his mouth to order that he tastes blood. He raises his hand and touches his lip. He was chewing it and he didn’t even notice it. 

His mind’s in a fucking pit now, and there’s this song and he just wants to go home, but it’s not even his. Nothing is his. 

There’s a hand tapping on his shoulder and like, a fucking fight is the last thing he wants and the best thing that could happen to him tonight. He turns and gets a face full of Steve Harrington.

“Hey, you okay?” How does he do that? How does he just stay so reasonable, so considerate? Eddie ran away and they see each other for the first time in years and he could be pissed and angry but instead he just makes Eddie want to climb inside him.

“No,” Eddie says, honest for once. And then Steve’s hand is in his and he’s being dragged from the building, and they’re out on the street, and fucking Kyle, he’s going to—

“Hey, Ed, dude look at me.”

“Kyle—”

“Fuck Kyle.”

“What?”

They’re back on the sidewalk, with the smokers and the early leavers, and it’s fucking cold so he can’t hide the shiver. 

Steve rubs his hands up and down the sides of Eddie’s arms, because he remember. The way the cold seeps into Eddie’s bones and never leaves once it’s there. He remembers.

“I said fuck Kyle.”

“I have to…”

“You don’t have to do anything. You look fucking miserable, and I don’t like the way he talks to you. I don’t like the way you shrink when he stands next to you. You used to shine. He doesn’t make you shine.”

And what is he supposed to say to that?

“I’d make you shine.” Steve says that. Steve Harrington says that to Eddie Munson. Eddie stops breathing.

“I…”

“I’ve missed you, Eddie. So fucking much.” Steve looks right at him, eyes bright and wet. 

Eddie can barely answer, his throat tight. He sniffs, just nods like a fool in the middle of the street. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“Let’s go somewhere. Get some food or something.”

“Robin—”

“Robins fine, she’s with her girlfriend.”

And he just nods again, like a dashboard ornament. “Kyle—”

“Do you love him?”

“What?’

Steve laughs. “I said. Do. You. Love. Him?”

Does he?

He loves having someone at home when he is because he hates being alone. He loves having someone lie next to him in bed so that when he wakes up the world feels real. He loves having someone to cook for, someone to go grocery shopping with. Someone to hold when they’re having a bad day, someone to hold him when his world is falling apart. Someone to show his favourite films to, to play his favourite albums to, to share books with. To laugh with. Someone to sit in the drive in and hold hands with. He loves that.

But he doesn’t love Kyle. And Kyle doesn’t love him.

“You always know, don’t you?”

Steve smiles at him, that cocky little smirk of his. Gorgeous.

“I always know.”

Steve takes his hand and they walk together.

Side by side.

[thisapplepielife]

I saw the Spotify Wrapped fic challenge that went around last month, and thought it looked fun, but when I looked at my top 100 playlist on Spotify, most of them were already something I've associated with other fics. (15 of my top 22 were all from Tom Petty's Wildflowers, which I've covered extensively already, lol.)

So, I decided to wait until I'd have my full year of Spotify stats from stats.fm.

Now that the year is wrapping up, for real, I'm opening up my asks. I'm chopping off the top 200 songs, because that's how far down my listening habits were heavily affected by the fics I've already recently written. (Don't look at me like that, lol.)

So, if you'd like me to write a ficlet based on a song you've picked at random, send me an ask with a number between 200-1000.

Fine print: No guarantees on how fast these will get done. I'll work on them as inspiration strikes!

And Steddie is the default option, but I do write for Gareth, Corroded Coffin, Platonic Stobin, etc. and will just follow the songs where they tell me to go. But if you have a strong preference, you can let me know in your ask and I'll do my best! ❤️

[aidanchaser]

35 if you’re still doing the ask game!

I'll keep it open a bit longer; I think most folks have prompted that wanted to prompt but if anyone sees this, feel free to send another spotify wrapped prompt in

and ofc thank you so much for dropping a line! 35 is one of my favorite songs; its shown up on my wrapped list for a few years now. the trick on this was to keep it a drabble when it could so easily lend itself to a full multichapter fic 😬

Wake up, say good morning to That sleepy person lying next to you If there's no one there, then there's no one there But at least the war is over

The charred aroma of Cataclysm hung heady in the air. Gabriel Agreste's statue was merely a smoking crater. Chat Noir sank to his knees and ran his hand through his tousled hair.

He didn't move until Ladybug came for him, wearing both her earrings and the butterfly brooch. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.

"You deserve the whole truth, chaton."

Despite his anger, his heart lifted at her touch. She was his rose and thorn, always.

"Tikki," she murmured, "Spots off."

Chat Noir closed his eyes and swallowed. He took a deep breath.

All the living are dead, and the dead are all living The war is over and we are beginning --In Our Bedroom After the War, Stars